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sickstarlight · 3 years ago

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inspired by a prompt from @just-a-nervous-bean which reminded me of the k/endrells for some reason!

2.5k words of trans/stor h/c ft. these two being married and a’s cat as his service animal, no extra warnings (just puking lol)

—

Leneghan has been restless since before they left for dinner, slinking back and forth between Asher’s shoulders, the tip of her tail twitching occasionally, but he doesn’t start to feel unwell himself until afterwards, as they’re on their way back home. Despite the chill in the air, he feels too warm with his coat on, and there’s a dull ache in his temples that only seems to get worse when he closes his eyes.

Even Grant, talking idly about something that’s probably fascinating, is beginning to grate on him as they take the skyrail back to to the north side of Highrise, though he feels awful about it. Ordinarily he loves hearing Grant talk, whether it’s about his work in administration, or the city, or any number of other interesting topics, but tonight he can’t seem to keep his focus in one place, and his mind keeps wandering away so he can’t keep track of what exactly Grant is saying.

Leneghan meows softly and presses her head against his cheek, and Asher reaches up to scratch her ears, trying to drag himself back to what Grant’s saying, but it’s so hard to pay attention when there’s sweat beading up under his stiff collar, and the faint hum of the railcar gliding along its track is making his legs feel oddly shaky.

“You’re quiet, dear,” Grant says, putting a hand on his arm. “Is everything alright?”

The touch is enough to pull him back into the moment, and he shakes his head to clear it. “I’m just a little tired,” he says, giving Grant a weak smile.

“I thought Leneghan seemed worried about you,” Grant says, a slight frown creasing his brow. “You should have said something.”

“I felt alright at dinner,” Asher replies, “but I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. She has been fussing at me a little.”

“Hm,” Grant says, still looking concerned, and squeezes his arm a little tighter before letting go. “We’re almost home, just a bit longer and we’ll get you to bed straight away.”

Asher nods and leans back a bit against the wall of the railcar to steady himself, finding himself a little grateful when Grant is silent, rather than try to continue the earlier conversation.

The skyrail reaches their stop, a block from home, and Asher stumbles a little as he steps out onto the walkway. It was chilly in the car, but outside it’s freezing, and he wraps his arms around himself, suddenly grateful for Leneghan’s warmth across the back of his neck. His head is reeling, though, badly disoriented now that the faint motion of the car is gone, and he sways on his feet as the world seems to spin for a moment.

“Asher?” Grant’s hand on his back helps steady him, and he leans into the touch, grateful for something that feels solid when the walkway under his feet doesn’t.

“I’m fine,” he says quickly, offering a shaky smile. “Let’s just get home.” Dizziness aside, his head feels so heavy that all he wants to do is get back to their apartment and lie down.

The brief walk up the block to their building feels like it takes an hour, and with every step Asher feels worse, though he keeps his head down and tries to ignore it. Even after a long day, it shouldn’t take so long to adjust after getting off the railcar, but the feeling of the ground still shaking underfoot doesn’t fade, and there’s a tightness in his throat that doesn’t go away when he swallows. He tries to focus on Leneghan insistently pressing her face against his cheekbone, raising one hand to scratch under her chin while the other closes tightly around the apartment key in his pocket.

As he climbs the steps to their building, his foot catches on the top stair and his balance goes. Leneghan growls and digs her claws into his shoulders as he stumbles and pitches forward, throwing out his arm to brace himself against the door. His stomach lurches, and dread makes his chest go tight as he feels something thick and hot rushing up his throat. Before he can react, his mouth fills with acid and a stream of vomit spills over his tongue, chunks of the cake they’d shared for dessert pouring onto the steps with a sick splatter.

“Asher!” Grant calls, and Asher feels him put both arms around his waist just as his knees give out underneath him. He slumps back against Grant’s chest, shaking and gasping for breath.

“Oh, God,” he groans, pushing his hair back with one shaking hand. “I’m sorry, God, I’m sorry, I’m—“

“Hush, dear, it’s alright,” Grant murmurs softly in his ear, pulling him back gently and helping lower him to the ground so he can sit down on the stairs. His head is still spinning, making his stomach twist uncomfortably, and he leans forward to let his head fall between his knees. The sight of sick splattered on the toes of his shoes makes him want to throw up again. He swallows hard.

He’s dimly aware of Leneghan pawing at his leg, mewling softly at him, and nudges her away gently with one hand. She must have jumped down from his shoulders when he fell, but he’d rather have her climb up again than try to lay in his lap when he thinks at any moment he might vomit again. On the stairs behind him Grant is at the door; he hears the key click in the lock and the soft creak of the hinges, then a shuffling sound before Grant is beside him again, one hand on his shoulder, the other resting on his knee.

“Come on, let’s get you upstairs,” he says softly, and lifts Asher’s head with one hand to dab at his mouth with a handkerchief. Asher nods miserably, and swallows hard as the movement makes his stomach roil. With Grant’s arm around his waist to support him, he gets to his feet again and stumbles inside through the propped open door, clicking his fingers softly for Leneghan to follow.

“Sorry,” he whispers, his voice shaking, as Grant helps him to the lift down the hall. “I didn’t know I’d...”

“I know,” Grant assures him, holding him close as they step onto the gondola. The shudder of movement beneath his feet makes Asher feel even sicker, the steak he’d eaten at dinner very heavy in his stomach, and he leans his head against Grant’s shoulder, screwing his eyes shut so he doesn’t have to watch each floor fall past them. Leneghan winds between his feet, rubbing her head against his legs; he wants to pick her up again, but he’s sure if he leans down to do it he’s going to throw up his dinner all over the floor of the lift and embarrass himself more than he already has.

When the gondola stops at the landing of their apartment, he feels his stomach lurch into his throat and has to clap a hand over his mouth to choke back another rush of vomit. The taste of acid on his tongue is half-sweet from the cake he’s still hardly digested, and it only makes the urge to gag again stronger. He’s too busy fighting to keep down the contents of his stomach to protest as Grant lifts him from the floor and carries him inside, cradled close against his chest in both arms.

It’s either a miracle or a testament to his willpower that he manages not to be sick on them both, though his feet have barely touched the bathroom floor before he’s pushing Grant away to lean over as he retches, a thick stream of vomit spilling onto the tiles. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out again between heaves, but Grant only hushes him again, one hand on his shoulder to steady him, the other holding his bangs out of the way.

“Come here, dearest, I’ve got you,” Grant murmurs when he’s finished, and helps guide him in front of the toilet, catching him when his knees go weak again and lowering him gently to the floor. He can’t stop shaking, his breath coming in shallow gasps as his heart hammers in his chest, and he can’t be sure if the burning in his cheeks is from fever or simply from shame. Grant gently wipes his mouth and chin with his handkerchief again.

His stomach churns and he leans over the toilet, trying to keep his breathing steady, in the hope that it might stop him from throwing up any more of his dinner. At his side he hears Leneghan meow quietly, and reaches out blindly to find her face as she rubs up against his fingertips. She pads closer to climb into his lap, and he lets her, now that he’s knelt on the bathroom floor with somewhere better to vomit if - when he does than on himself.

“Let me help you with your coat,” Grant says, and leans against his shoulder to start undoing the buttons. Asher fumbles with one hand to do the same, starting at the bottom, and manages to clumsily undo two before he gags and has to double forward to be sick again. The stream of liquid that splashes into the toilet tastes half like acid and half like alcohol. Had he just drunk too much? He’d only had two glasses of wine, and that with dinner, over the course of an hour and a half; surely he can’t be so intoxicated as to make him this sick.

“Sorry,” he mumbles again as he lifts his head, and hears Grant sigh with gentle exasperation behind him, leaning in to dab at Asher’s lips with his handkerchief again.

“You hardly asked to fall ill,” Grant points out, pulling his coat off his shoulders. “You’re burning up, let me get this off of you.”

Asher nods and lets his arms fall to his sides so Grant can take his coat. Without it he’s suddenly cold, all too aware of the icy tile under him, and he wraps both arms around himself quickly, shivering. He really must be ill, he thinks miserably, and swallows hard as his stomach turns over.

“Do you think you could manage a shower?” Grant asks as he helps slip off Asher’s shoes. “It might do you good, if you can.”

“I suppose I could try,” Asher replies, hunching his shoulders. “Though I don’t know if I’m finished being sick yet.”

“That’s alright,” Grant assures him, idly brushing back his hair with one hand. “There’s no rush, dear, I’ll help you up whenever you’re ready.”

He nods and wraps his arms around himself, groaning as his stomach roils and twists. The bottom of his mouth fills with saliva, and he swallows hard. “I hate this,” he mumbles, hugging his abdomen tighter. “God, Grant, I feel awful.”

“I know, Ash,” Grant replies, rubbing his shoulders with one hand. “My poor sweetheart, I know, I’m here.” Asher whimpers as his stomach clenches, making him gag, and Grant’s fingers tighten on his shoulder as he adds, “It’s alright, now, don’t fight it, just let it happen.”

He leans over the toilet as his mouth floods again, letting his mouth hang open and a trickle of saliva spill over his lip into the water. A moment later his stomach contracts again, and this time when he retches it brings up bits of his dinner in a stream of acid.

At least there’s Grant’s hand, he thinks, steady on his back while he vomits up half-digested chunks of steak, and Leneghan curled up in his lap, purring faintly as she kneads at his leg. He might be miserable, but not too miserable to be grateful for both of them staying here with him. This would be a lot worse without them.

“Sorry about all the mess,” he manages hoarsely when he’s caught his breath. “I didn’t mean...”

“Don’t worry about it,” Grant tells him firmly, leaning in to loosen his collar. “Just take care of yourself, I’ll take care of the rest.” He cups Asher’s face in one hand to press a kiss to his temple before helping to unbutton the rest of his shirt so it hangs loose from his shoulders.

“Sorry about our date,” Asher murmurs, uncurling one arm to catch Grant’s hand.

“Hush,” Grant says, and laughs softly. “There’ll be other dates.”

By now Asher’s not so nauseous, though his abdomen is sore and aching from the effort of purging the better part of his dinner. “Help me up?” he asks, and Grant slides an arm around his waist to support him as he gets shakily to his feet.

With Grant’s help he finishes undressing and steps into the shower, turning the water on hot and hoping it’ll help the chills wracking his shoulders. It turns out his knees are too weak to stay standing for long, so he sits down under the spray and curls up around himself, closing his eyes as the water runs down his back. He doesn’t feel as sick anymore, but exhaustion is settling deep into his bones, and he sits there for a long few minutes nearly dozing off, listening to the sound of the spray and of Grant quietly moving around the apartment.

He does jerk out of his near-trance when his stomach turns over again, and turns to the side so the shower will wash the stream of sick he throws up into the drain. It’s mostly bile, though, just one last mouthful of foul liquid and a few remaining bits of his half-digested dinner, and when he’s finished it feels, much to his relief, like his stomach is finally empty.

When he steps out of the shower, the bathroom is chilly, but he’s grateful to find the mess on the floor has been cleaned up and Grant’s laid out a pair of warm and comfortable pajamas for him to change into. Grant is waiting for him already when he leaves the bathroom, with a hot mug of tea and a gentle smile, holding out one arm as he approaches to pull him close.

“Sorry about all the mess,” Asher murmurs again, leaning his head against Grant’s shoulder.

“Don’t worry about it,” Grant assures him, brushing a hand through his damp hair and turning him gently towards the bedroom. “It’s all taken care of, you just take care of yourself.”

“Thanks,” Asher says, and manages a shaky smile.

“Try to drink a little of this, if you can, dear,” Grant tells him, offering the cup. “It’s ginger and honey, ought to soothe your throat and settle your stomach, and you’ll need fluids after that.”

“I’ll try,” he agrees, taking it, and lets Grant guide him gently to their room. Leneghan is curled up on the bed, waiting patiently for him, and she meows softly as he sits down, hurrying to rub her face against his side.

“Here,” Grant says, bringing the wastebin over to set it by the side of the bed. “In case your tea makes you sick again.”

Asher nods, taking a small sip of tea, and then another, before setting the mug down on the bedside table. “I’m tired,” he murmurs. “Come lay down with me?”

“Of course, my love,” Grant replies as he turns off the light, and Asher feels the weight of him settle into bed beside him. “Of course.”

#transicktor #emeto fic #emetophilia #illumivomi #writing this made me care about them unfortunately now I��m cursed to love them #uhhhh #sickfic

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journalofimprobablethings · 4 years ago

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a recipe for home

Author: journalofimprobablethings

Fandom: The Adventure Zone: Balance

Summary:

Taako tries to cook for the first time since Glamour Springs. When things go awry, Lucretia is there to lend a hand.

Full fic under the cut, but this you can also find me on AO3!

Preview:

Living in the headquarters of the Bureau of Balance makes Taako nervous.

It’s not just the giant brainwashing jellyfish, or the weapons of mass destruction they're hunting, or the fact that it’s a literal moon base floating in the sky--that’s all weird, sure, but he’s Taako. He can deal with weird.

It’s the sense of deja vu he gets just walking around the place, the feeling that he’s been somewhere like this before. It’s the fact that so many things about it feel so damn familiar. The details of the place that feel right in a way he can’t explain.

The deja vu is constant and sometimes overwhelming. He knows he's never lived anywhere like this--he’s pretty sure he would remember living in the sky--but he still can’t shake the feeling. If he tries to think about it too hard, his head buzzes like the beginning of a hangover and the thin needle of a headache starts to pierce his skull. So he doesn’t look at the feeling straight on. But he worries the edges of it sometimes, as he’s lying in his bunk listening to Magnus and Merle’s snores.

He’s never had a place like this, never been part of a team like this. He’s always been alone. So why does this place--why do these people, Magnus and Merle and the Director and even, weirdly, Davenport--why do they feel so much like home?

The kitchen in the residential wing is the worst--or the best, depending on how you look at it. It’s small, just a tiny galley kitchen for the Bureau members to use if they don’t feel like going to the mess hall, and everything about it feels right. He’s never felt so immediately comfortable in a new kitchen before. He finds himself reaching for a spoon or a pan without thinking, and there it is, exactly where he expected. It’s as if somehow his body already has muscle memory for this place he’s never been. It’s the strangest thing.

Maybe that’s what makes him decide to actually try cooking again.

He hasn’t made anything more complicated than a peanut butter sandwich since Glamour Springs. Every time he thinks about trying, about cutting and assembling ingredients, about transmuting anything, his hands begin to shake, and the echo of forty people choking and gasping for breath sounds through his head. Before he came here, he’d barely set foot in a kitchen in six years.

But for some reason, this damn kitchen calms his fears, at least enough to pull out a pot and prepare himself a packet of instant ramen. Even he, he reasons, can’t mess up noodles and a flavor packet. He only ever cooks for himself, though, never for the others. He plays it off as selfishness-- get your own food, homie, I gave Garfield good elf hair for this shit --and hopes that Merle just thinks he’s an asshole for knocking the spoon out of his hand when he tries to steal a bite. Even he can’t mess up noodles and a flavor packet--but he had thought garlic chicken was a simple enough recipe, too.

Now, he’s standing at the stove, testing the waters in his mind. It’s late, Merle and Magnus long asleep, but after hours of lying in his bunk staring at the ceiling and trying not to think about all the questions this place raises in him, he’d given up on sleeping himself and made his way down to the kitchen. If he’s going to try, the middle of the night is a good time: no one around to disturb him, or ask for a taste.

Taako pulls a pot from the cabinet to the right of the stove, just where he thought it would be, and sets it on the burner. His heart is pounding in his ears, but his hands are steady, the ghosts of Glamour Springs so far silent.

Rice, he thinks. Rice is simple, easy. He’ll start with rice.

After a quick survey of the food stores he's found bacon in the fridge, pigeon peas and capers in the pantry, a container of cubes in the freezer labeled “sofrito” -- who in the Bureau cooks enough to make and freeze sofrito? he thinks. But he’s not complaining, because now he knows what he’s making: arroz con gandules, Tía Elsa’s recipe, a recipe engrained in his bones. There are enough spices in the cabinet to approximate sazón--no banana leaves to cover the pot, but Titi Elsa only did that half the time anyway, maybe if we had a banana tree in the front yard, mijo, but I’m not making a special trip just for leaves. Foil’s fine.

He assembles the ingredients on the tiny square of counter next to the stove, pulls out a cutting board and a knife. Takes a deep breath.

And begins.

He heats the pot, cuts the bacon into thick dice and adds it in. The motions are easy, practiced, the tension in his shoulders relaxing as he falls into the familiar recipe. While the bacon crisps he turns his attention to the army of spice bottles he’s pulled from the rack. He starts mixing them in a small bowl, measuring them by eye in his hand. Garlic powder, onion powder, cumin, coriander. He’s missing annatto seeds, but there’s paprika, easy enough to transmute one to the other--

He stops, staring into the bowl, his hand smudged with red powder.

He did the magic without thinking, a simple shift in flavors, but now he’s staring at the bowl and the smudge on his hand and he’s thinking of elderberry and nightshade and the sound of a town choking to death on his mistakes--

“Taako?”

The voice is distant, he can barely hear it over the ghosts crowding his head.

“Taako, are you alright?”

A hand touches his shoulder, tentatively, and he flinches away from the touch but it pulls him into the present enough for him to open his eyes and see who's talking to him.

The Director is standing in front of him, a blue shawl wrapped around her shoulders and concern in her eyes.

Of all the people to find him like this, it had to be her.

“Peachy keen, jelly bean,” he says, trying for nonchalance, but he can’t stop his voice from shaking. “No worries here, Taako’s good--”

He reaches out to steady himself on the counter, but he misses and catches the edge of the spice bowl, tipping it over the edge. It shatters at their feet, spilling its contents across the floor in an aromatic slash of orange and red and brown.

"Shit," Taako says. "Fucking shit."

He reaches down to clear up the mess, and the world tilts and he almost falls over. Then the Director’s hands are on his shoulders, no longer tentative, catching him before he can fall. She steers him to the table at one end of the narrow kitchen, and guides him, gently but firmly, into a chair.

“Sit.”

He does, and the world tilts again.

“Breathe,” the Director says, and yes, that’s why the world is tilting, because he’s not breathing, but how does he do that? He leans forward and puts his head between his knees, and manages to suck in a shaky breath.

“That’s it,” she says, “Just breathe.” She’s somewhere nearby but now that he’s seated she’s no longer touching him. He can hear her breathing, though, slow and even, and he tries to focus on that, to match his breath to hers.

It takes a few minutes to even out his breathing, and another few to silence the ghosts whispering in his ears. But finally he lifts his head and looks up at the Director. She’s crouched next to him, a small furrow of concern between her brows, and Taako has the strange urge to reach up and smooth the furrow away. He clenches his hands into fists.

He should probably say thank you, but he's angry with himself and embarrassed that she's seen him this way and so what comes out instead is,

“What are you doing down here?”

It’s a rude question for an employee to ask their boss, but she doesn’t seem to mind.

“I was working late and came down to make some tea." She studies him. “You were cooking.” She says it so carefully, and not for the first time, Taako wonders just how much the Director knows about their pasts.

He’s afraid she’ll ask what set him off, ask if he wants to talk about it , and he doesn’t think he could handle that. He’s had enough of being vulnerable in front of her for the moment. So he straightens in his chair, pulls his nonchalance back over himself like armor.

“Yeah, you know, sometimes you just need something better than the crap we get in the dining hall.”

He waits for his words to provoke her, for her to stand and say something kind but brusque and leave. But she doesn’t. Instead she just sighs and looks back at the kitchen, surveys the ingredients on the counter, the spilled bowl of spices on the floor. "Gandules?" she asks, and Taako raises his eyebrows in surprise.

"Yeah."

She hesitates, and then says the most remarkable thing.

“Would you like some help?”

He stares at her. Of all the things he might have expected her to say, that wasn’t on the list. She sounds different, somehow--less distant, less lofty. She sounds younger.

“Listen, not that I don’t appreciate the offer, but don’t you have important Director-y things to do? Or you know, sleep to catch?”

She smiles thinly. “Sleep is a lost cause tonight, I think,” she says. “And even administrators have to eat sometimes.”

Maybe it's because of that change in her voice, or the fact that she didn’t try to make him talk about the spell he just had. Maybe it's because, against all odds, the Director's presence in this kitchen is strangely comforting. Whatever the reason, he doesn't push away her help the way he normally would. Instead he just shrugs and waves a hand.

"Sure. Knock yourself out."

The Director smiles, drapes her shawl over a chair out of the way, and gets to work. She clears up the spilled spices and shards of bowl, removes the now overly-crisped bacon from the pot, drops in cubes of sofrito to melt and fry in the drippings, and soon the kitchen is full of the mouthwatering smell of cooking onion and pepper and cilantro. It smells like Titi Elsa and home, and the band of anxiety around Taako’s chest begins to loosen.

Taako watches the Director as she measures out the rice and adds it to the pot to toast, then mixes the spices in a new bowl, measuring them in her hand just as he had. She cooks slowly, like she’s having to remind herself of what comes next, but she goes through the steps of making the arroz exactly as he would.

Deja vu, he thinks.

“Where’d you learn to cook this?” he asks. “You spend some time in New Elfington or something?”

The Director doesn’t answer right away. Her hand pauses in its stirring, as though she’s considering what to say, and when she does answer her eyes are far away.

“My brother taught me,” she says quietly.

The answer surprises him. The Director is one of those people who is so private, so self-contained, that it’s hard to imagine her with a family, a life outside the Bureau. Taako tries to picture the Director younger, more carefree perhaps, standing side by side with her brother in the kitchen. But something about the image makes his head hurt, so he stops.

He wonders what her brother was like, and where he is now.

He thinks it must be nice, to have a sibling, someone to teach you to cook, to be at your side through good times and bad. Someone who would miss and mourn you if you were gone. The thought makes his chest ache with something like longing and something like grief.

So much of this place and these people make him feel this way, this confusing mix of longing and sorrow and comfort. He hates it, because he doesn't understand it, doesn’t know why it’s happening at all. These people mean nothing to him. He just met them. He doesn't care about them, he certainly doesn’t need them. He has never needed anyone.

This is what he tells himself, but as he leans back in his chair and watches the Director cook, he can't help but admit that it's the most at home he's felt in a long time.

---

Lucretia knows that this is a stupid risk.

She's supposed to be keeping her distance. She's supposed to be the Director: professional, dignified, distant . She's not supposed to let them catch her wandering to the kitchen late at night, and she's certainly not supposed to be in said kitchen cooking one of Taako's aunt's recipes for him--one of the ones that he absolutely forbade her to ever write down. (She'd watched him make it until she'd memorized the steps well enough to make it on her own. She's tried it a few times, since the redaction, and it has come out fine, but never as good as his.)

She's breaking all the rules she's set for herself, all the boundaries she's put up to keep her story in place, to keep them safe. She's putting everything at risk.

But when she came into the kitchen and saw Taako staring blankly at that bowl of spices, the smudge of paprika on his palm, helping him wasn’t even a question. She knows what happened at Glamour Springs, and she knows how hard cooking is for him now. She'd hoped the kitchen might help. It's modeled after the one on the Starblaster, laid out just the same, one of the places she couldn't bring herself to let go of.

And now it seems it's just made everything worse.

Maybe it's the guilt that makes her offer to finish the dish, so at least Taako can have a taste of home, even if it's not as good as his or his aunt's. Or maybe, she admits to herself, it's pure selfishness. Standing here in this kitchen with Taako, surrounded by the smells of his cooking, she can almost pretend that nothing has changed.

Until Taako speaks.

"Where'd you learn to cook this?" he asks, and her heart constricts in her chest.

She considers, and when she finally responds, it feels like the closest thing to truth she’s given him in weeks.

She remembers the first time she watched him make this dish, in that tiny galley kitchen on the Starblaster. They had lost Lup early that cycle, a venomous snakebite that acted too fast for Merle to be able to help. Taako retreated into himself the way he always did when Lup was gone, but when she offered to help out preparing the meals, he didn’t say no. He was prickly and short, and half the time he would take the knife out of her hand to finish chopping something himself if she was moving too slow. But he let her stay, and watch, and she soaked up everything he was doing as well as she could.

The last day of the cycle, she and Taako were in the kitchen early, and Taako made his aunt’s arroz con gandules, one of the dishes she had always made for Candlenights. He wouldn’t let Lucretia help at all. She stayed with him anyway, as the sky darkened with the coming Hunger and the light dimmed, and by the time Davenport flew them out of that plane and the threads of light pulled them apart, the pot sat covered and ready on the stove. Lup returned to a tackling hug from Taako, and a bowl of rice that tasted like home.

It was several cycles before he actually taught her how to make it, and several more before she cooked it on her own. Of all the things that he taught her to make, it was always one of her favorites, and she made it at the Bureau because it reminded her of that day, that feeling of reunion.

She only hopes they'll get there again, one day.

Gods, she misses him. She misses all of them. She hadn’t realized how peculiar a grief it was, to miss someone who is sitting right in front of you. To look in the eyes of someone who you’ve known for a century and see nothing but wariness and disinterest.

Every time she thinks she's become accustomed to it, something new appears; they do or say something that leaves her shattered.

Every time, it feels a little harder to put herself back together.

“Your rice is burning,” Taako says from the table.

Lucretia comes back to herself and realizes he’s right: the nutty smell of the toasting rice is now tinged with bitterness, and when she stirs there are dark flecks of the grains that have caught at the bottom of the pan.

She curses softly and grabs for the tomato sauce, which hisses and bubbles immediately as she adds it.

It’s been a long time since she let herself wander down those back paths of her memories. She’s avoided it for good reason: it hurts too much, and no good can come of it. For a moment, here, seduced by the familiarity, she allowed herself to drop her guard.

And worse, she let Taako see.

The empty tomato sauce can clatters as she drops it too quickly onto the counter.

“You all right, there, Madam Director?”

She shouldn’t be here. It’s too dangerous, for him, for her, for the plan. She’s supposed to keep them at arm’s length so that they don’t ask questions, don’t try to follow her down those back paths to places their minds can’t go right now. She’d seen Taako wince when she’d mentioned her brother, because of course that would make him try to think of things that the voidfish has erased, and yet she'd continued on, losing herself in the comfort of the moment and ignoring the danger.

How could she have been so stupid?

She'll finish the dish, because she said she would. What comes next? Toast the rice, tomato sauce and then--what? She stares into the bubbling pot, trying to tamp down the panic clawing at her throat as it always does when she forgets something from the century. She knows this, it's--

"Here."

Taako's voice cuts into her thoughts. She blinks and he is standing next to her, holding the bowl of spices. She hadn't even noticed him get up.

He doesn't ask what's wrong, doesn't even tease her for forgetting what comes next. He just holds out the bowl to her. She takes it, and he doesn't comment on the fact that now it is her hands that are shaking.

"Thank you."

She pours the spices in, and by the time she's done he already has the next ingredient in hand.

They finish the rest of the recipe like that, together, Taako handing her each ingredient in turn. Then she adds just enough water to cover the rice up to her knuckle, and the heat is turned high to bring it to a boil. She and Taako tidy the kitchen without discussion while the water heats, and Lucretia wonders if Taako notices how easily they move around each other in this space, how familiar the dance of dishes and drying and putting away.

The water boils, and they reduce it to a simmer and cover the pot with foil, nesting the lid on top. And then it's done, nothing left to do but wait while the pot bubbles quietly away.

“I should go,” she says quietly. “It’s late.”

"I thought sleep was for the weak, or whatever," Taako says.

"There's always work to do," she replies. She picks up her shawl from the chair and surveys him. "Will you be alright?"

He flashes a peace sign at her. "I think I know how to tell when rice is done. I'm golden."

"You know what I mean."

Their eyes meet, and for a moment there is a connection there, an understanding. It's not what they had before, of course, not even close. But it's not nothing, either.

"I'm good," he says.

She nods and turns to go, but his voice stops her before she gets to the door.

"Hey, Director?"

She turns. "Yes?"

He starts to say something, then stops, and his shoulders go up in a sort of helpless half-shrug.

“Thanks.”

She smiles at that.

"You're welcome, Taako."

The next morning, Lucretia comes into her office to find a covered bowl sitting on her desk. Next to it is a note, and she recognizes the looping scrawl instantly.

Not bad, Madam D.

She smiles and uncovers the bowl. Even though it must have been hours since he placed it there, the rice is still steaming.

#taz balance #taako #taz lucretia #taz fanfic #taz #back on my bullshit writing fics about food and estranged friends #i've accepted that i'll never be over these two and their relationsihp #taako & lucretia #glamour springs #bureau of balance #found family #scribblings #long post

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kookiebunnii · 4 years ago

Text

d4u || a-tier healthcare

aug. 2018. finally moved back in today. i needed to get something for classes this year, but jungkook’s gone and hurt himself again. i swear the boy barely functions when he stays up all night playing overwatch. if he keeps this up, well, he better like hello kitty band-aids.

pairing: best friend!jungkook x reader

genre: slice of life

word count: 1.4k

warnings: brief mentions of blood (like .2 seconds worth)

Most people you knew absolutely dreaded when school started. As soon as August and September roll around like a couple of snickering troublemakers, your fellow collegians would weep knowing that classes and exams were about to insert themselves into their schedules. It meant that summer, and all the freedom and laughter associated with it, was coming to an end. Instead of enjoying the bright sunshine and baby blue skies every day, the scenery was being replaced with drab grey walls and chairs that felt uncomfortable no matter how you sat.

Surprisingly enough, it didn’t really bother you all that much. You had spent summer working full-time at a relative’s restaurant as a waitress, meaning that you never got the chance to really take a vacation. The three months you were blessed with passed by like a blur. They were filled with placating tipsy adults or bawling infants, carrying as many plates as you could in your arms without spilling mystery sauce all over yourself, and bringing yourself to smile consistently on an 8-hour shift. It was far from an ideal summer, to say the least. In fact, you were relieved that classes were starting. Now, you could work and learn about concepts you were actually interested in. Besides, it also meant that you would get to move back into your apartment near university, which you shared with Jungkook. The boy loved traveling and spent most of his time jumping from one destination to another, filming small videos for G.C.F. You could count on one hand the amount of times you spent physically with him over the break, and as much as it pained you to admit—you missed watching him embarrass himself on the daily.

Late August was still warm, teetering curiously between summer and the beginning of autumn. You had just finished moving back into your place, feeling refreshed with a shower after the long trip. Deciding to head out and do some stationary shopping before preparing dinner, you pulled on your favorite shoes. It wasn’t like you needed anything in particular, since you’d keep the same 3-subject notebook from last year-- but the store you loved always had the cutest animal-shaped post-its. Surely it couldn’t hurt to find some (FaveAnimal) ones for this quarter, just to start off on the right foot.

Humming to yourself, you bounded down the stairs of your complex while double-checking your pockets for all your personal items. As you walked at a leisurely pace, you began wondering what Jungkook could be doing at this hour. You saw that his things were already back in his room, meaning that he was back for school as well. Maybe you’d make some pasta for the two of you when you get back, since he always liked when you cooked for him.

“Y/N!”

Hearing your name causes you to look up, realizing that the familiar saying really was true: speak (or in this case ‘think’) of the Devil and he shall appear.

“Guk?” you ask, observing the way he’s slightly favoring his left side as he walks towards you, “You good?”

You can see him wince as he approaches, but still trying hard to brush the pain off with a silly grin, “Not exactly.”

Pulling at his wrist, you realize that the skin on the side of his hand is broken and bloody. There’s dirt and bits of granite adhering to his skin, streaks of dried blood all over. You stay silent as you look down to observe his knee, seeing that his jeans are ripped with red stains that definitely weren’t part of any fashion statement. He had hurt his knee as well.

“Did you fall?” you guess, letting go of his arm to look him in the eyes questioningly.

“I bought a penny board over the summer since my classes are sorta far from each other this quarter. Guess I need more practice,” he shrugs nonchalantly before walking in the direction of your apartment, waving you away.

Frowning as you watch his back retreat where you came, you realize that by being the stupid worrywart you are, you only had one real choice in this scenario.

Sorry cute stationary, mommy’s gonna have to reschedule.

Sprinting to catch up with him, you silently walk beside him as the two of you head back inside the apartment. Even though he struggles up the stairs a little, you don’t hold him up or anything like that. You know that he hates when people treat him like a kid, so you’ve grown accustomed to accepting his stubbornness. Unless he’s literally on death’s door or asks for your help, you let him be responsible for himself.

Leaning his new penny board against the doorway, he enters the apartment with a sigh before heading to the bathroom to clean his wounds. Clicking your tongue like a disapproving mother, you head to the kitchen to look for the first-aid kit. After a couple of mishaps involving the kitchen knife and your clumsy fingers, you learned that that was the best place to keep it.

Pulling out some bandages, rubbing alcohol wipes, and anti-scarring cream, you follow him into the bathroom.

From the faucet, water runs over his hand as he gently brushes blood and dirt away from the injury. You can tell it hurts by the way his jaw is tight, and a small part of you feels bad to see him in any sort of pain…even if that pain is probably due to him trying out a trick he saw on Tony Hawk’s Pro Skater or something.

“Give me.”

You grab his hand and turn off the faucet. Patting his hand dry with his towel hanging from the side, you look at it closely to make sure the opening in his skin is relatively clean. Satisfied, you open up an alcohol swab and smile widely, “This is gonna hurt a lot!”

“Why am I not surprised that you seem to be happy saying that? Whatever…just hurry up” he looks at you blankly, but you can still feel his arm tense at your words.

You start with a quick and heavy swipe, and to his credit, he doesn’t even flinch. You follow up with more gentle administrations before tossing the wipe into the trash. The anti-scarring scream is cooling, so he’ll probably enjoy it a bit more.

After finishing up his hand, you let it go and catch his round, brown eyes staring at you. You stare back for two seconds before sticking your tongue out and causing him to laugh.

“Alright string bean, show me those kneecaps,” you roll up your sleeves to show that you mean business.

“On the first date? Damn,” he whistles before starting to unbutton his jeans.

“Alright I guess you’ll be handling your knee yourself.”

Closing the door behind you, you can literally feel the amusement radiating from him in waves through the wood. It was a wonder to you that he could be so casual and teasing with you, but once he sees a pretty female within a 10-mile radius, he’d act like a frightened rabbit. After all these years with him, he probably didn’t even see you as a woman. It didn’t particularly bother you, since you were just as friendly with him as he was with you. He’s seen you walk around the house with bed hair and dark circles, so you never felt the need to be cautious or nervous around him. The two of you cared for each other in a comfortable, relaxed way.

As you pull out tomatoes and fresh herbs from the fridge, you hear Jungkook leaving the bathroom. He fills up his favorite Overwatch mug with some water and takes loud gulps as you begin cutting your ingredients and boiling a large pot of water over the stove for the spaghetti.

“Pasta?”

You make a noise of affirmation. He gives the top of your head a few gentle pats which you understood as him thanking you for everything. You stop in mid-chop to pat his hand atop your head in response to let him know that it wasn’t a big deal at all. The beginnings of his special bunny smile start creeping in, and you resist the urge to tickle him to hide your own embarrassment. Just as you open your mouth to say something, he messes up your hair and runs into his room before you can get a punch in.

You wonder if he’s actually 21 this year or 11.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

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jimlingss · 6 years ago

Text

Jungle Park [21]

Chapter 20 - Chapter 21 - Chapter 22

➜ Words: 4.5k

➜ Genres: Fluff, Light Humour (?), Slice of Life, Workplace Romance!AU

➜ Summary: The equation is simple. Hoseok needs to hire someone. You need a job. Except like any actual equation, it’s not fucking simple at all! Not when you have to add the fact that he was forced to hire someone he doesn’t want in his office, he has little respect for your job in general, and oh yeah...once upon a time you might have—*CENSORED*.

You love your job. Really you do. This is the best career you’ve had. It’s fulfilling and the administrative work can be rather fun. You adore every person in this office. You haven’t had many bad days or terrible encounters. You also get to work alongside your partner in crime. But this….this is one of the rare moments you have to convince yourself you love your job.

“Look it’s not that big of a deal.” “Of course it’s a big deal! That’s my personal space that you’re invading. And last I checked, you don’t have to suffer the consequences of your own actions.” “Okay, wait, wait.” You put out a hand, halting Yoongi and Sunyi’s argument with each other. “Let’s take a step back and assess the root of the problem.” “The problem is that he microwaved something in my office and now I can’t even walk in without wanting to gag and puke!” Sunyi is both exasperated and hysterical. “Ever heard of mung beans?” Yoongi’s brow lifts with a mocking smile that adds more fuel to the fire. “It’s quite healthy for you and it’s really soft when you heat them up.” “They smell like death!” Her fist pounds against the conference table. Out of the corner of your eye and through the glass windows of the room, you catch Lisa and Dahyun looking over from their spot at the front desk. It’s like these two are in the middle of a divorce mediation appointment. “Why can’t you just use the microwave in the kitchen?” “Jin microwaved popcorn. I don’t want my mung beans to smell like popcorn.” “You are unbelievable! Get your own damn microwave!” “Listen.” He spins in his swivel chair, pointing his index finger down at the wooden surface of the table. “Why do you have a microwave in your office anyways if no one can use it?” “It’s my microwave in my office for my own convenience and for me to use. Not for you, Min!” she spits it out in animosity and her blood vessel at her temple threaten to burst. “Not for you or your damn mung beans! Stay out!” “Alright!” You shout above them both, straining your voice and getting between them before it spirals more out of control. “Enough. If you can’t discuss the issue properly like adults without screaming then how are we supposed to do this?” A long sigh spills from your lungs. “I’ve heard both sides and Yoongi, I believe you should apologize to Sunyi. It is her microwave after all and you didn’t ask permission to use it. The microwave in the kitchen is working fine and that’s for everyone to use. There’s no need to barge into Sunyi’s office.” “Okay.” He nods once. “I understand and I’m sorry, Sunyi.” “That’s it?” The female lawyer looks at you, her arms in the air. “There’s no punishment for him?” “Well...if there’s a second offense, I’ll look into proper consequences. It’s a warning for now. If you need air freshener, I have some you can borrow.” Sunyi falls back, collapsing into the chair while rubbing her temples. “Oh my god.” Today is a heavy session of conflict resolution. You and Hoseok were chatting about the two lawyers casually on the sofa one night and he decided to put an end to it once and for all. It was getting pretty ridiculous when over three quarters of the complaints were of Yoongi from Sunyi. There are a lot of investigations still pending, but it’s time to put everything in the open and find the root issue to address it and stop this nonsense. Hoseok was here, mostly to observe and give you moral support, but much to your dismay, the lawyer looked more entertained than anything. “Okay. Let’s take a look at some older complaints.” Your foot moves the first box forward and you lean down, plucking a random page from the papers sandwiched inside, as if you were picking a name slip in the Hunger Games. Your throat clears. “On February sixteenth of this year, Yoongi was calling Sunyi by the name Sunny all day and confusing the client they were talking to.” “It’s a cute nickname, right?” Yoongi asks no one in particular, more so a thought aloud. “It’s not good if the client is confused,” Hoseok adds. You put the filled form down. “Yoongi, you should call Sunyi by her legal name since that’s what she wants.” “Okay.” You turn to her. “Is that alright with you?” “I...uh...yeah.” She nods, cheeks heating up, and no one notices her reaction except for Yoongi who smiles to himself. You pick another. “Here’s one made on December twentieth. Yoongi was wearing too strong of a cologne and it was clogging up your nose and making it hard to breathe.” Everyone turns to look at her, giving the female a chance for further explanation. But instead, Sunyi’s head is downcast and she fiddles with her fingers in her lap. “Ummm...can...can I actually redact that? I don’t mind...it doesn’t bother me anymore.” “Redact?” Your brow shoots upwards. “Alright. Makes the job easier.” Yoongi gazes at her, staring, and goosebumps raise along her skin from the mere intensity of his eyes. Unfortunately, you don’t notice the exchange. You’re too busy picking out another sheet while Hoseok is preoccupied checking you out and making you send a glare his way, to which he gives you a greasy smile and flirtatious wink. “Okay. November second, Yoongi spammed you email after email asking if orange pee is normal.” Hoseok butts into the conversation, concerned for his friend. “Did you go to the doctor?” “Yeah and I’m fine.” He smiles. Sunyi raises her hand timidly. “Can I withdraw that?” “Sure.” You put it aside into the accumulating pile. “Here’s another one where you said he was out to get you and driving you insane—” “Redact that please!” Sunyi interrupts and Yoongi smirks. He’s still staring at her, elbow propped on the table, cheek in his hand. “I drive you insane?” She ignores him, speaking directly to you. “I’d like to withdraw it.” “Okay…” Somehow Sunyi redacting a lot of the complaints, especially those that attack Yoongi’s general character, personality or behaviour. You’re baffled, wondering if something changed her mind or they reconciled on their own. Nonetheless, the session is fairly successful and the two of them are less hostile towards each other by the end. Still, you privately tell Hoseok to talk to Yoongi since they’re both friends and you know the latter man respects the former. Hoseok agrees and in confidence speaks to Yoongi about not wasting time or bothering Sunyi anymore to which the dark-haired lawyer nods along with. Sunyi leaves soon after, thanking you and it’s a job well done. You high five Hoseok but he considers it inadequate, pulling you aside when you’re both alone and he kisses you eagerly, murmuring about how hot you look when you’re working hard. You scoff, chiding for him to get back to work and he salutes you with a firm ‘yes, ma’am’.

The restaurant has a cozy atmosphere, dim lighting that comes from candlelights placed in the middle of tables. The chatter and murmur of conversations blurs together with the soft music, but it’s quieter in the secluded area. The scent of food wafting from the kitchen is appetizing and the quality is only imaginable considering the toasted bread and creamy butter the waitress brought out is already mouthwatering. You imagine this would be a fancy, hot date between you and Hoseok. But nope. The person sitting across from you is Kim Seokjin who’s devouring the bread like a wild animal starved. You’re also jammed between Naul who sips on her glass of red wine, lost in thought like she’s seen too much in her lifetime, and Namjoon who has his fingers attached onto his phone. Hoseok is sitting at the front of the table with Jimin, visibly more tortured than you are. “Jin! What the fuck!” Lisa moves her arm away, shooting him a disgusting glare. “You’re slobbering! And butter just hit my fucking arm! Eat properly, you dog!” “Look.” He chews, cheeks stuffed to the brim. “I haven’t eaten in literally five hours, okay? I’m starving and the food is taking forever!” “Can we not swear in a fancy place like this?” Seulgi pleads with a long sigh. “It makes us look unsophisticated and uncultured.” “Are we supposed to be sophisticated?” Taehyung moves his sunglasses down, looking over the rim of his dark shades. “What the hell are you even wearing.” “It’s fashion. Ask Namjoon!” “Don’t ask me,” the legal assistant mutters while still tapping away at his phone. Sunyi scoffs. “You’re wearing pajamas, Taehyung.” “Pajamas are in. Right, Jungkook?” “Uh...” The younger lawyer reaches for his glass of water, sipping through the straw and refusing to give an answer. “I can’t believe you blow your money on shit like that.” Lisa shakes her head in disapproval, obviously judging his horrible tastes. “Don’t tell me how to spend my money and I won’t tell you how to spend yours, Miss-I-get-a-pedicure-every-other-day.” “Excuse you! It’s relaxing for me.” “Well, shopping is relaxing for me.” “I prefer online shopping,” Inyoung timidly murmurs, attempting to mediate the argument. They ignore her, but Dahyun swoops in with a smile to acknowledge the accountant. “Same here.” “Look, I’m sorry you fools have no fashion sense.” Taehyung leans back in his seat, arms on top of the other chairs beside him. “And if Namjoon was paying any attention, you would know that he has the exact same set as I do. We actually pre-ordered it together.” Seulgi turns to her friend with a frown. “What are you doing, Namjoon?” He doesn’t look away from the screen and she thinks he’s actively ignoring her, but then the corner of his mouth moves. “Texting my girlfriend.” “What.” Everyone cranes their necks over to stare like they’re hyperactive dogs and he’s a bouncing squirrel. “Since when?” “Since years ago. Haven’t I talked about her?” The paralegal pockets his mobile device and finally lifts his head, pushing his glasses up the slope of his nose before it slips too far. “She plays in the philharmonic orchestra.” “No, you haven’t talked about it,” Jin spits at his best friend, absolutely appalled and shocked at this news. “What the hell…” “Yeah, she’s nice.” Namjoon shrugs nonchalantly and it doesn’t do much to lessen the shock. But it goes quiet as they mull over the new revelation. And Jimin takes the opportunity to stand up. “Alright, alright. Let me get everyone’s attention again. Fellow employees of Jung and Park, do you know why we’re all here on this lovely evening?” “Food?” Jin jokes, but he’s all too serious at the same time. He looks around and his eyes pin on a waiter holding a plate...only for that waiter to brush past and head to a different table. Dammit. “No. We’re celebrating Hoseok’s and my anniversary!” There’s a pause. “Of being called to the bar!” “Right.” Naul nods and holds up her glass, congratulating him before downing the rest of her drink. Jimin is not impressed. “Can we get some more enthusiasm in here?” “To Hoseok and Jimin!” Yoongi holds up his glass of water and everyone mimics him, raising their glass. Each gives one monotonous and short shout and then rehydrates themselves, making you laugh and Jimin snicker. He opens his mouth, but gives up, taking a seat again with an exhale. His partner, on the other hand, grins. “Would anyone like to make a toast?” “I will.” Taehyung volunteers, happily taking the spotlight as he stands and holds his water with a boxy smile. “I have been working at this firm ever since it started and I’m so glad that you dragged and threatened me to be here, Jimin. You were right. I don’t think I would’ve enjoyed that tax firm….even if they paid me more and had better benefits and was a closer commute…..” Both friends laugh and he turns to smile at the other lawyer. “Hoseok, you’re scary. When any of us make a mistake, you glare, but lately you’ve been a lot nicer and approachable. I just wanted to say that it’s okay if any one of us mess up. We’re human after all.” No one knows where he’s going with the toast, only that he’s ballsy enough to be this direct to Hoseok and still stand in front of him. Though Taehyung has no malice in his voice, just idiotic joy and he inhales, looking carefully at everyone. “But I think we have to mention a very special someone who’s sitting at this table right now. Y/N!” “Me?” You blink, dumbfounded. “Yes.” His lips are tilted upwards, cheeks puffing out, too cute. “You are the backbone of our entire firm. I don’t know what we would do without you. Thank you for being here. Thank you for staying with us. Thank you for saving us from scary, scary Hoseok.” He sits back down and Lisa jumps up. “My turn! First off, I want to congratulate my two bosses, Jimin and Hoseok. Jung and Park has been the best place I’ve ever worked at and even though I know my job is technically less important than all of yours, you have never once made me feel insignificant in the office. For that, I am grateful. Congratulations on your anniversary.” “But…” She quickly moves on before anyone can stop her and applaud. “I also have to thank Y/N.” Lisa smiles and shifts to you, eyes twinkling. “I know we got off on the wrong foot and I wasn’t always the nicest. But you never once took that and used it against me. You listened to me when no one else would. You helped me during tough times. You feel like a ray of sun in the office. God knows before you came, everything was a mess.” The receptionist laughs and the others agree, nodding along. “There were boxes everywhere and I couldn’t walk without bumping into anything. So, thank you, Y/N. You don’t know what you mean to all of us.” She sits back down and Jimin protests, “Wait a minut—” “Hold on.” Timid Inyoung stands, adjusting the length of her skirt before she picks up her glass and presses it to her chest, gazing at you endearingly. “I also want to thank Y/N.” The girl is sincere and you’re smiling, tears filling your eyes, overwhelmed by their appreciation. “I know we’re all kind of doing this as a joke to take the light away from Jimin and Hoseok—” She glances at them with a soft laugh. “—but I really mean it. Y/N, you are the sweetest person I know and you were there for me during one of the scariest times of my life. Without you, I don’t know where I’d be right now. I don’t know what would’ve happened to me. You’re the one who sticks up for everyone in this office and I don’t think we tell you that enough. You’re the one who time and time again proves that you genuinely care about us. And for that, thank you.” You’re speechless. “You guys…” Jungkook clears his throat. He steps up as well. “Y/N, I know you already know this but, you’re my role model. I aspire to be someone like you, someone who works hard and is so passionate about their work. The office has been changed for the better ever since you arrived. Jung and Park wouldn’t be able to function without your...uh..presence….” He’s blushing from the attention and awkwardly shuffles back into his chair. “You guys, let’s not take the light away from what we’re actually here for.” Seokjin grins mischievously, pushing away his hunger and chaotically getting up, scratching the leg chairs against the floorboards. He looks at the front, eyeing both lawyers. “Hoseok...Jimin…” They’re both expectant and Jin lifts his glass higher. “...thank you for hiring Y/N.” There’s laughing and chuckling all around. Jimin opens his mouth to whine at the audacity to treat him like this, but unknowingly, you interrupt, getting to your feet and scanning your surroundings to imprint this memory into your mind. “You guys, I’m absolutely flattered.” “You’re the ones who make me love my job so much. To be completely honest, before I came here, I was having a difficult time. I was applying everywhere trying to look for jobs, but I never expected to land my dream career. You’re the best bunch I’ve ever had the opportunity of working with. I’m so lucky and sometimes I wonder if I deserve it all.” “But let’s not forget about Jimin and Hoseok.” All jokes aside, you shift to address each of them. “Jimin, you’re sweet and generous to everyone regardless of who they are. Congratulations on your anniversary for being called to the bar. Thank you for needing an HR rep.” The lawyer giggles, smiling wide, finally having his proper praise. “And Hoseok.” Your breath is caught in your throat and you’re focused on him, tunnel vision, everything else blurring into the background. “I don’t think you’re mean at all. Well, maybe sometimes. You’re passionate about your job and I admire that. If people got to know you better, they’d know you’re literal sunshine on this planet. Thank you for hiring me.” There’s a pause where you take a deep breath, eyes locked into his. “Thank you for picking me...out of everyone else.” Your speech is coming to an end and you spin on your heel to address the rest of them. “Also, I’d like to use this opportunity to remind everyone that the fridge is a communal space. This has been an issue for a while now, but please do not eat food if it’s not labeled as yours and if you don’t know, it never hurts to ask.” There’s a round of applause and you sit back down, hands falling into your lap, slightly embarrassed from the whole ordeal. No one notices, but you can feel Hoseok’s gaze on you. Jimin grins. “There we go! Finally, a proper toast!” And like perfect timing would have it— “Food’s here!” Jin’s announcement garners cheers as waiters and waitresses approach the table, passing around the food. People begin to dig in and you take one look around at each person’s face, all too happy to be here. Your eyes meet Hoseok and you smile. He quirks his head to the side as well, staring and smiling back. // The pair of you return to the office. Giggles and drunken laughter echo down the halls, fluorescent lights flicker on slowly, flooding the entire floor with light. You teeter inside, throwing your bag and coat onto a chair at the empty front desk as he follows behind. “Did you have a good time?” You spin around, arms thrown around his neck. “Course I did.” “Everyone loves you.” Hoseok grins, searching your face. “You took the spotlight.” You laugh again, leaning closer and tilting your head. His breath skims along your skin, lips a millimeter away and his hands find purchase on your waist. Hoseok’s eyes become half-lidded, flickering down to your mouth and his Adam’s apple bobs. “Now you really can’t fire me, Jung. Else there’d be a riot.” He laughs softly. “You know how to capture people, minx.” And Jung Hoseok leans in, breathing you in. His eyes are slightly open, watching your expression until he shuts them, relishing in the tender touch, enjoying the way your hands run through the strands of his hair, tugging ever so gently. You pull away after ten seconds. “Wait, wait….we said we wouldn’t do it at the office again. What happens if we get caught?” “You really think anyone would come here at this time?” “I don’t know.” You giggle, feeling ticklish by the way his hands move along your side. You play with the hairs at the nape of his neck, lips pouty. “We should’ve just gone to your apartment instead.” “That’s too far away.” He moves closer, body pressed on yours and the air becomes heated, making your skin feel hot. “Would rather have you right here, right now.” Another giggle spills from your kiss-bitten lips and you draw closer as if you’re addicted to his scent, his hands. But then something stops you from planting a kiss on his mouth. There’s a subtle clatter, like the sound of thunder, but quieter and yet, closer. “Hoseok.” “Hmm?” He’s too busy staring, touching, taking you all in to notice. “What was that?” You both crane your necks over. He holds your hand, stalking the noise. It’s probably a bad idea. You’ve watched enough horror movies, and you don’t know what to do if the office is haunted; knowing Hoseok, he’d probably pick up and move Jung and Park to a warehouse instead. The noise comes from Taehyung’s office and you frown. Hoseok extends his hand, fingers wrapping around the knob, and he throws the door open. It crashes against the wall. You gasp. Eyes wide. Jaw dropping. There are clothes all over the ground, a small lamp fallen on the carpet as well, probably the noise you heard. More importantly, on top of Taehyung’s desk, with papers amok is Sunyi and Yoongi wrapped around each other. “Oh my god!” — “Holy fuck!” — “Don’t stare!” — “Sorry!” It’s horrifying. You wish you saw a ghost instead. // The need to wash your eyes is all too high. But you compose yourself, trying to act like an adult, especially in this moment. You’re sobered up. If possible, the intoxication has been scared out of you. The conference room is deathly quiet. Hoseok called for an emergency meeting and the two lawyers are barely put together. There are purple and blue hickeys all over Sunyi’s throat, her blouse still unbuttoned. Yoongi has lipstick stains all over his mouth and cheeks, hair riled up like he was electrocuted. It’s so unbearably uncomfortable that you feel yourself dying inside. “How long has this been going on for?” You’re the first to start off with a crystal clear voice, enunciating each syllable with your hands clasped on top of the table. “It’s complicated.” Sunyi is mortified, face reddened, head downcast. “It’s been...on and off.” “When’s the first...time then?” It’s not like you want to intrude into their lives or overstep your boundaries, but this is unfortunately part of your job. You can’t pretend like you didn’t see it. “Two years ago,” Yoongi states plainly, more composed than the female beside him. “Years?” Hoseok’s brows shoot upwards, wholly surprised. “This is purely a sexual relationship,” Sunyi scrambles to explain as if it can save the situation. “Yeah right.” He scoffs, looking at you to explain. “We’re dating.” She automatically protests, voice moving up a pitch, sharp and offended, “No, we’re not!” “Then what do you describe going out ten times to movies and dinners? What? Are we friends?” “It’s not dating. It’s just...hanging out...or rather, being at the same place by coincidence.” Yoongi scoffs again, ignoring her. “We’re living together.” “No!” She sighs. “I just have a lot of my stuff at his apartment and it happens to be closer to work than my place and my landlord is an asshole—” “Alright.” Hoseok stops them before he gets a headache. He pinches the bridge of his nose, letting them off the hook considering how late of a night it is. “Obviously you need to talk to each other and figure this out. I don’t care what you guys are doing on your own time and neither does Jimin, but we need to know to prevent liability issues, okay? You’re both lawyers and you should understand that. So go home, figure it out, and in the morning, go report to HR.” Sunyi nods frantically, grabbing her coat and covering herself up, walking out before she’s humiliated any further. But as you all make your way, Yoongi’s cat-like eyes are sharp and narrowed into slits. It sees right through you. “But...why did you two show up?” He inhales a shallow breath and the corner of his mouth tugs, like they’re tempted to pull into a smirk. He knows. “I had to pick something up.” Hoseok swallows hard, pupils diverted elsewhere. Yoongi smiles and he glances at you for a millisecond. “Sure. Let’s go with that.” “Goodnight, Yoongi.” The pair of you watch them leave, still unable to wrap your minds around this bizarre development. Then, a tired exhale leaves through the seams of your lips. “I’m going to have to do another presentation on office romances and not having sex here, right?” “Probably.” Hoseok nods, still looking ahead at the elevator doors with you. “But right now, we have unfinished business.” “If you think for one second that after that we’re going to your office—” “To my apartment we go!” Hoseok laughs, clutching your hand in his and dragging you off as your mouth curls and a soft scoff leaves it. The trip to his place isn’t as bad as you thought it would be. Well, considering Hoseok kicks the front door open and he’s carrying you. You didn’t have to take many steps, but he was slightly struggling, almost crashing into the wall and wobbling from side to side. “Oof.” “I thought I was light as a feather, Hobi.” You make fun of him, tugging on his chubby cheek and mimicking his words from inside the apartment elevator. Still, the fool of a lawyer manages a laugh and a grin. “You’re heavy as one brick. So not that much.” “Lovely. Comparing me to a brick.” Once he’s made it to the bedroom, he throws you onto the mattress, making your body bounce once and you feel absolutely giddy from head to toe. He strips off his jacket before jumping on top of you, causing laughs to bubble out. You complain he’s too heavy and too warm, pushing him off. But even when Hoseok’s moved aside, he’s relentless, arms wrapping around your abdomen, nuzzling into you. A quiet yawn leaves him and he cuddles into your body, head propped on top of your crown. “Y/N…” “Hmm?” Your lashes flutter, finally simmering down. “Wanna just sleep instead? You’re too soft to let go. Like a pillow.” “Okay.” Your hands card through the strands of his hair, patting and petting him. The man who’s melted into putty hums in satisfaction, reminiscent of a cat being lulled by their owner. “But Hoseok.” “Yeah?” “I still need to brush my teeth. And take off my makeup. And change into pajamas.” There’s silence. You wonder if he’s fallen asleep. “Hoseok?” “Yes, ma’am.” He pulls away, albeit reluctantly and obviously tired. Yet somehow, he manages to scoop you up in his arms again, carrying you into his bathroom to get ready for bed. He’s all too silly and as you laugh, you wonder how it’s possible sunshine has been encapsulated into one man.

#bts scenario #bts fanfic #hoseok fanfic #hoseok fluff #hoseok scenario #THE END IS NEAR

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whenthemarshmallowmettheslayer · 5 years ago

Note

Could you do a Naruto fanfiction recommendation? I loved your Sakura one but I was curious if you would do one in general for the series?

1.) serendipity by stirringwinds. On ao3. Rated T. Summary: Sasuke had never known Senju Hashirama in person, of course. But he had grown up hearing stories about the First Hokage at his mother’s knee—about the legend who had defeated the most powerful member of their own clan. Enough stories to recognise what he was seeing—and to know he was witnessing his teammate perform the impossible. Or, in the fight against Gaara during Suna’s attempted invasion of Konoha, the Ichibi’s attempt to kill Sakura awakens an unexpected power. It changes the destiny of Team Seven forever.

Yes, this is about Mokuton!Sakura but this is in Sasuke’s pov and, oh boy, is it so interesting in his point of view. There’s not only world building but nods to real life history that makes in the (casual) history nerd in me get really excited. So far we’ve only seen Uchiha clan politics that Sasuke remembers from when his family arrived but if this is ever continued the current politics is one of the main things I look forward too.

2.) These Moments We Take for Granted by Applepie. On ao3. Rated T. Summary: Kakashi dies to Pain’s attack and wakes up in another world. It’s a world where Kakashi hadn’t failed Obito’s final wish and sacrificed himself for Rin’s sake instead. It’s a Konoha too similar, yet so different that Kakashi can’t bear to impose. So he doesn’t – not as ‘Kakashi’, at least.

I’m dying for the next chapter of this. The cliff hanger is partially why the other reason is the story is just that good.

3.) Yes, my weird depressed half-tree uncle by Aesoleucian. On ao3. Rated G. Summary: Sarada is such a lonely kid, and Sakura has such a dissociative disorder. Where are Sakura's parents? Where is the support? Being a single mom is hard and therefore I crafted this AU where Obito survives the war and retires to help restore his clan which he helped murder.

A good way to get me to love any fic: let characters who go through traumatic situations actually show they’re not okay afterwards.

4.) your skeleton will carry by theformerone. On ao3. Rated E. Summary: He doesn't want to have children for the clan that murdered his father, or for the village that let it happen.

Neji and Sasuke discover that they are more alike than they think.

I’m so glad the author tagged this Anti Sandaime. That tag is the reason why I found this beautiful fic.

5.) Just the Usual Habits by Applepie. On ao3. Rated G. Summary: Sakumo has no idea where all of these habits of Kakashi's are coming from. In which five-year-old Kakashi forgets the existence of his left eye, loses his ability to lie believably, and is a little too knowledgeable about the Birds and Bees. Still, no matter what oddities went on in Kakashi's head, one thing is certain – the boy will always love his father, through thick and thin.

6.) Get Shisui by DoodlesOfTheMind. On ao3. Rated T. Summary: Get Shisui. It was a common refrain throughout the Uchiha compound, though its meaning had shifted a number of times over the years.

Both beautiful and heartbreaking.

7.) a beating heart of stone by FantasyDeath. On ao3. Rated Not Rated. Summary: During Iruka's first year teaching — on his own, because apparently there is a severe lack of teachers — he loses his curriculum, gets into a low-key fight with Shimura Danzo and accidentally creates an army. To be fair, none of this was planned.

8.) In Sound Judgement by NegativeAperture. On ao3. Rated T. Summary: The main question, she thinks, isn’t her chance at survival or whether she’ll stick to the plot. No, it’s whether she should change the inherently flawed system that has caused every single problem ever. Arguably, she’s in the best position to fix it. People are certainly more willing to listen to you when you threaten them with the giant fox demon in your gut. But what would the cost be? Her morals? Her humanity?

The road to hell is paved with good intentions after all. (In which a human rights lawyer is reincarnated into a world without morality, without logic, and most of all, without laws. Helping the world was easier when people weren’t ninjas.)

Even if self inserts or ocs are not your thing I still strongly suggest you read this.

9.) Mirage by xantissa. On ao3. Rated G. Summary: Can be read as stand alone. Itachi's ANBU exam through Kakashi's eyes. Kakashi knew something wasn't right with the whole thing, he just couldn't put his finger on what exactly.

10.) Catch Me (If You Can) by BasicallyAnIdiot. On ao3. Rated G. Summary: Five times the ANBU tried to catch Uzumaki Naruto (and that one time someone else did).

Why you should read this: “Knowing Naruto-kun,” Itachi interrupted from his locker as he checked his arm bracers, “If he had more than a hour, the traps were at least 2 layers deep.” He closed the locker door firmly, mask in hand, “But he can be caught.”

“Lies and hearsay.” Neko’s muffled offer came from the women’s shower area.

“Impossible. Never happened.”

A delicate brow arched, and Itachi continued. “There is one person in the village who can successfully catch Uzumaki Naruto whenever he feels inclined to.”

Inu sat up like a shot, unheeding the bag of ice dropping to his lap with a thud.

“Who? Is it the Commander? Hokage-sama?”

Shisui snorted, and transitioned smoothly to a new pose, “He means the only chunin in the history of chunin to turn down a full position in ANBU corps, complete with no probation and instant pay raise.”

Inu was silent for a moment. Then he declared, “I will find this chunin and make him my teacher.”

11.) Fish Stew by Masu_Trout. On ao3. Rated T. Summary: There was a bowl of stew in Kisame's lap, a cup of tea on the ground next to him, and a small blank-eyed teenager staring at him from over the rim of his own teacup.

Kisame's new partner is one of the strangest people he's ever met, and that's coming from a man with gills on his face.

12.) What A Big Heart You Have by LullabyKnell. On ao3. Rated T. Summary: In which a little red fox saves the big white wolf.

Bless this fic.

In which Hatake Sakumo lives.

13): Autonomy by beetlebee. On ao3. Rated T. Summary: "But this Not-Sensei soulmate guy could be anybody," Naruto whines.

Sasuke narrows his eyes. "No. He tried to act like Kakashi, use his techniques. He must be familiar with him already..."

"They could be childhood friends!" Sakura gasps.

"Sensei has friends?" Naruto asks, squinting at Obito.

"Or he's a stalker." Sasuke grips the kunai he still hasn't put away.

"I'm not a stalker," Obito lies, pushing away the kunai edging towards him.

----

(A soulmate bodyswap AU)

I would kill to read a sequel of this where we see Kakashi’s in Obito’s body.

14.) Written with Heart by Brookelocks. On ao3. Rated G. Summary: "Sometimes just sharing your opinion or a conversation about something someone else enjoys, even if you have to grit your teeth through it, can be the little push of support that makes them keep pursuing their passion."

or Kakashi has a strange way of showing his support, Jiraiya doesn't mind.

15.) The Good Life by orphan_account. On ao3. Rated T. Summary: There had to be protocol for this. They were shinobi in a hidden village; there was protocol for everything. Sadly, the authors of the Konoha Mission Administration Office Employee Handbook had committed the potentially fatal oversight of not dedicating a single paragraph to the now more than hypothetical situation of your current Hokage starting a mostly one-sided screaming match with your former Hokage in front of your very desk.

16.) these chains on me won't let me be pg13. On ao3. Rated T. Summary: The first time you ever feel like a shinobi, you are ugly and messy and scared out of your mind and not even wearing your hitai-ate. — implied sakura/ino

Out of all the Sakura centric fics I’ve read - trust me I have read a lot - this is till one of my favorites.

17.) got a boy in the war by Lisse. On ao3. Rated G. Summary: Naruto's parents don't so much fall in love as accidentally trip over it.

18.) sabotage by stirringwinds. On ao3. Rated T. Summary: “Itachi,” His mentor and commanding officer says grimly, his single visible eye angry, the line of his jaw tense under the black of his mask. “You forget that I was the Yondaime’s student. I may not be as politically influential as those old codgers sitting on the council, but there is plenty I can do to try and stop this shitshow.”

The horrible, cold feeling in the pit of his stomach hasn't vanished. But, staring at the firm, unflinching expression on his captain’s face, he feels the tiniest flicker of…hope.

Or: In another universe, Itachi breaks down and ends up spilling the beans to Hatake Kakashi.

Honestly, damn it why couldn’t this have happened?

20.) Nothing like the storm by Aesoleucian. On ao3. Rated Not Rated. Summary: There's a girl in Kushina's class at the academy, with perfect hair and perfect poise. She's nothing like loud, angry Kushina, but she's not exactly shy either.

21.) Shine Bright, Shine Far, (Oh Sun of Mine) by Applepie. On ao3. Rated G. Summary: This Konoha is not the one Himawari knows; everything is wrong, and everyone is gone. A strange man who's not Papa is claiming to be the Hokage.

22.) i have a girlfriend!? by chadsuke. On ao3. Rated G. Summary: ino wants training from the best genin kunoichi - naturally, that means tracking down tenten.

23.) Eyestealer by nirejseki, robininthelabyrinth (nirejseki). On ao3. Rated Summary: Hashirama really doesn't approve of the thoughtful way his father looks at his younger brother's bright red eyes. He's sure it doesn't mean anything good for anyone.

He's right.

I just binge read this today (I haven’t even bookmarked it yet) and now I’m left wanting for more darker than canon Hashirama.

24.) Unison by Laylah. On ao3. Rated M. Summary: Kakashi knows damn well that it isn't a healthy coping mechanism.

Do read the warnings at the top of the author’s notes.

25.) Got Nothing to Prove (but I'ma show you how I do) by GuardianMars. On ao3. Rated T. Summary: Civilians and orphans are always used as cannon fodder. Sakura’s not sure where she first came by this phrase. Whether she heard it or read it, she can’t quite remember, but it stuck in her head and it stays in the back of her mind whenever Team 7 takes a mission.

When Sakura and Tenten get placed on a temporary team looking into a series of kidnappings of local village girls, Sakura is naturally worried. She doesn't want to be cannon fodder. When the mission goes to pot, Sakura and Tenten find themselves far away from home and with only each other to rely on. As it turns out being cannon fodder is the least of their worries.

26.) Once Again by pupeez4eva. On ao3. Rated T. Summary: If you asked anyone what they thought of Sasuke Uchiha, they'd say that he was cheerful, overly-hyper, and loved glitter and sweaters WAY too much.

(Mabel Pines is reborn as Sasuke Uchiha. Unsurprisingly, this changes things a lot).

27.) Blame it on the Moon by Tozette. On ao3 (you can only see this if you have logged-in ). Rated G. Summary: Itachi likes cats. In hindsight, that's probably his first mistake.

* * *

Really? Thought Itachi dubiously. He did it anyway. "For love and justice," he deadpanned flatly.

28.) Adoption by Defenestration; or, A Family Can Be A Fox Demon, Its Jinchuuriki, and Three Dozen Highly-Trained Assassins elumish. On ao3. Rated T. Summary: He will not be the ANBU who let the jinchuuriki plummet to his death out a fourth story window. Let that be another ANBU’s legacy.

#sasuke uchiha #naruto uzumaki #Sakura Haruno #kakashi hatake #iruka umino #itachi uchiha #naruto #asks #fic rec #fanfiction #ao3 #tumblr won’t allow me to use bold #I’ll edit later when it stops

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cobblepot-comfort · 5 years ago

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Oswald Takes the Bullet and Jim Bites It - Chapter 44 - Laugh or Cry

There is another twist in the search for and rescue of Oswald

https://archiveofourown.org/works/14157339/chapters/45596419

Laugh or Cry

Jim experienced such conflicting emotions as he stood staring down at the comatose figure in the hospital bed.

He felt some relief that this critically-injured soul attached to beeping machines with tubes going in and coming out of him wasn’t Oswald after all - and devastated that...well, this wasn’t Oswald after all….

If the man lying there had been Oswald, at least he would have found him...and at least he would have been out of that monster's clutches. He could have held his hand, stroked his face, kissed his cheek - talked to him, whether he could hear him or not, and tell him he loved him.

This unfortunate man did have a striking resemblance to his beautiful dark angel - but there were significant differences too.

He was a similar height and build. His face had the same exquisite bone structure, and the same aquiline nose. His closed eyes also revealed long, jet black lashes, matching the hair on his head.

But that noble nose lacked the cute freckled bump that Jim loved to peck so playfully, making his little devil squeal with ticklish pleasure when he did it.

And this guy’s dark locks were combed neatly and side-parted unlike his little kingpin’s spiked crown. He looked more like an administrator than a gangster.

However, there were a couple of hidden features that contradicted his clean cut appearance.

When the nursing staff had stripped their new patient to put him into his hospital gown, they had discovered a tattoo - on his left buttock, of all places. It was a red heart with the initial ‘J’ inscribed on it in italics. He also had a ring through his left nipple. It seemed that their sober looking John Doe might have hidden depths.

After leaving the scene, Jim offloaded to Harvey about the callous set up.

“The ID - the wallet…”

“All part of his sick joke. This man was supposed to die and we were meant to think it was Oswald, at least til you turned up to identify the body. Anway Jim, on the plus side, I’ve still got people following up those other leads we managed to find - as we speak - thanks to Ed.”

“That’s something, anyway,” Jim smiled gratefully, but then he frowned darkly. “The ring!” he snarled. He bit his lip fiercely and his blue irises turned to black.

That had been the finishing touch - they had put it on John Doe's wedding band finger.

Lecesse - or ‘Big Guy’, as Oswald had at first flippantly called him - had of course been Oswald’s enemy from day one. Leccese had coveted that engagement ring at first sight, and had quickly picked up on the reason for its presence on Oswald’s finger.

That first meeting had put paid to any business deals the two men might have struck - after Leccese had taken exception to what he saw as Oswald’s unacceptable life style, which Oswald had refused to lie about even at the risk of his own life.

He had tried to play down the whole encounter to Jim, because he hadn’t wanted to worry him unduly. He had summed up the whole experience as ‘the best of days and the worst of days’ - because the true loyalty of Gabe and his men had been proven by the way they had been prepared to back him up and lay down their own lives for him. That had made him so happy, and he had allowed this joy to overshadow any inner dread he felt every time Enzo Leccese’s name was mentioned.

“He wanted to slow us down, by planting these things on this John Doe,” Harvey said.

“As well as torment me,” added Jim bitterly. “Lecesse really is a sadist!”

“Yep, he is. But we are gonna get this sick sonofabitch Jim, and we’re gonna get Oswald back. That’s a promise! We just have to stay positive and keep pushing on those leads.”

“I know, I know. Thanks Harv. Don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Don’t mention it Jimbo. That’s what partners are for!”

“I wonder who this John Doe really is?” Jim pondered, as they made their way back to the precinct. “Someone will be missing him, too.”

“Jesus Jim, with the greatest respect, only you could care about a scumbag employee of Lecesse’s at a time like this!” “Well we have to have some compassion - I don’t want Lecesse taking that away from me, it’s just what he’d want - besides, this guy might not even be an employee of Lecesse, say if he’s just some innocent random stranger they did this to? Grabbed him off the street, noticing the resemblance?” “Bit far-fetched bud, although not impossible I guess. This is Gotham, after all…..anyway, we’ll put a guard on the door here and get the hospital to call if he comes round and can tell us anything. About Oswald I mean, as well as who he actually is.” “Which I hope happens, soon. If he’s one of Enzo’s guys he’s bound to know where Oswald is being kept.”

Meanwhile:

An elderly woman called in to the GCPD, clutching her capacious handbag tightly against her chest. She was on a mission.

Her greying brows were tightened with worry, her dark circled eyes betraying a lack of sleep as well as general poor health. Her reddened cheeks were salt-stained from crying.

“I-I want to report a missing person,” she sniffed, once she had managed to attract the attention of the officer on duty.

“Missing person? Who would you like to report as missing?”

“My son.”

“Oh, I see, I’m sorry to hear that - erm, Mrs..?”

“Gambini. Lucia Gambini. And my son, he is Marco, Marco Gambini.”

“I see. And how long has Marco been missing for? When did you last see him?”

“Yesterday. Yesterday morning, when he left for work. He said see you tonight mother, as he went out the door, but...but he didn’t come home! And he hasn’t called, and he still isn't back this morning…”

“Ah. Um, Mrs Gambini - are you sure your son is actually - well, missing? I mean - it’s been less than 48 hours, and might he just have spent the night....elsewhere?” the officer said slowly, trying to be as tactful as possible.

“Not my son! Not my Marco! He’s a good boy, officer, he would call me if he wasn’t going to come home. And he always comes home to his mother, without fail. And he doesn’t go tomcatting around - he doesn’t even date! I’m so worried something bad happened to him.” Her eyes filled with more fresh tears and she wiped fiercely at her eyes again. Then her brown irises flashed with determination. “Please, please, officer - you HAVE to help me find him!” she insisted, slamming her hand on to the desk and making the officer jump out of his skin.

So the officer decided to help Mrs Gambini and asked for a description - or a photograph - that the GCPD might work from.

Mrs Gambini nodded her head vigorously, and produced several photos of her beloved boy from her oversized handbag.

“Look at him - so handsome!” she declared, momentarily swapping angst for choked up pride. “I’m sure he only stays single because of me - I’m not in the best of health and he looks after me, you see….”

She stopped talking as she saw the officer’s expression change from forced patience to utter amazement.

So there it was - that little mystery was solved. Marco Gambini was the ‘body in the bed’ - the almost-duplicate Oswald planted by Enzo Leccese as a decoy and means of mental torment to Detective Jim Gordon.

So before long Mrs Lucia Gambini was sitting at her son’s hospital bedside, holding his hand and staring down at him with tears of anger, sorrow and disbelief.

“My poor boy! Look what they did to him! He did nothing to deserve this. You HAVE to find out who did this to my beautiful Marco!” she demanded, her dark eyes boring into Jim’s fiercely.

Jim nodded with understanding and empathy. His heart went out to Lucia Gambini. He promised her that they were going to get whoever was responsible and make sure that justice was done.

But meanwhile, he received another phone call from Lecesse, even more disturbing than the last - taunting him about the lookalike he had ‘killed’ and promising that next time, it really would be 'your fag boyfriend's body on that slab…. '

And shortly afterwards, a DVD had been dropped off by masked motorbike courier which showed a recording of Oswald in his cell on the first night of his captivity - clearly distressed and crying.

A typed note had been received with the recording which stated in no uncertain terms that Jim’s ‘sad snowflake of a fag fiance’ would be put to death if a list of demands wasn’t met - within the next 24 hours.

These were impossible in the timescale allowed. Enzo must have known that.

Jim was horrified to see Oswald in such terrible emotional pain. His heart was breaking and he’d never felt so angry and afraid.

He clenched his fists until the knuckles were white and fought off the scalding tears that burned at the back of his eyes.

Jim just had to find Oswald - fast - and then he was going to kill Enzo Leccese.

He didn’t know that this had been the only time that Oswald had given in to his emotions and shown his despair - before he had become aware of the camera’s presence in the room. Jim didn’t see his strong, defiant Oswald, the one who had since fought to hide his inner turmoil from the intrusive lens and the prying eyes of his captors.

Marco Gambini was strong and defiant too.

As Jim's fury rose to boiling point, Marco’s life signs went in to overdrive. He beat all the odds and dragged himself kicking and screaming back into the world.

The first thing he did on regaining consciousness was to ask to speak to Jim Gordon.

So, Marco had pulled through and had straightaway spilled the beans on Enzo. Now Jim knew where Oswald was being held. He thanked Marco from the bottom of his heart, and he was so grateful that Marco had decided to help Oswald, particularly as he had almost paid for it with his life.

Gabe and Zsasz gathered together Oswald’s loyal soldiers, then converged on the GCPD to join forces with them. This army prepared to overthrow Enzo Lecesse to rescue and reinstate Oswald to his rightful place. "Long live the King of Gotham!" they all proclaimed as they prepared for battle.

#gobblepotalliance2019

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anexplanationofunfortunateevents · 7 years ago

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Russia investigations obstruction update

You know Wile E. Coyote and Road Runner from Looney Tunes? How the roadrunner always just confidently runs off a cliff, and then the coyote runs off after him, but the coyote always goes “wtf” and looks down and then he falls while the roadrunner keeps on going? And yet somehow the coyote never a) just lets the road runner go or b) dies of his injuries?

Congressional Republicans remind me a lot of the coyote.

As of this writing we haven’t come up on the red line, which is if Trump moves to fire special prosecutor Robert Mueller. That’s not because we hope he will #lockthemup. I mean, we do hope that, but it’s not the core issue. Getting rid of Mueller would be an announcement that Trump and his Republican enablers are no longer interested in pretending that they are bound by the rule of law.

So whether or not you care about Trump-Russia, you need to care about this. If this happens, there are rapid response events planned all over the country, so you need to be ready to hit the streets. I’m serious. If it’s cold where you live, go find your warmest coat. Put gloves, a scarf, a hat, and a couple of protein bars in the pockets now. Go find your snow boots or your old sneakers or whatever you wear in the snow and put a pair of clean socks in them. If your state ACLU has a mobile justice app, download it now. Keep your phone charged.

If you’re sick of or overwhelmed by this story: If you can focus on something else, great! There’s plenty of other work to do. All you need to know is that yes, it did get louder this week, in large part because the entire Republican establishment has joined in the shouting in Trump’s defense. If something happens that you do need to know, trust me, it’ll be impossible to miss.

If you do care about Trump-Russia, you might still be overwhelmed and confused. That’s because the entire Republican establishment is making a deliberate effort to overwhelm and confuse you. So we’re going to walk through recent developments, because fuck them.

The closest thing we have to a pattern in the Trump-Russia reporting is a revelation-diversion cycle: a new potentially incriminating story comes out, Trump tries to play hot potato and say it shows someone else’s wrongdoing, congressional Republicans launder Trump’s allegations into more conventional political language, and when everyone stop chasing that thread there’s another break in the story.

That cycle has intensified in a couple of important ways in the new year. Trump is acting like something big is coming down the pike. Members of Congress appear to sense the same, which you can tell because the entire GOP caucus has thrown itself into helping Trump’s efforts at distractions, while some of the more restrained Democrats have publicly said that they expect more indictments and convictions early this year.

The Trump-Russia watch has collapsed into the Trump authoritarianism watch. Trump and his Republican enablers are desperately trying both to weaponize American government institutions against people who are trying to find out what happened and hold someone accountable, and to torch those institutions which pose a threat to the regime.

The revelation-diversion feedback loop is speeding up. It’s not clear why now, but there is a reason. We’ve known the main contours of this story for a while. The people who are actually trying to get to the bottom of this story – Special prosecutor Robert Mueller, Democrats doing the congressional investigations, the company that employed Christopher Steele – think carefully about what they tell us and what they don’t. They had some compelling reason to keep their mouths shut rather than answering the bad faith attacks on the investigation. Now they have chosen to tell us what they know, which they would only do with an even more compelling reason. Something big has changed.

Congressional Republicans have continued trying to make the Steele dossier (those are the pee tape memos) the issue, propagandizing on a theme of “the investigation comes from the dossier, the dossier is garbage, therefore the entire investigation is illegitimate.” It’s important to know that there has never been a good faith argument along these lines. Steele could have copied and pasted his memos and sent the FBI an anonymous tip to set off the investigation. Instead, he risked his own safety to come forward, precisely because he has worked with American law enforcement before and he knew he had credibility with them.

So the way Republicans reacted to reporting that the investigation had actually started months before Steele was even hired to look into Trump’s Russia ties wasn’t surprising. It was reported about a week ago that George Papadopoulos – remember, he’s the first person (that we know of) to plead guilty to a part in all this – seems to have drunkenly spilled the beans to an Australian diplomat during a May 2016 trip to London, where he was representing the Trump campaign in official visits with the UK Foreign Office. The diplomat reported the conversation to Australian authorities, who contacted the American government once the stolen emails started dropping. If Republicans actually meant the claims they were making, that would’ve been that.

Instead, they doubled down and screamed even more about the dossier. The owners of Fusion GPS (the private investigator responsible for Steele’s investigation), understandably fed up, went public with ways the congressional committees who are supposed to be protecting future American elections are instead protecting Russia’s (and China’s, and Iran’s) future opportunities to mess with American elections. When Fusion tried to help by sharing all their other findings about Trump that had noting to do with the Steele dossier, Congress responded by harassing them with an unnecessary subpoena. They specifically called on the Senate Judiciary Committee to release the transcript of a ten-hour interview they did. Although the committee chairman, Senator Chuck Grassley, said months ago that he would make that transcript public, he has broken that commitment. Grassley, along with committee member Lindsey Graham, ultimately responded by asking the Justice Department to open a criminal investigation into Christopher Steele.

Steele probably isn’t quaking in his boots at this – the chances that the UK would extradite a British citizen and former MI6 agent to face criminal charges for having appropriately reported a crime to the authorities are, uh, slim. But as long as it’s “under investigation” by the DOJ, Republicans can go on television and say it’s under investigation instead of talking about what’s actually in the dossier. Which, we should be clear, does not necessarily confirm that the pee tape is real! Just that, for some reason, Senate Republicans sure are acting like the pee tape is real.

While the Senate Judiciary Committee has been harassing foreign investigators, the House Intelligence Committee has targeted American law enforcement.

There’s a lot of investigations going on and it’s hard to keep them all straight. The House Intelligence Committee is the shitshow. Committee chairman Rep. Devin Nunes was on the Trump transition team with Michael Flynn, who has since been convicted of a crime related to activities during the transition. Early last year, Nunes made such a clumsy mess of torpedoing the Russia investigation that he was forced to recuse himself from hearings on the issue. Behind the scenes, Nunes continued to obstruct the investigation. His latest trick was to make the Department of Justice and the FBI cough up sensitive information which they wouldn’t normally give out, about the investigation from which he is supposedly recused.

This isn’t Nunes going rogue. It’s been clear all along that he’s done this stuff with the tacit support of GOP leadership. If Speaker of the House Paul Ryan was taking this investigation seriously, Nunes would have been stripped of his chairmanship or removed from the committee entirely. Deputy Attorney General Rod Rosenstein, who is overseeing the Trump-Russia investigation because of Attorney General Sessions’ recusal, personally made a visit to the Speaker’s office late last week to discuss the inappropriate subpoena with Ryan. Ryan continues to back Nunes, despite being made completely and publicly aware of how out of line he is. Paul Ryan wants this investigation sabotaged because he wants foreign intelligence agencies to continue to manipulate American elections. This is being investigated by the regular committees rather than a special commission specifically because Republican leadership wanted to retain their ability to unilaterally obstruct the investigation. That is not hyperbole. It is the only explanation for his behavior.

Speaking of Sessions:

White House Counsel Don McGahn – that’s the guy making major decisions about lifetime federal court appointments – tried to pressure Sessions out of recusing himself from the Trump-Russia investigation, as did other White House officials. (Remember, Sessions recused himself not only because he was involved in the campaign and because he lied under oath about his contacts with the Russian ambassador during the campaign.)

Several days before Trump fired former FBI Director James Comey, an aide to Attorney General Jeff Sessions went to a Congressional staffer and asked if the staffer could basically plant one negative story a day against Comey in the press. The administration taking this kind of action would be wildly inappropriate even if Sessions hadn’t recused himself from the investigation. That wasn’t the last time Sessions’ DOJ tried to use Wikileaks tactics against one of its own agents.

This is important beyond the Russia investigation, because the Department of Justice is caving to the pressure from Trump, Sessions, and Congress. Important holdovers have agreed to early retirement or been reassigned, while the Trump hires have opened yet another investigation into the Clinton Foundation. Like the other investigations of the Clinton Foundation, this is harassment of a world-class charity which saves lives, based on pretext of Steve Bannon’s lies.

Meanwhile, Paul Manafort has filed a civil lawsuit against Robert Mueller which basically claims that the special prosecutor’s investigation is illegitimate. Even Manafort’s lawyers know this case is baseless, or they’d have filed it as a motion in the criminal case to get Manafort’s indictment thrown out. This looks most like Manafort is angling for a presidential pardon by signaling that he isn’t cooperating with the prosecution.

At least Mueller appears undeterred: Trump’s lawyers are weakly trying to squirm out of having him answer questions under oath.

You’ll notice that this post features few actions by Trump himself. All he’s done to obstruct the investigation (publicly, at least) over the past few days is throw his usual temper tantrums on Twitter. That’s because the entire Republican party is doing the heavy lifting for him. They’re lying as shamelessly as he does.

Still, they’re not all walking personality disorders the way he is. Eventually, they’ll have to look down.

#donald trump #trump russia #paul ryan #mitch mcconnell #jeff sessions #republican party #special prosecutor #robert mueller #paul manafort #christopher steele #lindsey graham #chuch grassley #devin nunes

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vorthosjay · 7 years ago

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Let’s Talk About The Race, Part 1

The end of Ixalan is in sight (on more than one level), and the race for the Immortal Sun is on! Today we’re going to talk about The Race, Part 1, which at last reveals Elenda’s role in Ixalan’s past! Let’s dive in!

Adanto, the First Fort by Svetlin Velinov

The human guards dared not open the door. A vampire in the midst of the Blood Fast was tremendously dangerous. One lost to themselves would not be able to discern between the blood of the faithful and the blood of a sinner. Instead, one of the guards fetched a priest for help.

Good to know the Blood Fast makes the vampires unhinged. I also like the human’s reaction. We don’t really get a glimpse of the Dusk Legion’s non-vampires on the cards.

"Saint Elenda was the first!" Mavren Fein raved. "Her sacrifice is our survival, her selflessness the model of our success! I took the rite two hundred years ago, and under the guidance of Saint Elenda the First, we will find the way to immortality without the need for blood!"

Mavren Fein has been a vampire for roughly 200 years.

"Saint Elenda, the most devoted of the devoted, the First and the Faithful. She was born mortal, a warrior nun charged with her brothers and sisters of faith to guard the Immortal Sun in the mountains of Torrezon. Listen!"

A warrior nun? Woah.

"Pedron the Wicked killed them all. Guilty, greedy, foul betrayer of his own!" Mavren spat. "But she, she survived; she was nine feet tall! Hair like a raven's wings and nails like lightning's edge! She ran outside to fight Pedron, but the Immortal Sun had been stolen from the fiend by a winged beast in the sky!"

I want to know more about Pedron the Wicked, first of all. It’s also interesting to note that he wasn’t an outsider, but a traitor. This is basically the same story we got from the Pirates last week, which is interesting.

"The beast took the Immortal Sun to the west, and Saint Elenda followed it! Staunch piety! Blessed Saint Elenda!"

How did Elenda follow? By ship? Or was she not human?

". . . How did she become the first vampire?" Manuel mumbled from the adjacent cell. He yelped as Mavren Fein slammed his body up against the connecting wall.

"She was a genius! She was a visionary! She turned to dark magic and took on the burden of immortality until the Immortal Sun could be retrieved once again! Blessed wonderful brilliant Saint Elenda, the First and the Faithful. She searched for centuries and returned, yes, she returned to Torrezon, and taught her Rite to the nobles so that we may take up the sacrifice and join her in her search. Genius! Visionary! Blessed by the Night itself!"

Hey! Here’s the missing piece we were looking for. There’s some more timeline information here, so I’ll save the full discussion for later, but for now it’s important to note that the theft of the Immortal Sun was centuries before the Dusk Legion formed.

Also note the line I bolded: Blessed by the Night itself. Aclazotz is the Bat-God of Night.

"I was one of the early ones. I watched as she sailed back into the west and have waited for my day to follow her. Patient patient patient. I'm very good at waiting."

If Mavren watched her sail back into the west, it had to be in the last 200 years.

When Torrezon was finally under the control of the Legion of Dusk, Vona had a difficult time transitioning into a peaceful lifestyle. She had become a noble with her own lands, but the territory was poor and rocky, and it became quickly apparent she was not an able administrator. Her ennui lasted a decade. One night, in a fit of boredom, she decided to break the monotony. It was fun, mundane as a child's game, a quick way to pass the time. She stalked each of her human serfs in their beds and in their fields, and over the course of one happy week killed each of them as part of a pleasant game. Vona rejoiced in the sport of it, and abandoned her humble estate.

That was fifty years ago.

So the war to conquer Torrezon was over sixty years ago? It’s interesting that it ended right around the time of the Mending. When we learned of the Great Aether Boom on Kaladesh, we could figure it was because of the Mending. So I wonder what changed that won the war?

"See that dinghy? We can sail that upriver to the interior of the continent," Vraska said. "I'm going back for the crew. Don't die."

Don’t Die is literally the encouragement I usually give my staff when they’re doing something they’re nervous about.

Vraska stopped him with an outstretched palm. "Wait till I'm finished! Now, whenever we try to planeswalk, something yanks us back, and we aren't allowed to leave. Right? I believe that Orazca doesn't just contain the Immortal Sun. It also contains the enchantment that keeps us here. I was told to perform a spell to contact another plane when we found the Immortal Sun, and after we do that I think we'll be able to leave."

I wonder if Vraska’s right. Maybe the Immortal Sun doesn’t cause Ixalan’s Binding, but Orazca does.

Another thought, if Tezzeret is who she is summoning with that spell (which seems likely), how will Tezzeret react to Jace? It’s pretty clear Bolas didn’t plant Jace here, or at least didn’t let Vraska know if he did.

Jace was absurdly excited to put the pieces together. He locked eyes with Vraska and thought out loud with gusto. "We thought the compass was just pointing to the city, but it points to blooms of powerful magic." He nodded at Vraska's pocket. "Instead of magnetic north, it points to aetheric north, and it also points toward large outliers of similar kinds of magic. That's why it pointed to me when you found me, and that's why it's probably pointing to you now. I tried to tell you on the boat before we crashed."

She pulled out the compass. It was pointing at her, but slowly shifting back as the mark above her head vanished.

"That's . . . incredible," Vraska said, blinking at the thaumatic compass. She smiled, laughed. "The barrier must rely on the same magic we use to planeswalk! That's why the compass points there! You figured it out!"

I mean, we probably already figured this. But it’s still an interesting note. What is the Immortal Sun (or Orazca) that it constantly gives off the same power as a planeswalk?

Jace nodded. "One human, one vampire, a merfolk . . . and a minotaur."

Vraska's brow knotted in confusion. "A minotaur?"

Sir Minotaur-Not-Appearing-In-This-Story

There, lying on the rock overlooking the vast, unending ocean, was an unconscious female merfolk.

It’s neat how they lined up the timelines unevenly. The conclusion of the Shapers, way back a couple stories ago, was actually only a short time ago in-universe.

Huatli chose her words carefully, "I wielded a strange magic, and I saw a golden city."

Tishana gave a deadpan look. "You saw a golden city."

"Yes."

"Not the Golden City?"

Ha ha, Tishana is great.

The merfolk's pupils thinned. "I know only that the surface of our world is impassible from underneath. Some can fall in, but once submerged, cannot leap out."

We already know planeswalkers can’t leave, but I wonder why Tishana knows that.

"I felt a similar tug this morning," she said, "in the direction of the sea. And again, two months before, much further past the horizon. But that energy did not belong to you."

Okay, so first of all, I spent like an hour adding together all the timeline clues to equal two months since Jace arrived and they just give it away for free.

Anyway, here’s the Ixalan Timeline I promised earlier:

1,000+ Years Ago: Pedron the Wicked attempts to steal the Immortal Sun, but a winged beast intervenes and takes it west to Ixalan. Elenda follows.

700-800 Years ago: Elenda returns to Torrezon as a vampire, and creates the Dusk Legion. The Dusk Legion begins conquest of Torrezon.

Less than 200 Years Ago: Elenda returns to Ixalan.

60 years ago: The Dusk Legion’s conquest of Torrezon is complete, according to Vona. Peace Time Begins.

Two years ago: The Dusk Legion mounts their expedition to Ixalan.

Five Months Ago: Vraska arrives seeking the Immortal Sun.

Two Months Ago: Jace arrives as a castaway.

So here are our big outstanding questions, and my proposed answers:

Who stole the Immortal Sun? I’m still going to go with Ugin (read the full evidence here), and now that we know the actual Theft of the Immortal Sun was earlier than 800 years ago, it’s possible the theft did indeed occur before his death. My alternative is Aclazotz.

How did Elenda become a vampire? I’m going to go with Aclazotz, here. If you remember, above, it says she was blessed by Night. Aclazotz is the bat-god of night.

Why did Elenda leave Ixalan? I would imagine because of whatever devastation came to Ixalan? I’m not sure. Perhaps the Three-fold son won its war against Aclazotz, but it was a pyrrhic victory. Elenda fled to build the Dusk Legion with the express purpose of eventually returning.

Why did Elenda return to Ixalan? That’s not entirely clear. Depending on when she left, maybe once the war on Torrezon was over, she commanded a fleet be built or something to one day follow her. IDK.

I’m excited to see if we can learn anything else next week. I’ll have a full theory piece together if next week’s story doesn’t spill the beans.

#archive trap blog #vorthos #mtgxln

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the-green-haired-fellow · 8 years ago

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Jerome X reader Jerome’s point of view Continuance of a request I had received.

I woke up in a cell in the asylum the blackened ceiling staring into my eyes. seeming to mock and scream at me. The last memory I had was seeing Y/N damned tear soaked face. Her make-up was running down her face- it was hideous looking but my eyes continued to watch her as Gotham’s finest in uniform tug at her pulling a little to hard for my liking. My cop friends had gotten me to the police rig that was going to bring me to my judgement but before they could open the door I had jumped up putting both of my feet from the door, there was no stopping their actions they had complete control of the situation. I regretfully had no tricks up my sleeves either.

We killed all the old hags and were going to string them up around the old folks home as a… well.. there was no real reason to it, just something to do. The one of those cocky son’s of bitches stabbed me.. Foul play, I wasn’t ready for it. Now I’m here wondering where she is. Damn. Nursing my undeserved wound I kicked my feet over the cot coming to an uneasy stand then walking towards the bars I rotted behind. “You-who!?” I shouted out not expecting an answer. I growled at the silence clearly hearing the fat slob at the desk at the end of the hall breathing while he downed one of his many donuts. “Honey I’m home?!” I tried again hearing a slight chuckle from the pile. Snarling I grabbed the safety pin I kept hidden behind the loose part of my face, laying in the right side of my forehead. Despite all the doc’s fine work that part comes loose.

Pausing I waited to hear his deep snores. I was going to unlock my cell hoping none of the idiots around me would say something ruining everything… Then I would grab his gun shoot him in the head and escape! I furrowed the muscles under my face at my plan. Wait what about Y/n she’s got to be here as well. I hadn’t seen her in two days now.. I think.. They would have ruled her insane just as they had done me many times… But what if they didn’t? I froze not liking the sound of that thought. “Damn” I grunted not waiting for the slob to fall asleep. Once the cell door clicked open I stepped out walking casually towards the guard I now recognized to be Burt… I hate Burt. He didn’t spot me until I was at the front of the desk watching his face twist in longing as he stared intently at naked women in one of the dirty magazines he partook in ever so often. I knocked on the desk. “Hello Burt” I said he jumped up out of his seat throwing the magazine to the floor. “What are you doing out of your cell?” he said. I put my hand out shushing him. This was no time for games I had my pain in the ass to save. “Nows not the time Burt” I suddenly jumped at him snatching his gun readying myself to fire it in his face.

Then I thought to myself if I shoot him I might waste time looking for her all to be arrested and locked up again. I squinted my eyes at him watching him shake and sweat. Gross. “Now Burt I will let you live if you tell me something only you loons should know” Suddenly I choked on the blood that ran down my throat. “-Excuse me. Where do they keep my girlfriend. Ya’ know smokin’ hot blonde, green eyes…”

Something ugly in my switched on. A dark feeling that made my body feel like it wanted her around. Shaking my head I continued on. “Tattoos?” He seemed to calm down. “You will let me live if I tell you?” He said with misplaced hope of course I wasn’t going to let him live but if he was a smart man he could just grab the gun they keep strapped under all the desks in case of a situation just like our current one and shoot me ending all of this... But no. “Yes Burt now spill the beans” He nodded his head looking nervously around, other inmates had crept to the end of their cells peering with beady eyes. “They keep her in acute and-” I cut him off concerned at the word acute that’s where they kept the suicide kings and queens. “Acute? why there?” He stuttered “Well she tried to kill herself, she stole one of the therapists belts and they found her hanging from the top of her cell. She’s alive but unstable.” My eyes widened and a hot feeling rose to my head. Calmly I thanked Burt shooting him in the throat being careful not to get any blood of his suit, I would need it. The inmates around me began to cheer. “Quiet down! Are you trying to get me in trouble?” I stuck my gun up and they quieted down. “Thank you” Quickly I changed out of my clothes in to the officers, snatching the gun for y/n from under the desk.

It was pretty easy getting to the doors that led into acute, getting in was worrying. Carefully watching around me I beeped Burt’s badge on the scanner allowing me to open the doors. The scars around my face made it easier o recognize who I was as flattering as it looked on me people generally didn’t like to see me. I looked around the completely white room. Growing jealous at how the living quarters these patients got to sleep in. There was actual padding on the bed even a little blanket. My eyes wandered around before continuing in my search, there seemed to be only one patient in the room so there was no guard on duty, ,something totally against policy and when I got out I am going to write a letter to the administrators.”Y/n” I hissed waiting for a reply “Baby?” I said again gentler. “Yes?” I heard a sad voice. My heart thumped ridiculously and my legs carried me automatically towards her crackling voice. Something in me didn’t want to look at her again in fear?.. of seeing her torn up and bleeding again.

When I got to her cell I looked at her and she was… beautiful as always.. Sitting in the middle of the white cell, a white bag type uniform covering her as well as a deep purple and blue bruise peaking through all the new tattoos she had proudly given herself. Her green eyes red rimmed like she had been crying for years. I knelled down in wonder of how sad she looked. “Have you been crying?” I said watching her face twist in disgust. “Of course I have Jerome you pile” She turned away from me whispering “Go away” My fist slammed the bars in anger with myself “Look Y/n I’m sorry.. I think” My thoughts questioned my emotions but I snapped out of it for her. “You’re never sad. All I have ever seen you do it smile?” She turned around scooting closer to me. As fast as I could I stuck my hands in between the bars to touch her. something I think I was wanting for awhile. “You mean that?” She said her lunatic eyes matching the same color of mine scanned my face. I nodded solemnly looking down at my bloodied hands in sadness, which I never did believe me. “It’s been gross not having you around” I said peaking up at her. She was looking at me in wonder her pink lips slightly opened, I wanted to touch them. Slowly I brought my face in between the bars puckering my lips. She didn’t catch on as fast as I was hoping but when she did a smile spread a crossed her pale face then she began leaning forward which took for to long. My arms itched to grab her head and slam it against mine but I waited patiently until I could fel the heat of hers just about to connect with mine and…

“What in the hell is going on here?” An angry sounding man said behind me. I growled turning around pointing my gun at him. “Excuse you?”

Thank you for reading this is the continuance of a request I had received because I liked it and decided to run with it. I will be posting four stories today- one more Jerome, two Jared and one of my Bruce Wayne x Wife x Joker’s son. More to come Same Bat-Time Same Bat-Channel!

#joker x reader #jerome valeska #jerome x reader #jerome #gotham #batman #joker fan #joker fanfiction #jerome fanfiction #joker imagine

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falloutpnp · 8 years ago

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Session 13

GM Note: Here comes a new player! For the sake of continuity, the character of Curt (Jakob) has been with the party since the beginning.

Reade’s radio crackles to life as Pandora informs the Sergeant of Auden’s well being, much to her relief. Their elation is suddenly grounds when Pandora remembers the ACU soldier she had previous… crippled. Reade orders Billy and Curt to check in on the enemy and, if necessary, put him down. The Sergeant also orders Balint to prepare to follow her en route to Auden’s location.

Outside, in cold darkness, Winston tinkers around with Lotta’s remains. After several attempts, the mechanic is able to repair and reboot the robot back to life. Although the work is essentially a patch job (the robot is basically held together with glue and duct tape) Lotta is able to regain function of most of its systems. Its IR sensor, however, is beyond Winston’s repair. When playfully asked by Reade how does it feel for the robot to be brought back from the ‘dead’, Lotta pontificates a semi-philosophical speech about how it was never alive in the first place. It’s lost on Reade who just gives the robot a simple nod and thumbs up.

Meanwhile, Billy and Curt make their way through into the Administration offices where Pandora had previously faced an ACU soldier. They fail to overhear the faint murmuring coming from the darkness; instead, they see a trail of blood leading into one of the offices As they enter the Facility Manager's office, a sluggish punch swipes through the air, narrowly missing Billy’s face by an inch. The wounded ACU soldier enters into a brief tussle. Curt furrows his brow, pulls out his pistol and attempts to shoot the soldier in the leg. He misses but the shot is enough force the soldier into submission. The two mercenaries notice the injured man is holding onto a large radio handset.

Reade, who is about to make her way towards Auden’s location, hears Curt’s shot. She tells Balint to go on ahead while she investigates. When she arrives, Billy and Curt inform her of the situation. After some initial interrogation, the Sergeant pushes the soldier - Subteniente Vargas - for answers about the radio. Vargas simply avoids her questions by flippantly stating that he has nothing valuable to share. Reade passes Billy some duct tape and orders him to bind Vargas and take him to the captured ACU Major. The shortly drag him off back to the reception area.

Meanwhile, Charles begins to fiddle and mess around with the facility’s power management system. Despite his rudimentary understanding of electronics, the mercenary fiddles around with the fuse box and miraculously manages to restore power to the building. Lights begin to floor the corridors once more, much to everyone’s rejoyce. Charles decides to take the opportunity to explore the rest of the facility. He eventually stumbles room secured with a thick, iron bar cage door, labeled as the store room. Through the bars, he spots a large, opened wooden crate with a set of heavy footprints leading out of the room and down the corridor he had just wandered through. Charles manages to pick the lock and walks inside for a closer inspection. Spray painted in red with large, menacing letters is the word ‘RAVAGER’. Puzzled, Charles is about to report his findings when he discovers a cache of landmines, grenades and ammunition. The delusional schizophrenic’s eyes widen with delight…

Reade finally manages to meet with Pandora and Auden. A relieved Schuster shares a tender moment with Auden as Balint works to heal her to the best of his abilities. The doctor is able to heal her broken legs but is unable to heal her arms. Though she is still uncomfortable with pain, the Lieutenant is thankful for Balint’s hard work. Focusing, Auden’s memory flickers back to the beginning of Operation Moonshield. She recalls the series of events previously explained by Schuster up until her capture. After Fenton and Condor were executed, Auden was severely beaten and dragged to Wessex. As they transported her, Auden caught a glimpse of the soldiers taking Condor’s comms equipment and Fenton’s pipboy. Eventually she would discover the truth about behind the rumours of the highly advanced encryption technology: it was a hoax concocted by the ACU to lure out NCR mercenaries. They had heard that the NCR had employed freelance mercenary units to take on ‘high risk and rewards’ tasks and wanted to see what they were made of. In the process, they managed to accomplish three goals:

Capture an NCR mercenary

Investigate/hack the stolen equipment (Fenton’s Pipboy and Condor’s tech)

Field test the Ravager

A baffled Reade asks what is this ‘Ravager’, to which Auden reveals to be an experimental ACU power armour suit. Worried, the Sergeant immediately asks if Pandora’s lance encountered the Ravager. The lance leader shakes her head. Reade suddenly realises that Vargas must have contacted enemy reinforcements - including the experimental Ravager. She then contacts Jack over the radio and tells him to force Vargas to spill the beans.

Realising that they must have figured something out, Vargas spits blood in Jack’s face and tells him to fuck off. The unperturbed Jack removes a handkerchief from his top pocket and charismatically wipes the stain from his cheek as he nods for Curt to drag Vargas away. The muscle bound merc yanks at Vargas’ neck and heaves him into another room where he is swiftly beaten senseless. As the sound of wet, bloodied punches echoes through the facility, The ACU Major immediately begins to talk. He tells Jack that he will reveal more information if he is promised to be treated appropriately as a prisoner of war under NCR custody. Jack lies and says ‘sure thing’ without consulting Reade. The Major’s wily senses kick in and he asks for Reade’s promise on the matter.

Unamused, Reade marches back to their location and tells the ACU Major that he is in no position to make demands. He nervously swallows but says that he is prepared to accept his fate. Reade cuts him off and barks at the ACU Major to tell her everything he knows about the Ravager. The enemy officer finally comes clean and explains that it is an experimental power armour that was being field tested. They wanted to know how efficient of a killing machine it was. Satisfied with his answers, Reade presses the Major for answers about Vargas’ radio call. A sly smirk spreads across his face as he explains that Reade and her unit will need to keep him alive to bargain for their lives. The ACU Major promises that they will be treated fairly and will be dealt with… honourably if they surrender. He estimates that the Ravager squad will return to Wessex within the next 5 to 10 minutes. Reade coldly tells the ACU Major that they’ll need a fucking army to stop them. She swiftly boots him in the face, rendering him unconscious.

Knowing that they are racing against the clock, Reade orders The Misfits to prepare for battle. Charles confidently strolls in and reveals the bounty of weapons and ammunition he discovered in the store room. The Misfits divide it between themselves. Reade then orders the following:

Sasha is to plant landmines around the facility entrance.

Curt will tie up Vargas and leave him outside with a landmine planted next to him.

Everyone is to take defensive positions and shoot out through the bunker windows.

Charles and Schuster will take up sniping positions in the radar tower dishes.

Auden will hide until the coast is clear.

While Curt is outside gagging and securing Vargas outside, he catches a glimpse of Reade setting up an emergency beacon. She contacts Maxwell on a secure line and informs him about the situation. The Phoenix Corporation leader delivers some bad news; bad weather has hit The Boneyard. They will arrive in 20 minutes. He tells Reade to stall for as much time as possible.

When Charles and Schuster reach the large radar farm, he gives him some .223 rounds and wishes him good luck. They split up, climbing separate towers in order to get maximum view of their surroundings. The large radar dish Charles finds himself in shows the tell-tale signs of habitation. A tattered sleeping bag lies on the flattest part of the dish with a few empty cans of food scattered around. As the dish bends, forming a ‘wall’ to this unique home, Charles spots a several pictures of pin-up girls plastered around to give the place some decoration. He takes a few to add to his private collection. As he pockets the pictures, he also catches glimpse of what appears to be an make-fix emergency escape rope. The rope, made from high tension fibres, is rigged to a pulley wheel and a large counterweight, allowing for someone to quickly and carefully lower themselves to the ground. Before he has time to test it, however, Schuster radios through to tell alert everyone to the approaching enemy.

The Ravager squad, comprised for 10 or so soldiers, marches towards Wessex. Leading them is a man wearing what appears to be the Ravager power armour. The suit, comprised of a menacing set of protective metal that completely encases the soldier, is outfitted with what appears to be a large set of spring loaded machete sized blades that are retracted on the left arm and a threatening heavy machine gun. The Ravager halts the squad 50 or so meters away from the facility.

Reade tells Jack to stall the enemy for as long as possible. After an awkward start, in which Jack asks if anyone ‘habla Ingles?’, he manages to start a dialog with the English speaking leader. The leader immediately orders The Misfits to release their superior officer and surrender to the ACU. Jack lies and says the situation is a complete misunderstanding. He asks the ACU soldier to remove his armour because it scares him. Miraculously, the soldier buys his lie but refuses to remove his armour. Instead, he decides to ‘ease the tension’ but removing his helmet to discuss things ‘man-to-man’.

Reade orders Charles to take the shot. The round slices through the air and glances his temple, causing the Ravager to fall to his knees. The rest of the ACU soldiers whip their rifles towards Charles’ position and open fire. Bullets perforate and frantically dance around the sniper’s position, peppering him with hot lead and debris. He is severely injured and rolls into better cover. Hearing Charles’ pained cries over the radio, The Misfits open fire on the ACU soldiers, catching them by surprise. Several of them are hit during the barrage, resulting in the soldiers quickly pop smoke grenades which flood their positions with swirling plumes of red smoke.

Although the thick smoke masks their presence, two of the enemy soldiers are caught by Schuster making their way around the side of the facility. The sniper trains his sights on their position and fires a single, silenced shot. The round pierces the lung of its target, causing the man to fall to the ground, choking for air. Having regained his determination through a sheer lust for revenge, Charles crawls back to his firing position, takes aim and squeezes the trigger. A split second later, there’s the sound of a loud, wet thwack, followed by the banshee like howls of the severely injured ACU combatant. He stumbles around, clutching at his face as blood and fluid - thick and stringy like egg yolks - pours from his eye holes. Both soldiers manage to drag themselves back into the cover of smoke.

At the same time, through the vail of the red smoke, a thunderous explosion erupts. Through their scopes, Schuster and Charles catch glimpse of hot meaty chunks of human flesh soaring into the air. They begin to grasp the situation: the mine next to Vargas has exploded, taking - by their estimation - the lives of Vargas plus one.

Through the thin, bunker glass, a vigilant Billy spots an ACU soldier in a ghillie suit crawling to the rear side of the facility. Billy radios Schuster for sniper support and the two open fire on the enemy. Both barrages of fire miss, kicking up dust and dirt.

Strolling confidently towards the facility's front door, the mighty Ravager soldier draws his chain gun and opens fire at the thick steel bulkhead. The rounds pierce through the metal and although it puts up a struggle, the door is eventually torn down. Although Winston and Jack are hopeful in the landmine taking out the power armour, the enemy spots and casually steps over it. The Ravager leader orders one of the soldiers to disable it as he makes his way down the stairs. Jack and Winston realise they are cornered.

Meanwhile, Lotta, Reade and Pandora spot the outlines of two additional ACU soldiers walking past their windows. They wait for a moment before ambushing them and opening fire. The soldiers roll out of harm’s way, and the group enters into a fierce gun fight.Frustrated with his inability to get a good angle on the enemy, Curt decides to blow a hole in the wall with a grenade so that he can charge in with his heavy machine gun. He plants the explosive next to what he perceives to be a weakness in the structure and runs for cover. The grenade shatters the centuries old wall, granting Curt a narrow passage to the outside.

Knowing that there is one landmine at the bottom of the steps, Jack decides to pull out of cover and fire at the bomb in the hopes of destroying the power armour. He misses, much to his dread and the Ravager’s delight.

Meanwhile, Billy’s gun fight with the ghillied ACU soldier has intensified. Both utilising the cover to their advantage, the pair exchange a barrage of deadly shotgun and machine gun fire until Billy is eventually hit in the shoulder. Unable to contain himself, Charles sends a volley of bullets in the enemy’s direction, forcing him out of cover. Realising he doesn’t have any further options, the ghillied soldier rushes to the bunker wall and plants a C4 charge. He radios something through to his team mates - something that momentarily ceases the gun fire from all sides. The pause in combat immediately sets off Reade’s battle sense and she orders everyone to get into cover.

Outside, several C4 detonations sound off around the facility. A hole in the wall is created near Billy’s position at the rear of the facility; the windows near Reade, Pandora and Lotta is blown through; and - surprisingly - the outer wall to the bathroom where Winston and Jack are positioned is torn open by the lung shot soldier Schuster had previously shot at.

Realising his options are limited, Winston cracks open a vent shaft door and begins to crawl away, leaving Shady behind. Wanting to buy time for everyone, Jack decides to shoot at the landmine one more time. He calls out to the Ravager and, in a spectacular display of lofty arrogance, decides to tell a joke.

“Why did the Mexican cross the border?” He leaps out of cover, swings his magnum revolver in the Ravager’s direction and pulls the trigger. The magnum round blasts out of the barrel and burrows itself into the explosive device right next to the Ravager’s feet. It explodes, blossoming into a fireball of death and slicing, white-hot shrapnel. “Because he wanted to blow up!” Jack delivers the flippant punchline just in time to see the Ravager step out of the flames. Although the power armour was indeed damaged, it was not enough to render the enemy incapacitated. The menacing Ravager walks towards Jack and offers a joke of his own.

“Why did the gringo cross the Ravager?” Suddenly, the large machete sized blades sprint forward him the suit’s left arm, forming a set of ferocious claws. “Because he wanted to be torn to pieces.” Unable to think of a snappy retort, Jack turns tail and flees through the bathroom.

Unable to get a sight on the enemy, Charles decides to take a risk and use the emergency pull system to quickly lower himself to the ground. Luckily, the hastily strung together pulley and counterweight hold together, the sniper descends to the ground quickly and carefully. At the same time, Billy finally defeats the ghillied soldier when he blasts him with a double barrel load of buckshot. The enemy’s ribcage explodes in a flash of red gore. An injured Billy stands triumphantly over his fallen enemy.

With the enemy in his sights, Curt lays down on the ground and deploys his heavy machine gun. He sends a volley of .50 cal rounds at the soldiers near Reade’s position. The rounds dance around their targets, narrowly missing them. However, much to Curt’s shock and confusion, the enemy suddenly explode into red clouds of bloody mists, resulting in one of them losing and arm and leg while the other outright dies. At the same time, Reade tells everyone to hit the deck and take cover. In the far distance, the Vertibird opens fire again from a side mounted chain gun on the two ACU soldiers’ position, resulting in total fatalities.

The Vertibird swings towards the other side of the facility and rains down white hot fury on the blinded and lung shot ACU soldiers, sending limbs and whimpering screams into the night sky. Sensing safety, Jack takes a running jump at the hole in the bathroom and scrambles outside. Hot in his heals, the Ravager stampedes through the opening and is about to take fire on Jack. Through a masterful stroke of marksmanship, Charles is able to deliver a precise shot to the power armour’s visor, shattering it and exposing part of the ACU soldier’s face.

Quickly registering what has just happened, Jack spins on his heels, points his revolver at the Ravager’s exposed face and pulls the trigger. The soldier’s sharpened senses kick in and he reflexively rolls away from the shot. It glances off his forehead and ricochets of what remains of his helmet. Stricken with panic, Jack runs for his life. The Vertibird moves in and gives the gunner enough of an angle to pivot the mounted machine gun into position. Although the Ravager is unable to shoot at the Vertibird, he decides to take out his fury on the fleeing Jack. His chain gun spins into life and a flurry of 5mm rounds cut through Jack, severely wounding him. Jack crumbles to the floor but is still alive to turn on his side and look into the eyes of the inflictor of his impending demise. Instead of outright killing him, the Ravager points his gun to the sky and attempts to shoot down the Vertibird. However, at the last second, his vision snaps onto an encroaching Charles who has fired a final round from his sniper rifle. The Ravager soldier to let out a shocked, fear stricken gasp before the round smashes into his exposed head. He falls to the floor as blood and brain matter oozes from his wound.

The Misfits are finally victorious in their battle against the ACU Ravager forces.

As Hobson lands the Vertibird, it is revealed that Major Maxwell was the gunner. He removes himself from the mounted turret harness and rushes to Jack. The silver tongued merc manages to sit himself up before giving his commanding officer a thumbs up. Maxwell tells him he did a good job and offers him a Yak 42 cigar. The rest of the team radios through that they’re okay before rendezvousing at the facility entrance. Maxwell and Hobson inspect the remains of the Ravager power armour. The Major finds it troubling that the enemy has access to such technology. He and Blythe had never dreamt that the ACU could outdo the Enclave in terms of weaponry on this scale. Reade soon meets with Maxwell and informs him about the situation and the ACU true purpose at Wessex. The Major is relieved to hear that Auden and Schuster are alive but is devastated by the news of Condor and Fenton’s passing. He swears to honour their names before ordering The Misfits to retrieve the stolen Pipboy and comms tech. At the same time, Curt presents Maxwell with the captured ACU Major.

The ACU officer nervously looks at Maxwell and asks to negotiate. The Phoenix Corporation leader coldly informs him that he can negotiate with the NCR. The Misfits carry him off to the Vertibird as Hobson radios Blythe to arrange for NCR military police to be on standby at HQ. After securing the last of the looted ACU equipment, the team finally set off home.

The sun begins to rise on a new day as the Vertibird carries The Misfits back to HQ. Although they encounter some turbulence, the journey gives time for reflection on a hard night’s work. The Vertibird carefully maneuvers into the HQ’s courtyard, where a pair of NCR MPs flank Mr Blythe. The civil servant congratulates the team on a job well done before the MPs cart the ACU officer off into the back of an armoured truck. The enemy officer takes one last fearful glance at the Misfits before the truck doors slam shut.

The mood is cut short when Charles makes another passing comment about the bullet ration. Blythe playfully dismisses it and says that his comments have been noted. As the weary team make their way into HQ, Blythe informs Jack that there is a visitor waiting for him in the lobby.

Curiously, Jack Shady cautiously enters the lobby to discover a young, slender woman holding hands with a small girl. The young lady’s face immediately brightens up when she spots him.

“Jack Shady… it’s been a long time. It’s me, Molly. Molly Hull. And this, Jack, is our daughter…”

A rock forms inside of Jack’s stomach as Charles snorts out a mocking laugh.

#fallout #fallout1 #fallout2 #fallout 3 #fallout 4 #fallout tactics #fallout pnp #falloutpnp

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shakeel786blog · 7 years ago

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A war of nerves between Pakistan’s military and Sharif

Image copyright Reuters

Image caption There have been protests for Mr Sharif…

Pakistan’s oldest and most prestigious newspaper, Dawn, is feeling the squeeze, weeks before a general election.

Its distribution remains suspended across large parts of urban Pakistan that are controlled by the army’s real estate giant, the Defence Housing Authority (DHA), as well as in military garrison areas where many civilians live.

And Dawn is not alone.

In March, the country’s largest television news network, Geo, was widely blocked by cable providers in military-controlled areas, while elsewhere it was moved lower down the channels list.

Both developments suggest an escalating war of nerves between deposed prime minister Nawaz Sharif and the powerful military.

What prompted the blockades?

Pakistan’s civilian authorities say they have not ordered them. So attention turned to the security establishment.

Image copyright AFP

Image caption … and against the former PM

The action against Dawn comes in the wake of a Nawaz Sharif interview it published earlier in May, in which he questioned the wisdom of “allowing” Pakistani militants to cross the border and kill 150 people in Mumbai.

He also asked why Pakistan had not prosecuted the mastermind of the 2008 Mumbai attacks, who was arrested in Pakistan but has since been surreptitiously released.

The comment was seen as a broadside at the military, which is widely believed to harbour militants and which Mr Sharif has openly blamed for being behind his disqualification from office last year.

Geo was punished for similar reasons.

One of its reporters closely followed the corruption case against Mr Sharif, and dug up information that suggested the grounds on which he was disqualified had been “extremely weak”.

Why would the military worry?

Critics of the military say it is trying to control the media at a time when its business empire is being challenged on two fronts.

The first was opened by Mr Sharif who, after being ousted by the Supreme Court, has grown increasingly defiant.

This is all the more menacing given that his popularity hasn’t shown any visible signs of diminishing, which creates an uncomfortable possibility for the army that he may win the election if not stopped.

Image copyright Alamy

Image caption Manzoor Pashteen and the PTM have accused the military of promoting militancy

The second front is the rise of a grassroots movement from the Federally Administered Tribal Areas (Fata), the base from which the military has allegedly orchestrated its regional proxy wars.

The Pashtun Tahaffuz (Safety) Movement (PTM) is expressly peaceful but its leaders have inside knowledge of how those proxy wars were orchestrated and what price local people paid. They have been asking uncomfortable questions at mass rallies across the country. An unannounced ban on their coverage is also in force.

The young tribesman rattling Pakistan’s army

So the military faces two opponents at once.

While the PTM has the potential to evolve into a fearsome adversary, the threat posed by Nawaz Sharif is of a more immediate nature.

What does Sharif know?

Loads.

Image copyright Reuters

Image caption Mr Sharif has inside knowledge dating back to the 1980s

Nawaz Sharif has been prime minister three times since 1990, and his association with power goes back to 1980 when military ruler General Ziaul Haq appointed him finance minister of Punjab.

As such, he is privy to how the military evolved into what some call a “sovereign” entity in its own right.

He was an early ally of the military, and was in the forefront of a political alliance – bringing together ultra-right wing groups and political fronts for militant organisations – that was cobbled together by a former chief of the ISI intelligence service soon after the death of Gen Zia in an air crash in 1988.

Mr Sharif is named among recipients of cash distributed by the ISI to members of the alliance to fight elections.

He also knows the inside story of the 1999 Kargil war, when he was prime minister. Pakistan said it was the work of Kashmiri militants, but it was later revealed that Pakistan’s army had orchestrated the conflict.

Mr Sharif has indicated on a couple of occasions that the war was planned and executed by then army chief Gen Pervez Musharraf behind his back. But he is yet to come out with the full story.

Analysts believe the war was meant to scupper Mr Sharif’s efforts to normalise relations with India. Tensions with Gen Musharraf culminated in the army coup of 1999 in which he was overthrown and exiled.

And Mr Sharif is also privy to the military’s strategy of employing militants to wage wars in Afghanistan and India from their sanctuaries in Fata.

How far might Sharif go?

But the question is, will Mr Sharif go the whole hog and spill the beans to the military’s detriment, especially once his party hands power to a caretaker administration later this month ahead of the general election?

There are high stakes. Since the 1980s, the military has evolved into the country’s largest business empire, while developing a capacity to control the country’s political decision-making.

At home, the military derives its main strength and support by painting India, and at times Western powers such as the US, as a perpetual enemy.

But experience shows that politicians, whenever they were in firm control of affairs, have invariably tried to normalise relations with India.

“This may be one reason why successive civilian governments that warmed to India have been pulled down through covert subversion,” says Afrasiab Khattak, a former senator and head of the Human Rights Commission of Pakistan.

When civilian governments have been destabilised in the past, religious and militant groups – the judiciary now, too, some would say – as well as “surrogate” politicians have been deployed.

Something similar is happening in Pakistan right now. And Mr Sharif is at the centre of it, threatening the military with uncomfortable truths. Or perhaps seeking a deal.

What is clear is the media are being gagged like never before, and efforts are under way to drive a wedge into Mr Sharif’s PML-N party before the elections can be announced.

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allofbeercom · 7 years ago

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‘None of the old rules apply’: Dave Eggers travels through post-election America

From dazed election night revellers in Washington DC to a gay Trump voter in Detroit to kids in Kentucky … The US writer gauges the mood of a divided nation

The word surreal is overused and often wrongly used, but in the case of the Washington Post Election Night Live party, the word was apt. First of all, it was a disco. There was a DJ playing a frenetic mix of contemporary Top 40 and pointedly apropos songs such as Pat Benatars Hit Me With Your Best Shot (Youre a real tough cookie with a long history ). Behind the DJ there were dozens of screens showing various television networks coverage of the election. The screens were so bright and so huge, and the colours so primary and vivid, that the experience was like being trapped inside an enormous jar of jelly beans.

Women dressed like Vegas showgirls made their way through the crowd with towering tiered hats adorned with chocolates from one of the evenings sponsors. The chocolates, round and the size of strawberries, were offered in pairs, enclosed in loose plastic sacks a bizarre but perhaps intentionally lewd optic? The bartenders were setting out Campari Americanos by the dozens. The food was by chefs Jos Andrs and the brothers Voltaggio. The Washington Post has a right to celebrate the paper is thriving and its political coverage extraordinary but this felt like Rome before the fall.

At some point early on, the music was turned down for 20 minutes so Karen Attiah of the Post could moderate a live conversation between the current German ambassador, Peter Wittig, and former Mexican ambassador Arturo Sarukhan. The talk was serious and enlightening, but the ambassadors seemed baffled by the nightclub atmosphere, and besides, few people were listening. The party was about the party.

And everyone expected Hillary Clinton to win. The attendees were largely Washington insiders lobbyists, staffers, legislative aides, pundits and producers. Most were liberal and most were confident. The nights only potential for suspense centred around whether or not Clinton would take some of the toss-up states, like Florida and North Carolina. When she was declared the winner which was expected before the partys scheduled end-time of 10 oclock there would be talk of who would be appointed what, with a not-insignificant portion of the partygoers in line for positions in the new administration.

Thus the mood was ebullient at seven oclock, when the event started, and was electric by eight. Kentucky and Indiana were announced for Donald Trump and that news was met with a shrug. More scantily clad women walked through the rooms serving hors doeuvres, and soon there were at least three showgirls wearing hats of towering testicle-chocolates. Young Washingtonians swayed to the music. Drinks were set under chairs and spilled. A young girl in a beautiful party dress walked through the drunken partygoers looking for her parents.

Then nine oclock came around and the party began to turn. Most of the states thus far had gone for Trump. None of these victories was unexpected, but the reddening of the national map was disheartening, and the margins in those states were often greater than expected. He took Texas, North Dakota, Kansas, Mississippi. Not a problem for the crowd, but by 9.30, people were panicking. Trump was leading in Florida and North Carolina. Nate Silver, the statistics shaman who had been roundly criticised for overestimating Trumps chances, now posted that a Trump victory was likely. Ohio was in the bag, Pennsylvania was trending toward him, and it looked like he could win Wisconsin and Michigan. A hundred guests turned their attention from the big screens to their little screens. They paced and made calls. The party emptied and we all spilled into the streets. Beyond the Washington Post building and beyond DC, the country had been swamped by a white tsunami few saw coming.

Election night at The Washington Post. Photograph: The Washington Post/Getty Images

For a few hours, the city had the feeling of a disaster movie. People scurried this way and that. Some wandered around dazed. Following the returns, we travelled from restaurant to bar to home, and the Somali and Ethiopian cabbies were stunned, worried less about Trump than about the prospect of Rudy Giuliani serving in the cabinet in any capacity. We all talked about where we will move: Belize; New Zealand; Canada. We no longer knew our own country. In Columbia Heights, when the election was settled, a young woman biking up the hill stopped, threw her bike into the middle of the road, sat on a kerb and began weeping. No no no no, she wailed.

The omens were there if you looked. A month before the election, Id driven from Pittsburgh to the Philadelphia suburbs and saw nothing but Trump/Pence signs. In three days I covered about 1,200 miles of back roads and highway some of the prettiest country you can find on this continent and saw not one sign, large or small, in support of Clinton. The only time any mention of her was made at all was on an enormous billboard bearing her face with a Pinocchio nose.

I did see Confederate flags. James Carville, the political strategist, recently quipped that Pennsylvania is Pittsburgh and Philadelphia with Alabama in between, and there is some truth to that. There are a lot of men in camouflage jackets. There are a lot of men out of work. When you stop at gas stations, the magazine sections are overwhelmed by periodicals devoted to guns, hunting and survival. Then there are the tidy farms and rolling hills, the equestrian centres with their white fences, the wide swaths of Amish and Mennonites and Quakers.

I was in rural Pennsylvania to see the United 93 National Memorial in Shanksville a monument to the 40 passengers and crew who died in a windswept field on 9/11. The day I visited was bright and clear. The surrounding country was alive with autumn colours and, far on distant ridgelines, white windmills turned slowly. Just off the parking lot, a park ranger in forest green was standing before a diverse group of middle school students, admonishing them. Boys and girls. Boys and girls, he said. Youre standing here where people died. There are still human remains here. Youre goofing around and laughing, and I shouldnt have to tell you to be respectful. They deserve that. They quieted for a moment before one of the boys nudged another, and the giggling began again.

Trump supporters rally in Oceanside, California. Photograph: Bill Wechter/AFP/Getty Images

The memorial is beautifully constructed and devastating in its emotional punch. Visitors can walk the flightpath of the plane, a gently sloping route down to the crash site, which is separated from the footpath by a low wall. Its a grave, another ranger explained. So we dont walk there. Higher on the hill, there is an indoor visitor centre that recreates every moment of the day in excruciating detail. There are video loops of the Twin Towers being destroyed, fragments of the plane, pictures and bios of every passenger, details about the calls they made from the plane once they knew they would die. It is shattering.

Leaving the museum, a man in front of me, young and built like a weightlifter, couldnt push the door open. I reached over him to help and he turned to thank me. His face was soaked with tears. I got into my car, shaken but heartened by the courage of the 40 humans who had realised what was happening that they were passengers on a missile headed for the White House or Capitol building and had sacrificed their lives to save untold numbers in Washington DC. The American passengers of United 93 were from 35 different cities in 11 different states, but they died together to save the capital from incalculable loss of lives and what might have been a crippling blow to the nations psyche.

I left the memorial and turned on to a two-lane road, part of the Lincoln Highway that runs through the state part of the first coast-to-coast highway in the United States. Just beyond a sign advertising home-grown sweetcorn, there was a residential home, the first house anyone might encounter when leaving the United Memorial, and on this home, there is a vast Confederate flag draped over the front porch.

Its important to note that this was the Lincoln Highway. And that the civil war ended 160 years ago. And that Pennsylvania was not a state in the Confederacy. So to see this, an enormous Confederate flag in a Union state, a mile from a symbol of national tragedy and shared sacrifice, was an indicator that there was something very unusual in the mood of the country. Ancient hatreds had resurfaced. Strange alliances had been formed. None of the old rules applied.

The Flight 93 National Memorial in Shanksville, Pennsylvania. Photograph: Mark Makela/Reuters

Steven McManus has come out of the closet twice. First as a gay man, then as a Trump supporter. We were sitting at a coffee shop in Detroits Eastern Market neighbourhood, and McManus was almost vibrating. This was two days after Trumps election, and McManus was elated about the victory, yes, but more personally, about the fact that after Trumps election, hed had the courage to post a message on social media declaring his support of the president-elect.

I lived a lot of my life as a closeted guy, McManus said, and the liberation I felt as a man coming out was similar to how I felt coming out for Trump. You really truly think youre the only one who has these feelings. Its liberating. I felt it was time to come out again.

McManus is a thin man in his late 30s, bald and bespectacled, with a close-cropped beard. He grew up in the part of the Detroit suburbs known as Downriver. Many of the areas residents had come from the American south in the 1940s to work in the auto factories, and the area still retains a southern feel. His father was a salesman who brokered space on trucking lines. Looking back on it now, McManus appreciated the fact that his parents could raise five children on one salesmans salary. But then came the Nafta, and the gutting of much of the Detroit auto manufacturing base. McManus watched as Detroit and Flint hollowed out and caved in.

Trump was the only candidate talking about the trade imbalance, McManus said. Being a businessman, a successful businessman, he understood why business decision-makers, at the highest levels of their companies, move their production overseas. McManus was angry when auto companies, after receiving bailouts from the US government in 2009, continued to move production to Mexico. In Detroit, we gave America the middle class. But this is now a false economy. The housing market is decimated, and the middle class is shrinking. I want someone to shake it up. Lets move the whole country forward.

McManus is not blind to the rareness of an openly gay man supporting Trump. But I dont have to vote a certain way based on my sexuality. In my mind weve moved beyond having to vote Democrat just because youre gay. And hes not worried about a reversal of the hard-fought right to marriage gays just achieved. Weve got our rights now, he said. Its settled. McManus and his husband got married three years ago in New York, before the supreme court decision legalised gay marriage nationwide, and it was in his new place of domestic tranquillity that McManus watched the Republican national convention. Two moments affected him profoundly. First was the appearance of Peter Thiel, the former CEO of PayPal, who was given a prime speakers spot and said from the stage, Every American has a unique identity. I am proud to be gay. I am proud to be a Republican. But most of all, I am proud to be an American.

McManus was moved then, but he was even more affected by an unscripted part of Trumps speech. It was shortly after the Orlando massacre, and for the first time in my life, a Republican candidate for president said things like, forty-nine wonderful Americans, or beautiful Americans or whatever he said, were savagely murdered. And he said, I will protect gay and lesbian individuals. Some people at the convention cheered and some people didnt cheer. And then Trump said, off the cuff and off the teleprompter, he said, For those of you who cheered, I thank you. And I cried. I cried.

McManuss husband works for the army, as an IT specialist, and they both became bothered by Clintons email setup. If my husband had done the same thing, hed be fired. And its pretty hard to get fired from a government job. McManus began to follow Trump more closely, and found that he was agreeing with most of hispositions on trade, immigration and national security. I began to realise that Im more conservative than I thought. But he couldnt reveal this. He lives in Detroit, a liberal city, and works in the restaurant industry in town, where left-leaning politics dominate. But after coming out as a Trump supporter, he is finding himself emboldened. The day after the election, McManus saw his doctor, who is Muslim, and he mentioned that hed voted for Trump.

I just wanted to get it off my chest. I was feeling a little McManus sits up in his chair, to indicate the new confidence he felt that day. I told him, I came out as a Trump supporter today. And he went off for 15 minutes to the point where I almost walked out. He was impassioned about how he felt that Trump was disenfranchising Muslim-Americans. But our present state of terrorism does have a religious undertone to it. Finally I managed to get something off my chest. I cant remember who said this to me, either my husband or my ex, but I said to my doctor, You know, it wasnt a group of Catholic nuns that flew planes into the World Trade Center.

Proud to be a Republican Peter Thiel. Photograph: ddp USA/REX/Shutterstock

Later that night in Detroit, I ran into Rob Mickey, a professor of political science. He grew up in Texas, but has spent about 10 years teaching at the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor. We were at a party benefiting an educational nonprofit. Doing something concrete and positive felt good, and being around kids felt good, but everyone was exhausted no one had slept since the election and 30 seconds into every conversation it turned to Trump, Clinton, what had gone wrong and what would happen next. One of the events attendees had been living in a central American cloud forest for years, and there was much talk about following her down there.

I told Mickey about McManus, and to him, the story of the gay Trump supporter was both surprising and unsurprising. Everything about 2016 was upside down. Parts of Michigan who had voted twice for Obama had turned to Trump. Rob and his wife Jenny had gone canvassing for Clinton on the Sunday before the election, and the reception they received was not warm.

I would say it was hostile, he said.

They had gone to Milan, Michigan, an overwhelmingly white town 50 miles southwest of Detroit. Its spelled like the Italian town, but pronounced MY-lan, Rob pointed out. The Clinton campaign had given Rob and Jenny a list of names and addresses of white working-class residents who had registered as Democrats but were labelled sporadic voters. Milan had voted for Obama in 2008 and 2012, and winning towns such as Milan was key to delivering a Clinton victory in Michigan.

The homes they visited were run-down, with No Soliciting placards on every door. They saw no Clinton signs on anyones lawn. There were Trump signs scattered around town, but most of the residents they met were disgusted by the entire election. One woman said, I dont want to have nothing to do with that, Mickeyrecalled. Another said, I hate them both, including that guy of yours. When I pointed out that our candidate was a woman, she said, Whatever and slammed the door.

One house with a Bernie Sanders sign on the lawn looked promising. Mickey knocked on the door. A white man with a US ARMY shirt answered. He was missing an arm. Mickey introduced himself as a Clinton canvasser, and told the man he had supported Sanders, too, during the primary. Thats great, the man said, and closed the door.

The people we met that day were straight out of central casting, if you were making a movie about the disaffected white working class, Mickey said. Between 55 and 65, without college degrees. You could see that Lena Dunham and Katy Perry were not going to do anything to form a bridge to these people. If I hadnt read any polls, and I was basing it just on the people I met, I would have thought, boy, Clintons going to get wiped out.

It was different in 2008. Knowing that Michigan was securely in Obamas column and Ohio was on the bubble, Rob and Jenny went to Toledo to knock on doors in trailer parks and housing projects. Foreclosure signs were common. When they introduced themselves as canvassers for Obama, the residents, all of them white, were welcoming and chatty. The interactions were long, Mickey said. The people were worried and they wanted to talk. Ohios 18 electoral votes went to Obama in 2008 and 2012.

This campaign wore a lot of people down, Mickey said. The state was bombarded by pro-Clinton ads, but she failed to offer any sustained and coherent economic message. She said, Im not crazy and Im not a sexist racist pig, but for working class whites thats not enough. I would say that of the people who slammed their doors on me, most of them didnt vote for either candidate.

A Hillary Clinton supporter applauds her televised concession speech. Photograph: Steven Senne/AP

In fact, an unprecedented number of Michigan voters cast ballots without choosing either Clinton or Trump. This kind of voting happens every election where voters make their preferences known down-ballot but dont mark anyone for president but never in such numbers. In 2012, there were 50,000 Michigan voters who declined to choose any presidential candidate. In 2016, there were 110,000.

Clinton lost Michigan by 13,107 votes.

The week after the election, the business of the United States went on. Schools and banks were open. The stock market plummeted and rose to a new high. Commuters commuted, and I was headed from Detroit to Kentucky. All of this was travel planned months before, and none of it had anything to do with the election, but it felt like I was making my way, intentionally, into the heart of Trump country.

At Detroit airport it was impossible not to feel the tragedy of Tuesday as having realigned our relationships with each other. Because the voting had split so dramatically along racial lines, how could an African-American or Latino pass a white person on the street, or at baggage claim, and not wonder, Which side are you on?

The emergence of safety pins to symbolise support for Clinton (and equality and inclusion) was inevitable it fulfilled a need, particularly on the part of white Americans, to signal where they stand. Otherwise all iconography is subject to misinterpretation. At the airport, I found an older white man staring at me. His eyes narrowed to slits. I was baffled until I realised he was looking at my baseball hat, which bore the logo and name of a Costa Rican beer called Imperial. Was this man a Clinton supporter who suspected me of being a white nationalist? Was the word Imperial sending a Ku Klux Klan/Third Reich signal to him?

Anyway, I was in the wrong terminal. I was in danger of missing a flight to Louisville, so I left and poked my head into a Hertz bus and asked the driver if he would be stopping near Delta anytime soon. He paused for a moment.

Yeah, Ill take you, he said.

His name was Carl. He was a lanky African-American man in his 60s, and we rode alone, just me and him in this enormous bus, for a time. He asked how I was doing. I told him I was terrible. I was feeling terrible, but I also wanted him to know which side I was on. He laughed.

A traveller in Detroit airport. Photograph: Jim Young/REUTERS

Yeah, I was surprised on Tuesday, too, he said. But I almost feel sorry for Trump. I dont think he thought hed actually win. You see him sitting next to Obama at the Oval Office? He looked like a child.

In Louisville, three days after the election, I sat with 32 students at Fern Creek high school. This was supposed to be a regular classroom visit by someone passing through, but the atmosphere was different now. The students at Fern Creek are from 28 countries. They speak 41 languages. There are refugees from Syria, South Sudan and the Democratic Republic of Congo. We sat in an oval and ate samosas. Nepalese samosas, I was told. Three of the students in the class were from Nepal, and had a particular recipe. The food was extraordinary.

I told these students, three girls still learning English, that Id always wanted to go to Nepal, and asked them to write down some places theyd recommend. They wrote Jhapa, Damak (Refugee camp). They were from Bhutan and had grown up in a UNHCR camp in eastern Nepal. A young man to my left had come from Iraq two years earlier.

Their teachers, Joseph Franzen and Brent Peters, guided the conversation through topics of creativity, social justice and empathy. The students were without exception thoughtful, attentive and respectful of each others opinions. Every time a student finished a statement, the rest of the class snapped, Beat-style, in appreciation. We didnt talk politics. For the time being, the students had had enough of politics. The day after the election, theyd had a charged discussion about the results, and, still feeling raw, they had written about the discussion the next day.

The thing I didnt say yesterday was that Muslims scare me. The thing with Isis is out of control and I dont trust them at all and I dont get why Mexicans cant take the test to become legal? Are they lazy?

The election didnt really bother me even with the outcome, I didnt support Trump. The main reason I cared about Clinton winning was cause I didnt want my family to be affected. My mom is gay and married to a woman.

As a Muslim female in high school its hard to deal with this and let it sink in. But I know Trump doesnt have full power of his actions. So I feel like even if hes president, everything will be the same.

I was downright disappointed in the country. Because Trump won, racism, sexism, misogyny and xenophobia won. It goes to show what our country values now. Either this is what we value, or this is what the majority is OK with.

I feel like everything said yesterday doesnt even matter anymore. We as American citizens cant change whats been decided. Not everybody gets what they want. Thats what life is. Trump will be our new president and we cant change that. WE need to make America great again, NOT Trump. Thats our job as people.

I think Trump and Hillary are both crazy and Im kind of eager to see how trump runs this b—h.

And so we see how differently we express ourselves on paper. The students, sitting in their oval with the smell of Nepalese samosas filling the room, were unfailingly kind to each other. But on paper, other selves were unleashed. Despite the many international students, the schools population is mostly American-born, 48% white and 38% black, and it was easy to see how Trump could bring dormant grievances to the fore, could give licence to reactionary theories and kneejerk assumptions. The students had witnessed eight years of exquisite presidential self-control and dignity, and now there would be a 70-year-old man in the White House whose feelings were easily hurt, who called people names, and who tweeted his complaints at all hours, with rampant misspellings and exclamation marks. Our only hope will be that the 100 million or so young people in American schools behave better than the president. A president who has not read a book since he was last required to. Think of it.

After the class, a tall African-American student named Devin approached me. Hed introduced himself before the class, and had asked some very sophisticated questions about using imagery to convey meaning in his poetry. He was a wide receiver on the schools football team, he said, but he was also a writer. He handed me a loose-leaf piece of paper, and on it was a prose-poem he wanted me to look at.

We sat on top of my house, laying back, looking at the stars, the stars shining, waving back at us. They told us hello. Time froze. I turned my head to look at you. Still fixated on the stars, you paid me no mind. I studied you. This was the true face of beauty. Your royal blue eyes, the brown polka dots on your face. Your smile making the moon envious because it could not compare in light. I reached out to grab your hand. You turned your eyes to look at me. Our hands intersected and we both smiled. I told you you were were beautiful.

Below the piece, Devin wrote, in red ink, Do I have something here? Should I continue?

Anti-Trump Protesters march through Los Angeles on 12 November. Photograph: UPI / Barcroft Images

That night in Louisville there was another benefit event, this one for an organisation called Teach Kentucky, which recruits high-achieving college graduates to come to the state to teach in the public schools. Joe Franzen and Brent Peters are among Teach Kentuckys recruits, and if they are any indication of the quality of humans the organisation is attracting, the programme is a runaway success.

At the event, Franzen and Peters spoke about their craft, and about making sure their students felt they had a place at the table. There was much talk about their classrooms as families, of meals shared by all, of mutual respect. It was very calm and heartening, but there was also a moment where the audience was encouraged to let out a primal scream (my idea, I admit it), and 200 people did that, screamed, exorcising our election-week demons. Later on, Jim James Louisville resident and leader of the rock band My Morning Jacket performed a medley of songs, from Leonard Cohen to All You Need Is Love and Blowin in the Wind. And then everyone got drunk.

There was good bourbon. It was called brown water by the locals, and after stomachs were full, we all vacillated between despair and measured hope. But the questions loomed over the night like the shadow of a Nazi zeppelin. Would he really try to build a wall? Would he really try to exclude all Muslims? Would he actually appoint a white nationalist as his chief of staff? And did 42% of American women really vote for a man who threatened to overturn Roe v Wade and who bragged about grabbing them by the pussy? Did the white working class really elect a man whose most famous catchphrase was Youre fired? Like a teenager with poor self-esteem, the American people had chosen the flashy and abusive boyfriend over the steady, boring one. Weve had enough decency for one decade, the electorate decided. Give us chaos.

It is not easy to get a ticket to Smithsonian National Museum of African American History and Culture. This is the newest museum on the National Mall in Washington, DC, and its design, by the Ghanaian-British architect David Adjaye, is so successful, at once immediately iconic and bold but also somehow blending into the low-slung surrounding architecture, that it has become the most talked-about building in the United States.

Admission is free, but there is a six-month wait for passes, and the passes are timed. If you get a pass, you must enter at the assigned hour or wait another six months. I had gotten such a timed pass, and it so happened that the pass was for the day after the election. That morning, I had the choice between staying in bed, forgoing my one chance at seeing the building in 2016, or rising on three hours sleep and keeping the appointment. Like millions of others, I did not want the day to begin. If I woke up, I would check the news, and if I checked the news, there would be confirmation of what I had remembered foggily from the night before that the people of America had elected a reality television host as their president. I closed my eyes, wanting sleep.

Then I remembered the Gazans.

Back in April, I had been in the Gaza Strip and had met a married couple, Mahmoud and Miriam, journalists and activists who badly wanted to leave Gaza. I had e-introduced them to an asylum lawyer in San Francisco, but from 7,000 miles away, she couldnt do much to help. The impossible thing was that they actually had a visa. A real visa issued by the American state department. All they had to do was get out of Gaza. But permissions were needed from the Israelis or Egyptians, and they were having no luck with either. Finally, one day in October, an email arrived. Mahmoud and Miriam were in Brooklyn. Theyd bribed an Egyptian guard at the Rafah gate and had made their way on a 14hour journey through Sinai.

National Museum of African American History and Culture. Photograph: Michael Barnes/Smithsonian Insitution

So on a lark I told them to meet me in DC. Frederick Douglass had said, after all, that every American should visit the nations capital at least once. And given they would soon be Americans, wouldnt it be good to do that duty right away, and do it the day after the first woman had been elected president? (We had made the plans a week before.)

So they had planned to meet me at this museum celebrating African-American history in the shadow of the obelisk dedicated to George Washington, great man and also slaveowner. The morning was clear and cool. A small line had formed outside the museum before the doors were to open. I looked around, and didnt see them. Then I did.

They were aglow. Theyd spent their lives in an open-air prison of 141 square miles, and now they were here. They could move about freely, could decide one day to go to the capital of the United States and be there a few hours later. No checkpoints, no bribes, no Hamas secret police. Id seen Miriam suffer in Gaza because she refused to wear the hijab and favoured western clothes. In Gaza City, she was yelled at, cursed. I hope your parents are proud! people yelled to her. Now she was herself, uncovered, dressing as she chose. H

from All Of Beer http://allofbeer.com/2017/10/21/none-of-the-old-rules-apply-dave-eggers-travels-through-post-election-america/

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samanthasroberts · 7 years ago

Text

‘None of the old rules apply’: Dave Eggers travels through post-election America

From dazed election night revellers in Washington DC to a gay Trump voter in Detroit to kids in Kentucky … The US writer gauges the mood of a divided nation

Election night at The Washington Post. Photograph: The Washington Post/Getty Images

Trump supporters rally in Oceanside, California. Photograph: Bill Wechter/AFP/Getty Images

The Flight 93 National Memorial in Shanksville, Pennsylvania. Photograph: Mark Makela/Reuters

Proud to be a Republican Peter Thiel. Photograph: ddp USA/REX/Shutterstock

I would say it was hostile, he said.

A Hillary Clinton supporter applauds her televised concession speech. Photograph: Steven Senne/AP

Clinton lost Michigan by 13,107 votes.

Yeah, Ill take you, he said.

A traveller in Detroit airport. Photograph: Jim Young/REUTERS

I think Trump and Hillary are both crazy and Im kind of eager to see how trump runs this b—h.

Below the piece, Devin wrote, in red ink, Do I have something here? Should I continue?

Anti-Trump Protesters march through Los Angeles on 12 November. Photograph: UPI / Barcroft Images

Then I remembered the Gazans.

National Museum of African American History and Culture. Photograph: Michael Barnes/Smithsonian Insitution

Source: http://allofbeer.com/2017/10/21/none-of-the-old-rules-apply-dave-eggers-travels-through-post-election-america/

from All of Beer https://allofbeer.wordpress.com/2017/10/21/none-of-the-old-rules-apply-dave-eggers-travels-through-post-election-america/

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