#their dad still sucks

[charlotteperaltaalcott]

charlatans -- 0 - prologue

-- crossposted on ao3 under tearjerker -- summary: --

AU -- jake has an actual sister --

"Charlotte Peralta-Alcott, pretty, clever, and moderately financially okay--she lives in a city, with an unsettling home-life history and incredibly happy disposition, seemed to unite *some* of the best blessings of existence; and had lived nearly thirty-two years in the world with very...little...to distress or vex her."

Set around the beginning of Season 1, Jake reunites with his full-blooded, (weird adjective!) biological younger sister after about 15 years of separation when she leaves London and decides to look for a job in New York. Shockingly, Jake hasn't disclosed that he has a sister to the precinct. Which is odd, considering he has no qualms complaining about his dad frequently.

-- notes: --

hi squad,

this is my first b99 work so tell me if there are any inaccuracies!

(btw technical non-inaccuracy: gina is not included in the prologue because charlotte did technically know her, but they had too much of an age gap for them to be close friends enough for charlotte to divulge the events referenced in the prologue.)

have fun reading as much as i did writing bc i just think jake deserves a witty, lawfully good relative who shaped him into the childishly mature man he is. and also wanted to diss roger more than the show does bc he SUCKS.

----- 0 -- prologue

The world swarms around me as I tumble, pretty comically, down the side of a flat, emerald-green hill. I’m 16, almost 17, poorly playing girls’ football, in preparatory school. I’m also in England. These are all rudimentary, digestible facts that don’t seem weird for my age and geography.

Then, the world gets a little more familiar. Six months ago, I was in America, in New York, eating pretty good pizza, going to high school, and having a stable shelter for a bit—six years, to be exact. No, no. I lived in more than just a ‘shelter’; I lived at home, my home.

I continue to roll down the endless saturated, green cliff; it seems pretty endless. It’s spring. My birthday is soon. It doesn’t feel like it should be. The rest of the girls are 17. Maybe I should blame my poor sportsmanship on our age difference. I don’t want them to know about my birthday being soon though because it feels weirdly sacred, like Christmas being dedicated to spending time with family. At Christmas, most of the other girls left to go home for the break. I stayed at school with some girl named Cathy, who’s a self-proclaimed orphan with a rich, alcoholic uncle and blabbers about him all the time. Luckily, I got one crackly landline call from my family to escape from her.

I finally stop plummeting, landing in a rather supportive flowering shrub. I roll out of the bush, some brambles tangling in my hair—thankfully it’s pulled up, and I snake my way towards a creek. It’s quite beautiful out. It’s March 31st, which, according to the prep-school girls, should be a drizzly, frigid day. It’s around 12 degrees Celsius out. I sit with my legs pulled against my chest, so I can pull my school sweater over my bare knees, on some relatively smooth, mossy rocks near the creek’s shore. I see my reflection, set against the whites and light greens of the early blossoming trees in the distance, in the babbling, green-hued water. I’m still pale from the winter. I have box-dyed black hair, in the color ‘Midnight’, which is fading patchily; I did it in the airport bathroom in London in September when I was first sent to board. My dad left me at the airport alone, so the parentless paradise of England seemed like a pretty good place to express myself. I have hazel, green eyes that seem to match the color of the creek’s water.

I feel a tingle of nostalgia as I look up from the water. The surrounding shore is gravelly like Upstate. The trees are old and tall like Upstate.

I never was this sheltered, really. I am a pretty happy person, sunny even. Maybe I just feel scorned because of my parents.

I miss New York. I dip the tip of my right Oxford in the creek. The water is freezing still. At least the climate in New York is similar to England’s.

I suddenly grow more conscious of my surroundings; my eyes dart around at the nearly barren scenery before growing misty with remembrance. —— Suddenly, in my mind, it’s August. Jake stops our dad’s musty, antiquated cobalt-blue car in the middle of New York State. We both get out and sprint into a meadow, a little off the highway, that looks out to a mountain range. Jake yells something enthusiastically that cheers me up, but I can’t hear it now, it’s all garbled like I’m underwater. I’m really nervous still, but I start laughing.

We sit down in a patchy clearing in the meadow; the grass is just beginning to die. It’s a beautiful rust color in the evening sunlight. We talk and laugh some more. I pull a few blue and white wildflowers from the field, and I braid them gingerly together in my lap. He watches me and tries to do the same thing, but his fingers are larger and less gentle so they snap a few of the stems. We laugh. He asks me something, related to what I told him in the car. I can vaguely piece together one of my replies, speaking in a pretty cheerful, sincere tone,

“Oh, and I would have bouquets with ivy and Queen Anne’s Lace and peonies. And you would walk me down the aisle.”

He laughs at my inflection, but then he considers what I said. The conversation seems less foggy as it goes on. “Wouldn’t Dad walk you down the aisle?”

I suddenly turn serious, a grim look on my face, but I don’t know why. My hair’s still honey-blonde, and it matches the golden August sky, and it whips in my face slightly while I speak.

“Dad only cares about you, Jake. He was married to your Mom, not mine.”

He seems hurt by this, his brown eyes, the same color as the old, tall trees, widen slightly and he tries to respond. I continue despite this, my eyes feeling heavy from the unbearable truth. And tears. More from tears than the truth.

“I found something in the mail yesterday. Dad’s sending me to boarding school. In England. When you leave for the academy.” I enunciate bitterly, looking down at my lap at my loosely connected flower crown.

Jake starts crying. I don’t know what to do. My hands raise involuntarily to try and comfort him, and then he hugs me tightly. I start crying, tears drip down my cheeks as the wind continues to batter them. I hug him back. I squeeze him like I won’t see him ever again. Like he’s being drafted and it’s 1970. I grip the flower crown painfully hard in my hands, my arms wound around his back.

——

I feel the same wind beat against my face as I hug my knees closer to my chest. I’m still in the forest downhill to the school. I feel a little lightheaded. Suddenly, I recall what I said to Dad when he left me at the airport.

—— “You don’t care about us! Jake left for the police academy, so now you can remove us both from your insanely busy, tedious life by sending me away for school as well! How is that something that a selfless, caring parent would do?”

Dad defended himself loudly, but I couldn’t hear. The blood rushed in my ears too fast for me to hear what he said.

“Fine! You know what? I’m going to become a cop, just like Jake. And you’re going to have to deal with both of us abandoning your great expectations for our lives.”

He yelled something strong back, invective. “At least Jake will never be a—”

I didn’t allow him to finish his sentence before I slapped him. Because I knew that the next word—the way his lips curled around his front teeth as if he had savored waiting to say it—would be despicable.

——

I feel lightheaded as I recall this. I think I have a mild concussion. I flop over uselessly against the rocks, my vision dimming from the cool mist-colored skies to the warm black of subconsciousness. I dream of not being in England. I dream of home. I dream of being something more than a preparatory student in England. An American one. I dream of meeting with Jake again. I miss my brother. I hope the world will bring me back to him.

The sun pricks bright green dots in the darkness of my closed eyelids. Someone lifts me. They smell like cheap musk and sandalwood cologne and mop water. A dog sniffs at me. Oh, it’s the janitor. He had a dog? I think Jake would laugh if he saw me now. Or he would say, “Where did you go wrong?” And I would say, “I didn’t?” Or I would say, “When I slapped Dad and dyed my hair black and said I was going to become a detective and decided to label myself a ‘scorned daughter’ just like Cathy did. Nothing Cathy does is mature. I should've known.”

The janitor accidentally, feebly slipped into a puddle while carrying me. I’m muddy and my navy sweater is partially soaked and will probably smell like mildew even after the nurse sets it out to dry. His stubble grates the side of my face as he lifts me again; it feels like a handful of needles scraping against my cheek. Jake would probably laugh if he saw me. Now. Not probably, but 100% for sure. -----

[demaparbat-hp]

Toph as a Goalball player 💪💚

[lonelynight13]

[alpacacare-archive]

the brainworms are kiiling me. have a dad and son 👍︎

[atoriv-art]

older designs for my specialest guy

[unfinishedslurs]

The boy stops in his tracks. “I know you,” he says, tilting his head curiously. He’s not tall, but he’s regal nonetheless, dressed all in white. Something about him makes Leia’s hair stand on end, and although she hides it she feels a stirring in her own chest. I know you like I know my own soul, she thinks wildly, and wonders where it came from. Has she gone insane?

“That’s nice,” she says, and shoots him anyway.

He deflects it in a flash of light, a glowing blue laser sword appearing in his hand like magic. She’s only seen one of those before, and it’s Vader’s. If this boy is anything like Vader, she realizes, she’s in deep shit.

She’s smart enough to know when she’s outmatched. Leia makes the tactical decision to run for her life.

Later, as she’s getting the hell out of there, she wonders why he didn’t try to stop her.

She remembers being young and tugging on her mothers skirts, demanding to know why their guest was so sad. “Does he not like it here?” She’d asked, and then, trembling, because Kenobi always seemed saddest around her. “Is it…because of me?”

“Oh, Leia,” her mother sighed, lifting her into her arms. “It’s not that, I promise.”

“Then what is it?”

“Master Kenobi lost a child under his care, years ago.” Breha’s eyes grew deeper, darker. “It was not his fault, but he blames himself. You remind him of that child, that’s all.”

Leia had quieted at that, contemplative.

The next time she’d seen Master Kenobi, she had given him a hug. He didn’t seem to know what to do with that, so she resolved to give him more of them. “He’s lonely,” she’d told her mother. “No one should be lonely.”

Looking at Obi-Wan Kenobi now, the memory seemed so far away. He’d aged thirty years in the ten it had been.

He looks, Leia thinks with a small twinge of regret, very lonely.

“Leia,” he greets. “It’s been a long time.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Leia sees a glint of white.

Kenobi freezes in his tracks. “Luke?” He whispers, and through the distance Leia can hear it as if he’d been speaking directly into her ear.

Master Kenobi lost a child under his care, her mother whispers in her head. He blames himself.

In an instant, Leia understands everything.

Kenobi is still staring at the boy he’d lost so long ago when Vader cuts him down.

Later, as she’s pacing around on the Falcon to Han muttering darkly about Princesses and supernatural abilities, she rememberers the way the boy collapsed, as if all his strings had been cut. Vader was too occupied with him to even look at her as she shot at him desperately.

Luke. She hates him more than she hates herself.

“They know where you are,” he hisses frantically. “They’re coming for you. You have to run.”

“Wait!” Leia quickly pulls up their sonar. Nothing yet, but it would explain the distant queasiness she’d felt since they’d landed. She tended to trust her gut. “How do you know? How much time do we have?”

“Not important, and not enough,” he says. “I have to go, and so do you. You need to leave yesterday.”

“How do I know I can trust you? I don’t even know who you are.”

He pauses. “Call me Skywalker.”

“That’s not an answer, Skywalker.”

“Yes it is.”

She opens her mouth to argue, but there are faint voices on the other end, drawing nearer.

“Shit,” Skywalker mutters. “I have to go. I’ll be in contact, okay? Don’t ever tell me where you are, or where you’re heading. Vader and Palpatine aren’t shy about reading minds. Just leave as soon as you can, and figure out the rest.”

“But—“

It’s too late. The comm has disconnected.

She stares down at it, disbelieving. How would the Empire know they’re here? Why should she trust a stranger who somehow got her personal comm code?

Gut feeling or not, on paper this was a perfect location. Supplied, armored, and most importantly, extremely well hidden. There was no real reason to think it would possibly be found out.

It’s probably a trap. Almost definitely a trap.

Han sticks his head in the door, a sour look on his face. “Hey Princess, can you tell these idiots—“

She makes a decision then and there.

“We’re leaving.”

“What?”

“We’re evacuating, effective immediately.” She pushes past him, and he follows so close he’s nearly stepping on her heel.

“Why? I think it’s pretty cozy here. Actual sunlight doesn’t hurt, either.”

“Apparently too cozy.” She grabs the first person she sees, a pilot who stares at her with wide eyes. “Emergency evacuation. Spread the word to pack everything you can and leave, I’ll let you know where we’re headed when we’re in orbit.”

He salutes and scurries off.

“Woah, hey now.” Han snatches at her elbow until she turns around to face him. “What’s going on?”

“There’s a new informant. He told me the Empire knows we’re here. They’re coming for us.”

“And you trust this person because…”

“I don’t have a choice,” she snaps. Someone runs past them, holding three packs filled to the brim with rations. “It’s either he’s lying and we’re not in danger, or he’s telling the truth and we’re going to die if we don’t listen. It’s not exactly hard math.”

It could be a trap of course, but he hadn’t suggested any sort of direction or destination to follow, and Leia wasn’t inclined to share. Especially not after his tidbit about Vader and Palpatine reading minds.

He squints at her. “That’s not it.”

“What?”

“I don’t believe you,” he insists. He’s so infuriating. Leia doesn’t know why she hasn’t kicked him out yet.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes you do, and you’re either gonna tell me why, or find a different transport when we head out of here.”

“Who said I was riding on your hunk of junk?” She demands. She actually was planning on going with them, since the Falcon has more than enough room for all the supplies that can’t fit in the other ships and none of the trustworthiness of the other pilots, but Han doesn’t need to know that.

“Well?”

Damn him. Damn him for knowing how to read her. She doesn’t know when she let that happen.

“I feel it,” she admits, defeated. “Something tells me he’s trustworthy. We’ll wait and see if it’s right.”

He studies her. She holds her head high, but inside she’s jittery at the scrutiny. They don’t have time for this.

“Yeah, all right,” Han finally says.

“Really?”

“Yes, really.” He rolls his eyes, like she’s not acting absolutely insane by putting all her trust in a random man she’s never even met. “Now come on, Princess, weren’t you the one who said we had to hurry?”

What is it about this man that makes it impossible to tell whether she wants to punch him or drag him into the nearest supply closet? They don’t have time to find out.

“So there’s good news and bad news.”

“Bad news first,” she demands.

“They know there’s a mole.”

“Shit.” Of course they know, how could they not? She should have been more careful, less obvious about the correlation of their movements with the Empire’s plans. “The good news?”

“They’ve tasked me with hunting down this ‘pathetic rebel spy,’” Skywalker says, humor in his voice. “That should buy me some time.”

Leia can’t quite stop the snort she lets out. “Seriously?”

“Yep. You’re speaking to a professional mole-hunter, here.”

“Well congratulations on the promotion, Skywalker.”

“Thank you,” he says grandly. Then, quieter, “It won’t last, Princess. They’ll find out eventually.”

“I know. Just hang in there, it will be over soon.”

“Will it?” He asks, suddenly sounding very young. She realizes that she has no idea how old he is. She doesn’t know anything about the man who has saved them more times than she cared to admit, and the idea rattles her until they sign off.

Later, she looks up the name Skywalker in their archives. There are a few results, but only one sticks out.

Anakin Skywalker, Jedi Knight and hero of the Clone Wars. Killed at the hands of Darth Vader. There are gossip articles too, speculations on his relationship with the pregnant Senator Padmé Amidala, who died around the same time Skywalker did. The baby, it seems, died with her.

Unless he didn’t.

It’s ridiculous. It’s impossible. The idea is so ludicrous that Leia almost rejects it entirely.

But it makes sense. By the Maker, it makes sense.

The child of Anakin Skywalker, it seems, would be a powerful Force user indeed. Powerful enough for Kenobi to take the baby and run. Powerful enough for the Emperor to want him for his own gain. Powerful enough to send Vader after Kenobi and take the boy himself.

Maybe even powerful enough to shield his mind from Vader and Palpatine’s intrusions.

Powerful enough to hide the fact that he’s a spy.

Leia sinks into her chair, covering her face as she laughs.

Maybe Luke isn’t so bad after all.

“No, no, no,” she mutters, digging through the smoking wreckage of the TIE fighter. “Don’t be dead, please don’t be dead.”

“Princess…” Han lays a hand on her shoulder that she immediately shrugs off.

“No, he’s not dead. He’s not. Luke!”

A faint cough answers her, and she’s so relieved to hear it she could cry. Behind her, Han starts bellowing for a medic and, “Some damn help here, do you expect us to move all this ourselves?”

“Luke, it’s me,” she sobs. “It’s Leia. You’re at the Rebel Base. You’re safe.”

More coughing, and there’s a worrying rasp to his voice when he says, “You know…my name?”

“I figured it out.”

“Smart.” This time, the coughing is so bad Leia and Han both wince.

“Shit, kid,” Han says, moving another piece of rubble. “Don’t talk. We’re gonna get you out of here, all right?”

“Stand back,” Luke chokes out.

“What?”

“Stand back. Please.”

Han protests, but something in Leia knows they should listen to him. She drags him back, and motions everyone else to fall back with them. They do, albeit reluctantly.

“Clear,” she calls, hoping Luke can hear her.

The TIE explodes.

“Fuck!” Han goes back in, Leia on his heels with the terrifying feeling that she’d just allowed Luke to die, before they both stop in their tracks. Around them, the broken pieces of the TIE are floating.

And curled up in the middle is a man dressed all in white.

“Luke!” She pushes past Han to start dragging him out, and after another moment of staring around them, he helps her.

As soon as they get clear, the pieces fall to the ground with a clatter. Luke falls limp with them.

Han is still looking at the TIE. “Can you do that?” He asks quietly.

Leia pauses her examination of the unconscious man in front of her to glare at him. “Is that what you’re most concerned with right now? Really?”

“Excuse me for asking, Princess!”

“It’s white,” Luke grumbles, pulling at his hospital gown bitterly. “I hate wearing white.”

“Should I be offended?”

He rolls his eyes. “Don’t even. You look great and you know it. I just feel like I never left.”

“Well,” she says gingerly. “I guess it’s a good thing you got sick of it. If we went around in matching outfits all the time, people might think we’re twins.”

He snorts. “Yeah, right.”

[beatcroc]

there's no way the bathroom at peppino's pizza is actually that big but ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ . hey ummm anyway.... i care them...... anyway there's a lil ramble on my take on fake pep's like psyche or whatever in tags on the og post if ur into that kinda thing :y

hey! it's a series! fake peppino world tour: [noise] [noisette] [peppino]<- u are here [gustavo] [gerome] [noisette again]

[aprito]

was told to draw more swan lake au at gunpoint so of course i had to deliver @phellionphel

they feel bad for their future in law but not enough to deal with their comically evil cousin

part 1

[hecksupremechips]

Mizuki and Date though like. Imagine being 8 and your parents are filthy rich and going through a bad divorce. Your mom treats you like shit, lashing out at you, hitting you, saying she wishes you were never born all because you were behaving like a child. Your dad is more comforting, but he doesn’t do anything to stop the abuse and he spends his time invested in a completely different family, a girl who you love and look up to but he loves her more than you and it fucking shows. Then your dads new friend, some fucking bachelor in his late 20s, is just like "wow you guys are the worst fucking parents ive ever seen" and next thing you know your dad is sending you off to live with him. And it’s just a massive kick in the head cuz you go from a rich lifestyle to living in some really shitty tiny ass apartment with this guy who’s clearly never been around a child in his entire life and he doesn’t know how to behave and does a really bad job of censoring himself like he has a bunch of dirty magazines that he can’t hide very well cuz it’s literally a studio apartment and also he talks to himself sometimes, it’s really weird. He doesn’t even have the slightest clue what he’s doing

And he’s the best parent you’ve ever had

Because fuck, it all really hurts. You have to cope with having never received any love from anyone, and with the fact that your parents clearly don’t want you and can’t even be bothered to send you with anyone even kinda responsible. And this guy has a scary job with crazy hours and you don’t know anything about him and neither does he. But still, he never once hits you or tells you you’re not allowed to cry. He just gives you space and doesn’t push you to feel any sort of way about him. And sometimes, he’s even kind. He makes you some stew, even though it’s a bit chunky. He lets you sleep in the bed and takes the couch for himself, even though he complains about the massive back pain he’d never trade his spot for a second. He pays attention to events at your school and gives you your favorite stuffed animal when you make good grades, even though you called it ugly. He gets worried sick when you come home with bruises and puts on a goofy voice and trains you to defend yourself and you develop some highly deadly skills and even though it’s really abnormal, he buys you a bench press so you can get stronger. There’s this distance there, and you feel really weird caring about someone who you aren’t related to, but you find yourself wishing it was meant to be like this all along, that maybe, he’s secretly your real dad and he loves you like his real daughter

And when you say "I’m back" he says "welcome home"

[br1ghtestlight]

*thinking to myself* bobs burgers is like the simpsons if it was earnest and also if it was good.....

[bruciemilf]

Sure, I could explain that Bruce being depicted as a bad father when he's one of the most influential male characters is a dirty trick to convince male consumers and impressionable audiences that violance and "tough love" is something to be celebrated for its Big Brain Complexity for the 100th time,

but saying "girl fuck them kids and fuck you too" is much funnier

[sciderman]

I recently saw an article that teased a potential prequel to the Holland spiderman movies, and it reminded me of something you wrote on here a long time ago. It was something like "please let that man age past teenagehood" and that never felt more appropriate than it did when I saw that article. A prequel to the Holland movies?? What even--you mean, we'll see him just live the normal life of a high school sophomore? Who would even want that 💀

peter the younger... peter the toddler... peter the embryo... peter the glint in the milkman's eye...

[hawkstincan]

“You’re fucking with me,” said Trent, desperately grasping at straws. They had provided absolutely no evidence or information he hadn’t already mentioned. This was a fucking prank. “You’re fucking with me.” “Would the man who dipped you in front of a screaming preacher lie to you?” said Beard, and despite the fact it was said with little expression and an even tone, he somehow managed to convey a shit-eating grin with his words alone.

inspired by preacher, a bikini, and a kiss or two by @trentcrimminallybeautiful and without my poor attempts of coloring

[zeb-z]

I just think Tallulah gets to be upset about this. “It’s not Wilbur’s fault” “He’s not a bad dad” “He loves his daughter so much” yes! These are all true! And it’s not his fault! But he’s still not there. And Tallulah has gone through so much and still hasn’t seen him, the one time he was around was the one time she wasn’t, and all she has are letters and “I’m thinking of you always” and things that used to be theirs together, but he’s still not there. She’s waited and she’s been patient and she’s loved him all the same, and he’s still not there. Like yesterday, and the day before, and the day before, from the happy milestones to the traumatic events, he’s still not there.

She knows that it’s not his fault, but it doesn’t change the fact that he’s absent. That in and of itself just adds to the sorrow, because she knows why he’s gone, and she’s been told time and time again it doesn’t mean he doesn’t care, she knows this - it doesn’t mean it doesn’t sting, that it doesn’t hurt, that she doesn’t yearn for her father to be there more than anything in the world, and he’s just not there.

So yes, she gets to be upset, and be caustic, and stomp her feet and write bitter messages, and be angry and vitriolic, because she’s a little girl missing her father, who feels things with her whole heart and soul - and that means she gets to feel the ugly parts of it, too.

[unironicallycringe]

As someone who is an Escape Room Game Runner atm, Dads in Escape Rooms are a whole new type of Dad

Some men will really wander around the room going "I just don't get it I don't get what the point is or what we're supposed to be doing" while their two kids and wife are trying to work on puzzles without them, so I, the game runner, jump in with further prompts to engage them, then Escape Room Dad really hits me with "stop talking to us 🙄 that's too many hints"

My brother in christ you've done nothing for 20 minutes and I'm trying to help your children have a good time since you arent 🥰 you will not escape the room 😇🙏🏾

[uncanny-tranny]

I'm still thinking about how ashamed I was (and am) with being open about my pain because I am so young. It's so hard to feel worthy of having your pain taken seriously when the people around you insist that young bodies are always in pristine, untouched condition and that you must earn your pain through aging. Never is it considered that young people aren't lying or being a hypochondriac for expressing their pain.

Young people can be in life-altering pain. Young people can have debilitating pain. It doesn't matter what age it happens because pain doesn't discriminate. Complaining about pain and doing things to prevent needless pain aren't something you have to "earn" through aging.

If you want young people to be in less or lesser pain, then encourage them to do whatever they can to minimize it. Don't downplay what they're experiencing. Not everything is a lie, not every experience that is different than yours is exaggeration or deceit.