#and miss margaret happens to fit that description

[dlartistanon]

What does the sign the chibi plat is holding say?

Delightful language trivia

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"Sgmn. David Smith Shot in Hip by Armed Bandit," Kingston Whig-Standard. August 20, 1943. Page 3. --- Sigmn. David Smith, 23, of 244 Brock Street, was shot through the hip by an armed bandit at two o'clock this morning. He is in the Hotel Dieu Hospital where at three o'clock this afternoon his condition was reported as quite satisfactory.

Smith and his wife fought four men who attempted to steal their car from in front of their home en Brock Street. When the bandits were escaping to another car, a man on the running board fired a shot, the bullet striking Smith. He crumpled to the ground, bleeding profusely and after his wife had called police, he was removed to hospital.

Mrs. Smith, who is an expect ant mother, telephoned police and a futile search of the city was made for the bandit ear while police from Toronto to Ottawa and Montreal were warned to be on the lookout for the escaping gunman.

Smith and his wife were sleeping when they heard someone tampering with their car, which was parked in front of their rooming house. Mrs. Smith was in a nightgown and bare feet and Sgmn. Smith was in a pair of shorts. Both tussled with the three men near their car but the bandits rushed to another car in an effort to get away. Mrs. Smith called to her husband that she had the number of the car and her words were answered by a shot from a man on the running board.

The bullet struck Smith above the hip, grazing the bone and going through the flesh. Police could not locate the bullet, which is thought to have embedded itself in the ground.

Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Smith were in fit condition to be interviewed by the press. The authorities at the Hotel Dieu Hospital refused permission to interview the injured soldier, Mrs. Smith was resting at her home and no visitors were permitted to enter her room. She was suffering chiefly from shock.

City police who investigated the shooting, stated they had reason to believe the automobile which the four men were driving had been stolen. The marker plates, which were identified by Mrs. Smith, during the scuffle on the street, have been identified as ones stolen from Oshawa yesterday afternoon. Police did not get good description of the automobile used by the bandits.

Sgt. Orville Brown, who is acting inspector of police during the absence of Inspector Andrew Ready, who is on sick leave, said police in all parts of the province had been notified of the happening and were guarding all highways.

Police Called Sgt. Brown said the police department was notified at 1.52 o'clock that there had been a shooting in front of 244 Brock Street and that a soldier had been injured. Sgt. Bernard Murphy, who was in charge of the night shift, dispatched all available police to the scene and all the other members of the department were ordered to report for duty. Sgt. Brown said he had reason to believe the four men drove down Brock Street at a terrific rate of speed, following the shooting, and turned south on Bagot Street and disappeared in the night.

Saw Whole Thing Miss Margaret See, high school teacher, niece of J. A. Pringle, Arden, rooms at 244 Brock Street and gave The Whig-Standard reporter a detailed report of the happening.

Miss See said Mrs. Smith was alarmed to hear a noise on the street which she believed to be some person tampering with their automobile. She called her hus- band who was asleep and he rushed to the street attired only in his military shorts. Mrs. Smith, who was in her bare feet, followed her nusband to the street.

"When the two arrived on the alde walk Mr. Smith approached a man who was trying to break Into the Smith car," said Miss See. "Smith asked the stranger what he was doing and was in the act of pushing him away from his car when three other men who had been sitting in a parked car, which was facing east, jumped out of the car and started to pile on Mr. Smith."

Got Car Number Mrs. Smith, according to Miss See, was able to get the number of the licence marker on the automobile the bandits used. Miss See said Mrs. Smith called to her husband that she had the licence number and started to call out numbers at the top of her voice.

It is thought that the four bandits took fright and in the matter of seconds piled into the automobile and started east on Brock Street.

It is thought the automobile was about to get in motion when one of the men opened fire on Mr. Smith striking him in the right side. Miss See said she believed the shot was fired from a revolver in the hands of one of the men who was standing on the left running board of the automobile.

Directed at Woman Mrs. McCartney, the operator of the rooming house who was absent at her summer home but returned to the city at six o'clock this morning, said she thought the shot was directed at Mrs. Smith and not her husband. "I think they wanted to get rid of the one who was able to get the number of the licence mariter," she said.

Mrs. McCartney said Mrs. Smith was in a nervous condition - and it was her intention to have a doctor call at the house during the morning. "Mrs. Smith only came to the city last weekend from Windsor," said Mrs. McCartney.

Both Mrs. McCartney and Miss See spoke of the courage which had been displayed by the two young people. "She is only a mite and in fact weighs about 100 pounds but she was certainly brave," said Miss See. Mrs. McCartney spoke of Mr. Smith being a brave man who tackled the four men with courage.

[pintsizemama]

Snuggles and Squirting

Summary: Maxwell Lord finds you, Maggie Stark, to be sound asleep when you are supposed to be working. You don’t want to wake up yet, so he suggests you nap together. You reluctantly agree. You wake a few hours later, and Max has another proposal for you…

Pairings: Maxwell Lord x Named Female Reader—Maggie Stark (Tony Stark’s little sister), Maxwell Lord x You

Fandom: MCU & Wonder Woman 1984 (modern AU)

Rating: Explicit 18+ ONLY

Word Count: 4865

Warnings: language, pining, hate sex…kinda?, talk of controlling people’s thoughts/actions, brief mention of torture/experimentation and nightmares, PiV sex, kind of dubcon—Maggie is sleepy while Max kisses her neck—but she consents to everything, oral sex (f receiving), vaginal fingering, pussy slap, possessive/competitive Max, praise kink, squirting, manipulative Max…I feel like Maxwell Lord should come with his own warning for this entire series…let me know if I missed anything!

A/N: So…this is a character that has lived in my head since I saw the first Thor movie in theaters. She has grown as each new movie/TV show has come out. I will post random stories about her—out of chronological order—as I’m inspired. I will list them chronologically in the master list though. ENJOY!!!

— I reworked this to be Reader POV…Maggie Stark is an OC, but I wanted the POV to be more immersive, so here we go. After this installment, I will try to keep the descriptions and such to a minimum, but they will slide in there from time to time. I hope most readers can still enjoy it and imagine themselves as Maggie.

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“Maggie,” a deep voice murmured gently above you. “Wake up, beautiful girl.” You groaned and rolled over. You looked up and saw a shadowy figure, your vision blurry with sleep. You blinked a couple times until he came into focus.

“Ugh,” you groaned. “What the hell do you want, Lord? I’m fucking sleeping.”

“It’s already past ten,” Maxwell Lord told you. “We were supposed to get started at nine.” Margaret Stark—more commonly called Maggie, or Mags by your big brother—grumbled angrily. Maxwell Lord was a grade A pain in your ass. His multi billion dollar company, Lord Enterprises, was branching out into technology, and he was partnering with Stark Industries on a huge new venture. You, the head of R & D—and Tony’s little sister—were tasked with heading up the project with Mr. Lord himself.

Normally, this would not bother you. You were used to working with people outside of your field…your intelligence was off the charts—rivaled only by the likes of your brother and Shuri. You were well acquainted with slowing things down to better fit the pace of those not accustomed to your expertise. That wasn’t the issue with Maxwell.

No, Maxwell Lord had decided that you would be his next sexual conquest…and you had zero interest in making that happen. It wasn’t because you found him unattractive. Quite the opposite really. You thought he was sexy as hell. The moment you had met him and looked into his impossibly warm, dark brown eyes, you had wanted to rip his clothes off and swallow his dick.

He was tall with broad shoulders you wanted to hold onto for dear life while he pounded you into oblivion. He had dark, thick hair. It looked so soft and inviting, your fingers flexed with the need to bury themselves in the luscious locks. When the sun hit it just right, you could see gold highlights underneath the deep chocolate brown, making his hair look like rich, molten honey.

Maxwell was blessed with the most unique aquiline nose, that normally should have detracted from his beauty, but somehow, it enhanced it. From his full, pouty lips, came a voice that haunted you. It was deep and erotic and made your pussy tremble. He was clean shaven—always clean shaven—and hardly ever a hair out of place. Always impeccably dressed in a bespoke suit—Maxwell Lord was the definition of perfection…but then he opened his mouth and ruined it.

He was arrogant, charismatic, larger than life. Ruthless and cunning. You weren’t sure, but you sensed he put on a persona, a mask, he wore for the world. And it grated on your nerves. He was so goddamn sure of himself all the time—a cocky asshole who always got what he wanted—and he had immediately begun hitting on you. You politely declined his invitation to dinner and ‘dessert’ the first time. By the tenth time you had lost all semblance of professionalism and tact.

You didn’t have the patience to deal with his bullshit, so the polite, respectful demeanor you portrayed for your public image crashed and burned. You regularly told him to fuck off. It just seemed to encourage him more.

Max had an ability. He liked to call it the ‘power of persuasion’. Basically, he could make anyone do anything he wanted. People didn’t even notice when he did it. It was like his mind just nudged a thought into someone else’s. They believed it was their own thought, their own free will, but in reality, it was all Maxwell. It was one of the reasons he was so successful.

For some reason Maxwell’s powers did not work on you. You were the only person he had ever come across who he could not persuade to do what he wanted. Hell, he’d even managed to get Thor—a literal god—to bend to his will. You intrigued him because he had no power over you. You assumed it had something to do with the torture and experimentation you had been subjected to years ago when you were captured by Thanos. Honestly, you didn’t care enough to look into it. You were just glad you were immune to the handsome CEO.

“We have a lot of work to do today,” Maxwell said, breaking you from your thoughts. You pulled the covers tighter around your waist. You had fallen asleep in a tight spaghetti strap tank and just your panties.

“I know,” you scowled. “Fuck, I just never get to sleep. Leave me alone for a couple more hours, alright?” Ever since your capture, nightmares—horrific fucking nightmares—plagued you every night. You barely got more than a couple hours of restless sleep at a time—often going days without sleep—so when you did manage to sleep, everyone knew to leave you alone. Apparently Maxwell had not gotten that memo yet.

“We’re running on a deadline here,” Max pushed once more. When he looked into your tired eyes, he took pity on you. “I’ll make you a deal. You can sleep a little longer…if you let me join you.”

“What?” you asked, propping yourself up on your elbow. “You want to sleep with me? Like actually sleep?” Maxwell shrugged.

“Yeah,” he answered simply. You cocked an eyebrow at him, distrust clearly written across your face. “No funny business,” Max insisted. “Just let me hold you while we sleep.”

“Fine,” you relented with a frustrated sigh. “Whatever buys me a couple more hours of sleep.” You were too tired to argue with him. Besides, what harm could it do? If he stepped out of line, you would punch him in his stupidly handsome face and send him on his way. You scooted over in the bed to make room for Maxwell. He shrugged off his suit jacket and removed his tie. You had mocked him about not owning anything other than suits—suggesting he even slept in his suit. He unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off, followed by his undershirt. When you noticed him unzipping his pants, you sat up.

“What the fuck are you doing?” you asked.

“Getting comfortable,” he replied. “Contrary to what you believe, I don’t sleep in my suits…or any clothes for that matter.”

“Well, you’re sure as shit not sleeping naked with me in the bed,” you warned him. Max chuckled.

“I was planning on keeping my underwear on,” he assured you. “Just want to be comfortable.” He toed off his shoes and removed his socks. He slipped his pants off and stood before you in his tight boxer briefs. His words were meant to calm you, but as his body was revealed, you felt anything but calm. He was gorgeous…mouthwatering, actually. All toned, golden muscle. His physique was less obvious than other men, but he was incredibly strong. His muscles were not flashy and in your face. They rippled just below the surface of his tanned skin. Every movement highlighted the strength hidden beneath. He was way too fit for a CEO. Your eyes widened slightly as your gaze traveled lower. If the size of the bulge between his legs was anything to go off of, you knew where his cockiness came from.

You didn’t know what was wrong with you. Your last two boyfriends had been a super soldier and a fucking god. They had been more muscular—or in Loki’s case, more defined—than Maxwell…but for some reason, his body was sending yours into overdrive.

You lay down when he pulled the covers aside and slid in behind you. He snuggled up behind you, spooning you deliciously. His legs slotted behind yours, your ass nestled against his groin. You felt his slightly soft tummy press against your lower back and had to suppress a sigh of contentment. Loki and Bucky had never really been ones to cuddle…and their sharp, hard muscles weren’t very comfortable to snuggle against most of the time. Maxwell was strong, but soft too. He wrapped his arms around you, one underneath and the other over, his forearm settling under your breasts. He intertwined your fingers and gently stroked his thumb along your hand.

“Relax, beautiful girl,” he murmured as he placed a kiss where your shoulder and neck meet. “Get some rest. You deserve it.” He burrowed his face into your hair, his breath warm against the back of your neck. His scent—ginger and lemon, with a hint of cinnamon—was inviting and so relaxing. He was so warm and soft, and it had been so damn long since you’d been held like this. You felt yourself sinking into him, and then, blissfully, into sleep.

Maxwell was in heaven. You were finally in his arms. You were moaning and writhing in pleasure as he plunged his long, thick cock into your smoldering, wet heat.

“Mmm, Max,” you moaned. “You feel so amazing, baby.”

“You’re the one who feels amazing, beautiful,” he panted against your neck. “Fuck, I’ve wanted you for so long…can’t believe you’re finally mine.”

“I’ve wanted you too,” you whimpered, “so fucking much.” Max picked up the pace, snapping his hips rapidly against you. You ran your hands through his sweat dampened hair, tugging just enough to make him growl. He licked the salty sheen from your neck.

“Fuck,” he groaned, “I can’t believe this is finally happening. You’re so fucking gorgeous, baby. You fit me so perfectly. Shit, your pussy was made for me.”

“It’s yours, Max, always yours,” you moaned, tossing your head back against the pillows and exposing your neck.

“You gonna come again for me, baby girl?” Max whispered against your lips. “Wanna feel you fall apart around my cock, gorgeous girl.”

“Yes,” you whispered back, before licking hot and deep into his mouth. “Don’t stop, Max…fuck, don’t stop. I’m so close.” He gripped your hips tight and pistoned into you.

“Rub your clit for me, princess,” Max groaned. You immediately did as you were told. “Good girl…good fucking girl.”

“Max,” you whined, pleasure taking over, “Max…I’m gonna—I’m cumm—” You threw your head back and keened as your orgasm washed over you. Your cunt clenched so tightly Max knew he wouldn’t be far behind…just a couple more thrusts and he would lose himself…just...a…few…more—Suddenly Max jerked awake and was pulled from his incredible dream.

He stifled a groan as he realized none of it was real. He had been having more and more erotic dreams about the young Miss Stark. It left him frustrated…and usually with the need for clean sheets. Based off the throbbing of his still hard dick, he knew he wouldn’t have a mess to clean up this time…he would just take care of himself in the shower. Just then he became aware of his surroundings. More clearly, the very warm, barely clothed woman in his arms. He remembered now where he was—napping with you. He glanced at the time and saw you had both been asleep for a few hours. He didn’t want to move. You felt so fucking good against him. So soft and warm and so goddamn sexy. Max was infatuated with you. He felt like a fucking teenager the way he pined after you. You were the only thing in his life he couldn’t have…and it drove him insane.

You were gorgeous. There was no denying it. You had your father’s (and brother’s) hair—dark, thick and wavy, reaching several inches past your shoulders. Your eyes were all your mother though, bright blue and framed by thick gorgeous lashes. Eyes that were so very expressive. Your pert little nose and full lips were beautiful and complimented your face well.

You were small, the top your head just coming to his shoulder. You were softer than the other women associated with the Avengers. Max knew you worked out and trained with them from time to time—though he overheard that had slowed down considerably since the Winter Soldier broke your heart. He spent a lot of time in the gym, so you avoided going in there. Still, your physique was mouthwatering—full, perky breasts, a soft, flat stomach and trim waist, wide hips, thick toned thighs…and an ass that haunted his dreams. Round and firm and definitely two handfuls.

Most of the women around the compound were thin or athletic body types. While Maxwell found nothing wrong with those bodies—in fact most of the women he slept with fit into those categories—your softer, curvier form did something to him.

He thought about you all the time…the way you smelled—like cherry blossoms and roses—how your eyes crinkled when you laughed, how tough you were and took no shit from any of the powerful men in your life, your off the charts intelligence, your never ending kindness despite all you’d been through in your life. He had never felt this way about anyone before, and it made him feel unsettled. He knew if he could just fuck you, get you out of his system, he could go back to normal.

You wiggled your ass slightly, and it pushed the plush globes right up against his hard on. He grasped your hip to keep you from moving against him again. He needed to move. He couldn’t find it in himself to do it just yet though. You snuggled closer to him and hugged his arm that was across your chest closer to your body. You sighed contentedly. You reminded him of a sleepy little kitten. He kissed just behind your ear.

“Time to wake up, kitten,” he murmured against your ear.

“Mmm,” you hummed groggily. Max began trailing kisses along your neck.

“Come on, sweet girl,” he whispered against your pulse point. “You’ve slept long enough.” You snuggled closer, still half asleep. Max sucked a mark on your neck, delirious from the taste of your skin. You moaned at the feeling of his lips on your neck. His fingers flexed against your hip.

“Max?” you asked sleepily.

“I’m right here, baby,” he murmured against your neck.

“What are you doing?” you muttered.

“You just taste so good,” he answered. “Couldn’t help myself.” You were still too comfortable to move or protest. His lips felt too good to stop just yet…even if those lips were attached to Maxwell Lord.

“Ok,” you sighed. Max’s lips paused just above your neck.

“Ok?” He parroted back.

“Yeah,” you murmured, nuzzling into his hand.

“I like you when you’re sleepy, sweet girl,” Max said quietly, bringing his plump lips back to your neck. “You’re much more agreeable.” You just hummed in agreement, still too content to care at the moment. You hadn’t slept this well in a long time…you couldn’t remember the last time you had slept this hard or this deep. You had an unsettling inkling that it had everything to do with the man wrapped around you…so you were fine to stay put for a few minutes.

“You feel nice,” you whispered. Max’s heart fluttered at your admission.

“So do you,” he replied. He slowly brought his hand up to cup your breast, his fingers grazing your nipple. You gasped and slightly arched into him. He gently bit down where your shoulder and neck meet as he squeezed your breast and ground his hardened cock into your ass.

“Fuck, you feel so good, baby girl,” he moaned against your neck. The escalation of his desire snapped you out of your daze.

“We need to stop,” you told him. He immediately dropped his hands from your body and pulled his mouth back. Despite his brash demeanor, Maxwell Lord would always stop when a woman asked him too. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t try to talk her out of it…after all, he was a man who was used to getting what he wanted.

“I’ll make you a deal,” he offered once more. You turned over onto your back and Max propped up on one elbow. You looked beautiful when you first woke up.

“What kind of deal?” you asked cautiously. Max smirked.

“Let me devour that pretty pussy,” he continued, “and if you’re not satisfied, if it’s not the best orgasm you’ve ever had, I’ll leave you alone. I will never bother you again…it will be strictly professional from here on out.” You cocked an eyebrow at him, a look of discernment on your beautiful face. “What do you have to lose? Either you get me out of your hair for good…or you get the most mind blowing orgasm of your life. Win win.” You rolled your eyes and Max grinned. You worried your lip as you contemplated his offer. It was tempting. You could possibly get rid of this megalomaniac once and for all. There was no way he could be the best you’ve ever had. Not with your past partners. Plus it had been a really long time since anyone had touched you intimately. And he was so fucking hot…

“Fine,” you agreed with a groan. Max’s eyes lit up. “But if you suck at this, I’m kicking your ass out. Immediately. No second chances here, Lord.”

“I won’t need one,” Max said cockily.

“You think so?” you challenged. “You do know I fucked Loki right? The god with the silver tongue? And trust me, it’s not just lies that that tongue is excellent with.” Max’s brow furrowed into a scowl. “And my last boyfriend was a goddamn super soldier. That man had stamina, if you know what I mean.” Max growled as he lurched over you, pressing himself between your thighs.

“Are you trying to piss me off, baby girl?” He snarled, thrusting his cock against your core. “You think I can’t compete with those two?” He pulled your panties from your body and spread your thighs wide, pressing your knees to your chest—putting you fully on display for him. He hissed in pleasure when he saw your gorgeous wet pussy. “It’s going to be embarrassing for them when a mere man makes you come harder than they ever could.”

“You talk a big game,” you said with more bravado than you felt, considering you were spread open at the moment, “let’s see you back it up.”

“Lay back and relax, princess,” Max said, laying himself between your thighs. He stared at you for several, long moments. You started to squirm under his gaze. “Hold still.” He nudged your thighs further apart with his broad shoulders and buried his nose in your folds. He inhaled deeply and moaned.

“You smell incredible, baby girl,” he murmured. You were shocked…and incredibly turned on. No one had ever inhaled your essence before. It felt so…personal. You frowned realizing Max was already better at this than you thought he was going to be. He licked a broad, wet stripe up the length of your slit. His tongue stopped once it reached the top and he laved at your clit, licking it like it was the most delicious ice cream cone. He brought the tight little bundle between his full lips and sucked gently. You moaned and thrust your hips up towards his face. He grasped your hips and held you down.

“I said, hold still,” he growled. His voice was low and commanding, and you couldn’t help but listen. “Good girl.” You shivered at his words. You definitely had a praise kink. You wanted to be a good girl for him. Max smirked when he saw your pussy glisten from his words.

“You like that, gorgeous girl?” He purred. He ran his index finger gently up your folds, gathering your slick. “You like being my good girl?” You nodded. “Uh uh,” Max chided. “Use your words, sweetheart.”

“Yes, Max,” you answered, rolling her eyes. You squealed as Max’s hand came down on your pussy, causing a sharp spike of pleasure to shoot down your spine. That was new…

“Don’t be a brat,” he warned. You nodded. Max shot you a look. Words…right. He wanted you to use your words.

“I’ll be good,” you promised. Max grinned before diving back in. And dive in he did. He ate your pussy like it was a fucking five course meal. You were floored. No one had ever shown this much attention to your pussy before. Sure, other guys got down there, and most of them knew what to do…hell some of them were fucking spectacular at it…but none of them seemed to enjoy it this much. He barely came up for air, and the sounds he was making, and the way he thrust his hips into the bed…he was enjoying this just as much as you were. When you realized this, you felt white hot pleasure course through you. You threw your head back on the pillow and moaned loudly.

“Fuck,” you whimpered. Max smiled against your mound, glad to know you were enjoying yourself. He stiffened his tongue and plunged it into your tight channel, his thumb coming up to rub your clit. Your hands came up to grab his hair. It was so soft and thick. You tugged on the beautiful locks and smiled when he moaned. Your cunt clenched around his tongue. He switched, moving his mouth back to your clit, and sliding two fingers inside you.

You felt your orgasm building rapidly. Your breath hitched as Max curled his fingers inside you, his tongue unrelenting on your clit. The pressure built, tightening your stomach muscles. A few more passes, and you were soaring.

“Fuck, Max, I’m gonna—I’m close—shit, right there, ah—Max!” You shouted your pleasure, your thighs shaking and hands gripping his hair tight. Max groaned as your pussy spasmed around his fingers. You looked gorgeous when you came. When you came down from your high, you were surprised Max was still working you over. You assumed he would stop when you came…but no, if anything, he seemed more determined now.

He flicked his tongue rapidly over your clit as his fingers shifted inside you, searching for something. When you squealed he smiled in triumph.

“Ah…there it is,” he purred. He began running his fingers across that spot. You groaned and shifted your hips. This felt so different. Pleasure, but a pressure you were unfamiliar with. Max kept working the spot deep inside you along with your clit, and you felt another orgasm coming fast. But this time, you felt like something was wrong.

“Max,” you warned. “I don’t know—this feels weird…fuck, what’s happening?” You felt an intense pressure much lower in your belly. You tried to close your legs, but Max pressed them open with his shoulders. “Shit—I think I’m gonna—fuck, fuck, fuck!” Just then the pressure released violently and you came…hard…all over the place. Warm liquid shot out and drenched Max and the bed.

“Yes,” Max groaned. “That’s my good girl…my perfect fucking girl. Knew you could do it, baby. So proud of you.” You whimpered, still dazed from your orgasm, but thrilled to hear his words.

“What happened?” you mewled. Max lifted his face from your drenched pussy to look into your glazed eyes.

“You squirted, baby girl,” Max explained. “You’ve never done that before?” You shook your head. Max’s grin could only be described as shit-eating. He was very pleased with himself. “Well, let’s see if you can do it again.” He lowered his mouth back to your clit and started thrusting his fingers again.

You whined. Your body was wrung out and you were bordering on overstimulation at this point. Max cooed gently to you, trying to calm you down.

“Relax, baby girl,” he said softly. “Just one more. I know you have one more in you. Can you be a good girl for me?” You nodded weakly. Max dove back in, ready to completely wreck you. With how sensitive you were after two orgasms, it didn’t take long to work you back up into a frenzy. You started squirming. He lay his arm across your stomach to hold you in place. He tapped his fingers deep inside you, building up the pressure once more.

“Max,” you whimpered, “it’s too much.”

“You can do this, baby,” he pushed. “Come on, sweet girl, soak me again.” He sped up his fingers and sucked your clit into his mouth.

“Fuck!” you screamed, clenching your thighs tightly around Max’s head. Your whole body seized up as you exploded in ecstasy. Your lower pelvic muscles released and you drenched Max once more. He moaned and drank down your release. You kept coming…and coming…and coming. It just kept rolling through you. You forgot how to breathe. You felt dizzy and your vision went dark. You were seconds away from blacking out.

“Fuck, you taste so goddamn delicious,” he groaned against your inner thigh. He removed his fingers and pulled back slightly to look at you. “Shit…look at that. He swiped his finger through your folds. “You’re pussy is creamy, baby girl.” You slowly came back from whatever the fuck universe that last orgasm had blown you to and looked down to see his fingers coated in your thick white cum.

“I…that’s never happened before,” you said, your voice tinged with embarrassment. Max looked up to see you blushing.

“Don’t be embarrassed, sweet girl,” he said gently. “You’re fucking incredible. This is the most amazing pussy I’ve ever had the pleasure to eat.” Your blush deepened at his compliment. Max leaned back down and started lazily licking through your folds. You groaned, exhausted and overstimulated.

“It’s too much, Max,” you whimpered.

“I know, baby,” he whispered. “I’m just cleaning you up.” He gently licked your release from your pussy and thighs. He sat up when he was done and sucked his fingers clean. “Fuck, you are delicious.” He smiled when he saw how thoroughly fucked out you looked. He crawled up your body and captured your lips in a deep, passionate kiss.

You moaned at the taste of yourself on his mouth. He was a damn good kisser…though you shouldn’t have been surprised considering how skilled his tongue had just been on your lower lips. He reluctantly parted from your mouth and pressed his forehead to yours.

“Well?” He asked. “What’s the verdict?” You sighed.

“You were right,” you muttered.

“I’m sorry,” Max said with a smirk. “I didn’t hear you. What did you say?”

“Ugh,” you groaned. “You were fucking right, you asshole. That was the best orgasm I’ve ever had. I’ve never come that fucking hard before. Are you happy?”

“Very,” Max said, still grinning. “Are you?”

“I suppose,” you sighed. When he cocked his eyebrow you explained, “I’m happy about the orgasms…just not too thrilled who they came from.” Max barked out a laugh, delighted by your honesty.

“You’ll come around,” Max said confidently. “Now, get up. We have work to do.” He climbed off of the bed and quickly redressed in his suit. He smoothed his hair back, and just like that, he looked perfect once more. Like he hadn’t just destroyed your pussy with his mouth.

“Get dressed,” he reminded you again. “I’ll meet you in the lab.” And with that, he waltzed out of the room, whistling. You groaned and lay back on your pillows, staring at the ceiling. What the fuck had just happened? You still half expected to wake up; that this had all been some crazy fever dream during your nap. You pinched your arm hard. You winced. Yep, not dreaming. Fuck.

So, you really had let Maxwell Lord eat you out. And it had been the best sexual experience of your fucking life. Goddamn it. That smug bastard was never going to let you live this down. And now he’d never give up on trying to fuck you…except, he could have tried. Right then and there. It would have been the perfect opportunity for him to make his move, and you would have let him. So, why didn’t he? You chewed your lip and thought it over. Why didn’t he try? You got up to get ready for the day. You needed to get to work and put this far from your mind.

You didn’t know, but the fact that Max didn’t push beyond your agreement that day would bother you for weeks…and would make you see Max in a whole different light.

Max walked the halls of the Avengers Compound with a new pep in his step. Maggie Stark was even better than he had dreamed. He couldn’t wait to have you again…to have more. He could have pushed it further. He knew that. And you would have said yes. But then you would have been pissed off, and he wouldn’t have the chance to fuck you again.

No, this was much better. He knew you couldn’t resist that kind of pleasure for long. He would back off from you, and you would be ravenous for him. You would seek him out.

It was perfect…he had you exactly where he wanted you.

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Clarity

Also on Fanfiction.net and A03

Chapter 15: Sparks Fly, Pt 2

Snow cuddled against him, as they turned the corner and walked along Main street with his arm slung firmly around her.

"Cold?" he asked, with a chuckle.

"The winters here are just about as miserable as they were back home. But I guess cursing us to a place with sunny beaches would have been too pleasant," Snow mentioned. He chuckled and kissed her hair.

"I'll keep you warm," he promised. She smiled up at him.

"You always do," she said, as they were so absorbed by each other that they almost didn't see Kathryn barreling toward them.

"Oh…Kathryn," she said. The other woman glared at her.

"Well, I should congratulate you on the success of your article," the blonde said, as she held up a copy of the Storybrooke Mirror.

"My article? I didn't write that," Mary Margaret refuted.

"Oh no...but do you really expect me to believe that it wasn't you that fed these lies to this reporter!" Kathryn hissed.

"She didn't...we don't even know who this August person is," David insisted.

"Then why did he write these things!? You were my husband! I didn't make it up!" she shouted. He sighed.

"Maybe not, but for a really long time, I was gone and you didn't seem to give me a second thought. Did Regina tell you that she knew I was in the hospital the whole time?" David questioned. He knew that they couldn't really tell her that the marriage was exactly fake since that didn't mesh with her curse memories. But pointing out certain anomalies would bring other things into question.

"N...no, she didn't. She said she just found out you were there when you woke up," Kathryn said.

"But that can't be true. She was listed as my emergency contact and would have been notified the moment I was in whatever accident that I was in," David replied. Mary Margaret caught onto what he was trying to do.

"That's right...and the hospital had you listed as John Doe. That doesn't make any sense if you had an emergency contact. Regina would have been able to identify you," she recalled. This made Kathryn recoil in confusion. Everything they said made a lot of sense.

"But why would Regina hide you from everyone, especially me?" she asked.

"I don't know...but I don't think she's your friend like you think. Besides, do you really want to be with someone that can't love you the way you deserve?" he asked. Kathryn swallowed thickly and shook her head.

"Of course not...and I know we were just going through the motions," she admitted.

"You'll find someone," Mary Margaret assured her.

"That's easy for you to say," Kathryn grumbled.

"It is, but I happen to know someone at the school that's perfect for you. He's the gym class teacher," Mary Margaret said.

"I don't need dating advice from you!" Kathryn replied, as she stormed off.

"Well...that went well," he muttered, as they continued along the street.

"It was so nice of Regina to plant it into her head that I must have influenced the reporter to write that article," Mary Margaret said sarcastically. He scoffed.

"Yeah, we probably should have anticipated that, but why did you tell her that she should meet the gym teacher?" he asked curiously. She smiled coyly.

"Because Jim the gym teacher is really Frederick, her true husband," she replied and he smiled.

"Sneaky…I like it," he said, as they arrived at the Storybrooke Mirror's building. They knocked on the office door and unsurprisingly, Sidney Glass answered.

"Well...if it isn't Storybrooke's favorite adulterers," he said.

"Watch it or you'll find out how good my right cross is," David warned.

"What can I do for you and the fair Miss Blanchard?" Glass asked and David studied him with scrutiny. He seemed familiar, but he couldn't place who he might have been back in their land.

"We're looking for August W. Booth...he wrote an article in your newspaper," David said.

"We'd just like to talk to him," Mary Margaret added.

"Well...that makes three of us. You see, Mr. Booth neither works here nor had authorization to put that article in my paper," Sidney explained.

"Then why did you print it?" Mary Margaret asked.

"Isn't it obvious? This man broke into my office and placed his article in my paper without my knowledge or approval," Sidney replied.

"You must be in hot water with Mayorzilla then," David joked. He had heard Emma call her that in an offhand remark and decided that it was a fitting description if he had ever heard one.

"Laugh now, if you must, but I'll be printing a retraction to the article and then the town will go back to believing the truth about you both. You the cheater and her the tramp," Sidney said, which caused David to put his hand around the other man's neck and push him back against the door.

"If you hurt me...I'll make sure you're thrown in jail!" Sidney warned nervously.

"David...he's not worth it. He's a worm," Mary Margaret urged, as she touched his arm. David released him and backed away, as he attempted to collect himself.

"The waters have been muddied now and the truth always comes out, trust me. The town isn't so eager to believe anything reported by you anymore," David warned, as he took her hand and they continued on their way. As they walked by the alley, they didn't see the man standing there listening to the whole conversation.

Now that August knew they were looking for him, he would have to be careful to avoid them. They were clearly awake and he didn't want to be the one to tell them the truth about the wardrobe and who he really was.

"You two look cold...how about some cocoas?" Granny called, as she happened to be outside at the moment they walked by.

"Really?" Mary Margaret asked.

"I thought our kind wasn't welcome?" David asked and she nudged him.

"I see where Emma gets her lack of tact now," she murmured.

"Do you want the cocoa or not, chisel chin?" Granny asked shortly. Mary Margaret smiled.

"We'd love some," she said, as they followed Granny inside.

~*~

The gavel slammed down, as the Judge brought the hearing to order and they were seated. The Bayliff announced the docket number and the Judge looked over the documents in front of him.

"How do we know this guy isn't in Regina's pocket?" Emma whispered to Gold.

"That's actually a really good question," Neal agreed.

"I will be very convincing and he is more afraid of me than he is of her," Gold assured him.

"What did you do to him?" Neal questioned.

"Here...nothing yet. But I know things about him he'd rather not have made public," Gold replied vaguely.

"Wonderful…" Neal drawled.

"Who cares if it gets us visitation," Emma said and Neal conceded to that point with a nod.

"We're here today to discuss the visitation right of the biological parents of Henry Mills. I will hear opening arguments now," the Judge said, as Albert Spencer got to his feet and buttoned the front of his suit coat.

"Albert Spencer for the defendant, Mayor Regina Mills, Your Honor," he said, as he approached the bench.

"For the last ten years of Henry Mills' life, my client has raised her son and quite admirably so. She has been there for everything. The sleepless nights, the diapers, the nightmares, and all the ups and downs that come with often grueling duties of a parent. Now that the boy is older, the birth parents have come out of the woodwork to demand him back. To rip him from the woman that raised him would be a grave error in judgement, I believe. The birth parents are unstable and both have criminal backgrounds. It is my position that Regina Mills remain the sole custodian of Henry Mills," Spencer said, as he took his seat.

"Mr. Gold for the plaintiff, Your Honor," Gold said, as he rose from his seat.

"While we can agree that Regina Mills has raised young Henry from birth and provided him with all the material necessities he wants, she has not been exemplary when it comes to the boy's mental health," Gold said, which made Regina seethe.

"I have witnesses willing to submit testimony that they have heard the Mayor call her own son crazy for his very vivid imagination. The boy's own psychiatrist can testify that Mayor Mills' language alone could be very harmful to the boy. So much so that they boy sought out his own birth mother on his own," Gold continued.

"And while both Mr. Cassidy and Ms. Swan have made mistakes in their past, they were barely adults and have since turned their lives around. The boy wants them in his life and his opinion should be considered in this," Gold stated.

"Objection, Your Honor. That boy is a minor and it is not the practice of the courts to allow minors to make decisions concerning their well being themselves," Spencer objected.

"I believe I said that his feelings should be considered; not the sole basis of this case," Gold clarified, but the Judge put his hand up.

"As this is not the actual custody hearing, I believe this is a very simple decision," the Judge stated.

"I have reviewed the case, including comments from Dr. Hopper, who has stated that he has noticed a positive change in the minor in question since the resurfacing of his birth parents," he stated.

"Until we convene on the matter of custody, I am going to grant visitation rights to the birth parents. Every other weekend and two weeknights," he said.

"Your Honor...this is an outrage!" Spencer objected.

"Save it for the custody trial, Counselor. The visitation is only until trial and will be re-evaluated upon the outcome of the trial. But considering the birth father did not even know that he had a son, which could have changed whether or not his son was even adopted, I cannot in good conscience deny him the chance to know his son. The same goes for Ms. Swan, as she was clearly under duress at the time of his birth. Whether they are fit or not will or will not be proven in the custody hearing," the Judge ruled, as he slammed the gavel down. By now, Regina was fuming and if looks could kill, they would have surely all been dead.

"If you think this is going to go your way...then you're sadly mistaken," Regina growled, as she stormed out.

"Thanks...papa," Neal said, as he shocked Gold by giving him a gentle hug, which he reciprocated.

"You know that I would do anything for you...and Henry now," he replied. Neal nodded. He was still struggling with his feelings toward his father, but this had definitely made him reconsider his decision to keep him at arms length.

"Yeah...thanks. I owe you another one I guess," Emma said.

"This one is on the house, Ms. Swan," Gold replied.

"We should go see if we can get the kid and go to Granny's to celebrate. We can invite your parents too," Neal said, as they exited the courtroom.

"Will you stop calling them that?" Emma asked.

"How long are you going to keep denying what you know is true?" he replied.

"Neal…" she said.

"No…I'm serious. You have a gift for knowing when people are lying. I am from a place called the Enchanted Forest. My Dad is Rumpelstiltskin...also known as the Dark One. I escaped through a portal and landed in this world in the 1800's, London, to be specific. Then I got carried off to Neverland by Peter Pan's shadow…" he continued.

"Do you know how insane you sound?" she interjected.

"Yes...but am I lying?" he asked. She scoffed and walked off, but he persisted.

"I got rescued by none other than Captain Hook from the water, only for him to later sell me out to Peter Pan himself. Then I spent two hundred years in trying to escape that hell hole, only to finally succeed and find myself in the Land Without Magic again, America this time, in 1997. Then I met you just a few years later…" he continued, as Gold followed them, listening intently.

"Why does it matter to you so much if I believe or accept them as my parents, which they're not?" Emma asked, as they stopped on the street.

"Because I know how much you always wanted to find them and how much you wanted answers. Both are now staring you in the face and you're running away again," he accused.

"Screw you...Henry is the only thing keeping me here and you know it," Emma replied.

"Nope...now you're lying. You care about Mary Margaret and even David," he insisted.

"Enough! I don't give a damn about them and if it's all true, then why should I?" she shouted, as they were now just outside the diner.

"You've seen the book. You saw that nursery they made...for you. Parents that don't want their kid don't do that, Emma and you know it," Neal said, as neither of them noticed David and Mary Margaret coming out of the diner.

"Why do you care so much!?" Emma cried in exasperation.

"Because I know the truth! You were cheated out of having them and they were cheated out of having you! First, because of the curse...but ultimately, because of a lie told by people that were supposed to be their friends!" he said.

"What?" Mary Margaret asked and he suddenly realized they were there...

[hearttstopper]

“i have a lot of thoughts about this too especially with the whole watermelon sugar/nameless thing” pls miss britt share ur thoughts id love to hear them

This got so long. I’m really sorry. My thoughts about HS2/In Watermelon Sugar/a bunch of other random stuff under the cut.

These are all thoughts that are only vaguely connected, and stuff that I’m sure has been said a hundred times before mixed with a ton of my own personal conjecture, so please bear that in mind… This is just like total rambling from me. 

But I have been fascinated with Harry’s connections to In Watermelon Sugar since we first heard the stupid rumors about the song. Especially the quote from the book about the narrator’s name. That quote got me thinking about how when it comes to Harry, tons of people only see what they want to see based on whatever ‘version’ of Harry is most appealing to them.

Read these quotes from the book with that in mind:

My Name

“I guess you are kind of curious as to who I am, but I am one of those who do not have a regular name. My name depends on you. Just call me whatever is in your mind.

If you are thinking about something that happened a long time ago: Somebody asked you a question and you did not know the answer.

That is my name.

Perhaps it was raining very hard.

That is my name.

Or somebody wanted you to do something. You did it. Then they told you what you did was wrong—“Sorry for the mistake,”—and you had to do something else.

That is my name.

Perhaps it was a game you played when you were a child or something that came idly into your mind when you were old and sitting in a chair near the window.

That is my name.

Or you walked someplace. There were flowers all around.

That is my name.

Perhaps you stared into a river. There was something near you who loved you. They were about to touch you. You could feel this before it happened. Then it happened.

That is my name.”

and:

“My Name. I do not have a regular name. I am a mystery to you. I wished Margaret would leave me alone…”

— Richard Brautigan, In Watermelon Sugar

The narrator of In Watermelon Sugar isn’t just a nameless figure, he actually invites the reader to give him whatever name they find most fitting for him. A positive connotation, a negative one, a nonsensical one… whatever you, the reader, decides. And that feels like a very apt description of Harry and the various ways fans have perceived him from the very beginning… by now, so many people have projected so many different images onto Harry that over time it has completely blurred all lines as to who Harry actually is. 

Here’s a review I found of the book that summarizes the world within In Watermelon Sugar better than I can (as well as somehow still aligning perfectly with the concept of struggling with fame and identity, etc): “Much of the sense of disparity in [in Watermelon Sugar] results from the incongruity inherent in the person of the narrator, who insists that everything in iDEATH is exactly as it should be—the people gentle, pleasant, and tolerant. Despite the narrator’s insistence that iDEATH is a stable Utopia, however, many of the things that happen are fraught with pain and violence. Balancing the easygoing and vegetarian people with their light chores and flower-filled parades are the man-eating tigers, the burning of the mutilated corpses of inBOIL and his gang, Margaret’s suicide, and the emptiness felt by the narrator but never named.” 

So essentially within In Watermelon Sugar, we’re shown that in the surrealist, post-apocalyptic setting of iDeath, things are only perfect on a surface level. Everyone in this world appears to be happy (or at least, they should be), but a closer look reveals the true nature of iDeath: it’s beyond grim. And so despite the happy, shiny surface, being a part of that happy, peaceful commune is unable to cure the narrator of the inexplicable emptiness he feels inside of him. (‘All the lights couldn’t put out the dark running through my heart.’ ‘Having sex and being sad.’)

The sadness that Harry has already admitted is very prevalent in HS2 has already been implied to be about a ‘breakup,’ but it’s clear to me that Lights Up is anything but a breakup song… (“[Lights Up is about] freedom, self-reflection, self-discovery, things that I had thought about and wrestled with…” + “For me, it’s a very uplifting song. In some places, it’s kind of dark, but to me, it’s like, very liberating. I think, you know, over the past couple of years… It’s about self-reflection, and freedom. It feels very free to me, which is I guess things that I’ve been trying to process… I guess, kinda wrestled with a little over the last couple of years. It’s kinda like, about accepting all of those things.”)

His sadness/whatever emotions and problems he’s been wrestling with have seemingly spanned the course of a few years, and are very personal to him… which is why I feel that releasing Lights Up as the first single sets the tone for the rest of his album centering around his own identity. The line “Lights up and they know who you are, know who you are… Do you know who you are?” poses the question - who is Harry? - and then, “Shine! Step into the light… Shine! So bright sometimes. Shine! I’m not ever going back.” shows us Harry having the strength and bravery to overcome his fears (stepping into the light, although it’s ‘so bright sometimes’ - overwhelming) and reclaim/express his own misunderstood identity.

A lot of people have been trying to tie the In Watermelon Sugar thing back to someone else, but at this point I completely disagree. Not only have we seen him make literary references in the past (the Charles Bukowski reference in Woman), but… given everything that he’s said about Lights Up so far – which was surprisingly a lot – I think that Harry genuinely just took a lot of inspiration from the book because it seemed to hit close to home with his own feelings about self-acceptance and living an authentic life within the public eye. 

I think a lot about the scene we’ve yet to see from the directors cut - a room full of many different iterations of Harry.

“My name depends on you… Just call me whatever is in your mind.” 

Which leads me back to more total conjecture on my end, but I think that when Harry initially set out on tour / kicked off his solo career, he seemed determined to continue performing within the safety of the walls that had been built around him, so to speak. In one of the interviews he did earlier, he talked about tackling his first album from the perspective of ‘bowling with the bumpers up’ - he wanted to play it safe. He didn’t want to veer too far out of his own comfort zone and fuck it all up… and in doing so, he seemed to hold himself back quite a lot. “I wanted to see if people would enjoy an album without knowing everything about me.” 

I think that heading into writing with that mindset explains songs like ‘Complicated Freak’ and ‘Medicine’ being scrapped and excluded from being released on HS1. In retrospect, all of his tour - and especially Medicine - seem a lot like Harry dipping his toes in the water. Being totally presumptuous again, but I find it likely that Harry has had it ingrained in his mind for a long time that he needs to fit certain molds and keep certain narratives alive in order to continue to be successful. And I imagine that this idea is not his own, but instead something that has been hammered into his head over and over from a young age. And I would guess that a lot of anxiety and doubt has stemmed from that - go back and watch that shaky first performance of Medicine and tell me what you think he was likely feeling in that moment. But again, it circles right back to the strength and bravery of doing what he knows needs to be done to expel all of the darkness inside of him - stepping into the light. (“Never going back now / Be so sweet if things just stayed the same.” It’d be so sweet if he could live in that fantasyland forever.)

Anyway. I really don’t think Harry was at all prepared for just how many people would show up to support him in that sense… but his own community just rolled up in droves, bringing a total outpouring of love for him every single night. He had entire arenas lit up in rainbows, people bringing hilarious and heartfelt signs, flags after flags after flags after flags… all in celebration of him and the feelings of safety, strength, and bravery that he has continuously imparted back onto his fans. It was such a queer lovefest that even other artists likened his tour to “pride parades every night.” That’s so unbelievably powerful? I can’t think of any other artist who’s crowds do that for them… not even gay icons like Elton John? I still maintain that one of the most incredible things to have come out of HSLOT was the safe spaces he + his fans created for one another. It meant a lot to us, and it clearly meant a lot to him:

“The tour, that affected me deeply. It really changed me emotionally. Having people come to sing the songs… For me, the tour was the biggest thing in terms of being more accepting of myself, I think. I kept thinking, “Oh, wow. They really want me to be myself. And be out and do it.” That’s the thing I’m most thankful for, of touring. I feel like the fans in the room — it’s this environment where people come to feel like they can be themselves. There’s nothing that makes me feel more myself than to be in this whole room of people. It made me realize people want to see me experiment and have fun. Nobody wants to see you fake it.” 

I think that going on tour, and seeing the reaction and the acceptance of his audience, definitely made him want to take the bumpers down… to ‘be out and do it’ because ‘nobody wants to see him fake it.’ It seemed to help him massively in terms of his own ‘self acceptance and the things he’s been wrestling with’ and to make an incredibly, incredibly long winded answer short, it’s why I STILL do not think that releasing Lights Up on National Coming Out Day was in any way incidental. I think that was a big part of what Harry meant when he said that no one wanted to see him ‘faking’ things.

And… that’s basically it, I think, for now. I’ve just been sitting here nodding along at everything he’s been showing us the last few weeks… Impressed by the direction that he seems to be heading. And taking notes. I’ll go ahead and shut up now because I KNOW it’s still too early to draw definite conclusions on his intent for this new ‘era’ (and this new song could be about choking on literal fucking watermelon seeds for all I know, nothing Harry does ever makes any kind of sense does it), but I can’t help but come to my own conclusions based on what I feel he is sharing with us.

[treatian]

The Chronicles of the Dark One:  Breaking the Curse

Chapter 5: Old Somebodies

Tonight was the night.

He'd been waiting well over a week for an opportunity like this, ever since he'd confronted Regina at that Apple Tree of hers. He was starting to believe that the day might be months off or might never arrive, and he'd have to prepare for the future with educated guesses. But here they were.

He'd been busy in the last few days. After twenty-eight years, there was a lot to catch up on, and doing it in such a way that Regina might not notice anything different about him meant he had to be creative about how he acquainted himself with this new world. He wanted a way to be aware of who was around him, to let himself know who was in this town, who they were here, who they'd been at home, as well as any stray information that he happened to know about them. He wanted to be prepared and knowledgeable, and to do that, he had to unite his old self with his new self perfectly. As it turned out, his ledger was the key.

The books he kept, the same ones he used to keep track of rent, were as good as having the town census. With human eyes, it took a long time to go through name after name after name. Still, it was all worth it in the end, especially when he remembered that if Regina was capable of watching him in his house, all she'd see was Mr. Gold obsessing over his finances, something very "in character" for his alternate persona. Name by name, he went through his books. Often, he knew little about the individual, but there were more than a few that he was able to place.

Albert Spencer, a full-time lawyer, working crimes he didn't dare bore himself with-that was King George, James' and David's adoptive father.

Doctor Whale, a physician at Storybrooke Hospital-in fact, was Doctor Frankenstein, from the Land Without Color. Apparently, Regina had brought over a few individuals that were not in their land.

Tom Clark, owner of the Dark Star Pharmacy, the only pharmacy in town. Mr. Clark was teased by many for being rather short in stature, but on this side of the Curse, he knew that was neither bad luck nor ailment. In reality, he was Sneezy, one of the seven dwarves that always seemed attached to Snow White.

He studied his lists carefully, forming a checklist in his head of all those he wanted to know and needed to know and making sure they were accounted for. He found the other seven dwarves. Ashley Boyd, his "girl of ash," was currently very pregnant and working odd jobs, so she didn't have to live with her step-mother and sisters. It seemed Jefferson had kept his name of Jefferson and was secluded in a mansion of sorts close to the hospital and police station. Sheriff Graham was Regina's hunter, faithful to her only because he reckoned that she still held his heart captive somewhere safe. Kathryn Nolan was Abigail, King Midas' daughter, and David Nolan's supposed husband, not that anyone knew where David Nolan was at the moment. Sidney Glass was the Genie that Regina had used to murder her husband.

The name Sarah Fisher was the only one that made him stumble. Sarah Fisher, owner of the ice cream shop across the street. He'd given her a loan to get it, but…he remembered that. She wasn't like the others in Storybrooke that he had fuzzy false memories of. Her coming to him for a loan to start her shop, her opening day, Mr. Gold remembered those. They'd happened here in Storybrooke after they'd been here; years after, he was almost sure. But nothing in Storybrooke ever changed. For twenty-eight years, everyone had only ever had their single loop that they followed. No one ever struck out on their own or followed their dreams or got their happy endings, which meant…

Sarah Fisher hadn't always been in Storybrooke. She hadn't been brought here by the Curse. In actuality, Sarah Fisher was Princess Ingrid, the scared little Elemental from Arendelle he'd met so long ago. And this…this was very valuable information he now possessed. Until she made a nuisance of herself, it was information to keep close to his chest and play only when the time was right. Though, he was also fascinated to learn that Ingrid's niece, Anna, was among the missing.

There were a few others that joined Anna on this list of "missing people." Of course, "unknown" was perhaps a better word for it. Though he knew most people in Storybrooke, he had to admit he didn't know them all. There was an entire realm of people here; the Dark One hadn't dealt with all of them in his time, and thanks to Dove, neither had Mr. Gold. It was possible Anna was one of the faceless names he'd looked over and didn't know it. But he was disappointed and more than a bit nervous at who was on his list of unknowns.

For a while, David's name was at the top of that list, though he hadn't panicked when he realized it. His memories of when he'd awoken told him he was not a paying member of society, and shortly after he'd begun his search, he'd had Dove go to the hospital and locate a John Doe that matched David's description. A picture later, it was all confirmed. David was located even if he was the only one who knew it.

Also among the unknowns; Archie Hopper's unknown friend with dark hair who knew Baelfire, and Cora. Regina had claimed to have killed the woman when they were in the Enchanted Forest, so he supposed it was possible that was why she was missing, but he'd always doubted that she'd actually done the deed. So where was she now? More than likely, she was still in Wonderland. Dead or alive, that woman would be the last person Regina would want around here, and at the moment, he didn't care which it was so long as she wasn't anywhere near him. The Apprentice, Merlin, King Arthur, Guinevere, Lancelot, all of them were missing, and he couldn't recall seeing Princess Aurora or her Prince Phillip anywhere in town. But the most important person on his unknown list at the moment was the one that held something extraordinary of his inside her. Maleficent was missing.

He was certain, or at least almost certain, that she'd been carried over in the Curse. He knew that she'd still been in the Enchanted Forest when he'd been captured and taken to his cell. He'd been planning on her being here; that was why he'd had David leave his egg with his potion inside her! So where was she?

After days of consideration, he had a hunch, one theory that had come to him as he glanced across the street at the empty library, missing his Belle. He knew everything about this place, everything about his land and especially the library that Mr. Gold had considered knocking down more than a time or two. He'd seen the blueprints for it. He knew that in that library, there was an elevator; mostly, it was to be used for going up to the clocktower, but it could also go down. Down…Mr. Gold had no idea where "down" went to. The town legend had always said there was a dragon beneath the library. It was just a stupid story that children told to scare their classmates. Poppycock, Mr. Gold considered it. But suddenly, he remembered all those times he'd walked to his shop in the snow and cast that irritated glance over to the library. Why was it that the area around that library always seemed to get less snow?

It was worth an investigation. But how to pull it off? Regina was suspicious of him enough as it was, but she couldn't prove anything, and that was how he wanted to keep it. If the elevator was what he thought it was, then there might be magic on it. It might alert Regina to the fact that he used it, and he might be able to come up with some story or excuse, but at that point, he would be playing with fire.

He thought of a hundred different scenarios, dozens of different plans which might allow him to investigate, but all of them came back to one lesson the Seer had always taught him-it had to be the right time.

Well, it seemed the right time had finally arrived. He was keeping Dove happy and rich these days, paying him to watch Emma Swan, who was currently living in her yellow car on the street because no one was willing to invite the Mayor's wrath and let her stay with them. Last night, something had happened, something that nearly made him erupt in a fit of giggles when he found out. John Doe, David Nolan, Prince Charming…at Henry and Emma's behest apparently Mary Margaret had gone to read to him last night. The result?

John Doe was awake.

Dove didn't know the entire story. There had been some speculation in the hospital earlier in the night. Mary Margaret had insisted that he'd woken, but the medical staff had assured her that he hadn't. But sometime in the middle of the night, he'd wandered off in nothing but his hospital gown. Damn near the entire town had shut down today to go looking for the missing man, just as they had more than a decade ago, though no one else seemed to be able to remember that clearly. Naturally, much to what he was certain was Regina's disappointment; it was Emma and Mary Margaret who had found David in the woods.

Hopeful that a moment was coming, he'd stayed in his shop, hoping that the timing might be right. And then it arrived, a single text message from Dove. "Things are crazy here. The Mayor just showed up with a woman she claims is John Doe's wife. No one saw this coming. Everyone has questions."

That was good enough for him. Regina was busy. Good and busy, for the next several minutes at least. From the back of his shop, in a black bag that held all his magical potions, he grabbed a thick paste he'd been working on for just a time like this. Water, ground limestone, and salt. In their world, it was the essence of natural magic. He just hoped it would cancel or dull any protective spells that Regina might have on that elevator. With any luck, the commotion at the hospital would keep her busy enough not to notice. He grabbed a flashlight, a thick ring of keys that let him into nearly any home and establishment in Storybrooke, and he made sure his gun was tucked into his pocket. Then, quick as he could, he limped across the street to the library.

The door whined so loud at being opened, he wanted to cover his ears. But he pressed forward. Though the library did have electricity, he didn't turn the lights on and made sure not to aim his flashlight at any of the boarded-up windows. The last thing he needed was Regina getting a hint that something was wrong because some snoopy shop owner had seen something they shouldn't have. He smeared the paste he'd made over the frame of the elevator best he could and felt something tingle in the air. He hoped it was the Curse, desperate for more magic to keep itself going, taking the bait, and releasing any wards there might have been on the thing. Then he opened the doors to the elevator open.

The elevator car wasn't where it was supposed to be but rather stuck halfway down the shaft, further inviting those who wished to use it to simply leave. He wasn't fooled by it. He used the handle to inch the rattling metal cage up to where he was and then pretended not to gulp as he got into it, closed the doors, and opened a hidden panel that contained the emergency controls. Then he lowered himself down the shaft and into the mines below Storybrooke.

Ten minutes later, he was sitting in his car, huffing and puffing at what he'd seen and how he'd hurried to vacate the library before anyone knew he was there. He sent a text message to Dove and confirmed that Regina hadn't left yet and everyone was still there at the hospital. Relief spread through his body as he leaned his head back against the seat and tried to breathe.

He should have turned on the car and gone home, but he was suddenly aware that his hands were shaking and his feet felt unnaturally light. He tried to tell himself it was because he had hurried, that this body was far less capable than the body he'd had in the Enchanted Forest, but deep down, he knew it was something far more cowardly making him shake. It was what lay at the bottom of the Storybrooke Library.

At the bottom of the elevator, there had been an impossibly large cavern. It had been dark and damp, but cold. Fear kept him from taking a single step off the elevator platform as he circled his flashlight around the darkness. The light glinted and fractured over something shining and glass. It was an artifact he recognized, one that he was shocked to see found it's way over…Snow White's infamous glass coffin. He swallowed as he moved the beam of light again. Across a crack in the cavern floor, he was met with the sight of two glowing yellow eyes the size of large dinner serving platters. A low rumble had vibrated in his chest and across the walls of the black walls of the cave as those eyes had risen in height, and he'd quickly closed the elevator doors and pushed the metal cage to move faster back to the library.

A dragon was living under the library in Storybrooke.

He'd found Maleficent.

[imagines-dreams]

Steve and Tony and Jarvis and Peggy and Daniel Part 2/2

 Rating: G

Warnings: endgame spoilers, if that still applies

Summary:  Part 2 to this. Peggy notices that something is off in her office. On top of that, Dr. Pym is missing some samples, and a stranger hugged Mr. Jarvis. Strange indeed.

Word Count: 1941

~ - ~

Peggy observed everything in her office. Someone was in here. They didn’t take anything. All files were accounted for and all personal belongings were still there.

“If nothing was taken, then what were they here for?” Daniel asked.

“Not sure. Not yet anyway.” She stared at her pictures of fallen friends and squinted. The plaques were the same, but two were clean. Someone had touched them, since all the others had a fine layer of dust. “Perhaps to reminisce,” she offered.

“The fallen? Whose pictures are disturbed?”

“Bucky’s and Steve’s.”

Daniel tilted his head as he stared at the pictures. “Perhaps it’s someone from the same squadron?”

Peggy took Steve’s frame off the wall. She dusted off his photo and tried to piece together the few pieces she had. “But, if that’s the case, why break into my office?”

“Director!” A doctor burst into her office. “Sorry to interrupt but-” He heaved and tried to catch his breath.

Peggy put Steve’s picture down. “Deep breaths, doctor.” She crouched down and put her hand on his shoulder. “What happened?”

“Dr. Pym’s particles, some samples, they’re missing.”

“Dr. Pym?” Peggy repeated.

Daniel finished her thought for her. “The guy who wants to shrink?”

Peggy nodded.

The young doctor stood up straight. “What should I tell him?”

“Nothing yet,” Peggy said. “Keep quiet about this, and tell him to continue his research. Daniel and I will get to the bottom of this.”

He nodded and left to tell his boss.

Peggy pursed her lips. “Why would our intruder know, let alone want Dr. Pym’s research? It’s classified.”

“So, that leaves our suspects to be high-level operatives,” Daniel concludes. “Perhaps a double agent? Or shapeshifters.”

Peggy laughed.

“We’ve encountered weirder, Peg.”

She shrugged. “I guess you’re right.”

The phone rang. Peggy picked up the phone and a notepad. She started writing notes about the current mystery and said, “Hello, Margaret Carter-”

“Ms. Carter! I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you for a favor.”

“Mr. Jarvis, yes, of course. What do you need?”

“Well, you see, Mr. Stark has not” -shouting was heard from his end- “been in the best mood as of late, and I’m afraid Maria is at the hospital alone. Is it possible for you or Daniel to accompany her?”

Peggy sighed. Howard has been losing himself lately. Thank goodness he had reassured her that she’d be named a godmother of his future child. She answered, “I have work to do, but I’ll ask Daniel.” She held the phone against her shoulder. “You go with Maria, and I’ll keep figuring this puzzle out.”

Her husband raised his eyebrow. “You sure? You could be in the middle of an international attack.”

“Better than interdimensional.” She smiled. “I’ll be fine.”

“I know.” Daniel kissed her cheek and left. “Good luck, Director.”

Peggy sighed and put the phone back on her ear. “Alright, Daniel’s on his way.”

“Alright, good.” Mr. Jarvis took a deep breath. “Hopefully, no more tangents from today’s plan. We’re already behind schedule.”

“Tangents?”

“Yes. First, Mr. Stark forgets his work back at the base, then this man strikes up a conversation before we left-”

“A man? Who was he?”

Jarvis blinked. “Not quite sure. He introduced himself as Howard Potts. He was walking with Mr. Stark out of the base, and, it was the strangest thing, he hugged me before I left.”

Peggy wrote down all of these details. She could look up a Howard Potts. Or a similar name, if it was fake. Someone maybe close to the Stark family or Mr. Jarvis.

“Wait, are you writing this down? Is something wrong at base?”

The director of Shield laid out her notes, pieces of a broken and confusing puzzle in front of her. “I don’t think something’s wrong. Just off. Tell me more about this man.”

So, Jarvis gave her a description. Brown hair, brown eyes, stubble, near the same height as Howard, and wore dark glasses. Jarvis also recounted at the man’s odd behavior. Hugging him when they had just met and begging Jarvis to take care of the new Stark kid.

She thanked her friend and stared at her clues.

Peggy was confused. Usually, things were so fast-paced. This time, all the clues seemed to disappear into smoke. How can someone infiltrate the base without anyone knowing? And why would one of them address Mr. Jarvis in such a way?

It’s been eight days since the weird incident at work. Peggy still has her notes filed away, just in case, but so far, nothing new has occurred in that regard. No tiny soldiers or office break-ins or weird encounters on Mr. Jarvis’s end.

“Are you still thinking about it?”

Peggy blinked a few times and smiled. “Admittedly. It’s just frustrating. I can’t seem to solve this one.”

“Maybe you’re getting rusty,” Daniel teased.

“Says the man who mistook my office for his own.”

“Hey!”

The two of them laughed together, and Peggy couldn’t help but feel thankful for these moments between crises. Her work was full of adventure and mystery, and she loved it. But sometimes, she needed to breathe and just be Peggy.

Then, a familiar figure caught her eye. Someone too familiar.

Her husband caught on and looked where she was looking. His eyes widened. It couldn’t be.

The figure tensed, but he didn’t run or move.

Mr. Sousa gulped. He knew that part of his wife’s heart would always be with the man with a shield. She told him stories of their time together, how he made her life at base more tolerable and how he had promised her a dance that they never got to have.

So, Daniel squeezed his wife’s hand and said, “Go.”

Peggy blinked. “Daniel-”

“You need to talk to him,” he insisted.

A part of him wanted to beg her to stay, but she needed this. Whether it was to say goodbye or leave him for her first love, she deserved closure.

Peggy sighed, and after a moment, she smiled, kissed his cheek, and left the restaurant.

Daniel sipped his drink and forced himself not to look. She deserved this. And no matter what she chose, he’d learn to live with it.

Peggy stood in front of him, uncertain as to how he could even end up there, alive. Steve Rogers. Captain America. The man who went into the ice six years ago, promising her a dance that he could never give. How was he…

Then, she got a good look at him. A beard, longer hair, and a look in his eyes that she couldn’t identify. He looked older. Different. As if he had lived a life before appearing in front of her.

Steve couldn’t have gotten out of the ice. He was too recognizable, and her spies would’ve picked up something if a man had crawled out of the Artic, near the place where Steve was last spotted. So, somehow the Steve Rogers in front of her wasn’t the one who was on the radio with her in his last moments.

Peggy narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re not my Steve.”

The new Steve just nodded.

She looked him over once more, and she spotted things she couldn’t explain. Smaller devices that she could fit in her pocket. His suit, too, was made of different materials, ones she couldn’t recognize. These things, they weren’t from her time.

Peggy smiled a little. So much for interdimensional issues being the weirdest thing she had encountered. She crossed her arms. “And what are you doing here?”

Steve pursed his lips and shook his head. “Honestly, I couldn’t tell you. Even if I tried.” He smiled and nodded at her waiting husband. “I’m happy for you.”

Peggy blushed and glanced back at her husband. Poor Daniel. She hoped he wasn’t thinking horrible, unrealistic thoughts. He didn’t deserve that. She gulped and asked, “And your family?”

“They’re waiting for me.”

She laughed. “Well, you shouldn’t be late.”

“You’re right.” And he smiled widely.

And she couldn’t help but smile back. A part of her will always love Steve Rogers, just like a part of him will always love her. But they were different people. She had gone on adventures she hadn’t thought possible. She had made new friends, gotten married, become director of Shield. Peggy Carter loved the life she had made for herself, and she wouldn’t give it up for anything.

And she was sure that he loved his life, whenever time that resumed.

So, for old times sake, she kissed his cheek and told him, “Go home.”

Steve nodded and walked away.

She didn’t see where he went. Peggy, instead, rushed back inside to her husband.

“You’re back,” he said.

Peggy laughed. “You almost sound surprised.”

Daniel just bit his lip and stared at his food. “I am. You have a habit of...” He gulped, his fingers curling into the tablecloth and his knuckles turning white. “A habit of surprising me, Peggy Carter.”

Her heart wrenched. She should’ve cut the conversation shorter. She reached out and held his hand. “Sousa.” She smirked. “Are you that forgetful, or must I remind you that I married you once a day.”

He laughed, and his shoulders relaxed. “Honestly, I wouldn’t mind once an hour.”

Peggy shook her head. “We can negotiate at a later time.” She leaned back into her chair and said, “Because I think I just solved our mystery.”

“Time travel, huh?” He shook his head. “That’s definitely new.”

“Yes, although, I’m still wondering about the identity of the man who approached Mr. Jarvis. Because that wasn’t Steve.”

“An accomplice? Maybe James.”

She shook her head. “No, James didn’t know Jarvis.”

“Excuse me.” The waiter smiled at the couple. “There’s a phone call for the both of you. From Maria Stark.”

“Yes, we’ll take it,” Daniel said, and as soon as they got to the phone, Maria gasped. “We found out the gender!”

“You did?” Peggy smiled. “I’m so happy for you. So am I getting a goddaughter?”

“Sorry Peggy.” Maria laughed. “You’re getting a godson!”

Peggy beamed. “A godson. That’s wonderful.”

Daniel’s smile fell. “Peggy, a son.”

She blinked. “So sorry, Maria, but we must go. We’ll come by tomorrow. Yes, of course, have a wonderful evening, Mrs. Stark.” She hung up the phone and stared at her husband. “You don’t think.”

“It makes sense. Howard Jr. and Steve work together to get something from Dr. Pym. Steve needs to hide in your office and-”

“Junior sees his father and his butler.” Peggy nodded. “It makes sense.” As the puzzle completed itself, Peggy’s satisfaction faded. “We need to take care of that child.”

“Why?”

“He hugged Mr. Jarvis, not his father.”

Daniel’s happiness disappeared. “God, Howard.”

Peggy shook her head. No, just because Howard was falling off into the deep end didn’t mean that her godson would be at a disadvantage. Not on her watch. “Well, I guess that means we better step it up as godparents, huh?”

He gazed at his wife, and he smiled, determination in his eyes. “I like your thinking, Carter-Sousa.”

“Me, too.”

He laughed and kissed her, and they went back to their table. With everything they had just learned, from time travel to the revelation of Stark’s child, Peggy and Daniel made a toast.

“To the future,” Daniel said.

Peggy hummed in thought before promising, “For Junior.” She tapped her glass against his and sipped lightly, ideas of gifts and lessons she’d want to give her godson. After all, if Howard wasn’t going to teach him how to be a badass who dares travel into the past, then it was up to her to do so.

[quinnofcastleport]

fallout | thanksgiving, 2k19.

who: quinn fabray, an underpaid secretary, randall fabray, carole hudson, mention of others.

what: sometimes, you think you’ve prepared for the worst, and then what you’ve prepared for is actually the best, and there’s a whole world of hurt headed your way.

where: quinn’s house, the gazette, a church, the hudson home

when: thanksgiving week (Monday - Thursday), 2k19

warnings: brief description of stylized blood/injury, really unfortunate parental interaction, spiraling thoughts, religion

wc: 4.8kish

It had been a very long, and mostly very bad week.

Her one accomplishment - James Evans, safely tucked away to dry out for the first time in a decade - had been drowned out by the ripples that came from it.

Sam had been bad enough. She’d been trying to comfort herself about it, that at least she knew where they stood, at least he’d been honest about how he felt and what he thought of her, finally, a response and reaction she’d never known she needed to question.

So she’d been wrong.

It didn’t happen often, but it did happen.

(Would it ever stop being so devastating?)

So she’d been wrong about her relationship with Sam. So she’d been playing his words over, and over, and over in her head for nearly twenty-four hours now, reconciling him with the old, old memories that had become shaken loose after her trip with James. Lunchtime snacks and after-hours holiday visits…

(She never had gotten that recipe from Mrs. Evans, and no one else’s chocolate cake quite came close. She’d spent a long time trying to find one that did, before concluding that it didn’t matter how expensive the restaurant or how well-trained the chef, better than Maggie’s just didn’t exist.)

She tried to make herself feel better about it. About Sam, believing the worst of what she thought of herself on the worst of her days; the worst of what was whispered about her, the worst of what nipped at her heels and caught her up in a whirlpool that only dragged down, down, down.

To some people, she’d always be the one who dumped trash on Rachel Berry.

Apparently ‘some people’ included Sam Evans, the kid that used to practice his funny voices and impressions on her and not be satisfied until she laughed. Sam Evans, the guy who’d just - let her work at his dead mother’s bar because Quinn badly needed somewhere to work. Sam Evans, who--

Whose relationship she’d ruined and whose father she manipulated into the right choice. Sam Evans who, apparently, genuinely believed she didn’t and hadn’t ever cared about him. Sam Evans who hadn’t even been wrong when he’d accused her of only reappearing in their life because her life was a mess. Everything he’d said was etched permanently into her brain, irrefutable and damning. Sam, Sam, Sam, and the safest she’d felt in a long time, down the damn drain.

She tried to make herself feel better about it. This was, of course, a lost cause, so when that didn’t work, she banned herself from devoting any more time or energy to thinking about it. There were bigger fish to fry, or at least more threatening men to defend herself against.

She had been ready for Sam’s righteous fury, for his dropping of her like so many hot rocks. She thought she’d been ready for the rest of it, too.

She was, again, wrong.

She really didn’t care for it, being wrong.

Quinn ignored the calls. Four calls, two voicemails, and a handwritten note tucked into the crevice of her front door. The message was clear on all of them: there was no avoiding the train that was bearing down to her, and there was nowhere to go that it wouldn’t hit her, at full speed.

Still. She managed to postpone it for one full day; one full day of grace. Tuesday. She didn’t speak to anyone except patrons at the bar; Sam didn’t come into work. She got to retreat into herself, be nothing more than a girl with pink hair who served strangers drink. She got a full day to recover from the battle the day before. One day to lick her wounds and try to find a new stable ground to plant her feet on.

On Wednesday morning, when Quinn opened the door to take Shelley out, she was met with--

“Margaret?” Quinn said, eyebrows raising briefly in surprise. She recovered herself quickly and straightened, acting like she wasn’t in her pajamas, like her dog wasn’t currently begging for love from her father’s secretary.

“Good morning Miss Fabray,” Margaret said, attempting in vain to dissuade Shelley from her determined pursuit of pets. “Mr. Fabray would like a word.”

Quinn made a quiet noise of understanding, then let Shelley pull her around Margaret. “I’m engaged today. I’m unable to meet with him.”

“He, uh, ah, well, he said that if you said that…”

Quinn waited, then rolled her eyes. “Margaret, just say it.”

“He said you would meet with him, whether you liked it or not, and it would be very unpleasant if you make him wait.”

Quinn shook her head. “You’re the one he sent?”

“Miss?”

“If he wanted to threaten me or drag me in by my hair he could have sent Thomas, or Uri, or Edward. Why did he send you?”

“He--he said…”

“Yes?”

“He said that I would be best suited, since you wouldn’t be able to…”

Quinn arched an eyebrow. “Yes? What am I unable to do?”

“Fight me?”

Quinn blinked. It became immediately apparent that Margaret thought Quinn was going to challenge her to fisticuffs.

Which, okay, she had pink hair, a big dog, and a face that said ‘don’t fuck with me’, sure, but--she wasn’t violent. Why was her father telling people she was violent?

Quinn chose to be amused.

“I see,” Quinn said, letting Shelley drag her back toward the door. “Well. You’ll just have to tell my father you were unable to collect me.”

“Miss Fabray,” Margaret said, her voice coming out considerably weaker than she wanted it to, “he told me that I wasn’t allowed to return unless it was with you.”

Quinn stared at her, deadpanned. “Are you going to stage a sit-in on my porch, Margaret?”

Margaret gave a shaky nod. “I was told to do whatever was necessary, as your presence is required in Mr. Fabray’s office.”

“I see,” Quinn repeated, looking for amusement and only finding deep, overwhelming irritation. “Well, I hope you stay warm out here.”

Quinn went back inside.

Pathetic.

She fed her dog.

She ate breakfast.

She had to go to the gym.

She had to go to work.

She had to get out of her damn house, and there was a captor waiting for her just outside the door.

Why didn’t this house have a goddamn back door?

Quinn growled to herself and stalked back into her bedroom. She could climb out a window…

Instead, she found clothes.

She didn’t try very hard. When she ‘found clothes’, she truly found them - a pair of jeans she didn’t remember buying, or ruining, with holes in the knees and what looked like paint stains on them. Were they even hers? Quinn had no idea, but she put them on and they fit, so she decided it was acceptable. She grabbed a t-shirt from her ‘probably needs washed’ pile, one of her new ones that she’d cut the neck off jaggedly to emphasize the artwork, which was for some metal band Quinn had barely heard of, but she’d enjoyed the aesthetic enough at the time.

(Several things had been hilarious in New York that didn’t seem to translate to Castleport.)

She put it on, grabbed her leather jacket, slid her rings onto her fingers, affixed her black choker, and opened her front door. Margaret still stood there, like an obedient, anxious lapdog, all eyes and ears and hope/fear. Her eyes got wider as she took in Quinn’s look, which made Quinn almost want to smile.

“Let’s get it over with.”

Margaret had driven, and the only reason Quinn didn’t insist on taking her own vehicle was because she was running out of gas, and it wasn’t as though her father’s office was so removed from everything that she needed a car to be safe on her escape route. The ride was silent - Margaret didn’t even turn the radio on, which made Quinn want to find the loudest and most obnoxious station she could find.

Before she could, though, they arrived, and Quinn glared up at the building.

Once upon a time, it had been her favorite place in the world.

And now?

Quinn got out of the car and slammed the door behind her, stalked up the steps. Margaret hurried after her, trying to explain something or stop her or something, Quinn didn’t care what she was saying. Quinn ignored her all the way to her father’s office and let herself in, shutting the door behind her.

Her father sat behind his desk, and was having a conversation with a man standing next to him. The man wore a deep blue suit, had thick glasses, and had attended each and every one of Quinn’s birthday parties.

“Pat?” Quinn said, momentarily drawn up short.

What on earth was the family lawyer doing here?

To his credit, he seemed as surprised to see her as she was to see him. Her father, if he had a reaction to her look, it only presented itself in a beat-too-long’s worth of silence.

“Sit down,” Russell said. It was not an invitation so much as it was an order.

“No thank you,” Quinn said, pursing her lips. “I won’t be staying long enough to sit. Well done on the acquisition, by the way. Really top notch sending that poor girl to stalk your daughter.”

Russell ignored her, continuing like she hadn’t even spoken. “I assume you know why you’re here.”

Yes. “I don’t have a clue why I’m here.” (He’d taught her to be obstinate and to lie when necessary when he let her curl up in his office chair and eavesdrop on his business deals and arrangement. The amount that could be gained from withholding information was mindboggling, he’d told her once, and he’d proven to be right about that, a thousand times over.)

“Pat?” Russell said, lifting two fingers as an instruction. “Show her, please.”

Pat spared Russell a glance - Quinn couldn’t read it, but something like doubt crossed his face. “Miss Fabray,” Pat said, holding out a file for her. He could have walked around the desk and handed it to her, like a normal person, but it wouldn’t have surprised Quinn to learn that her father had chained him to the desk. 

Quinn stepped forward and took the file, though she didn’t open it. “What is this?”

“A notice of legal action being brought against you, on behalf of Mr. Russell Fabray.”

Quinn raised an eyebrow. “Legal action,” Quinn repeated. “Is it a crime to--”

“Make unauthorized purchases on someone else’s credit card? Yes, it is. I have few friends from the Sheriff’s department standing by, just to make sure.” Russell said. “Pat,” he continued, leaning back in his seat. He looked like a lion that had just dragged back the biggest wildebeest and was looking forward to getting the king’s share of the meat.

What an asshole.

Pat nodded to the folder and Quinn opened it, reluctantly. “Do you recognize this purchase?” Pat asked, and Quinn scanned the document at the top of the pile.

A list of transactions from her father’s credit card.

One was highlighted in yellow.

It read the name of the facility she’d enrolled James Fabray into, along with the amount charged to the card.

Fuck.

Quinn, though, had been raised by two newspeople with strong opinions on other people’s idiocy, and so she knew not to admit anything without her own lawyer in the room.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Quinn said, flipping the file shut, “and I don’t know why I’m here.”

Russell sighed. “Thank you, Pat.”

This was Pat’s cue, apparently, because he nodded and hurried out of the office, closing the door behind him.

“You’re suing me?” Quinn finally asked. “You’re taking me to court? That’s a very classy move, Daddy.”

“Do not,” Russell said, his voice having lost every ounce of the bored professionalism it had contained when Pat was in the room, replaced with the worst sort of blackness, the kind that made Quinn’s worst sound like a kitten who’d gotten hold of a helium tank, “dare to lecture me on classy, Lucy, when you show up dressed like--like--”

“Like?” Quinn prompted, pretending that the use of her old name, her first name, wasn’t the fastest way to get under her skin. She wasn’t that girl, hadn’t been for a very long time. “Please, Daddy, tell me.” Quinn crossed her arms, raising her eyebrows at him.

“Like that.” He spat the word and Quinn tried to find it in her to be disappointed that ‘that’ was all he could come up with, instead of hurt, like ‘that’ was the worst thing he could have come up with.

“I fail to see how what I wear is any of your bus--”

“I don’t think you understand the situation,” Russell said, leaning forward. He folded his hands together and Quinn knew that look in his eye - victorious and cruel. “If I wanted to, I could destroy you with two phone calls.”

“...And?” Quinn finally said, though it didn’t come out as blase as she wanted. “What--”

“Here is what is going to happen,” Russell continued. “You are going to work to pay off that debt.” Russell nodded toward the folder. “Or I will take you to court and win, handily, and I don’t think all the god-awful makeovers in the world would prepare you for prison.”

“Pris--”

“You are going to work off the debt. You will be reporting to the Gazette’s Editor-in-Chief, Michael, first thing Monday morning. You will spend the intervening time…” Russell looked her over, “making yourself presentable.”

Quinn’s head was spinning. “I have a job. I’m not working for the Gaz--”

“You do not have a job,” Russell said, “not anymore. Your ‘job’ is not one that is acceptable for someone who, for the moment, carries my last name. It is time, well past time that you remember that you are a Fabray, and that you must comport yourself appropriately. Monday, 8 AM. Your paycheck will be garnished up until the point that I see fit, or until this debt is paid.”

So she wasn’t going to be drawing a paycheck, Quinn realized numbly.

Wait. Wait a minute. No. No.

“I am an adult,” Quinn began quietly, “and that means that I am free to dress how I want, work where I want, and do what I want.”

“An adult,” Russell echoed, followed by a derisive snort. “An adult takes responsibility for her actions, and you...have never done that, not once in your life. No. You are clearly a child. A disappointing child at that - when you actually were the age you’re acting, you had so much…” Russell sighed. “Promise.”

“I’m an adult,” Quinn repeated, her volume rising, “and you can’t make me--”

“That can,” Russell said, nodding to the folder in her hand. “Tell me. Who was this for? One of your streetrat friends from school? An ex-boyfriend? Or that profe--”

“It’s none of your business,” Quinn snapped, straightening her spine.

“It was my money you used, Lucy. That makes it my business. It would become my business would I named that...that...facility in my suit, on the grounds of accepting an unauthorized payment. I would make it my business when I bury the corporation that runs that disgusting program. It would be my business when I own them just so I can have the distinct pleasure of shutting them down.”

“...You can’t do that,” Quinn said, voice coming out very soft. No, no, no, no, it wasn’t just James in that building, there were other people, other people who needed that place--

“I could,” Russell corrected, something like a laugh escaping him that sent chills all the way down Quinn’s back. “I may choose to be gracious and allow this theft, as you will be paying it back. With interest. Beginning Monday morning, 8 A.M. You will be dressed appropriately, you will have that thing out of your nose, and you will not violate the dresscode by sporting any…” Russell dragged it out, “unnatural hair color. You will come prepared with three pitches for Michael, and if you are lucky, one may be considered.”

Every word he spoke was a nail in her coffin. She could feel it, feel the walls of her old life thudding shut around her. Prison, she thought, couldn’t have been far off from how she felt.

Goodbye freedom, goodbye life, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.

“...If my paycheck is going to…” Quinn wagged the folder, “how, exactly, am I supposed to pay my rent.” Quinn swallowed, crossed her arms. “Feed myself.”

“You should have thought of that before you made this decision,” Russell said. He’d already picked up his glasses and was looking through paperwork on his desk. Quinn waited. When he flicked his gaze back up to her, he let out a noise that somehow said I-can’t-believe-I-have-to-answer-this-question without saying a single word. “I have contacted your landlord. You will be moving out this weekend.”

“What?”

“And, as you will be moving into my home--”

“What?”

“--you will not need to concern yourself with…” Russell waved a hand, “groceries and the like. Your meals will be tended to by the household. You will go to work with me every day and return home with me for dinner every evening, and you will not be permitted to socialize with anyone who has been…” Russell sniffed, “influencing you like this. Your mother and I agree--”

“Mother? You agreed on something?”

“--that this childish fit you’ve been throwing has gone on long enough. It is well past time for you to return to your life.”

Her life.

“...I want to stay with Mother.”

(It was an echo from a decade and a half ago, when they first told her they were separating. It had been as true then as it was now.)

“Your mother does not wish either of us to be in her home at this time,” Russell said, sounding bored. “Your mother and I have agreed that it will be better for you to stay with me until further notice.”

Her life, in his house, eating his food, working at his paper, writing what he wanted her to write and seeing the people he wanted her to see.

“...I...I’m an adult,” Quinn repeated, because it was all she had. She was gobsmacked. “I’m not a teenager anymore, Daddy, and I make my own decisions--”

“Then you deal with the fallout.” Russell nodded to the folder once more. “It’s your choice, Lucy. Either be here, Monday at 8 AM, or see me at the courthouse Monday, 8:30 AM. I’m sure there’s a public defender that would be awake at that hour, assuming they aren’t exhausted from defending the town drunks against public indecency charges. Which, speaking of indecency, how is your friend’s father? The one who owns that moneysink of an establishment? Mr. Evans?”

Quinn bristled and she bit down against the whip-sharp retort. He was trying to needle her, and he was succeeding.

“Is there anything else.”

“I’ll see you Monday.”

Quinn stalked out of the office, and the building, and the property, and kept walking.

And that had been Wednesday.

By the time Thursday rolled around, her unbridled fury and fear had given way into numb acceptance. All the time she’d spent carving herself out of the expectations placed on her shoulders. All the time she’d spent looking for what she actually wanted. All the time she’d spent trying to convince the people in her life that she wasn’t like that, that she was getting better, that she was a good person. All the time she’d spent to overcome the tragedy of her birth, and for what?

For nothing. For less than nothing. It not only hadn’t mattered, but it had insured that her future, for the rest of her life, was even worse than what it would have been if she’d shut up and fallen in line when she’d had the chance. She was going to be her father’s prisoner, and for what?

Quinn was doing laundry when she remembered why. A little piece of paper fell out of the back pocket of her jeans, and when she bent down to pick it up, tears welled in her eyes.

For what? For this.

Quinn crumpled the paper and finished throwing her clothes in the washer. Her clothes for her new look needed to be clean before she put them into vacuum-sealed bags and stored them in big storage totes for the rest of forever. Because she was apparently moving this weekend.

Thursday, though, was Thanksgiving. She’d been planning to do what she could to prepare for her own personal hell, then drinking a lot and watching the dog show before she fell asleep on her own dog and had to stumble to her room hours later to sleep it off.

That wasn’t in the cards.

(Why did she think she’d get anything she wanted, at this point? Really?)

Her phone rang.

For a moment, she thought it would be fucking Margaret, calling to yank yet another rug out from under her, some other thing Quinn loved that she’d have to give up in just over 72 hours.

She nearly ignored the call.

But her mind drifted to Santana, and she wondered what trouble she was getting into today, so she turned her phone over and--

“Shit,” Quinn hissed, hurrying to answer the call before it went to voicemail. “Carole! Hi!”

“Quinn!” Craole’s voice was as chipper and sunny as a day in June on the other end of the line, and Quinn literally felt some tension ease out of her shoulders with just that one word. “Happy Thanksgiving!”

“Happy Thanksgiving,” Quinn replied rotely, because that was what you say to people who wish you Happy Thanksgiving, especially people who had no idea that your list of things to be thankful for was getting shorter by the minute. “I hope you’ve been resting?”

“Please,” Carole tsked, “it’s not like Finn would prepare dinner. He’d go out for Kentucky Fried Chicken and call it set.” She laughed, and so did Quinn, because - well, Finn hadn’t ever really exactly excelled in the cookery department.

“Is everything alright?” Quinn asked, as their laughter died down. “Is Finn okay?”

“Oh, yes, he’s fine, or he will be, if he’s let off in time for dinner. Otherwise he may stage a riot right there in the office, which will be nothing compared to the fit I will throw if they try to keep my son from coming home at a reasonable hour on a holiday--”

Quinn refrained from reminding Carole gently that crime and criminals didn’t take the day off, because at this point she was well-familiar with Carole’s feelings regarding her son’s occupation and how frequently it cut into their family time.

It still caught her off guard, hearing a mother genuinely care about her child.

“Anyway,” Carole said, cutting herself off with a huff, “what time will you be here?”

Quinn blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“What time will you be here?” Carole asked, which didn’t make any more sense the second time around. “I’m planning for everything to be done by five. Do you think you could make it by then?”

Quinn opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

Thanksgiving was a day for family, but her family had conspired to shackle her to their plans and she had a Fabray-shaped knife dangling over her head, and she had never been less happy to be a Fabray, and Carole--

Tears welled in Quinn’s eyes and she quickly cleared her throat. “Yes,” Quinn answered as quickly as she could, “yes. I’d love to come. Thank you.” Thank you, thank you, thank you. “Should I bring anything?”

“Nothing but your smiling face! Oop, I need to stir. See you later! Happy Thanksgiving!”

The line went dead and Quinn set her phone down dumbly.

There went her plan. She wasn’t going to be getting very drunk and falling asleep anywhere while the Macy’s parade ran on repeat in the background.

She was going to Thanksgiving. To a family Thanksgiving. Hosted by the woman who had become more of a mother to her than her biological mother could even try to be.

She was going to Thanksgiving.

(Maybe she had a little bit to be thankful for after all.)

Quinn hadn’t been planning on making any stops on her way to Carole’s. She’d been planning on a bee-line, so she could be there for as long as possible and soak up every bit of comfort she could from the cozy Hudson house, but she found herself at a standstill - literally.

She stood in front of the church - her church.

She’d found her old silver cross necklace when she was digging through her room. She’d gotten it as a Confirmation gift from her great-grandmother, and she hadn’t worn it regularly since high school. She hadn’t worn it at all since college.

But now it hung around her neck, tucked beneath the hem of her shirt, resting against the hammering of her heart.

She needed it, now, more than ever.

Quinn walked up the steps and went inside.

It was more or less deserted, which Quinn was relieved about - she didn’t have the strength to explain herself to anyone with questions about her presence there, or her hair, or anything at all, so she hurried down the aisle before someone could appear to irritate her, and--

And what?

Quinn stopped, staring up at the figure of Jesus Christ on the cross. He was sickly thin, with blood painted as oozing from His hands, His side. The crown of thorns sat sharply on His head.

It must have been so awful, being up there like that, Quinn thought, not for the first time. It was grotesque, the image in front of her, one repeated in different styles and designs all over the country, the world - but there was a reason it persevered as one of the most recognizable symbols of the religion.

There was something compelling about sacrifice.

Quinn knelt in front of the statue, her pink hair falling forward as she bowed her head. Forgive me, Lord, for I have sinned…

She didn’t know how long she knelt there, just that her knees were sore and achy by the time she stood back up. She was about to leave, really, she was, but she saw--

Quinn made her way over, rummaging her purse as she walked. By the time she arrived, she’d come up with a dollar, which she slid into the donation box in exchange for a long matchstick. She lit it off one of the many candles burning on the altar, and carefully caught another candle’s wick, watching as the fire jumped from match to candle. She blew the matchstick out once she was sure the little flame had caught, then set the matchstick in the trash bucket beneath the altar.

Please, Quinn thought, as strongly as she could, as loudly as she could, please, God, or Mary, or Jesus, or someone, Quinn’s hand found the silver cross and wrapped around it, tightly, please, God, help us. Help me. Please.

She watched her little candle catch and dance in the air currents, then forced herself to look away. She tucked her necklace back beneath her shirt and hurried back out of the church, suddenly more anxious than ever to get where she’d been going.

(Was it too late to look into the local convent? Quinn bookmarked that thought for later.)

Arriving at the Hudson house was sort of - not strange, exactly, because she’d been there dozens of times, especially while Finn was enlisted. She’d visited every time she came home; sometimes she’d come home just to visit with her. She knew Carole was lonely, and consumed with worry for her baby boy, so Quinn would find excuses to bake something and bring it over, and let them both be distracted for hours with a bottle of wine and shared memories. They caught up more than two people who emailed all the time needed to, but Quinn was not complaining - she loved Carole.

And Carole loved her.

(It seemed the list of people who loved her was also getting shorter by the day.)

The only strange part was going to be having Finn there this time, but--Quinn wasn’t really nervous about that, not really. Finn was like a Great Dane, or a Mastiff; big, intimidating, and more comforting than the most expensive security system money could buy. The way Finn took up a room, the easy way he smiled, how he acted when he was around his mother…

Quinn smoothed her still-very-pink hair down and let out a breath, then knocked on the door.

Maybe, just maybe, there really was something to be thankful for this year.

[so-shiny-so-chrome]

Witness: Tyellas

Creator name (AO3): Tyellas

Creator name (Tumblr): thebyrchentwigges

Link to creator works *https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyellas/works?fandom_id=51060

Q: Why the Mad Max Fandom?

A: I’ve been a fan of postapocalyptic scifi since my teens. But it took me until Fury Road to really fall in love with the world of Mad Max. Living Down Under probably helped. 

Q: What do you think are some defining aspects of your work? Do you have a style? Recurrent themes?

A: For Mad Max, my style varies very much based on the character point of view. Max's terseness is very different from a History Person's verbal rambling. Recurrent themes for me...Some of them tie back to canon, like the fragility of Wasteland technology and the quirkiness of human nature. There's a lot of geology and a consistent thread of land-based spirituality - an Antipodean influence, there. 

Q: Which of your works was the most fun to create? The most difficult? Which is your most popular? Most successful? Your favourite overall?

A: Most popular overall – Definitely “Gastown Nights.” Max, Furiosa, sexual tension, adventure in a setting with the Wasteland wildness turned up to 11 – what’s not to like? Most fun – Writing fluff is always fun, even if the world’s falling apart around it. “Very Max, Much Wasteland, Such Dog,” my take on Max Gets A Dog, and “If You Give a Pup a Flamethrower” stand out to me. Most difficult – Several of my Miss Giddy stories were harrowing, “Weave a Circle,” “One Way Ride.” At one point writing “Weave a Circle” I glanced in a mirror and was shocked – shocked! – to not be looking at the face of a tattooed 76-year-old. 

Q: How do you like your wasteland? Gritty? Hopeful? Campy? Soft? Why?

A: Gritty as, mate, but always with that glimmer of hope. Because that's how it would be.

Q: Walk us through your creative process from idea to finished product. What's your prefered environment for creating? How do you get through rough patches?

A: I may jot down a story’s core idea, then let it ferment a few months. I might think I’m writing something just for myself, then it will take on a life of its own. When the time is right, I’ll think and plan around it, then do an outline. I like Kurt Vonnegut’s advice that a character in a story should want something, “even if it’s just a glass of water.” A glass of water is a big thing in Mad Max! For a writing environment, I’m very lucky – I have a home office, a desk chair, a desk specially set up for writing. If part of a story is giving me trouble, I’ll treat it like the eye of the storm. I’ll write around it, write down to it – I’ll write everything but that part! Once the frame is in place around the difficult part, that helps.

Q: What (if any) music do you listen to for help getting those creative juices flowing?

A: For Mad Max, Ocker rocker classics from the 70s and 80s. Songs by Goanna, Cold Chisel, Dragon, AC/DC. New Zealander Neil Finn's song "Sinner" always makes me think of Max. 

Q: What is your biggest challenge as a creator?

A: Finding time when I have inspiration, and finding inspiration when I find time.

Q: How have you grown as a creator through your participation in the Mad Max Fandom? How has your work changed? Have you learned anything about yourself?

A: I've grown so, so much as a writer. Descriptions, plot, research. Getting over myself and putting that crazy idea out there - and learning that it was worthwhile if it found one reader. Personally, I decided I would probably survive an apocalypse, which is always good to know. 

Q: Which character do you relate to the most, and how does that affect your approach to that character? Is someone else your favourite to portray? How has your understanding of these characters grown through portraying them?

A: I took the long road around to this one, because it took getting into the Mad Max fandom for it. I'd say I relate the most to...Aunty Entity. She's determined, she's creative, she's femme, and she has excellent taste in henchpeople. Oddly, I've never written about her, for all that I have screeds about Furiosa, the Vuvalini, and the History People. Aunty Entity has aspects of those three. My Furiosa is calculating, fierce, stony, and, after the Fury Road, willing to make terrible decisions for a long-term goal or a greater good. After a mostly Citadel life, she’s used to better living, and both disgusted and horrified/saddened by how others are getting by.  

Q: Do you ever self-insert, even accidentally?

A: All the characters we write about are our shards and our reflections. I do have a draft of a piece for a Self-Insert week that never took off, where I hitch a ride in the Nullarbor desert with some Buzzards.

Q: Do you have any favourite relationships to portray? What interests you about them?

A: I've written smut, and in my fics both canon characters and OCs get laid and find love. "Citadel Nights" is a novel-length fic about love and sex in the Mad Max apocalypse. But the most enduring relationship in my fics, one that all characters deal with, is...their own one with the Wasteland. That post-apocalyptic world around them. For some it's chaos and ruined dreams. For some it's horror yet opportunity. And for some of them, it's simply how it is. My story quartet "Wasteland, Seize My Bones" delves into this in all kinds of ways.

Q: How does your work for the fandom change how you look at the source material?

A: For Mad Max, I seek it out and look at it in more detail. Some of it takes some finding. It took me a while to track down the novelization of "Beyond Thunderdome". There were some jaw-dropping interviews with George Miller back in the 80s!

Q: Do you prefer to create in one defined chronology or do your works stand alone? Why or why not?

A: I can't help creating in one defined chronology. That's just how my imagination works. Every Mad Max story of mine fits into a timeline. I've sketched out that timeline over two notebook pages, like the nerd that I am.

Q: To break or not to break canon? Why?

A: For Mad Max, I'm usually in line with canon. Mad Max canon itself is so rich, flexible, and berserk that most of the plots and actions I wanted to write fit right in. Like most fan creators, I did make it gayer.

Q: Share some headcanons.

A: Oh, so many! Have three: - Furiosa wears her keys on the left: Max wears his on the right. - There are two popular headcanons around Miss Giddy: long-term Citadel denizen or Wasteland Survivor Having Adventures. I like the second one better. - Immortan Joe and the Bullet Farmer had a thing going on for a while there. 

Q: If you work with OCs walk us through your process for creating them. Who are some of your favourites?

A: There are OCs and there are "characters who had three frames in the movie/outtake." Very often I'll create an OC to fulfil a plot moment and then...they're not done...they tap my shoulder with more stories. I have a list of my Mad Max original characters for reference. I need it because I have *forty-nine* of them. Wretches, War Boys, Milking Mothers, Wastelanders, antagonists. My favorite OCs are the ones I've spent the most time writing about - if an OC of mine has a POV story, you know I liked them. Or somebody else did and made a request! 

Q: If you create original works, how do those compare to your fan works?

A: My original works seem positively sybaritic compared to my Mad Max fan works! 

Q: Who are some works by other creators inside and outside of the fandom that have influenced your work?

A: There were all these different creative factions – Maxiosa shippers, War Boy lovers, the Gigadumpster focusing on the villains – having fun. That in itself was inspiring. For a while I was unable to read @sacrificethemtothesquid ’s Length and Breadth of Fury Road. Its gravitational field of influence was that strong for me. And I adored the story “The Bullet Farmer’s Daughter” for its ruthless postapocalyptic extremes. For Max and Furiosa and their particular dynamics and madness, I’m influenced by J.G. Ballard – his compelled postapocalyptic wanderers, his cool, in-charge women. For my History People writing, influences include Margaret Atwood, Ursula Le Guin, and Neal Stephenson’s “Anathem”.

Q: What advice can you give someone who is struggling to make their own works more interesting, compelling, cohesive, etc.? 

A: The time you spend planning your project helps bring it to life. Thinking, plotting, outlining, deciding your ending and working up to it. If something seems crazy or self-indulgent, but *feels* real or right, there’s emotional truth and weight behind it. Readers will sense that and respond to it. Write it and see what happens. Thanks to our protagonist of few words, Mad Max writers suffer less from verbosity than other fandoms. Still, keep a sentence 20 words or fewer: keep a paragraph 6 – 8 sentences or fewer. Your reader will stay more engaged with your writing. 

Q: Have you visited or do you plan to visit Australia, Wasteland Weekend, or other Mad Max place?

A: I'd love to go to Wasteland Weekend sometime, but I live in New Zealand. It's been great to meet up with some fellow Mad Max fans in Australia, and to have Mad Max-like moments when I'm visiting there.  Walking down an industrial street, lost, when a gang of masked bikers roar by, disrupting the crows into their own corvid cries...

Q: Tell us about a current WIP or planned project.

A: I've got two Mad Max WIPs that will be done, come hell or high water. I'll share their titles: "In the Heart of the Wasteland Sun" and "A Favourite Has No Friend".

Thank you @thebyrchentwigges

[closetspngirl]

Love Heals the Soul (Part 21) - Move

Summary: He asks, she answers, holidays, she sings, he asks again, she answers...again. Descriptive, I know.

Masterlist

Pairing: Jensen x reader

Word Count: 4732 (whoops...)

Warnings: minor swearing (like really minor, I think like one word...), nothing else unless I missed something.

A/N:  This one ran away from me, I do apologize. Feedback is always welcome! Italicized are lyrics, POV thoughts or text conversations; you can tell by the context

The rest of your time in Austin went by so quickly, you were sad to be leaving Gen, Jared and the kids. However, you were excited to get back you your apartment that didn’t have three crazy adorable kids running around at all hours, and also a little more privacy for you and Jensen.

Neither of you had to go back to work right away, planning to have some downtime before going back to your busy lives. It was the first week of November by the time the two of you went back, Jensen busy filming a few episodes, trying to get as much done before Thanksgiving as possible.

Jensen had come over one night after work, it finally being his weekend, which miraculously matched up with yours this week, giving you the chance to spend some time together. When he walked into the living room, he took notice of your laptop with papers and notebooks all over the coffee table. “What’s all of this?” he said, nothing in his tone other than genuine curiosity. “Oh, uh, just typing up a standardized recipe book for the café, notes and such on various things,” you explained nervously, tidying up the stacks of papers and notebooks.

You both decided to order take out since neither of you felt like cooking. The two of you sat on the couch while eating dinner and watching an episode of Supernatural. You had seen all of the episodes countless times over, but it was kind of your thing with Jensen that he would tell you things about each episode, either the antics that happened behind the scenes, or the pranks they pulled on each other while trying to film. You didn’t do it every time you two were together, but every now and then, it was fun to do. Without fail you were laughing so hard you’d cry from the stories he’d tell you.

You were calming down from your most recent fit of laughter, when Jen started rubbing your arm, from where you were nestled into his side. “So, I’ve been thinking,” he started, swearing you could hear nervousness behind his voice. When he didn’t finish, you nudged him, “Uh huh…”

“Would you want to, maybe…move in with me?” Feeling your body tense, he kept going, “Only if you want to. I, uh, just figured that we’re usually sleeping together at one place or the other, both of us have enough of our stuff at the other apartment that we may as well share, and with our schedules it’d maybe give us more time together. But, I also know it’s still early in the relationship, so I would completely understand if you don’t want to. No hard feelings, I promise,” he said in what seemed like one breath.

During the course of his spiel, you had sat up and turned towards him on the couch, watching him until he was done, giving him a small smile. Exhaling the breath you didn’t know you were holding, you put your hand on his leg. “Jen, I, I really don’t know what to say. I would love to, you’re right, we have enough of our stuff at the other’s apartment, might as well just have one place. But…” you paused, for a brief moment trying to collect your words.

“It’s really ok Y/N, I’m not upset,” he said, cupping your cheek in his warm hand.

“I just, sometimes I need my own space, to collect myself, I guess re-center myself? God that sounds like a lame excuse. I just, I want to be with you as much as possible, but I don’t know if I’m ready to give up my space yet.” You looked up at him, so much sadness in your eyes, hoping he would see what you meant, since putting your feelings into words never quiet worked out in your favor.

He pulled you in, slowly, placing a warm and gentle kiss to your lips, “When ever you’re ready sweetheart,” he whispered, you nodding in response. Quietly he added, “Does it help t hat I have a second bedroom?” you both chuckled at that, with you telling him that the second you knew, you would tell him. After that, he scooted until he was in the corner of the couch, pulling you to lie on his chest between his legs. His arms were lazily wrapped around your waist, his right arm resting on your thigh.

Turning up to gaze at him, you waited until he looked down before you spoke, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For not pushing me, for being ok with everything.”

“Of course. I want you to be comfortable. If there’s ever anything you don’t want to do, tell me, I will never be mad at you,” he said quietly, kissing the top of your head.

You watched a couple more episodes before heading to bed. Jensen had a lot of stuff over at your apartment by now, so your nightly routine was pretty seamless. It is really nice having him here, and not having to worry about either of us having to leave the next day, maybe moving in isn’t such a bad idea? But I get in those moods, where I don’t want to be around anyone, would I really not want to be around Jensen? What if he hates me when that happens?

---

Over the Thanksgiving holiday, the two of you flew back down to Austin for a few days to meet his parents who, quite honestly, you were a little nervous to meet. Jensen assured you that you didn’t have anything to worry about, but the first time meeting parents was always hard. You spent Thanksgiving with his parents, since your celebrated in October. Jensen had told you about his siblings and nieces and nephews, so you would be prepared for the chaos that was about to happen.

Truth was, you loved every second of it. It was just like being back at Jared and Gen’s house with everyone under one roof. That was something that you had always wanted, a big family and big holidays. But it was only ever the four of you. Even when you were with your aunt and uncle, they only had one kid, so everything was quieter. You didn’t stay long, only a few days, but long enough that you got to meet everyone and Jensen got some time with his family.

Before going back to Vancouver, you flew up to Edmonton to see your parents, having Jensen meet them for the first time as well. “See? Isn’t this terrifying? Meeting parents for the first time? How are you not more nervous? I was freaking out before meeting yours,” You were rambling as the two of you sat in the back seat of the taxi on the way to the house. He laughed, “Parents love me, I’ll be fine. Now quit worrying,” grabbing your hand and kissing the back of it.

When you reached the house, you paid the driver while Jensen got the bags out of the trunk, walking behind you as you went in the house. “Mom? Dad? We’re here!” you called as Jensen set the bags by the front door, then followed you through the house before you found your mom in the kitchen cooking dinner. “Mom, we’re home,” you said again as she turned around from the stove. “Oh! There’s my baby!” she said, coming over to you and making a fuss, the general motherly gestures. You practically had to peel her off of you and insist that you were ok and eating enough and taking your vitamins, anything to pacify her, right? It seemed to be then that she noticed Jensen, “And this fine young man is Jensen I’m guessing?”

“Yes I am, very nice to meet you Mrs. Y/L/N.” he started, sticking out his hand to shake. “Oh honey, no. You’re getting a hug, and it’s Margaret,” she told him while you just gave him a look and shrugged your shoulders at him. “Where’s dad?” you asked, going to the fridge and taking out two beers, handing one to Jensen. “He’s out golfing with the guys, he’ll be home soon. We’re having spaghetti for dinner, I hope that’s ok?” she said, looking at him. “Sounds perfect,” he said, smiling at her, and then directing his attention to you. You just gave him a coy smile, knowing that both of you were thinking about the first night that he came over after the convention when you made the exact same meal.

Your dad walked in the door within the hour going on about something as he walked into the kitchen, noticing Jensen first. “Bob was telling me that they went about it all wrong, had to go back and- who the hell are you?” he said, stopping mid sentence as Jensen was mid drink of his beer. Whipping around, your mother yelled, “Eugene! Do not talk like that in front of guests. It’s Y/N’s boyfriend, Jensen.”

All you could do was stand in the corner of the kitchen trying your hardest to not go into hysterics over the situation. Jensen quickly stood up, reaching a hand out to your dad, “Hello Mr. Y/L/N. Nice to meet you.” You could have sworn that boy was shaking like a leaf.

“Hm.” Your dad said, taking his hand and narrowing his eyes, “Jensen? What do you do for a living?”

“Dad! You can’t just come in and give him the third degree, at least make it to dinner!” You quipped, finally stepping in to try to save Jen.

“No no, I need to know that he’s good enough for my baby girl. So, job?”

“I’m an actor, sir.”

“Hm. Anything I know?”

“Well, currently I’m on Supernatural, we actually film over in Vancouver. I’ve been in a few movies, did a season of Smallville a while back.”

“Supernatural…that’s the one with the two brothers and weird angel friend, right?”

There was an audible groan from you at this point, putting your head in your hand. “Dad, please,” you practically begged. Just then your dad looked at Jensen, the corner of his mouth ticking up in a smirk, “I’m just messing with you son, I know who you are and what the show is about. Y/N here has managed to keep us in the loop about it for the last god knows how many years,” your dad told him, laughing by now.

“Dad!” your face red from embarrassment now.

Jensen finally relaxing looked over at you, “Oh yeah? How many years has it been, Y/N?”

“Thirteen…” you said barely loud enough for anyone to hear.

“I’m sorry, how many?” he pulled, one more time, just getting your riled up at this point.

“Thir. Teen. Thirteen years. Happy?” Letting out an exasperated sigh.

Jensen responded by taking a drink of his beer and winking at you, only to get an eye roll in return.

---

You didn’t stay in Edmonton more than a few days, since Jensen had some stuff to take care of before the winter break, including the last convention weekend of the year, which you decided to stay home for. By the time you got back to Vancouver, it was going into the second week of December, and it was a winter wonderland, the city covered in glistening snow. You honestly weren’t a fan of the snow, but you couldn’t deny how gorgeous it was, especially in the parts of town that remained untouched and pristine.

Friday night rolled around, another open mic night at the café. Since singing onstage with Jensen at the convention, you had done a few nights at the café, slowly working your confidence back. You certainly felt better than you did almost six months ago. Briana and Jason were there for you, coming by after they had finished at the studio working on Briana’s album. You had met Jason at VanCon, and a few other times since. Jensen was still at work, but he said he would swing by when he was done, hoping he wouldn’t miss you singing.

Hey sweetheart. We have one more scene to shoot, should be pretty quick then I’m out of here. I’m trying to get there as fast as I can. :(

It’s ok. I’m not sure how much longer I can wait though, but I’ll try. See you soon.

You were amazed at how quickly word spread of you singing at the convention with Jensen, making the nights that you sang at the café’s open mic nights sort of a thing; the café filling up more than normal just to hear you. That was something that you still weren’t used to, given your years in theater and selling out the house, this was still a weird concept.

You tried to hold off as long as you could, to wait for Jensen, but you felt badly since you knew most of the people were waiting for you. Deciding you couldn’t wait anymore, you let Dee know that you were ready, introducing you to the little corner stage that you had grown comfortable with.

You picked up your guitar and sat on the stool, starting to strum the first few chords of the song, when your left arm decided it wasn’t having it. You slipped on a chord, your nerves starting to show themselves. Starting again, you made it a few chords farther than last time, thinking you were fine, until your hand slipped again, this time with pain shooting up your arm. Closing your eyes and trying to hold your frustration down, you had to remind yourself that there was a microphone in front of you, along with at least forty people in a small space.

“Sorry everyone, it’s been a bit since I picked up a guitar, just need to find that right note,” you said with a nervous laugh. It wasn’t exactly true, but hopefully they would be ok with that, which they seemed to be. I can’t just run now. I’m here. I have to play. But there’s NO way I can sing this without a melody. UGH. What the actual hell am I supposed to do?!

Just then you noticed Jason walking up to you, lowering his head next to yours, “Hey, you ok? I can play for you if you’d like?” he offered. You looked up at him, eyes already filling with tears from the frustration and embarrassment. “That would actually be great, thank you Jason,” you told him, mustering up a small smile.

“Of course. What are you going to sing?”

“How Do I Live, please tell me you know it?” Chuckling he responded, “I do, let me mess around with the chords for a second and I’ll be good. Do you want me to sing at all, or just play?”

“What ever you’d like, I trust your judgment. I will say, I’m a little nervous doing this since we’ve never played together before,” you told him.

“Don’t worry, I’ll stick to the original version, and since it’s acoustic it will give you room to do what you need to. You got this, it’ll be fine.” He said, squeezing your arm. The course of Jason coming on stage and talking to you was a matter of seconds, even though it felt like an eternity, but then it could have been because you hated making the audience wait on you.

“Ok! Thank you again for coming this evening,” you started nervously while adjusting the mic stand to your standing height, now that you weren’t sitting. “So, due to some…technical difficulties…someone I’m really glad to be able to call a friend was willing to help me out tonight, Jason Manns everyone.” You said to the crowd, motioning for them to give him applause. After the clapping had faded, you looked to him and he let you know that he was ready, starting in on the first few chords, listening to how he played, hoping you could pull this off for never having played together before; you found your starting point and let the words fall from your lips.

How do I Get through one night without you? If I had to live without you What kind of life would that be?

Oh, I, I need you in my arms, need you to hold You’re my world, my heart, my soul   And if you ever leave Baby you would take away everything good in my life And tell me now

How do I live without you? I want to know How to I breathe without you if you ever go How do I ever, ever survive? How do I, how do I, oh how do I live?

Still working on your confidence, you sang a lot of the song either with your eyes closed, or looking at Briana.  Coming off the second verse you heard the tiny bell above the front door jingle, not letting it pull you from what you were doing, you couldn’t help it though. The tightening in your chest and your breath catching, when you realized it was Jensen who walked in, your eyes meeting his; your words suddenly meant for only one person in that café. Briana must have noticed your gaze settle, she turned around and saw Jen, giving him a small wave to take the chair next to her.

Without you there’d be no sun in my sky There would be no love in my live There’d be no world left for me And I, baby, I don’t know what else I would do I’d be lost if I lost you, if you ever leave Baby, you would take away everything real in my life And tell me now

How do I live without you? I want to know How do I breathe without you if you ever go? How do I ever, ever survive? How do I, how do I, oh, how do I live?

For the rest of the song, your eyes were on Jensen and suddenly the rest of the café didn’t matter, they all disappeared into the background. You didn’t even notice when Jason helped out with a few of the lines, solely focusing your attention on Jensen.

Please, tell me, baby How do I go on if you ever leave? Baby, you would take away everything, I need you with me Baby, don’t you know that you’re everything good in my life? And tell me now

How do I live without you? I want to know How do I breathe without you if you ever go? How do I ever, ever survive? How do I, how do I, oh, how do I live? How do I live without you? How do I live without you, baby?

How do I live?

When you finished, you smiled at Jensen, returning the beautiful smile that he was giving you, one that showed love and promise. You turned back toward Jason, giving him a hug whispering, “Thank you so much, I owe you for this.”

“No, no Y/N. I’m just glad I could help. You were excellent,” He responded, giving you a warm smile.

Jensen’s POV

I was running late to meet Y/N and Briana at the café, trying hard to get there before she went up to sing. When the last scene was wrapped I flew out of there, barely taking time to change from Dean’s jeans, flannel and jacket to the jeans and sweatshirt I wore in this morning. Without trying to pressure Cliff too much to get there as quick as possible, we made it a few minutes under what it normally takes. When Cliff pulled up I flew out of the backseat wanting so bad to barge in there, but it was when I got to the window that I saw Y/N singing with Jason playing behind her. Weird…?

I watched for a brief moment before I got my wits about me and went inside, cursing the little bell above the door. I couldn’t help but stare. She was singing and old LeAnn Rimes song, a classic, one that I’m sure wrapped all of her feelings up into a nice four minute package. She did tell me she speaks better with music. I hung back for a minute, surprised at how full it was in there, when Briana spotted me and waved me over to her table.

“Hey! Finally! I was worried you were going to miss it,” She whispered. “Never, I love seeing her perform like this,” I said, eyes glued on Y/N with a smile planted on my face. “Jason hasn’t played with her before, that’s new…?” I asked her, almost hesitantly, without really asking what I wanted to. “Yeah, well…right place right time and all that,” was all she said, but I could tell that there was something she wasn’t telling me. I knew how her and Y/N were though; it wasn’t hers to tell, so she wouldn’t. It could be nothing…or it could be exactly what Jared was telling me?

I couldn’t even begin to describe the feelings I had watching Y/N up there, her range with the complexity of the song, even getting the higher notes. I could honestly listen to her sing everyday, she has such a strong but elegant voice. I was a little sad to hear her finish, but as sad as I was about that, I was ecstatic because that meant I could finally have her in my arms again.

Before she was even done thanking Jason, I was making my way to the stage, ready to pick her up and whisk her away. Reaching the step just as she turned, I wrapped her up in a hug, my arms snaking around her waist, my head resting in the crook of her neck. “Hey! I was getting nervous that you-“ she started saying, before I had her wrapped up in my arms in a big hug. “Nope, I will never miss this. I love watching you up here. Y/N/N, I am so proud of you, how far you’ve come since I first saw you up here.”

She blushed and buried her face into my shoulder trying to suppress a laugh from embarrassment. “I’m serious Y/N. We all are.” After a moment she pulled back, a wide smile on her face, a few small tears finding their way down her cheek. “Hey, these better be happy tears,” I told her. It always pained me to see her like that, knowing she was hurting if she was crying. Nodding quickly she responded, wiping them away, “Yes! Yes, they are. I’m just so happy right now. Thank you for coming tonight.”

“Always,” I said, looking at her, the step up to the stage making us more or less eyelevel.

“And Jen?”

“Yeah sweetheart?”

“Does your offer still stand?” She asked me, leaving me slightly confused at first.

“Offer?”

“For moving in together,” she said, looking down, suddenly interested in the zipper on my sweatshirt.

“Absolutely,” a smile that would rival any kid’s on Christmas morning finding its way to my lips. “Would you like to move in with me, Y/N?” I asked her again, knowing the answer this time.

“Yes!” she said, giggling, throwing her arms around my neck.

We finally made it back to the table, Jason having gone ahead of us. “So, what was that little exchange that was going on up there, huh?” Briana looked between the two of us with a coy smile. Y/N and I looked between one another, putting my arm around the back of her chair; I nodded to let her do the honors of sharing the news.

“We’re moving in together!” Y/N told her, that gorgeous smile showing once more. “Oh, you guys!! I’m so happy for you!” Briana responded, with Jason also giving his congratulations. “Let’s go out for a couple drinks to celebrate. To celebrate Y/N’s kick ass performance tonight, and for you two,” Briana said. Who were any of us to argue with plans like that?

We went to a bar just down the street, on the way calling Jared and telling him to get Misha and meet us there, while Briana called Kim and Rob, who happened to be in town. When we arrived, we took to the space in the back, ordering drinks from the waitress. I could tell Y/N was still on that after performance rush, but loving every second that I got to see her smile from it.

As the lot of us sat around the table, I had my arm around her with her leaning into my side. Conversations were being carried around the table, when I saw Jason look over to Y/N from a couple chairs down. “So, Y/N, have you ever thought about singing professionally?” The question immediately caught Briana’s attention, “Dude, I’ve been telling her since college that she should sing, the girls’ got a hell of a voice!”

She looked at Briana, sharing some unspoken words across the table, reminding me of Jared and me, or even of Sam and Dean. You turned to Jason. “I mean, sure, I’ve thought about it, but nothing serious. You know, one of those ‘what do I want to be when I grow up?’ kind of dreams. It wasn’t until just months ago that I even got back on a stage, now you’re asking about getting serious about it?” You asked him, a nervous laugh finishing your question.

“You could certainly do it. You have an amazing voice, stage presence is great and your vocal range is spectacular. I don’t see why you wouldn’t be able to,” he said with a small shrug.

Most of the side conversations had stopped by that point, everyone focusing on this one, which made her blush since she hated the attention. Everything Jason is saying is true though, I have no doubt that she wouldn’t be able to.

“I mean…I can’t just jump into something like that…” she said timidly, feeling her shrink into my side a little more.

Jason chuckled before responding. “No, that would be terrifying. What if we start you easy? You could record with Briana on her album, it’s private, no one to watch you except the people at the studio.” Briana was agreeing to it before he even finished saying her name, making her laugh. God I hope she does this. She’s amazing when she’s performing, no matter the environment.

Rob chimed in, “You could even come to conventions with us, sing with the band? I’m sure Jensen wouldn’t mind either. And the fans loved you at VanCon,” he said with a laugh and a wink towards me.

I squeezed her shoulder, getting her to look up at me. “It’s ok, Y/N/N. You don’t have to say yes to anything right now. But just so you know, he’s not wrong about any of it, you would be amazing,” I told her, kissing her forehead. She looked back at Jason, with a nervous smile, “I’ll let you know, a career change might just be in the cards sooner or later.”

I didn’t see the look she gave Briana, the one saying that sooner or later was coming quicker than anticipated, because I was looking at Jared giving him a similar look, only it was regarding everything we talked about in Texas. I gave him a barely noticeable shake of my head, saying that I hadn’t talked to Y/N about her hands yet. What if she gets upset with me? Pushing her away is the last thing I want to do to her.

Kim cut into the conversation, gracefully I might add, taking the awkwardness that was starting to settle, and within a few moments everyone was back to laughing and drinking.

As the night wore on, my arm had moved from around her shoulders to around her waist, her fingers from her opposite arm finding mine. I noticed that she hadn’t touched her drink in a while; I made eye contact with Briana, asking if she was awake. She smiled at Y/N then looked back to me and nodded, telling me that she was just zoning out. I lowered my head to kiss her hair, whispering, “Baby, you ready to go?” All she did was nod and slowly sit up as I brushed a few stray strands of hair away. “Let’s go home, hm?” I asked her, as she gave me a small smile.

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[geekmama]

Uncertain Terms

With thanks to Ellis_Hendricks for looking over the first draft of this, here is a Regency A/U based on a prompt from holidaysat221b:: ‘AU: Molly runs away from home when her parents try to arrange a marriage for her. She wants to pursue a life that involves science and marry for love if she ever gets married at all. She meets Sherlock, who is being pressured by his family to marry a nice girl they found for him who loves science as much as he does. It will be interesting when they figure it out.  -  @shadowyqueenbeard’

Hopefully this will more or less fit the bill...

“My name is Margaret Stamford, and I would like a room for the night, if you please.” 

Overhearing these words, Sherlock Holmes looked up, over the edge of the newspaper he had been perusing while he awaited the dinner the innkeeper’s wife had blithely (and erroneously) promised to set on the table before him “in the twinkling of a bedpost”. He had been growing quite impatient, in fact, for he’d only broken his journey because he’d skipped breakfast in favor of making an early start on the remaining seventy miles to his destination and he had grown unusually peckish by mid-day as a result. Now, however, he was quite glad that the woman had grossly underestimated the time it would take to prepare the Roasted Partridge with Asparagus, Mushrooms, and New Potatoes she’d suggested, let alone the Chocolate Soufflé with Crème Anglaise for which the Royal George was reputedly famous. 

Miss Margaret Stamford. 

A very interesting name. 

It might be mere coincidence, of course. Yet the female for whom he’d undertaken this onerous quest into the wilds of the north was one Miss Molly Hooper -- Molly being a pet name derived from Margaret, and this according to none other than Miss Hooper’s uncle, Dr. Michael Stamford of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, London. 

So, coincidence? As Mycroft was wont to say, the universe is rarely so lazy. 

And running his eyes swiftly over the female in question, Sherlock had to admit that once again his brother might very well be proven correct. 

He recalled Dr. Stamford’s description of the girl… 

… rather slight, but fairly pretty, and she’s a taking little thing when you get to know her. But there’s no nonsense about her. She’d quite understand your desire to… ah… favorably resolve your situation. 

… said situation having become a topic of discussion in the tavern-based aftermath of a Bow Street murder investigation, due solely to Dr. John Watson’s cursed inability to hold his tongue after a couple of glasses. 

Said situation was both highly annoying and inconvenient. Sherlock’s great aunt, Wilhelmina Scott, had left her fortune to “her favorite nephew”, an event that had been anticipated by the entire family. However, when the will had been read out after Aunt’s death, two months ago, it was found that the bequest was not without strings attached. 

The inheritance shall be held in trust until such time as Sherlock marries and sets up his nursery, thus fulfilling his clear duty to the family and providing my dearest sister with the grandchildren for which her heart has longed these many years. 

Sherlock had been stunned, then filled with chagrin (he could still see Mycroft’s smirk in his mind’s eye), then furious. He was all too well aware that his mother’s heart longed, having been regularly reminded of it by the lady herself since he’d come of age seven years before, and he considered the addition of this codicil such a blatant attempt to manipulate him that he was strongly tempted to wash his hands of the whole business. 

Tempted… but, in the end, he did not. Aunt’s Wilhelmina’s fortune was nothing to sneeze at, including as it did, considerable principal as well as a townhouse in London and a neat little estate in Suffolk, worth some three thousand a year in revenues (and perfect for apiculture, too). Even so unmercenary a soul as Sherlock’s could not help but be swayed -- and, of course, he had been living off the expectation to some extent for years. So, ultimately, he’d set aside his anger and his wounded pride and began, for the first time in his life, to seriously consider entering into the married state. 

He had never been “in the petticoat line”, as various of his contemporaries so vulgarly put it, but he had no doubt that he would be able to meet his marital obligations. He certainly did not look or wish for romance, however. The case called for an old fashioned marriage of convenience, one in which the bride understood quite clearly the part she would play, i.e., well-heeled young matron, capable and responsible in taking charge of domestic affairs, organizing those social engagements that were deemed unavoidable, and producing and subsequently nurturing any progeny that happened to make an appearance in the natural course of events. 

Dr. Stamford had purported that his niece, Miss Molly Hooper of Primrose Cottage, a modest seat located some five miles from York, might be a parti that would meet and even exceed expectations. She’s only twenty, not quite on the shelf, and a pleasant, good-natured girl -- and you’ll like this: she’s become quite the bluestocking, has a love of science and a grasp of its intricacies that really is little short of astonishing in a female. I believe you’d suit extremely. 

If this was Molly Hooper, this young woman who was in the process of delivering to the obviously disapproving innkeeper a mendacious explanation of the circumstances that had led to her traveling through England unchaperoned and carrying only a chipboard bandbox by way of luggage, Sherlock wasn’t certain he would have described her as taking. Physically she was of less than average height, with a figure on the spare side. She was dressed neatly, but very plainly in an olive pelisse over a gown of the same colour, not a ruffle or frill to be seen, and her headgear was of a style that had gone out of fashion some time before – prior to Waterloo, if memory served. 

Much of her countenance was hidden from him, of course, due to that hat and to his position at table in the coffee room. However, when the innkeeper’s wife (who should, by rights, have been seeing to Sherlock’s unconscionably delayed meal) joined the innkeeper in rejecting the young lady’s request for a room and added that she had no notion of young persons jauntering about the countryside and there’s always The Pig and Whistle down the road if a room is needed for the night, Sherlock decided it might be time to intervene and was thereby afforded a closer look at ‘Miss Stamford’. As he approached he observed that she had a good complexion, and a firm chin. That chin tilted a bit as she perceived that her advent at the Royal George was viewed in a less than favorable light, and her very upright posture seemed to reiterate her determined nature (and possibly extensive use of the backboard in her girlhood). 

And then, seeing the innkeeper’s attention claimed by Sherlock’s approach, ‘Miss Stamford’, too, turned to him, and he became aware that a pair of large brown eyes lent a certain undeniable appeal to that  heart-shaped visage, and that the rosy colour that stained her cheeks was really most becoming. 

Sherlock found it surprisingly easy to assume a friendly demeanor as he said to the lady, “Miss Stamford? Can I be of assistance? I believe I may be acquainted with a relation of yours, Dr. Michael Stamford of London?” 

She looked immediately startled and flushed a deeper pink. “He is my uncle, sir. But--” 

“I thought as much,” Sherlock went on, blithely. “There is just the hint of a family resemblance. Dr. Stamford and I have been friends for a number of years and it would give me great pleasure to be able to tell him I was able to come to the aid of one of his young relations. I collect you wish to procure a room at this excellent inn? Surely The Pig and Whistle would be entirely inappropriate for a young woman of good family and gentle upbringing.” And here Sherlock shifted his gaze to the innkeeper and his wife, raising a brow. 

The innkeeper rolled an eye toward his spouse, who threw up her hands and said, “Oh, very well, I shall have the Blue Chamber prepared.” 

Sherlock nodded, but added pointedly, “And while it is being prepared, Miss Stamford will join me for dinner, if she so desires. I trust it will be on the table shortly, but in the meantime we would be most obliged to you for some refreshment -- say a glass of claret for me and ratafia for the lady?” 

The innkeeper said with a bow, “Right away, Mr. Holmes,” and gave his wife another admonitory glance before bustling off. 

The innkeeper’s wife also made her exit, grumbling, and Sherlock turned once more to ‘Miss Stamford’. “I do apologize for intruding in such a brazen manner but I could hardly reconcile it with my conscience to do otherwise.” 

Where she had been pink-cheeked before, the girl had now become quite pale, staring at him, taking in his features, and even letting her eyes rove over his whole person. Then, suddenly, she became aware of what she was doing and blushed more hotly than ever. 

“Forgive me! But… are are you indeed Mr. Holmes? Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” 

“Yes, I am,” he said, a little amused. He took a small gold case from his pocket, removed a card from it and handed it to her. 

Her colour faded again as she read it. “I see,” she said, and raised her eyes again, warily. 

A smile twitched the corner of his mouth. “Yes. And I see, as well.” 

“You… what do you see?” she asked in a small voice. 

“That having had news of my coming you elected to depart from your home, rather than entertain what amounts to another in a long line of unwanted suitors. That you are Dr. Stamford’s niece, Margaret Elizabeth Stamford Hooper, called by those with whom you have close ties, Molly.” 

She paled further, but said in an even tone, “You are… astoundingly prescient. And your guess about my name is accurate.” 

“It was not a guess, but a deduction, Miss Hooper. The latter is something of a speciality of mine. But come into the coffee room and sit down,” he said, gesturing toward his table in the coffee room. “A glass of wine will set you to rights, and, thus fortified, you will perhaps tell me in what ways, if any, I can further serve you.”  

 *

 The claret and ratafia had been delivered to the table shortly after they were seated, but Mr. Holmes did not immediately press Molly, a forbearance for which she could not but be grateful. She sipped her wine, and occasionally glanced at him, wondering at his apparent intelligence, his evident effrontery, and his quite astonishingly handsome person, set off by clothing that was both elegant and understated. 

And he seemed kind, too. Since her father’s death three years before, experience had not led her to anticipate much consideration for her needs or, indeed, regard for her person, so his intervention in her difficulties and the attentions he had thus far bestowed upon her seemed exceptional -- particularly in view of her attempted deception. He had relieved her of her bandbox, pelisse, and hat, untying the ribbons of the latter himself, and requested that the innkeeper not only set their wine on the table, but fetch some bread and butter to tide them over until dinner should be served, just as though he knew she was famished (which she was, having skipped breakfast in her effort to escape Primrose Cottage before even the servants had stirred from bed). 

“Small sips, now,” he had murmured as the innkeeper had hustled away. “Until we have something substantial to accompany our libations, an enervation of the senses is almost a given should we imbibe too freely.” 

She had murmured thanks, patting ineffectually at her slightly mussed hair and tucking a stray tendril behind her ear, even as she took her first sip and tried to calm herself. This task was certainly easier said than done. 

She was nearly of age, and, in concept, traveling to London to visit her uncle and his family was unexceptionable. But she knew very well that undertaking the journey in such a scrambling manner was not the behavior of a well-bred woman. The reaction of the innkeeper and his wife had reminded her of this fact most acutely. And of course she didn’t look like a woman -- or, to tell the truth, feel like one! 

There was no use in bemoaning the fact that one’s appearance was that of a girl just out of the school room, rather than a woman on the cusp of her majority, but once again she could not help thinking it most unfair that much of the time this circumstance resulted in a lack of respect toward her that bordered on intolerable. With her father gone, her stepmother had let this tendency burgeon to monstrous proportions, exacerbating her scorn of Molly’s determination to remain unmarried if she could not marry for love. 

“Marry for love!,” Albinia Hooper had scoffed the one time that Molly had been goaded into protesting the intrusion of still another unacceptable suitor into her otherwise well-ordered life. “There never was such a low-bred, nonsensical notion. What, pray, has love to do with the keeping of a house or raising children? You’ve windmills in your head, girl. It’s time you grew up and faced some hard facts.” 

Molly had not argued the point. There was no use in trying to explain what she meant by love. Not romance, for Heaven’s sake. Contrary to her stepmother’s opinion, Molly was as practical as her father had been, and as devoted to seeking truth wherever the facts led. But she was not willing to settle for less, as he had been, in spite of the fact that an unmarried female was at a much greater disadvantage in society than any male would be in a similar case. 

Her father had understood her views, and to facilitate her long and perhaps fruitless quest he had left her what was politely termed an independence. It was a fairly generous one, too, considering that the remainder of his estate was, by law, left in trust to Molly’s stepbrother, Gerald, who had been born when Molly was ten years old. There were also twin step daughters from Albinia’s first marriage, Cassandra and Lavinia, and Molly did not grudge the girls a single penny of the dowries with which they’d been provided. She loved her step-siblings, as they did her, and it was care of them that had brightened her days after Father’s death. Albinia, once again widowed and, in her own words, distracted with grief, had welcomed Molly’s help with the children, and with the house, for several years. Time, however, had altered matters. Gerald was now away at school, and Cassie and Lavinia were old enough to make their come-out. Molly’s position in the household was fast becoming superfluous, and though she made great efforts to be of help and, simultaneously, stay out of the way, Albinia had been relentless in her promotion of marriage as the only reasonable course, and relentless, too, in the introduction of potential suitors. 

And then Aunt Stamford had written that fatal letter. 

My Dearest Molly, 

I am writing to you today because a most surprising opportunity has arisen, quite out of the blue. You know that I have been very much in sympathy with your desire to focus upon your chosen avocation of natural philosophy, eschewing the paths of courtship and marriage that are more traditional for a young women to tread. However, I must own that I doubted your decision would ultimately conduce to your happiness, content as I am and always have been to be a loving wife to your dear uncle and mother to the six darling children who are your cousins. Therefore, I dare to write to you on behalf of one of your uncle’s associates, one Mr. Sherlock Holmes, presenting him to you as a possible candidate for your hand. 

Mr. Holmes is a gentleman, the scion of an old, distinguished, and affluent family, and, on his marriage, will become a man of property in his own right. Moreover, he is a man of science himself, and his knowledge and skill in deduction have allowed him to lend his assistance to various agencies of jurisprudence here in London. In this way he came to your uncle’s notice, for you will recall that your uncle oversees the mortuary at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital and is often called upon to collaborate in criminal investigations. 

Your uncle and I have had the pleasure of Mr. Holmes’ company for dinner several times over the last few years and, after coming to know him, I cannot help but agree with your uncle when he suggests that the gentleman may be the one man in all of England who might prove acceptable to you as a mate. Since the requirements of a recent bequest have inspired him to look about for a wife, your uncle suggested you as a possible candidate. Coincidentally, Mr. Holmes had it in mind to travel north at the beginning of April, visiting friends in the vicinity of Harrogate. He determined that he would pay a call upon you and your stepmother at Primrose Cottage if your uncle and I would write to you by way of introduction. 

My dear, I do beg of you to receive Mr. Holmes kindly and without prejudice. He is a little eccentric in his manner, but underneath it he is a very good sort of man, and most handsome, too, as you will soon see for yourself. Though the latter is not a vital quality in a mate, it does make the idea of looking across the breakfast table at the same countenance for the rest of one’s life far easier to bear. 

And on that frivolous note, I am, as ever, your loving aunt, 

Emily Stamford  

 Molly’s disappointment on receiving this missive was palpable. Either this Mr. Holmes was a most unusual man indeed, or her uncle had finally persuaded Aunt Emily that their niece would be better served accepting an offer than persisting in the ways of an incorrigible bluestocking as he’d once put it. 

That memory still rankled. Had she been born a man, her predilection for science and natural philosophy would have been not only indulged, but praised! 

“Have some of this excellent bread, Miss Hooper,” Mr. Holmes said, breaking into her thoughts. The innkeeper had delivered a basket of fresh-baked rolls to the table, and Mr. Holmes was now holding out a steaming half, butter spread liberally over it and rapidly melting. 

“Thank you,” she said, and as she took it, her stomach gave an audible growl of lust at the mere scent. Her cheeks grew hot with embarrassment -- and indeed, Mr. Holmes was looking amused as he bit into his own half roll -- but she took a small bite of the bread and tried to compose herself. She decided that honesty would be the best policy with Mr. Holmes, and accordingly said, after another sip of wine, “I know I owe you an explanation.” 

“As you will, Miss Hooper. I understand what a shock it must have been to run across the very person you were hoping to avoid in leaving your home in such a precipitate manner, but I assure you I am no ogre and do not mean to press you to do anything you would not like. To tell you the truth, I was hesitant to visit you in the first place, and can sympathize entirely with your reluctance to enter into the married state.” 

Molly stared at him, and then said, “What an odd man you are, Mr. Holmes!” 

“Well… yes!” he said. “I was under the impression that… er… oddity was what you were searching for in a mate.” 

She laughed a little. “I wouldn’t put it quite that way, but perhaps my uncle would.” 

“How would you put it, then?” 

She said, slowly, considering her words, “You may think it strange of me, but I believe I would value respect more than the fleeting infatuation that passes for love in these modern times. I… I have studied natural philosophy for a number of years now, and have only scratched the surface of what I wish to learn. I am not opposed to marriage, per se. But I cannot conceive of allying myself with any gentleman who might prove an impediment to my chosen avocation.” She felt herself colouring as she added, “I daresay that sounds monstrously selfish. I fear that’s the sort of person I am, however.” And she dared to look straight into those piercing, pale blue eyes… or were they pale green? She was aware of a strange internal frisson under their steady gaze. 

“I see,” Mr. Holmes replied, thoughtfully. “But you do say avocation, I note. Can it be inferred that you are not averse to taking up the day to day duties required of a wife and mother, provided you are allowed sufficient leeway in the pursuit of your studies?” 

“I would say so, yes. In fact, I would like, someday, to be able to have the running of my own house. And of course, nurses are all very well but children also need the care only a loving mother can give.” 

Mr. Holmes smiled slightly. “Do you like children?” 

And for the first time, Molly smiled, too. “Indeed, yes! I have helped raise my stepmother’s children, and one of my greatest joys is to stay with my aunt and uncle in London and help with my cousins. 

Mr. Holmes smile grew sardonic. “Dr. Stamford does have quite the brood. Six, I believe.” 

“Yes, and all of them such dear creatures, too.” 

“I daresay.” He sat back and studied Molly for a moment, and she lifted a brow and returned the favor, which again brought a sincere smile to his lips. And then he said, “Ah! Finally!” as it was seen that the innkeeper’s wife had emerged from the kitchen and was now approaching, followed by two underlings with laden trays. “Shall we postpone further discussion of this particular topic until after dinner? I feel there is hope that we may come to an understanding, but hunger… intrudes.” 

Molly chuckled and said, “I am entirely of your way of thinking, Mr. Holmes.” 

“On all points?” 

A little of her humor faded, but she replied thoughtfully, “Perhaps.”

 *

 Dinner was a resounding success. Miss Hooper had forgone breakfast just as he had done himself, and Sherlock was pleased to observe that she set to with a will, exclaiming at intervals over the excellence of the repast and then gasping in sheer delight when the chocolate soufflé was brought to the table. Their conversation throughout was desultory but edifying, Sherlock encouraging her to enlarge upon her “avocation”, and contributing his own mite by describing the details of one or two criminal investigations with which he had been involved. He was quite pleased with her reaction to the latter -- at first glance she might have struck him as a mere milk-and-water miss, but that’s where it ended. Those expressive eyes were alight with intelligence, her questions were gratifyingly cogent, and her curiosity and lack of squeamishness both did her great credit. 

They were finishing up with a glass of Port for him, raspberry cordial for her, and a dish of sweetmeats and nuts between them, when a noisy arrival at the inn that included the sound of a strident female voice caused Miss Hooper to look up in alarm, the pretty colour in her cheeks fading abruptly. 

“Oh! Oh, no! It’s my stepmother!” she uttered, and pushed back her chair, scrambling to her feet so hastily that her glass of cordial tipped over, spilling its contents across the white tablecloth. “Oh, Heavens!” she cried, horrified at the mishap, and then froze at the sound of the inn’s door opening and a male voice shouting, “House! House, I say!” 

Sherlock rose swiftly, too, but not swiftly enough. With a last despairing glance at him, Miss Hooper bolted, rushing straight across the room toward the kitchen door. Sherlock swore in annoyance as she disappeared. He quickly gathered up her abandoned pelisse, hat, and bandbox, and, with a last glance at the occupants of the foyer -- a plump matron in a purple gown had now joined the demanding, grim-faced gentleman who looked to be a parson of some sort -- he took his leave, following Miss Hooper through the kitchen. 

The only occupant of the kitchen was a mildly interested lad sitting on a stool by the open hearth, slowly turning a spit with a turkey upon it. Seeing Sherlock, the boy jerked his head toward the far door, which appeared to lead to the stable yard. 

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, and made his exit. 

It was approaching dusk, and for a moment it seemed that Miss Hooper had vanished. However, after a few moments of looking about in the waning light, Sherlock spied her, hovering near the back corner of the inn, her hands gripped together in patent indecision. He strode toward her, with a glance around to locate anyone who might see them, but the stable boys were apparently at the front of the inn, tending to the coach in which Miss Hooper’s pursuers had arrived. 

The girl watched him as he approached, and allowed him to hustle her into the shadows before speaking. She said, “It is the vicar, the Reverend Mr. Blackstone who has come with Albinia, to… to fetch me back, I suppose. Oh, what am I to do? What a dreadful scene must occur. I’m so very sorry Mr. Holmes!” 

“Miss Hooper, do put your pelisse and hat on against the chill,” he told her, calmly. “You have only to tell me what you wish to do.” 

She did as he’d bade, visibly striving for control, but as she tied on her hat while he helped her button up the pelisse she said to him, “I had planned to travel to London, to stay with my aunt and uncle -- and to ask them why they supported your suit, though of course I now understand why they did so. My stepmother, unfortunately, insisted on reading the letter from my aunt. When I expressed the desire to avoid you, and instead travel to London, she refused to entertain the notion. So I arranged a clandestine escape with a friend of mine, Barnaby Whitlaw -- the son of a local farmer. He took me up just before dawn, on his way to the market at Greenlea, some three miles from here. I walked the rest of the way, hoping to catch the afternoon Mail Coach, but I was too late. There is another that departs from here at seven in the morning, however, and that is why I needed a room for the night.” 

“I see,” he said, then, “Let me fix this,” and set to work to straighten the hat’s ribbons which she’d tied in a perfectly abominable bow. 

She stood quite still while he corrected the fault, her mouth set, but her eyes were beginning to glisten. He was almost finished with his task when she finally spoke again, her voice tremulous. “I suppose you will say I am fairly caught and it is time to have done with such nonsense.” 

He lifted his brows in surprise. “Why would I tell you any such thing? Your wish to avoid your step-mother and that parson seems quite reasonable to me. If you indeed wish to go to London, to London you shall go. There! Your bow is as fine as my skill can make it.  You are dressed warmly, and have your bandbox. Do you think you can retrace your steps toward Greenlea? Night is coming on, but I shouldn’t be above an hour.” 

“Yes. Yes, of course I can, but--” 

“I will pay the shot here and get some fresh horses put to my curricle, then travel toward Greenlea and take you up when we meet. If we stay off the main roads we will be a little delayed, but I believe we should be able to avoid pursuit and perhaps make it as far as Doncaster before we are obliged to put up for the night, thanks to this fine weather and a full moon.” 

“But what will you tell everyone? The innkeeper and his wife will surely question my departure since a room was being prepared for me.” 

“Very true. However, a word in the right ear, a guinea in the right pocket, and the thing is done.” 

She flushed. “I… it appears that I will owe you a great deal before this adventure is complete, Mr. Holmes. I am not entirely sure--” 

“Come, come, Miss Hooper!” he said, with a pretense of impatience. “You are possessed of an independence, are you not? At least I was given to understand that you are not penniless. You can very well reimburse any expenditure I may make on your behalf. Or are you concerned with the proprieties? I’m afraid that bird has flown, since your stepmother saw fit to share the story with the local parson.” 

“Oh, dear. That is very true. They say women are dreadful gossips, but Reverend Blackburn has them all beat to flinders. He is the most odious man. I never could see why Albinia cultivated his friendship.” 

“There is certainly no accounting for taste,” Sherlock said, and a crooked smile touched his lips as he considered his newly acquired taste for the company of one Molly Elizabeth Hooper. 

And indeed, she gave an answering smile, and there was a gleam in her eye as she said, “Very well. I will put my fate into your hands, Mr. Holmes.” 

“Miss Hooper, I will do my utmost to fulfill your faith in me,” he replied, and, to both her surprise and his own, he lifted her hand to his lips and placed a kiss on her slender fingers.

[ourcuttlefish12]

St George's Day-Renaissance of National Pride

Most sovereign countries are proud to celebrate the national holiday. Visitors to the United States on the 4th of July will find it hard to miss the Independence Day street parade and fireworks. A similar national unity and joy scene can be seen in France on July 14 and St. Patrick's Day Ireland. But something similar will not happen when it is necessary to celebrate the celebration of St George, the patron saint of England, this Sunday. According to a recent survey, only 1 in 3 people in the UK know that April 23 is St. George's Day. This is an event that will be more honored in violation than compliance.

The City of London is working to revive St. George's beauty pageant, which was last performed in 1585 during the Good Queen Beth reign. People who can't attend or are too excited to attend this parade can visit the British Museum and quietly pay tribute to St George's painting where St George in Raphael kills the dragon. Time. Otherwise, there will be little sign of a crowd waving Union Jack, which takes place in a pub only when the British football team plays in the World Cup. Even this gesture was banned by law enforcement officers hired by the local council under the Dean because of the Welshman living nearby could offend.

According to a recent survey, the UK is the least patriotic country in Europe. National pride in 'this blessed conspiracy' is lower than any of the other nine countries included in the poll. Only one in ten of these proud races said they would rejoice the flag because of political doctrine and fear of racism. Patriotism is now a dirty word associated with fascism and saber-disgusting ginkgoes, but in fact, patriots live for the country rather than stab. The detailed description of Roger Scruton's book N Need for Nations is based on the love of places, the customs, and traditions of customs. Protect these good things through common law and common loyalty. For detail information visit st. patrick's day shirts.

We should be proud to be a member of the most exclusive club in the world. Margaret Truman has spoken similarly about a country that has a similar level of youth with the United States but does not fit the length and quality of British heritage. Regardless of race, British people can lead thousands of years of culture. They embrace towering figures such as Shakespeare, Ward Worth, Tennyson, Dickens, Samuel Johnson, Elga, and Bon Williams, and have a unique tradition of folk customs, music, art, poetry, and literature. They are good at sports, have a good sense of humor, are somewhat refreshing but stick their hair out and enjoy dramas like the dumb bonfire night party, fish and chips, archers, and the East Enders, which they ate from last week's newspaper. Neighborhood.

There is a real danger that we can sacrifice our pride in rushing like crazy to climb the globalization evil balance. The bigger and more imminent threat is that we can be attracted to a single-scale coalition of European nations and tempted to lose our freedom and sovereignty. Now Europe is a good place to visit for long weekends, but what do you have in common with people who do not share a language, customs, and lifestyle? British politicians who signed documents such as the Lisbon Treaty would once have been convicted of higher military forces. Even the relatively recent Treason Felony Act of 1848 is against the law to deprive or dispose of the queen from the established constitutional position. Obviously, this will happen if we enter the jurisdiction of the European president, not the British monarch. The action is still valid. According to the original Treason Act of 1351, all those convicted of such treason will be hanged. Now their punishment has been reduced to lifelong prison sentences.

You need to regain your national pride. Winston Churchill said: 'There are almost forgotten, almost forbidden words. The word is England. We knocked on the drums for England. We got a lot of our favorites. We like to be free. England is an island, and every Englishman is a whole island in itself. We are more eccentric than any country on earth. We are going easy. Our favorite word is 'live and live'. 'Make the most of bad things and better luck next time'. We also provide justice and fair play that can support and willingly support justice. French tennis player Jean Borotra was British

[lucyemers]

Dear Writer (Yuletide 2017)

(Since I almost never use LJ and have very little idea of how to use it, I'm housing my Dear Writer Yuletide letter here. Tumblr friends not participating in Yuletide this year, feel free to ignore!)

Dear Writer, Happy Yuletide! This is my first year participating and I am beside myself with excitement to read whatever you have written in any of these tiny wonderful fandoms that don’t get near enough love. I’m leaving many prompts but feel free to extemporize and take something as the slightest inspiration and go in an opposite direction. (But please mind the triggers and dislikes).

General Likes: Backstory (especially when revealed by one character to another as a show of trust) Femslash Internal monologue Hurt/Comfort (physical and emotional, typically with more comfort than hurt) Sickfic (as a subset of the above) Angst with a happy ending Missing scenes (episode related) Slow burn Friendship fic Fluff Pining Mentors looking after their proteges (particularly in career situations: imparting wisdom, life lessons, etc.) Shared confidences and secrets Situations and moments that push a formerly casual friendship/relationship to the next level out of necessity I like explicit fic but I do like some plot with my porn. Triggers (please, under no circumstances) Rape, noncon, dubcon Incest Infantilism/deaging Miscarriage Infertility General dislikes Deathfic (unless the characters are dealing with an in canon death) First person POV Alpha/Beta/Omega BDSM Humiliation Kid fic (unless there are children in canon) AU’s (with the exception of canon divergence. I especially don’t like modern AU of a period piece) (Descriptions of Fandoms below are not spoiler free!) Endeavour Characters Requested: Any This is the fandom that got me into...fandom in general, and it’s most of what I have written. I love the general melancholy of the show, the way Morse struggles to fit into both the town and gown aspects of Oxford. I love anything to do with his backstory prior to joining the police force as well as casefic where he gets to show off his obscure knowledge (all of his opera knowledge in Fugue, for example.) I love all the characters that are nominated and would be happy with fic of any of them. I prefer genfic for this fandom, though I do have a soft spot of Endeavour/DeBryn (but I love them as friends too! Particularly when they get all geeky and intellectual together.) Endeavour/Fred is definitely a NOTP for me as the relationship feels so paternal that it feels incestuous to me. I love h/c in this fandom and am always delighted with anyone taking care of Morse following case related injury/illness (as happens often in canon).

I love the relationship in canon between Morse and Thursday- Thursday as father figure trying to bring wisdom and practicality to temper Morse’s headstrong, passionate drive towards justice and right. I also love the relationship between Dorothea Frazil and Morse- so much mutual respect between them and grudging regard for each other’s methods in their careers.

Prompts: -I would love Morse receiving some care/comfort following any of the more taxing cases (Fugue, Neverland and Canticle come to mind, but any of them will do) from Thursday, Debryn or Frazil. -And speaking of Frazil, any kind of interactions between her and Morse or Thursday following an in canon case or a casefic involving all three of them. -casefic that in some way brings to light some of Morse's family life or Oxford backstory or general past. The Hour Characters Requested: Lix Storm, Bel Rowley I love the newsroom dynamics in this show. I particularly love the supportive relationship between Bel and Lix as Bel struggles and thrives in her role as producer, how Lix defers to Bel while still imparting some backhanded wisdom. Lix and Randall's backstory is perhaps my favorite part of the show, but I also just love all of their relentless, journalistic pursuit of truth.

Prompts: -How would season 1 have gone differently if Bel was having an affair with Lix instead of Hector. (Or any any getting together fic with the two of them, honestly). -Lix tends to be a closed book generally. I would love a fic where she opens up to Bel about her past/comes to her for comfort. Crossovers: the chances of matching on both of these tiny fandoms is small, but I would love a crossover about a close friendship or romantic relationship between Lix Storm and Dorothea Frazil. Grantchester Characters Requested: Sidney Chambers, Leonard Finch, Kathy Keating, Margaret Ward, Sylvia Macguire, Amanda Kendall (as specifically mentioned below) I love the small pastoral village element of this show. I love how the church is a sustaining part of nearly all the characters’ lives and I appreciate that the show recognizes the problems within the Anglican Communion while still highlighting how sustaining it is for the town and how central it is in the lives of Sidney and Leonard. I love how Sidney, Leonard and Mrs. Macguire are a little family and give each other tough love when they need it. Generally I love Sidney, but he's a mess. I would rather not have anything shippy written for me about him. I find so much of his romantic life so painful! Prompts- (In my opinion things went a bit off the rails this past season so a lot of these prompts are fix its) -I loved the scene during the Christmas special where Mrs. M took charge and delivered that baby. I would love to have seen more bonding between her and Amanda. Perhaps in a moment of tenderness and vulnerability following the birth, Amanda hears about Mrs. M’s past or gets some advice/wisdom from her? -What was up with Sidney leaving immediately after Leonard attempted suicide?? I would love a fix it for this with an apology from Sidney as he gives Leonard the care he deserves and further assurance of his value in God's eyes. -Leonard and Mrs. M. both have some rough times in this past season. I'd love any kind of emotional h/c fic about the two of them. A million thank you's for whatever you end up writing- so happy that one of these tiny fandoms is getting more fic. You can find me on AO3 and Tumblr at Lucyemer.

[inhalingwords]

janbeans replied to your post: janbeans replied to your photo: Book Discussion Challe...

I tried reading Hamlet before, it was a miss for me. Maybe I would try Romeo and Juliet. Can you recommend some Shakespeare or any classic stories in general that I could read?

oh boy here we go

first of all, out of the Shakespeare plays I have now read (I have not yet read many of the works which are considered Shakespeare’s best!!!), I’d rec these (purely based on my own enjoyment lmao):

A Midsummer Night’s Dream (you’d already read this one)

Love’s Labour’s Lost

A comedy about four guys who vow to fast, avoid women and sex, and sleep as little as possible so they can study and become intelligent/renowned. Cue the arrival of a French princess with her three lady attendants.

“Wise fools”, a witty pair of lovers, poking fun at artifice and pretense, sexual jokes -- this play’s got it all.

Romeo and Juliet

This is the play I finished most recently. I know there’s a lot of debate about a lot of things, especially about how young the main characters are and how quickly they fall in love and blah blah blah, but I loved it. Yes, they fall in love immediately (”love at first sonnet”) but it’s so. beautifully. written. Like, I’m the first in line to complain about instalove but. The point is, if it’s well-written and there are symbolical meanings and shit, I don’t see a problem. (And it’s not like the play itself glorifies what happens to R&J??? Like, none of it tries to say, “look at this, how great, this is what love’s supposed to be like, killing yourself over someone!!” Like there’s a bigger plot and point re: feuding btw the families and pride and how it’s all so irrational and ridiculous and pointless and R&J’s tragic deaths are what finally(!!!) seem to get through to the parents (maybe??? do the parents really understand what’s what in the end??))

There’s some really elaborate and deliberate use of language throughout the play and the theme of opposites (light/dark, bawdiness/love, young/old) is pretty cool. My favourite thing is probably how the play is structured as a comedy (with lots and lots of foreboding remarks) that turns to tragedy halfway through (Marjorie Garber calls it “a comedy gone wrong, a comedy turned inside out” in her book Shakespeare After All).

Henry VI tetralogy (1 Henry VI, 2 Henry VI, 3 Henry VI, Richard III)

History plays! I’ve gathered not a lot of people care for these that much(?) but I really liked reading them, especially 3 Henry VI and Richard III, mostly because there are some really interesting female characters in these (Margaret, Joan of Arc, Elizabeth, Lady Anne).

Basically, these are dramatic retellings of the Wars of the Roses; there’s lots of corruption and infighting at court and civil war.

The Two Gentlemen of Verona

For some reason I have a soft spot for this very early (and slightly weak) romantic comedy. Maybe because it’s filled with tropes that Shakespeare would refine in his later plays, so it’s just fun to read it and see how it anticipates his later works idk.

Anyway, The Two Gents is about two guys who fall in love with ppl and shit happens; there are love triangles, cross-dressing, horrible dominating fathers, horrible men in general, elopement plots, friends made rivals in love, clownish servants, and A DOG.

And now, to some non-Shakespearean classics I’d like to rec (fair warning: I haven’t really read all that many, especially recently TT____TT also, the total lack of female writers on this admittedly short list is very distressing to me!! pls someone rec me some classics written by women!!):

The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde

Art for art’s sake, the most important thing is The Aesthetic™.

Dorian Gray is a philosophical meditation and a Victorian thriller about an exceptionally handsome man whose portrait starts to age while the man himself stays young and good-looking.

The Iliad by Homer

I don’t even know how to sell this tbh. Just, there are heroes and heroines, gods and goddesses, and war, and the relationship between Achilles and Patroclus pretty much made me cry.

I read a beautiful, lyrical Finnish translation of this last year -- it was superb!!! and I can only thank Otto Manninen (the translator) for making that experience possible for me! (the descriptions of achilles’s grief killed me)

Les Misérables by Victor Hugo

I’ve been planning a reread of this ever since I first read it in like two years ago. I read it super quickly so I don’t have much to say except I loved it and that it’s so much more than most film/theatre adaptations lead you to believe (so many side plots and side characters and side stories and shit that just don’t fit into a couple of hours).

I seem to really gravitate towards super long books with a million different characters... ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Täällä Pohjantähden alla 1-3 (Under the North Star 1-3) by Väinö Linna

Probably interesting to us Finns only, idk, thought I’d rec it anyway.

This trilogy is a sprawling family saga about the Koskela family (and some of the other inhabitants of the Finnish small town in which they live) from the 1880s to the 1950s. It explores the major historical events and social changes during that time in Finland (e.g. language strife, nationalism, socialism, WWI, Finland’s independence, civil war, WWII, etc.) through the perspectives of ordinary people.

I cried buckets. My favourite part was the second book (”The Uprising”), which centres around the civil war between the Whites and the Reds bc I’m very very very interested in that part of Finnish history (and it was also probably the saddest book and I apparently live for tragedy and death who knew???).

[gordonwilliamsweb]

Why Black Aging Matters, Too

Old. Chronically ill. Black.

People who fit this description are more likely to die from COVID-19 than any other group in the country.

They are perishing quietly, out of sight, in homes and apartment buildings, senior housing complexes, nursing homes and hospitals, disproportionately poor, frail and ill, after enduring a lifetime of racism and its attendant adverse health effects.

Yet, older Black Americans have received little attention as protesters proclaim that Black Lives Matter and experts churn out studies about the coronavirus.

“People are talking about the race disparity in COVID deaths, they’re talking about the age disparity, but they’re not talking about how race and age disparities interact: They’re not talking about older Black adults,” said Robert Joseph Taylor, director of the Program for Research on Black Americans at the University of Michigan’s Institute for Social Research.

A KHN analysis of data from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention underscores the extent of their vulnerability. It found that African Americans ages 65 to 74 died of COVID-19 five times as often as whites. In the 75-to-84 group, the death rate for Blacks was 3½ times greater. Among those 85 and older, Blacks died twice as often. In all three age groups, death rates for Hispanics were higher than for whites but lower than for Blacks.

(The gap between Blacks and whites narrows over time because advanced age, itself, becomes an increasingly important, shared risk. Altogether, 80% of COVID-19 deaths are among people 65 and older.)

The data comes from the week that ended Feb. 1 through Aug. 8. Although breakdowns by race and age were not consistently reported, it is the best information available.

Mistrustful of Outsiders

Social and economic disadvantage, reinforced by racism, plays a significant part in unequal outcomes. Throughout their lives, Blacks have poorer access to health care and receive services of lower quality than does the general population. Starting in middle age, the toll becomes evident: more chronic medical conditions, which worsen over time, and earlier deaths.

Several conditions — diabetes, chronic kidney disease, obesity, heart failure and pulmonary hypertension, among others — put older Blacks at heightened risk of becoming seriously ill and dying from COVID-19.

Yet many vulnerable Black seniors are deeply distrustful of government and health care institutions, complicating efforts to mitigate the pandemic’s impact.

The infamous Tuskegee syphilis study — in which African American participants in Alabama were not treated for their disease — remains a shocking, indelible example of racist medical experimentation. Just as important, the lifelong experience of racism in health care settings — symptoms discounted, needed treatments not given — leaves psychic scars.

In Seattle, Catholic Community Services sponsors the African American Elders Program, which serves nearly 400 frail homebound seniors each year.

“A lot of Black elders in this area migrated from the South a long time ago and were victims of a lot of racist practices growing up,” said Margaret Boddie, 77, who directs the program. “With the pandemic, they’re fearful of outsiders coming in and trying to tell them how to think and how to be. They think they’re being targeted. There’s a lot of paranoia.”

“They won’t open the door to people they don’t know, even to talk,” complicating efforts to send in social workers or nurses to provide assistance, Boddie said.

In Los Angeles, Karen Lincoln directs Advocates for African American Elders and is an associate professor of social work at the University of Southern California.

“Health literacy is a big issue in the older African American population because of how people were educated when they were young,” she said. “My maternal grandmother, she had a third-grade education. My grandfather, he made it to the fifth grade. For many people, understanding the information that’s put out, especially when it changes so often and people don’t really understand why, is a challenge.”

What this population needs, Lincoln suggested, is “help from people who they can relate to” — ideally, a cadre of African American community health workers.

With suspicion running high, older Blacks are keeping to themselves and avoiding health care providers.

“Testing? I know only of maybe two people who’ve been tested,” said Mardell Reed, 80, who lives in Pasadena, California, and volunteers with Lincoln’s program. “Taking a vaccine [for the coronavirus]? That is just not going to happen with most of the people I know. They don’t trust it and I don’t trust it.”

Reed has high blood pressure, anemia, arthritis and thyroid and kidney disease, all fairly well controlled. She rarely goes outside because of COVID-19. “I’m just afraid of being around people,” she admitted.

Other factors contribute to the heightened risk for older Blacks during the pandemic. They have fewer financial resources to draw upon and fewer community assets (such as grocery stores, pharmacies, transportation, community organizations that provide aging services) to rely on in times of adversity. And housing circumstances can contribute to the risk of infection.

In Chicago, Gilbert James, 78, lives in a 27-floor senior housing building, with 10 apartments on each floor. But only two of the building’s three elevators are operational at any time. Despite a “two-person-per-elevator policy,” people crowd onto the elevators, making it difficult to maintain social distance.

“The building doesn’t keep us updated on how they’re keeping things clean or whether people have gotten sick or died” of COVID-19, James said. Nationally, there are no efforts to track COVID-19 in low-income senior housing and little guidance about necessary infection control.

Large numbers of older Blacks also live in intergenerational households, where other adults, many of them essential workers, come and go for work, risking exposure to the coronavirus. As children return to school, they, too, are potential vectors of infection.

‘Striving Yet Never Arriving’

In recent years, the American Psychological Association has called attention to the impact of racism-related stress in older African Americans — yet another source of vulnerability.

This toxic stress, revived each time racism becomes manifest, has deleterious consequences to physical and mental health. Even racist acts committed against others can be a significant stressor.

“This older generation went through the civil rights movement. Desegregation. Their kids went through busing. They grew up with a knee on their neck, as it were,” said Keith Whitfield, provost at Wayne State University and an expert on aging in African Americans. “For them, it was an ongoing battle, striving yet never arriving. But there’s also a lot of resilience that we shouldn’t underestimate.”

This year, for some elders, violence against Blacks and COVID-19’s heavy toll on African American communities have been painful triggers. “The level of stress has definitely increased,” Lincoln said.

During ordinary times, families and churches are essential supports, providing practical assistance and emotional nurturing. But during the pandemic, many older Blacks have been isolated.

In her capacity as a volunteer, Reed has been phoning Los Angeles seniors. “For some of them, I’m the first person they’ve talked to in two to three days. They talk about how they don’t have anyone. I never knew there were so many African American elders who never married and don’t have children,” she said.

Meanwhile, social networks that keep elders feeling connected to other people are weakening.

“What is especially difficult for elders is the disruption of extended support networks, such as neighbors or the people they see at church,” said Taylor, of the University of Michigan. “Those are the ‘Hey, how are you doing? How are your kids? Anything you need?’ interactions. That type of caring is very comforting and it’s now missing.”

In Brooklyn, New York, Barbara Apparicio, 77, has been having Bible discussions with a group of church friends on the phone each weekend. Apparicio is a breast cancer survivor who had a stroke in 2012 and walks with a cane. Her son and his family live in an upstairs apartment, but she does not see him much.

“The hardest part for me [during this pandemic] has been not being able to go out to do the things I like to do and see people I normally see,” she said.

In Atlanta, Celestine Bray Bottoms, 83, who lives on her own in an affordable senior housing community, is relying on her faith to pull her through what has been a very difficult time. Bottoms was hospitalized with chest pains this month — a problem that persists. She receives dialysis three times a week and has survived leukemia.

“I don’t like the way the world is going. Right now, it’s awful,” she said. “But every morning when I wake up, the first thing I do is thank the Lord for another day. I have a strong faith and I feel blessed because I’m still alive. And I’m doing everything I can not to get this virus because I want to be here a while longer.”

KHN data editor Elizabeth Lucas contributed to this story.

Kaiser Health News (KHN) is a national health policy news service. It is an editorially independent program of the Henry J. Kaiser Family Foundation which is not affiliated with Kaiser Permanente.

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Why Black Aging Matters, Too published first on https://nootropicspowdersupplier.tumblr.com/

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Why Black Aging Matters, Too

Old. Chronically ill. Black.

People who fit this description are more likely to die from COVID-19 than any other group in the country.

They are perishing quietly, out of sight, in homes and apartment buildings, senior housing complexes, nursing homes and hospitals, disproportionately poor, frail and ill, after enduring a lifetime of racism and its attendant adverse health effects.

Yet, older Black Americans have received little attention as protesters proclaim that Black Lives Matter and experts churn out studies about the coronavirus.

“People are talking about the race disparity in COVID deaths, they’re talking about the age disparity, but they’re not talking about how race and age disparities interact: They’re not talking about older Black adults,” said Robert Joseph Taylor, director of the Program for Research on Black Americans at the University of Michigan’s Institute for Social Research.

A KHN analysis of data from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention underscores the extent of their vulnerability. It found that African Americans ages 65 to 74 died of COVID-19 five times as often as whites. In the 75-to-84 group, the death rate for Blacks was 3½ times greater. Among those 85 and older, Blacks died twice as often. In all three age groups, death rates for Hispanics were higher than for whites but lower than for Blacks.

(The gap between Blacks and whites narrows over time because advanced age, itself, becomes an increasingly important, shared risk. Altogether, 80% of COVID-19 deaths are among people 65 and older.)

The data comes from the week that ended Feb. 1 through Aug. 8. Although breakdowns by race and age were not consistently reported, it is the best information available.

Mistrustful of Outsiders

Social and economic disadvantage, reinforced by racism, plays a significant part in unequal outcomes. Throughout their lives, Blacks have poorer access to health care and receive services of lower quality than does the general population. Starting in middle age, the toll becomes evident: more chronic medical conditions, which worsen over time, and earlier deaths.

Several conditions — diabetes, chronic kidney disease, obesity, heart failure and pulmonary hypertension, among others — put older Blacks at heightened risk of becoming seriously ill and dying from COVID-19.

Yet many vulnerable Black seniors are deeply distrustful of government and health care institutions, complicating efforts to mitigate the pandemic’s impact.

The infamous Tuskegee syphilis study — in which African American participants in Alabama were not treated for their disease — remains a shocking, indelible example of racist medical experimentation. Just as important, the lifelong experience of racism in health care settings — symptoms discounted, needed treatments not given — leaves psychic scars.

In Seattle, Catholic Community Services sponsors the African American Elders Program, which serves nearly 400 frail homebound seniors each year.

“A lot of Black elders in this area migrated from the South a long time ago and were victims of a lot of racist practices growing up,” said Margaret Boddie, 77, who directs the program. “With the pandemic, they’re fearful of outsiders coming in and trying to tell them how to think and how to be. They think they’re being targeted. There’s a lot of paranoia.”

“They won’t open the door to people they don’t know, even to talk,” complicating efforts to send in social workers or nurses to provide assistance, Boddie said.

In Los Angeles, Karen Lincoln directs Advocates for African American Elders and is an associate professor of social work at the University of Southern California.

“Health literacy is a big issue in the older African American population because of how people were educated when they were young,” she said. “My maternal grandmother, she had a third-grade education. My grandfather, he made it to the fifth grade. For many people, understanding the information that’s put out, especially when it changes so often and people don’t really understand why, is a challenge.”

What this population needs, Lincoln suggested, is “help from people who they can relate to” — ideally, a cadre of African American community health workers.

With suspicion running high, older Blacks are keeping to themselves and avoiding health care providers.

“Testing? I know only of maybe two people who’ve been tested,” said Mardell Reed, 80, who lives in Pasadena, California, and volunteers with Lincoln’s program. “Taking a vaccine [for the coronavirus]? That is just not going to happen with most of the people I know. They don’t trust it and I don’t trust it.”

Reed has high blood pressure, anemia, arthritis and thyroid and kidney disease, all fairly well controlled. She rarely goes outside because of COVID-19. “I’m just afraid of being around people,” she admitted.

Other factors contribute to the heightened risk for older Blacks during the pandemic. They have fewer financial resources to draw upon and fewer community assets (such as grocery stores, pharmacies, transportation, community organizations that provide aging services) to rely on in times of adversity. And housing circumstances can contribute to the risk of infection.

In Chicago, Gilbert James, 78, lives in a 27-floor senior housing building, with 10 apartments on each floor. But only two of the building’s three elevators are operational at any time. Despite a “two-person-per-elevator policy,” people crowd onto the elevators, making it difficult to maintain social distance.

“The building doesn’t keep us updated on how they’re keeping things clean or whether people have gotten sick or died” of COVID-19, James said. Nationally, there are no efforts to track COVID-19 in low-income senior housing and little guidance about necessary infection control.

Large numbers of older Blacks also live in intergenerational households, where other adults, many of them essential workers, come and go for work, risking exposure to the coronavirus. As children return to school, they, too, are potential vectors of infection.

‘Striving Yet Never Arriving’

In recent years, the American Psychological Association has called attention to the impact of racism-related stress in older African Americans — yet another source of vulnerability.

This toxic stress, revived each time racism becomes manifest, has deleterious consequences to physical and mental health. Even racist acts committed against others can be a significant stressor.

“This older generation went through the civil rights movement. Desegregation. Their kids went through busing. They grew up with a knee on their neck, as it were,” said Keith Whitfield, provost at Wayne State University and an expert on aging in African Americans. “For them, it was an ongoing battle, striving yet never arriving. But there’s also a lot of resilience that we shouldn’t underestimate.”

This year, for some elders, violence against Blacks and COVID-19’s heavy toll on African American communities have been painful triggers. “The level of stress has definitely increased,” Lincoln said.

During ordinary times, families and churches are essential supports, providing practical assistance and emotional nurturing. But during the pandemic, many older Blacks have been isolated.

In her capacity as a volunteer, Reed has been phoning Los Angeles seniors. “For some of them, I’m the first person they’ve talked to in two to three days. They talk about how they don’t have anyone. I never knew there were so many African American elders who never married and don’t have children,” she said.

Meanwhile, social networks that keep elders feeling connected to other people are weakening.

“What is especially difficult for elders is the disruption of extended support networks, such as neighbors or the people they see at church,” said Taylor, of the University of Michigan. “Those are the ‘Hey, how are you doing? How are your kids? Anything you need?’ interactions. That type of caring is very comforting and it’s now missing.”

In Brooklyn, New York, Barbara Apparicio, 77, has been having Bible discussions with a group of church friends on the phone each weekend. Apparicio is a breast cancer survivor who had a stroke in 2012 and walks with a cane. Her son and his family live in an upstairs apartment, but she does not see him much.

“The hardest part for me [during this pandemic] has been not being able to go out to do the things I like to do and see people I normally see,” she said.

In Atlanta, Celestine Bray Bottoms, 83, who lives on her own in an affordable senior housing community, is relying on her faith to pull her through what has been a very difficult time. Bottoms was hospitalized with chest pains this month — a problem that persists. She receives dialysis three times a week and has survived leukemia.

“I don’t like the way the world is going. Right now, it’s awful,” she said. “But every morning when I wake up, the first thing I do is thank the Lord for another day. I have a strong faith and I feel blessed because I’m still alive. And I’m doing everything I can not to get this virus because I want to be here a while longer.”

KHN data editor Elizabeth Lucas contributed to this story.

Kaiser Health News (KHN) is a national health policy news service. It is an editorially independent program of the Henry J. Kaiser Family Foundation which is not affiliated with Kaiser Permanente.

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This story can be republished for free (details).

from Updates By Dina https://khn.org/news/why-black-aging-matters-too/