#anyways i hope the jury gets eaten before next year

[s-aprua]

[me-and-your-husband]

Need Someone Part 5

Summary: Reader gets into some trouble, and doesn’t know who else to call besides her best friend’s dad, District Attorney Andy Barber.

Warnings: age gap, mentions of kidnapping and attempted sexual assault, reader gets a rape kit

Pairing: Andy Barber x Reader

Word Count: 1.2k

Note: Lets say reader is 18 and in senior year.

Adjusting the collar of my black pantsuit in the full-length mirror of my bedroom, I exhaled a long, suffocating breath. My expression in the mirror was earnest, to say the least. Dark circles had resided under my eyes the past few days, and my silent lips curved downwards in a permanent frown, casting a sullen scene across my features. The days had slowly droned on, in which I mostly spent parked in front of the TV or sleeping. Even then I never really watched the content portrayed on the screen. I couldn’t remember the last time I had eaten or drank anything, besides the constant mug of coffee that always rested on the closest surface in arms reach. The ability to think was becoming a curse, and I was forbode to think freely of anything but the events that transpired nearly two weeks ago now. It never left my mind, the blood-spatters and unsteady breathing towards the end.

Andy had left my house six days ago now, and I hadn’t had the will to look at the Caller ID lately, so who knows how many times he’s called since. He told me to take care of myself, to make sure I eat, sleep, shower, daily tasks that stable people would be able to complete. I don’t listen.

Before I could comprehend fully what I was doing, I was stepping over the threshold, almost tripping over the dozens of flowers, cards and even chocolates from people. The news had broken to the press, as it does, and it was too much to even turn on the news. I remember a few days ago, waking up with the news caster outside my house.

I huffed out a breath, making it form a cloud in front of my face and dissipate immediately due to the fall chill that had spread over Newton in the last week. I wouldn’t know; the last time I had been outside was the night that Andy brought me home.

I turned around and shoved my keys in the door, twisting them to lock it, and began the short walk to my neglected car. I wondered if it still had gas, I couldn’t remember. Unimportant, they wouldn’t start without me anyways.

In the car, the music hummed in the background. My eyes were fixed on the road, my lip caught under my teeth almost the whole way. Glancing up occasionally in the rear-view mirror, I looked less and less zombie-like. Maybe it was the sunlight and the fresh air. It could have also been the eggs I made for myself this morning; my stomach was grateful, yet my brain barely let me eat a third of the plate. Or, maybe it was just the makeup I had piled on this morning, in hopes to look less sullen and maybe appear more benevolent.

Pulling up to the courthouse, I could see a familiar figure, Andy, pacing back and forth in front of the steps, talking to someone on his phone in a calm tone, but pinching the bridge of his nose between furrowed brows, his lips curved downwards in an engraved frown. Once he spotted me, he mumbled something rapidly into the phone and hung up, shoving it back into the pocket of his slacks. His pace quickened as he neared my car, eyes locked onto mine. I averted my gaze to the steering wheel, where my hands gripped it aggressively.

     I could hear the muffled sound of him calling my name through the window as he stalked towards my car. I lifted my head as reflex when he knocked three times on the window. I pressed the button to roll the window down, and the chilly November air infiltrated my car.

“Y/N,” he breathed out, almost in awe.

“Yep, it’s me. Let’s get this thing over with- “

“Hey, are you okay? Are you sure you’re ready for this?” He questioned with soft eyes. I sighed and tilted my head to look up at him.

“No, I’m not. But we can’t reschedule this thing, so you and I better get in there,” I said with pseudo-humor, getting ready to put on the charade of a stable woman. Stepping out of the car and kicking my door shut, I slid my sunglasses onto my face, attempting to walk towards the huge crowd that has since accumulated outside of the courthouse.

Andy grabbed my hand from behind me and spun me around to face him. “Where’re your parents?”

I slid my sunglasses down the bridge of my nose. “They weren’t scheduled to come back until the end of the month. They can’t get a flight back…” I said, my eyes drifting down to our feet. I pushed my sunglasses back in place. I turned on my heel to get into the courthouse, Andy tailing me.

Pushing myself through the crowd, I was blinded by the flashes of light and I couldn’t hear Andy shouting my name over the chorus of people screaming questions at me. I was swarmed by reporters, my sunglasses successfully covering my eyes. Entering the courthouse, the doors shut behind me and Andy. Brushing off my blazer, I drew in a deep breath, scanning the room. It was a generally modern setting.

    Andy steered me down the hallway, and we soon entered the actual courtroom. There were minimal people, only the ones that legally needed to be there, and the defendant’s family members. It would have hurt that mine weren’t here, but I had adapted to blocking everything out at this point.

Andy spoke just below a whisper, telling me what to do and where to go. Finally, we took our seats at the prosecution’s table. Andy scribbled nonchalantly in his fancy notebook while we waited for the defense lawyer to show up.

Andy finished filling out his paperwork or whatever he was doing and set down the pen. He let out a long sigh, “The defense attorneys on cases like this, assigned to posthumous trials, they tend to be…” he struggled to find a fitting word, “lazy. They are often lazy. They’re getting paid to do the same amount of work, but the client is dead; it does not matter to them if they win or lose the case, therefore there’s no reputation to keep. Unless the specific defendant was wealthy, and the attorney is being payed a generous sum by the client.”

I huffed out a breath through my nose, careful not to come across agitated. “So that’s a good thing, right? I mean, he’ll be lazy. It’ll make it easier for us to win over the jury…” he gave me a look, one that bore into my flesh, one that meant “really?” but at the same time, I had to squeeze my things together. Averting my gaze to my hands, I frantically mumbled, “Not that it wouldn’t be easier if they weren’t lazy, I know you’re an amazing lawyer and I’m so thankful you’re doing this for me because God, I don’t think I could have anyone else do it, I just…I don’t know it feels like-“ I was interrupted by the court clerk announcing the arrival of the judge, Judge Rivera. The smack of the gavel on the oak podium sounded in the courtroom, and the trial had officially begun.

  A/N: Thanks for being so patient with me guys. This is just a filler chapter, but the next one will have some angst, fluff and POSSIBLY some smut ;)

TAGLIST: 

@zaddychris @kyrarose16 @lexeeehhh @kelbabyblue @lovelivelife128 @kalesrebellion @princess-evans-addict @jeremyrennermakesmesmile @wesleypiper @unnuevosoltransformalarealidad @sherlockinand @sunnydisposition-08 @rosalynshields @denisemarieangelina @a-golden-sunflower-vol-6

PERMANENT TAGLIST:

@kyrarose16

[sadaboutniall]

something about you;

introduction | masterlist | tag | wattpad

Twenty Nine. February, 2018.

**please note: this chapter delves into Isla’s work as a lawyer, which involves domestic violence and abuse against women and children. please read with caution.**

Niall has always been worried about Isla overworking herself, but it’s not until she moves in with him that he realizes he hasn’t, actually, been worried enough. 

Before this, Niall’d always assumed that late nights were few and far between for Isla—that she would come over to his flat at 10pm not because she’d only just left the office, but because she’d stopped off at her own flat first, or gone to the gym, or taken a quick trip to the shops. Two weeks into living together and he learns that he’s never been more wrong in his life. Most nights, he’s lucky to have her home by 9.

Even then, though, Isla brings her work home, spends hours curled up on the couch with case briefings in her lap, a cup of tea untouched on the table next to her. He wonders if she even remembered to eat dinner before living with him—sometimes he’ll bring her a plate only for her to look up at him, confused, before realizing she hasn’t eaten since lunch. 

He knows Isla’s work is important, that she literally saves lives, but, on occasion, he wonder if it’s literally killing her. 

Two days before Valentine’s Day, he decides enough is enough. 

‘So I was thinking,’ he starts, bringing a bowl of Shepherd's Pie over to Isla. She’s taken over the dining room table tonight, surrounded by stacks and stacks of paper. ‘Thursday.’

‘Hmm?’ She glances up at him, eyes heavy, exhausted. ‘What about it?’

‘S’Valentines Day,’ Niall places the bowl down in front of Isla, smoothing a hand over the back of her hair. ‘Do you think you can bunk off work a little early? I wanna take you out.’

Slowly, sadly, Isla closes her eyes. She leans her head back into Niall’s hand, and he feels his heart sink. ‘No,’ she sighs. ‘I’m in court all day Thursday.’

‘How late is all day?’

‘Dunno,’ she says, eyes still closed. ‘The judge usually calls it around 6, but it could go longer… I’m sorry, Niall,’ she opens her eyes, an apologetic look on her face. ‘This case is just… God, it’s a tough one.’

Niall hums, dropping a kiss onto Isla’s forehead, letting his lips linger there for a moment. Finally, he asks, ‘can I come?’

‘To court?’ Isla sounds surprised. Niall pulls out the chair next to her, lowering himself down into it. 

‘Yeah, it’s open to the public, isn’t it?’

‘It is, but I don’t think you want—’

‘You see me do my job all the time,’ Niall says, leaning his elbows on the table. ‘I never see you do yours.’

‘Well, your work is a little more cheerful than mine,’ Isla gestures at the stack of papers between then. ‘Do you really want to sit on a nasty wooden court bench for hours and listen to a scared, lonely child give devastating testimony about the domestic violence he and his mother experienced? S’a little different from watching you pop a boner and sing Slow Hands.’

‘I have never popped a boner during Slow Hands.’

‘Oh, really? Because I have evidence—’

‘Shut up,’ Niall laughs, knocking Isla’s leg with his under the table. ‘You’re the only one who’s able to tell anyway.’

‘I dunno, babe. Twitter has a lot of theories.’

‘Stop looking on Twitter, it’ll lower your IQ. The children need you,’ Niall places his hand on top of the stack again, bringing the conversation back around. ‘Your work is really important, petal. Way more important than mine. I want to support you the way you support me.’

Isla sighs, dropping her head into her hands. ‘It’s going to be really depressing, Niall. It’s not how you want to spend your Valentine’s Day.’

‘I just want to spend Valentine’s Day with you, lover,’ Niall pushes the stack of papers further up the table and out of the way, reaching his hand across to touch Isla’s arm. ‘No matter where that is.’

-- 

Unsurprisingly, Isla is right.

On Valentine’s Day, Niall learns three things. The first is that court is really fucking depressing, and the second is that those wooden benches are really fucking uncomfortable.

Thirdly, though, Niall realizes that Isla is a literal, real life superhero in human form. He doesn’t know how she does it, spends all day every day listening to victims of abuse—usually women and children, her area of speciality—recount the horrific, unimaginable things they’ve had done to them. He has to step out of the courtroom twice to pull himself together, has to clench his fists tightly to keep from screaming at the defendant in the middle of a cross examination. He can’t wrap his head around the fact that anyone else in this room is keeping their cool.

But amidst the devastation and evil, Isla is a beacon of light, of hope. She’s kind and she’s soft to the victims, cunning and harsh to the defendant, using pure wit and incredible skill to outsmart him, to spotlight holes in his testimony, to expose him as the scum he is. Niall spends the entire hearing torn between shock and awe, trying not to let his jaw drop to the floor. 

He’d had no idea. 

After what feels like a million years of testimony, the jury deliberates. Niall feels overwhelmed with the injustice of it all, furious that victims are forced to relive their abuse in front of strangers, that those strangers get to decide whether or not the abuser goes to jail. He knows impartiality is vital in a just society but he can’t wrap his head around the ugly, traumatic reality of it, can’t shake the sick feeling off his bones. He’s struck, once again, with disbelief that Isla can do this every day.

From his spot on the uncomfortable bench he watches her, the way she comforts the worried mother, distracts the anxious child. She plays patty cake with the boy while they wait, resulting in the first smile in the courtroom all day, and fields questions from the mother with expert care, with confident clarity.

When the jury returns, just over an hour later, Niall holds his breath. An hour is a shorter than average deliberation time—he knows that much. In his stomach, there’s a flicker of hope that maybe, after all this, the evidence had been just as clear as he’d imagined. 

One deep breath, then another. 

The jury forewoman stands, and Isla wins. 

--

‘Fucking hell,’ says Niall, dropping a kiss into Isla’s hair as they stand at the pizza counter, awaiting their two pies to go. After court he told her to pick dinner, anything she wanted, and Isla hadn’t hesitated. Pizza and garlic knots to take home and eat on the couch, pants off, Planet Earth on. ‘I still can’t get over that, I’m so proud of you.’

‘You’re sweet,’ Isla reaches back to cup Niall’s cheek, his face still buried in her hair. ‘Thank you.’

‘You literally saved two lives today,’ he says for the millionth time tonight, picking his head up when the baker announces their order. ‘You’re unbelievable. A fucking legend. A—’

‘I’m just doing my job,’ she tells him, reaching forward for their food. Niall takes the pies, and Isla tucks the bag of garlic knots under her arm. 

‘I’m glad you were there,’ she tells him, as they step out of the pizzeria and into the cold, February evening. It’s dark and windy tonight, flutters of what might be snow swirling in the air above them. Around them, the storefronts and flat windows of Clerkenwell toss a warm, golden light onto the wet street, and inside him Niall feels his stomach flutter, his heart buoy. These are the kind of moments he’d imagined as a kid, when he thought about love and his future, about settling down. The gentle domesticity of this is almost heart stopping to him: the overwhelming love he feels just walking to the car with Isla next to him, warm pizza in his hands, a night of kissing, cuddling, talking over the quiet murmur of the TV ahead of them. He opens the car door for Isla and thinks about love in its tiny moments like this, about how, despite all the dramatic gestures he’s seen, love might just be at its best when it’s quiet. 

Sliding into the driver’s side, Niall glances over at Isla, streetlights casting a warm glow over her face, bag of garlic knots placed carefully in her lap, and he could almost burst with it, almost wants to cry, he’s so overwhelmed with it. 

‘Love you,’ he tells her, reaching over to grab himself a garlic knot for the road. ‘Happy Valentine’s Day’

####

taglist: @stylishmuser @thicksniall @stayclose-holdsteady @niallhoranruinsme @ajayque @flickerswinehouse @1dfangirls35 @crocodileniall @halfpinthoran @awomanindeniall @booksncoffee @edgeofmyniall @kare38 @emmathefantomes @coconutdawn @irish-nlessing @niallspeachybum @perksmikey

join the taglist here

[madpanda75]

Hello ! Can you write an imagine where Rafael and Y/N are together and there is a difference of age between them, like 18 years, and he’s working in a case where a man is accusing of pedophilia because he’s older than the girl and the enemy camp uses his relationship with Y/N and want her to attest but he protect her you know smt cute thank you❤️

“Always Defend You”

Rafael Barba x Reader

Sorry this took me forever to post. I hope this was something like what you had in mind! I had fun writing it! ❤️

Warning: Mention of sexual assault/rape, Mention of violence 

Tags: @amirightcounsellor

Rolling over in bed, your hand moved around the mattress searching for the warmth that radiated from your boyfriend’s body. The warm body that you had grown so accustomed to snuggling against during the night was missing, leaving only cool sheets in its absence. Opening your eyes, you saw a sliver of light peeking through the door, you looked over at the clock on your nightstand, it read 1:30 am. “Surely Rafael couldn’t still be working” You thought to yourself. The ADA said he would be headed to bed shortly after you decided to call it a night, but that was hours ago. Wrapping your arms around yourself to keep warm, you padded down the hallway towards the living room. Rafael was sitting on the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table, his sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular forearms. He had undone the top few buttons on his shirt and his tie was tossed aside and long forgotten, you could see a glint of gold from the cross necklace he wore underneath. Writing furiously on his legal pad, Rafael failed to hear you enter the room.

You stood quietly in front of him, waiting for your boyfriend to notice you. Rafael looked up and nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw you. “Cariño, you scared me. I didn’t know you were still awake.” You went to go sit on the couch next to Rafael, laying your head on his shoulder, “I woke up when I saw you weren’t in bed yet. Guess I just can’t sleep without you by my side anymore.” Rafael smiled and kissed your forehead before wrapping his arm around you. Nestling closer to your boyfriend, you inhaled deeply and took in the faint smell of his cologne. Smiling to yourself, you closed your eyes and thought back to when this beautiful sexy man entered into your life.

Amidst the chaos of a downtown coffee shop on a Thursday morning, he mistakenly grabbed your caramel macchiato while you had taken his americano. After a flirty debate over how your taste in coffee was too sweet while in your opinion, his coffee preference was far too bitter, you left the coffee shop with a phone number and a date. Now here you both were six months later, completely in enamored of one another. Rafael sighed as he looked down at the deposition in his hand. You ran your fingers through his hair and massaged his scalp, Rafael worked so hard and you hated seeing him so tense especially at home which was supposed to be his sanctuary away from all the stress. “Do you want to talk about it?” Leaning into your touch, Rafael shook his head. “Why don’t you go back to bed mi amor? I’m going to be up for a little bit longer.” Too tired to argue, you nodded your head and reluctantly went back to your bedroom.

You were sound asleep by the time Rafael crawled into bed and he left before you were even up in the morning. Rolling over in bed, you saw he had left you a note,

“Good Morning Hermosa. You looked so peaceful sleeping, I didn’t have the heart to wake you. It’s going to be another long day for me, I am so sorry mi amor. Don’t wait up for me tonight. XO Raf”

Smiling at the note, you pulled yourself out of bed and got ready for the day.

Your heels clicked against the marble floor of One Hogan Place as you made your way to Rafael’s office with coffee and bagels in hand. You suspected Rafael had not eaten this morning and decided to surprise him with the morning treat. “Good Morning Carmen,” you said, handing her a cup of coffee. Carmen graciously accepted the cup, the two of you had become good friends over the past few months. “You’re a lifesaver, thank you! He’s alone if you want to head in.”

“Thanks Carmen!” You smiled at her as you walked towards Rafael’s office and softly knocked on the door before poking your head in. Your boyfriend was typing furiously on his computer, glasses practically sliding down the tip of his nose, his tongue poked out in concentration. His eyes were glued to his laptop as he talked “What is it Carmen? Is Buchanan here yet, he’s early.” You closed the door behind you, “Nope, he isn’t here yet.”

Rafael looked up and smiled at the sound of your voice. “Y/N, what are you doing here.” You held up the tray of coffee and bag of bagels, “I come bearing gifts of carbs and caffeine, counselor.” He laughed and took the items out of your hand, setting them down on the table. Rafael took you in his arms, kissing you passionately. “What would I do without you?” He said against your lips. “Probably starve,” you said before nibbling on Rafael’s bottom lip.

Letting out a groan, he pulled you in closer, his tongue tracing the curves of your lips while his hands slid down your back to rest on your bottom. “Baby, the coffee’s getting cold.” You said with a giggle. “I don’t care.” Your boyfriend whispered as he cupped your ass and hoisted you on his desk, his fingertips ghosting your inner thighs. You moaned while he kissed down your neck. Just as your hands began to take off his belt, Carmen’s voice came over the intercom, making you both jump. “Mr. Barba? Mr. Buchanan is here.” Rafael sighed and grumbled, “He’s early.” You hopped off his desk and grabbed your coffee, “I have to leave for work anyway. Should we continue this later?” You kissed up his neck before biting on his earlobe.

“Absolutely, I can’t wait.” Rafael went to sit down at his desk, in an attempt to hide his growing bulge. Handing him his coffee, Rafael took a sip and made a face, “Ugh, hermosa, this one is yours. How can you drink this? It’s not even coffee.” Laughing you switched cups with him, “Keeps me sweet.”

“You don’t need any help in that department, Y/N.” Winking at Rafael, you walked out of the office and bumped into a large man with a ruddy face. “Oh, excuse me.” The man looked you up and down with a glint in his eye that made you uneasy. “That’s ok, no harm done.” You straighten your blouse a bit, which was a tad rumpled from your brief makeout session with Rafael. Your exit was blocked by the defense attorney. “Umm, he’s all yours.” The man smiled at you with a cheshire-like grin as he moved towards the office door, “I promise I’ll have him back to you in one piece.” With a polite smile, you nodded and walked away, feeling the need to take a shower after being under the large man’s gaze.

The lawyer entered the ADA’s office, “So Mr. Barba, my client would like to strike a deal, he’ll plead guilty to sexual misconduct, no registry.” Rafael snorted a laugh, “Your client had sex and exchanged illicit pictures with a 15 year old girl. He gets rape in the second degree and goes on the registry.”

“Come on, counselor. Mr. Patterson had no idea she was fifteen plus he claims it was completely consensual.” Rafael rolled his eyes, “Your client is 17 years older than Ms. Jackson and she certainly does not have the opinion that the sex was consensual. Under the law she cannot legally consent to sex with your client. We have her statement and enough physical evidence to put Mr. Patterson away. No deal.” The defense attorney’s face turned red as he stared down the ADA, “Then we’ll see you in court.” Mr. Buchanan walked towards the door, before stopping in his tracks and turning to face Rafael, a sinister smile on his face. “I noticed the young woman who left your office earlier, I had no idea your office accepted college interns. You like em’ young, don’t you?” Rafael stood up, his fists clenched at his side as he walked over to the lawyer, his voice menacingly low, “She is none of your concern. Now if you excuse me I have a case to prepare.” The man let out a laugh, “Struck a nerve, did I?” Before Rafael could respond, Mr. Buchanan left.

Later that evening, you sat on the couch looking down at the piece of paper handed to you by a young man as you were leaving your office to head home. “Ms. Y/L/N?”

You eyed the man cautiously, “Yes, can I help you.”

With a flick of his wrist, he shoved the papers in your face and left. The papers asked you to appear in court as a material witness for the defense in the state of New York vs. Jonas Patterson criminal trial. You had heard Rafael talk about the Patterson case, he had been wearing himself ragged over it. What you didn’t understand was why you would be called as a witness for the defense. You took a sip from the glass of wine you had poured as you waited for Rafael to come home. Finally you heard the door open, “Y/N? I’m home. Why don’t we order some Chinese. I know we agreed to stop eating out so much but—,” Rafael stopped in his tracks as he looked at your concerned face. “Y/N, what’s wrong?” You walked up to him and handed your boyfriend the paper that you had been staring at for hours.

Rafael read the papers you were served with, you could see his jaw clench, his fists holding the paper so tight it was crumpling under his hold. “Why am I being asked to appear as a witness for the defense at your trial, Rafi?”

Your boyfriend sighed and went to sit on the couch, he slumped over and put his face in his hands. He knew why you were being called as a witness, this was classic Buchanan. He wanted to use your age difference with Rafael to sway the jury, to help win his case. It was a sleazy dirty move and unfortunately it cut right to his heart. Rafael loved you, but there was a considerable amount of years between you both, 18 to be exact. Although you had stated that the difference never bothered you, Rafael was afraid that someday you would leave him for someone younger, someone who could give you more than he ever could.

“Rafi? Are you ok?” You sat down next to your boyfriend, and rubbed his back in soothing circles. “It’s Buchanan.” Rafael said.

“You mean that large creepy man I ran into outside of your office?” You shivered thinking back to the lecherous lawyer you encountered. “What does he have to do with this?”

“He wants to use you to strengthen his case. Buchanan wants you to testify about our age difference in the hopes that it will establish doubt over the consent between Mr. Patterson and Ms. Jackson. Since he is claiming the relationship was consensual.”

Your blood boiled, how dare this man take your relationship with Rafael and pervert it. “I won’t do it. I will not testify for that man. Patterson is a pedophile, he raped that girl. We are two consenting adults, he can’t do this!”

Rafael turned to you, holding your face in his hands. “You won’t have to. We meet with the judge in the morning, I will argue that your testimony would be completely irrelevant to the case. The judge won’t rule in Buchanan’s favor, this is more prejudicial than probative. It’s just a dirty move, a final attempt to persuade me to make a deal. I promise you won’t have to take the stand.”

Nodding your head, you kissed Rafael deeply and rested your forehead against his, “Thank you Rafi.” Your boyfriend pulled away and looked at you, his green eyes seemed so sad in that moment. “What are you doing with me? You should be with someone younger. I can only imagine what people say or think when they look at us together. Maybe Buchanan is just pointing out the obvious with us, how ridiculous we must look together.”

You were shocked, your heart breaking as you heard the man you love speak about your relationship in such a manner. “Rafael Barba, I love you. Our age difference has never bothered me and I hope it doesn’t bother you. Don’t you dare let Buchanan take what we have and twist it into something ugly.” Now it was your turn to take Rafael’s face in your hands, you stared into his emerald eyes, hoping he could see how serious your love for him was. “You are kind,“ you said kissing his cheek. “Smart,” you kissed his other cheek. “Handsome,” you kissed the tip of his nose. “Sexy and I mean really sexy….the things you do to me, it makes me wet just thinking about it.” You whispered before kissing his lips. Rafael smiled, you could see a faint blush creep up on him as he listened to you sing his praises. “You’re everything I have ever wanted, Rafi. Don’t ever doubt you are not the man for me.”

Rafael pulled you into his arms, stroking your hair, “I love you so much, Y/N.”

“I love you too, Rafi. Let’s forget about this mess tonight. Perhaps we can pick up where we left off in your office earlier, before we were so rudely interrupted.” Your boyfriend suddenly scooped you up in his arms making you yelp in surprise. He carried you down the hall towards the bedroom, “Come on hermosa, let me show you what this old man can do to you.”

You were a nervous wreck the next day, checking your phone constantly for any update from your boyfriend. He was due in court at 9 to argue that you should not be called to the stand for the defense. It was 11:30 and still no word from Rafael. You went back to your emails, trying to take your mind off of what was happening just a few blocks away at the courthouse when suddenly your phone rang. Without even looking to see who it was you answered.

“Rafael?”“No, Y/N. It Olivia.”Your blood ran cold, Rafael had given Olivia your number for emergencies only.“Olivia, what’s wrong? Is everything ok with Rafael?”There was a long pause on the other line.“Rafael is fine. The judge held him in contempt, could you stop by the courthouse?”You were shocked, Rafael was passionate in the courtroom but professional above all else.“I’m on my way. Liv, what happened??”“It’s a long story. He’ll fill you in when you get here.”

Hanging up the phone, you rushed to the courthouse. Racing up the steps, you saw Buchanan with a black eye and a bloody nose. He walked past you, too busy nursing his injuries to notice you. “Asshole,” you muttered under your breath. Heading into the courthouse you met Olivia. She walked with you down to the basement of the courthouse and down a long hallway to a large room, upon entering you witnessed a sight you never thought you’d see, your boyfriend sitting in a small jail cell.

Your jaw dropped, “Rafael!” He looked up at you with a sheepish smile, “Hi cariño.” Olivia tapped you on the shoulder, “The judge says he needs to pay a fine to be released. I‘ll wait outside till you’re ready and we can go get him released.” Nodding your head, you walked over to the cell, “Baby, what happened? Are you alright?” Rafael reached for your hand through the bar. Holding his hand, you saw his knuckles were reddish and slightly swollen. “I’m fine. The judge ruled in our favor, you don’t have to testify.”

You were still confused, “That’s great Rafi, but why are you locked up and what happened to your hands?”

Your boyfriend then went on to tell you how the judge ruled that your testimony was prejudicial and not probative and how she scolded Mr. Buchanan for attempting to pull such a stunt. As the two men were walking away, the defense attorney placed a hand on Rafael’s shoulder, “Well can’t blame a guy for trying.” Leaning over so no one could hear him Buchanan continued, “When your little girlfriend is through with you, send her over my way. I’d love a taste of that.” Rafael explained how in that moment, he saw red and before he knew what was happening, he punched the defense attorney right in the face. The ADA got in a few good punches before the court guards pulled them away. The judge held both men in contempt for unruly behavior.

You kissed Rafael’s hands through the bars. “You defended my honor?”

Rafael sighed, “I know I should have just walked away but my temper got the better of me. You’re not mad, hermosa?”

“Of course not Rafi. Actually I’m surprisingly turned on.” Rafael laughed, “I don’t think the judge or the DA feel the same way, but luckily I can continue with the case, so a mistrial won’t be declared.” You nodded at Rafael. He brought his head closer to the bars so you could awkwardly kiss him. “Let me grab Liv and go bail you out, Rocky Balboa.” Leaving the room, you went with Olivia to go pay the fine and sign the release papers.

Walking down the courthouse steps hand in hand with Rafael, you looked over at him and blushed. “What is it cariño?” He asked after catching you staring at him. You smiled, “I’m just so lucky to have a boyfriend who would defend me like you did today, makes me love you even more.” Rafael beamed at you, “I love you too, Y/N and I will always defend you.”

[toddlazarski]

Last Suppers Vol. 3

Shepherd Express

“I see that the world is upside down,

seems that my pockets were filled up with gold.”

— Tom Waits

My grandmother never allowed pizza delivery. Pizza—yes, most definitely, frequently, likely for a medically inadvisable percentage of grandma-house meals, but only if you took her keys, locked the door behind you, drove the Malibu—tape deck stacked with “Electric Ladyland,” for just such necessary excursions—across town and schlepped the steaming box back yourself, again locking the door behind you. I’m not sure if it was an abject fear of delivery personnel, something nefarious laying in an unknown driver lurking, even if said lurking was only out of pepperoni remittance and tip hope. Maybe it was the tip itself, an avoidance of sorts. Or it could have been the disclosing of her address. Maybe she was in trouble with the law. Maybe all, or a combination, or something else, all rolled together into one of those nebulous anxiety yarn balls one comes to know and generally acknowledge and accept when hungry and negotiating with a late-80’s grandmother. So I’d never really ask, would shrug with mild annoyance, take the keys, and let her pay with a crisp twenty-dollar-bill, because in hindsight, I’m not nearly as thoughtful as I’d like to believe. 

Similarly, this is probably how I don’t know much, anything really, about the Great Depression. Grandma was born in 1925, which, according to Wikipedia, means she spent much of her childhood in said epoch of forlorn-toned black-and-white photos of destitute pea pickers in California. She would have been a good source, I suppose, for all the wonder I’ve put on, of late, the d-word, in both proper noun form and the more loose, casual way it’s been thrown about. “I think he’s depressed” has become a standard line. Friends talking about other friends, co-workers talking about spouses, somebody talking about me, maybe. But over the past eight weeks I’ve heard it at least a handful of times, accepted it, took it with brow-furrowed, middling resiliency, as if it were part of a bad but expected forecast. As if, yes, “might have to shovel tomorrow.” Or like a thing meant for small-talk chewing and grumbling, as in, “I’m not sure about that first round pick.” When Kai Ryssdal comes floating in on the kitchen radio I switch the channel before the capital form of the word comes up. I usually have to hurry.    

I should have asked her, I suppose, in hindsight, it being one of those many things we all only now realize we should have always asked, said, paid attention to, thought about, considered. Before the world turned sideways, began coughing, lost sense of taste and smell, and we all woke up with our furniture seemingly turned to face the wall. Before she died. It might have been especially helpful since of late I’ve found the same pizza delivery paranoia creeping in. Though of all the faults I blame on genetics, this is hardly one—it can’t be Adult Onset Delivery Dread, it came far too fast. And I still don’t understand it fully: do I fear the boxes, or the bringer? Or do I fear the bringer's perception of me, sitting in my ivory tower, looking down on the help, or not looking at all, just expecting them to, yes, drop the sustenance on my luxuriant, sanitary doorstep? And then be gone, faceless servant. Or is it maybe that I don’t want to infect them? Did he or she think of that? Should I go out and tell them? Or maybe just put up a sign on the closed door: It’s Not You, It’s Me. Should I try at some levity, one of these days, maybe attempt a recreation of the “keep the change you filthy animal” scene from “Home Alone”? But, of course, nobody takes cash anymore, so it wouldn’t work.   

Whatever the approach, the newfound anxiety has been robbing a righteous, innocent joy of late. The sweet echo of a doorbell, startling, even as you sit with perked ear and open Ring app, leaning a bit with anticipation. It might be right now, this second, or in 35 minutes. Or, what if they never show? You make the call and are transported to Dr. Seuss’ Waiting Place. Patience and perspective needing to be fought for amidst the mad sea of slack-jawed seekers. A 90’s Civic with bad brakes and problematic bumper stickers, a goateed driver with questionable politics often the only thing to bring you back to the moment, offering deliverance, unveiling the places you will go, the tastes you will have, the boom bands you will hear and the balloon-high heights you will see. “Should you turn left or right, or right-and-three-quarters? Or, maybe, not quite?” At this point of rescue, like no other in life, it matters only that you know how to find your way to the door, can manage not to trip carrying a box back to the coffee table. 

Whether or not grandma was right, or had a reason, or had an outstanding warrant, and whether or not we’ll all get over our cardboard fear and food conveyance dread and Clorox addiction and the balance of common sense versus Medium articles versus FDA guidelines versus something somebody in the office Slack channel said, it still has to be done. And at the very least she was right, like all grandmas seem right, about the most important thing being the bringing of comfort. Or the going and getting of comfort. So, my car or there’s, these are the best current bets for said pizza procuring solace. 

5. Ned’s

Through the years, through my decade-and-a-half of Milwaukee life, through an adulthood of being judge and jury and general jerk about pizza, I’ve never really cared much for Ned’s, or the “Milwaukee-style” pie it so well seems to epitomize. I’ve always found the crust too thin, crackly, unfilling, the special’s seem over-topped, the entire thing often feels a bit under-cooked, the cheese a tad too slidey, the sauce slightly over sweet. Quarantine week two though was weekend-ed with my wife and her friends sharing Ned’s, collectively, each with their own pie, over a happy hour Zoom meeting. It was such an innovative act of community, togetherness, pizzaing, that I was softened toward epiphany. And then later, as I greedily, guiltily, drunkenly mawed microwaved leftover squares after she had gone to bed, I finally disabused myself of all lofty notions as if I were a Dickens character. Ned’s is old-school, since ‘69, simple comfort of hometown iconicism. The pizza itself too has an undeniable tang, a distinct crumbly soul, a sausage-y quotidian satisfaction level akin to a High Life bottle and the Brewers on a daytime bar corner TV. At a time the Brewers are good. Most importantly: it is the pizza of my wife’s youth. There are few things tastier than nostalgia, and nothing more comforting. And so Ned’s always has a place in the heart, in our home, in our refrigerator, especially when she orders too much and goes to bed too early.   

4. Rosati’s

The five years I spent in suburban Chicago, coming of age and hitting my pizza peak, happened to coincide with adolescence and the accompanying boundless, obscene appetites. A standard chicken or egg scenario. This is maybe why I keep coming to defend Rosati’s, our locally-owned franchise location’s sometime inconsistency, and why I keep going back, here, and to all Chicago-bred ilk. There is the personal sway of the one that got away, the one that taught me to be a man, of the person you’d go out of town to a 10-year-reunion just to get a glimpse of and awkward drink with. But there is also no objective argument to the fact Rosati’s aspires to, and often achieves, the ideal of Chicago tavern-style: rolled dough, thin, square cut wedges of well-cooked crunch, trademarked by a cornmeal dust bottom and oregano and fennel-y finish. The cheese often looks like the color of approaching-autumn, the crust like it was two minutes from being burnt. Equally crispy and chewy, the toppings are half-buried under a winter blanket of mozz like endless hidden prizes. But maybe it’s just personal. And really a takeout here is akin to reliving high school’s zenith. If I really want to go down that Springsteen route, like the part in the song where he sees his ol’ baseball playing bud, and they go back in and have a few drinks, I get a pie and an Italian beef. Glory Days.    

3. Transfer

Of the 30 or so times I’ve eaten at Transfer, I’d say 29 of them I’ve eschewed all normal pies, disregarded all pasta or apps, ignored the menu or anything the waiter was saying or what anyone else at the table might want, really, in tunnel-vision favor of the simply named, boldly furnished Garlic Lovers. It is a special of aromatic, crushed bulb bombardment, almost stunt-like in essence, that somehow holds together. Sturdy enough to steer with one hand, the pleasantly dusty and charred bottom still has a doughy, Southern Italian-leaning chewiness. The decadent top is garlic sauce svelty, with pepperoni and sausage and cheese chunkily clattering together, as delightful black air bubbles adorn the edges, indicating artisanal-ness, craft pizza lineage, a really hot oven. But you don’t need to read too deep, or too far past the pizza’s name—overall this is an oily, pungent affront to subtlety and fresh breath. But garlic, they say—-and what are we but the collection of what they’s we believe?—is a natural antimicrobial agent. And we’re all six feet apart anyways. Actually, after four slices, I’m wondering if Fauci and the lot of health-advising acronyms are really right: is six enough?  

2. Tenuta’s

A recent takeout phone call to Tenuta’s, where I ordered my usual—Diavola, no pineapple—was met with this:

“You can’t do that, the pineapple makes the diavola.” 

“Oh. I, uh, disagree.”

“You know what, let’s not do this right now.”

Tenuta’s is that kind of place. The shaded Clement Ave brick corner spot of pasta and pizza and cozy classiness and classy coziness is the type of place Tony might take a goomah one night and Carmela the next. Tenuta’s To Go continues the tradition from a Howard Avenue counter-only outpost, more conducive to our house-car-back-to-bottle-of-sanitizer cycle of now. But from either there is a standard gamut of specials and absurd glut of crust offerings: thin, virgin, deep, stuffed, some house pies come in triangles, some in imperfect squares. It’s like one of those Strengths Finder personality tests of endless combinations new employers make you take to find out precisely which type of pot-stirrer you will become. I always default to a pepperoni and giardiniera and cream cheese thin, a square-cut beaut, indicating the recessive gassy guy-from-Chicago trait. Balanced, zesty, spicy, creamy, it is everything I hope for on the precious, too few pizza nights of existence. But there are similar satisfaction points up and down the board: the basil-y freshness of a margherita, an olive oil sauce holding ham and pepperoni and garlic on the house special, a mis-order even found me enjoying the pleasant carb overload of a “virgin” crust, redolent of pan pizza or something from Detroit. You’d think they might specialize, defer somehow to the simpler ways of the old country. It’s almost too much, like life—the options, the anxieties, the distractions, the food narcotics necessary for real world-dimming, dulling. But you settle in, eventually, you know your order, come to know yourself and the shape of your DIY haircut-framed mug in the mirror, the spirit within said order. And, soon, with time and gut-work, then you know the voice on the other end of the line, and, even in quarantine, the gravy of a Sunday gathering can be part and parcel and pepperoni with a little good natured jabbing, some convivial ball-busting that hides, that hints at, care and love.    

1. Fixture

Even if you believe, rightly, that there are no guilty pleasures in life, there can still often be times of feeling like you are cheating a bit, calorically. Like, say, when enjoying Taco Bell sober, or scarfing Totino’s pizza rolls well into your 30’s, or driving through a Wendy’s and eating in your car, by yourself, removed from any identifiable meal time, just doing it because dammit and because you can. Sometimes you might know that notion, back behind the base lizard brain, of just feeling bad about existing as a stereotypical fat American. Ordering cream cheese—so rich, so creamy—atop a well made pizza feels this way, and yet, the “Great Lakes Distillery”—extra sauce, pepperoni, cream cheese wedges—keeps calling me back. Or at least keeps picking up when I call. 

And there they are: creamy black-speckled corpuscles of gooey cheese comfort, squishing softly, almost a bit curdy, marshmallow-y, stretching, existing in that perfect cheese nirvana state of half-melt. They are model contrasts to the salty oven char on the liberal toss of near-burnt pepperoni. Beneath a vibrant, herbaceous marinara mixes with well-ratioed mozz, the kind of top where you can’t fully tell if the sauce or cheese were put on first, as they gel together, taking turns, like pass-first teammates that make deep championship runs, that reign supreme on a top-five pizza list. The crust seemingly has an application of anti-flop finish, good hold that is toothy and strong without getting in the way. So it’s a bit Chicago, afterall, and also a bit that they just seem to use higher quality ingredients than so many old school joints, the places phoning it in, doing it the way it’s always been done, forgetting what we all too prominently remember now: that tomorrow is no guarantee. But they are also big on the homemade hot honey siding offer, a move straight out of Greenpoint, or whatever is the new Greenpoint, Brooklyn. Honey should have no place on pizza. Or so I think, for ⅞’s of every first piece. But, actually, wait another bite—sure it does. Let’s all not think about it right now. It is honey, it has creeping zing finish, and that different flavor profile quality that makes life and another endless day of dread, a day no different than yesterday, worth it. So, for now, anyways, let’s dip our crusts bits endlessly until we’re beyond stuffed. 

When they throw open the French takeout windows, even despite the masks, despite the fact my paranoia makes me insist on paying ahead of time over the phone to limit contact, despite the fact that this makes me need to call back and get their Venmo so I can send more money to fix my non-existent tip, Fixture’s pickup window really has been a lifeline of sorts since mid-March. Whether it’s the pizza or the wings or the chicken parm sandwich, it’s a satisfying reminder that there is some delicious humanity still pulsing on quiet 2nd Street. On all of our graveyard-quiet streets. And next week, maybe, for sure, pizza delivery, like normal, can return to our house. “Be brave,” all the books I read to my daughter seem to teach, implicitly or otherwise, they echo back at me in the sound of my own voice. And one day we will. Or else, we won’t. And maybe, years from now, when she’s old enough to grown-up talk and have thoughts and observations and real life queries, when she’s old enough for these loathsome days to be the old days, she’ll ask why we always have to go pick up the pizza. And I’ll just gaze distantly out the window like grandma might have, had I wondered, or like a character in a Tom Waits or John Prine song. Or, better, she won’t ask, will just chalk it up to the personality scars of an old, damaged man, and then we’ll be able to focus only on the pizza.

[koganphrancis]

And Now Shameless Slanders The Littlest Milkovich?  FUCK YOU

My recap of Season H8 Episode H8

They really had Vee refer to Yevgeny as a “little psychopath”, just to retcon every decent Milkovich that ever was.  Completely unnecessary and untrue, and WHERE THE FUCK IS IAN, WHY ISN’T HE IN THIS KID’S LIFE ANYMORE, HE STATED FLAT OUT HE LOVED YEVGENY.  Thank goodness there’s a gif of a Henckel flipping the bird to help me through this trying time.

I’ll try to temper my bitterness for the rest of this, but I make no guarantees.  

That horrific remark about an innocent child aside, this episode had little to get me riled up over-it was one of the most boring episodes they’ve ever done-every week they seem to outdo themselves on that front.  

This piece of shit-pardon me-episode was written by day-to-day showrunner Nancy Pimental and it was either her lame attempt at trying to win Macy that Emmy OR her purposely sabotaging him, because his storyline was the longest and most painfully unfunny this week.  

Also it was directed by Emmy Rossum and she gave herself a shit ton of close ups which I suppose is her prerogative and heaven knows the writer didn’t give her much story to shoot.  

This week opens with the dog Rusty staring at a still in bed Fiona and kicks off the aforementioned close ups.  I still want that dog to be explained-the law isn’t “dogs that have eaten human flesh must be destroyed-unless someone’s willing to take a chance on rescuing them”.  Why is there zero fucking research on this show?

Meanwhile, Franny’s screaming but Debs is too busy in the bathroom taking a half dozen pregnancy tests and acting like the world owes her something-that will be her theme throughout the episode, as it has been for the past few seasons. 

Nancy tries to capture some of that “all the Gallaghers in one place at one time” magic by having everyone crowd around the bathroom and giving Ian his first spoiled toddler line of the ep, “Guess I won’t shower today-gonna get filthy anyway cleaning that shitty building my sister found for homeless kids.”  Whatever that meaningful moment on Ian’s bed was last episode is being forgotten or ignored by this dumbass show.  Will it ever be revisited?  Who knows. 

Lip, who this season is like Mrs. Kravitz on Bewitched and seems to have this compelling need to insert himself into other people’s drama while ignoring his own, volunteers to take Debbie to Planned Parenthood where she again acts like a total bitch who needs a reality check, and where Lip just happens to be there to see Charlie (Snore’s ex) walk in with a very pregnant woman.  Such fortuitous timing!

There’s a gross scene of Carl peeing into a toilet between Kassidi’s legs as she sits on the back of the toilet-good god, Nancy, is that what you think the kids are into these days?  All I’m gonna say about Kassidi is that she’s exactly like Sammi only younger and even more charmless.  Whoever the fuck thought the show needed that vibe back needs to be fired.  And I get that Carl is supposed to be thinking with his self-inflicted deformed dick, but, really?  After seeing his father and Monica over the years, plus living with Sammi for a bit, he wouldn’t know enough to run from that type of chick?

Frank has this totally convoluted “only on Shameless” business venture going where he’s going to smuggle immigrants who feel unsafe in the USA over the Canadian border and bring back his car loaded with prescription drugs.  Sure, Frank.  Anyway, the only scene of note in the many long and boring scenes he got this week is when he’s listing talented Canadians-and when he DOESN’T say “Noel Fisher” we all hear it anyway and laugh at this lame show for letting all that talent go.  Assholes.  

Instead of recycling Mickey’s shirts this week, the show does something even more stupid: they use the VFW hall where Mickey got married as the new youth shelter AND they use the basement where Mickey and Ian banged before his wedding as the food bank Debbie goes to!  Okay, Cam, I gotta say, that’s a version of audacious-reminding us of those classic Mickey moments the show can’t come close to having using any of the characters they’ve kept on.  

Speaking of Mickey (not that the show ever does), Nancy tries to recreate some of that old Mickey magic with having Terror call Ian a “Negative Nellie” when he bitches some more about the new youth shelter.  Pinning nicknames on Ian is a Mickey thing only-why are they constantly reminding us of the gaping holes that losing Noel has left?

Anyway, here’s how Nancy tried to bring some shit talking South Side back into the show: Ian: This place is a dump. Terror (to Geneva): Don’t listen to Negative Nellie he’s still mad about the church. I: (sarcastic) Ye-ah, cuz you got pity fucked by my sister with this building. T: (imitates Ian) Ye-ah-and she was really good.

Side note-can you imagine Ian ever trying to joke with Mickey about him fucking his sister?  Sheesh.

I: I bet-she’s great at getting what she wants and screwing everybody else.

WTF?  Has Nancy ever seen the show?  Fiona always winds up screwing herself over.  I’m not a huge fan of Fiona’s big sister act, but even I can admit she sacrificed a lot for her younger siblings and never did things to screw them while advancing herself.  The thing Ian should be mad about is Fiona’s comments about Mickey-and even then she didn’t screw Mickey or Ian, she just said some stupid shit that Ian didn’t have to listen to.

Anyway, Geneva tells Ian and Terror about the gay conversion church, so now I know taking on organized religion wasn’t what Ian referred to as “larger concerns”.  One of the youths tried to commit suicide after being subjected to it, so Ian and Terror go visit him and the kid holds up his bandaged wrists and asks if they like his hot wristbands and even though it’s canon that Ian witnessed his mother moments after she slit her wrists and Terror spent his prom night in an emergency room because he slit his, neither of them bat an eye or react in any way to the kid’s injuries.  

Emmy throws in a way too long scene of Fiona dancing around in her underwear (after more way too long Frank scenes).  Again it amazes me how this show just recycles the same shit over and over-anyone remember Fiona’s happy dance in the church she went to check out for her and Sean to get married in?  

Ford catches her in the act and entices her to go out and look at Chicago architecture with him-I want the jobs that either of them have where they have all the free time in the world to lollygag.  And why is the show wasting all this time on all this crap in one episode?  Paint drying on those historic buildings would’ve been more interesting to watch than this hour of television.  

At the end of their tour, Ford shows her the inside of a house he’s working on (all by himself, apparently, I guess he doesn’t work with a crew) and asks her to lie down on an improbably placed mattress and she’s a tad hesitant at first, but when she does it, he points out art on the ceiling to her.  She’s impressed with its beauty and then starts making out with Ford in a total recreation of Ian with Faileb and thinking that guys who show any bit of interest in them as people must want to fuck them.  It was stupid with Faileb, it’s stupid with Ford.  

There’s a scene somewhere along the line with Kev and Vee that’s bordering on spousal abuse-I really wish they’d end this “Kev grows some balls” idea immediately. "Big neanderthal man” is not a thinking person’s idea of an ideal partner.  

Ugh, now for more of the Ian crap.  He goes home and asks if they have a Bible laying around.  He finds one, and the next day-THE VERY NEXT DAY-he and Terror go to the gay conversion church and Ian gets into a Bible quoting match with the pastor/minister/whatever he is.  I’m sure Cam was hard as a rock thinking he was coming off like Samuel L. Jackson in Pulp Fiction, but the movie character I was thinking of was Rain Man-how else could he have memorized several Bible passages overnight unless he’s some sort of idiot savant?  

Terror is basically an Ian accessory in the scene-a backpack or a briefcase or a Trapper Keeper, holding Ian’s Bible for him until he needs it.  And the whole, “We’ll probably be banging again soon” right after Terror calls himself Ian’s ex was stupid-not funny or sexy, which I bet was what good old Nancy was going for. 

Cut to a scene of Snore getting a bit of a story thread that they probably originally kicked around for Mandy, and she has the triggering line that she’ll “run away to Mexico” if her father is released from prison.  Sure, Snore, whatever.  

Then there’s the scene where Kev is trying out his domineering dick act for the second time this ep on Svetlana, and Vee gets turned on and hands Yev over to Svetlana calling him that P word.  Fuck you, bitch.  I hope Svetlana is scheming to fuck Kev and Vee over big time-they have a scene where it looks like Svet’s doing that, but with this show, who knows if it’ll be alluded to again?

In the time it took Ian and Terror and the refugees from the gay conversion church to walk to the youth shelter, a video a person recorded at the church on her phone has been uploaded to You Tube and Geneva tells Ian it has a thousand hits already-cuz, yeah, Nance, that’s how the You Tube works.  Homeless kids working to clean up a dilapidated building have their iPhones turned on to get alerts whenever a video that has anything to do with gays gets posted to YT and they all drop everything and watch it.  

The only other thing I want to mention is the preview for next week-they show a quick clip of Ian and Terror pulling their shirts off that’s a ripoff of Mickey and Ian’s first time, a shot of Ian watching Terror asleep next to him in his bed where he’s awkwardly as fuck touching his face, and then a clip of Ian saying, “Kinda nice-us being a thing again.”  (WHAT HAPPENED TO GET OFF MY PORCH, DICK????  But I digress.)  Terror answers, “Jury’s still out.”  Well, if by jury he means FANS, we handed down our verdict a long time ago.  

I wonder if the show is trying to set up them finding their way to be a “true” couple (GAG), and then “tragedy” will strike and pull them apart when Ian gets arrested and they think  it’ll be poignant and painful for the fans, when actually we’ll be cheering and yelling, “Throw Ian in prison for 15 years, bitches!  Throw away the key and don’t have anyone visit!  Have Terror say it’s too painful for him to see him behind glass like that!!!!”  

But then again, this show is so inconsistent maybe that’s not where they’re headed at all.  Maybe they just think Ian needs the chase to stay interested, and for some misguided reason the writers think that’s what the fans want to see.  

We really, really don’t, though.  

And I can’t say it enough: Fuck this show for that line about little Yev.  It seemed like another very deliberate slap to the face of Mickey Milkovich fans everywhere.  

[marveldcmistress]

Something Has Changed (Johnny Storm x Reader)

(Gif not mine)

Summary: You're a lawyer defending Johnny Storm in court. He's taking quite the notice to you. Warnings: Language, smutty talk. A/N: This is really long. It just got away from me. I'm so sorry. There will be other parts. @nothingbutimagines ************************************************************************************************* You were typing at your desk, composing an email to a coworker at your law firm, when you hear your secretary's voice over the intercom. "Mrs. Richards on line one for you, miss." You pick up your phone, happy to talk to your best friend.  "Hey Sue! How's the baby?" "If people keep asking me that, I'm gonna scream. Reed is constantly thinking something is wrong, Johnny thinks I'm helpless. It's driving me insane. I'm just ready for her to be here, and I've got five more months to go." she laughs. You smile too. "Her? It's a girl?" "We still don't know. I'm just hoping it's a girl. Reed wants a little princess too." "Well, let's hope you guys get what you want. You really do deserve it. So, is there a reason I called? Not that I don't love talking to you, you just never call me at the firm." You tell her. "Actually, yes. I need your help. Johnny got arrested the other night, and I need you to defend him in court." "Damn it, Johnny. What did he do?" "Property damage, public endangerment, arson, reckless behavior, and a few other things. His bail was high, and Reed is pissed." "That is a very long list of charges. How high was the bail?" you say, completely unsurprised. This sounded just like Johnny Storm. "$250,000." "Jesus. Alright. I'll stop by the police station tonight to pick up his files, then head your way to get Johnny's testimony, and think up of a way to plead his case." you tell her. "You got this. I believe in you. You're not just some small, southern town lawyer that inherited a law firm from her uncle. You're the best lawyer in New York." "Sue, stop. I'm not that great. I'll see you later." you say. You put the phone up, finishing your email. You met Johnny Storm a few years after meeting Sue, when you had went with her on vacation during spring break in college. He had automatically started flirting with you, being the natural flirt he was. Back then, you were a bigger girl, so it really confused you when he did start flirting with you. Sue told you that he flirts with everyone, and it made more sense. But of course, you had fallen for the playboy. You figured it was just a crush, but after awhile it didn't go away. After getting off work, you stopped by your favorite pizza place and grab two large pizzas. It was on the way to the Baxter Building anyway. When you got to the building, you were greeted by the same door man as always. "Ms. L/N, always a pleasure to see you. Did you bring me dinner?" he asks. "I just might save you a slice. If Johnny doesn't eat it all." "Ah, yes. Mr. Storm does have quite the appetite. Hide a piece for me?" "Of course." You get on the elevator, shifting your purse so you can hold the pizza away from you, almost burning your hands from holding it for so long. Why did they have to live on the top floor? It takes so long to get up there, you can almost swear the pizza smell has been permanently implanted into your clothes. When you finally get up there, you can barely get out of elevator before Sue is tackling you in a hug. "Yay! You're here! And you brought food. Thank god. I am starving. Put that on the table and I'll go get Johnny." Sue started walking away, but stopped short and walked to the bathroom, promptly throwing up. You ran to her side, pulling her hair back and rubbing her back. "Sorry. Sometimes it hits me at the most random times, without any warning." "It's okay. That's pregnancy for you," you said comfortingly. "Is she okay? Is the baby okay?" you hear from behind you. You turn slightly to see the one and only Johnny Storm staring at you and his sister in concern. "It's just morning sickness. It'll pass here soon." you say. When  Sue was done, you three went back to the dining room, setting out the pizza and pulling out your briefcase. Sue handed out plates and pizza, while you pulled out the files. "Alright, I've went over the files I picked up from the police station. This is a very, very long list of charges. Arson, public endangerment, property damage, assault, and battery. I don't think there is anything that can get you out of paying for anything you broke, but let me work my magic and see if I can at least keep him out of jail." "Why are you talking to Sue? I'm the one on trial." Johnny said. "Because Sue is smart, and your tiny little brain can't absorb the law terms and technicalities. Let the big kids handle this." you tell him. You turn back to Sue, ignoring Johnny. You and Sue kept going over the case. 'She's feisty. I love it.' Johnny thought. Sue smirked, knowing that her best friend was safe from her brother's advances. Johnny had finally met his match. "Anyway, if anything, I could get him on probation or house arrest. I can convince the judge the only time he can be allowed out is for some event I know you've been hosting, or to protect people, depending on how the judge and jury react to his side of things. I wouldn't be sure for how long, that's the judges decision. But I can at least try." Sue nods. "I think he'll be okay with staying home. He doesn't like coming to my charity events anyways." You laugh at your friends humor. Johnny's head shoots up. He knew that laugh. It was the one that haunted his dreams. "Y/N?" You look up, smiling at the confusion in his voice and on his face. You turn to Sue and laugh again. Johnny just sat there, looking like he had been slapped in the face. "Yes?" you said, trying to sound innocent. Johnny's brain had now gone into overdrive. He was thinking about his sister's best friend. He was wanting to do naughty, dirty things with this woman. This woman who was the girl to turn him down years ago. This was the woman his sister hired to defend him in court, keep him out of jail. Then his heart stopped. This wasn't happening. This was a dream. He couldn't breathe. "Johnny, you okay? You've gone really pale." Sue asked. "I'm fine. Just low blood sugar. I haven't eaten today." As you guys ate, you and Sue talked about how you would plead Johnny's case. He heard a whole bunch of legal terms come out of your beautiful, seductive mouth. When you finished eating, you pulled out the files, a recorder, and your glasses. All Johnny could think about was how you've changed. "Okay. Johnny, I want you to tell me exactly what happened the night you got arrested. Remember, this is being used as evidence in court, so you must tell the truth." Your voice snapped Johnny out of his thoughts. "Uh, okay. So, I was bored, flying around the city, trying to find something to do. I was flying over the Stark tower, when I heard screaming. I immediately dropped into an alley a couple buildings away from Stark's. I saw this woman being chased by a man. I guess he was a mutant. Anyway, I told the chick to run, that I would handle it. I had no idea what he was going to do to her. Hell, it might have been some kind of foreplay. I heard girls like the adrenaline of being chased." "That's inappropriate and irrelevant to this. Continue on with what happened." "Right. So, when I stepped in, he started throwing punches. There were blue sparks of some kind of electricity. Next thing I know, I'm flying through a building. That's when I realized if I need to fight fire, use more fire." "That wasn't very smart, Johnny," Sue said. "I know, but what else was I supposed to do? Anyway, we start going at each other, going through buildings and apartments and stuff." "Hold on, the police reports don't say anything about another man and a civilian. Why didn't you tell the police about this?" you asked. "I tried. But I've had a few drinks, and they could smell it on me. I guess they chalked it up to me just having a drunken hallucination causing me to destroy things and set things on fire." "And your reputation with women doesn't help. Probably thought you thought you could get laid by being chivalrous." You retorted. Sue bust out laughing, Johnny was offended, and you remained professional. 'Shit! She knows! Of course, she does. You don't make it a secret, you dumbass.' Johnny thought to himself. "Rude." he said aloud. "Whatever, I'm not getting paid to be nice. It also prepares you for the prosecuting lawyer. I'm sure if you could find the woman you were 'protecting', and have her give her testimony, that would get off the reckless behavior, arson, and public endangerment. You'll still have to pay for property damage. Think you can afford it?" you asked, looking right at him. 'Her eyes. They have the ability to pin me to the spot, yet I could get lost in them forever.' "Of course I can. I am famous after all. And I just made a deal with Yamaha and Nike. Big contracts. I'm making millions." "Good, because that's how much you'll owe. In property damage and my fees. I'm charging by the minute the moment your sister called me. And I won't take a dime from her. The bill is going to be high. Just because you're Sue's brother and famous does NOT mean you will be treated any differently, nor put above my other clients. You'll get the bill in the mail, and I will talk over the fees tomorrow with Sue. Now, I have everything I need from you, we won't need to consult any further." You turn back to Sue to discuss what the prosecuting lawyer might use against his case. Johnny raised a brow. 'Now I know why she has such a high percentage of winning cases. Ruthless. Hot. Nope, fuck it. I gotta have her.' You and Sue finish the legal talk, and change the topic to babies and the plans for Sue's baby. Johnny notices a shift of light in your eyes from happiness to longing. You've always wanted to be a mom. He remembers hearing you saying that back in the day. You and Sue finish talking, and you start to put the files back in the folders and your briefcase. You then helped Sue put away dishes. "I'll call you about the court date. I'll also see who the prosecutors are and the judge. I know most of the judges in New York. And most love me. They'll take it easy on him. The prosecutor is more than likely the DA. I'll give you a call and have you come into my office so we can discuss everything further." "Alright. And thank you for all of this. I appreciate it. I know he can be a handful and trouble sometimes, and you didn't have to say yes. And if he ever gets to be too much, you back out at any time." "It's no problem, and you're basically my sister. I would do anything for friends." You two hug and you head for the elevator. Before the door closes, you see Johnny running at you. "Hold the elevator!" He slides in the elevator, pressing the button to take you to the lobby. You stand in awkward silence, staring at each other for a few seconds. You can tell he wants to say something, but just doesn't know what to say or how to say it. "Can I help you, Mr. Storm?" You ask. 'Keep it formal, Y/N. Keep the distance, hide the attraction.' you think to yourself. "Yeah, you can. You know, at first I didn't recognize you. You've changed so much since we first met and you rejected me. Longer hair, a make over. You've been working out too. A more fit form," as he speaks, he moves closer to you, pushing you back against the wall. "And man, one look at you bent over, that little business skirt tightening on your ass," he slaps said body part, "and just sticking out there, begging to be grabbed and squeezed and slapped. And your eyes, such fire and passion setting my powers off, making me almost smoke. Your mouth, your sharp tongue, those supple, succulent lips. When you talked and breathed, your breasts moving up and down. Your legs. Oh god. I want them around me. And your voice. The way you stay so formal, the husky, lush, raspy way you talk when quiet, yet has such a sharp little bite when you whip that tongue, berating and insulting me. It only makes me want you more." You were shocked. Johnny had never talked to you like this, even in your wildest dreams. He made your knees weak, your stomach churn, and your core burn. It had been too long since you've been with a man in this way. "And damn it all to hell, I'm going to have you before this case is over. You can count on that." Before you had a chance to respond, his lips crashed onto yours, stealing your breath from your lungs. Your knees finally gave out. Johnny held you up, wrapping one arm around your waist, the other on your ass. The elevator dinged, separating you two. Your breathing was heavy, your head was swimming, all from Johnny rocking your world this one simple kiss. "I'll see you soon," Johnny said, helping you out of the elevator, winking before the door closed. 'What have I gotten myself into?'

[elspethsunschampion]

Fact or Fiction: Chapter Eight

Rated M for abuse, sexual content, and discussion of rape/non-con.  Canon-typical violence.

Summary: It’s Ral Zarek’s sixth year at Hogwarts. And everything would be fine if Jace wasn’t totally occupied with his new girlfriend, to the point where it’s honestly kind of weird, and Ral’s starting to be concerned. Now if only everyone would stop telling Ral he’s just jealous and LISTEN to him…after all, he’s NOT just jealous, right? (Sequel to Send to Sleep.)

Ships: Jace Beleren/Ral Zarek, Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy, Luna Lovegood/Hermione Granger, Nissa Revane/Chandra Nalaar, Elspeth Tirel/Teysa Karlov

A/N: Many, many thanks to @paperclipminimizer for beta-ing and checking my timeline, as well as answering all my questions about Harry Potter. Thanks also to Juri, @dragons-suck, and everyone on Sketchydoodles’ Vorthos server for listening to me rant about this thing as it took shape.

Also available on AO3 and FFnet.

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight: Rally

           The new arrival turned out to be extremely hungry in addition to frustrated. Ral took her down to the kitchens and politely asked the house elves to get her some food, which they were more than happy to do.

           “So you’re Elspeth’s pen pal?” he said, after Teysa had eaten her way through three pumpkin sandwiches and was finally looking as if she were going to slow down.

           Teysa nodded, neatly patting a few crumbs away from the corner of her mouth with her napkin. “And when I didn’t hear from her in a few weeks, I got concerned,” she explained. “We’ve been writing back and forth for years, and she has never missed a response.”

           Chewing on his lip, Ral made a split-second decision. “Okay, so I think I know who did this to her,” he said, then put up a hand to stop Teysa from rising up into a whirlwind of fury. She would probably have fallen off the high stool they had put her on anyway; her feet were dangling about a foot above the ground. “Nobody believes me, so maybe I—” he grimaced, “—it’s possible that I’m wrong, but I don’t think so.”

           Quickly, he brought Teysa up to speed on the events of the semester.

           “Well,” she said, pulling a face, “I do think you might be jealous—” Ral growled at her, “—but I also think you’re correct, so it doesn’t matter.”

           “I just don’t know what to fucking do about it,” Ral complained. “I mean, I guess I could try to follow Emmara or something? But I don’t even know if that would work, and those aren’t the kind of spells I know how to cast. I’m not so good at subtle.”

           “I don’t know how to cast them, either, but I can direct you to do so.” Teysa’s eyes were sharp. “I’m an excellent tutor, and I have a good knowledge of subterfuge and spying.”

           “But if you can’t cast them yourself—”

           “I’m a squib.” Teysa’s admission made her face screw up as if she’d swallowed a lemon. “I can’t cast spells.”

           Well, that did explain why she wasn’t at school at Hogwarts. “I’m a Muggleborn,” Ral shrugged. “Hell, I nearly went to high school at a Muggle school. Well, I guess I wouldn’t have because I wouldn’t want to leave Jace and Elspeth, but I bet I’d have learned a lot.”

           Teysa’s thin eyebrows went up expressively. “Hm,” she said, as if she hadn’t been expecting that reaction. “Well, I’m sure I can teach you some very useful spells.” She gave him a thin smile. “And then we can figure out exactly what is going on.”

           First things first, Ral thought. They needed a place for Teysa to stay, and spending time in the Hufflepuff common room or dormitories was definitely not a good idea. Ral got on all right with the other Slytherins, but he didn’t spend much time in the dungeon as a rule; someone might notice. He wasn’t close to anyone in Ravenclaw. Well, what was left was pretty obvious. Ral grinned darkly. Emmara was going to be sorry she’d fucked with Jace, and maybe even sorrier that she’d fucked with Nissa.

           “C’mon,” he said to Teysa.

           “Where are we going?” As she asked, she carefully got to her feet, wincing a little. “Damn.”

           “What’s wrong?”

           “It’s nothing,” Teysa snapped, and Ral paused at her sudden irritation, then shrugged.

           “All right then,” he said. “We’re going to find a friend.”

           He had been a little worried that Chandra would still be hanging around the Hospital Wing instead of back in her dorm, but they had go slowly, partly because Teysa seemed to be limping slightly, and partly because Ral wasn’t sure that he wanted to run into anyone else with her. There might be awkward or annoying questions, since he had no idea what the provisions were for non-wizard visitors at the school who weren’t relatives.

           When they reached the Gryffindor common room, it was deserted apart from Gideon, who had his feet curled up under him as he squatted on the couch, frowning over a Potions textbook. He looked up briefly and nodded at Ral, smiled politely at Teysa.

           “Is that your sister?” he asked Ral.

           “Oh, ah—” Before Ral had quite decided, Teysa smiled winningly and answered for him, “Yes, that’s me.”

           “Um, yeah, Gideon, this is Teysa,” Ral said, wondering if they really looked that much alike. “Teysa, Gideon. Hey, we were just looking for Chandra, is she around?”

           Gideon’s forehead creased back into a frown. “She’s up in the dorm,” he said. “She’s kind of upset. You, um, you might want to be careful going up there. She tends to—break things.”

           “Been there.” Ral shrugged and led Teysa up the stairs towards the Gryffindor girls’ dormitories.

           He didn’t bother to knock, opting instead to just throw open the door. This turned out to nearly be a painful error, because a wave of crackling flame was suddenly heading directly for his face. Luckily for him, he’d had his hand on his wand, and he managed to snap it up and shout, “Protego!” before he and Teysa were charred to a crisp.

           “Oh,” Chandra said, dully. “It’s you. Sorry.”

           “Yeah, what’d you think?”

           Chandra was sprawled on her bed, idly playing with her wand—well, maybe not so idly. She stared up at him, sighed, and shrugged.

           “This is Teysa,” Ral said, letting his new friend squeeze in the door behind him. “She’s here to help us get rid of Emmara.”

           “Oh really?” Chandra sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She looked at Teysa skeptically. “How exactly is a ten-year-old going to help?”

           Teysa stared her down levelly, drawing herself up to her full height of slightly-less-than-five-feet. “I am seventeen and a half,” she said, “and I happen to be the heir to the Orzhov family, so I have a great deal of experience with dark magic.”

           “Huh,” Chandra said. “What are you doing here?”

           “I came to look for Elspeth.”

           “Oh,” said Chandra, then, “Ohhhh. Oh wow.”

           “So can she stay here? Seems like the easiest place for her. I think it’s better if Emmara doesn’t know about her.”

           “Yeah, I’ll figure something out.” Chandra’s face puckered slightly. “Um, I’m sorry about the, um, the fire thing,” she said rapidly, staring at her feet.

           “I’m fine.” Ral rubbed the back of his neck in embarrassment. “It’s not a problem.”

           “I’m not sure what happened.”

           “Professor Lovegood said you might be an elementalist,” Ral offered. “Like me.”

           “A what?”

           He shook his head. “We can talk about it another time. Right now I’d really like to figure out what the fuck Emmara is doing to Jace and the others and how to stop it.”

           “Right. Let’s see how good you two are at magic,” Teysa smirked.

           Hermione collapsed into bed with a sigh. She had been intending to do a little work this evening, and then read through some of the more promising titles that she and Luna had hunted out of the library, but she was just so tired. Maybe she’d just go to bed early, just this once—

           A knock on her door startled her back to full wakefulness. For a moment, she considered turning over and just going to sleep, but, with a sigh, she decided against it. Heaving herself out of bed was more of an effort than she felt it should have been. She stood for a moment, rubbing her eyes and trying to smooth her hair, and then, finally, she answered the door.

           Outside, Luna was shifting from foot to foot. She looked up with a hopeful smile when she saw Hermione. “Good evening!” she said brightly, and Hermione had to smile back. It was almost unsettling, how warm and wonderful everything seemed when Luna was around. Something about her just lit up whatever room she was in. “I wondered if you wanted to go through some more of the books together.”

           If it had been anyone else, Hermione would have said that she really ought to get some sleep instead, but her mind weighed the thought of an extra hour of sleep versus an extra hour of Luna, and Luna came out miles ahead almost instantly. “I’d—I’d like that,” she replied. “Do come in.”

           Luna had been in Hermione’s small quarters before, though they usually spent most of their time together in the teachers’ lounge, but tonight she hovered as Hermione slowly got out the books she’d been planning to look over, and Hermione realized that she had left several stacks of ungraded papers obscuring every seat in the room. She laughed and patted the bed next to her. “I’m sorry, I honestly meant to clear this place up a bit yesterday,” she told Luna. “I’ve just been dreadfully tired lately.”

           “Oh—that’s fine.” Strangely, Luna was almost stammering. “Er, are you sure?”

           Hermione glanced back at her to see that both of Luna’s cheeks were flushed, and her hands were twined rather nervously behind her back. “Yes, of course,” she answered, a little blankly. “Why would I mind?”

           Luna blinked rapidly and smiled widely. “Oh, no reason,” she said. “Just, you know, sometimes one’s—one’s robe can have grab—grabknacks without one knowing about it, and I wouldn’t want you to get—itchy.”

           Hermione raised an eyebrow as Luna moved jerkily closer. “I believe you made that up,” she said slowly.

           “I did not,” Luna responded immediately. “I’d never—just make something up.” Her cheeks had definitely turned bright red. “It would be—” she waved a hand, “—unethical for an expert in unusual creatures to simply make something up off the top of her head.” She looked to the side, then sighed. “Although perhaps you’re right that I don’t—exactly—believe that grabknacks exist. Their provenance was disputed as far back as the seventeenth century, and, well, by now, even people who are more open-minded about magical creatures—don’t really—think there’s much evidence…”

           “Are you all right?” Hermione asked sleepily. “I really don’t mind you sitting on my bed. I don’t mind most people sitting on my bed, really, but I especially wouldn’t mind you doing it.”

           “Especially me?” Luna echoed. “Then I won’t refuse, but, um…” She sat gingerly on the side of the bed, then sighed. “’Mione,” she said in a small voice. “I know people think I’m odd. Well, I mean. I am odd.”

           She looked suddenly sad and small and almost drooping as she sat on Hermione’s bed, her hands bunching together in the robe above her knees.

           “Yes,” Hermione agreed, sliding over to her and wondering whether she needed to be comforting. She had never been exactly good at ‘comforting.’ When Ron or Harry had problems, she was far better at offering solutions than comfort, but she was aware that sometimes people didn’t actually need their problems fixed, per se. “I mean, I suppose you’re odd, but your friends don’t mind. We like oddity. I like oddity.”

           “When I was nineteen, I kissed one of my friends, and she definitely didn’t like it,” Luna said abruptly. “You see, I thought she might like it, because I thought she might like me like that, but she didn’t. I’m not very good at knowing if someone would like me to kiss them. And it gets awkward, and people think I’m odd. Which I don’t normally mind at all, but when people don’t want to be around me because I’m odd, I sometimes get sad. Especially if they’re people I like very much.”

           Hermione stared at her, feeling her own cheeks heat just a little. She hadn’t spent much time considering romantic situations since the one with Ron imploded so horribly, and she hadn’t dwelled on the fact that the signals she and Luna had been sending each other were possibly a little less than platonic. But there had been a good deal of touching and hugging—more than Hermione was used to, or generally comfortable with, even with close friends. And the way she’d found herself looking at Luna at odd moments, even the first time she’d seen her this year, in the loo at that awful party. As if she didn’t want to look away.

           “Luna,” she said. “Erm, do you want to kiss me?”

           Luna turned to her, and Hermione was a little concerned to see that there were tears welling up her eyes. “Well, yes,” she admitted. “I want to. But I don’t want you not to want to be around me anymore.”

           “I, er,” said Hermione. She slid a hand to the side and touched the top of Luna’s hand, feeling the tight tension riding in the top of her friend’s knuckles. “Actually, I—I think I’d like to kiss you, too.”

           “You would? Really?”

           Suddenly feeling strangely shy, Hermione forced herself to nod.

           “Oh,” Luna said, smiling. “That’s very nice.” She blinked once, and a tear rolled out of her eye and down her nose. She reached up and brushed it away. “Oh, dear,” she said. “That’s awfully silly that my eyes are still doing this, then.”

           Taking a deep breath, Hermione awkwardly moved one hand up and cupped Luna’s cheek. “I honestly don’t mind,” she breathed, and she pushed the golden strands of Luna’s hair back, leaned forward, and brushed her lips against Luna’s. Before she could pull back, Luna’s hand was in her hair, and Luna was kissing her back as well, sighing into her mouth. It felt wonderful.

           Luna’s hand turned over beneath hers and laced their fingers together. Breathlessly, insistently, she kissed the corner of Hermione’s mouth. “I like this,” she said. “I like this quite a bit.”

           “Me, too,” Hermione admitted. The back of her head felt odd, though, the tiredness that she’d almost forgotten coming back with force. “Tired, though,” she mumbled. “I think I need to sleep.”

           “Oh—I’m sorry—I’ll leave you to sleep.”

           Hermione smiled hazily through the veil of sleepiness. “No, no,” she protested. “Why don’t you stay?” She still hadn’t managed to change out of her robes, had she? Oh well.

           “Are you sure? I mean—the grabknacks—”

           Giggling, still desperately sleepy, Hermione grabbed Luna’s sleeve. “Definitely sure. Don’t mind being itchy anyway.” She pulled her friend down onto the bed, curling against her immediately. The last thing she heard before the darkness claimed her was Luna’s soft, happy sigh.

[shadow-wasser]

WIP Fic Friday - Atla Zombie AU

WIP Fic Friday is a place where I will put a ‘quick and dirty’ first draft of either a short story or a chapter from a longer story. This will hopefully encourage me to improve my writing output

Sorry, forgot this Friday to post!! Here’s a makeup.

Chapter 2: Triptych

2 years ago, the Northern Air Temple

The Mechanist left his 10-year-old son in the living quarters that they shared. It had once been a dormitory for airbending students, but no one thought about that much. “I’ll be back soon, Teo,” he said. “I have a lot of work to do.”

Teo lay on the floor, concentrating intently on a wooden puzzle splayed out on the carpet. “Okay,” he said, not even glancing up as his father left.

The Mechanist walked down the halls of what had once been the Northern Air Temple, swinging his tool box from side to side. He loved his son, loved him with all his heart. And to protect him, to protect his people, his family, he would do just about anything.

The pressure was mounting. Word of the Mechanists’ inventions was spreading, and not all of the ears that listened were friendly. He’d been propositioned just last week. The choice was presented quite clearly. They could continue to live in peace, or the Temple grounds could once again become the site of a massacre.

The Mechanist thought of his son, and steeled himself. This must be done.

No one could know. The Mechanists’ people were peaceful. They were advancing all of mankind. They were Earth Kingdom, yet they were flying. But if the community knew of what the Mechanist now had to do to keep them alive, they might not give him such free rein over their public works. Indeed, they might not give him any rein at all. Hence, the need to finally unlock the most carefully-concealed place in the temple, the Sanctuary. The airflow-triggered bolting mechanism that concealed the room was ingenious to say the least, and cracking that lock would be worthwhile simply for the challenge, even if it weren’t necessary for survival.

The Mechanist came to the Sanctuary door, and wheeled the bellows from their nearby alcove. Worked by hand, they simply weren’t strong enough to open the air-lock, and most steam-engines broke the bellows before the air got moving with enough force.

Kneeling down, the Mechanist opened his tool box, and fiddled with the bellows’ convoluted innards. What was the problem? Did the pumps work too quickly? Was the air bladder too small, or made of the wrong material? Perhaps it just needed more oiling…

Ah, of course! It was overheating. Even after yesterday’s trial, the engine was warm. Well, pack some snow melt around it, and…

The Mechanist brought in buckets of icy water, which he quickly made a basin for, then used a waxed hide to water-proof the poor, overheated engine. The result looked a bit jury-rigged, but it would do.

When the Mechanist started his machine up again, it worked like a dream. The levers hissed and pumped, the leather pipes used to direct the air flow into the locks swelled from the bellows, and the mechanism on the doors began to whistle and twitch.

As the locks and bolts aligned, the Mechanist stood up, and thrust his thumbs into his belt with satisfaction. That hadn’t been hard at all. Looked like ancient Air Nomad technology couldn’t stand up to modern ingenuity.

Then, the doors opened, and the Mechanist was blown off his feet by a blast of stale wind. Tumbling heels over head, he just barely managed to catch himself by grabbing onto his rattling bellows.

After the wind died down, he lifted his face in time to see a group of people standing in the darkness behind the doorway. They were thin, gaunt to the point of emaciation, and wore torn, faded yellow robes. They were bald, with arrows on their brows. They were looking at him with sunken, empty eyes.

“Who are you?” gasped the Mechanist, and tried to get up.

They began to come forward, and another gust of wind nearly floored him. “You’re airbenders!” the Mechanist cried. “I can’t believe it!”

In reply, they only moaned.

-------

Early Winter, just off the west coast of the Earth Kingdom

The rain lanced down in sheets, in curtains, in waves, hitting Aang and Katara so hard it was like tiny, watery needles. The two benders scanned the horizon, barely able to see anything, it was so dark and the rain so thick. The little sailboat that held Sokka and that fisherman would be nearly impossible to find in this growing typhoon.

Appa battled the winds, struggling to stay airborne in such strong downdrafts. Sokka, thought Katara, and Aang looked around, desperately hoping for a sign.

Then, Aang heard a sound, a faint and wordless groan, carried by the wind. He looked up.

It looked like a yellow kite, suspended in the storm, a hundred feet over the Avatar’s head. It was like a piece of cloth, or a ragged sail, or-

The next lightning strike illuminated the figure in sharp relief. It was a man, wrapped in a yellow robe, floating in and buoyed by the wind, with no glider at all. Aang’s jaw dropped. It wasn’t possible, was it?

The next downdraft nearly blew Appa into the sea, and Aang had to take his attention off the figure to aid the bison in his efforts to stay aloft. Then the next wave nearly put them under again, and when they were finally flying at a safe height, the figure was gone.

“What is it?” asked Katara, seeing the look on Aang’s face. “Do you see them?”

“No, I…” Aang swallowed. “I just… I thought I saw something. It wasn’t, though. Let’s keep looking.”

Appa soared deeper into the storm.

--------

Late Winter, the Northern Earth Kingdom

“So, travelers,” the storyteller continued, “The next time you think you hear a rustle in the night, it might not be a meadow vole or a raccoon-dog, but a horrific cannibal spirit from beyond the grave, come to devour you whole!”

Sokka, Katara, and Aang stared at the storyteller, eyes wide.

“Are there really cannibal spirits?” asked Katara, looking at Aang.

The airbender shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t think so, though… we’re near the Northern Air Temple, and I used to come up here for the sky bison polo championships. I don’t remember ever hearing about cannibal spirits.”

“Oh, they’re real, my boy. Trust me.” The storyteller shoved his hat in front of Aang. “Now, jingle jingle!”

“Have you seen them?” asked Aang, looking concerned.

“No, but ask anyone in the villages around here, and they’ll tell you, they keep their doors and windows shut tight. I’d pass through quickly, if I were you.”

“Uh…” Aang frowned. “Thanks for the warning.”

“Tell it to the hat.”

After dropping a copper in the hat, Aang turned back to Sokka and Katara. “Think we should check it out?”

“I dunno, Aang,” said Sokka. “We can’t stop to look up every ghost story we hear. It’s probably just nonsense anyway.”

“And we’re so close to the Northern Water Tribe,” added Katara. “We can come back after we learn waterbending.”

Aang sighed. “Okay… but what if it’s real?”

Sokka snorted. “Then all the more reason to keep moving. I don’t want to get eaten, do you?”

“Katara-” started Aang, but Sokka interrupted.

“I knew ghost stories were a bad idea!”

Aang sighed, but relented. They would continue to the Northern Water Tribe. They could always come back to the Northern Air Temple later.