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infinitegalahad · 1 month

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SOMEWHERE IN TRIBECA (PART ONE)

Pairing: Jimmy Vesey x Female! Indentifying Reader Summary: It took Jimmy a second, and it sent him into shock. Chills overtook his body. God, Jimmy felt fucking old, and like a damn dirty dog. He tried, tried to say no, but he couldn’t. He sent her a rose and threw his phone down. Not even a minute later, Jimmy’s phone buzzed. Immediately flipping it over and bracing for the worst, he saw the notification that he thought was fake. (Y/n) liked you! Match to return the conversation. Word Count: 3.3k Warnings: Age gap, mentions of trauma, depression, and alcoholism/alcohol abuse. Notes: This idea has been infecting my mind for months on end. There's been a lack of Vesey content, and given my expierences this year, I had to contribute them! To myself and Jimmy Vesey, of course. This chapter starts out a little slow, but the buildup is there (and Kevin and Brady being the best bros to ever exist). Things will definitely pick up next chapter, I promise. Idk anyone watched the game tonight, but NO QUIT IN NEW YORK. AND WE DEMAND MORE VESEY CONTENT. I promise to go in more about what the hell happened in my life soon, in another note! Tomorrow since I wanna read some fanfiction and go to bed lol. And Here is a playlist for the story. I recommend listening to Secret Garden by Bruce Springsteen and Duckworth by Kendrick Lamar for the best vibes of this story. . Anyways enjoy!! :) Taglist | Masterlist

Jimmy had been sitting a whole thirty minutes in a corner until somebody noticed him.

Jimmy didn’t want to be there, but he really didn’t want to be there. Even before Kevin’s and Katya’s wedding, he had spent so many days drinking and socializing. Not that he had an issue with it, but nothing was new and interesting with him, minus being thrown around the country before landing back in New York. With his new contract, he was secured in New York. No more jumping around, for at least another two years.

And of course, it had to be Kevin four beers deep. He dragged himself over from one edge of the table to another, draping an arm around Jimmy. Jimmy, of course, threw his phone down at sight.

“You need to meet somebody,” Kevin bluntly stated, as if Jimmy didn’t know that. Jimmy looked around the table to see the gaggle of Rangers, ex-Rangers, and Philadelphia players, all with wives or girlfriends.

“I’m trying,” Jimmy quietly said, not making eye contact as he held his beer.

“Well, you need to try harder,” Kevin said, slinging an arm around Jimmy. You’re telling me you can’t find anybody?”

Jimmy sighed and shrugged his shoulders, looking at Kevin with a helpless look. He wanted to crack a joke, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He knew there was a sadness in his eyes. He felt like he had most of everything, even though it was perfect, but he lacked one thing; somebody else.

Here he is, as a thirty-year-old, still in the same boat he was at eighteen. After years of one serious relationship, a few hookups here and there in between moving teams, and another serious relationship that devastated him, Jimmy felt like couldn’t catch a break, nor could he catch one.

Jimmy shook his head and took a swig of his beer. He had been keeping count, and it was his first one of the night. It wouldn’t be his last, but that was for later. He didn’t like getting drunk, especially around other people. Years of drinking he thought would have taught him to hold it, and he can, just not his emotions. Those always manage to come out. Everybody at the table knew that since they had seen it.

Secret Garden lowly played in the background of Blue Ribbon, matching the quaint and hipster ambiance of the SoHo restaurant.

Kevin was an asshole, but he was a loveable asshole. Jimmy was a brother to him, and he knew when and when to not make fun of him. He patted Jimmy’s shoulder and brought him close. He didn’t make a big deal of Jimmy’s loneliness, which Jimmy thanked him for. He simply sat and closed his eyes, feeling lightly tipsy as he listened to the low melody of the lyrics. He had tickets for a Bruce Springsteen Concert Labor Day Weekend, which was literally next weekend, and yet no one to go with.

When that stupid lonely emotion started to make him feel heavy and shitty, Jimmy sighed and pulled his seat out.

“I need to piss,” Jimmy mumbled to Kevin and patted his shoulder. He made a quick escape to the bathroom, needing a moment to pull himself together.

Kevin wanted to go after him, but he knew JImmy needed his time. Out of the whole table, Jimmy was the only guy without a partner. And as much as Kevin loved him, it was point blank obvious before, during, and even after the wedding. Everybody was aware of it, and whale they did what they could, nothing budged, and nor would Jimmy.

The other guys had dates, but that was different. Jimmy came, per usual, empty handed. From what Kevin knew, he hadn’t been out on the market since he his breakup with Madison. Jimmy didn’t like to talk about her or how it ended. Of course, he had moved past it, but some of the past was holding him back.

Kevin looked down and saw Jimmy’s caseless iPhone on the counter. The screen was bright under the hardwood table, and Kevin’s thoughts were racing. He didn’t know if it was the beers talking or him, but a minute later Jimmy’s phone was in his hand. It showed off his Hinge profile, which Kevin partly didn’t want to see, but was also incredibly curious.

In good old Jimmy Vesey nature, in between the zoomed photos and short prompt responses, it lacked character and information. No wonder he was having no luck; his presentation on daring apps was awful,

“Kevin, what the fuck?”

Nearly pissing himself as a grown map, Kevin held the phone to his chest and swung over to see a topple of gorgeous salt and pepper hair; it was Brady. With a furrowed eyebrow and flushed cheeks, Brady gave a confused expression both at whatever he and Kevin just witnessed.

Brady held his hand out, and Kevin let out a sad sigh. He handed it over, and Brady took a few seconds to scroll, making both disgusted and cringed faces at Jimmy’s profile.

“My best trait is being chill?” Brady cringed.

“It’s better than his first photo being of him–at Harvard,” Kevin put his head into his hands, “Oy vey.”

“I love Jimmy, but this is not a good look,” Brady said as he scrolled through his profile again.

“What’s not a good look?” Katya said as she came behind. He saw Kevin and Brady loudly moping and throwing a phone around.

Kevin and Brady helplessly looked at Katya, and Kevin handed her Jimmy’s phone. Takenaback, Katya took the phone. She was blinded up the bright and cracked screen of purple and white, but quickly adjusted to the profile. Taking her time as she scrolled through, she also too had a face of disgust.

“Oh wow, that is…” Katya said, trying to formulate words, “This is not good.”

“Oh believe us, we know,” Brady sighed as he pushed back his hair.

“He couldn’t even get a date–” Kevin moped as he fell back into the table, “A damn date! Jimmy’s a fox, he can get any girl he wants–”

“--If he puts in the effort,” Brady finished Kevin’s sentence.

Katya still stared at the screen. The photos weren’t the issue, it was just the presentation. She had known Jimmy for years. For a many who played Hockey, he was one of the better ones. He was kind but most importantly respectful. She knew his breakup had devastated him through the many long phone calls and Jimmy’s stays at there summer house, but it had almost been five years since he broke up with Madison. Especially since Jimmy was going to be in New York for a long time.

Out with the old, and in with the new.

“And he can do that, with some help,” Katya said as she sat between Kevin and Brady. Kevin and Brady, grab your phones. Send me every good photo of Jimmy you have right now.”

“What are you-” Kevin asked before Katya placed a finger on his lip.

“Best photos of Jimmy, now. Please and thank you.”

When Jimmy came back to the table, at least five different guys and their partners were huddled together. Curious, Jimmy walked forward. Among the hushed whispers and nods, his phone was handed back to him–by Kevin, of course, who was red and all smiley. He giggled like a mischievous child, and knowing Kevin, he was up to no good.

“What did you do?” Jimmy bluntly questioned, shoving his phone into his pocket.

“Absolutely nothing,” Brady stated, putting his hands together. Jimmy looked down at him as Brady contained his laughter. Confused, Jimmy looked at both of them with a “what the fuck” expression.

“You’ll see,” Kevin pointed out, “Don’t worry.”

Jimmy raised an eyebrow, “Well, I’m scared to look. And I’m very worried.”

As Kevin and Brady drunkenly laughed, Katya noticed and came over. She put a hand on Jimmy’s shoulder and reassuringly patted it.

“Don’t listen to them,” Katya reassured, “You will be totally fine. We just…helped you out.”

Now Jimmy was beyond fucking confused. Not to mention, he was tired. And he was feeling a lot of emotions he didn’t want to be feeling or thinking about. But the anger was outweighed by his sheer exhaustion. With a yawn, Jimmy sighed, figuring out it was a dumb prank.

“Well, fuck the whole lot of you, I’m going home,” Jimmy announced. Acting over dramatically upset, Kevin and Brady wished him a goodbye. They laughed as well, telling him to “be careful” and “make sure to use a condom”. Jimmy scoffed and shrugged it off as teasing, primarily coming from the alcohol. After bidding his goodbye and congrats, Jimmy grunted and ordered himself an uber. The subway was not the route tonight. All he wanted to do was just get home and most importantly, be alone.

Even though he hated it.

–

Name: Jimmy

Age: 30

Location: New York

Hometown: Boston

Occupation: Sports Professional

School: Harvard

My Ideal Date: Trying out a new recipe together at home, followed by a cozy movie night with homemade popcorn and our favorite snacks. As long as I get to be the big spoon.

A random fact about me that surprises people…: I read a lot. My favorite way to unwind after a long day is curling up with a good book and a cup of tea. Looking for a cuddle buddy.

I'm Looking For: Long-term, open to short-term (Monogomy)

Two Truths and a Lie: I speak Mandarin fluently, I play for a professional sports team, and I love Sushi.

My Anthem: Crash Into Me by Dave Matthews Band

Jimmy sent you a rose.

Name: (Y/n)

Age: 21

Location: New York

Hometown: New York

Occupation: Consultant and Law Student

School: GW, UVA, Columbia Law School

My ideal weekend getaway destination is...: A charming bed and breakfast in a quaint coastal town, where I can spend my days exploring local shops, indulging in fresh seafood, and taking long walks along the beach.

I'm Looking For: Long-Term Relationship. No games, please.

A random fact about me that surprises people...: Despite my innocent appearance, I have a mischievous side that loves to tease and flirt shamelessly.

My Anthem: Fire Fly by Childish Gambino

You now have a new match.

–

Jimmy got home around 9:30ish. Naturally, his growing feeling of loneliness had remained with constant reminders. The couple on the edge of the street, the doorman asking if he had been coming back from a date, and the worst of all; the damn couple in the elevator. With ti already being a small space, they couldn’t keep their hands off eachother. With Jimmy watching them unable to keep their hands off eachother, it made it all the more awkward.

Hitting the 56th floor, Jimmy escaped. He heard giggles and shushes as the elevator silently shut. Looking back and sighing, Jimmy scoffed and dug in his pocket to grab his keys.

He opened the door and was welcomed to a dark and unlived-in apartment illuminated by the World Trade Center and the skyline of Hoboken. As the light danced on the water, Jimmy kicked off his shoes, threw his keys into a bowl full of restaurant cards and matchboxes, and switched on the overhead lights. He wanted to rip off his clothes and simply decompress.

A rinse-off and Corona certainly did the job for Jimmy. Slipping on a pair of boxers and an aged Harvard Men’s Hockey shirt, Jimmy took his beer and jumped into bed. The drinking was bad in college, and Jimmy thought it would go away with age, but somehow, it got worse—especially when he was alone and feeling what he called his therapist “things he didn’t want to feel.”

Mindlessly scrolling through Netflix, he had already finished another beer. The bitter and blunt taste left a heavy taste in his mouth. He leaned back and let out a loud sigh, knowing he didn’t want another one. But he had training tomorrow, and he needed a good sleep.

Forcing himself out of bed, Jimmy dragged himself to the kitchen. Opening the fridge and grabbing a beer, he looked at his phone for a distraction, checking his notifications. Emails, texts, and most importantly–Hinge notifications.

He went from having two likes to fifteen, which was certainly progress. Forgetting his beer, Jimmy proceeded to scroll his matches. Expecting some hope, he found none. None of them rang a bell. Jimmy rested against the counter, resting his hand on his cheek as he mindlessly scrolled.

Too boring, Too old, Too Familiar–

However, reaching his last match, something caught Jimmy’s attention.

It was a short yellow and lace dress, a bright smile, rosy cheeks, and dewy (y/s/c) skin. The girl posed with another group of girls, but among them, she stood out. Not just because of her dress (and how well it fit her and defined her figure), but it was how dead-drop gorgeous Jimmy thought she was. She had looked done up, but in a natural way, with soft makeup and silky curled (y/h/c) (y/h/t). Regardless, something about her intrigued Jimmy and made him feel warm inside.

Upon further scrolling, (Y/n) was the yellow dress girl’s name. All of her photos were, as the first, beautiful. In the photos with groups, she always stood out in the best way possible. There were photos of her with friends, one of her serving in tennis, one with her diving on a beach–they all caused Jimmy to stare longer than he usually did. Not to mention, her prompts were perfect and interesting. (Y/n) was adventurous, flirty, and full–a total minx. A mixture of gorgeous and cute, who had a fiery streak. Just what Jimmy loved.

Not to mention, (Y/n) was smart, which made her more attractive than she already was. A political communication major, a former Divison 1 tennis player, and someone who just got her Master’s in Public Policy, she was more than accomplished.

“Beauty and brains,” Jimmy smirked to himself, scrolling through his profile. The beer had become a pastime.

Reaching the first photo, Jimmy scrolled to see her recent job. She was in her first year at Columbia Law School, working part-time as a consultant at one of those big think tanks.

And she was twenty-fucking-one years old.

It took Jimmy a second, and it sent him into shock. Chills overtook his body.

God, Jimmy felt fucking old, and like a damn dirty dog.

He tried, tried to say no, but he couldn’t. He sent her a rose and threw his phone down.

Not even a minute later, Jimmy’s phone buzzed. Immediately flipping it over and bracing for the worst, he saw the notification that he thought was fake.

(Y/n) liked you! Match to return the conversation.

(Y/n)’s profile opens, and Jimmy’s heart stops. She might be the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.

Through a series of speed tying to the point were his eyes blur att he small letters on the screen, Jimmy throws his phone down, again. He does it again–a stupid decision, of course.

Jimmy: Consultant by day, law student by night, and a secret tease all the time? I think we might just be a match made in heaven.

Nervously speeding back to his bedroom, he sat on the edge on his bed when his phone buzzed. Not even a minute later, and y/n responded.

Y/n: Heyy Jimmy ;) Sexy, sporty, and smart? You’re a rare breed lol You’re definitely my kind of guy

In between (Y/n)’s response and her profile, Jimmy switched back and forth. Fuck, she was an absolute beauty. Inside most importantly, but also out.

Jimmy: You’re definitely my kind of girl. You seem fun. Why don’t we test out our chemistry? 😉 Y/n: What ideas do you have for a date? Jimmy: How about we put our brains and flirtation skills to the test over dinner sometime? Y/n: Haha damnnn Are you a Harvard exam? Because you've got me feeling all kinds of pressure 😏

A flash of white and yellow lace flashed across Jimmy’s eyes. He imagined his fingers tracing her thighs, which hugged the short edges of her dress, slowly riding up her curved thighs and-

Jimmy blinked and shook his head, distracting himself by typing up a response, red as a lovesick puppy.

Jimmy: Slow your horses, sweetheart Good thing I'm great under pressure. Let's see if you can keep up. Y/n: Haha I can you old man lol ;) Not even a hi, hello, how is your night And they say chivalry is dead lol Jimmy: How is your night? You’re the tease, not me. Y/n: And you fell into my trap lol It’s better now I’m bed with a face mask on lol, how about you?

Jimmy felt a cool breeze as he made himself comfortable, bringing the heavy comforter over his lower body.

Jimmy: Not too bad, it would be better if you were right next to me. As the little spoon, of course Y/n: Hmmm, that is a tempting idea You’re tall, you look like you give good cuddles Jimmy: Anything to make you smile You have a beautiful smile, by the way Y/n: Aww, thank you ;) You’re pretty handsome, ngl Once again you’re my type haha Jimmy: And you’re a dream come true I wanna know more about you, y/n Want me to order an uber?

Fuck. It was a dumb response, but Jimmy couldn’t control himself around Y/n. He just wanted to see her in person. Not even to touch her, but to see her. If he could lucky, even hold her. Jimmy just wanted the company and the warmth, not her body.

Y/n: Oh wow! Not even the first date yet haha Guess you are right, chivalry truly isn’t dead lol

With his thoughts racing, Jimmy overthought her response, which he never did with anyone.

Jimmy: I was joking, don’t worry. Not a dirty dog for nothing I just wanna get to know you because you are one of the most beautiful women I’ve seen on the app so far. Y/n: I knew it, I can tell you are a good guy don’t worry :) I wanna get to know you too, I like talking to you…a lot I’ve got some questions to ask you

Jimmy felt his cheeks go red as he smiled, hearitng all three of her messages.

Jimmy: And you are a good girl, straight off the bat I like talking to you too 😌 I’m an open book. Speak to me Y/n: It’s about your two truths and lie I’m good at this game, but I can’t figure it out. Walk me through it? Jimmy: And what do I get in exchange with you? Y/n: My company, of course! Jimmy: Fair point, y/n. I said dinner, but I just remembered something. Are you free on Labor Day weekend? Specifically, Sunday? Y/n: Yes…why ask? Jimmy: You, me, suite tickets to Bruce Springsteen at Metlife. Uber, drinks, and dinner are all on me. Anxiously awaiting her response, (Y/n) took her time to respond, but eventually came through. Y/n: That doesn’t sound too bad at all Alright, you got me But I have one rule Jimmy: Talk to me, baby Y/n: Answer my questions nothing but truthfully? Jimmy: Of course, honesty is key. What are your questions, sweetheart? Y/n: Do you play for the New York Rangers, Mr. Hobey Baker?

Holding the phone in his hand, Jimmy looked at the message and the time. It was just a little past eleven. When he thought his night was ending, it was only beginning.

Jimmy: Y/n, what time do you have to get up tomorrow? Y/n: Not early Why ask? Jimmy: I’m not a good texter. How does call sound? Y/n: Not even the first date…and I’m not saying no, at all

Within the minute, she sent her number.

For the first time in a while, Jimmy didn’t feel lonely. It was a change in scenery—a nice one, too.

#hockey #carrie writes #new york rangers #jimmy vesey #jimmy vesey x reader #brady skjei #kevin hayes #carolina hurricanes #philadephia flyers

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beardedmrbean · 6 months

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A Maine food truck owner said he shot and injured a man in self-defense after the man wielded a knife at motorists and threatened to kill people ahead of a holiday parade in the New England town.

"You always anticipate dealing with danger in a certain way, but you never know how you will react or how it would play out until you actually live it. It all happened so fast but in slow motion at the same time," Addy's food truck owner David Poto told Fox News Digital of the incident that unfolded on Dec. 1.

Poto and his family were setting up their food truck business in Sanford in the late afternoon on Dec. 1, ahead of the town’s Christmas tree lighting event and "Holly Daze" parade, when Poto spotted the man.

Poto said he witnessed the unidentified man wielding a knife at motorists and threatening to kill them. He initially confronted the man without showing him he was holding a concealed firearm behind his leg, Poto told the Portsmouth Herald.

FEMALE GUN OWNERSHIP EXPLODES AS WOMEN VOW TO BE 'THEIR OWN FIRST RESPONDERS'

Poto told local media that he got the man's attention while he stood near traffic, leading the man to allegedly respond: "I’m going to kill you" and "I’m going to stab you."

Poto explained his wife was standing near their food truck, as the couple’s four young daughters watched a Christmas movie inside the vehicle.

"I didn’t want to escalate anything," Poto said. "But I knew the danger was coming toward us. Worst-case scenario, I was prepared."

PHILADELPHIA CONCEALED GUN HOLDER ACTED IN SELF-DEFENSE, FATALLY SHOOTING ATTACKER AT CEMETERY: DA

The food truck owner said he tried to calm the man and get him to sit down, but that the suspect continued walking toward Poto, even when the business owner pulled out his firearm.

"He didn’t care," Poto said of the man’s reaction when he pulled out his Glock, according to the Portsmouth Herald.

Poto said that out of fear for his family’s safety and his own, he fired his gun and struck the man in the leg.

"I was trying to avoid his arteries," Poto said. "I didn’t want to kill him."

The man reportedly fell to the ground in pain and started shouting the word "rape" and accusing Poto of "shooting a woman."

Police said in a press release that they received a report of a man who was shot around 3:52 p.m. Friday. Witnesses told investigators they saw a man standing in traffic and yelling at cars while holding a knife before he was shot by Poto.

"This male approached a food truck that was parked in the parking lot of T-Mobile," police stated in the press release. "There was a confrontation with the owner of the truck and the male with the knife. The male with the knife was shot."

The parade kicked off shortly after, at 5:30 p.m., with the tree lighting following the festive parade.

Poto said he now has trouble sleeping, and that his daughters are "completely shook up."

"I hate the fact that somebody had to get hurt," he told the Portsmouth Herald. "I hate the fact that he put me in that position in the first place. I didn’t want any part of it."

FOILED: FIVE TIMES ARMED CITIZENS FOUGHT BACK AGAINST ATTACKERS IN 2022

"Those first few days were like a constant adrenaline rush, between the incident itself, talking to the police, wondering what happens next for our business, coping with the trauma, and the social media chatter," Poto told Fox News Digital.

"[Poto and his wife] looked at each other on Thursday, one of our most profitable weekdays, and we just couldn't bring ourselves to open. I think the weight of it all just sort of hit us," he added.

Locals organized a rally in support of the Poto family and their food truck – their main source of income – this past Friday.

"We know that they suffered a traumatic event and also lost a very busy night right at the holiday season," fellow local business owner Jason Cole, who organized the event, said, according to the Portsmouth Herald. "We are honored to help them out... to show them that the community supports them and will help them recover."

The suspect was taken to a local hospital and listed in critical condition.

Police are still investigating the matter.

"The community support just takes our breath away. I think everyone around us knew what we needed before we did, which we will be eternally grateful for," Poto said of the support he and his family received from the community.

#nunyas news #fafo

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thebigskoot · 4 months

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shitty little essay i wrote about the always sunny cookbook

It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, also known as It’s Always Sunny or just Sunny, is a show that sometimes makes you lose your appetite. This is intentional; it is a show about disgusting people doing disgusting, cruel things to each other. Equally disgusting is the food that the characters discuss and consume: a couple examples of dishes featured on the show are rum ham, meat cube, milk steak (with jelly beans on the side (“raw”)), and riot punch. After hearing these names, a watcher likely does not want to take a bite of whatever a milk steak might be (we never do find out what Charlie means by this). Despite this, FX, the television channel that hosts Sunny, recently decided to make a cookbook based on the foods featured in this show. I believe that this book is nothing but a gag gift for fans, as it is neither funny nor educational enough to be a good read or a good cookbook.

The cookbook, titled Paddy's Pub: The Worst Bar in Philadelphia: An It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia Cookbook, is split up into sections based on characters from the show, each featuring an introduction written in the voice of a character followed by several recipes from said character. The first red flag of this cookbook is that it is not written by the creators of the show. Glenn Howerton, Rob MacElhenny, and Charlie Day are the creators of It’s Always Sunny and have been writing, producing, and playing the characters Dennis, Mac and Charlie since the show’s conception in 2005. Their respective characters were originally based on them - Dennis’s vanity, Mac’s hard-headedness and Charlie’s stupidity mirror the worst parts of the actors’ real-life personalities. Because of this, writing from these characters’ point of view has to be thoughtful and well-crafted in order to feel genuine and authentic to these deeply personal characters.

Unlike in the series’ official self help book, The 7 Secrets of Awakening the Highly Effective Four-Hour Giant, Today, which is written by the writers in their characters’ voices, this cookbook is written by a third-party writer. This makes the first-person introductions to each section of the cookbook full of cheap references to popular gags in the show, as opposed to any new information about the character. For instance, in Charlie’s introduction, he rambles about his iconic sleeping outfit of a black horse t-shirt and white long johns. This is something that never comes up verbally in the show, and is told only through wardrobe. However, the writer decided to bring this up to remind the reader that, yes, this is your favorite character Charlie speaking. Instead of references to the character’s wardrobe, something that may have been more relevant to a cookbook is something about Charlie’s relationship with food. For example, I would have appreciated it if the writer had given us Charlie’s take on his strange diet, which often consists of things not meant for human consumption, such as paint and cat food. How did he start eating these foods? How does he feel about his health as a result of his diet? If Charlie Day had written this from his character’s point of view, I think he would have expanded on what we already know about the character’s relationship with food as opposed to reminding us of what we already do know about his character’s pajamas.

Cat food, which Charlie eats every night along with a beer and a huff of glue, is a recipe in this cookbook. The writers could have gone the comedic route for this book and given this recipe one ingredient: One Can of Cat Food. This could have been done with many recipes in this book; as I mentioned, most of the food in It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia is nearly inedible. However, instead of keeping the recipes accurate to the show (and thus inedible), the writers opted to feature basic, easy-to-make recipes that only resemble the foods from the show. This takes the reader out of the illusion that the recipes were provided by the characters; if Charlie knew how to make tuna salad, he wouldn’t be eating Fancy Feast. Unfortunately, these character-breaking choices were made in the name of interactivation.

The simplicity of these recipes, I think, is an attempt at reaching the target audience of Sunny: college-aged adults. However, I think that two other options would have worked better as opposed to this approach: the aforementioned inedible approach, and, on the other side of the spectrum, the way-too-fancy-for-this-show approach. The inedible approach would render the book useless as an interactive cookbook, but make it a purely comedic gag book: something completely different and more consistent with the show’s brand. On the other hand, the writers could have chosen the way-too-fancy approach, in which the recipes are not described as being written by the characters but instead interpreted by professional chefs. This would give the book more of a purpose, of which it currently does not have: college kids can look up these basic recipes without buying a book based on their favorite sitcom.

A couple of summers ago, when I was in the depths of my It’s Always Sunny hyperfixation, I was living in a subletted apartment with my friend, Isaac. Almost every free moment we had, we were watching Sunny: before work, after work, while we were eating, and even during the one time we each picked up one dumbbell from my set of two and pretended to exercise. Sometime before the summer, I saw a two-part series from the YouTube channel Babish Culinary Universe in which Babish recreates the foods from It’s Always Sunny in two ways: one exactly the show describes (or how he thought the characters would make it), and one in a fancy, over-the-top way. For example, he makes a Grilled Charlie exactly how Charlie instructs Frank to make one on his hot plate: “Peanut butter outside, chocolate inside, butter inside, cheese outside.” Of course, this was an inedible mess, so he proposed a new and improved Grilled Charlie consisting of brie cheese, dark, high-quality chocolate, brioche, and chunky peanut butter. Although still a strange flavor combination, when Isaac and I had nothing to eat for dinner, we cooked and ate these fancy Grilled Charlies while watching our favorite show at the dinner table. Babish’s recipe was much more thoughtful and authentic than Grilled Charlie in the cookbook, which trades cheese for cream cheese frosting, which, like the tuna salad “cat food,” makes it a completely different (and boring) dish from the one featured in the show.

In conclusion, Paddy's Pub: The Worst Bar in Philadelphia: An It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia Cookbook is a bad attempt at an It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia cookbook in that it is not funny, authentic-feeling, or good enough as a cookbook to be worth buying even for a die-hard fan like me or Isaac.

References

Rea, A. (2017, February 20). Binging with babish: It’s Always sunny in Philadelphia special. YouTube. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q2ezpExQ_k0&t=46s

FX. (2006, June 29). The Gang Goes Jihad. It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia. Episode.

Randolph, L., & Fecks, N. (2023). Paddy’s Pub: The Worst Bar in Philadelphia: An it’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia Cookbook. Hyperion Avenue. February 12, 2024, https://dayton.overdrive.com/media/10136164?cid=28073

Note: I was only able to access a sample of the book, hence why I focus so heavily on Charlie's introduction and recipes in this essay.

Wolf, M. J. P. (2014). Building imaginary worlds the theory and history of subcreation. Taylor and Francis.

#iasip #sunny #my post #it’s always sunny in philadelphia

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blowflyfag · 8 months

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Pro Wrestling Illustrated: August 1995

in focus

By Craig Peters

UNCENSORED? UNWATCHABLE!

It was an unprecedented break with style in March when PWI Weekly used the space normally reserved for a cover story to print an editorial condemning the WCW Uncensored pay-per-view event. But it certainly wasn’t uncalled for.

After all, WCW Uncensored was perhaps the worst wrestling pay-per-view event in history.

Of course, it wouldn’t have been so bad had expectations not been so high. After all, the advance publicity for the event promised unbridled mayhem, unrivaled violence, and unsurpassed thrills.

What viewers of the event got was unparalleled boredom.

I was one of those viewers (though, thankfully, I watched the event at a friend’s house; had I paid for WCW Uncensored, I’d be really angry!). I can honestly say that I haven’t had so much anticipatory excitement for a pay-per-view in years.

Sadly (but to their credit), only The Nasty Boys and Harlem Heat came close to raising the kind of hell needed to rise to the occasion. For the rest of the competitors on the card, WCW Uncensored was nothing to censor, nothing special, nothing worth spending $27.95 to see.

What a disappointment!

And more so after I learned a few bits of information.

Like the fact that apparently there’s a TBS/Ted Turner policy of standards and practices that says there ought not to be too much violence on television. (I wonder if the people who came up with this policy watch TBS and the Turner-owned Cartoon Network, which airs tons of Tom & Jerry cartoons, among the most violent stuff on TV.) And the fact that because of this policy, viewers of WCW Uncensored were treated to camera angles that showed a wide view of the Tupelo Coliseum crowd rather than Big Van Vader trying to bash Hulk Hogan’s head in with a chair.

[Perhaps the most ridiculous part of WCW Uncensored was when Hulk Hogan beat Big Van Vader in a strap match by dragging Ric Flair to all four corners of the ring (above). Any Sandman-Cactus Jack ECW match (opposite page) figures to be more violent than anything shown on WCW Uncensored.]

Call the event WCW Censored To The Max.

It is also because of this policy PWI has learned, that the Blacktop Bully-Dustin Rhodes match was edited down to cleanliness. Say what? That’s right, edited down. The match was not aired live; it was videotaped earlier. The match had gotten significantly bloody, and the more violent and bloody portions had been edited out of the tape.

This in uncensored?

Maybe somebody ought to explain to the people at TBS that wrestling is a violent sport. That is to try to legislate the violence out of it is impossible, and that to try to not broadcast the more violent aspects of it is like trying to broadcast a basketball game without showing the ball going through the net.

In a word: absurd.

And what would have happened had, say, Sting’s head gotten busted open during his match with Big Bubba Rogers? In all likelihood, it would have been like Lex Luger vs. Ric Flair in Baltimore on July 10, 1988, when an important title march was stopped on the smallest hint of blood. Anybody in the Baltimore Arena that night can vividly remember how outraged the fans were.

Perhaps the most baffling portion of the evening was when Hulk Hogan dragged Ric Flair to all four corners of the ring to win the strap match. Unfortunately, he was wrestling Vader at the time. Shouldn’t the match have been ordered to continue?

Stu Saks accuses me of being a convert to ECW only because the office has moved to the Philadelphia area, and ECW is convenient. Perhaps he’s right; had the office moved to a location near Pittsburgh, maybe I’d be singing the praises of Steel City Wrestling. Maybe not. But the fact of the matter remains: There is more censorable wrestling action in a typical broadcast of ECW’s weekly television show than there was in more than two hours of the WCW pay-per-view event.

If you’re going to have a pay-per-view event that promises to be ultraviolet, don’t edit out the violence, and don’t cut away to the crowd during violent portions of the card. Above all, don't even consider having such an event in the first place if the TBS standards and practices are such that the event isn’t given a chance to succeed before the opening bell rings.

WCW Uncensored was unwatchable… and unforgivable.

#wcw #wcw uncensored #pro wrestling illustrated #magazine scan #magazine transcript #ecw #extreme championship wrestling #world championship wrestling #tw blood

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chronotopes · 2 years

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2022 is nearly over. time for 2021 personal writing wrapped

(2020) (2019)

salvaging this post for drafts because i don’t wanna miss a year and i have important professional reasons to be ruminating on theme’s and such in my writing

poetry:

“dancing balls of yellow light”, february. emotional breakdown poetry that i had literally no memory of writing until i decided to scour my notes app. #girl

“The sonnet holds a self-destructive place...”, march-ish. I was in the last gasps of a three-year Really Stupid About Something Phase, and wrote a super groundbreaking and original meditation on petrarchism after discussing him in class. I’ve written better things, and also worse things.

“London”, August. In the summer of 2019, I made a call that every time I or someone I cared about was on an airplane I’d write a poem titled after my/their destination. Plane poetry is for hacks but only if they publish it.

“Philadelphia”, December. See above.

Four completed pieces in total.

fanfiction

CHOICELESS HOPE, January-March. A fucking ILLUSTRATED FANADVENTURE about postacanon terezi pyrope, predictably unfinished. Was anxious about starting this one because I was afraid of not finishing it. Then I didn’t finish it, and nobody died.

“the truth must dazzle gradually (or every man be blind),” May. Kanaya & Terezi relationship study. Underrated.

“When the open road is closing in,” (published in the dirkjake zine). Flash fiction hastily brainstormed on a trip to the outer banks; postcanon jake and brain ghost dirk have a talk about the modernist crisis of representation, because, like, of course they do.

“In other words, please be true,” December. - Sequel to a dirkjake space au written for dirkjake week 2022.

Three completed pieces in total.

AL2RNIA, which is kind of fanfiction and kind of origfic, i guess

AIVIDE THE PREQUEL, the whole damn year. The monster. All-drafted, half-published, not-to-be-completed-in-the-foreseeable-future. Anyway, this is a novel about a girl who hates college and sucks at lesbian dating.

the aivide epilogues, sequel to aivide the prequel. very, very unfinished. a novel about a girl who was looking for a job. and then she found a job. and heaven knows she’s miserable now.

Heartbreaking! The Two Worst Women You’ve Ever Met Have A First Encounter - fun little vignette that was meant to be the intro to the aivide epilogues, in which aivide’s evil mom and vinbre’s even eviler mom meet for the first time

A bunch of character-buildy exercises from a guy with a ~Hyper Fixation?!~, including aivide’s disco elysium skills and her thoughts on the cast

Two complete pieces in total.

ACTUAL ORIGFIC (FOR MY SINS, I TOOK A FICTION CLASS)

“cass & laura, nashville pride,” february. psychological realism assignment that started out being called “one semi-final hour in nashville, tennessee.” a secret about me is that i am not good about writing psychological realist literary fiction, meaning that this is just a creative nonfiction piece with enough names, details, and places changed to make that plausibly deniable.

“Two Stories.”, February. Fairy-tale assignment for the same class. Frankly, the most competent piece of fiction I have written as an adult without cribbing from either a fictional property or my real life. Plays around with fairy tales and why we tell them. Confused my fellow participants in a very shitty three-person Zoom workshop.

“HOW TO MAKE FRIENDS AND INFLUENCE PEOPLE: Or, a Smart Girl’s Guide To Persistent Boys.”, March. Lol. Another one that i always forget is not a nonfiction essay because i wrote it as what is basically a nonfiction essay. My professor, god bless him, astutely pointed out that it was, in fact, gender horror.

“The Saviors of the Galaxy! (And all that happened after.)”, April. Science fiction assignment. Introduction to what, scope-wise, is much more of a science fiction novella than a story. Pretty good; my professor was impressed, at least. What he didn’t know: the protagonists were based on June and Rose Homestuck.

Three complete pieces in total.

NONFICTION (2021 was my nonfiction flop era. huge L.)

“In another world, you die at eighty,” May. Lyric essay written the day of my friend’s funeral. (The world wasn’t this one!)

“Where Light Doesn’t Die,” April. Hypertext memoir about my trip to St. Petersburg; a more grown-up version of “Four Russias,” which I wrote in 2020.

“What Ceremony Else?”, November. Lyric essay written like six months after my friend’s funeral. About ghost tours and such.

Three complete pieces in total.

FINAL ROUNDUP CALLS

Works i was most excited about writing: AIVIDE THE PREQUEL and all of the other al2rnia writing

Work i am most impressed with in hindsight: “Where Light Doesn’t Die,” honestly the fairy tale and science fiction assignments, “In another world, you die at eighty.”

Work that could feasibly help me on an mfa application: “What Ceremony Else” if i changed just about everything about it (lol)

#writing adventures

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didanawisgi · 20 days

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People Have Woken up

The miasma of anxiety befogging so many brains in our troubled land begins to lift as every narrative served up by the US fascist intel blob goes annoyingly stale and impotent.

The worst media meme — that a vicious officialdom is “defending our democracy” — gets laughed out of the room now when repeated incessantly by such regime shills as Jen Psaki and Lawrence O’Donnell of MSNBC.

Everybody understands they want to “defend our democracy” by canceling your freedom of speech, suing you into bankruptcy, and stealing whatever remains of your stuff.

It’s become so obvious by now that you’d have to be blind or a member of the mainstream media not to see it. Maybe both. Classical liberals like Alan Dershowitz — hardly a Trump fan — see it. That’s because they’re honest.

People No Longer Buy the Lies

Likewise, everything else, namely: that our doings in Ukraine are a “fight for freedom,” that “white supremacy” lurks just out of sight getting ready to pounce on the “marginalized” (who are actually running things, and doing it very badly), that “Joe Biden” turned around the economy, that “voting rights” equals non-citizens getting to vote, that election fraud is a “big lie” (and that the J-6 riot over it was an “insurrection”), and that the Covid vaccines were “safe and effective.”

None of these dishonest persuasions work anymore, and all of the persuasion machinery stands in plain sight like so many nauseating carnival rides. One by one, the rides are flying apart, scattering debris and body parts of the poor slobs who were on the rides all over the fairgrounds.

And so, the fear rises in the ones running the carnival. The county sheriff stands by looking to round up the sleazeball carnies with their missing teeth and needle tracks inside their elbows.

Before long, they will find themselves in the courtroom…

The vicious officialdom put up the carnival and all of its rides to distract the public from the crimes they committed during and after the 2016 election. Donald Trump’s idle talk about putting Hillary Clinton in jail struck nerves throughout the federal bureaucracy, the halls of Congress, and the strongholds of the Clintons and the Obamas.

The Clintons had literally bought the Democratic Party apparatus under the DNC, using the money they grifted into the Clinton foundation from such operations as the Uranium One deal, the Skolkovo war-tech transfer deal, and the Haiti earthquake relief effort.

They were sure that ownership of the DNC guaranteed the election for Hillary. It did guarantee that she would overcome Bernie Sanders’ primary election victories and the delegates that came with them, even after Julian Assange’s Wikileaks release informed the world just how the Clintons bought and paid for the DNC and the whole Philadelphia convention.

Call this the birth of the “misinformation” cult, in which everything true was converted into a “big lie.”

It Wasn’t Supposed to Happen

The problem was, Hillary lost that election. What a surprise! Buying the convention was not enough, it turned out. Those “deplorables” did the unthinkable: cast enough of their stinky votes in just the right rust belt precincts to elect the Golden Golem of Greatness, who was as surprised as anybody, and really unprepared to cobble together an actual governing administration — in the process of which, Donald J. Trump was completely buffaloed by the outgoing Obama gang.

They plotted by the lights of the White House Christmas tree to go after the interloper with all they had, starting with the surgical removal of a most dangerous appointee, National Security Advisor Mike Flynn, who knew all the secrets… and from there onto four years of Russia, Russia, Russia…

It’s hardly a mystery anymore how “Joe Biden” got elected. It’s perfectly obvious despite the “big lie” narrative that the 2020 election was stoked with a veritable orgy of ballot fraud and direct election interference by agency rogues, especially the ones leaning hard on Facebook, Twitter, and Google to manipulate what the public actually saw.

Don’t believe your lying eyes they told the nation. What is a mystery is why they chose “Joe Biden” to front for the cabal around Barack Obama actually running the show. Never before in US history was there a president who left such a slime trail of bribery and corruption.

Just as they had spent all their energy the previous four years in undermining Mr. Trump, they had to spend the next four years propping up and defending “Joe Biden,” and then desperately trying to save their own asses from a Trump return.

Meanwhile, they set out on their mission to wreck the country sufficiently to clear the way for establishing a transhuman public-private utopia of crypto-Marxian “equity” (theft of property).

Political Legerdemain

All of this political legerdemain summoned up the miasma of anxiety that beclouded the people of this sore-beset republic, and the nearly final blow to them was the Covid-19 operation, set in motion with the phony PCR test, that has now left a substantial number of citizens, vaccine-injured, disabled, and on-course for an early death — a pretty grotesque affront to our democracy. The victims are beginning to realize it.

The battery of Trump trials and lawsuits meant to put him totally out of business are now all simultaneously collapsing. Special Counsel Jack Smith is left doing Chinese fire drills around his office Keurig coffee machine.

When the prank-fest in Judge Juan Merchan’s courtroom concludes, whether the jury sees the show for the farce that it is, or not, the Golden Golem of Greatness will be at large again among the voters.

If he’s clever enough to pick a capable veep that represents something like “assassination insurance” — say, Vivek, Tulsi Gabbard, or JD Vance — then the Obama cabal and the blob that has been protecting it will be swept out of power and into a dragnet of a kind of law actually associated with the word justice.

They’re running out of ways to avoid it. All they’ve got left are the direst resorts: war, crashing the economy, another bio-weapon op against their own people, or an outright coup d’état. And even those probably won’t work.

#woke

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brookstonalmanac · 2 months

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Events 4.14 (before 1940)

43 BC – Legions loyal to the Roman Senate, commanded by Gaius Pansa, defeat the forces of Mark Antony in the Battle of Forum Gallorum. 69 – Vitellius, commanding Rhine-based armies, defeats Roman emperor Otho in the First Battle of Bedriacum to take power over Rome. 966 – Following his marriage to the Christian Doubravka of Bohemia, the pagan ruler of the Polans, Mieszko I, converts to Christianity, an event considered to be the founding of the Polish state. 972 – Otto II, Co-Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire, marries Byzantine princess Theophanu. She is crowned empress by Pope John XIII in Rome the same day. 1395 – Tokhtamysh–Timur war: At the Battle of the Terek River, Timur defeats the army of the Golden Horde, beginning the khanate's permanent military decline. 1471 – In England, the Yorkists under Edward IV defeat the Lancastrians under the Earl of Warwick at the Battle of Barnet; the Earl is killed and Edward resumes the throne. 1561 – A celestial phenomenon is reported over Nuremberg, described as an aerial battle. 1639 – Thirty Years' War: Forces of the Holy Roman Empire and Electorate of Saxony are defeated by the Swedes at the Battle of Chemnitz, ending the military effectiveness of the Saxon army for the rest of the war and allowing the Swedes to advance into Bohemia. 1775 – The Society for the Relief of Free Negroes Unlawfully Held in Bondage, the first abolition society in North America, is organized in Philadelphia by Benjamin Franklin and Benjamin Rush. 1793 – The French troops led by Léger-Félicité Sonthonax defeat the slaves settlers in the Siege of Port-au-Prince. 1816 – Bussa, a slave in British-ruled Barbados, leads a slave rebellion, for which he is remembered as the country's first national hero. 1849 – Hungary declares itself independent of Austria with Lajos Kossuth as its leader. 1858 – The 1858 Christiania fire severely destroys several city blocks near Stortorvet in Christiania, Norway, and about 1,000 people lose their homes. 1865 – U.S. President Abraham Lincoln is shot in Ford's Theatre by John Wilkes Booth; Lincoln dies the following day. 1865 – William H. Seward, the U.S. Secretary of State, and his family are attacked at home by Lewis Powell. 1881 – The Four Dead in Five Seconds Gunfight occurs in El Paso, Texas. 1890 – The Pan-American Union is founded by the First International Conference of American States in Washington, D.C. 1894 – The first ever commercial motion picture house opens in New York City, United States. It uses ten Kinetoscopes, devices for peep-show viewing of films. 1895 – The 1895 Ljubljana earthquake, both the most and last destructive earthquake in the area, occurs. 1900 – The world's fair Exposition Universelle opens in Paris. 1906 – The first meeting of the Azusa Street Revival, which will launch Pentecostalism as a worldwide movement, is held in Los Angeles. 1908 – Hauser Dam, a steel dam on the Missouri River in Montana, fails, sending a surge of water 25 to 30 feet (7.6 to 9.1 m) high downstream. 1909 – Muslims in the Ottoman Empire begin a massacre of Armenians in Adana. 1912 – The British passenger liner RMS Titanic hits an iceberg in the North Atlantic and begins to sink. 1928 – The Bremen, a German Junkers W 33 type aircraft, reaches Greenly Island, Canada, completing the first successful transatlantic aeroplane flight from east to west. 1929 – The inaugural Monaco Grand Prix takes place in the Principality of Monaco. William Grover-Williams wins driving a Bugatti Type 35. 1931 – The Second Spanish Republic is proclaimed and king Alfonso XIII goes to exile. Meanwhile, in Barcelona, Francesc Macià proclaims the Catalan Republic. 1935 – The Black Sunday dust storm, considered one of the worst storms of the Dust Bowl, sweeps across the Oklahoma and Texas panhandles and neighboring areas.

#Events

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trascapades · 4 months

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🖤“How can you be an artist and not reflect the times? That to me is the definition of an artist.” - #NinaSimone, one of my strongest inspirations for creating my #ArtIsAWeapon platform ✊🏿

Reposted from @nmaahc Considered one of the most influential artists of our time, Nina Simone – child prodigy, singer, songwriter, activist, and civil rights activist – was born #OnThisDay 91 years ago in 1933. Simone, who was born Eunice Kathleen Waymon, in Tryon, North Carolina, began playing piano at 3, and developed an early love for classical music. After graduating high school with honors, she was awarded a one-year scholarship at the Juilliard School of Music. With aspirations of being a concert pianist, the year at Juilliard was meant to prepare her for the entrance exam at Curtis Institute of Music in Philadelphia.

However, Simone was denied entry, she believed based solely on her race. The rejection sculpted her views on race relations and motivated her activism later in life. Simone composed music with powerful piano crescendos, complex vocal shading, and lyrics that expressed the best and worst of the human condition. In the 1960s she supported the efforts of equality by penning and performing songs like “Four Women (1966), “Young, Gifted, and Black (1969), and the classic, “Mississippi Goddam” (1964) which lamented the slow progress of racial equity. Simone also performed benefit concerts for civil rights organizations including the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee.

Calling herself a conduit between God and Black people, she said of her talent, “How do you explain what it feels like to get on the stage and make poetry that you know sinks into the hearts and souls of people who are unable to express it?...When you have this gift, you must give it back to the world.”

#BlackHistoryMonth

📸 1. Nina Simone, 1968. Courtesy of Getty Images. 2. Nina Simone and Abbey Lincoln, 1968. 3 Nina Simone with daughter Lisa Celeste Stroud, 1971. 4. Nina Simone, 1971. 5. Nina Simone, Godfrey Cambridge and Jane Saxon, 1968. Photographs by G. Marshall Wilson. Johnson Publishing Company Archive. Courtesy J. Paul Getty Trust and Smithsonian NMAAHC.

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#NinaSimone #ArtistActivist #NMAAHC #BlackHistoryMonth #ArtIsAWeapon #Instagram

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strawberryblondebutch · 1 year

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so do you have any worst/best case predictions about what's gonna happen with PWHPA or like where women's hockey as a whole is going in the near future?? and what's gonna happen to all those women who don't have teams anymore? can they even be compensated for that?

Best case scenario is that we reach a league like the WNBA: about a dozen teams, spread across North America, with televised games, a collective bargaining agreement, and all players on a livable wage with provided health care.

As an aside, if I were to pick 12 host cities, I would probably go with 8-and-4, with the four Canadian teams in Toronto, Montreal, Calgary, and Vancouver, and the eight American teams in Boston, New York, Philadelphia, Washington, Chicago, Detroit, Pittsburgh, and Seattle. You definitely want teams in all the "Original Six" NHL cities, and the other cities I mentioned either have strong working relationships with the PWHPA and its members (Washington, Pittsburgh, Calgary) or are large hockey markets in their own right (Philly, Seattle, Vancouver).

The worst-case scenario is that this new league suffers the same fate as the CWHL. I cannot stress enough, to people who were not involved in the WoHo sphere in 2019, how sudden and devastating that league's collapse was. It existed one day, and the next, it didn't. I have some confidence that this won't happen because the PWHPA has collective bargaining power, so a more realistic scenario would be a further contraction of the league -- 4 teams, not connected with a host city.

As for the players... it's tough. It's the toughest part of this, on both a human and on a business level. About 100 players are going to get cut in total. It's probably worth mentioning, at this point, that while there's only one women's league in *North America,* there are pro women's leagues across Europe (the Swedish women's league is very popular in its own right), as well as one in Japan and a couple in Australia. Most of the European players who signed with the PHF will probably return to their local leagues.

As cruel as it sounds having all the PHF contracts voided, it's probably the nicest option in this scenario, because those contracts had non-compete clauses -- i.e. if the player's job was terminated, they couldn't turn around and sign in Europe. But since the contract was voided instead, that clause no longer applies.

#answered

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bluospirit · 2 years

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SCARY LOVE !! dream

chapter three : queries.

# SUMMARY : he asks her the question.

# WARNING : none

# PAIRING : dream!clay x fem!oc

# DISCLAIMER : also, i'd like to add, this is completely fictional and in no way do i believe dream himself would act like this in relationship, this is purely for entertainment. MDNI. enjoy my loves <3

masterlist / last chap / next chap

Clay was born Clay Davis, to two Australians who actually lived in Florida. He didn't have an accent, much to Monica’s dismay, but could do a kick-ass Steve Irwin impression. He studied computer science at the University of Pennsylvania but dropped out to work with apple.

He has a cat, Patches, cutest thing I've ever seen.

He loved Marvel movies over DC, thankfully.

The only meal he knew how to make was macaroni and four-cheese.

Monica, on the other hand, was pretty uninteresting.

"Oh, come on, you can't be that boring," he protested when she offered no facts about herself.

"Trust me, I am. Like, to put it in perspective, the worst thing I've ever done in my twenty years of living was cheat during an exam by writing two equations on the desk right before. And you know what?" She paused and groaned, burying her face in her palms. "I didn't even need them."

"Well shit," Clay gasped, "you're a badass." Monica ruefully bumped her shoulder into his.

That night, Clay learned a lot about Monica and concluded that she was, in fact, not boring at all.

Not only did he learn about her from what she said, but a lot from her action. Like the fact that she got cold easily.

Or that her favourite colour was scarlet (her phone case, nails, necklace, and bracelet were all scarlet).

Or that if you were funny enough, she'd laugh so hard that she sounded like a dying goose.

When they realized it was late and that they should go back to their cabins to get some rest, Clay felt sad. Monica was cool, and he wished he had met her earlier during camp, rather than the night before it ended.

"I'll see you tomorrow at breakfast," Clay called out when they parted way to their respective cabins. Monica offered a nod and waved goodbye.

Later, when Monica got into bed, she couldn't help but feel content. The emptiness in her heart hadn't made her ache so much that day. Plus, Clay was pretty cool.

Too bad you met him at the end of camp, she thought reluctantly. Not that it mattered. She went to school in Boston, and he was in Philadelphia. It was impossible for them to date anyway.

She blushed at the thought of them dating-she met the guy a few hours ago and she was already thinking of dating him! God, she felt like she was in high school again.

The next morning wasn't too bad. She was still sore from the hiking trip, but the burning in her legs wasn't that noticeable when she had to rush to help her kids pack before breakfast.

"Charles, please stop shoving your toothbrush into Cecelia's nose!" Monica shouted as she lugged four suitcases onto the steps of the cabin.

"And Richard, I swear if I see you throw another spit ball, I will tell your father!"

When all the kids were ready, they group headed down to breakfast single file, hands behind their backs with a bubble in her mouth. They were finally free once they arrived at the gazebo. Monica hated herself a little for straining her neck as she observed the people around her, looking out for a tall man with a magenta shirt on.

"Looking for someone?" a familiar voice behind her whispered. Monica jumped and almost dropped the bottle of orange juice she was carrying. She turned around, a smile playing on her lips as she stared at Clay. God, he was so much more attractive in the sunlight.

He was tall-well above six feet, and if she were to make a more precise guess, six feet three inches-and broad. He looked like a swimmer, but she wasn't sure. He had only mentioned playing intramural soccer last night. His hair was light blond, and his eyes were the most startling shade of green.

"Not really," Monica mumbled, but they both knew she was lying. She grabbed a Styrofoam cup and filled it up with hot water, grabbing a teabag.

"Tea instead of coffee?" Clay quipped.

"Absolutely. I despise coffee."

he gaped at her, looking mortally offended. "What? How the fuck can you hate coffee?"

"It's a black bitter broth of death."

"Or a black beautiful brew of life."

The corner of Monica's lip perked up as she continued to steep her tea bag into the cup.

"So, I meant to ask you a question last night," he commented as they went through the food line. He loaded his plate with eggs and potatoes and way too much cheese if you ask her.

"Yeah? What's up?"

He mumbled an incoherent string of words, and Monica's brows furrowed. "I didn't catch that," she said.

Clay looked at her and took a deep breath. "I said, would you like to go out with me?"

She stopped suddenly and blinked at him, her mouth agape. She responded out of reflex. "I'm sorry, what?"

A faint blush stained Clay's tan cheeks. "You want to make me say it again, huh?"

he muttered. But louder, he began, "I said, would you like to go out with-"

"I heard what you said," Monica interrupted. It was her turn to blush. Caught off guard, she took a step back from him and looked around. No one was paying them any mind, which most likely meant no one had heard.

"Why are you asking me? You do know this is last day of camp? We're all going back home in," she paused to glance at her watch, "three hours."

"Wait, really?" Clay gasped, putting a sarcastic hand over his mouth.

"I was under the impression that we had two weeks left. Oh, how time has escaped me." Moni wished he'd go back to feeling embarrassed.

"Oh ha-ha, Mr. Sarcasm thinks he's funny."

"I mean, those sounds you made last night definitely confirmed that I am so ..."

"Seriously, Clay, what the hell are you thinking?"

"What? It's perfect."

"How so, smartass? 'Cause I go to MIT and last I checked, that's not U-Penn."

"Oh, so now Ms. I-Have-A-4.0 wants to remind us what a good school she goes to." He dodged her feeble slap and grinned. "Look, we're a two-hour drive from New York City, so we can head down there and have a nice day and then go our separate ways."

To be honest, that didn't sound like a bad idea. But Monica felt so defensive and opposed to the notion. Which didn't make sense since last night she was disappointed by the fact that she couldn't date him.

When she didn't respond right away, he added, "It's just a fun, friendly, let's-just-do-it kind of date."

"Do it?”

"I mean, not do it, do it, but y'know, do-it. Unless, of course, you want to do it, and in that case, I, as well as the secret stash I have in my wallet, would be more than happy to oblige."

Monica chose to ignore his suggestion. "We barely know each other. Why should we go out on a date?"

"I don't know if you were there last night but I feel like we know each other well enough. Besides," he continued as he caught her elbow and moved her aside as a line of kids ran past them in a game of tag, "this would be a perfect opportunity for us to get to know each other better."

"That's not what I mean!" She felt so flustered. So hot. Why was it so hot outside? She peeled off her windbreaker as she spoke.

"I mean that we don't know enough about each other to go on a date." She whispered the last word.

Despite the dark tint of her skin, the blush on her face was visible.

"Look," he said, manoeuvring them so they were forced to lock eyes. She almost closed her own like a petulant child but decided against it. "We go to the city. We have a good time. We part ways. We don't have to think about the future, or even spend a lot of money if that's what you're worried about. I just want to take you out."

"But why?"

"'Cause I think you're funny and pretty. And if that's not enough for you, I'll recite poetry like those many foreign men in your DM's. Roses are red, violets are blue, your beauty fares like the golden rays of the light, please say yes to me and you.”

Monica glared at him but she knew she was already defeated. She couldn't fight anymore-not with him, and especially not with herself. She knew that even if it wouldn't end in a happily ever after, she also wanted to go out with him, to give this-whatever this was-a shot.

"Fine. We'll go. But we'll meet at someplace 'cause I brought my car with me." Clay grinned and mutant bats flew rampant Monica's stomach, a feeling of joy coursing through her veins. He had the most beautiful dimples. "You're definitely not going to regret it."

"That immediately makes me think I am going to regret this," she snorted. He just winked and walked away. She calls out after him, "Just so you know, I'm not a cheap date. I might be in college, but I have standards. I cost at least a hundred an hour. More for extras"

"Hey!" a child shouted. "That's what my mom tells her boyfriends when they come over."

Monica definitely liked July 12th more than July 11th.

#dream smp smut #dream smut #dream x reader #dream x reader smut #dreamwastaken #dreamwastaken smut #dsmp #gaming #georgenotfound #mcyt smut

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brostateexam · 2 years

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If the coronavirus has one singular goal—repeatedly infecting us—it’s only gotten better at realizing it, from Alpha to Delta to Omicron. And it is nowhere near done. “Omicron is not the worst thing we could have imagined,” says Jemma Geoghegan, an evolutionary virologist at the University of Otago, in New Zealand. Somewhere out there, a Rho, a Tau, or maybe even an Omega is already in the works.

Not all variants, though, are built the same. The next one to trouble us could be like Delta, speedy and a shade more severe yet still trounceable with existing vaccines. It could riff on Omicron’s motif, eluding the defenses raised by infections and shots to an extent we’ve not yet seen. It could merge the worst aspects of both of those predecessors, or find its own successful combo of traits. Each iteration of the virus will require a slightly different set of strategies to wrangle it—the ideal approach will depend on “how sick are people getting, and which people are getting sick,” Angela Shen, a vaccine-policy expert at Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia, told me.

Our actual response won’t just depend on the mix of mutations that the virus lobs our way. It will also hinge on how seriously we take those changes, and what state the virus finds us in when it slams us—immunologically, psychologically. While the next spotlight-hogging variant is still brewing, we can sketch out, in broad and not-at-all-comprehensive strokes, a subset of the cast of characters that could arise, and what it would take to fend off each one. (x)

#long reads #*coronavirus

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welllpthisishappening · 3 years

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Waiting Up, Counting the Stars (1/?)

Emma Swan is neither especially righteous nor inherently ethical.

She’s got deft fingers, that’s all. Ones that make picking New York City pockets a breeze and ensures her childhood recruitment into the small band of time-traveling thieves employed by Robert Gold is almost entirely reasonable.

The jobs are always simple. Travel through time, find the magical objects of the past, bring them back to the present in order to restore that same present’s fledgling magic, and Emma’s good at it. She’s not trying to save magic. It’s just a fun byproduct. Until one last job in the eighteenth-century Caribbean, at the height of the Golden Age of Piracy, threatens to upset the steady schedule of Emma’s life.

Her instructions are straightforward: Find Killian Jones, find the Unspoken Waters, get back home. Only the longer Emma stays in the past, the more convoluted it all becomes, and for the first time, the job isn’t easy. Because this isn’t the first time she’s met Killian Jones.

———

Rating: Mature AN: Hello, it’s me! User of adverbs, lover of ridiculous plots, writer of too many sword fights in those plots. Guys, there’s a lot of sword fighting in this. It’s entirely possible I wrote it solely for the sword fighting possibilities. Right now, I have absolutely no idea how long this will be. Which is equal parts exciting and freeing. I have not posted an unfinished story in years, so hopefully this first chapter makes sense. And hopefully I’ll have time to write more. Thank you to @cshistfic and @shireness-says for hosting this event and for being cool when I was like, “So, if I write time travel...does that count?” Also, thanks Augustana for more lyrics as my titles. May my music taste never evolve.

Also on Ao3 if that’s how you roll

———

Emma Swan is going to sweat to death walking through the middle of the British Museum on a Tuesday and the only person who will notice is Will Scarlet.

No, scratch that. Scarlet absolutely, positively will not notice. He’s far too busy gawking, head on a swivel and neck at an angle that can not be conducive to any sort of prolonged neck-type comfort, but Emma is starting to feel more than a little petty about this whole day, so even the concept of Scarlet having to suffer through aching muscles almost makes her lips twitch.

With something like pleasure. Passing enjoyment.

Her left shoe skids.

On the floor. This tiled floor. Quite possibly marble floor, actually. Of the British Museum. On a Tuesday in May. In—

1857.

That’s probably karma of some sort. The shoe skidding thing.

And whoever designed this dress could, just, like...sit on a tack. Or something way more aggressive than that. It’s at least sixty-four percent of the reason Emma is struggling so much, and she isn’t even entirely positive they had tacks in 1857. Probably, right? People still need to...tack things, don’t they? Hang stuff up. Not posters or anything, obviously. But, like, decrees. Town decrees? No, it’s too late in the century for that, she thinks. She has no idea, really. History of tack production and usage hadn’t come up in their pre-travel meetings. Wasn’t information pertinent to the success of the mission, which is a string of letters that almost consistently causes Emma to double over with near-hysterical laughter because they come up with startling frequency even when tacks aren’t part of the discussion, and maybe she should have practiced before.

Walking, that is.

She hopes Will can’t feel how sweaty her arm is getting looped through his.

At least her waist looks good. Small and fashionable by today’s standards — where today is a Tuesday in May in 1857, but Ruby had looked positively smug as soon as Emma’s laces were tied and knotted and, in her voluminous skirt’s defense, there aren’t as many petticoats as she’d previously been forced to endure. That stint in colonial Philadelphia a few years ago was the worst.

Of course, a few years is more of an abstract concept than any type of actual marker for time. Now, at least. When Emma’s spending the majority of her time working for a man who can control it and Robert Gold isn’t ever particularly personable, but she’s managed to convince herself of the inherent integrity built into their plans and their missions, absurd as that second word may be.

Playing hero is occasionally fun, after all. So, despite the sweat pooling at the base of her spine and her own misgivings on the moral themes of Robin Hood as a legend, Emma is—

Going to break her ankle.

Another misstep ensures the joint rolls beneath her foot, Scarlet’s fingers going vice-like around her forearm. Emma lets out a squeak before she can stop herself, the overall tension in her jaw threatening the structural integrity of her teeth, and she can barely afford dental insurance in the present. Messing up her molars two centuries before she was born is a recipe for disaster.

“Going swimmingly so far,” Scarlet mutters, and the precise quirk of his mouth leaves Emma practically snarling against his side. “Seriously, do something about your face.”

Not sticking her tongue out is an accomplishment she's going to cling to for at least the next twenty-seven and a half minutes.

If not a full half-hour.

“Stop acting like a tourist, first.” “You think we’ll see Bram Stoker today?” Emma blinks. “Excuse me?”

“Bram Stoker,” Will repeats as if the name is totally foreign. Pausing as long as he does between words only adds to the insult, actually. She sighs. “Wrote that famous book, y’know.” “Not yet, also he’s, like, ten right now.” They stop walking. Suddenly. Sharply. Quickly enough that Emma’s momentum almost carries her forward, and she can only imagine what sort of attention that would draw. Glancing around, she’s quick to smile demurely at any curious gazes, barely acknowledging the soft swoosh of skirts and steady pacing of polished shoes as her eyes meet the shadow on the second-floor balcony, and while David’s face is mostly masked by the corner he’s taken up residence in, Emma is all too aware of the pinch that exists between his eyebrows. Probably doing damage to his molars, too. And she’d bet a considerable amount of money she does not have on the overall whiteness of his knuckles where they inevitably grip the brim of his top hat.

One he only took after what became a surprisingly long conversation between Ruby and Mary Margaret, debating the merits of top hat versus dome-crowned bowler. In the end, appearing dome-crowned was deemed likely to draw too much attention — even fashion-forward as it is, apparently — and all of them are far too acquainted with the rules to test them like that.

Don’t stand out. Don’t get caught. Don’t miss your travel time.

Emma resists the urge to pull out the watch she knows is in Scarlet’s coat pocket. Standing here isn’t going to help them keep to schedule. They have things to do. Hallways to creep down. Stolen items to steal back. Gawking at what is actually a fairly impressive interior and architectural design in the middle of the Museum with a guest list that includes some of Britain’s most prominent names is not a luxury currently afforded to them. Get in, get out, get on with it. That should be their motto, really.

As a team.

Maybe group is better. In terms of collective descriptions. Ragtag and occasionally desperate as they are. Team is far too sentimental.

“Is our benevolent protector monitoring us appropriately?”

Emma huffs. “Staring down upon us and passing judgment, I think.” “Oh, that’s scalding coming from you,” Will chuckles, as a uniformed-sporting worker carrying a tray of something passably walks by. “Here,” he adds, thrusting one of the glasses into Emma’s hands. Her fingers are tingling. “You look like you could use a drink.” “We don’t have time for this.” “Don’t insult me like that, it’s rude.” “You feel something?”

Shrugging, Will downs his drink in one rather impressive gulp, letting out a breath Emma knows is far more anxious than he’s willing to let on. “I’ve got an inkling, but I’m not sure they’re where they’re supposed to be.” “Meaning…” “Meaning,” he echoes meaningfully, “that people have been pissed off that this place has the Elgin Marbles for, like, ever, and I think it’s fucking with my sensors.” “You do not have sensors; shut up.” Someone coughs nearby, and it takes less than a full second for the sound to register as Mary Margaret’s disapproval. Her skirts don’t appear to be impeding her movement at all. Even when Emma knows for a fact that there are several blades hidden under the folds.

Just in case.

“Well, golly gee, Ms. Swan,” Will drawls, and it’s good he’d finished his drink. Slamming his hand as dramatically as he does against his chest would have gotten moisture on the fabric. And Ruby never would have shut up about it. “What a thing to proclaim.”

Emma’s eyes are going to get stuck mid-roll before the afternoon is over.

“Inappropriate vernacular for the time period.” “You wound me, Madam.” “I don’t think that’s right either,” Emma says, “and if you keep going at this rate, Mary Margaret will stab you in the thigh.” “That’d go against all her highfalutin sensibilities.”

“She’ll get Ruby to help.”

Will beams. “I certainly hope so. And sensors or not, there’s something weird about this whole thing. Boss said the Marbles would be on display, right?” Emma nods. He had. Multiple times. Driven the point home and tacked it to her frontal lobe in a way that’s only vaguely metaphorical and at least circles back around to her apparent obsession with tacks. “But,” Will continues, “history and my own innate sense of knowing—” “David will hold you down so you can’t run away before you get stabbed.” “—Makes it pretty goddamn clear that the Marbles are not in the display. Other parts of the Parthenon collection, sure. You want to steal that giant horse head they’ve got?” “How would we get it out?” “Search me. Somewhere in your massive dress.” “I’m going to stab you,” Emma sneers, but the threat loses its weight when her vision blurs, and she teeters just a bit. While standing still. Will’s hands shift to her shoulders. It’s the only way she manages to stay upright.

“Hey, hey, hey, you ok? Gonna pass out on me?” “I don’t think so.” “Be fully positive for me, Em.” “I am not going to pass out,” Emma says, only her voice sort of wobbles its way out of her, and that isn’t much of a confidence boost. Closing her eyes, she does her best to level her breathing. To steady her heartbeat. To ignore the flush of heat lingering on the pads of her fingers.

Only some of it works.

Because nothing about this day has felt right. Clothing aside. Even Scarlet’s potentially messed-up tracking abilities aside. Emma feels like she’s forgetting something. Something big and important, and she’s never actually seen smoke on any body of water, so it feels like a disingenuous cliché. She’ll have to come up with something else. Something more descriptive. Like the half-formed wisps of a dream, clinging to her consciousness as she tries to wake up, or a memory that she knows exists, but can’t recall the specifics of.

The air in the museum is too humid. It makes catching her breath more difficult than it should be.

Will’s fingers flutter. Chock-full of anxiety.

“When’s Dracula get published?”

Emma doesn’t open her eyes. Doesn’t drop her head forward like she wants to either, so that’s another victory she’s going to cling to for the foreseeable future. The fingers at her shoulders still for a moment, tighten for a breath, and it is not socially appropriate for lips to graze her temple, but frustrating as he may be, Scarlet is also something very close to a brother for Emma, and they’ve been at this, together, for far too long. Part of the group. Part of the team. Part of the—

Family isn’t just sentimental. It’s melodramatic.

Emma doesn’t have a family. Hasn’t ever had a family. She has jobs and this gig and a roof over her head, and that is plenty.

Right? Right. Totally.

For sure.

“Not for another forty years or so,” Emma replies, tugging not so lightly on Will’s jacket until they start moving again, equally straight shoulders and entirely sure steps. No one spares them a second glance. She’ll have to tell Mary Margaret later. Brag a little bit, too.

“Why’s he on the list of very important guests who love this room, then?” “Why are you reading the guest list?” “Memorizing,” Scarlet corrects, another turn down a hallway Emma knew led away from the Reading Room. “Didn’t you read that dossier the Boss gave us?” “There was absolutely no dossier, don’t be a bastard.” Will’s grin turns satisfied, nodding at the small crowd. People continue to mull around the area, and Emma can only imagine that makes the air feel even heavier, a weight in the bottom of her lungs that certainly cannot be positive. Medically, speaking. Strands of hair stick to the sides of her neck, bits falling out of her rather elaborate up-do, and that wasn’t her fault. Time travel always does a number on her hair, and there hadn’t been enough time to find a mirror before they stepped into the Museum with sixty-thousand other people wearing far too much fabric.

“I’m a dependable worker bee, Ms. Swan,” Will says, “full of pertinent information provided to me by my superiors. Also, Karl Marx and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle are going to show up in this room, too. Think we can ask Art for some fun, otherwise unknown Sherlock Holmes facts?” “You’re really trying to get stabbed today.” “Oh, phrasing that as a statement warms the cockles of my cold, thieving heart.”

“Did you just google famous users of the Reading Room?” Will narrows his eyes. “Why would you ask me that?” “Sir Arthur Conan Doyle isn’t going to be born for another two years.”

“Ah, shit,” he sighs, directing them down another hallway and it wasn’t like Emma doesn’t trust Will, but he was right. This isn’t the way they’re supposed to be going. Not even close. And the plan is simple. One of their more straightforward ones, honestly. Definitely better than colonial Philadelphia.

Using the Reading Room opening as a cover, their group, team, family of big-hearted criminals, whatever, is supposed to sneak into The Parthenon Sculptures exhibit, grab the Elgin Marbles, with their ancient magic clinging to them, meet back in the second of the British Museum’s Mesopotamia rooms on the second floor and get tugged back through time by a boss who can ensure that happens.

Only now—

They’re nowhere near the second floor and on the completely wrong side of the Museum from The Parthenon Sculptures. Gilded frames blur past the corner of Emma’s vision, barely-acknowledged colors bleeding into locked doors and surprisingly empty halls until she feels a bit like she’s clicking her way through the world’s fastest ViewMaster, and the room they step into smells a bit like mothballs. It’s not as big as it likely is more than two hundred years in the future, and some of the displays aren’t as extensive, but Emma’s eyes drift over what she knows is the North American room. She can look stuff up, too.

And shiver, apparently.

Without any light, every glass enclosure twists Emma’s reflection, making it difficult to see what’s behind the panes. It’s like they’ve stepped into a funhouse. One of those super trippy ones with weird mirrors that distort everything and make you forget reality just a bit, but Emma’s steps don’t waver when she moves forward. Toward a display case with fabric behind it, lighter than what Will’s wearing with long sleeves and ties hanging over the front.

The shirt sits beside a small notebook, handwriting that can’t possibly be as familiar as it feels. But Emma knows the swoop of those letters, has crossed her t’s with that long line since she was nine years old and thought it made words look cooler. She has no idea what that sound nearby is.

Oh. Oh.

It’s her. She’s the sound. Panting and exhaling, like she’s recently run a marathon. Swallowing back the bile that’s suddenly risen in her throat, Emma’s eyes water, and that’s—

Weird. Super weird. Emotion claws at the back of her brain, digs into the center of her chest as if it’s taking root there. Her clothing feels heavier. She feels heavier. Pulled into the ground, almost. Like her heels are trying to put down roots, and that feeling of forgetting returns. Tenfold.

She blinks moisture away from her eyelashes.

Several things crack in the vicinity of her neck when she whips it like that. Staring at the empty space to her right. There’s no one there. It felt like someone was standing there. Watching her.

“Em,” Will warns, “this isn’t it. That’s not what we’re after.” Nodding is the right response. Is the response Emma gives, even. She’s a good worker bee, too. She knows what they’re doing. What’s on the line, and what can happen if they get the Marbles back to Gold.

They’ll change the world.

But turning her back on those letters feels like it would require her to rip her heart out, too, and it takes very little thought to reach her hand forward. Resting it on the glass doesn’t do anything. There’s no electric security here.

“I know,” she whispers, “I just—” However that sentence was going to end does not matter. And that’s good because Emma isn’t entirely sure what words were sitting on the tip of her tongue just now, only that the same tongue is currently in danger of being bitten in half, and Will’s hold on her wrist is impressive in its tenacity. He pulls on her before the patrolling guard notices they’re there, tucked into shadows with a speed that would rival David, and then they’re running, and Emma’s never going to breathe like a normal human again, and it’s all she can do to follow Will.

Straight through another door. And there are no EMERGENCY EXIT alarms in 1857, so Emma supposes that’s a rather small miracle they’ll have to acknowledge sooner or later, but the door Will opened slams loudly behind them, and he snickers when she flinches. Only to stop when she kicks his left shift. Hard. More than once.

“What the shit, kid?” “I am two years younger than you,” Emma snarls. “Where are you taking us?” “Into the depths, apparently.” “Scarlet.”

Any trace of humor falls off his face. Almost immediately, which is as impressive as it is the exact opposite, Emma’s fingers clenching until her nails dig into her palms, and Will spins back around so quickly he’s in her space before she can blink. Gluing his hands to her shoulders probably would have been more efficient.

“What is going on with you?” “I have no idea,” Emma answers honestly, and there is no one else around. Her head falls. Slams into Will’s collarbone with a soft thump and an exhale of pain on his end, but he doesn’t move her away either, and she knows he won’t, and that’s good and bad, and something is buzzing in her ears. Static echoes around the corners of Emma’s mind, drifting down either one of her arms and into the heels of her right foot. Only her right foot, which seems patently absurd, but the phrase into the depths was only just recently uttered with minimal irony, so she’s willing to give herself a pass on this one thing. “Did you not feel any of that?” “Be more specific.” “I—I can’t,” Emma groans, “just...what does it feel like when you know the mark is here?” “Using the wrong terminology again. Mark is exclusively used for a person, not magical artifacts recollected throughout time.”

“This is a bad distraction.” “Yeah, but I think it’s working.” “Anyone ever told you you’re a nice guy?” “Not often, so don’t spread it around; it’ll ruin my reputation.” Whatever noise Emma tries to turn into a laugh is decidedly watery, but it helps lighten some of the near-black in Will’s gaze. He kisses her hair, that time. “Going through the North American room was probably a coincidence. We had to be closer to the stairs. To pull us to this spot. So, whatever may or may not have been pulsing—” “Oh my God, pulsing?” “In and or around that tiny, little pirate notebook is neither here nor there.” “Pirate notebook?” “Did you not read the little sign?” Emma shakes her head. That doesn’t help, at all. Just leaves her thoughts rattling around her skull, and she has too many thoughts. They’re running out of time. “Wasn’t a ton of information, probably because the British didn’t have to actively steal it from another culture, so it’s not as much fun to display it. But the little sign claimed it was a diary of sorts, kept by a ship’s quartermaster somewhere in the Caribbean about,” Will clicks his tongue, “hundred and forty years or so before now.”

Emma does the math. At least tries to do the math. She’s never been to the Caribbean. Especially not in 1717. Give or take a few years. What little she knows about that time period stems almost exclusively from her crush on Will Turner when she was a kid, and he wasn’t even technically a pirate for the majority of that film franchise.

Time’s a weird and decidedly tricky thing, though.

Happening all at once. Not like people usually think. There’s nothing linear when it comes to time, not really. And certainly not when it comes to time travel. Gold likes to describe it as a blanket. Picking at certain strings can get you to certain moments, but if you tug too hard, the entire thing can unravel. That’s why it’s so important they don’t leave a lasting impact on their trips.

Sure, they can be there. People can notice them. Maybe even remember them in passing. But truly living in the sections of the blanket where they don’t belong? No, that’s impossible. Improbable. No good, very bad, horrible. Like twisting a string into a position it doesn’t belong. Only the string is actually a person.

Emma swore she could feel magic coming off that notebook.

“And where is here, exactly? Is this the basement? Are we hiding in the basement?” “Seriously, are you getting paid by the insult?” Will gripes, but he can’t quite get the usual amiable tone back in his voice. Every word sounds like a struggle, as if they’re fighting this conversation upstream, and the stairwell they’re perched at the top of is dark and dank and a slew of other generationally appropriate, surprisingly alliterative words. “You wanna help a guy out?”

“You seriously want to go down there?” “I don’t know what to tell you, Em. Everything is pulling me this way; it’s all I can do to stop my knees from buckling.” She finches again. It’s embarrassing. “That doesn’t normally happen.” “More statements.” And fewer explanations — although she doesn’t mention that. Will knows what he’s doing, and Emma trusts Will. So, she flips her wrist. Light blooms from the center of Emma’s palm, casting shadows across their faces and the steps beneath their feet, but this floor isn’t made of imported marble, so that helps. Makes it easier to descend until they’re in another hallway with enough spider webs that Emma briefly wonders what the record for spider webs in one place is.

Breathing doesn’t get any easier.

They keep going. At some point, Will’s fingers lace through Emma’s free ones, the steady beat of his thumb tapping against her wrist a metronome she tries to time everything else to, and neither one of them speaks. There’s not really anything to say. It feels like they’re wandering through some strange knockoff set of The Mummy.

If those little burrowing beetle things show up, Emma very well may have a complete breakdown.

Luckily, there are no beetles. Dust and loose dirt, sure. By the time they reach the door at the end of what appears to be the longest underground hallway in the entire United Kingdom, Emma’s hem is a lost cause. Beads of sweat cling to Will’s temple, staining the edge of his hand-stitched shirt.

“Ruby’s never going to forgive us,” Emma murmurs, Will barely acknowledging her while he reaches his hand out. The door in front of him gives way almost immediately. Usually, they have to pick the lock. So, that’s something. And not much else, really.

Truth be told, Emma isn’t sure what they’ll find. The Phantom of the Opera, quite possibly. Although that was Paris, technically. She doesn’t think there’s a British equivalent. And she’s got to stop making so many movie references in her head.

Doesn’t matter, anyway.

There is no Phantom. No opera. Just straw-filled shipping cases, and more shadows caused by the light now hovering above her skin. Will takes a careful step in, waiting, Emma knows, for traps and pitfalls because he too has seen The Mummy far too many times, and nothing happens.

Again.

No jump scares. No bad guys. Not even anything to prevent Will from rummaging through the nearest container. One that just so conveniently has the Elgin Marbles in them. If the whoop of victory Will lets out is anything to go by. They’re not much to look at, really. Emma’s disappointed by that, although she’s not sure what she expected, exactly.

Something bigger. More imposing, maybe. They came off a temple, for God’s sake. Literal God’s in this case. And while Gold hadn’t been specific when detailing what, precisely, the Marbles can do, Emma really is a very accomplished Google’er, and these are some of the few remaining attributes of the Temple of Athena. Makes them flush with knowledge, some legends say. Or good at imparting battle strategy to the user, others claim.

No two stories ever entirely match up, and all the stories, whether they mention magical properties or not, are quick to point out just how much damage the Parthenon sustained from the fall of Ancient Greece to the time when Thomas Bruce, 7th Earl of Elgin, removed about half of the sculptures. With written permission from the Ottoman Empire, he claimed. Of course, no one’s ever managed to find that permission. Written, or otherwise.

Still, the damage and the little bit of light Emma’s holding makes it difficult to see any of the carvings on the stone. The one Will is staring at. He’s only staring at one. Huh.

Maybe Athena was prudent when bestowing her magic.

Pulling the slab out of the container, Will drops it in the oversized bag Gold gave them before they left, tying the strings tight enough to impress any upstanding sailor. Or pirate, even. Emma’s still a little preoccupied with pirates. “Is this too easy?” he asks her. “Getting them from what,” Will tilts his head, ”must be some kind of...restoring chamber?” “You’re a pessimist.” The slab thumps against his side ominously. “Be careful with that, will you? If it cracks, the magic could, I don’t know, fall out or something. Last thing we want to deal with is the force of the Greek gods descending upon us. Would probably freak out Karl Marx.” “Suggests the Greek gods would stick around to wait for Karl’s appearance, and you’re one to call out pessimism. Anyway, I am a realist,” Will corrects, “not a pessimist. Some might even say pragmatic, so, I—seriously, are you ok?” “I have no new information to provide you. That thing feel appropriately magical?” Will makes a dismissive noise, which is fair. It was a dumb question. He’s never messed up before. Found every magical item Gold has ever wanted across several cultural cornerstones for the entire human race. There’s no reason to think this time would be any different.

Except—

Well, those were Emma’s letter loops and her crossed t’s, and she really cannot shake this feeling of something wrong, so it’s only a little ridiculous that she manages to get a few feet on her jump at the sound of the first crash. Will curses. In a variety of languages and with the influence of multiple ancient zeitgeists. Latin plays a prominent role.

She’s not the one holding a slab of marble in her arms, so Emma moves considerably faster up the stairs than Will. Pushing open the door, David’s looming form is not the last thing she expects to see in the hall, but the quiver of arrows strapped to Mary Margaret’s back is certainly in the bottom five, and Will is going to run out of swear words.

David’s top hat is nowhere to be seen. He’s holding a rather large book, instead.

“So, uh,” he says slowly, “we gotta go.” Will growls. Straight-up growls. “Oh yeah, yeah, ya think?” Her inability to immediately participate in the conversation is something Emma is sure she’ll be annoyed by later, but right now, the whir of arrows whipping around a hallway corner takes precedent in the grand hierarchy of her thoughts, and the telltale sound of a grown man collapsing from what likely isn’t a mortal wound spurs her into action.

“Alright, c’mon,” she says, fingers tangled with Will’s again. He doesn’t object, even as he has to move the Marble to the bend of his elbow. By her shaky count, Emma has no less than forty-seven thousand questions, but David doesn’t offer any information, and Mary Margaret is preoccupied, and there is a lot of security at this event. Most of which appears intent on running after them.

There’s something to be said for adrenaline, though, because Emma’s shoes don’t skid as she sprints, and there are too many people at this exceedingly public and historic event to risk a gunshot. So, no one shoots at them. While Mary Margaret fires arrows that almost immediately replenish themselves, Will practically yanking Emma’s arm out of its socket in his quest to get them back to the pick-up point. In any other situation, those letters in that order usually make Emma laugh too.

Now, though—

Now the buzzing is incessant, and her heart is doing its abject best to beat its way out of her chest, growing until she’s genuinely worried about the state of her rib cage and the ability of her dress to contend with all of that. The room they enter is themed. Of course, it is. Not just vaguely Mesopotamian. Funeral shrouds hang from posts that definitely aren’t tacked to the wall, are more likely nailed there because this is still 1857, draped only a few feet away from books made of cracked, yellow paper and beaded necklaces, and the whole thing is far too heavy-handed for Emma’s beleaguered mind to keep up with.

It is, she will argue, what happens next happens at all.

Shouts ring out around them, commands to stop and halt, which doesn’t seem like appropriate vernacular for the time period, either, but they are in England, so maybe that makes a difference, and Emma has no intention of doing either of those things. Instead, for reasons she cannot possibly fathom, her arm swings in front of her, an inferno blazing under her skin and light pouring out of her fingertips. Magic rattles the walls, leaves cracks in all the glass cases, and every single guard rushing at them stops. Freezes, really.

Open mouths and wide eyes stare at Emma without a sound or a blink, no noise except the mutual gasping of all four of them. They’re going to have to throw this dress away. No way even Ruby can salvage the sweat-soaked thing.

“Emma, what—” Mary Margaret starts, but it’s another unfinished question and even more obvious worry, the first tug between Emma’s vertebrae making anything else moot.

She closes her eyes. Grits her teeth. Holds onto Will’s left hand with everything she’s got left.

Until it’s over, and they’re a tangle of legs and slightly erratic pulses, Ruby’s voice making its way through the hazy stream of Emma’s consciousness, and she’d been right about David’s knuckles. White stands out in stark contrast to the rest of his skin, holding onto the book in his hands as tightly as he can.

Once upon a time, there was magic.

As much a part of life as anything else, magic was a matter of fact. Not of belief. Not for a long time. No one had to believe in what was already there. Magic existed. That was that.

And sometimes it was good.

Magic, that is. Oftentimes, magic was good. Used to help. To light paths and suture wounds. To find lost things. To aid when every other choice felt wholly impossible. Magic brought possibility and potential, other words that started with similar letters and, eventually, one of those words was problem.

Magic brought problems.

Big, horrible problems set upon the magical community because, eventually, believing required more than just eyesight. Belief required proof. In triplicate. Experiments and explanations, evolution in the form of enlightenment, a shift in understanding that left little room for doubt and even less for the mystical. Soon, magic was seen as a crutch. Spoken about in hushed, accusatory tones, a cheat code long before anyone doing the accusing could begin to understand what that phrase would eventually mean.

Magic was a skip. A jump in the line, giving those inclined to use it a little bit more than they deserved. What, precisely, that more was could never quite be decided. The only thing people knew was that it was wrong. Right down to the marrow of their bones. Unacceptable, they said. Unfair, they shouted. Unnatural, they cried.

Cursed, they whispered.

And the whispers grew. Echoed around those deemed wrong. Sent away until they were little more than a rumor on the breeze still rife with the magic they controlled. For magic didn’t disappear. Not entirely, no. It waited. Biding its time. Still, people forgot. Let rumor become myth and legend, possibility and potential in the most abstract of ways; the bedtime story repeated on loop for years until the children memorized it only to promptly forget as soon as the mantle of adulthood threw itself across their suddenly broad shoulders.

Unreasonable, they said. Unaccountable, they shouted. Unfathomable, they cried.

Impossible, they whispered.

Magic waited, all the same.

For it knew, eventually, something would change.

Eventually, the belief would return.

She’s still sweating.

It’s absolutely disgusting. Moisture clings to Emma’s skin, a sheen that makes that same skin itch and crawl, and she’s not sure when precisely she found her way to this bed, pushed against a wall with lopsided posters still tacked up, but her dress laces are looser than they were, and she has to blink more than once to make out Ruby staring at her.

“Why are you being an enormous creep?” Ruby lifts her eyebrows. “Why are you fainting in the returning room?” “Wait, what? I fainted? Ah, Scarlet’s going to be pissed.” “I wouldn’t say it otherwise, and he was.” Lifting the shoulder that isn’t currently leaning against the open door frame, Ruby Lucas is the picture of manufactured and legitimate cool. It’s a partnership resulting in the sort of enigmatic personality Emma often finds herself jealous of. Recently brightened red streaks line Ruby’s hair in a way that’s equal parts subtle and obvious, every piece of clothing perfectly tailored to her body. Meant to draw attention exactly where Ruby wants it, the sort of hem-work that would leave the entire Fashion District salivating if only they knew that Ruby was here and her fingers were capable of such things.

Magical things. Things that ensure no one spares them a second thought. No matter what time period they’re wearing Ruby’s efforts in.

No one does, though.

Know about them, that is. Not really. About Ruby’s fingers or Emma’s light, or how easy it is for Will to feel magical objects. No one knows that David’s overprotective streak is far more mythically-inclined and Mary Margaret’s accuracy is based at least a little on her ability to manipulate the air around her.

And that’s fine. Good, even. With the state of magic being what it is and Gold’s plan so close to coming to fruition, keeping their talents away from prying eyes is a concession they’re all willing to make. Because the alternate is—

Awful, really.

Nightmare inducing. The sort of stories Emma heard when she was little. Sitting on a corner with fingerless gloves she’d fished out of a dumpster on 14th Street, and her friendship with Will got its start two blocks away from that dumpster. Can’t avoid friendship after chasing down a thief who stole your stolen blanket. Obviously.

So, it’s totally fine. Really, the whole thing. Except for the fainting thing. That’s less than ideal. In that, it’s never happened after a job before.

“How long have I been—” “Unconscious?” Ruby finishes, and her shoulder has not returned to its correct biological position. “Not long, but you know any time is super bad for you. Fucks with your brain.” “Sounds a lot like you’re suggesting my brain is fucked.” Another shrug. Half a grin. Emma rolls her eyes. That’s a mistake. Her head throbs, a steady beat between her brows that feels as if it’s doing its best to ricochet down each one of her vertebrae, and whoever deposited her on this couch did a shit job of making sure her neck was at an angle that would avoid any lingering, post-fainting pain.

It was probably Will.

“No, no, no,” Ruby shakes her head, “that’s not what I’m doing at all. Maybe your brain is a little distracted, though, because the job went to shit, and I’m never going to be able to salvage that dress, and the Boss hasn’t come out of his office for hours.”

That catches Emma by surprise. No way has she been unconscious for hours. That would be seriously bad. Like, for her brain. And the rest of her. Fear joins the headache apparently capable of twisting through her spine.

When she was a kid, just a few months after Gold found her and Will; the office door had slammed so loudly Emma was certain the noise seared itself on her heart. A brand to remind her of what she’d received and how it could all disappear if she didn’t follow the plan or the rules, and she remembers how Gold spent days behind that door.

Trays of untouched food piled in front of it.

Multiple issues of the newspapers he refused to unsubscribe from.

They all walked past. Cautious glances at the frame and the intricate carvings on it, but no one ever asked about those carvings, and none of them were ever really brave enough to truly want the answer.

No one knows where Robert Gold came from.

No one knows what’s in that office.

No one needs to. Not when Robert Gold found them, picked them up off the street, and gave them purpose. A direction they’ve all followed without much question, just the belief that he knows what he’s doing and he wouldn’t trick them. Wouldn’t lie to them. Because he needs them just as much as they need him.

A magical jigsaw puzzle, that’s what Mary Margaret calls it. Fitting together and complimenting each other, none of them worth much without the rest. Can’t finish a puzzle without all the pieces, after all.

And Robert Gold doesn’t disappear anymore. Not until now. Not until the job totally went to shit.

“You think people remember us?” Ruby clicks her tongue. “I think there’s way more going on here than we realize.” “Menacing,” Emma murmurs, grimacing as the room spins while she tries to sit up. Hands find their way back to her shoulders immediately, and these ones aren’t as large as Will’s, but they’re certainly just as nimble, and Emma’s lungs are never going to recover from this day. “Did, uh—did Mary Margaret mention what happened?” “If you’re alluding to the freezing of several dozen British Museum guards, all of whom, history tells us, unfroze upon the disappearance of four ne’er do wells, then, yes, she did say something about that.”

Emma’s groan hurts her throat. Her soul, too. Which is a little dramatic, but they’ve never been so effectively documented before, and she still has no idea what that book was. Or why David needed it.

“Magic’s more powerful in the past,” Ruby reasons, but the slight shake in her voice makes it sound like an excuse, “we all know that.” They did. Do. Have been told to be aware of that every single time they travel. Because magic needs belief to be powerful, and there was belief before. Or so they’ve been informed. Time and time again, since the very first day they walked into the brownstone on 86th Street, a space with far more rooms than the outside facade would suggest.

That’s why they’re doing this, after all. Collecting magical artifacts, bringing them back to the future. It’s all part of the plan. To reignite belief in magic. To prove its existence. To grow the power that’s been otherwise discarded.

Emma can’t figure out how a book could possibly help that.

“Sure, sure,” Emma nods, “that’s probably what it was. How, uh—how much actually got written down, then? Did anything major change?” Ruby shakes her head. “Not that I know of, but, like I said, Boss has been in his office for four hours. Almost as soon as you guys left.” “Huh.” “Your reactions are admittedly super disappointing.” “Next time I use up so magic in the past because David’s being a secretive asshole, I’ll work on improving my reactions.” Every one of Ruby’s teeth is on display when she smiles. “More going on than we know. That’s why I’m here.” “It’s not just to yell at me for ruining the dress?” “Trust me, I’d really love to yell at you for ruining the dress, but this is the game we’ve all agreed to play, so yelling just makes me look like an asshole.” “Sure it does.” “Add that to the response Hall of Fame. And then try not to fall over when we walk down the hall because we’re being beckoned.” Magic rushes through Emma. Sweeps across her back and circles the awkward bend of her elbows while she half-sits, half-stands above the bed. All of the pillows have found their way to the ground, somehow. Her mouth dries, and her skin is still flushed, lingering heat that blooms in the center of her chest and deceptively close to her heart, and she does a good job of ignoring that because the same heart is once again beating unevenly and the strangled sound Ruby lets out as Emma rips the edges of her skirts should not be as satisfying as it is.

“Oh my God,” Ruby screeches, “what the shit, Emma?” She doesn’t respond. Is too busy rushing down the hall, nearly tripping around the far corner, and three identical expressions lift to meet Emma’s as she stumbles back into the returning room. One side of Will’s mouth tugs up. “Nice of you to join us.”

“Ah, fuck off,” Emma gripes, even as she lets Mary Margaret’s arms circle her, David’s hesitant stare boring into the side of her face. “You ok, though?” Will hums, hooking his thumbs around the belt loops of his jeans. “Why wouldn’t I be?” “Seems we made a bit of history.” “Well, that sounds way nicer than what we actually did. I was promised there’d be no fainting.”

“Worried?” “Don’t be an idiot.” He’s totally worried. “And,” Emma turns toward David, looking a little paler than he usually does. He hasn’t changed his clothes either. “What exactly did we do?”

Opening his mouth to respond, it’s nice that it’s someone else getting cut off this time but then nice is rather quickly replaced with dread in the form of familiar footfalls, and the soft tap of a cane against hardwood, and Emma backs up. Almost directly onto Mary Margaret’s foot. She doesn’t say anything. She laces their fingers together, instead.

Like puzzle pieces fitting together.

If Robert Gold has ever worn anything except a three-piece suit, Emma has never seen it.

Always impeccably dressed, there’s never a bit of dust on him. Nothing out of place. No wayward strings or mussed hair. He is a picture of certainty, a quiet sort of power that comes from even more control, picking his way through the strings of time without fear of repercussions. He can’t be wrong when it’s his own rules he’s following.

None of them move. None of them breathe. They stand, and they wait, grown adults feeling as if they’re twelve years old again.

Emma swallows.

It doesn’t help. Her mouth is a goddamn desert. Sweat clings to her jaw. “Well,” Gold says, somehow making four letters sound like forty, “today has certainly been an interesting day, has it not?” Nothing. No response. He didn’t want one, anyway.

“Stories appeared. In newspapers. In archives. Of you. All of you.”

Eyes bouncing between them, Gold’s gaze seems to linger on Emma for a second longer. An unspoken accusation looms in the look, oddly similar to that very first time he saw her — ten years old and chasing down a boy with legs far longer than hers and she’d slammed into Gold’s shins without realizing he was standing there. Sometimes she still wonders if he hadn’t been. If he simply appeared in front of her, staring down the bridge of his nose with enough disdain that it nearly rotted the air around them, before the expression disappeared and all he muttered was you with a sense of awe that made Emma feel more important than she ever had before.

Or since.

She licks her lips.

“You are all aware of the rules, are you not?” Mary Margaret’s staring at her sock-covered feet. David appears to find the crown molding fascinating. Ruby still hasn’t come entirely into the room.

And Gold’s eyes flicker back toward Emma.

She nods. “Yes, sir.” “Yet here we stand,” Gold says softly, “the lot of us, with sudden interest and a leftover mystery. Luckily, we’re near the end of our task, so I am—” “Wait, what?” David’s head snaps. Mary Margaret’s fingers tighten. Will’s hand finds its way back to Emma’s shoulder. She exhales. Not on purpose. Much like those two words were not meant to work their way out of Emma or whatever part of her brain controls conversation, but it appeared that area was, indeed, fucked up, and Gold’s eyes narrow.

Wrinkles appear at the edges, making him look older than he is. Wane, that’s the word for it. He looks wane and suddenly exhausted, even as the spark of magic in his eyes grows. Resting his weight on the head of his cane, the tip of Gold’s tongue finds the inside of his cheek, his shoulders curving forward ever so slightly. The air shifts, again. Not as heavy as it was in the Museum, but no less electric, the magic beneath Emma’s skin rumbling in response.

It takes her another moment to realize what that rumble means. Defensive positioning. Light flutters at the ends of her hair, the hitch of Will’s breath noticeable even over whatever sound roars between her ears. Like a massive wave, and she desperately has to get off this nautical kick.

She swears something flickers just out of her line of vision.

There’s nothing there.

God, if this is what going crazy is like, it’s not really all that enjoyable.

��Why did David need to steal that book?” Emma asks, misplaced courage that has Will cursing in another dead language. “We were supposed to be getting the Marbles.”

Gold doesn’t smile. Doesn’t lift his hands off his cane. He watches Emma with the same heaviness she felt in that Museum room they didn’t belong in. Goosebumps burst along her arm, another warning and burst of magic that makes her stomach jump and her lungs pinch.

If she doesn’t get something to drink soon, her lips are liable to crack.

“No,” Gold objects, “the Marbles were your job, my dear. One you did admirably.” “What’s the book about, then?” Will demands, and he hasn’t lifted his hand. “Shouldn’t we know what’s going on?” “What do you think you’re doing here, Mr. Scarlet?” Twisting to look at David, his head shake barely warrants the description. That sort of pisses Emma off. Her head is going to snap in half, and it will be more comfortable than whatever she’s feeling now.

“The book is information,” Gold says, “regarding the last piece destined for our cache.” He’s feeling it now. The story. Weaving words and emotions is almost as simple for Gold as picking his way through time, knowing what to say and when to say it, a persuasive sort of talent that draws interest and keeps it for the long haul. He stands up straighter. “For years we’ve been scouring time itself for the strength to bring magic back to its full potential. Obtaining the Marbles gives us the knowledge to understand what we must do at the end. To pick our spots, as it were. We’ll have what we need for the Last Battle. The final fight that will allow magic to flourish once more, but that fight requires one more trip. Now, with the book, we have all the information we need.” She knows.

Before the words pass Gold’s mouth, somehow, Emma is positive of what those words will be, the hand not wrapped up with Mary Margaret’s drifting toward the neckline of her dress, and there isn’t anything there. She’s not sure why she thinks there should be. Why there might have been before. Or will be at some point.

“Legend has long told of a spring in the Caribbean,” Gold continues, “of a water that can—” Will scoffs. “The Fountain of Youth?” It’s over before it really begins. Snapping his wrist, Gold’s hand is back on his cane before Emma realizes it left at all, Will a heap of gasps and tear-stained cheeks on the floor behind her. Mary Margaret yells. Ruby snarls. David’s next to Will already, trying to help him back to his feet, but all Emma can do is stare and glare and other assorted rhyming words, waiting for marching orders she knows she’ll take because her handwriting was in that book.

“What do you want us to do?” Emma asks, another stupid question. She totally knows.

Gold’s smile appears in slow motion. It looks victorious. “Well, I’d think that was simple, my dear. I want you and Mr. Scarlet, there,” he nods towards Will’s heaving chest, “to take this little trip. To find the Unspoken Waters, and to return it to me.” “What does it do?” “Restores.” “Not the Fountain of Youth, then?” Another flash. More power. Magic crackles around Emma. “No,” Gold breathes, “not the Fountain of Youth. Water with the ability to bring back magic. To spark the power in every single artifact you all have pilfered over the years.” “Oh,” Ruby murmurs, “pilfer is certainly the politically correct way of saying that.”

Gold doesn’t look away from Emma.

“Just me and Scarlet?”

The smile grows. “That’s all I need.”

There’s shouting after that.

Arguments. A stomped foot or two. Emma legitimately fears for the future of the fingers on her left hand, Mary Margaret’s grip so strong that enough knuckles crack to be distressing.

Gold doesn’t budge. The instructions have been given. The plan has been made.

Emma and Will leave in three days.

To find Killian Jones and the ship that can bring them to the Unspoken Waters.

Emma doesn’t often take the Subway.

Partially because there’s never really a need. She doesn’t have anywhere to go, really. And partially because she isn’t quite, totally...allowed to. Public transportation presents a very specific type of threat to Gold’s puzzle pieces, and magical as they may be, there’s danger in the unknown, of which the Subway is flush with. Even on its designated tracks.

But, tonight, with one last trip through time looming in front of her, and the minimal research she’s managed to do on the Unspoken Waters, Emma’s restless and nervous, and it takes her four tries to get her five-dollar bill into the machine that dispenses MetroCards.

People think she’s a tourist.

It’s the most embarrassing thing that’s happened to her in recent memory.

She doesn’t sit on the train. Opts to stand, like that will help the energy in her limbs spread out evenly, holding onto the rail above her with enough ease that she’s almost confident she could do this for the foreseeable future. Once the job is over. Once magic is back. Although when magic is back, Emma isn’t sure what need she’d have for a Subway car that smells like bodily odor and excrement. But, in theory, it’s kind of, sort of nice.

Speeding — at least relative to the rest of the New York’s public transportation systems — underground gives her thoughts a chance to settle. To still for a moment. Like they’re keeping their balance as well, and that’s a good analogy until the train grinds to a quick halt and Emma’s balance sucks, and whatever she lands on is way more solid than she’s entirely prepared for.

He curses, too.

With an accent that leaves whatever hair exists on her arms and the back of her neck standing, tilting her head up to find wide blue eyes looking at her, and the muscles in his throat shift. Emma knows because she’s watching them.

Rather intently, in fact.

“Sorry, sorry,” she mumbles, but the words are hardly spoken before she notices the state of her pulse and the signs of her magic, and the eyes, somehow, widen. “Are you alright? No broken bones or anything like that?” He blinks. He doesn’t take a step away from her.

All he says is, “You can see me?”

#cs ff #captain swan #captain swan ff #cs fic #captain swan fic #time travel history fic #really i am only marginally following the rules of this event #let's all hope it makes sense by the end

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nol-an · 3 years

Text

it was good until it wasn’t || n. patrick

inspired by the prompt, “please don’t make me choose.”

2k worth of A N G S T!! um yea haven’t written in over two years and this is my first hockey fic so bear with me. feedback is always appreciated! (this is not proofread and im sure there are probs some plot holes- oops)

__________

For so long, everything had felt too good to be true. Nolan finally accomplished his dream of playing in the NHL, and you had gotten into your dream school in Philadelphia. To you, there was nothing more important than pursuing a career in the medical field and being able to do that with Nolan on your side.

At times, the long study nights, missed plans, and occasional stressed-induced breakdowns made you question if you were ever going to meet your end goals. That feeling was definitely not foreign to you, but it didn’t necessarily make coping with the thought any easier. It was a weird feeling — four years of undergraduate school almost felt like too much yet not enough time. There was so much you wanted to accomplish, and you sometimes wished you weren’t so ambitious because the days where you felt incapable of being successful were the days that you wanted nothing more than to wallow in your fears alone.

Luckily for you, Nolan was incredibly understanding of your fears. While he knew his life as an athlete was drastically different from your life as a student, he tried his best to understand your thoughts and always told you how much he admired your drive to reach your goals. No matter how often you tried to internalize your emotions, Nolan knew better and never hesitated to be your rock. Be it in the form of verbal or physical reassurance, his presence radiated a sense of comfort that always brought you out of any illusion of doubt you may have conjured.

He doesn’t tell you enough, but you have a similar effect on him. Your gentle touches, cute pre-game texts, and warm hugs never fail to bring a smile to his face. If he’s being honest with himself, he’s not quite sure what he would do without you. It’s not really a thought he has to worry about, though, because for what felt like a blissful eternity, the stars aligned for you two. There were undoubtedly times when Nolan and you would run into disagreements, but the desire to make things work seemingly mended any issues in the relationship.

That was, however, until everything seem to come to a head. With your MCAT exam date approaching very soon and Nolan’s season with the Flyers starting just as quickly, it was hard for the two of you to bask in each other’s presence like usual. It wasn’t something either of you really noticed, as you both understood how important the other’s career was. You knew how important this comeback season for Nolan would be, and you tried your best to let him know that you would support him no matter what. He didn’t have to say it, but you knew a lot of doubts were rushing through your boyfriend’s head and you almost mistook his increasingly reserved demeanor as nerves.

In fact, you didn’t really give it much thought until Nolan came home from his fourth game of the season. As badly as you wished you could have attended, the remaining hours you had to prepare for the MCAT were previous and you reassured Nolan that you would be his number one cheerleader again as soon as you got the dreaded test out of the way.

Your nose was stuffed into a psychology textbook until your trance was broken with the slam of the front door to you and Nolan’s shared apartment.

“Hi, baby,” you greeted as you got out of your seat to hug your freshly-showered boyfriend. If the sound of the front door was any indication, you had a feeling that the game didn’t go as desired, and you didn’t want to push any touchy subjects. On more than one occasion, Nolan had told you how much he liked how he could escape from hockey in your presence. He loved that he could escape from that part of his life, loved how you made him feel like a normal guy. You thought this would be one of those nights where even the word “hockey” wouldn’t be uttered, but you were wrong. So wrong.

“You’re not gonna ask how the game went?” Your boyfriend pressed, his tone bitter. Pulling away from your hug, he turned his back to you all too soon and he walked towards the kitchen.

“I-I mean, you know I’m always here to listen about your games, but I just thought you wouldn’t want to talk about it?” you meekly replied, unsure of where he was going with the conversation.

You weren’t entirely sure what the outcome of the game was, but you were definitely confused. Nolan usually didn’t like talking about the Flyers’ losses, but you were so sure something went wrong based on his dramatic entrance into your shared home.

Prompted by his silence, you continued, “Um, so was it a win?” you uttered, regretting your words as soon as they slipped off your tongue.

Slamming his water bottle on the countertop, Nolan’s actions caused your words to dissipate. Silence filled the room, the tension almost palpable.

“Well you would know if you were there, wouldn’t you?” he replied, clearly annoyed by your seemingly stupid question.

Alright, so definitely not a win.

“Nols,” you tried to reason, “You know I wanted to be there so badly, but I couldn’t. The MCAT is almo-” you were abruptly cut off.

“I know. The MCAT is only two weeks away and it’s super important for you. It’s been the same thing for weeks now, you don’t have to remind me,” Nolan finished your sentence, his monotonous and resentful tone making it clear that he had already heard the same words from you numerous times before.

Had it not been for this same tone, you would have brushed off his comment. You would have instead attributed his harshness to tonight’s loss, which would have been the third one in a row. However, his response felt condescending — like he was downplaying how important the MCAT actually was to you.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you quipped. It felt like you just recited the most cliche line in the book, but your brain and heart had already started functioning at two different rates. If you attempted to say any more, your stress from the upcoming exam mixed with the rising argument you sensed would have surely sent you into a pool of tears.

“It’s just exhausting you, know?” Nolan started, “I know you’re busy with your own things, but it sucks seeing all of the other guys getting to hug their girlfriends and wives at the tunnel at the end of games while I know I can’t have the same with you. I mean, is it so much to ask of you to just be there for me? How am I supposed to believe that you want the best for me when you aren’t even acting like it?” he argued.

“‘So was it a win?’” he bitterly recited your earlier question, scoffing at it. “You could have at least Googled the score and pretended like you were keeping up.”

You didn’t know what to say. Your confusion immediately turned into anger and shock — you thought Nolan, out of all people, would have understood your situation. Not being able to wrap your head around his current state of irrationality, it felt like hours passed before you willed yourself to reply.

“I've attend almost every game of yours. I’m sorry I haven’t been so good at that recently, but you know how much I want to do well on this exam,” you seethed.

You were trying to stay level-headed, but anger consumed any possibility of making the discourse calm. “My life does not revolve solely around your career, and I’m sure as hell not going to always be able to put my life on hold to make sure I know what the scoreboard of every game is.” You couldn’t help but let every one of your words become coated in frustration. You thought everything you were saying was so obvious, and you couldn’t help but become more upset with the fact that you even had to reiterate these points to Nolan.

“Sometimes it feels like I’m not even dating someone,” Nolan dryly responded. “Feels like all you do nowadays is drone on and on about this test. Is this what the rest of our relationship it gonna be like? I mean, I can’t imagine what things are gonna be like once you’re in med school,” he hastily commented, pacing around the kitchen.

Every one of his words felt like a punch to your gut. His words hurt more than your face let on, every instinct in your body asking —no, begging— you to flee your current predicament.

“I don’t know what to say,” you truthfully replied.

“Is there even room for me in your life anymore?” he questioned, adding fuel to the fire. “It feels like I’m always second to your fantasy life as a doctor.”

This was your last straw. Sure, you could have tried to see the validity in his initial argument if you gave yourself time to cool down. But now, it felt like he was mocking you. The same person that made your goals feel attainable was starting to break down your confidence. The confidence that he helped you construct was now crumbling, brick by brick.

“Nolan, you mean so much more to me than that. Please, I would never want you to feel this way, and I know we can work this out we just need to tal-” you were cut off once more.

“I don't know if I can do this anymore,” he cryptically stated, letting your worst fears fester around the kitchen that felt way too cramped now.

“Nol, please,” you pleaded. Your anger immediately shifted to dread.

“I want you to achieve your dreams more than anything, but I don’t know if I see myself in these future plans if this is what the rest of your career is supposed to be like. Do I even have a place in your future plans?” Nolan sighed.

Your stomach dropped. Even though he didn’t explicitly state it, you knew what he was hinting at. It was your career or him, and he was making it clear that having both in your life wouldn’t be feasible. As if he pulled out the last brick, you finally let all of your walls down. Tears freely flowed down your face, as you tried to convince yourself that you were hearing wrong. You wanted to scream it at the top of your lungs. Of course you saw Nolan as part of your future. Hell, he was the man you wanted to spend the rest of your life with. However, his seeming disregard for your career aspirations was off-putting and made you reconsider everything.

Your eyesight, blurry from your tears, tried to focus on the hockey player. Your dejected state urged you to reason with him, but you were unsure of what to do.

“Please, Nolan. Please don’t make me choose,” you pleaded. In comparison to your vulnerable state, Nolan was composed. It was as if he rehearsed this, his blank stare void of emotion. You tried to come closer to him, but his body language told you that your touch wasn’t welcome.

“I don’t have to,” Nolan pushed himself off the counter, “The fact that you don’t already know your answer already tells me what I need to know,” he stated. Grabbing his keys off the kitchen counter, he headed to the front door before you could gather your emotions and form words.

Your anger, confusion, and hurt seemed to weigh you down, gluing your feet to the ground. As much as you wanted to stop his exit from the apartment, your body kept you in place. With a second slam of the front door, the gust of wind from the heavy door whiffled through your long-forgotten textbook, the sound of the pages ruffling mocking you. The silence following Nolan’s exit was deafening. You never thought Nolan would make you choose between your relationship with him and your career. You thought you knew a lot of things about life, really, but this was certainly something you were not prepared for.

Your world was spinning, orbiting into a field of anguish and heartbreak. As if your brain hadn’t quite registered the turn of events, you almost thought about calling for Nolan until you were cruelly reminded that reaching for him was no longer an option. Your rock was gone, and you were lost.

#nolan patrick fic #nolan patrick imagine #nolan patrick #nhl imagine #nhl fic #my writing

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ms-march · 3 years

Text

Old Hollywood AU- The Lucky One

Here is the first chapter/one shot of this AU that is a collab and crossover that @tolstoyamericanrevolution and I have been working on it since November! Please keep an open mind to character interpretation because this is AU territory and a lot of a character who isn't necessarily the focus of the AU can be warped for plot and time accuracy purposes over character accuracy! So let's get to it and happy last day of TURN WEEK 2021!!!!

Global media was in a buzz, Today was the Hollywood equivalent of a royal wedding. With all the bells and whistles belonging to the West Coast set. New & old money all united around the superficialities of silver screens and unions and dubious desert deals. All neatly swallowed down with a glass of wedding champagne- the same brand as Buckingham palace yet here it looked slightly gaudy, American.

The media was here to adore, this was a decade before your Grace Kelly’s and other exports could wear centuries-old crowns.

Here it was harsh, fiscal, temporary, silver over platinum yet it was royal, majestic, lovely- every bit worth the soundbite.

This was the American monarchy, all a blend of the finest breeds and worst mongrels.

Dressed up in such a lovely, splendid crowd that Philadelphia, New York, Houston, Los Angeles & Chicago would all be running titles.

“Adoring Crowds rewarded at last! The Marriage of America’s Sweetheart”

“Hollywood Royalty! Adrienne Fairfax & John Laurens tie the Knot”

“ Media Heiress & Tobacco Heir; Los Angeles’s Marriage of The Decade”

Those picking up the papers would all sigh the same thing; how lovely.

The crowd was lovely.

At least, she was sure it was. Adrienne Fairfax had not yet been seen by a single member of the crowd, anxiously sitting before a vanity in a wedding gown three times her size, wringing satin gloved hands until the gloves began to crease. Her hands shook with the same fear that was responsible for the turning of her stomach as she removed them.

Today was her wedding day and it was exactly as she had always dreamed. Every detail was perfect and precisely to her liking.

Every detail was impressive.

Every detail would impress them.

The crowd was lovely.

The crowd had cheered for her, applauding her on the engagement just as they did when she was on the movie screen. Adrienne had been just as shocked as them to hear of her engagement. She would certainly remember being proposed to at the ripe age of seventeen. She certainly would have remembered if the man who did so was twenty-three years old, making him five years her senior.

The crowd had buzzed with conversation, just as they did now, outside of the open windows that were meant to cool her down. The cool breeze in the mountains this time of year should have corrected the heat filling her face and chest as it billowed through the open windows of the room, carrying the sounds of society in with it.

Her wedding was exactly as she had always dreamed.

It was in the mountains, away from the pollution of the billboard lights and American mile cars. She could see the stars from here, the real ones, in the sky. Not the ones in the velvet curtains in the ballroom, or the ones on the tule that coated the tablecloth in the grand dining room of the house she had barely spent a night in since she was a very young girl. Not the ones taking their seats in a church to watch Adrienne make the most irreversibly horrible decision of her life.

The crowd was lovely.

She was sure it was, and she was grateful for them. Their own chatter drowned out the echoes of old ghosts that still haunted this house’s halls. Adrienne’s eyes fluttered down to the picture frame propped up on the vanity in her childhood bedroom. She had been watching it like the smiling couple in the photo would decide to leave their seats on the terrace and walk away.

It was impressive.

The woman had light-colored hair, and the man’s was some odd form of grey in the yellowing black and white photo. She wore the most beautiful gown of pearly ivory layers and lace, the very same gloves Adrienne had just pulled from her own clammy hands graced the woman’s hands, the tiara atop her head in the photo matching the one atop the pile of blonde curls that she had just arranged in the vanity mirror.

It was just as she had imagined it.

Adrienne had found her mother’s wedding planning book years ago, and she fell in love with it the moment she first laid her eyes upon the beautiful fair-haired woman, leaning happily into the man in a finely tailored tuxedo and a wide smile in his eyes with an odd grey color to his hair.

Adrienne had not stepped foot over the threshold of this impressive Georgian English Manor style house since the last time she was dressed head to toe in black.

Adrienne had not crossed the threshold since the day of their funeral when she crossed from the foyer to the stairs down the drive with her belongings in tow.

She had gone home with a family friend that her parents had entrusted with her care and upbringing. The Washingtons were more superficial people than her parents had been. Not to say that they consumed more, that much was about the same. Rather, they were more concerned about success than they ever were with her. Growing up with the Washingtons, Adrienne had so many nannies, nurses, and governesses she often forgot their names. Not that it was important really, none of them integrated with her more than they absolutely had to.

Martha Washington had been insistent that she was to be the only maternal figure to the young heiress. Which would have been perfectly alright if she did not despise Adrienne’s own mother so deeply, making her maternal affection very few and far between.

Today is her wedding day.

It was Martha that had opened the door without a word, simply raising her brow, impatient with the blonde girl before the vanity. Adrienne managed one last look in the mirror before rising from the small chair she had sat on, donning her gloves over the clamminess of her sweaty hands, and breathed.

She breathed carefully as Martha pulled the veil to cover her face.

In and out.

In and out and suddenly she could pretend she was not being made to act as a witness as George signed over all she was to gain upon her 18th birthday to a man named John Laurens. He had shown up to sign the papers himself, a courtesy to George, she was sure. He was to be her husband, or so she had been told.

He had not even looked at her.

He did not greet her when he came through the door, only George. He did not converse with her, only George. She could have gotten up, smacked him, and walked out of the room and he would still not have noticed her.

He was to be her husband and she had not met him but once before. She knew who he was, vaguely. He worked at the studio as an actor. He was the son of an influential South Carolina politician who had a family fortune in the tobacco trade. But she had only met John Laurens once before her wedding day was set for the day of her 18th birthday and not a single day later. A week after watching her life be signed away into his hands he had paid her a visit.

Another courtesy to George, she was sure.

He had arrived with no specific plan, and walked through the gardens with her, talking now to her for almost an hour straight. She had even tried placing both tea and whiskey before him to shut his ramblings, both attempts failing miserably as he continued on about himself. He visited for almost two hours and had not asked her a single thing about herself.

He was to be her husband and he did not know a thing about her.

They met four other times during the short engagement, most of which were public niceties, another courtesy to George. There was not a single newspaper, magazine, or television hour that did not wish to have some kind of word with her on the topic of her wedding. None of them dared to advise her, she had been out planning the very best in the country since her earliest teenage years. A popular anecdote she had heard more in the past few months than she had anything else in the rest of her life went as following:

The Pope had come to visit the re-elected Franklin Delano Roosevelt in the White House but found the most pleasant time in the company of the most eligible girl in America, all the way on the West Coast.

The crowd was lovely.

That is what George had told her with a peck of a kiss to her cheek before he took his seat. She would walk herself down the aisle.

The harp and violins played as the grand doors to the ballroom opened on her, exposing her to the crowd and their whispers. The ceremony looked stunning. It was just as she had imagined it when she was little.

She only now began to wish that she had imagined the man at the end of the aisle so that there might be at least something she could find fault with.

There were familiar faces among the crowd that she passed on her long and slow walk to the man at the other end of the grand room. The clicking echo of her heels on the floor being the only thing keeping her trembling legs on course, but even worse was searching as discreetly as possible for those familiar faces. Anything to not have to face the harsh reality of who— no, of what— waited for her at the end of the crowd.

Among the crowd, her eyes locked with another blonde-haired man and she begged herself not to look desperate. He saw her looking too, but he managed far more composure than Adrienne did. Of course he did.

He must be thrilled.

Adrienne had the thought before she could stop herself. John Andre was another executive at the studio alongside George. Before her engagement, there had been pressures from all around for the two of them to marry. It would be a fitting trade, they justified, the daughter of an executive to the wife of an executive. It was a natural transition.

Perhaps that is why he had not spoken out about her engagement and marriage being written into her contract. He stood there, pretending he was not looking at her in his black tailored tuxedo, hair done in the most fashionable way with a small wave curl to it. He pretended that she was not on a death march.

He pretended far better than her.

He had his vices, that much she knew, but he was respectful. He spoke with her, not just to her. She knew him. She knew him and even though she had never found him more than physically attractive she found herself wishing it was him at the end of the aisle, and not for the first time since her engagement.

Today was her wedding day.

In a few minutes, she won’t be engaged anymore.

In a few minutes, she would be married.

In a few minutes, she would be married to a man that did not know a single thing about her.

She would be married to a man in less than a few minutes, and suddenly Adrienne understood all those runaway brides, leaving their fiance’s at the altar. Her heart pounded, hammering in her chest as she composed herself with a warm indifference. She had been doing so well. Then she saw him.

John Andre was an executive at the studio with George. There was pressure from all around for them to get married.

It was a fair trade.

He remained silent for his own sake. One cannot be forced to marry a woman who already belongs to a husband of her own.

She would be married and he would remain a bachelor till the end of his days, just as he wanted, receiving pity for her engagement everywhere he looked, exempting him from the very idea of marriage. Exempting him from being held accountable for his vices.

He must be thrilled, signing her life away to a man who doesn’t know a single thing about her for his own peace of mind.

It was a fair trade.

He had played the game and played it well.

He had won. And it was fair.

This will all be over soon, and she could find solstice in the stars over the sleepy Manor estate, talking to a ghost from the lawn as if he never left her. He had never left her, calling her to look up and scour the sky for stars whenever she felt lonely.

He had called her “my star.”

She was his star, and soon it would all be over. She could disappear into the night and be with the stars, chatting with ghosts from a happier past.

It will all be over soon.

She was looking through the crowd for familiar faces.

She was doing so well. And then she saw him, in the doorway she had just come from, a man in a finely tailored tuxedo and a wide smile in his eyes with an odd grey color to his hair. “It will all be over soon.”

And she heard him from the other end of the aisle, loud and clear, as if he were right beside her, as he should be.

Executive’s daughter married,

Media magnet meets Southern industry

John Andre: Hollywood’s Most Wanted Bachelor Remains Unwed

It was easy to feel remorseful, heroically guilty when you had nothing at stake.

No real risk to gamble.

It was the prisoner that escaped the hanging and looked sympathetically to the damned, fingers crossed behind their back. That was John Andre on this fine nuptial day.

If it had been him standing at the end of the aisle, where another John stood, he would be less prone to sympathy and instead resentment. Resentment of having his wings clipped and arranged around him, in exchange for a slip of a girl whom he felt no connection with.

By no connection, he meant romantic or intimate or lustful- none of the trilogy of connections worth considering matrimony.

Instead, he felt an observer's connection, a connection of pity, of sympathy- lightly powdered amusement and a genuine kindness that came from recognizing another piece on the chessboard of the older generation.

You could have as much power or success as you wanted in this city, as an executive you would assume John had made it to the top, and yet you would always be a puppet on someone else’s string.

Ask any man and it would be a woman, a mafia deal, a boss, an older competitor, or simply the moths that floated around the sparkles of fame ready to consume you if you stepped out of line.

#lbl #luck be a lady #turn amc #turn: washington's spies #adrienne fairfax #john laurens #old Hollywood au #an American dream #turn week 2021 #turn week #amrev #american revolution #turn fanfic

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