#maybe she would have been a good suit for nate

[nocturnalazure]

To be continued

[princessbrunette]

if anyone understands having a tricky relationship with their father, it’s nate archibald. ౨ৎ

somethin small i wrote abt nate bc a few people asked. cw: daddy kink, daddy issues, smut

that distant stare of yours, that pout as you stare out over the city from his apartment window. he knows it all too well. approaches you softly with a slight sympathetic pout of his own, running a hand over your head and bringing your cheek to his chest so he can kiss the top of your head. he couldn’t give you a better father, but he could give you that guidance and love you crave so much. he could do better.

so he gives you everything — you want that dress costing an arm and a leg? it’s already hanging in your side of the closet at his apartment. you too sleepy as you sit at the kitchen table in the morning after a long night with him? he’s forking up a perfect biteful of pancake and bringing it to your lips with a grin, happy to do so. he never gets mad when you snap at him, something deeper clearly triggering such a sudden reaction— only frowning and shaking his head, closing in on you to thumb at your cheek. “whats with the attitude? somethings on your mind. talk to me.” he coo’s empathetically.

it’s not just you that noticed— blair’s smug but somewhat gleeful smile as she totters alongside nate on the street, nudging him with a sharp elbow through her maison margiela coat. “well, you know how thrilled i am for you to finally be tugging along a girl of taste. even if i have to watch you treat her like you snatched her from the cradle yourself.”

he huffs out a laugh, shooting her a confused glance, walking alongside her with his hands in his pockets. “what are you talking about? she’s like one year younger than me. nearly two.”

“age isn’t nothing but a number, nate— i’m talking about the coddling, tell me — does she call you daddy in just the bedroom or do you extend that to all hours of the day?”

“jesus— need i remind you of boundaries blair, what i do with my girlfriend is none of your business… but— no, she doesn’t call me that.”

but it stayed bouncing around his brain like a ping pong ball. started noticing all the little things, how much more you’d cling to him after an argument with your father. selfishly, he almost started wishing you’d fight more— just so he could dote on you like that. the whole ‘daddy’ thing wouldn’t be so weird right? the thought of it had him reaching down to readjust in his tight suit pants, clearing his throat. uncomfortable? yes. but sexy, crazily so.

maybe he could milk it out of you. enforce a little more guidance until you’re putty in his hand. it wouldn’t be hard, he saw the way you’d blink at him all doe eyed when he’d tell you not to stay up too late, both thumbs stroking your cheeks. he’d speak slower, calmer, stand closer, make him the only thing you can see, think about even. he was gentle, loving, held eye contact super well — too well, made your face get hot and wanna look away. made you wanna shrink, go all mushy in your brain. “hey, look at me when i talk to you sweetheart. i don’t bite, you know.” he smiles, and there’s no threat present but god you’d never disobey him. never your nate.

it finally slips out when he’s got your thighs pinned open, strong arms wrapped around them whilst he sucks on your clit. he was always good at that, making you cum. nate knew just how to destress you after a long stressful day, far too stressful for his sweet girl. he laps you up, pressing thick fingers deep inside gummy walls, dribbling over your slit.

“nnnnnn—” you can’t even get his name out, clutching a pink throw pillow.

“i know, baby.” he hums.

“daddy!” you cry, and he doesn’t even bat an eyelid as if he was expecting it. if you’d been more with it, you would have seen him bite back a proud chuckle, shoulders relaxing just a little. he keeps at it, stroking the inside of your sensitive thighs.

“thats right. tell daddy how it feels.”

[ghoul-foolery]

Dirty Windows | 11 | Nora x Hancock

A Fallout 4 Soulmate AU

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Fic Summary:

Hancock never thought he would find his soulmate. Once a common occurrence, soulmates turned into a bit of a rarity after the bombs dropped. It was to be expected when there was an influx of people getting shot in the face on a daily basis. So when Hancock discovered that he had a soulmate he was ecstatic; all of the people in the Commonwealth, and he was one of the lucky few.

Too bad his soulmate didn't want anything to do with him.

When Nora thought for sure she was going to die too, the pain stopped – and then there was nothing. Nothing but the emptiness. Nothing but the grief. Half of her soul was suddenly gone forever. She was dropped in the middle of the ocean, drifting among the waves with no land in sight. Then just as suddenly she had been cast adrift, she found land. The hole was filled the moment it had been created. As she gripped Nate’s vault suit and begged him to open his eyes, Nora found herself battling with the horrifying realization that she had another soulmate; that some stranger had taken Nate's place.

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[ 1 ] <- [ 6 ] [ 7 ] [ 8 ] [ 9 ] [ 10 ] - [ 12 ]

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“You’re lying. In what world would bottle caps be a viable currency?”

Hancock snorted into his water, grinning like a fool as he watched the woman stare at a handful of blood-spattered bottle caps. This was all he had wanted from the very beginning – conversation. He didn’t need deep and meaningful interaction. He just wanted to get to know his soulmate, so he delighted in their small talk.

“In this world,” he replied. “Why else would every one of these bastards have bottle caps on ‘em?”

“I don’t know – maybe it’s a hobby. Like collecting stamps.”

“Stamps? People collect those things?”

She deposited the bottle caps into her bag without a whole lot of care as she grumbled, “Not anymore, apparently.”

Once the situation had been resolved, Hancock found that he rather enjoyed walking his soulmate through her first firefight. The woman was a good listener; whenever he told her to adjust her grip or her footing, she did it. When he told her to make a run for better cover, she bolted. At the end of the altercation, Hancock had told her to take a moment to breathe. It was then, and only then, when she had finally crumbled. It was as if she had came out of some sort of fugue state, and was coping with everything she had done. The woman had dropped to the ground, coming to rest on her knees. It was there, in a folded heap, where she started to take deliberate, slow breaths. The anger that had been crackling between them finally dissolved.

“Y’did good,” he had said. “Yer a helluva shot.” There hadn't been a response, only more deep breathing. He frowned slowly; so it was back to the cold shoulder. Regardless, he would consider the day a win. His soulmate had finally spoken to him. He reached to her, and she reached to him. He’d never felt the feeling of home like he had in that moment. The feeling of completion. He didn’t want to let that go. Hancock proved he could help. But the day was a win, he insisted to himself. It was a start. 

“Just… give me a second, please,” She had whispered between breaths. 

Hancock had made an attempt to redirect her attention. He would let her take a moment to catch up, but he didn’t want her to dwell in some dark pit of guilt.

“Hey,” he had said in a near whisper. “Let’s check the bodies.”

She did. Remaining calm, and sticking to her slow breaths, the woman methodically searched the bodies of the fallen raiders. Ammo, guns, drugs and caps littered the floor around her within seconds. Hancock told her which ammo was compatible with the gun she was toting, and walked her through the steps of reloading an old sawed off shotgun.

“What’s up with these guys and bottle caps?” she had said, mostly to herself than to him.

Before he knew it, he was explaining the currency of the post-apocalyptic world. He silently marveled over the fact that this wasn’t common knowledge before reminding himself that this woman crawled out of a vault just recently. Maybe they still used that paper currency in there.

As his woman stowed everything into her pack he took a seat at the chair that was still perched near the window. “Ya know,” he drawled. “Yer handling all this a lot better than I expected. Y’haven’t got sick yet, anyway.”

“That’s, uh… That’s all you, actually,” she said as she double-checked the magazine. She had a spare mag now, a shotgun.

Hancock scrunched his brows as he shook out a cigarette from the pack. “It’s comin’ from you, though.”

“It is, but it isn’t. You don’t know how to block out my emotions, and I’m currently channeling yours, so. That’s all you.”

Hancock put his feet up in the sill, taking a deep pull from the cigarette. “So when I started feelin’ super pissy…”

“That was you, too. You were angry, and that was better than being scared out of my mind. I used your anger, and you picked up on it coming from me…”

So the only reason why she was talking with him was because she was leeching off of his emotions. The realization stung a bit. He reminded himself that progress was progress. A win was a win. Hancock decided he would keep being useful. If that was the only way he could get his foot in the door, so be it.

“My inexperience paid off. That’s a first,” he said with a wry smile. She didn’t laugh. So much for jokes. “Hey, so whaddarya doin’ in this place anyway? You obviously ain’t makin’ friends.”

There was a long, heavy exhale and then she started making her way further into the building, up a rickety flight of stairs. “Guy on the balcony said that there were settlers inside.”

Hancock scoffed, “Sounds like a fuckin’ trap t’me, sister.”

The woman didn’t reply. She kept making her way deeper and deeper into the building. She didn't need help taking out her attackers; she knew how to grip the gun, how to stand and aim. Now that she knew her shit, she just needed his help to keep a level head. He stayed with her until Fahrenheit came barging into his office. 

Fahrenheit looked murderous. He quietly slipped away from his soulmate. Despite severing his part of the connection, he could still feel his soulmate’s presence lingering with his; it was as if she was standing beside him. She would probably stick around until she was finished using his emotions. In the meantime, he would endeavor to remain calm and collected. 

“Well, heya stranger,” he said to Fahrenheit. He was eager to tell her of his progress but Fahrenheit didn’t look at all amused. Fahr suffered from resting bitch-face anyway, but after a brief once-over, Hancock was able to tell that she was pissed. More pissed than usual, anyway. Pissed-pissed, one could say. “You kids have fun killin’ muteys?”

“Finn is gonna be a real fuckin’ problem for you.”

Hancock blinked his surprise, then took another drag of his cigarette. Fahrenheit was reaching for her own pack of cigarettes. When Hancock flipped open his lighter she leaned in close and lit up. “Aw, Fahr, ya didn't like yer playdate?”

“I’m serious, Hancock!” A heavy plume of smoke rolled past her lips with each word.

There went his good mood. Hancock dropped his lighter back in his pocket, and gestured for the angry woman to take a seat. She did, and then she launched into the events that took place that day. It didn't take long for Fahrenheit to supply him with all of the juicy details. She wasn’t one to embellish. It would seem that one of his better fighters didn’t really favor how Goodneighbor was being ran – and he wasn’t really keeping those opinions secret. He wanted Fahrenheit’s help taking over, he thought he would be able to win her over – but Hancock and Fahrenheit went way back. He paid her, sure, but he paid all of his employees. Fahrenheit’s loyalty was deeper than her pockets, but Finn didn’t have to know that.

“Asshole was so fucking cocky,” Fahrenheit seethed. “’ You and me can run this place’ – fuckin’ dickhead.”

“Yeah, but what didja say to him?”

“Nothing,” she growled, pinching off the end of her third cigarette with her index finger and thumb.

“Nothing?”

“I don’t talk to idiots.”

He chuckled, rising to his feet. There was a filing cabinet tucked against his work desk. He pulled a bottle of ancient whiskey from one of the drawers and unscrewed the cap. There was some potential for a damn good plan here. He could let Finn keep running his mouth and turn a blind eye. If Finn accumulated any followers, he could get them all taken care of in one fell swoop. After taking a swig from the bottle, he passed it to Fahrenheit, who guzzled down a couple fingers worth of the alcohol. She held the bottle out towards him.

They settled on the couch and shared the bottle, basking in contemplative silence for what seemed like a handful of minutes before Hancock finally came up with an idea worth sharing.

“So what if we—“

“-ELP! HELP! SIR!”

As Hancock’s entire body jolted in surprise, he fumbled the bottle and it clattered to the ground. Alcohol spilled all over the floor. He gasped like he had been stabbed.

“Hancock?” Fahrenheit stood suddenly, her hand dropping to her pistol as she took a step back out of caution. Her reaction pained him (did she think he was going feral?), but he paid it no mind as he reached out towards his soulmate. Images overlapped until he focused on what his soulmate was seeing – and he damn near shit himself.

While sitting in his office, Hancock got a first person point of view of a deathclaw barreling towards his soulmate. He was completely and totally unable to hold back his yell of shock. His body lurched back again, swinging over the arm of the couch. He flopped onto the ground like a sack of tatos. His soulmate’s body was encased in power armor. He could see plating dancing in his periphery, could also feel the padding of the helmet encasing her head. The weapon in his woman’s hands was heavy — fuck, it was a whole-ass minigun. The end of the weapon was spinning, red and angry, but there were no bullets.

“Holy shit,” he heaved. The deathclaw lunged, teeth and claws bared. “HOLY SHIT!” The minigun dropped to the ground with a deafening thud, and a heavily armored fist shot out, ramming into the deathclaw’s open maw. The fist opened, and then clenched down around the bottom half of the creature’s jaw. “Where the fuck is your gun!? Why the fuck are yoU HOLDING ON TO IT LET GO! ” He was yelling at the top of his lungs. He had never felt more horrified in his entire life.

The door to his office slammed open, he could see people dancing in his periphery, and several voices yelled out to him. Fahrenheit yelled back, telling them to lower their weapons and stand down.

With one fist holding the deathclaw hostage, the other raised high and slammed into its head. The first hit slammed into its skull. The second caught on the creature’s giant curved horn. There was an awful pain that blossomed in his wrist, as if his soulmate’s sprained.

“STOP PUNCHING THE THING — WHERE IS YOUR GUN!?” 

Another solid punch to its head, and then his woman tucked tail and ran. Or tried to. The armor was cumbersome. Too heavy, too bulky, to run fast and yet she put her all into creating distance between her and the creature. She tore around the corner of a dilapidated building, the deathclaw hot on her heels.

“How do I kill it?!”

“WITH MORE AMMO!”

There was a mess of bodies strewn about the front of the old building, all freshly killed. She continued to charge forward, only to skid to a complete stop. She dropped to her knees and started sifting through the bodies. There was gun fire, not from her, but from another source. And then there was yelling, someone shouting at her. A shotgun was pulled from the blood and gore – a measly, ancient pump action. She pivoted on her armored knee, the plating grinding into something soft and slick. It helped her pivot with ease. She raised the weapon and took aim.

Hancock, still sprawled on the floor in his office, watched helplessly as the deathclaw leapt towards his soulmate once more.

//

Tag List: @takottai / @a-little-pebbl / @brainrot-extravaganza

[stylespresleyhearted]

wish upon a star, to follow where you are

(not my gif, credit to creator)

masterlist can be found here.

summary: buck without bucky.

notes: this popped into my head today while working on my benny fic and majors wife two. i had to get it out because it was pounding for freedom. the formatting is a bit weird and any dialogue is written in italics. the love john egan and gale cleven had for one another exceeded any bounds and i wanted to add to that because i find the stories people write of them beautiful. P.S i don’t think bucky and rosie had anything against each other but at the sag panel callum and nate touched on how maybe rosie didn’t particularly care for egan so i wanted to dip my toe into it a bit. ask box is always open if anyone wants to chat mota, callum, austin or my wips.

warnings: minor contemplation of suicide, mourning, depression, major character death, platonic! clegan (squint and you can read between the lines.)

word count: 4.5k

-

It’s Sunday nine a.m, Gale’s eyes have only opened and he’s tired. He’s going to be tired forever.

His eyelids droop, threatening to pull him under but he knows it isn’t an option. The air smells of cinnamon and bacon; the cackling of the sizzling pans are what drew him from his slumber. Sleep wasn’t what he was doing though. It was more of a coma, eyes closed and unable to move an inch of his body but his mind and body awake. Able to hear everything. Able to feel everything still no matter how hard he’s been trying to run from it.

The closet door is swung open. His freshly ironed work suit hanging, waiting.

Responsibilities. Gale has responsibilities and he always vowed to be better than what he had so he has to get up.

His kids deserve better. His wife deserves better.

So he does better; he sits up, rubbing the exhaustion and pain from his eyes. There’s twelve hours left of his day, 720 minutes, 36 seconds before he’s going to have to do it all over again.

There are eight steps between him and his suit. Once it’s on, he has responsibilities to attend to. He has kids to raise. A wife to keep happy and show her how grateful he is to have her. Because he is, truly he is, but being grateful didn’t take away any of the bitterness of everything that has been taken away.

The thought of those things has his throat constricting, aching, yearning to yell and to release the pain.

Men don’t cry, his dad had told him.

Gale had seen men cry many times. Men braver and manlier than his father who served this country and were ripped apart and spit back into society with no guide on how to adapt or to stay alive and learning to adjust to civilian life made Germany and that damn prison camp appear inviting. At least all the soldiers in that camp understood and accepted one another. No judgements were cast.

Bucky would be in that camp.

Gale adjusts, shoving himself back underneath his mountain of covers.

His responsibilities would be there tomorrow.

The suit continues hanging.

-

Monday comes and he does better.

The suit no longer hangs on the door, instead it clings to his body — slim like it had been in the Stalag only this time he isn’t being refused food; he is refusing the food.

It’s the first day of school for his oldest and she clutches his hand all the way to the classroom door, chatting about the plans she has for the day and all the friends she wants to make. She reminds him of someone he knows - someone he knew. It burns his chest to think about a young boy being walked to his class by his single mother, having recently lost his father, and finding it within himself to be the loudest and the funniest and the brightest for the benefit of others.

Gale begs the world to be kind to his little girl. Begs it to keep the peace and prohibit war and keep her safe and rid itself of any pain

He thinks he does a good job smiling at her and keeping her engaged. He amuses all her chatting and assures her that her confidence will be her reality. He refuses to accept anything else. At some point the universe would have to bend for him just a little wouldn’t it?

I’ve tried to be brave. You have taken what I love most. Keep my girls healthy and happy.

All his energy is exerted at school drop off apparently. He gets to work but only lasts close to four hours. The creaking in his chair leads to a headache, his suit rubs against his skin and creates an itch, the sun comes out and shines to bright, time continues on and nobody stops.

The funeral was two weeks ago so people still have sympathy to give. His superior claps him on the shoulder, his peers offer their condolences once more, and then he’s on his way home.

He kept his daughter smiling today and that’s enough for him. Who cares if he wasn’t able to complete eight hours? He was a father before he was anything and he had succeeded today so it had to be enough.

Bucky made him feel enough always.

Gale goes home, dresses for bed, and closes his eyes.

-

His wife gentles him into consiousness. She pets his hair back and whispers his name. She’s smiling at him when he opens his eyes.

His daughter’s back from school and wants to tell him all about her first day, his wife informs him.

Gale nods, promising to join them soon.

She’s smiling but he sees the worry pulling her eyes down, the quivering in her chin as she attempts to maintain her smile.

He didn’t do enough today.

Gale joins his wife and their daughter in the kitchen where she’s biting into a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. She squeals when she sees him, jumping into his arms when he’s close enough.

He stumbles with her weight. When was the last time he’d eaten?

Daddy, she giggles, why are you in your jammies?

He isn’t sure what to say. Because Uncle Bucky died and I’m alone, isn’t appropriate.

Died. Bucky was dead. Gale hadn’t thought about it before.

The ache in his throat and the burning in his chest return. His heart breaks.

Daddy’s being silly, his wife cuts in to save him.

She takes their daughter from his arms. She probably noticed how he began to sway on his feet.

Gale has to be enough.

He puts a cap on it. Shuts it away where it doesn’t threaten to drown him.

How was school, sweetie, he asks.

His daughter beams at having his attention.

Gale remembers someone who did the same.

-

It’s Tuesday and Rosie won’t stop calling.

His wife is out with her girls, their oldest is at school and their youngest is with her grandmother. Gale is wearing a suit because he went to work again only this time he never managed to make it inside so he drove home after an hour.

The phone was ringing when he arrived and he answered afraid, thinking an accident occurred at school.

Major Cleven, he recognized the voice immediately. Us boys been tryin’ real hard to get ahold of you. Benny said, he, uh - well, we all miss John, sir.

Gale hung up the phone.

Rosie was a good man. A good, brave man who had taken the reins and kept their boys in high spirits and kept them safe when Buck and Bucky went down. Rosie looked out for Crosby after he’d lost all his boys. Rosie flew rescue missions with Buck and they talked about the beauty of peace after the horrendous events of war. Flowers now bloomed where bodies had laid rotting.

Rosie was a good man and Gale respected him, but Rosie never liked Bucky. It was nothing malicious or vindictive. Bucky was an all or nothing type of guy and he wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea. Gale knows that. Bucky was either cracking jokes or lending a shoulder. Drinking back a whiskey or chatting up a pretty dame. He was either singing or he was dead.

If he wasn’t singing he was dead.

So Gale respects Rosie and he may have love for Rosie but Rosie didn’t like Bucky and Gale doesn’t want to talk to him.

-

He leaves the house when his wife said she would be back. He walks to an old farm he remembers from when he was young. He pets the horses.

He gets home at six p.m when work is supposed to be over and dinner is ready.

Oh honey you just missed Rosie! He rang, his wife says.

Gale nods his head. I’ll be sure to call him back.

He takes his seat at the head of the table.

How was work, his wife asks.

Just fine, honey, he says, how was your day?

-

It’s Wednesday and Gale holds his baby.

He tells his wife he’s going to stay home today. There’s no need to take their baby anywhere.

Their baby is eight months old and she started teething. She’s a gurgling, content ball of milk fat flesh in his skinny arms.

It’s okay, he tells her. Daddy’s gotchu.

She grins at him, releasing spit that he wipes off her chin. It’s his favorite thing in the world to sniff the inside of her neck: momma’s milk and spit and the fresh baby smell that’s been waning off as she gets bigger.

She’s content in his arms until she isn’t. He keeps his finger in her mouth in an attempt to soothe the ache and the itch in her gums even after his finger begins to burn and the indent of her incoming tooth scratches at his sensitive skin.

He tries to feed her and she cries.

He holds her and she cries.

He hands her toys and she throws them and she cries.

All she can do is cry and Gale understands. There’s no ache in his gums but there’s one lodged deep in his chest that refuses to go away and he understands.

You cry it out, he tells his baby. Daddy will stay with you.

Gale fixes them on the couch, her tucked in tight between the cushion and his chest. She clutches his hand in her tiny ones and moves his finger back in her mouth.

She stops crying and for Gale it’s more than enough.

He’s not sure how long it’s been but they must have fallen asleep together because the shutting of the door and tiny, stomping footsteps wake him.

He calls his oldest daughter over but she huffs in response, making a scene of throwing her school bag before heading upstairs.

The baby stays sleeping and he stands, moving a cushion over to take his place so she isn’t in danger of rolling off.

Honey, he says, what’s wrong?

She’s being awfully quiet but he sees her shoulders shaking.

When his wife turns her eyes are red and she doesn’t bother to wipe away the falling tears.

Bucky had promised her he’d visit her on the first week of school. She asked when today and I told her he wouldn’t be coming anymore and, she’s cut off by sobs racking her body.

Gale finds his oldest in her room, glaring at the door as she waits for one of her parents to come in.

Uncle Bucky is a liar, she accuses before Gale attempts to approach his grumpy child.

Hey. His voice is stern, loud, in a way that it hasn’t been since they left Thorpe Abotts. His baby girl flinches and he remembers the war is over.

Gale apologizes and she deflates, allowing him the spot beside her on her tiny bed. It’s a race car bed with unicorns that Bucky helped her draw.

Uncle Bucky loved you so much, baby, his eyes burn as he speaks, he would be here if he could.

But when, she cries.

Well, baby, he’s up in the sky now. Bucky was raised a strong Catholic by his Ma’ for all his talk of non-belief. Gale was the non believer. He wasn’t sure there was a God or a higher power but he knew there was him and Bucky and that’s all he ever needed.

His baby scrunches her brows together, he’s in the ai’plain again?

And for the first time, Gale laughs.

Yup. He’s back in that B-17.

-

It’s Thursday and Bucky’s dead.

It hits Gale like a freight train. This sense of loss and the shattering in his heart isn’t something to get over; it’s something he has to learn to live with.

He’s going to have to miss John Egan for the rest of his life.

The entire time Gale’s been waiting on Bucky to pop back up, as bruised and dirty and battered as when he entered the stalag. Bucky would crawl from his grave, demolish the expensive tombstone they’d thrown over his body, and cross state lines to get to him. Because Bucky loved him and he had done it once and he would do it again.

But it sinks in that Bucky isn’t coming back. He isn’t visiting for the first week of school and his voice won’t be heard over the receiver ever again and he won’t show up unannounced on random days because he was bored.

Buck had fallen out of the sky and Bucky had followed his route, taken multiple, horrendous detours and managed to chase him down and allow him to return home first.

Now Bucky was dead and Buck had no one that would die for him, only people he would die for.

It’s Thursday and Bucky’s dead and Gale stays in bed, debating if this means it’s his turn to follow his dearest friend.

-

It’s Friday and DeMarco’s worried.

He knocks again, ignoring Brady’s leveling stare. He didn’t care if it wasn’t proper to bang on someone’s door, he needed to make sure Major Cleven was alright.

I’m comin’, I’m comin, he hears grumbling and the lock unhatching and then the door swings open to reveal Gale Cleven.

DeMarco takes a step back, air knocked out at the memories the sight of the state of his Major brings up. The eyebags under his eyes are dark and swollen, his eyes have dimmed of any witty remarks or expressions (maybe because Bucky was gone so he had no one left to dish them to) and DeMarco’s unsure why he appears slimmer than when they were at the stalag. His shoulders are bony, tiny, and his wrists look weak.

A strong gust of air would be able to knock their Major over.

Boys, he greets and at least his voice still sounds strong.

Gale lets them in, allowing them to follow him through his foyer until they’re seated at his kitchen island. Benny arrives last, opting to sit on the arm of the couch across from where Gale and Brady sit together. He sees his Major’s eyes cinch, just for a second and Benny hopes to see fire, wants Gale to curse at him for being improper and sitting on the arm of his couch, but then it’s gone and they sit in silence.

Want a drink, from his left pocket Benny extends a flask towards Gale.

Brady’s eyes widen when he accepts it but he hides the surprised gasp behind a cough into his elbow.

Gale thanks him, then sips.

We’re all gonna miss him, Major, Brady keeps his eyes downcast, picking at his fingernails. When he’d first met Bucky he had been in awe: that’s the kind of man he wanted to be like as a kid. Through the war the walls had begun to crack and Brady had seen the faults in the persona of his favorite Major but he’d never stopped being in awe of the leader he was.

Now Brady was allowed to mourn but he couldn’t do it in front of Major Cleven, who had lost much more.

You boys take a wrong turn, Gale asks and doesn’t address Brady’s comment.

Brady looks up now, locking eyes with DeMarco. There’s a connection between a pilot and his co-pilot that exceeds one’s personal stubbornness and pain.

Benny and Buck had dropped from a plane together the same way Brady and Bucky had.

Rosie’s been trynna call you, Benny says. He said his calls stopped going through. I tried calling and it was the same thing.

Had the line disconnected, Gale says and not much else.

Benny nods, Well that’s why we’re down here, Buck. Bucky wouldn’t want to see ya like this.

Good thing dead people can’t see, DeMarco.

God and those resting see all, Brady chimes in and chooses to ignore the warning look sent to him by Benny. He respects Buck and the man he is but that doesn’t mean he would sit idly by and allow disrespect to his beliefs.

For a second DeMarco’s afraid they’re going to be kicked out of the house. Buck’s shoulders tense, a skinny elbow balanced on a bony knee and the hand holding the flask is in a white knuckle tight grip but then it is gone.

Buck deflates, a head nod in Brady’s direction an apology unspoken.

Drove Bucky mad whenever you refused to eat in the camp, Benny reminisces, He’d shove his half eaten tuna can at me to hand to you. He always said you’d never take it from him because you would go as mad as him if he refused to eat.

It was the way of their major’s. The way it had been from the first day at flight school and how it had ended in East Anglia. And their closeness never brought on suspicions or raised any eyebrows because everyone was always much too thankful to the two men who did their best to bring them home alive and sane.

‘Member when he traded his first blanket for a bar of chocolate, Brady says and even Buck cracks a smile which accompanies his head shake. He’d been so angry he had stormed back to the Polish sector and demanded they return Bucky’s blanket. The price was much too high.

The Polish soldier settled with Bucky’s beanie and that night, once he was curled in his bunk wrapped up in a blanket and beanie down covering his ears, Bucky’s grumbling about how his head was cold kept him up.

Damn blanket hog, Gale adds. The blankets always ended up wrapped around Bucky and Bucky ended up wrapped around Buck, like an even exchange.

From his right pocket Benny produces another flask. Brady shakes his head in disapproval, but accepts it when offered.

To Major Egan, he clanks his flask against Buck’s in cheers.

Their sentiments echo in the empty house. They sit telling stories about a prison camp like friends around a campfire sharing school stories.

It’s evening when the boys leave. Gale hasn’t lost his smile for the past two hours and all they had done was talk about Bucky. Gale remembered everything they said, but only once Brady or DeMarco said it. The memories he had of Bucky being kept at bay like he was afraid they would cripple and ruin him if he dared to remember.

News said there’s gonna be shooting stars lighting up the sky tomorrow, Brady shares. He always loved those.

-

It’s Saturday night and Gale lays on the grass in his backyard. When Brady had excused himself to use the restroom, DeMarco had offered him some sleeping pills, prescribed by some head shrink in Chicago that he was 90% sure DeMarco had admitted to sleeping with during a phone call once.

Only one when the nights get too heavy, he had said.

Gale had accepted them but there had been no plans on taking them until he’d been tossing and turning and had taken himself to the couch so he wouldn’t wake his wife.

He had been tossing and turning on the couch when he remembered what Brady had said about the shooting stars. He swallowed a pill and brought a blanket to lay on the grass.

But that had been over an hour ago and sleep hadn’t come and neither had any shooting star.

It’s when he’s getting up, dragging the blanket with him, that he sees light cross the sky quickly. Followed by a twin shadow soon after and he’s unsure of how many he has so he wishes fast with his eyes closed.

I wish for Bucky.

He stands there in the darkness of his yard, silent except for the crickets, and waits. Waits. Waits.

Bucky doesn’t come strolling by and Gale gives up. Hopeless and ashamed for believing in wishing upon a star. For believing he would be allowed to bend the ways of the universe like Bucky used to.

Bucky made things happen.

Gale heads inside.

-

It’s two a.m and Gale’s unsure of how long he’s been asleep but there is someone poking his cheek and calling his name.

Buck. Buck.

Gale’s humming but this person is consistent in their prodding. They don’t want just his response, they require his attention.

Buck.

He opens his eyes and Bucky’s there. Wrinkly smile, bright blue eyes, mustache and all - his Major’s hat tipped to the side.

What took you so long, he smirks.

And Gale smiles a real smile for the first time since he got that phone call. It threatens to split his face. He looks like an idiot, cheesing as hard as he is and if he weren’t so afraid Bucky would disappear he would reach out to touch him.

Stone in my shoe, Gale returns.

They’re back on base in East Anglia, watching the bombs fall after having snuck out the bunker.

Gale feels young, twenty-two again before the effects of war managed to catch up to him.

Unable to stop himself from reaching out, Buck claps a hand on Bucky’s back. He is warm and solid. He isn’t rotten and cold six feet under.

Give it to me straight, Bucky starts, the Yankees have a turn around this season?

There’s a teasing glint in his eye. He’s so sure Buck doesn’t have the answer but,

Lost to the Red Sox. Cardinals are taking it. The game had come on over the radio and Buck hadn’t changed the station.

Bucky curses, but he looks amused, looking back at Buck.

So all I had to do was die to get ya’ to listen to a game huh, he admonishes.

Dead? Gale freezes, you’re right here with me.

Bucky looks back at him to check if he’s joking, another bomb landing much closer and illuminating the shadows on his face. The curve of his jaw and the sharp lines of his nose.

This ain’t where I stay, Buck. Just asked the Big Guy for a weekend pass, he raises a thin brow.

Buck doesn’t have anything to say to that and he can’t find it in himself to muster a smile at the joke.

He thought time had turned back. That they had a chance to do it all over again only this time he would limit the drinks and the smokes and the women and the pain Bucky consumed and then his heart wouldn’t give out on him.

When John offered an invite to London, Buck would accept it this time.

He would do it right.

It was always me who couldn’t live without you, Buck. You - you’re gonna be just fine. Strongest man I know.

Everyone found it easy to assume because John was always shameless and loud in his adoration of Buck. He was never afraid to pinch his cheeks — soft and plump like a pretty girl’s flesh — and he had a habit of grabbing at Buck’s thigh when he sat beside him — need to do something with my hands — and use any opportunity to sing his praises — now Buck he’s a damn good pilot; he’s a fighter pilot who happens to fly a bus. Buck had gotten shot down in enemy territory and Bucky had commanded an entire flight plan in order to follow him.

But Buck — he was the one who couldn’t be without John. Who saved him the seat beside him at every table and saved his rarest smiles for John because they made him feel special. It was Buck who saw the Air Exec post was killing him and requested he be demoted. Buck had paced the entirety of the camp and was led to his bunk with a rifle to his back every night until John arrived.

He had been glad when John arrived because then he wasn’t alone. Then Buck had John.

And John would have never wished for Buck to be in the Stalag if the roles were reversed; he would have been shot down in an attempt to keep him from entering the gates.

John was selfless with his love for Buck; Gale’s love for Bucky is selfish.

Always told you to take better care of that heart, Gale says. He had said it in regard to the skirts he chased and to the boys he led and he had said it the first day they met when Bucky handed his heart to his namesake.

I wouldn’t do anything different, John returns. I had a good run of it. How are my girls?

Buck thinks of Jo and Annie and Katie and how he hadn’t bothered to call or check on them and recoils in shame.

How was the first week of school, John asks instead.

Buck stutters then tells him of how upset his oldest had gotten when Uncle Bucky never arrived.

She’s gonna be a tough one, John smirks. She’ll be fine, I left her with some tips on how to deal with any mean bastards.

Bucky, he warns.

Bucky shrugs.

Call Jo will ya? Annie was giving her a hard time, she’s at that age. Tell ‘er the tickets to the pony show are inside my shirt drawer, Gale gives him an eyebrow raise and Bucky shrugs again, The girls wanted to see unicorns so. That’s what I got. The unicorn’s cousin.

You’re ridiculous.

Call Jo ya hear me?

I hear you, Bucky. I promise.

Good, Bucky relaxes back to continue watching. It should be criminal for mass destruction to create such beautiful colors. And book a flight down there too. I need you to pick up my lucky deuce. The Yankee’s luck needs a Buck.

Gale shakes his head, Aw hell, John. But he’s smiling through the demands.

That’s the way it has been since the day they met.

Buck, tie my shoe.

Buck, help me fly this plane.

Buck, fix the collar of my jacket.

Buck, help me trim my mustache. Can't get it straight.

Buck was given Bucky’s name and a list of demands but all they did was help him feel enough.

Buck would be enough.

Thanks for visitin’, John says. Get more rest, it’ll give us time to catch up.

All I do is sleep, Gale admits, disappointed. He thinks of his wife’s sad eyes every time she sees him in bed.

Nah. You close your eyes but you don’t sleep.

Benny gave me pills, Gale admits. Took one tonight and then I wished on a shooting star.

Bucky clucks his tongue, You get back and you flush ‘em. And I’m gonna stop by Benny’s tonight and yank him from his bed.

Gale rolls his eyes. Don’t do that. I’ll flush them.

You don’t need no shooting star or funny pills, Gale, John says. All you gotta do is ask me to come and I’ll be here.

Buck settles back against the wall and allows the silence to envelop them.

-

It’s Sunday nine a.m, Gale’s eyes have only open and Bucky’s still dead,

Gale wakes, gets ready for the day, and calls Jo.

[serenpedac]

leaning against the other one in close spaces - for Yael/Nate, please! 🥰 (~agentnatesewell)

Thank you so much for the prompt, dear Mar!

I had a few ideas for this one, but in the end went for one that is a bit more angsty. I just couldn't let go of the opportunity to write something for their break up fic, but I hope you'll like it.

For anyone who doesn't know, my HC is that during that one scene at the end of Book 3, Nate and Yael actually break up (see here for my rewrite of the scene). Following that, Yael takes on a mission in London.

Words: ~600

Rating: Teen and up

Relationship: Female detective/Nate Sewell

Warnings: None

“Sorry,” Yael mutters. Her voice would have been lost within the clamour of the carriage on the rails and the noises of the people around them, if it hadn’t been for the fact that all Nate’s attention is focused on her and only her. It would be hard not to, with how near she is, the two of them pressed close together by London’s rush hour crowd.

“What would you have to be sorry for?”

She presses her lips together, looking him over inasmuch as the cramped space allows. Which means she mostly looks at the way his head is ducked low and his shoulders hunched to avoid the slanted ceiling.

“For dragging you here.”

A gust of wind enters when the doors slide open, and he takes a deep breath to take advantage of the fresh—fresher—air, while at the same time trying to avoid being jostled by the people exiting and entering.

“You hardly dragged me here.” His soft chuckle is cut short when someone elbows him in his side—by accident, or so he chooses to believe. “It was the Agency who decided I was most suited for this particular mission.” What he omits is how he had volunteered the moment the mission, including its location, came in. It had been a fortunate coincidence that his skill set matched the details so well.

Her eyes are trained on the closing doors that cut off any possible escape. Not that he wants to escape from this. From her. It’s the closest he has been to her since that night, weeks ago.

But maybe she does.

Quietly, as quietly as possible in an overcrowded underground, he asks, “Would you have preferred if I hadn’t…”

“No.” Her teeth clack together at the speed with which she closes her mouth after the quick answer. She swallows, not looking at him. “I mean, I think it was a good thing they sent you. It makes sense, considering your knowledge about historical artefacts and, well, I appreciate your help.”

He follows her gaze to find it’s fixed on where their hands are holding on to the stanchion, separated by no more than a finger’s width of metal pole.

“We make for a good team, I think.” Nate has barely spoken the words, or the carriage jolts, making Yael lose her balance. Without thinking, he grabs her arm to hold her steady, a reflex she mirrors by grabbing on to his waist.

Several moments pass and “holding steady” turns into simply “holding” as they reach a smoother part of the track. The warmth of her hand penetrates the thin fabric of his shirt and what little space there was between them has disappeared, her body now flush against his.

“I…” She does not move away.

How easy it would be to smoothe his hand up her arm, to let his fingertips brush that spot right above her collarbone where her heart is beating fast. How easy indeed to bend down and press his lips against her forehead.

Impossibly, she presses even closer against him.

“... Nate?” Her eyebrows raised, she nods past his shoulder. “It’s our stop, we should get out.”

Oh. Right. He exhales as he loosens his too-tight grip and lets go. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, half turning to step outside.

This time, she’s the one to give him a questioning look, but he doesn’t elaborate. He’s not even sure himself what he’s apologising for. For nearly missing their stop? For his inability to let her go? For being who he is: someone who would have hurt her, someone who did hurt her, even when he wants nothing more than to see her happy?

[spopsalt]

I also found this on the wiki under Catra trivia.

Okay, so… To me, this seems like an issue where both options aren’t great ideas. Because either…

A. They have Catra wear Adora’s shirt. Not getting into the whole ‘girlfriend wears her partner’s clothes after sex trope’, since it’s not a given trope. Some partners just share or steal clothes anyway, no intimacy required. Just saying the association could be there. Not saying it is, but it could be. But ignoring that since it’s not a given, I do have questions. 1. How and when is Catra stealing Adora’s clothes? Adora only changed I to her space suit once and probably didn’t pack anything to bring, so Catra wouldn’t have the opportunity to change when she did. She would’ve had to just yoink it from Adora when she was probably still wearing it. 2. What would Adora wear? Forget not packing for space, the girl didn’t pack when she moved to Brightmoon. It’s probably her ONLY SHIRT PERIOD. Was the plan to have Adora wear her undershirt and jacket? And 3. It’s a shirt. Just a shirt. What was the plan for… Oh I don’t know, pants? Or her weird little sock things? I get they’re not shoes, but maybe they provide Catra with some protection on her feet, like where they’re not padded? So even with a shirt, she’d still be SOL for pants and sock things? Unless the plan was to just work with her boxer shorts and nothing else, or parts of the Horde Prime outfit? Idk. Not thought out, and I’m glad they didn’t do it. And that’s not even getting into the whole joke Nate did with a piece of art where Catra DID steal and tear up Adora’s shirt, just so she couldn’t wear it anymore. There’s taking your partner’s clothes, and then there’s blatant property damage.

On the other hand…

B. They do the outfit they gave Catra. Sure, you could say it’s just here S4 outfit with the sleeve ripped off. But there some details I noticed that lead me to believe it’s an entirely new outfit.

For one, the belt is missing. And maybe I simply am misunderstanding, but to me the belt in the first picture doesn’t look like a belt. It acts more like it’s more or less part of the outfit and sewn in. It lines up into the outfit. The new one has it loose, and is not lining into the outfit, making it a separate accessory in a more obvious way.

The colors are different. I’m probably being nitpicky here, but S4 outfit seems to be leaning more into a red territory, even with the black parts being on a redder spectrum. S5 leans more into orange and brown parts of the spectrum. They still have red, but less so.

And, the most important bit of evidence. CATRA WASN’T WEARING HER S4 OUTFIT WHEN THEY GOT ON THE SHIP. Meaning they didn’t have an old outfit they could have modified anyway. Unless they modded the outfit Prime put her in, which would have been next to impossible since they’re not remotely similar.

So maybe they found some clothes lying around that fit Catra perfectly and matched her aesthetic??? Probably found it with all the First Ones food that wasn’t expired despite being ancient. No idea how it wouldn’t have been eaten away by space-moths or something. Nevermind the fact I’m pretty sure they said the ship was already raided for all it’s worth when they first found it in the Crimson Waste. Not like food or clothing is useful in the desert, but I digress. So I’m left guessing Entrapta made it??? With what materials, idk. I don’t even know where she found the supplies or the time to make the space suits. She was busy with the ship most of the time. But again, that’s just another set of problems that are beside the point.

Hi! Yeah that's a good question. They never describe how they get the clothes, they just put them on out of nowhere, like Catra has the most clothes changes, but how? It doubt the horde gives them clothes soooooo???? Just one plot hole in a show full of plot holes.

[kvetchinglyneurotic]

a list of things from my season 2 rewatch, in no particular order:

there's a mundane practicality to Nate that's kind of embarrassingly relatable. "I was going to buy a suit but it was really expensive so I borrowed one from my dad" in season 1; "he's going to use a lot of water" about Dani's breakdown in the showers in 2x01. This is... basically exactly how I would respond to both these situations

Very funny that the man Roy describes as "settling for fine" is almost exclusively shown telling stories about almost beating up elderly celebrities

"Do you believe the return of Jamie Tartt will impact that so called 'vibe'" I don't have a point I just love this line.

love everyone supporting Sam in the Dubai Air protest but I feel like researching the sponsorships is probably supposed to be someone's job? That being said they were already the sponsor in season 1 and Rupert probably wouldn't care that their parent company was polluting Nigeria, and I can see how re-doing all the due diligence on the established sponsorships wouldn't be high up in the line of priorities

start of some tonal problems — trying to reintegrate Jamie into the team by shouting and flipping tables comes off a bit weird as a comedy beat when the previous episode has Jamie openly discussing his abusive father

kind of hilarious that the kebab guy thinks Ted is Roy's dad when he's like. maybe 8 years older

the end of 2x05 is very clearly a reference to something (presumably a romcom) and I believe the fact that I don't know what it is makes it much funnier. I do feel kind of bad that Roy has to spend the entire match in a suit when it appears to be quite cold outside, though

"maybe there's a good reason she hasn't replied. maybe she got hit by a bus." (Isaac) "or a train?" (Dani) they are so good at comforting

I tend to need a fair bit of personal space myself so I absolutely understand where Keeley is coming from in 2x07, and the way Roy responds to learning that she feels smothered ("I feel like a fucking idiot," "you've been making out like I'm following you around like some creepy shadow" (paraphrased)) is obviously a product of his own insecurities and he doesn't initially seem to understand that alone time is a legitimate need that doesn't inherently reflect poorly on him,  but ultimately I think the problem itself is more a result of Keeley's difficulty expressing her own needs than of Roy failing to intuit them

The first time I heard Jamie say his thing about giving Richard space I thought he was trying to subliminal message Roy. He definitely wasn't but I was very impressed for a second there

The hug. The HUUUUUG. I am having a feeling

my controversial favourite episode is Beard After Hours — it feels like an episode of a different show, but TL is a bit of an outlier in terms of my tastes and 2x09 is closer to the norm. That being said I didn't start watching until after all of season 2 had come out and might feel differently if I'd been watching the episodes as they came out

the bit where they're singing at the funeral makes me want to crawl out of my skin with vicarious embarrassment. I have never managed to listen to this entire bit with the sound up.

Is sparkling water actually much more common in the UK than in the US? I'm Canadian and it's generally not the default kind of water to offer people, but it's also not as much of a novel concept as it seems to be to Ted.

[lemissingmask]

[ID: Partially coloured sketch of part of an old building, with an old wooden door and low wall showing, and some red flowers on the left side of the image. The low wall has a crudely drawn block image of a wolf with a bushy tail and fangs and breathing fire. End ID]

-

Day 19: Taken for granted

The Leverage crew take for granted the story of someone who flees into the brewpub for protection, and suffer the consequences.

Ficlet below the cut, which hopefully explains the obscure art.

-

It had been a mistake, a stupid failure in their personal security, and one that Hardison would never forgive himself for if they failed to get Eliot back.

Checking out the clients, verifying their stories and their backgrounds, that was his job. He was the only one with the skills to do it.

And he did. He usually always did.

But this time, he had not.

At least not until it was too late.

He took for granted that the terrified woman who had fled into the brewpub to hide from her two pursuers was legit. Hell, there had been two suits - former marines according to some distinctive feature Eliot picked out - lurking outside the building waiting for her.

Eliot had dealt with the muscle without the least difficulty, and then they had all listened to her story.

She told the leverage crew that she had been on her way to meet with her lawyer, who was helping her take down her former boss for money laundering, when she found the two men to be following her.

She gave them a background on her boss, how she found out about the criminal activity, and how since then she had been fired, harassed and had her car broken into.

So they took her on as a client, and Eliot drove her to a safehouse while Parker and Hardison got started on the case.

They had only just finished and wrapped up their last one, they were all on the tired side, but they could hardly do nothing when this woman needed help.

Except she didn’t.

The boss existed but she had never worked for him. He ran the company she claimed to have been employed by, but neither the financial situation of the company nor the boss was good enough to imply any sort of money laundering activity. What’s more, there was no digital trail to suggest any payments from that boss or anyone or anything linked to him to imply that he had hired professional muscle.

It wasn’t definitive, but something didn’t feel right, so then, and only then, Hardison got around to looking into their client.

Her background looked believable on the surface but one layer down it fell apart.

Profiles on social media built within the last month and backdated to make them seem older, no digital trail for her existence. No bank accounts, no SSN, no credit history.

And then facial recognition said her name was not Lucy, but Mary. And Sophia. And Clarissa, Diana, Francesca…

“She’s a grifter?!” Parker looked up at the screens where Hardison had the salient information projected, “Why? What does she want?”

“Maybe she heard of us and is auditioning?” Hardison suggested, not believing that idea for a second, “Eliot, you catch that?”

Silence over the comms.

Hardison pulled up their comm feeds. Working fine, Eliot’s was still on, sending system updates and pings.

“Eliot?” Parker asked, her comm showing the sound waves.

Eliot’s remained nothing more than base level of noise.

“Where is he?”

Hardison accessed the gps, “Safe house.”

Parker frowned, “Eliot! You copy us?”

“Maybe he and Lucy or whatever her name is are…”

“No,” Parker glared at the fake IDs on the screen, “Eliot wouldn’t do that. He still gets angry with himself for taking his comms out once before.”

More than once, to Hardison’s count, but it was true, not since the incident with the music producer and Nate having no backup.

She gave those IDs one more, lingering glare, and straightened, “I’ll drive.”

For once Hardison didn’t object. If something was wrong, even just potentially wrong, they needed to get to that safehouse and to Eliot as fast as they could, which meant Parker driving Lucille..

Hardison kept his laptop open in the passenger seat, checking the gps signal and keeping up attempts to reach Eliot by phone or comms. He and laptop only slammed into the window about four or five times in fifteen minute drive, which was pretty good he thought.

Not that there was time to feel proud.

Eliot’s Challenger was in the drive out front, parked normally. Nothing odd or hurried or wrong there.

Inside the house itself things were similarly apparently fine.

Alarms correctly disabled, mechanical locks unbroken, no sign of a struggle. In fact nothing out of place other than the two cups of coffee unfinished on the kitchen counter, and beside one of them Eliot’s phone and earbud, both in tact and still switched on. Alongside them lay the necklace Eliot almost never removed.

Hardison slipped that into his pocket and picked up the phone.

“I’m gonna search the house.”

Hardison turned quickly from the counter to Parker, putting the phone back down and immediately abandoning his plans to check through it, “Not alone you’re not.”

Whoever got the jump on Eliot - something nearly impossible on its own - could still be there, not expecting them to realise the grift so quickly, or maybe waiting for them in a trap that this could very easily be.

The house was empty and undisturbed. No trap but also no Eliot.

-

Traffic cams. Find the cars that could have left that area in the window between them arriving and their last contact with Eliot. Trace each identified car through the network of cameras, run each plate, look for something that seemed to be a lead.

Parker was still driving Lucille as Hardison initiated this search.

On top of Eliot going missing, someone luring him from the brewpub meant it was burned.  Someone who had bad intentions for at least one of them now knew their base of operations.  Before they could do anything further, they needed to head back and get everything essential or sensitive and get it into Lucille.  They’d have to go on the road for a while, move to one of the safe houses, and operate from there until they had a handle on this fresh disaster.

They could do that while Hardison’s codes ran, scouring traffic cams and DVLA databases and cross-referencing with everyone - all the aliases of those people - who had ever or might ever have a grudge against Leverage.

Luckily, they did have a clear protocol for moments like this, and they had a specific plan for the brewpub, which served as a place of employment for a few dozen people as well as their base.

They dealt with the Leverage part of things - data, files, emergency funds, possessions of personal value - then told the employees to take two weeks paid leave starting when the last customers there already had gone.  After two weeks, they would evaluate the safety of keeping the pub open, or even of returning to Portland, but whatever they did, the staff would not be collateral damage.

By the time the two of them had finished these tasks and returned to Lucille, Parker starting back out in the direction of the safe house where Eliot had been lost, Hardison’s codes had produced some usable data, and even more usable intelligence.

The data, lists of car registrations and their owners, was essentially useless, until cross-referenced against aliases they knew, which picked out one belonging to their recent grifter.  Tracking that car through the cameras led to either an airfield or an industrial complex.

Hardison immediately started looking into who owned or rented property at the industrial site, and what flights had left the airfield within the window of Eliot’s disappearance.

There was a Dean Chesney who rented a warehouse in the industrial area, but obviously not the same Dean Chesney they had wrangled with since that guy had been dead some years now.  There was a supervisor elsewhere in the district whose surname was Doyle, who couldn’t be utterly discounted as a relative of the Doyle who they had conned, but even if it was the same person, luring and kidnapping the hitter was not his style.

The airfield showed one flight landing, two leaving, in the time window they had approximated.  The departures were, respectively, to Malta and Cyprus.

Hardison’s hope dwindled as he looked at the names of the people who owned the planes and their known associates, not a single one coming up as any likely enemy of them or of Eliot specifically.

But then he looked at the photo IDs.

And, now it all made horrifying, sickening sense.

“Damien Moreau?!” Parker was pacing back and forth in front of the comparatively small screen in their safehouse, “He escaped San Lorenzo and we didn’t know about it?!”

Hardison shook his head, looking from her back to his screen, “I’m contacting Eliot’s friend there now.  If he knew, he would have told Eliot.”

“And Eliot would have told us,” Parker paused for a moment, pursing her lips, then resumed the pacing, “We need to warn Nate and Sophie.  If Moreau wants revenge…”

“I’ll send an encrypted message, tell they to lay low, be cautious, but,” he looked back up, “If I tell them it’s Moreau and he’s taken Eliot…”

“They’ll want to get involved.”

They lapsed into silence, Hardison working on both the lines of contact, Parker pacing in her anxiety and frustration.

Moreau had to want revenge.  It made sense.  They had ruined him, got him locked up in some hole of a prison, and put him on the most-wanted list for some of the most powerful governments.

So, at least he probably wasn’t going to just kill Eliot…they had time to rescue him…

“What do we know about this alias?” Parker asked, appearing over his shoulder just as the messages both disappeared to their destined inboxes.

Hardison pulled up the information he had obtained but thus far only glanced briefly at, “Not much.  The digital trail only goes back about a year, but it starts, pretty much, with one very big payment into a bank based in Bermuda from a…”

He dug a bit deeper into the source of the money, a company that didn’t really exist in any proper sense, set up just to make that payment, and set up by one of the very powerful billionaires who Moreau had once worked with.

Maybe he blackmailed his way out and back into a fortune.

“Looks like from someone he used to do business with,” Hardison shrugged, “He also paid a large part of it straight back out to a law firm, with another two payments over the following year.”

“So he got himself a lawyer?” Parker frowned, “A lawyer good enough to get him released from San Lorenzo under a new name and with a lovely big cheque waiting for him on the other side?”

“Maybe,” Hardison carried on searching, an activity fairly routine for him by now, “We gotta figure out where he took Eliot.”

“And how to get Eliot back.  Moreau’s security is going to be tight, even if he’s lost most of his money and influence…the flight went to Cyprus, right?”

“Yeah,” Hardison was about to continue his answer when he saw an email from General Flores, which he quickly read before related to Parker, “Flores knew nothing about Moreau’s release.  None of the government did…it was done on the whisper.  And I mean, the serious whisper…someone with a lot of money or power had to have orchestrated it…”

“And we can dig into that later,” Parker said firmly, “First we have to get Eliot back.”

Hardison couldn’t agree more, “Two tickets to Cyprus, coming right up.”

-

Cyprus.  Over twenty hours total of travelling, only about five of which allowed any sort of digital investigation into where Moreau was, what his security was like, and who had managed to get him released without anyone knowing.  They had enough information for Parker to be rotating possible plans in her mind during the flight, much of which was spent looking absently out the window at the wing of the plane, and during which neither of them slept at all.

It was impossible not to think about what Moreau would do to Eliot, and the myriad dark thoughts that crossed Hardison’s mind made him really wished he had watched fewer horror films.

The guy had earned his reputation among the criminal community.  He was ruthless and people did not cross him.  Until Leverage had, and now they were paying for it.

By the time they reached Cyprus, they had three likely locations where Eliot would have been taken, approximate security profiles for two of them, and maybe half a formed Plan A for getting their hitter back.

This had become three complete security profiles and a hierarchy of probabilities for the locations, as well as vague Plans A-S (skipping M), by the time they reached the town in Pafos where Moreau had at least one property.

It was early morning when they reached the town, the old streets nearly devoid of human life, making the slow approach towards Moreau’s property feel almost dreamlike as the small rental car moved through the pale, thin light.  They expected to see some sort of security outside the building, but as they approached closer on foot, they saw nothing.  Some lights on inside, but no people or movement other than the gentle rustling of the oleander plants scattered around the exterior.

It was quiet, peaceful, calm.

Hardison jumped, almost screamed, at the suddenly hard nudge Parker gave him.  But he managed to keep quiet, and turned, seeing where she was pointing.

On a low wall at the far side of the building from them, in thick, black paint, there was a sort of stick-figure wolf with a bushy tail and that seemed to be breathing fire. The paint had dripped in places, and in others, over the pale bricks, it seemed to have either faded or deeper into the porous rock. Not enough to obscure the image, however.

“Eliot signal?” Parker mouthed, hope blossoming in her eyes.

Hardison swallowed.

Maybe.

Moreau wouldn’t know anything about that, and it couldn’t possibly be a coincidence.

“Stay here,” Parker whispered into his ear, and began to make her way towards the signal, but Hardison quickly caught her arm and pointed to a camera camouflaged with the building's wall.

"Can you disable them?"

"I'm working on it..." he carried out the same procedure he had thousands of times before, assessing the cameras, working out if and how to get into them - loop the feed. Just needed to record a few seconds. Enough for Parker to get past unseen. There were five exterior cameras...except they were all showing static on his phone screen, already disabled. The same for the interior cameras.

"Someone beat us to it," Hardison looked back at Parker nervously. It had to have been Eliot, and that was a good thing, but then why did he feel so uneasy.

"I'm going," she whispered, "Stay here."

Cameras were out, but there might still be patrols, people inside, even though it was still very early and hopefully they were asleep.

Hardison watched Parker until she disappeared around the corner of the building, and he was left alone to wait in that eerily peaceful silence. He kept his phone out, watching the camera feeds and looking into what he could access of other systems inside.

The feeds never deviated from the static, and there didn't seem to be anything else with an operating system inside to attack, other than a few smartphones. But Moreau hadn't exactly been a high-tech bad guy. More of an old-school, send goons in the night to assassinate his enemies bad guy.

Hardison grimaced at that thought.

Eliot had once been one of those goons.

“Hardison!”

The hissed name over comms nearly made him jump, breaking his train of thought.

“I’ve found Eliot,” Parker whispered, “He’s unconscious and he's not waking up. His leg's shot and his feet are all messed up, and he…he looks really bad...should I taser him?”

"What?!"

"To wake him up!"

"No, Parker. Don't taser him," Hardison replied very extra care to be very clear, then added, “You see any guards anywhere?”

“No. You're clear. It's totally quiet. Just stay low and avoid the windows."

Hardison took a deep breath and followed Parker’s path along the side of the building, round the corner, and into a yard that overlooked the ocean.

The two were a lot closer than Hardison expected, in a small half-covered alcove at the back of the yard.

Eliot was sitting up, leaning back against the stone wall with Parker beside him. His left leg was bloody, a tourniquet tied not far above his knee, and the soles of his bare feet were, as Parker had said, pretty messed up. Bloody and red and bruised. His right hand, unmoving on his lap, was obviously broken, and two bands of deep bruising crossed his exposed torso, stark against his too pale skin.

Matching bruises over his arms and wrists suggested some sort of restraint strong enough to have bruised the skin. Maybe fractured the bone beneath. Maybe internal injuries…

Hardison swallowed back his nausea, burying the worst case scenarios running through his brain.

Eliot had escaped far enough to get here and to leave them a signal, so he had to be okay-ish. Nothing acutely urgent...maybe it was blood loss or dehydration or hypothermia...he did look very pale and his lips maybe a touch blue. Moreau probably hadn't been exactly generous with food or drink, so it might be something as simple as that.

“Okay,” Hardison took a slow, steadying breath as he felt Eliot's thready pulse, “Parker, go ahead and let me know if anyone’s in the windows. I’ll carry him. We get him to the car, get some supplies, and get outta here.”

She nodded and hopped to her feet, running ahead. Hardison carefully slipped his arms under Eliot and stood, gritting his teeth as his legs and back protested him standing with the added weight.

The first few metres were fine, but with all the stopping and starting while Parker checked the way was clear, Hardison’s legs and arms were burning by the time he reached the car. He didn’t have time to deal with it though. They needed to get the hell out of here.

With minimal discussion, they arranged themselves so Parker drove and Hardison sat up across the back seats, Eliot propped up against him, hopefully absorbing some of his body heat. As much as Parker driving was not the best thing for someone with severe injuries, this was the way it had to be for when they stopped at a pharmacy.

It was still too early for anything to be open, so Hardison disabled the alarm and camera remotely, while Parker broke into the first pharmacy they found with no one nearby.

“Grab sterile gauze, bandages, disinfectant, painkillers…electrolyte replenishing stuff…if they’ve got one an emergency blanket.”

“The shiny one?”

“Yeah.”

“Got it.”

A few minutes later she reappeared, a lollipop in her mouth, and shoved the supplies into the car, ripping open the blanket and tossing it at Hardison while he rearmed the alarm and cameras to hide the break in as much as possible.

They really needed to not leave any sort of trail behind them.

While Parker kept driving, heading towards the next district, Hardison wrapped the blanket over Eliot. He should try to make him drink something, but doing that while he was unconscious would probably just make him choke.

Just as Hardison was mentally running through all the first aid Eliot had taught them, he felt the man in his arms shift slightly.

Then he fell motionless again.

Hardison squeezed him very lightly, "El? Eliot?"

Eliot moved again, making a soft, almost pained, sound.

"Parker! Parker, pull over."

She did with a little more abruptness than Hardison had hoped for, but then he had sounded pretty urgent. Urgent enough that she looked outright terrified when she opened the door to the back seats.

But then she broke into a smile.

"Eliot!"

"Hey," he rasped, voice heavy and rough.

Parker hopped into the back with them as Eliot tried to sit up, helping him to shift to rest against the back of a seat rather than Hardison. Able to see him better now, Eliot looked just as awful as back at Moreau's place. Maybe a bit more colour to his cheeks, but that was it.

"You okay, man?"

Eliot glared tiredly. He never liked that question.

"You were very unconscious."

"Drugged," he replied, and now his groggy state made more sense, "Moreau was gettin' ready to transport me somewhere else. Got out before it took effect."

Got out, but not fully away.

He must have had just enough time to escape before whatever sedative or paralytic or cocktail it was got to him. Enough time to escape and leave a signal for them to find.

"Here," Hardison twisted the top off a bottle of isotonic flavoured water from the pharmacy and passed it over, "You got it?"

This last as Eliot's hand shook when he took the bottle. But the hitter just nodded tiredly and drank steadily. Three long gulps, and he passed it back.

"Thanks."

"We liked the Eliot signal," Parker smiled up from her new position sitting comfortably in the footwell where no adult human should be able to sit comfortably.

"How'd you know we'd be there?" Hardison asked, "I mean, what if someone else found your graffiti or it washed away?"

"Moreau was keepin' tabs on you. Heard 'im say somethin' 'bout a plane arrivin' from Oregon. Figured you'd find the place soon enough."

"Speaking of, we should probably get going before Moreau comes after us..."

"Moreau ain't gonna be a problem anymore."

They both looked sharply at him. And then looked away, Hardison first, then Parker, realising the blunder in their evident alarm.

Eliot hadn't missed their reactions, but he spoke on as if he had been entirely unaware, "Should call cops an' get 'em to that place.”

“Do you think his men will try to follow us?” Parker asked.

Eliot began to reply, but he broke off. He shut his eyes, jaw clenching, and took an unsteady breath. Whatever Moreau had drugged him with was strong.

“Don’ know. Maybe. They might try to score an easy bounty or somethin’,” he paused again, and Hardison could see him shaking slightly under the blanket, “With cops on ‘em they’ll hafta lay low. Less likely to chase us.”

Hardison nodded, watching as Eliot continued to struggle against some pain or exhaustion or whatever it was, "Yeah. Yeah, I'll get on that now. Cops to Moreau's place...but we should get going. Stop at a hotel...you look pretty bad, El."

Eliot half-glared, half-frowned, caught between confusion and irritation, like he was attempting his usual grumpy but the lingering effects of the drug were getting in the way.

If it wasn’t for the fact that Eliot did, really, look damn awful, it would have been adorable. Hardison almost smiled as he turned his focus to his phone to make the call.

As Parker drove, Hardison kept a close eye on Eliot, who slowly drank his way through the electrolyte drink. More than twice, he seemed to almost slip back into unconsciousness or sleep, but he was obviously trying to fight it.

Hardison had got pretty good at knowing when Eliot wanted to talk, when he wanted just to listen, and when he wanted only silence. Now he wanted silence, and Hardison and Parker gave it to him.

Twenty minute to drive to the nearest fancy hotel, where Parker helped Eliot sneak in while Hardison checked him and Parker in under their aliases.

Then over an hour while Eliot cleaned and patched up his injuries, Parker and Hardison helping where he couldn’t manage with his left hand alone or when his strength started to slip.

They had to help with the extraction of a bullet from his shin, which was particularly gory and made Hardison very glad of Parker’s dexterity and not being bothered by blood, with getting some splinters of wood out of the cuts on his feet. Cleaned up, those didn’t look as bad as before. There were numerous narrow gashes and a lot of bruising, but nothing was too deep. It still looked horrible and was probably really painful. But it wasn’t damage to the extent Hardison had feared.

But by the end of their makeshift medical activities, and after a bath during which Eliot submitted to allowing them both to help, their hitter looked more like himself again. Worn out and subdued in the way he usually was after especially rough fights or bad injuries, but no worse than they had seen him before.

And he was behaving more like himself too, with the effects of the drug wearing off. It did away with the unease that Eliot's remark about Moreau had set upon them. Even after all this time, Hardison could never fully reconcile the Eliot he knew with the Eliot who killed people, and that moment had been the closest the two had ever come to meeting.

But now, their Eliot sat on the plush couch of their hotel suite, bandaged feet resting on a cushion on the coffee table, with Parker pressed close on one side, munching on a sweet pastry she had stolen from the hotel restaurant. Hardison was a little way off, making use of the small desk to work on bolstering their cover.

He had just posted a couple of photos to the social media of his alias to help their covers.

“Parker and I are here on holiday," he said, finishing a Tweet and looking up, "Eliot I’ve got you an alias set up for when we head back. How long do you need before you fly?”

“Couple of days.”

“We should stay at least a week to keep our covers good,” Parker pointed out, “A few days vacation is gonna look odd.”

“Two weeks?” Hardison suggested, “That’ll give me time to start sorting out a new base.”

Eliot frowned, “New base?”

“Portland’s blown. Moreau knew where to find us. No way to tell who else might know.”

The hitter looked away, letting out a frustrated breath.

“What we gonna do with the brewpub?”

“I’ll sell it. Make sure the employees are kept on or get compensation…we still need to move some things, clear out, but…”

“Can we set up our new base in Pennsylvania?” Parker interrupted excitedly.

Hardison frowned, and Eliot supplied the answer, “It’s the state that produces the most chocolate.”

“I was thinking Florida.”

Parker pouted, “Doesn’t Florida pollen make you cry?”

“Yeah man,” Eliot smiled teasingly, reassuringly like himself, “Can’t have you cryin’ your way through our jobs.”

Hardison rolled his eyes and moved over to join them, bringing his laptop and prepared to launch into the inevitably long debate over where they should move next. They had two weeks here, so they had time to discuss it in depth. Maybe enough time to go see some sights, do some touristy things, or just binge watch some classic TV and movies in the hotel.

-

[mrgaretcarter]

Everything I enjoyed about Ted Lasso 3x10

It was so exciting to watch them announce the players that got into their national teams

Laughed at Ted not knowing Bumbercatch is swiss

Appreciated the whole team being there for Sam when he was snubbed

I genuinely laughed out loud at all the jokes to do with Dani's personality change

When it cut from the title sequence to ted sitting down with rebecca for biscuits with the boss i really thought it was for real gonna be an OG one but then they panned to trent and i was disappointed but i couldnt even be mad because it was so funny

Ted is a LIAR we have seen him gossip so many times he is such nosy biddy 🤣

Trent loving getting a good grade in girl talk was so funny and cute!

"So chaps, what do we think?" was such a fun line to me for some reason

All 3 of them going "Nah" and making the same face, so fun!

Ted was saying such nonsense for the rest of that scene and they made sure to show us Rebcca's reactions to every single one and she looked so fond every single time

Of course Rupert is saved on Rebecca’s phone as "The Devil" she is so insane

I loved Keeley's green skirt suit

I laughed at Beard's 17 throwing axes that he brought to the UK with him 🤣

"Sneaking in here today reminded me of the first match I ever saw at Nelson Road." "Ah, when they used to play by candlelight." 🤣🤣

I was SO happy to see Phoebe, then happier still to see her mum! And Jamie is totally right, she is fit

That whole scene was an absolute delight, filled my heart with joy, the England kit! the E for U swap! the tie dye shirt with Roy colors! One thing I can say about this season is that things do tend to go great when Jamie is involved

I laughed at the doomed handshake at Sam's restaurant, he was so resigned to his fate 😅

Nate breaking into his parents house in the middle of the night because he felt lonely and lost reminded me of 13 Going on 30

I was happy to see Rebeccas Amsterdam pants again! Especially with that purple blouse 💜

I love that Higgins knows Keeley, Ted and Sassy are Rebecca's top options in that order and that this is unquestionable

Higgins' comparing Akufu to the Chocolate Factory kids was both very accurate and very funny 😆 "I hate to break it to you Rebecca, but those children are dead."

I really liked Rebecca being insecure about the meeting because she knows she's only been invited as a token. It felt true to life and also reminded me of a favorite moment from a beloved show of my past, The Good Wife, where a character expresses a similar concern and gets much the same advice as Higgins gave

I really thought Rebecca was taller than Higgins' office door and was momentarily scared she was going to bump her head on the way out 😆

I liked Keeley and Mae's conversation, though I, much like Keeley, did not understand the lightning saying 😅 did appreciated the little "Maybe" joke though, it felt like something Ted would do and I always love to perceive them mirroring each other

Everyone noticing Roy's cheerful t-shirt was very funny

I loved that we saw Rebecca studying for the meeting

THE!! TOY!!! SOLDIER!!!!!! She's been carrying it around!!! She is fond of it!!!!! She treats it with such care, and it still brings her strength, gosh!! To think of the moment she picked it up off the ground and stored it away, of whenever it was she decided to keep it with her as an amulet!!! I'm breathless!!!!!!!

Kenneth saying "twins" to Roy lmaooo

The fact that Rebecca has panic attacks is something that can be SO PERSONAL that meant so so SO much to me, I could cry just thinking about it, I've always been sure she did and to have it confirmed was a thrill, and so emotional and satisfying to me to see her self soothe and how it paralleled Ted, truly beautiful gorgeous amazing

Ms Bowen is blonde now! Idk why but that was exciting, I like her! I think Roy should introduce her to Beard, I feel like she could beat up Jane. It was also hilarious to me that they named her Leann for real 🤣 they have no shame!

Barbara's Juicy couture tracksuit and "I like clothes that tell the truth" LMAOOO COMEDY GOLD

Barbara and Keeley's snow globe exchange was delightful. Barbara slowly grew on me throughout the season and was a true highlight in this particular episode, I was very glad that she chose Keeley.

I love that Rebecca went to that meeting in a bbp top and one of her less murderous earrings

I appreciated seeing Rebecca in a professional setting, taking a stand, and going to bat for the club and for football in general, it's something I have always longed to see from her and I'm glad I got it even if it was late in the game

Really liked that Nate plays the violin

I liked the window into Rupert and Rebecca's past and the glimpse into why they were in love once

I liked the contents of Roy's letter to Keeley and thought it was funny that she couldn’t read his handwriting

It was exciting to see Rebecca at Keeley's house! She demanded a hug! She's going to fund Keeley's firm! Their friendship has stayed beautifully consistent throughout the season and I appreciate that.

Keeley writing down the number and saying "This is how they do it in the movies" was another Ted-like moment (down to Rebecca being endeared by it!)

I enjoyed the joke of Roy walking in when he did and I loved loved loved that he and Rebecca saluted each other again! I'd been waiting for that!!

I think Nate's apology to Will - how he did it, the score, the note with the sprig of lavender, how it was filmed - felt like such a season 1 moment that it filled me up with this sense of right-ness and I truly appreciated it. Possibly one of the best moments of the season 🥹

Rebecca looked so at peace hanging that painting and also SO beautiful in that dress

Ted sat down without being invited, and Rebecca scooched a little closer once he did 🥹🥹

She specifically wanted to tell him about this big emotional milestone and Ted looked? I have no idea how to describe it, but it was new, it was a face he's never made before, and it was so?? I don't even know, I don't know what to do with it, or with "I wanna win for us too."

Rebecca is truly insane for spitting on his face on purpose like that lmao

Aaaand that's it! I liked a lot of the bits and pieces of this episode as you can see, and I had a mostly good time while watching it. There were a couple big things that bothered me though, but I'll save those for a different post later in the week once I've gotten a chance to collect my thoughts!

[youdontjustgiveup]

August: Chapter 20

( ao3 | ff )

Previous Chapters: [link]

Summary: Chuck Bass, a crash course in hallucinative self-therapy.

Pairing: Chuck x Blair

Word Count: 5.5k

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: None

----------------------------

You’ve reached Blair Waldorf’s voicemail. Leave a message, and I’ll see if you’re worth my time. 

Fuck.

Well, he certainly brought it on himself. What did he expect? That she would be glued to the phone, waiting for him to save her? That after countless ignored calls and texts, she would pick up? Welcome him with open arms?

He put the phone back in his pocket and rubbed his hand over his face. Fuck, fuck, fuck.  

When he had returned to the Hamptons, he had found the house empty. No sign of the girls, no sign of Nate. Desperation had driven him to ask his stepsister where they were. He couldn’t afford to waste any more time. But when he had finally tracked them down, the sight of Blair running to the bathroom, her eyes glassy and on the verge of tears, had shattered him. He had wanted to reach out, to pull her into his arms, but fear had paralyzed him. Before he could act, Serena had beaten him to it, causing him to turn away and hide. 

“Rough night?” said a black-haired, impeccably dressed guy smoking at the exit of the club. 

“You have no idea.”

The guy offered him a pack of cigarettes. “You look like you could use one of these. Women trouble?”

Chuck accepted and flicked his lighter, the flame casting a brief, warm glow on his troubled face. “Something like that.”

“They’re all the same, man. Impossible to please and not worth the headache. Don’t waste your time trying to figure them out. They’re only good for one thing, and even that’s questionable.”

He took a long drag. “You’re wrong.”

The guy shrugged, clearly not interested in his opinion. “Suit yourself. But take it from me, they’re not worth the pain.”

“She is worth it.” His voice was firm, a quiet intensity burning in his eyes. “She is worth everything.” 

Chuck exhaled slowly, the smoke dissipating into the night air. 

“You’re fucked,” the guy laughed. 

“Yeah,” he replied. “I guess I am.”

“Good luck with that. Love only sets you up to get torn apart.”

“Maybe. But some things are worth the risk.”

A week ago

Chuck stirred from a restless sleep, head throbbing in protest as consciousness clawed its way back to him. Another night, more bottles drained. Another pitiful display. Blinking against the harsh moonlight filtering through the curtains, he found himself tangled in sheets, with Blair’s form curled up beside him in peaceful repose. 

His stomach churned, a grim reminder of the night’s excesses. As he sat up far too quickly for his liking, the room began to spin around him, like a merry-go-round of regret. Dehydration set in, his mouth parched. The horrible taste of hangover coated his tongue, undeniable proof of what a fucking idiot he had been. 

If only he hadn’t acted like a total jerk in what was supposed to be a harmless game between friends. If only he hadn’t let jealousy get the best of him. If only he hadn’t won Best Friend of the Year. If only he hadn’t picked up the phone and dialed Georgina’s number. If only he hadn’t tried to numb the pain, maybe he could have faced it head-on and saved the people he loved from the wreckage he was now buried under. 

But what was done was done, and it could not be undone. It was just another screw-up to add to his long list of mistakes, a list that felt endless. What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he stop? The wheel of self-condemnation kept on spinning. A total disappointment to everyone around him. 

Pain, pain, and more pain.

Then, Blair shifted in her sleep, a subtle furrow forming on her forehead as if in disagreement. Her hand sought his, and a soft, irresistible pout graced her lips, adding to her already captivating beauty. The room stopped spinning. Her chest rose and fell in time with his heartbeat, each breath pulling him out of the hole he had dug for himself, inch by inch. And in that fleeting time, a warmth unlike any he had ever felt suffused his tired muscles. 

Was he truly capable of becoming the man she deserved? Could he love her the way she needed him to?

If tonight was proof of anything, the answer would be a resounding no.

With trembling fingers, Chuck carefully brushed back a stray curl that had fallen across her face, his touch lingering on her cheek. His thumb traced the curve of her jaw before caressing her lips. In the hush of the night, he wished that time would stand still. As he marveled at the softness of her skin beneath his fingertips, he felt his heart swell with an overwhelming intensity, as if nothing else could fit inside him.

To open himself to love was to invite weakness, a lesson his father had instilled in him since childhood, yet here he was, grappling with emotions so potent they defied his understanding and left him utterly defenseless.

As if burned by an invisible flame, Chuck recoiled, pulling his fingers away and instinctively pressing a hand to his chest. His heart hammered against his rib cage like a desperate, trapped bird, his lungs gasping for air against the oppressive burden of his own limitations.

How could he, so broken and flawed, dare to dream of deserving something so pure and good? The very idea seemed absurd. Totally out of reach. With a mother lost to death and a father’s scorn as his only companion, how could he possibly comprehend giving and receiving love?

Bart knew he couldn’t. Even his best friend understood that.

What happened to all those speeches about wanting her happiness? Do you really think she’ll find it with you? That you’re the better choice? Nate’s words echoed in his head. Do you really think he’s gonna treat you right? He’s Chuck Bass. He can’t love anyone, Blair. He’s going to hurt you.

Are you really counting on Chuck Bass to be your knight in shining armor? Georgina’s taunts lingered like a bitter taste in his mouth. Do you honestly think he loves you? We both know he can’t.

Sad, pathetic, little boy. His father’s harsh judgment cut through him like a knife. I’ve seen nothing in you that suggests you have what it takes. If anything, you’ve been nothing but a disappointment.

It all pressed upon him like a heavy yoke, threatening to crush him. How long would it take Blair to realize that they had been right all along? That he was born on a dead-end road. 

How could he ever hope to bring her happiness if he was destined to fall short? 

Leaving felt like the only way out, a last-ditch attempt to protect her from the inevitable heartbreak that trailed behind him like a shadow. But in truth, he wasn’t just running from her; he was running from himself, from the merciless reality of his own shortcomings that would surely consume them both.

Blair would despise him, but that was a price he was willing to pay. 

Hate, in its bitter familiarity, appeared almost comforting. He had weathered its storms before, grown accustomed to its presence. It was a strange relief in the midst of the chaos. 

As soon as Chuck’s motorcycle roared to life beneath him, regret clawed at his insides like an implacable beast. Was he doing what was best? Every mile he traveled, each curve of the road, only increased the pain in his chest. How could he stay away from her? Was his need to protect her from himself stronger than his desire to hold her close? With each passing moment, the urge to turn back grew stronger. It tore at him. 

But as much as he wanted to retreat into the safety of her arms, Chuck knew he couldn’t. 

He couldn’t do that to her. 

The throbbing pain in his brain had subsided to a tolerable level when he awoke in his suite at the Palace without Blair at his side. With a grunt, Chuck forced himself to sit up, his movements lethargic and heavy, as if he had been run over by a truck. He dragged himself upright and shuffled to the kitchenette. Glass after glass of water went down his throat, the cool liquid a soothing balm against his sandpaper mouth. 

Feeling the fatigue weighing down on him like a leaden blanket, Chuck returned to his bed. He reached for the small bottle of sleeping pills on his nightstand. Swallowing them with a painful grimace, he succumbed once more to the alluring embrace of sleep, anxious to escape the void of his waking hours.

In his dream, Chuck was transported back to a time when he and Nate were sixteen years old. The scene unfolded before him with startling clarity: the hideous beige pants, the yellow shirt, and the blazer that identified them as students of St. Jude’s. But what etched itself most deeply into his subconscious was the pain on his face as he held an ice pack to his already swollen eye. His best friend sat next to him in the headmaster’s office. 

Headmaster Smith’s stern voice broke the tense silence. “I’m afraid I must inform your father of this, Mr. Bass,” he said, his disapproval evident. It was not the first time he had waited in that very chair to be punished, and he knew all too well that it would not be the last. “What you have done warrants disciplinary action. Here, in our esteemed institution, such behavior will not be tolerated. Resorting to violence of any kind against a fellow student is simply unacceptable.”

“Go ahead, call him,” Chuck challenged.

Perhaps his father would have paid more attention that way, but to no one’s surprise, Bart Bass simply did not care, just as Chuck no longer cared about the consequences. His father, or rather his lawyer, would likely settle the matter with monetary compensation, as if wealth could solve all problems. How egregious was the insolence of a son who wasted his father’s precious time on trifles unworthy of a man.

The sting of rejection felt just as raw as it had all those years ago. No amount of money or material success could force fatherly love after all. 

“As for you, Mr. Archibald, I expect better judgment from a young man of your caliber. While I recognize your athletic potential and commendable character, I must caution you about the company you keep.”

As they left the office, Nate reached into his pockets and looked down at the floor. 

“Why did you take the blame for me? It was all my fault,” he said. “I punched him. I should be the one getting punished.”

“And see Anne Archibald freak out about her golden boy getting a suspension? Not a chance,” Chuck replied, a small grin playing at the corner of his lips.

“You shouldn’t have jumped in. Look at your face. Pete got a really good hit.”

“Ah, come on, Nathaniel. It’s just a black eye. Besides, if this was your face, Waldorf would have our heads on a pike for letting some guy mess it up.”

“And nobody wants to be the target of Blair’s fury.”

“Indeed.”

“Thanks. I owe you one, big time.”

“There’s no need for a scoreboard between friends. We’ve always had each other’s backs, and that’s not about to change.”

“I don’t know what I’d do without you, man.”

“Well, lucky for you, you won’t have to find out.”

“Neither will you.” 

He didn’t hold many people in high regard, but Nate Archibald was a rare exception.

As their conversation faded, St. Jude’s corridors shifted into the interior of his friend’s yacht. Nate’s face, which had previously been warm with camaraderie and gratitude, now changed into an accusatory scowl. They were still clothed in their school uniforms, creating a bizarre juxtaposition.  

“Did you also have my back when you were lusting after my girl all those years, huh?” Nate said. “What a good friend you were.”

“What are you talking about?” 

“Come on, Chuck, don’t play dumb. You’ve always had a thing for her. Always lurking around, waiting for your chance to make a move.”

“That’s not how it went down, and you know it.”

“Do I?”

“Not once did I act on it while she was with you.”

“But you wanted to, didn’t you?”

More than anything else in the world. But he hadn’t. Even though every fiber of his being had screamed for him to do so, he’d held back, sticking to some imaginary bro code. 

“Admit it,” Nate urged.

What did he have to lose now? Nate wasn’t even there. It wasn’t real.

“I did. So what? It’s not my fault you were too blind to see what was right in front of you,” Chuck spat out the words. “Blair was right there, and you couldn’t see how incredible she was. You never appreciated her, not like she deserved, and it cost you everything.”

“Isn’t that what you’re doing right now?”

It landed like a slap in the face. “Shut up,” he growled.

“Did you get a kick out of it? Seeing me mess up, time after time? Hoping I’d slip up so you could snatch your best friend’s girl?”

Chuck’s fists clenched. “Blair is not your girl.”

“Then whose is she? Yours? Please. As if you could ever hold onto anything without screwing it up.”

“Just shut up,” he muttered, his hands shaking at his sides. His shoulders slumped forward as if bracing for the impact of the painful truth. With a hint of desperation, he pleaded, “Please.”

But Nate continued, relentlessly. “Why put her through your misery? Hasn’t she had enough?”

“I care about her, okay? I really do. More than you’ll ever understand.”

“Don’t make me laugh. You never think beyond your own desires. You betrayed our friendship for your own selfish gain. Was it worth it?”

“It wasn’t like that. You were not together. You didn’t love each other, and I… I…”

“And what? You do?”

The words hovered on the tip of his tongue, desperate to break free.

“You’re nothing but a spineless coward, Chuck. Hollow at your core. Blair deserves way more than you can ever give her.”

He wanted to scream. But he was powerless, trapped in the twisted labyrinth of his own mind.

“Pathetic.” But that voice wasn’t Nate’s. It hadn’t been for a while. It was his father’s. “You’re just a pitiful, broken boy. Weak. Soft as silk, and twice as useless.”

It was a new day when he opened his eyes again. He was drenched in sweat, his stomach churning and his body weak. He threw off the clinging sheets and welcomed the fresh air on his clammy skin.

Chuck was torn between two opposing forces, each vying for his attention like contestants in a tug-of-war match. There was Blair, and there was the overbearing presence of his father. He was paralyzed by the fear of losing his balance, terrified that leaning too far to one side would result in everything crashing down around him. 

How could he bare his soul, let others see the depths of who he really was, and still maintain the strong front his father demanded?

A wave of nausea washed over him. He doubled over slightly, feeling the emptiness clawing at him from the inside. When had he last eaten? It took Chuck a moment to recall—had it been yesterday? No, surely it had been the day before. 

“Must we add ‘wasting away’ to your repertoire of bad habits?” It was as if Blair herself was standing there, hands on hips, giving him an earful. Beautiful as always. “I mean, you’re starting to resemble one of those tragic characters from a Dickens novel, and we both know you prefer Fitzgerald.” 

“Leave me alone, Waldorf.” 

“You know I can’t do that,” she said. “Eat something.”

He was losing his goddamn mind. 

Chuck reached for the hotel phone and dialed room service without even checking the time. Despite his lack of appetite, he ordered a full American breakfast. They’d be fools to deny the owner’s son a damn thing.

But the eggs seemed to have soured overnight, the bacon was burnt to a crisp, and the coffee tasted more like dishwater than anything resembling a morning pick-me-up. The food proved unpalatable, his stomach rejecting every bite. He pushed the contents of his plate around, scoffed at his own pitiful condition, and finally pushed the tray away, collapsing on the sofa in defeat. 

Seeking a mundane distraction, he picked up the New York Post, which had been sitting untouched on the side table for a month. There, he was greeted by the imposing image of his father, the pinnacle of success.

“Bass Empire Expansion: Iconic Business Titan, Renowned for Reshaping the Manhattan Skyline, Set to Revamp Brooklyn Shelter into Trendy Living Quarters.”

Fantastic.

The headline mocked him. Was this the legacy he was destined to inherit? One built on ruthless ambition, where power reigned supreme, regardless of the collateral damage left in its wake? A world devoid of affection and human connection. Where the pursuit of more, more, more eclipsed all else. The successful, the powerful, the great Bart Bass. Alone. Unreachable. Unloving. But a titan nonetheless. Indestructible. Where did the line end? What good were wealth and power if your soul felt hollow to the core?

With bitterness staining his tongue, Chuck tossed the newspaper, unable to face the reflection of his future looking back at him. Turning to whiskey for solace, he drowned his sorrows and dulled the pain in a futile attempt to forget it was even there.

The next day, a terrible pain gripped his chest. He felt sure he was having a heart attack, but instead of calling for help, he curled up into a ball and buried his face in his pillow. Perhaps that was for the best.

Days blurred into one another, haunted by vivid dreams of his childhood, Nate, and Blair. 

In some, Blair’s soft lips captured his in sweet, intoxicating kisses that left him wanting for more. They inhabited a world of their own, where time stood still and the Upper East Side was theirs to conquer. They laughed. They lived. They thrived. Other times, angry screams pierced the air. Blair hurled every conceivable insult at him until her voice ran dry. What a complete fool he’d been to let his insecurities win. But it was the dreams in which she simply looked at him with nothing but disappointment and hurt, the word ‘coward’ a damning indictment of his actions, that tormented him the most. 

He knew, even in his subconscious, that she was right, that he deserved every ounce of her hatred and reproach. What he didn’t know was whether he could handle it. He had once believed himself capable, but as time passed, he wasn’t sure anymore. Hadn’t that been the point? For her to despise him now, to save herself more pain in the future?

The more he thought about it, the more absurd it seemed. He was causing her pain anyway. Worse yet, he was taking away her right to choose. 

He was so stupid. 

A sharp, loud knock on the door woke Chuck from his slumber. Ignoring the annoying interruption, he rolled over, hoping to return to the peaceful state of the unfinished dream he had left behind.

In his mind, he could still feel Blair, the gentle rise and fall of her chest beneath his head as they lay together in their favorite spot on the beach, his form perpendicular to hers. While she immersed herself in the pages of a fashion magazine, he was lost in his own book.

“I could stay like this forever,” he murmured, almost to himself. 

He turned his head slightly to look at her, a rare smile playing on his lips. 

Blair sighed, closing her magazine. “As tempting as that sounds, Bass, I think the world might miss us too much. And let’s face it, we’d miss the city lights, too. The Upper East Side is too ingrained in our souls to leave behind.” 

“True. But it’s nice to dream, isn’t it?”

“Dreaming is one thing, but living our lives on our own terms is another. We’re not very good at it.”

“Maybe we haven’t been, but that doesn’t mean we can’t change.” 

“We thrive in chaos. It’s what makes us, us.”

“We are so much more than that.”

Blair looked at him, her eyes softening. “Do you really believe that?”

“I do.”

It was so calm, so peaceful, and he just wanted to go back. 

But the knocking persisted, demanding attention. His fingers curled into the soft fabric of the pillow as he resisted the urge to lash out. Whoever dared disturb him at this moment would have no job to come back to tomorrow.

Taking a deep breath, Chuck rose from the bed, made his way to the door, and swung it open, fully prepared to unleash his wrath upon the unsuspecting intruder. 

“What do you want?” he growled.

To his surprise, he was met not only with a hapless hotel staff member but also with a phone extended towards him. His brow furrowed in confusion as he accepted the device.

“Mister Bass asks for you,” the receptionist said, his professional demeanor unwavering. 

Chuck’s grip on the phone tightened as he retreated into the confines of his suite, shutting the door behind him. He raised the device to his ear, his father’s voice crackling through the line with an edge of impatience. “What kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into this time?” 

“Good to hear your voice too, Dad.” 

“What did you do?”

“Oh, you know me,” he replied, “just walking the fine line, as usual.”

“I don’t have time for your games.”

“I’m as innocent as they come. Feel free to sue whoever led you to think otherwise.” 

“Don’t push your luck.” 

“What do you want me to say?” Chuck shot back defensively. “I didn’t do anything.” 

“Explain to me why Lily is losing sleep over you because Serena is blowing up her phone day and night. Or better yet, why aren’t you picking up your damn phone? What’s the point of me footing the bill if you’re just going to ignore your responsibilities and waste it on parties, women, and booze?”

“I…”

Where was his phone? Had he left it in his room in the Hamptons? Had it fallen out of his pocket on the way here? He rummaged through the bed, the sofa, his pockets, every surface. His movements became more urgent as he lifted and rearranged the decor of the hotel suite in his search. 

“Are you drunk?” his father’s voice resonated through the other end of the line when he received no response.

“I am not,” Chuck replied tersely.

“High?”

“No.”

“It’s about time you started acting like a man, Chuck. Your persistent immaturity is both disappointing and harmful to your future. When will you start taking things seriously?”

“I’ve told you, I didn’t do anything,” Chuck insisted. “If Serena is acting like a crackhead, that’s not my problem.”

“It is if you make it my problem. Your actions have consequences, and I’m too busy to play hide-and-seek with you. Get it through your head that my time is far too valuable to waste on adolescent theatrics. So, learn to clean up your own mess, and don’t run away like a coward. You’re a Bass.”

Chuck gritted his teeth, the sting of his father’s words cutting deep. 

“I’ll take care of it.”

“And don’t think I haven’t found out about that little spectacle you put on last week on your friend’s yacht,” Bart continued, his tone cold and unforgiving. “It cost me a great deal to get rid of those pitiful photos of ‘Bart Bass’ son and heir passed out at scandalous party’ that were almost printed in every tabloid.”

“It was a mistake.”

“When is it not with you?” 

“I’m—”

“What? You’re what?” Bart interrupted. “Don’t apologize like a pathetic, weak little girl. Own it.” 

The line fell silent for a moment, before his father scoffed. “I can’t believe you’re my son.”

And then, he hung up. 

Where the fuck was his phone?

He paced the room a second time. His black Belstaff riding jacket lay discarded on the floor, and as he bent down to retrieve it, his fingers brushed the smooth surface of his breast pocket. There it was, nestled snugly inside.

He pulled it out, only to find it completely dead. 

Of course. 

As soon as Chuck plugged his phone into the charger, it lit up with a ton of missed calls and text messages.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he muttered under his breath, the harsh expletive slipping past his lips as the screen continued to glow. “What more do you want from me?”

Face it. Let people in. Don’t slink away because you’re too scared to feel, said a voice in his head.

But his fingers trembled and his stomach plummeted as he scrolled through Blair’s messages, each one a blow to his already bruised heart. They were all from the day he had left, starting with desperate pleas and worry, escalating to righteous anger. Eventually, her texts stopped altogether, leaving behind a cold silence that matched the emptiness inside him. 

This wasn’t right. It simply wasn’t. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

But what was it supposed to be like?

His own fears had led him to this steep precipice with no clear way out. How was he going to fix it? The uncertainty of what lay ahead, the threat of rejection and disappointment if he dared to open up to others, drove him straight to a strong drink. 

Until now, he had hid like a cornered animal, letting time eat away at him, with only his thoughts as companions. Hoping in vain that numbness would replace feeling. Yet, it hadn’t. The pain persisted, refusing to subside. Not only had his feelings not gone away, they had consumed him even more, and his phone was just reality smacking him in the face. Forcing him to face it. To really look at the consequences of his actions. 

For if Bart had been right about anything, it was this, and he could no longer keep pretending it wasn’t. He couldn’t run away, or unravel at the seams every time life went sideways. Every time he felt vulnerable. 

What was the point of shutting everyone out? What kind of life was that?

He didn’t have to look very far for the answer. Bart Bass was the perfect example.

Pouring himself a generous glass of whiskey, Chuck tried to calm his nerves. He had to stop hiding behind his own weaknesses, stop letting fear call the shots. With newfound determination, he turned back to his phone.

Serena’s messages, on the other hand, were predictably dramatic, filled with frantic demands and threats. 

> Chuck, u need 2 come back RN

> Tell me where u r. If u don’t answer me ASAP, I’ll call Bart & Lily

> I’m gonna kill u

> Nate’s a mess. Blair 2 

As he scrolled through the missed calls, Chuck’s chest tightened. His stepsister’s name dominated the screen, and he couldn’t help but wonder why she was such a pain in the ass. He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture doing little to ease the discomfort. 

Her over-the-top theatrics were exhausting, but deep down, he knew they came from genuine concern. That knowledge did nothing to alleviate the unease that settled in his stomach. 

Why was it so hard for him to accept that people actually cared about him? Was it really such a rare thought?

The phone beeped again, this time with a new message. Unsurprisingly, it was Serena’s.

> I know u love her. Stop being a coward.

Chuck stared at the screen, her words hitting harder than he expected. His stepsister’s bluntness was jarring, but necessary. For so long, he had allowed indifference to prevail, pushing everyone away to avoid the risk of hurting and getting hurt. 

But the truth presented itself with tremendous clarity—he was not indifferent. He never had been. He felt like the rest of them. Thoughts of her consumed him incessantly, almost absurdly. Like a moth to a flame. 

As for why he was putting himself, and them, through this, he could only place the blame on his own stupidity. 

Perhaps the solution, the only answer, was as simple as returning to her side. To learn from his mistakes instead of trying to blame them on cosmic fate or some nonexistent predestined path, instead of trying to sweep them under the rug. To try to rebuild what he had lost.

Could he find the strength? He didn’t know, but he had to. 

He had to give her agency. He had to let her choose. 

For in the end, Chuck realized, the only thing that truly mattered was her. Not his father, not money, not power, but her. He could no longer deny the pull of his heart, nor did he want to.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard. He typed, then deleted it. He typed again, then deleted that too. He tried a third time, but quickly erased it. Nothing was good enough. It all seemed inadequate, a pale shadow of what he really wanted to say but couldn’t find the words for.  

Instead, he typed out a quick reply to Serena.

Serena’s response came fast.

> No, she’s not, u fool. Come back already

The next day, as he continued to send messages to his stepsister, Chuck began to get back on his feet. He stopped drinking, started showering, and started eating properly. 

Present day

“I’m sure you could have any girl you want.”

He took another drag, the nicotine doing little to calm his nerves. “She’s not just any girl,” he said, almost to himself. “She’s Blair Waldorf.”

The guy looked at him, clearly not understanding the meaning of those words. But Chuck didn’t care. 

Crushing the cigarette under his heel, Chuck made a silent promise to himself. He swore he would protect her happiness with everything that he had. If that made him weak, so be it. If that meant risking it all, so be it. Blair was worth every bit of effort, every sacrifice. 

He turned to the guy one last time. “Thanks for the smoke.” 

And with that, he walked away.

After hours of aimless riding, Chuck parked his flashy red motorcycle in the Hamptons driveway, the engine’s rumble settling into silence. He didn’t dare put it in the garage, wanting to keep the noise to a minimum and avoid any unnecessary attention. The fewer people who knew of his return, the better. 

He had to talk to Blair first. 

With each step, his heart pounded faster. Memories of their moments together flooded his mind—her laughter, her sharp wit, the way her eyes sparkled when she was happy. As he stood on the doorstep, motorcycle helmet cradled in the crook of his arm, the front door loomed large before him. His feet might as well have been set in cement, heavy and immovable. Petrified, with only the sound of his own heart echoing in his ears, Chuck was unsure of his next move. Now that he was so close, facing her felt like the stupidest idea in the world. What could he even say? “I’m sorry for hurting you. I’m sorry for being an idiot. I’m sorry for being afraid.” Those words might be a start, but were they enough? Would she even be willing to listen? He fumbled with the keys in his pocket. 

The courage to take that crucial first step remained frustratingly out of reach. Unable to face her just yet, he turned away from the imposing entrance and headed down the familiar path to her favorite spot on the beach.

The soft sand greeted him as he kicked off his shoes, the grains cool beneath his feet. The rhythmic lapping of the waves provided a soothing backdrop. 

As he approached the shoreline, he realized he wasn’t alone. Blair was there, her silhouette bathed in the moonlight, a vision that made his heart leap into his throat and his palms sweat. He wiped them on his pants, taking a deep, steadying breath as he tried to compose himself.

This was it. It was now or never. 

He could have stayed in that room, slowly withering away, becoming Bart Bass. And he would have hated himself for it. But he hadn’t. He was here, standing just a few steps away from her, the girl who had captured his heart in ways he could never fully articulate.

Leaving the darkness that had always protected him, he sat down beside her.

[jamiesfootball]

thank you for the very thoughtful response! here is the royjamiekeeley leverage snippet!

•••

"You've got a sister?" Jamie asked, chin perched on top of Keeley's head. They were wearing identical, big-eyed, innocent looks. Roy did not look impressed.

"Fucking obviously," he grunted.

"Is she fit?" Keeley asked, expression not wavering.

"Fuck off," Roy said as he returned his attention to his book.

"I bet she's fit," Jamie whispered loudly to Keeley.

"I'll rip out your eyes with a toilet plunger, Tartt," Roy said with a dangerous glance at Jamie.

"Keeley, save me," Jamie said. He cowered dramatically behind Keeley's tiny frame. "My eyes are too pretty to be toilet-plungered!"

"You fucking deserve it," Roy said, standing up and making a swipe at Jamie. Jamie danced out of reach with a loud, obnoxious laugh. "Hold still, you bellend!"

"Can't catch me!" Jamie cackled as he ran all the way around the kitchen. Then, he made a neat circle in the sitting room with Roy in hot pursuit. Keeley hopped up onto the kitchen island, egging them on. Rebecca sat next to Beard, a mug of tea in hand, as they both watched the tireless chase. Ted entered the room, barely avoiding being bowled over, and moved to stand next to them.

"Y'know, sometimes I wonder what it would take for those three to just have a good old-fashioned romp around - if you catch my drift. Cut through some of that tension," he said.

"I think they're already romping, actually," Rebecca said faintly, absorbed in the action.

"Oh, yeah," Beard said. Jamie made a sharp turn past the island to smack a kiss onto Keeley's cheek, and Roy followed suit. "This is like foreplay for them."

"Huh. Well, I guess you have a point there." Ted settled onto the couch on Rebecca's other side, and they all watched Jamie windmill his arms to try and stop his sock-fueled dash so he could screech to a desperate halt. It didn't work, he crashed into the counter, and Roy slammed into his back.

"Gotcha," he growled.

"Keeley!" Jamie cried. "Help, he's gonna eat me!" Keeley muttered something that sounded suspiciously like god, I hope so. Beard hoped he wouldn't have to remind them that there were other people in the vicinity. They'd been very good about leaving when things got hot and heavy. Keep the streak going.

"Not gonna fucking eat you, you muppet, stop bucking the fuck everywhere," Roy said. Keeley slid off the island and took a running leap to land on Roy's back. The man didn't even flinch, just moved one hand to support her leg until her thighs were securely around his waist.

"Is it unethical to be watching this? Is this weird?" Ted asked. His gaze didn't move.

"Maybe," Rebecca said. Her gaze didn't move.

"No," Beard said, and he was damn sure his own gaze was not moving. "It's like a nature documentary."

Ted made a vague noise. Jamie and Keeley were giggling uncontrollably, and Roy was even looking like he wanted to crack a grin. His head moved down to near Jamie's ear, and Jamie audibly snorted with laughter. Then, the snort transformed into a cry.

"Did you just fucking bite me?" His voice was full of shock and disbelief, as well as something that had Beard composing a notice in his head to present to the trio. Hello, please do not have wild kinky sex within earshot of your coworkers. Thanks, Beard. 

"Maybe I will eat you after all," Roy said, his voice low and gravelly.

"Keeley!"

Ooh, this is giving me very strong Eliot-cooking-in-the-kitchen-after-a-heist vibes. The camaraderie, the silliness—the ‘Nate and Sophie off to the side having a normal fucking conversation to sum up the themes of tonight’s episode’ of it all. You’ve somehow captured it all in a little bottle

[arlovegood]

Six little nuggets

This is a little drabble of something that could/will maybe become a larger one shot (hence why there's some passing mention to things that would only make sense with context), but I thought it cute and wanted to post

From the corner of her eyes she watches him, his gaze is fixed on the sleeping babies and his face, oh that face, a tiny smirk verging on a smile resting on his lips, a look that says he knows this kids are trouble and he couldn’t be more delighted by that. She knows that face, knows what it means.

“You always wanted six” she mockingly singsongs while lightly nudging him with her shoulder. It’s a joke but not really.

She doesn’t even know which one of them she’s talking about.

He huffs out a laugh and looks at her. That intense, loving look that captures her and lets her fly free all at the same time.

“I’ve always wanted you” and his eyes are so serious, so truthful. She’s always know that, even before they truly got back together, after all, he had said hadn’t he?

‘the most important part’ That’s what he called her.

“And whatever makes the both of us happy. Truly happy. That’s what I’ve always wanted Nance. That’s what I’ll always want.” 

And she knows the question laying hidden on that phrase.

‘What will make you, us, happy?’

She looks back to the babies. Their tiny little angelic faces sleeping, unaware of the world they were born into, unaware of the way they came to be. 

Unaware that they could be soon tossed into an orphanage to go gods know where, maybe even separated.

Nancy truly looked at those little faces and…

“I’ve always liked the name Nathaniel” She sees the little furrow of Steve’s eyebrows. Sees the confusion mixed with giddiness and hope in his eyes. He lets her talk, explain….confirm.

“We didn’t use it at any point…I mean…I love our boys names but…what I’m saying is…” and she’s stumbling because it’s just..so much. It’s good, it’s great, but she’s just as emotionally stable as she was on those four trips to the hospital where she left with a little bundle that was now hers and Steve’s to care and love.

“Nance…” and as his gaze catches hers again she melts, embraces what her heart has been screaming for the past hours, what her soul already knew when that poor girl was brought in.

“They’re ours Steve…aren’t they?” And his eyes scream the answer and she just hugs him, lets herself be enveloped by his arms, that place where nothing can hurt her.

“I like Nathaniel…it’s pretty, I think it’s suits him. Our little Nate” She just squeezes him tighter, her eyes watering from holding back tears.

“And this little princess Nance…what should we call her?” God his voice! She already knows this two little sleeping babies have him wrapped around their tiny little fingers and well, okay…..they got her two.

“Destiny” she doesn’t elaborate. Doesn’t say anything really. When she was younger, but on that age where you hate being called young, she would have scoffed and said she didn’t believe in things as destiny and fate.

But that was before. 

Before the world as she knew fell out of her feet. Before she found someone who came so close to what a soulmate was supposed to be. Before life brought her back to Hawkins, to this very hospital, so she could find her babies.

The last remaining two lil nuggets missing from their pack.

“Yeah, Nate and Destiny Harrington….I like that” his voice was hoarse and chocked. He was crying too. A dream years on the making, always giving that feeling of happiness and fulfillment to them but also ever growing and ever evolving.

'Minus the six kid part…that sounds like a total nightmare'

Once upon a time, her younger self had declared this, in a fruitless attempt at deflecting the emotions Steve was making her feel. 

But now…

Now as she saw Steve buckling a little Destiny, dressed into the most adorable “Daddy’s little girl” onesie, onto the baby seat, while Max, with a lot of help of a scowling Ellie - who apparently was very disappointed with his proficiency in holding a baby - rocked little Nate back and forth in a soothing manner.

They weren’t buckling it up to go on a road trip across the country.

At least not yet.

They were just going to the Wheeler’s residence until the babies were a few days older so they could go back to Boston.

(Or until Karen managed to convince her daughter that Hawkins was a perfect place to live and that the Post would allow her to write from anywhere. What can you say, the woman was persistent if nothing else) 

And yet….

Nancy felt like this was truly the beginning of the adventure promised so many years ago on a stolen Winnebago while they faced the possible end of the world.

It had sounded like a nightmare….but it wasn’t.

Not really.

It was her life. And she goddamn loved it.

[ghoul-foolery]

Dirty Windows | 5 | Nora x Hancock

A Fallout 4 Soulmate AU

-

Fic Summary:

Hancock never thought he would find his soulmate. Once a common occurrence, soulmates turned into a bit of a rarity after the bombs dropped. It was to be expected when there was an influx of people getting shot in the face on a daily basis. So when Hancock discovered that he had a soulmate he was ecstatic; all of the people in the Commonwealth, and he was one of the lucky few.

Too bad his soulmate didn't want anything to do with him.

When Nora thought for sure she was going to die too, the pain stopped – and then there was nothing. Nothing but the emptiness. Nothing but the grief. Half of her soul was suddenly gone forever. She was dropped in the middle of the ocean, drifting among the waves with no land in sight. Then just as suddenly she had been cast adrift, she found land. The hole was filled the moment it had been created. As she gripped Nate’s vault suit and begged him to open his eyes, Nora found herself battling with the horrifying realization that she had another soulmate; that some stranger had taken Nate's place.

\\

[ 1 ] [ 2 ] [ 3 ] [ 4 ] - [ 6 ]

\\

It was funny. Hancock had always been comfortable in his skin, ruined or not; it didn’t matter. At the end of the day, John knew exactly who he was. He was a decent man. Maybe not a good man, but he was decent. Ish. His moral compass was a little skewed but, despite outward appearances, he wasn’t a total fucking monster. The world needed men like him to keep the real monsters at bay.  That was all that mattered, until it didn't. His soulmate's searing rejection left him feeling uncertain, and so insecure that even Fahrenheit avoided giving him a proper ribbing - and she usually dished liberal amounts of bullshit to everyone.

What part of him wasn't good enough?

The woman had just lost her husband; he understood that. Hancock could only imagine the pain she was enduring, but she insisted on fighting it alone - and that baffled him. Why would someone want to brave this mess of a world by themselves if they didn't have to? Especially since she had been cooped up in that vault for however long. She was obviously inexperienced, and she wasn't great at defending herself, with or without a gun. Despite it all, she ignored him every time he offered to help.

Fine, he thought. Fuck it, then.

He could ignore her, too.

That was what he told himself, at least.

Drugs had been a constant in Hancock's life for many years. They were his favorite crutch, and he enjoyed mixing them up into a high powered cocktail that would knock any smoothskin on their ass for a couple of days at a time. As a ghoul he needed the strong stuff anyway, but as John fucking Hancock he needed something even stronger, something so much more potent. While he absolutely loathed to admit it, Hancock was a little more than emotionally compromised after being rejected by his soulmate again, and again (and again). He wanted to get absolutely fuckin obliterated just to forget for a while. He invested his spare time in experimenting with chems, and alcohol. There were a few tried and true combinations that had been worthwhile, but he needed something more. They weren't strong enough, they didn't last long enough. So he decided to be a mad scientist for a couple of days. He played with different elements, mixing basic jet and psycho with a variety of different additives.

For a couple of days, Hancock was higher than a fucking kite. It wasn't constant though. He would start to crash, and he would take another hit. Taking larger doses would fix the problem, but every time he would prepare himself to up the ante he would hesitate. Because what if, in his drug-induced stupor, his soulmate needed him? What if she needed help and he was too blitzed to do anything outside of giggle at the disembodied voice? Instead of stumbling into the what-if scenario every time he came down from his high, Hancock only wanted to be obligated to make this decision once. The dilemma was making something strong enough that wouldn't end up killing him. He wasn't ready for that quite yet. For the time being, he would take a few hits of this and that every few hours.

It was approaching mid afternoon on another drug addled day when Hancock found himself on the down-swing of one of his highs. He felt sluggish and heavy, and his mouth was dry. His brain hurt. The inhaler was clasped between his teeth as he unscrewed the cap from a bottle of vodka - and that's when he heard it.

Soft sobbing, a sniffle.

"Why couldn't he have killed me, too? Why did he let me live? I can't do this without you. Why couldn't he have killed me instead?"

Hancock seemed to sober almost immediately. The inhaler dropped from his mouth as he listened to the poor woman cry. Part of him wanted to be a snarky asshole; wrong number, sweetheart. Nate ain't here. The other part of him was wholly sympathetic. She was miserable, and she was heartbroken, and she was hurting, and Hancock wanted to make all of that go away. He wanted to hold her and tell her everything was going to be okay.

His body sank into the couch as he rubbed at his eyes, "Oh, honey..."

There was a gasp, soft but piercing. The woman withdrew from their bond so fast he swore. He flinched, physically recoiling into the couch as his eyes shot open.

"No," he told the room, rising to his feet in a surprisingly fluid movement. "Not this time."

Hancock reached out for her, recreating the severed connection with ease. All he saw was darkness, but he could hear her crying. She was hyperventilating, and her body was shaking. She was hungry too. Her gut felt painfully empty. It took a conscious effort to keep his own breathing steady. He hadn't prepared for the tidal wave of emotions that crashed over him.

"Hey."

Another gut-wrenching sob.

"Hey, look, I... I..." There were tears in his eyes as his soulmate's emotions overtook him. The righteous fury he was intent on delivering faltered into something soft and pleading. "I'm sorry. Whatever I did..." a sniffle, he dragged the arm of the coat across his cheeks.

"Madam? Madam, are you alright?" the voice was muffled but (surprisingly) British. It was a Mister Handy unit, if he ever heard one. The woman opened her eyes and Hancock finally had the opportunity to see where she was. A bedroom of some kind. It was old, radiation-ravished like most of the Commonwealth. There was a simple blue crib sitting in the middle of the room. "I am sure that Sir and Shaun will be home soon..."

More anguish, more heartbreak, more fucking tears.

"Just - both of you! GO AWAY!"

Hancock swallowed around the lump in his throat, and he sniffled yet again as he tried to regain control of his emotions. Before he broke the connection, he whispered, "I'll be here if ya need me."

He dove back into the drugs, and let himself drift off into oblivion for the rest of the evening.

[lover-girl-estxx]

Be happy for me

Part 6

| 4 weeks later |

Nate sat next to me on the plane "we've never been on a plane together" I said laying my head on his shoulder "I know" he laid his head on mine "where should i take you when I win?" "Mexico or Jamaica so we can smoke a lot of weed" I laughed and pulled back "yeah?" He nodded "fuck yeah your gonna make more then I did when I fought" I smiled "damn right I am" he smiled and kissed my head "okay the PDA is to much" Nick said "all I did was kissed her head" Nate shrugged nicks face twisted me and Nate laughed.

| Nates POV |

Y/n put on a sauna suit to cut weight, "sauna first with the bike Y/n" richard said "okay". I sat and watched to make sure she didn't pass out, "fuck me" she smiled I smiled and wiped her sweat with a card "20 more minutes," she sighed and nodded "water pour in 10" "okay talk to me about something other than fighting" "um Jamaica" she smiled "the water" she sighed "does Jamaica have good food?" I asked "id think so but no food talk either cause I haven't eaten in 17 hours" she laughed "then there's nothing to talk about" "okay" she lightly smiles "you look cute" she rolled her eyes.

She was now hitting pads with Richard "can we mix in more kicks please?" she asked he nodded before starting again, "move your body more with your hook" Randy told her going the mat showing her what he mean't she nodded tiredly. She knows how to throw a hook but she at about 10% if that eyes heavy just trying to cut weight, she stopped and took a deep breath "lets break for a minute maybe?" I said Rich nodded Y/n just sat down on the mat I went behind her and rubbed her shoulders "thanks" she whispered.

] "ice bath then she done me and Randy are gonna head up" Us three nodded as they left "now it's just the OGs" she smirked Nick sat across from us "Y/n I know we weren't very good when you said you were gonna do this," she nodded "but this is now coming from me as you 'big brother', " she smiled "it's not to late it's a big step and if your not ready to take it that's okay and if your ready that's okay too" "dang Nick didn't know you had that in you," he lightly blushed and smiled "I'm ready I'm for sure even more now that I have you guys back in my corner" "k" he nodded.

| Next Morning |

"and Next Y/n 'the psycho' Y/l/n with a nickname given to her by Dana white! the first ever female fighter to step onto the UFC scale" "I like that name" she said before going up "130.5 is the official weight for 'the Psycho' " she got off and I handed her, her shirt "lets go eat please!" I smiled "okay". "this is amazing," she bit her burger "i don't know have y'all don't eat meat" Nick chuckled.

| The Fight |

| Y/ns POV |

I took a deep breath as Tate wrapped my hands "Y/n!" I smiled went on my face "Forrest!" he smiled "how are you?" his hand went to my shoulder "great!" "good good" "how bout you? we all cant wait to watch you fight tonight" "i'm Great too" I nodded "this is my crew Nate, Randy , Richard and Nick and guys this is of course Forrest" they all shook hands "hey she got even better after the show" Rich said "thank you," Forrest said "hey I gotta get ready for my fight good luck, we're having an after party tonight" "for real" I smiled he rubbed my shoulder before leaving.

"The first ever Female UFC fight is taking place tonight Y/n Y/l/n vs Skylar Tayor for the Bantamweight title, one more fight till this historical bout" Jon anik said through the TV as I hit with Randy, "Y/l/n can we get you to start walking to the end of the hallway" I nodded. Someone duck taped my hands with red, I took deep breaths Nick tapped me giving me my mouth guard. "stand right here your song will go wait a sec then go" I nodded, I kinda jumped around I'm happy both boys were giving me some space. My song started to lightly played "can I get my NDA flag please?" Nate nodded and handed it to me I walked out to cheers? I didn't think I would I gave my flag to a kid in the crowd, I took my hoodie off handing it to Randy hugging him then Rich "you got it" I nodded. Nate hugged me tight "take all the pressure off win or lose I'm so proud of you, okay? you look very beautiful doing it too" he smiled "thank you" then Nick"go beat the ever living fuck out of this chick you hear me get the fucking belt" I chuckled "you got it" he smiled. I ran around the cage then to my side "FROM STOCKTON CALIFORNIA Y/N 'THE PSYCHO' Y/L/N" I smiled and fist bump Bruce, "have a good clean fight if you want to touch gloves touch them now" we touched gloves then back to the corner.

"Hook Y/n!" Nick yelled I did making her wobble as the round ended, I sat on the stool Nate giving me water, Randy a cold stone, Nick rubbing an ice bag into my back "put the pressure on, use thos kicks don't let this go to the judges" I nodded "turn it the fuck up" Randy said I nodded. They left I stood up hitting my face and body, we touch hands again exchanged a bit till I put space between us and threw a front foot 1c kick (like Chandler vs Ferguson) she fell and a went for a hammer fist but the ref pushed me I screamed and got up on the cage "you see that shit?!" I pointed to Dana "I saw that shit" I yelled one more time hopping down as soon as I did Nate hugged me "you fucking did it" "I did" I whispered into his shoulder he kissed my neck not wanting anyone to see us kiss. Nick hugged me "I'm so fucking proud of you". "referee Herb Dern has called a stop to this contest at 2 minutes 37 seconds in the second round for your winner by Knockout ANNND NEWW! first ever female bantamweight champion of the world Y/n 'the psycho' Y/l/n" Dana wrapped the belt around me I was getting a little choked up I took a deep breath and rubbed my belt.

"what a great fight! tell me about your thoughts coming into the house and fight?' Joe asked "thank you! um coming into the house I was nervous I didn't have some people at home that I would have liked to have behind me at the time, but I got 'em now I came in ready and i'm very happy with the fight and the finish" "were kicks a big put of your training camp?" "no not really but shes got very good striking so a head kick was best! I wanted people to know i'm here and here to stay as well as female fighter we're here" "thank you! Your first ever female champ ladies and gentlemen!". "you did it" he said "we all did it" I looked up at him, he shook his head "no girl I feel like you just told me you wanted to be a fighter last night and now you got a belt, that's all you" I laid my head on his shoulder walking to the locker room.

We were at my after party "babe?!" I looked up to see Nate I nodded "you wanna come smoke with me?!" he said over the music I nodded again, he grabbed my hand taking us outside. We sat on the bench outside the club as he lit the joint, he pulled my legs into his lap then past it to me "thanks-" "I gotta tell you something" "okay" "its been like 4 weeks and whatever but um" he sighed "just say it Diaz" "I love you" I blushed "I love you to" Nathaniel" he took a deep breath and smiled "that was scary" I chuckled and sat up a bit more to kiss him "eww...move over I want a hit" Nick said making me giggled against Nate's lips.

[booksandchainmail]

Pale 9.11

Her spiritual antler having enough to it that the actual antler could float there. Verona’s mask hadn’t stuck, apparently. She wasn’t sure what that was about.

My theory here is that Verona's mask remains broken because it breaking was an emotionally resonant moment. Avery's mask just got damaged in battle, and hasn't impacted Avery's view of how it should look. Verona's mask was shattered in a moment of betrayal and cruelty from someone she should have been able to trust, and had a corresponding impact on her Self.

“You related to Ken?” Avery asked. “He’s my dad, I guess,” Nettie said. “I’m the offshoot. We figured we’d scatter, cover more ground.”

oh neat!

“Well, it’s nice to meet you.  I like the name Nettie,” Avery said.  “Now I’m wondering what the others are called.”

I think there were four total? So some ideas: Kendall, Kendra, Kennedy, Nate, any name that ends in -nette

“Good.  The pin will help you with the prep.  If you’re in a place for a while, it’ll change.  Tells you when you’re attuned to a place, when you can ask the city spirits things.  There are ones smaller and vaguer than me.  Neighborhood spirits, street spirits.  You’ll usually need to do things for them, even picking up litter or something, before they’ll do something for you.”

I like this! Good for the girls' role as protectors of Kennet, and particularly suited for Avery's personality

Nettie nodded, glanced around, then leaned in a bit.  “Nobody’s listening, so I can tell you Verona’s claimed her gift.  She called, another part of me answered.  I’m meant to forget after I’ve told you two.”

something that helps her run or hide within Kennet would be very useful right now

“When things go really wrong my mind kind of shuts off,” Avery said.  “I’ve had thoughts before that it doesn’t work like that for Verona.  I don’t think she’s making dumb moves.”

she's making extreme moves. She is making them very effectively! But entirely possible to get herself in too deep while she's like this

“I think she can be very smart and have almost no common sense when she’s like this.”

High INT low WIS. Honestly that seems to describe Verona most of the time, but it gets amplified when she's like this. In this state she doesn't seem to have much sense of self-preservation or care for the future or side consequences.

“I don’t want her taking some property from Ken and doing a demesne ritual without us there, or anything.”

I mean. That would be one way to keep the furs out of reach. But I don't like the implications of Verona choosing her new home while in this state, or of creating it all alone.

Scary Others, goblins, body snatchers, a heist of some ancient spirit judge’s furs?  That was one thing.  But buzzing a classmate she barely knew for weird reasons, then having to improvise an explanation?  Augh.

big mood

Steph + Reagan + Howie Perry.  It was only visible with her Sight.  She tapped the name.

Reagan! From the Hungry Choir ritual!

“Bonky Donks? Cookies? Whizzbangs?”

are those actual canadian snacks?

“It’s fine,” Avery said.  “Your daughter was really cool to us when things got really hairy, and I’m really grateful for that.  You raised a good daughter.” “Why even tell her if she’s going to forget?” Melissa asked. “Because it’s important,” Avery said.  Maybe if I say it again, “Reagan was cool.”

awww

“You can stay if you want, Melissa, we don’t really have the time to drag you with us, but I’m going to be blunt, on a seriousness scale of clown to terminal cancer, I’d rate this a multiple stab wound,” Lucy said. “What are you even talking about?” Melissa asked.

yeah I'm with Melissa, that explanation does not help

“I’m the Frankenstein’s monster that got put together from the scraps that were left behind. A bit of the backfill that’s smoothing over the holes they left, so the universe can heal and move on. I was a confused jumble of a bunch of people’s memories, at first, and then I put myself together. It was excruciating. Tying knots in two ropes that are being pulled in opposite directions, over and over again. I don’t think I’m very long for this world. When the universe has smoothed it all out, I’ll be the bumpy bit that gets scraped away. Probably.”

Man that sucks. And made worse by how all the component pieces of him were in a place to join the Hungry Choir ritual.

I wonder if there's a way to preserve him? Tie him to something other than just the gaps of those missing kids? Crack theory: make him the new Carmine judge.

“McKay and Bridge have a solid game plan.  Pick a body I want, drive out the occupant, then slip inside.  Depending on the fit, I should be able to hang out for a few decades.”

or that :|

“They were so desperate.  All of them.  It wasn’t just those three.  They bit, they clawed, they screamed, they hurt.  In their last moments they stood on the edge of oblivion.  More of them gave their all than gave up.  That’s the space I’m occupying.  Those are the Frankenstein pieces I’m made up of.  They were barely even human.  They were scared and savage.  They were torn to shreds and I’m the shreds that didn’t get eaten.”

Anyone who made it past even a single night of the Choir had to have come to terms with watching people die. And anyone who participated in one of the last night's of the cycle, like Reagan, knew what their survival would cost and had to decide to keep going.

Now that I think about, we've never got details on the night Brie won. Maybe some the parts she needed from other people were willing, but there's no way she didn't choose to go after people with force to survive. I wonder how much of her not wanting to fight is having to live knowing that seven people died in her place, and now their twisted echoes are bound in her flesh?

“I don’t think you realize what it means, for me to be made up of people who were like these guys were right at the end.  Doing anything to keep going.  Even eating vomit, clawing at a friend’s arm, begging…”

which of course means CK is born from a place that is desperate enough to make those awful choices. No wonder he's contemplating stealing someone else's body to survive.

"We- the idea we were debating was… we’d spread enough raw chaos that the universe wouldn’t be doing any paving over for me. McKay would have more people with their lives in shambles to steal from, and Bridge would maybe be able to pull more Self together. If anything can survive the Abyss and its chaos then it tends to get bigger, tougher and stronger." “That’s a terrible idea, you know, and I don’t know much about the Abyss.”

having read Pact: do not try to get more Abyssal! It's bad!

[joetavis]

I'm so torn apart, because I loved (and I mean LOVED) Ted Lasso. I watched the first two seasons in two days, barely slept and was obsessed with it. I urged people to watch it, I literally talked about nothing else for weeks.

And then the third season came, and to say it with Roy's words: it's fine (and partly it was shit), but we didn't deserve just fine. We deserved better, the characters deserved better and especially Ted deserved better.

This absolute shitshow of season three paired with a mediocre conclusion to the characters just pisses me off. I don't fucking know what changed with the writers but almost every decision they made in season three was horrible and leaves me super bitter about the final episode that could have been way better.

I like the ending of the team as a sports team, I like Colin's ending, I like that they didn't make Ted and Rebecca end up together (because I like that sometimes people are just friends), u like the Roy and Jamie storyline (even the immature fight I didn't mind), but the even the season told these stories badly.

And I hated so much about the season. I hated that downright immoral THERAPIST/CLIENT relationship. What was that? You would loose your fucking licence for that, how could neither Ted, nor anyone else say something about that, Michelle's new partner should have been anyone else, really. I hated Jack, she was a complete unimportant character, she added nothing except making Keeley's (already wonky) storyline worse. It was a bad relationship. I don't like that they broke up Roy and Keeley for no reason. They should have stayed together. Especially if the Witter's don't even have the guts to show the break up on screen.

Keeley's whole story was horrible. She was a bad CEO (or whatever her position was) the story should have ended with her actually losing her PR-firm. (Because the end with Barbara was a good and heartfelt moment) and maybe let her figure out something better suited for her.

I liked Zava, but I would have preferred if him leaving the team was more of an on-screen moment.

Nate's whole story line is fucked. He shouldn't be with Jade, I don't really understand why she would like him. His dad 'apology' was clearly a lie and did not fit with what we've seen from Nate's Dad before (like I know I told you that you're worthless, but I only wanted you to be happy, what?). Nate was the villain (!) In season two, just like Rebecca in 3, but where she had to apologize to the people she hurt, Nate just came back, and we, the audience, never sees how and why this decision was made.

I was ready to forgive him, I really was, but he doesn't apologize to Colin, only to Ted. And that doesn't sit right with me. Nate's problem was, that he had so little self-worth, that he seeked it through abusing power. He should have apologizes to his Team at West Ham, to Ted, but he should have grown and start to love himself, instead we don't see any of that on screen.

In general I was so disappointed that all big moment were cut from our view and happened 'off-screen'. Like this is a TV-series, this is your purpose. Why would you stop showing us the moments that matter to the story you're telling.

(I know that this CAN be a stylistic device, but if ALL moments happen off screen, it's just lazy and leaves us nothing to watch.)

And lastly: The Lasso Way. That should have been the title of the book, and everyone knows it, especially Trent. And while it is on character for Ted to insist otherwise, The Richmond Way is a shit title, because the Team has always existed, and it was Ted that moved them, that changed them. That's why the series is called Ted Lasso and not AFC Richmond.

It is his story, and like many things season three got wrong, season three forgets about that.

Where were the coaching moments? Where was the inspiration, the kindness, the believe?

A private investigator? Really? Ted Lasso would never? And I still love him, and he had his moments, but there were just overall too little.

The big farewell was too little, too late. Ted Lasso deserved the world, he deserves personal, meaningful goodbye with each of the characters, even with the unimportant side characters, because to Ted, there are no unimportant people. I should have wept, I should be devastated, because yes, of course he has to leave, this is about his son, the most important thing in the world, but the team loves Ted too much for one goodbye dance. We, the audience, love Ted Lasso too much to get this bleak ending.

I loved Ted Lasso. Season one and two changed me as a person, they rewired my brain and I swear, I breathed and bled its essence. Until season three. Season three is so horrible, that I lost all love for the series, and I don't think I can revisit it ever, because I know that season three will come, with only three fine episodes.