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anxiousnerdwritings · 4 years

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Lights Out

Prologue

It's a cold and cloudy, wintry Tuesday morning, the type of day you would rather be curled up in your home with something warm, then out in the freezing cold. The streets were calm and quiet than usual, which was odd regarding Gotham City. People were bustling about through the biting chill of the breeze to their destinations, not paying any mind to one another. Among the bustling crowd is a (h/c) girl making her way to the local cafe, where she works as a barista and baker. Briskly walking to get away from the cold, she weaves her way through the crowd with thoughts of warm coffee and fresh baked goods in mind. Walking up to the front doors of the cafe, she unlocks the door letting herself in, heading to the backroom. She opens her locker and puts her stuff inside before heading behind the front counter. Putting her apron on she starts baking the pastries for the day. While preparing the mornings stock of goods, she hears the cafe door chime, she looks up seeing her coworker walk in. "Hey Y/n. Here early as always." she says groggily. "Hey Amelia. Yeah you know I have to be here early to start baking." Y/n laughs. "Right, we'd be out of business without your delicacies. I get that but how can you be up so early?" Amelia yawns, "Well I actually wasn't sleeping. I had a couple of papers due, so I stayed up to finish them," She admitted dusting off the remaining flour on her apron, finishing the pastries. "Alright, alright, but you better go home and get some sleep after your classes," she says with a hand on her hip and the other pointing in a scolding manner. "Yeah, yeah, yeah." 'Ameila, always the mother hen,' Y/n laughs to herself, getting back to work.

After finally opening the cafe for the early morning rush of freezing commuters, Y/n gets to work taking customer's names and orders while Amelia gets the pastries ready. It's not long before the rush comes to slow, a few people sitting around taking in the warmth before beginning their day. It's almost time for Y/n to end her shift after she takes her last order of the day, a tired looking college aged guy walks through the door bundled up in an expensive looking winter jacket with a hoodie underneath and a pair of joggers. "Hey there, Tom. Here for the usual?" the cheery (h/c) girl asks, " Yes but I think I'll try one of your pastries today." He says with a tired smile, " What would you recommend Y/n." "Sure thing Hun. I like most of the stuff here except the lemon tart, but that's mainly because I don't care for the bitterness so early in the morning, add your plain black coffee to the mix and you're in for one hell of an after taste." She laughs and he chuckles before she continues, "But my favorite is the apple and cinnamon muffin, especially for a cold morning like this." "Yeah the lemon and black coffee doesn't sound so good, but the apple cinnamon sounds like what I need. I'll take that," Tom chuckles, paying for his coffee and muffin.

'She seems happy even for this early in the morning,' I think. 'But isn't she always.' Smiling to myself as I walk to my usual table in the back, I sit down and pull out my laptop checking over a paper for my first class before thinking back to the barista. I come here every morning before class for my regular coffee, trying to keep my eyes open. I use to make the long trek a few blocks away from campus before this place opened up right by my apartment. I made the lazy decision to try the place out when I couldn't make myself trudge the extra few blocks. I thank my tired state of mind for that everyday since. My first time here, it was packed, I almost walked right out, but something stopped me. With my feet rooted to their spot in line, I patiently waited my turn. When I got to the counter with my beverage already in mind, a black coffee, can't go wrong with that. I lost my train of thought though once I was greeted by the barista. 'Hello, what can I get you this morning?' Came her sweet resounding voice. I could tell she was trying to hide the tiredness in it and she was doing a good job at it too. If I didn't know any better I'd think she was a natural morning person, but being a detective aided me with miniscule things like that. 'Uh, yeah. Could I get a black coffee?' 'Sure thing! What's the name?' 'Tom,' I reply not thinking clearly, being caught off guard by both her and my tiredness 'Okay, Tom, that'll be out in a few,' she says handing me my change. I walk off to the farthest table in the back and wait for my coffee. "Order for Tom! One black coffee and a cinnamon muffin!" I'm pulled from my musings by a familiar voice calling my "name". I mentally face palm every time I remember the encounter. If Dick, Jason, or even Damian were there, they'd give me so much hell for it. I get up from my spot to get my order. "Here you go. Hope you enjoy the muffin." She smiles as I take my coffee and muffin back to my table. Sitting down again, I can't help but note the same smile she always wears, looks more like an accessory than genuine at this point. But I don't think she's realized that herself yet. 'God, what am I thinking. I don't even know the girl and I'm already trying to wrap myself up in her' I sigh putting my laptop back in my bag and leaving. As I'm walking to campus, drinking my coffee and eating the apple and cinnamon muffin, I can't help but think about how the muffin melts in my mouth. Warm and soothing, with a sweet and crisp taste. It really is good, no wonder it's her favorite. Reminds me of the cute barista,"Y/n," I whisper her name. As much as I try, I can't help but smirk as the name rolls off my tongue.

A few minutes after "Tom" left, Y/n ended her shift, heading to her first class of the day. The only thing on her mind being the new murder mystery book she'd gotten from the bookstore a few days before. She just couldn't wait to continue reading it again. If it wasn't the book on her mind then it was the next episode of her other new obsession; Crime Time Mysteries. A new TV series about old and new cases some solved and some unsolved. Some of the cases even happened in Gotham. Not that that was a surprise. It's the one thing that keeps Y/n in town. As odd as it sounds, crimes have become a big part of her life, in regards to books, movies, and the media. Her father was a crime author. She grew up helping her father with his ideas. So it goes without say why she can't help but be pulled in by the enigma that is Gotham. Even at the cost of her own freedom.

Accused

What's going on?

Where am I?

Why am I covered in blood?

Amelia?

Amelia, where are you?

Sitting up, you looked around trying to gain your bearings. Once your eyes focus on the room room around you, you can tell your on the bathroom floor in Amelia's apartment. 'What the fuck is going on...?' Helping yourself up, you stagger out of the bathroom, you hold yourself up against the hall walls, your legs feeling like their jelly, you have to force yourself to stay leaning on the wall. Staggering to the living room, you drag yourself from the hall to the kitchen counter, using it as leverage to support your body weight. Getting to the entrance of the kitchen leading to the living room, you slip on something, falling on your ass. Laying on the guard, you can feel something sticky all over your arms and legs. Lifting yourself up on your knees, you look at your limbs and around you seeing some sort of dark liquid all over the floor in the dark apartment. Registering the metallic smell of blood, your not fully comprehending what you've walked out on. Your head is pounding and your whole body is numb but hurts all the same. You try to get yourself up again but fall, laying on the ground, you just stay there trying to focus on gaining your senses back.

Your jolted out of nowhere, having blacked out, by the sound of banging on the apartment door and you hear yelling too. Having gained feeling back in your body, you sit up again, looking around and taking in your surroundings. Your completely horrified to find yourself covered in blood. Getting up you try to stand up but you trip over something, looking over your shoulder, your petrified to see Amelia's dull, blank eyes staring at you. Screaming you try to crawl away from your dead friends body. Too caught up in your own horror, you don't notice the apartment door being kicked open. Gotham City's police department is rushing into the apartment and surrounding you. Your so confused and frightened, you're being yelled at, accused of murder. You don't know what's even going on. You're being pulled up harshly and thrown into a wall, having your Miranda rights shouted to you. You're so out of it, you don't register your body throwing and flailing around trying to get out of the officers hold. You can't even hear your own voice as you scream that you didn't do anything.

Finally being able to weasel yourself away from the police officers, you run to the apartment window, throwing yourself through it. Rushing after you, the officers aren't able to grab you before you've thrown yourself through the window pane, and begin to fall along the side of the apartment complex. Landing in a dumpster, you lie their for the briefest moment, before launching yourself out of the dumpster. Hooked on pure adrenaline, you're barefoot, covered in blood, wearing sleeping shorts and a tank top running down the empty alley trying to look for somewhere to go.

Coming across a hole in the side of a building, while wandering around an alley, you try squeezing yourself through the hole, being able to get yourself through. Pulling yourself into the building, you look around seeing the place is some warehouse that looked abandoned. Sighing to yourself, you walk around, wandering up a staircase leading to an office. You sit yourself under a window, trying to calm down from all the adrenaline, you take the time to really take in your appearance. You're covered in blood and dirt, with bits and pieces of glass in your skin. Your tank top and sleep shorts are ripped and torn, and your bare feet are caked with more dirt, blood. There are even some pieces of rocks, gravel, and glass in the bottom of your feet. Trying to figure out what the hell happened, you try to focus on remembering the last thing you did. But you can't think straight, your head is throbbing. Curling in on yourself from the intense pain, you let yourself fall into a heap on the ground, giving into the overwhelming pain, you let yourself drift off again. But there won't be any peaceful sleep from this day on, only the restless need to run. Run for your freedom, for your life.

A/n: This is a story I’ve been working on my wattpad account. I have a few other WIPs on there too, that I might post later on depending on the feedback I get on this one, This is the story regarding the mystery/thriller obsessed Reader who ends up being accused of her best friends murder. While on the run she meets a local hero who can already tell that Y/n is innocent. They offer to help her prove her innocence. With her knowledge of crime based media, the hero and Y/n compile all the evidence that’ll prove her innocence, once and for all. Along the way they’ll come across heroes and villains alike, who all have their own intentions for being involved.

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det-nicoletterogers · 3 years

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I saw [NICOLETTE ROGERS] at a coffee shop in [BROOKLYN] today. I forgot how much [SHE] looks like [BRIE LARSON]. They are a [TWENTY-NINE] year old [DETECTIVE] who’s been in NYC for [TWO YEARS] now. Every time we run into each other, they are always [LOYAL AND FIESTY] but I’ve heard people say they can also be [IMPLUSIVE AND SNARKY]. [LIPSTICK WONDER WOMAN BY TYLER BRYANT AND THE SHAKEDOWN] reminds me of them every time it comes on the radio.

hi all! i am so so so excited to be here! my name is nika and this is my sweetie pie wrapped in a cactus shell, nic rogers (though if she ever heard me call her a sweetie pie i’d be dead). you can check below for a lot more information about her but i would love any and all plots. she has some listed below as well but we can get creative! feel free to message me or hit me up on discord at ichoosenikachu#4859. see ya soon (or not, its ok either way.....) :)

(tw: death, gun violence, parent leaving/broken home)

B A C K S T O R Y

born & raised in good ol’ chi town–never left, at least not for long. loves it here immensely, couldn’t imagine going anywhere else. mom was a clerk at a local publishing house and dad worked in construction after he finished his tour of duty as an army man. her older brother was a detective in the chicago police department, but more on him later.

mother ran out on the family when nic was eight for her boss, head of the publishing company that she worked for. didn’t even bother to say goodbye–just up and left without a word. her dad was heartbroken and left to support his two kids alone, something he was not prepared for.

see, her dad always wanted sons not daughters, so nic’s surprise arrival was nothing short of a nightmare for him. of course he loved his daughter, but he didn’t have any sisters of his own and had never grown up around women. so he kind of, pushed her into more stereotypical masculine things, as a way for him to not have to worry about raising her any differently. sure there were moments of pure panic for him (hello, time of the month) but he seemed to be pleased with himself.

meanwhile, nic could tell that she was definitely the least favorite child. her brother was always the golden boy and her father spend exponentially more time with him than he ever did with her. however, that didn’t mean that her brother and her didn’t have a good relationship.

nic was often teased growing up because she didn’t have a mom and came from a lower ses part of town. so her brother became her closest friend and she adored him. she looked up to him, tried to be like him. she thought she might get her father to love her if she succeeded.

but the difference was that everyone liked her brother–he was calm, organized and confident. nic, on the other hand, was plucky and sassy and seemed to crave chaos in a way her brother never did. she wouldn’t ever be like him, and it kind of broke her heart to know her father would never be proud of her. so she did her own thing, made a life for herself that wasn’t always emulating her older brother. she was determined to get her life right, the way she was convinced her dad hadn’t.

however, she and her brother were still very close and they’d often have a meal together at least once a week. he’d regale her with stories of his time at the department, and she–working as a beat cop on a completely different schedule–enjoyed giving him a hard time about what he could have or should have done. it was a rather happy time in her life–one she enjoyed for many reasons.

(tw: death, gun violence) but, y’know, life isn’t happy for long. on a cool spring evening, her brother was walking home from weekly dinner with nic. he had taken a longer route than usual because he wanted to enjoy the finally warmer air of the city. as he made his way home, he heard rustling in an alleyway and assumed it as a cat stuck in a cardboard box–turns out it as not, and with a flash of light and a louder bang, her brother was no longer with us.

when nic found out, she was distraught. broken. her whole world felt shattered and the person she needed the most–her husband–had decided to go off and sleep with some other woman, leaving her even more devastated. so nic’s life had kinda crashed and burned in one fell swoop.

the only reasonable thing to do is, of course, honor her brother by becoming a detective in the CPD…except her father is none too pleased with this idea and, in one of their famous fights, tells her that “girls can’t do that job.” turns out, that is not what you say to a stubborn, grieving woman because that just makes her do it more. truly though, her father was just terrified he’d lose her too but once again, he wasn’t good with his emotions and couldn’t express that.

so nic became detective nicolette rogers to honor her brother…and to see if she couldn’t solve the mystery of her brother’s passing, finally avenging him. her new role gave her the separation she needed from the pain of both losing her brother and husband and, perhaps for the first time in her life, finally fit.

H E A D C A N N O N S

important note: nicolette never goes by her full name–it’s nic or anything else, but never, ever nicolette.

she is the biggest fan of chicago sports–catch her cheering for the cubbies all day long. and don’t forget da bears.

her last meal would include: a chicago dog from wrigley field with a baja blast and white cheddar popcorn. and probably a slice of cheesecake for desert.

nic loves helping people–it is why she originally started working in the police force to begin with. even now, as a detective, she goes does the youth education program, going into schools and doing workshops for the students in the local school districts (think detective jj bittenbinder but…significantly less creepy).

her favorite show is–yes, cliche but she’s ok with that–brooklyn 99 and she absolutely adores amy santiago.

she rides a motorbike mostly because she likes the wind waving in her hair.

but don’t get her confused–she’s the biggest dork you’ll ever met, loves people and adores babies, and will help literally anyone who asks. her hearts a little…shredded at the moment but she does her best to be good.

P L O T S

Best/Close Friends

Childhood Friends

Police Force Buds

Police Force…Enemies????

Flings

idk im always down for plots leggo

#[[lipstick wonder woman; bio]]#villageintro #tw gun violence #tw death #tw parent issues

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spencersstrawberryjello · 3 years

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Potential Lead (Chapter Two)

Chapter Two - You Might Be Right

Previous Chapter < - > Next Chapter

Summary: After a four am call with Spencer, Lex rushes into the local police station to help him out with the case.

Warnings: Descriptions of graphic violence!!, swearing, mentions of the Tobias Hankel case (season two), and brief mentions of psychotic breaks and mental instability

Word Count: 3433

A/N: Here’s a link to the crime scene diagram that I drew up! (CW: More descriptions of violence, as well as a visual depiction of a map of a crime scene - no actual blood or gore, just red pen and a house floor-plan). On the side I wrote out some further information on cause of death that wasn’t mentioned in the chapter.

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I planned to call Dr. Spencer Reid in the morning to get an update on the case. He said they were speaking with Brian, and I was far too invested in what that scumbag had to say for himself.

What I hadn’t planned for, though, was to receive a call from the very same Dr. Spencer Reid, around four in the morning.

“Lex? Are you up?”

“What the fuck - Dr. Reid? What time is it?”

“Like four or something, I don’t know; listen, I’m sorry to wake you, but I think you might be right.”

“As much as I love to hear that, I’m gonna need you to be more specific.”

“Right about Brian, about your sister, the murder, all of it. I think you might be right.”

“Well shit.” I was fully awake now, sitting up in my bed as I’m sure he paced in front of a whiteboard somewhere downtown.

“Can you come in? Like, to the police station.”

“Now? Dr. Reid, you are aware that it’s four in the morning?”

“Lex, please just call me Spencer. And I know, I know and I’m sorry, but you’re our best lead on this so far. You saw what your sister’s marriage did to the both of you, and you know what you’re talking about. Like I said, I think you’re right. But we need to prove it.”

“What does the rest of your team think about this?” As much as I was already dying to jump back into this mystery, I really didn’t want the wrath of the FBI on my ass.

“They’re at the hotel right now, I couldn’t sleep - I’ll explain everything to them in the morning, but right now I need your help.”

“Spencer… why is this so urgent? What aren’t you telling me?”

“We had to let Brian go.”

“What? That douchebag killed someone and you let him leave?”

“We didn’t have any cause to keep him in holding! We have to let people go after 24 hours -”

“I know how the criminal justice system works, Spencer. Do you think there’s a chance he’ll kill again?”

“I - there’s a chance. Based on some stuff we found at the crime scene -”

That was all I needed to hear. If there was a chance this asshole could kill someone else, I wasn’t going to go back to sleep. “Fucking hell - I’m on my way.”

As much as my exhausted body protested, I practically jumped out of bed, pulling on a t-shirt and some jean shorts before grabbing a jacket and gym shoes and heading out to my car. It was pitch black outside, the streets of Tallahassee surprisingly quiet for a Saturday night. The hot air hit me the second I left my building, and I internally groaned, speeding up my walk to my car so I could reach the safety of the air conditioning.

I sped out of the parking lot, air conditioning cranked despite the lack of sunlight outside. There was a little voice in the back of my head telling me that I should’ve spent more time on this outfit, or put on a bit of makeup, but I pushed it away, filling my head with thoughts of the case instead. Spencer wouldn’t care if I looked a little bedraggled.

Not that I cared what Spencer thought, of course.

The police station was about twenty minutes from my apartment complex, but I got there in fifteen, swinging into the parking lot and shutting off my car before making my way to the front door. I considered knocking, but I wasn’t sure who else was working this late. So I opted to text Spencer instead.

I still had his number from when he called me earlier, and I shot him a quick text to let him know I was here. No less than a minute later, he was at the front door, opening it up to allow me inside.

“Hey - I’m sorry about this, I really shouldn’t have called you so late. Honestly, if you want to go home, I’d understand; I don’t know what I was thinking, there’s no reason to make you -”

“Spencer. You didn’t ‘make me’ do anything. Trust me, if I didn’t want to help, I would’ve told you as much. I’m not one for secrets.”

He smiled a bit, and I offered him a reassuring one back. “Well, I’m still sorry,” He said, “But the case information is all in here. Follow me.”

He led me back through the main hallway that Penelope Garcia had walked me down yesterday, but instead of turning right at the fork to go to the interrogation rooms, he went left, leading me to a series of empty conference rooms. One of them had multiple large rolling whiteboards up against the farthest wall, most of which were covered in pictures and writing. That was the room that he walked towards, before he turned and blocked me from getting through the doorway.

“Ok. So, I know that you know your sister is dead. And I know you know she was most likely murdered by her husband. But… you haven’t seen the crime scene. You haven’t seen exactly why we were called in. We don’t just get called in for regular homicides. There has to be a specific behavioral element, something that would make the local police believe they’d have more luck solving the case if they had a profile on the killer.”

I knew a bit about criminal justice, and behavioral science, from a couple classes I took my senior year of college. But I didn’t know much about the BAU, and the dead serious look on Spencer’s face was making me uneasy.

“So what you’re saying is… this isn’t gonna be pretty.”

“In layman’s terms, yes, this isn’t gonna be pretty. So I want to make absolutely sure that you want to help, that you’re ok with seeing stuff like that. That you’re ok with seeing your sister like that.”

Yes, I fucking hated my sister. But I was still hesitant to enter that room. Spencer could tell, because he followed up with.

“If you’re not comfortable with that, if you’d rather not have those images in your head, you can go home right now and forget I ever called you in here. We’ll update you on the results of the case, and you don’t have to be involved. It’s up to you.”

I shook my head. As hesitant as I was, there was no way I could leave now. I was far too invested. “No, I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure? 100%?”

“Yes, Spencer. I’ll be ok.”

“Ok.” He nodded, turning around and heading into the room, making a beeline for the boards. I followed him, trying to figure out what could possibly be so bad that he would need to give me that kind of warning.

Now, I consider myself to be a pretty tough person. There wasn’t a lot that could phase me, I generally took a ‘go with the flow,’ nonchalant approach to life. But when I saw the crime scene pictures stuck to that board, I felt my face pale.

“Holy… fuck - you really think Brian is capable of this? I mean, he’s a dick, and I can fully believe he’s capable of murder, but… god -”

The pictures in front of me depicted a brutal scene… honestly, I’d never seen anything like it. They centered around one image: my sister, dead, on the kitchen floor. Her body was slumped up against the island, blood pooling around her. The other pictures also showed most of the blood spattered on the lower cabinets across from her body, but it was still pretty much everywhere around her. She appeared to have been stabbed multiple times, and yet, despite all the blood, there wasn’t a single fingerprint, footprint, hair - nothing that could point to the murderer. Nothing that I could see in the pictures, at least. I felt my heart start to pick up as I studied the scene, and I turned away, steadying my breathing and trying to fight back unexpected tears that pricked the corners of my eyes. When I glanced over at Spencer though, he wasn’t even looking at me. He was reading a file in front of him, responding to my question as he read.

“Well, I know that our prevailing theory is that he killed her in a fit of rage. But based on the overkill at the crime scene, I feel like something inside him might’ve snapped when he committed the murder.”

I regained control of my breathing enough to ask, “Like, a psychotic break?”

“Something like that, yeah. Which is why I’m so concerned. With this level of brutality, there’s a high probability that he’s already mentally devolving, and he could potentially go on to target other women who haven’t been able to follow through with their pregnancies.” He put the file down and finally turned to look at me, noticing my expression as I steadied myself on one of the conference table chairs.

“Lex, are you ok?”

“I’m fine. It’s just more gruesome than I expected it to be. I’ll be ok,” I insisted when his face fell, “It just caught me off guard.”

“I know, that’s why I warned you - are you sure you’re alright? Do you want… a hug? Or water, or something? I don’t know -”

I smiled a bit, my heart warming against my will at his concern. But my mind quickly dipped back into a territory that was a familiar distraction, and I smirked.

“As much as I’d love your hands on my body, I think I’ll have to take you up on that offer another time.”

He blushed, and I laughed, taking in a deep breath before returning my attention to the pictures on the board.

“Ok. So, what all do I need to know? Like, what’s going on here? Because from what I can tell, she was stabbed, and this guy - assuming it’s Brian, of course - fucking knows what he’s doing. No fingerprints, footprints, anything?”

“Nothing. The CSI team searched the entire house. The only noteworthy thing that we found were trace amounts of the victim - Sarah, sorry - her blood in the bathroom sink, in the bathroom across the hall from the kitchen. But there’s nothing at the crime scene that can directly connect the crime to anyone specific.”

“So how the hell are we going to prove it’s him?”

“Well, we always try to come into every case with no suspects in mind, so that it doesn’t impact our profile at all. Brian was the police’s prime suspect, he has been since the beginning - the husband almost always is, in these scenarios, unless they have a really good alibi - and I think he looks good for it now, but we didn’t know that when writing this.”

He handed me the file he’d been reading, open to a page that was a written account of their original profile.

“This is where I feel like you can help us most; I mean, you met Brian, didn’t you? Like, you attended their wedding, at the very least?”

“I met him a grand total of one time, at the wedding. I wasn’t in the wedding party, but I met him when I was talking to Sarah. He pretty much avoided me the whole time, which in retrospect, should’ve been a red flag, but I guess I didn’t really notice. When I did talk to him though, he was really rude. Like, he’d give me curt, one word answers, and then directly after disengaging from conversation with me, he’d turn around and start whispering to some of his buddies that were in the wedding party - the best man and all that shit - and gestured towards me. I still have no idea what he was saying, honestly.”

“Perfect - I mean, not perfect that he treated you like that, of course, that’s awful, and I’m sorry; I said ‘perfect’ because it means you can confirm that he matches up with the profile behaviorally. My mind kind of jumped ahead -”

“Spence, calm down. I understood what you meant.”

I felt a blush creep up the back of my neck at the accidental nickname, and I saw the same thing happen to him as we both came to an unspoken agreement to ignore it.

“Right. Ok. Um, anyway, would you mind reading over the profile and seeing if you think it sounds like a good description of him? Since you have the most experience with him outside of an interrogation room.”

I agreed, turning my direction to the profile I had in my hands.

The unsub is most likely male, and based on the overkill at the crime scene, most likely someone with a personal connection to the victim. Based on the disorganized nature of the kill, he is probably younger - late teens to early twenties - and has probably never killed before. However, there is a high probability that he is someone with deep rooted anger issues, and that may have caused him some problems in his life before this. He may have a history of issues at work or school from lashing out over small frustrations, and it’s most likely gotten him in trouble throughout his lifetime. Sarah was small, so it wouldn’t be hard to overpower her, but based on the blood spatter patterns, we do know that the unsub is right-handed, and slightly taller than the victim.

I skimmed the rest of the paper - which just contained concluding notes and instructions for local police - before looking back up at Spencer, who was staring at me as I read.

“It definitely sounds like him. I mean, based on what I know about him at least. Like I said, he generally avoided me - though there was this one time when they first started dating, before Sarah cut me off entirely,” The memory came rushing back to me, and I was shocked I hadn’t thought of it sooner, “I had already gone to my room for the night when I heard her return from a date with him. She was crying. I was going to go ask her what was wrong, but my mom beat me to it, seeing as both of my parents were in the living room watching TV when she got back. I heard her telling them that her and Brian had gotten into an argument. I can’t remember what they were arguing about, but the gist of it was that it was something completely ridiculous. And yet, she was crying like he had really hurt her. My parents were consoling her, so I just went back to bed, but honestly it sounds like he could’ve been aggressive, and that’s why she was so upset - I don’t know anything for sure, I only know what I overheard. But it would make sense.”

“But you’re immediately making assumptions to make him fit the profile; that’s exactly why we don’t go into cases with any suspects in mind. It’s an interesting conversation, and I’m happy you remembered it, but we can’t assume he was being aggressive just because your sister was upset.”

“That’s true… so where does that leave us?” I plopped down in one of the chairs, throwing my feet up on the table and laughing when Spencer gave my action the same look of disgust that he did when I put my feet up in the interrogation room.

“Do you think that he fits the profile?” He asked. I nodded.

“The age is a bit off - he’s 27, so it’s more late than early twenties - but everything else fits what I know about him perfectly.”

“Age is the hardest thing to profile, so it would make sense if that’s a little bit off.”

“So you really think he killed Sarah?”

“I mean, all signs point to him - I feel like we at least need to find a way to keep tabs on him. If he is the killer, then he’s devolving. Despite the lack of evidence at the crime scene, the crime itself would still be classified as disorganized, and disorganized crime scenes usually point to the unsub being more unpredictable, unstable. Like I said, I think he might’ve snapped when he killed your sister. Which means that other people could be in danger.”

“Well if people are in danger, then why don’t you tell the police chief or something? We need to get Brian back in here, or at the very least we need to get someone to stay up to date on his location. I don’t know what you guys have jurisdiction to do.”

“I’m not sure we’re going to be able to get him back in here without any actual forensic evidence… I’m calling Hotch right now. Give me a second - hey Hotch,” He had his phone up to his ear, and he filled Hotch in on his thoughts about the case. He paused his profiling for a minute to defend why he was still awake and working, but after about five minutes he hung up the call, turning back to me.

“The team’s on their way.”

“And they know I’m here?” I had heard him tell Hotch that I was, but I wasn’t sure if he was going to tell everyone else.

“Yes; I’m assuming Hotch will fill them in, at least. Your confirmation of the profile is what made him agree to come in - having Brian as a confirmed prime suspect gives us grounds to move forward.”

I nodded my understanding before asking, “When do you think they’ll be here?”

“The hotel they’re staying at is only about five minutes away - we always try to stay in hotels near the police stations in the cities that we’re staying in, that way we’re able to move quickly if we need to. I mean, there was one time where the team stayed directly at the unsub’s house, but that was an… exception.” His face slowly fell as he finished the sentence, almost as if he regretted saying it, but I was too intrigued to wonder why.

“Directly at the unsub’s house? Holy shit - what happened on that case?”

“Well, uh, I actually got kidnapped?” He phrased it like a statement, but the way he said it sounded more like a question. Probably questioning whether or not he should even be telling me this.

“Oh my god, Spencer, I am so sorry.”

“No no it’s fine, it was about two years ago at this point,” He was trying to shut down the conversation, but I’d be lying if I said that finding out that the man in front of me had been kidnapped wasn’t concerning information.

“Two years is not that long… are you ok?”

“I’m fine. I mean, I’ve gotten counseling… there are still days where I - you know what? My traumatic past isn’t important right now. You - you don’t need to be worrying about me; I’m sorry that I brought it up, I was just talking and not processing what I was saying and -”

“Spence.” He was rambling now, his hands moving quickly as he spoke, anxiety clearly clouding his mind. I grabbed his hands to still them, stopping him from speaking. “It’s ok. I asked what happened, you don’t need to worry about me worrying about you. Honestly, I just wanted to make sure that you were alright, that sounds fucking awful.”

“It was.” He looked like he was going to say something else, but he glanced down at my hands holding his, and cleared his throat, a blush coloring his features as he pulled his hands from mine. “It was. But I really am ok now. Trust me.”

“Ok,” I nodded, trying to ignore the way that my heart stung when he practically ripped his hands from mine, “I’m glad.”

He gave me an awkward tight-lipped smile, something I’d noticed him do a lot, and I was about to start another conversation when I heard the conference room door open. Both of our heads snapped in the direction of the sound, and we turned to see the team pouring in through the door.

“Lex Raymond, I assume?” Hotch asked. I rose from my seat, nodding and accepting the handshake he offered me. The rest of the team took seats around the table, and I noticed multiple of them desperately chugging coffee out of disposable paper cups. Someone passed one up to Spencer, who was standing in front of the board still. I took my seat again, and a man sitting near the back of his table leaned back a bit in his chair before addressing Spencer.

“Alright pretty boy, tell us what you got.”

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nerdpiggy · 4 years

Note

Tell us about your ocs!! I'm genuinely curios bc of the tags

[ID: Meme of Hatsune Miku smiling. Top text reads "Thanks for sending me a message". Bottom text reads "You're very cute and I will be replying to you".]

Robin "Robbie" Fuller: The character i play in a DND campaign.

they/them pronouns. they're nonbinary and asexual and don't care to label their romantic attraction.

They're 22 years old and 5'9" (175cm)

Their birthday is November 12th. they're a scorpio

They started off as a Mundane MOTW character and they're now a level 7 warlock in DND. They're a human

They live in a small coastal town in massachusetts called Holyoak and they go to the local college to learn culinary. They live in a single dorm and they have a cute widdle black cat named Chickadee

One day (for various reasons) their life was flip-turned upside down with discovering the existence of monsters, portals, different dimensions, and rifts in spacetime

One of the reasons for them discovering all of this was them meeting a man named Thomas who's a human from a different dimension called the Palisades. He's a well-known Judge over there. (Thomas is @bevtastic 's character)

Robbie gets an offer to join the Interdimensional Defence Agency (IDA), says fuck it and accepts, and Robbie and Thomas stay friends by virtue of their similar jobs.

Robbie is tasked to go to a different dimension (A half-medieval half-wild west desert town called Argyle) to stop a threat that was growing there. Threat turned out to be a massive mind-controlling dragon who wanted revenge for the rest of her dragon species that were killed off by medieval "heroes". Robbie was not cut out for this as their first job. They (with help) subdue the dragon eventually but not before she burned down multiple towns including Argyle to a crisp. Robbie feels very bad about this.

Robbie, Thomas, and the rest of the party receive a mysterious letter leading them to an old abandoned mansion in Holyoak and get roped into a rescue mission to save Thomas's old friend Percy who has apparently been bodysnatched by a bad guy and trapped somewhere for what felt like thousands of years. This is the arc where we switched from Monster of the Week to DND, and Robbie gets connected to a nature deity Adelaide through a purple necklace. They also get a familiar, who is an owl with pitch-black feathers and glowing yellow pupilless eyes that Robbie named Mr. Muffins.

Robbie and Thomas become very good friends :)

Thomas dies.

Robbie goes to the Palisades to find out what happened to him. Turns out he wanted to reveal the secret of interdimensional travel to the public and work to make it open, free, and safe. The people in charge did not allow him to do this by legal means so he aimed to do it illegally, which was when he was murdered by a group of bandits.

On top of that, one of the main reasons why he wanted to reveal the different dimensions is because there is a HUGE interdimensional threat coming our way, and we need to act on it if we want to live.

Percy finds Robbie and asks them to help with this threat, who apparently is a singular person named Siris that has been locked in a prison for thousands of years and somehow got out. Robbie doesn't have much of a choice and accepts.

In the Palisades, there are monsters called Behemoths. they emerge from people who get bitten by a behemoth or who touch the black tar-like substance that runs like rivers in certain areas of the Palisades. During a battle, Robbie gets bitten by a Behemoth, and now they're a candidate for Behemism (aka turning into big giant monster syndrome).

Because Robbie has Behemism and Siris is part of the reason for Behemism existing, they're mind roommates now. Robbie and Siris do not get along very well.

There's more to Robbie but this is their main backstory!!!

[ID: a drawing of Robbie holding a chrysanthemum. They have short pink curly hair, and they're wearing a yellow floral button-up and a purple necklace. They have bandages on their freckled face and they're looking down at the chrysanthemum with a neutral expression.]

Emile Azarel: A character i play in a different campaign that does MOTW.

He/him pronouns, he's trans, demisexual, and demiromantic.

He's 19 and he's 5'3

He doesn't know his actual birthday but the day he celebrates is January 23rd

His MOTW class is The Expert. He's a fire genasi

He was born in central Russia but he doesn't know his parents well because when he was ~8 months old there was a big monster attack that unfortunately killed his parents. A monster hunter named Avery Azarel found Emile, took him in and raised him.

Emile learned to hunt monsters with Avery and the two traveled around together as monster hunters.

Eventually Emile wished to have a solid place to live rather than constantly traveling, because he wanted friends. He found a town in the pacific northwest called Salmon Peak that had everything he wanted: Russian culture, a fairly small easy-to-get-around layout, and some very weird mysteries going on. (Just because Emile wanted to settle didnt mean he wanted to stop monster hunting!)

He moved to Salmon Peak and has met a bunch of new friends! He's also learning more and more about the town, which is turning out to be somehow even weirder than he expected.

Emile is a very sweet, polite boy, but considering the fact that he's only ever been around one person mainly for his entire life, he has a bit of a ways to go when it comes to interacting with people. The monster hunting life means that when there's a monster, you kill it and that usually solves all your problems. Emile has transferred this logic to people as well (if they're a monster, kill em!) and he's learning through friend influence that maybe human lives are a bit more sacred than that.

His favorite color is blue because he loves the sky!

A lot of people underestimate his skills because he's little and looks very young, but he is a very good monster hunter. Because of Avery (the best monster hunter in the biz), his last name has a bit of a reputation.

Emile is blind, autistic, and has vitiligo!

I have much more planned for Emile but I can't say it here because it is MAJOR spoilers!

[ID: a drawing of Emile walking forward. He is wearing a blue shirt with stars on it, blue jeans, a fluffy white jacket, a belt with a star on it, star earrings, a moon necklace, and black shoes. His blue hair is swaying behind him and he's holding a white cane with a red tip. He's smiling slightly.]

Avery Azarel: Emile's parent! I've not played them as a character yet but I've made a character sheet for them.

they/them pronouns. They're agender, aromantic, and pansexual

their age is (???) and their height is 5'7

they have a birthday but nobody knows when it is

Their MOTW class is The Chosen. they appear human

They're widely considered the best monster hunter in the biz. Their name is well-known and they're requested for help all around the world

Because of this, they're constantly traveling and having a house would not make sense. They just pack their things, stay at motels/hotels/etc., camp in the woods and move around to wherever people need them.

Since they've been pretty much everywhere, they always seem to know at least one person from each town. They never seem to get too close to anyone, though

They are fluent in many different languages!

In the past they were paired up with another monster hunter and they made a great duo. That was a couple decades ago; they go solo now.

Years ago, an unexpected and incredibly destructive monster rampaged a small town in Central Russia. Avery came as fast as they could (they were nearby in the area) but they still couldn't finish off the beast before it tore the whole town to shreds. Dozens of homes were crushed, but surprisingly most people survived, with the exception of a couple of people who died under the rubble. Avery felt awful (this was their biggest failure in a while), and as they were searching through the rubble for any more casualties they found little baby Emile, miraculously unscathed. They took him in and raised him from then on.

Nobody, not even Emile, knows very many details about Avery's childhood, their family, their age, or really any information about them. (Emile has been trying to figure out Avery's birthday for AGES so they can celebrate, but Avery has refused to budge)

Their main weapon is 2 pairs of bolas! those are those chains with 2 balls on either end, usually made to be thrown at people's legs to restrain and trip them. they use the bolas both as restraining tools and as their main weapon, because i think weapons where you spin them really fast in front of you are cool

There's a scar over their left eye; whenever someone asks how they got it they always spin a different elaborate tale of an epic monster battle. Nobody knows which (if any) is the true story

there is a WHOLE LOT that I am leaving out if you couldn't tell. There's a huge chunk of their past that I'm leaving out because it's all a big bundle of spoilers. Someday I will be able to elaborate more on Avery!

[ID: a picrew made by djarn of Avery. They're smiling, their head is tilted slightly, and there's a scar over their left eye. Their hair is tied half-up half-down. They're wearing a black shirt with "òwó" on it and a blue jacket with an aromantic flag pin and a pansexual flag pin. the background is an agender flag.]

These are my main OC's! I have more (Orion, Nottwyrm, "Noodlearms", etc.) but these 3 are the main ones that I post about. :3 thank u for asking!!!

If you have any questions about any of my characters I always welcome asks!!! 💖

#oc robbie fuller #oc emile azarel #oc avery azarel #pinned post #i have never used a read more before and idk if i did it right #GOD i hope it works #if it doesn't im so sorry #thank u so much for asking !!!

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thejakeformerlyknownasprince · 5 years

Text

Disability and Loren

@zarohk asked for my thoughts on a Disability Studies/Media Studies perspective on the disability depictions in Animorphs. Which was foolish, because I’m teaching an entire dang class on the subject of superheroes and mental health, so I have Many Thoughts. [PLEASE NOTE: I am nondisabled, so if I err, please tell me so.]

Loren’s role in #49: The Diversion does a lot of things right, and a lot of things wrong. She incurs a traumatic brain injury that results in memory loss and blindness a couple of years after Tobias is born, and lives with said injury for about ten years before Tobias finds her and gives her the ability to morph, which restores her sight but not her memory.

A few places where I commend the depiction of Loren:

It gets into the massive underemployment of disabled Americans. Loren is smart, canny, athletic, compassionate... and working a call center job in exchange for state benefits. Said state benefits do not afford her a decent standard of living; Tobias notes that she has few possessions and almost no time for leisure activities. Americans with disabilities are twice as likely to be unemployed as those without, and those who do have jobs are ten times more likely to be paid less than minimum wage, e.g. in sheltered workshops.

It shows how inaccessible a lot of systems are in the U.S. Tobias notes that Loren accidentally grabs an expired quart of milk — because nothing on the label is printed in Braille. Putting raised text and/or Braille on food packaging is a health and safety issue, one that the U.S. ignores even though it violates its own laws (e.g. the ADA) because companies tend to do what they want and “what they want” is usually not to spend more money on packaging. The call center and bus system are both marginally more accessible, especially when Loren has Champ to help, but they’re still clearly spaces set up for sighted people that don’t take blind users into account very well.

It shows some of the workarounds that help deal with accessibility problems. Loren’s house is set up so that there are clear paths to and from all of the relevant spaces. She’s doing that to allow herself to move around comfortably in that space, because she’s made it accessible for herself. She memorizes the layout of the local store, and uses that to get around as well. All of those details help show that she’s adjusted, and actively interacting with her own circumstances.

It drives home the difference between service dogs and pets. This distinction is extremely important, and it gets ignored all the time by entitled ableists who want to bring their pets into stores. Tobias and Marco both assume from the outside that it can’t be that hard to become a service animal — just do what Loren says to do, right? — but it takes Tobias 0.02 seconds to realize that it’s not that simple and that he cannot imitate Champ’s lifetime of training on the fly. He says that he manages to get his mom home in one piece, and that that’s about all that can be said for his sad performance as a guide. Champ has skills like ignoring interesting smells and applying exactly the right amount of pressure to the harness that most pets don’t have and also most pets can’t learn. Champ is not a pet, at least not while he’s in that harness; he’s a gainfully employed expert assistant.

It rounds Loren out as a character, and definitely does not just make her into a lesson or problem for Tobias. Loren is gently humorous, tolerating her coworkers’ teasing and Ax’s attempted juvenile delinquency with an eye-roll. She’s compassionate, listening to other people’s problems on the phone with genuine concern and not swatting flies if she doesn’t have to. She’s tough-minded and stupidly brave, chucking rocks at Visser Three’s head and flying at attack helicopters as a three-pound bird. She’s fallible, unable to support Tobias emotionally even when he asks her to do so and unwilling to check in on him after leaving him with her sister. She’s a fully rounded person, one whose personality is informed but not defined by her disability.

It talks about some of the unromatic aspects of a Traumatic Brain Injury. Too often in other works of fiction, we see a person get bonked over the head and wake up with no episodic memory but all other brain functions intact (*cough* Rachel in MM1 *cough*). Loren actually gets into the fact that she forgot huge chunks of language, forgot how to brush her teeth, forgot how to walk across a room. She obviously lost her sight as well, and she mentions lifelong balance and coordination problems. Even her amnesia isn’t absolute — she has some traces of recall, but can’t make anything coherent of her impressions. Her injury isn’t 100% realistic, but it’s more so than many TBIs we see in fiction.

It focuses on the intersection of disability and social class. Tobias notes that Loren is under a compounded threat because of her inability to move to a more secure neighborhood and her obvious vulnerability. He feels a lot of disgust with himself when he and Marco and Ax are harassing Loren, because it’s so clear that this isn’t the first time she’s been harassed. Tobias understands that his experience with poverty as a nondisabled male minor is different from Loren’s for those reasons.

A few places where Loren falls into the common traps of implied ableism creeping into fiction, as written about in Narrative Prosthesis:

She gets “cured.” Loren falls into the “kill or cure” dichotomy, like most of the other disabled characters in Animorphs. In her case, it’s that she gains the power to morph and in the process regains the ability to see. It isn’t a complete cure, true — she still has no memory — but it means that she’s no longer blind for the rest of the series. Having the occasional character no longer be disabled sometimes isn’t automatically problematic; having every disabled character get either “fixed” or killed off inherently treats the disabled body as a problem that needs to be solved, through sci fi nonsense if no other way is available.

She implies that she’d rather die than continue to be disabled. When injured by dracon burns, Loren initially refuses to morph out even though Tobias tells her she’ll die if she remains a bird, because (they both assume) to morph out is to return to her blind human body. This moment buys into the stereotype that it’s better to be dead than disabled, again inherently devaluing the lives of actual blind individuals.

There’s a certain amount of mystery around how she became disabled. It’s interesting that we never actually get a definitive answer on that one — Loren says she was told it was a car crash, but there’s also an implication that she was attacked by controllers, and we don’t know for sure. However, the fact of her disability is treated as an aberrant state that needs to be explained, the book inherently asking “why are you like this?” By contrast (for instance) she doesn’t ask Tobias “why are you in the body of a hawk?”

She views herself as a burden, and the narration doesn’t do enough to contradict her. Loren says that she couldn’t possibly be expected to raise a child while also blind and coping with a TBI. Real blind people raise kids all the time, however, including blind single parents, and it’d be nice to see some evidence in the story that Loren’s assumption is wrong. Loren also apparently assumes that she can’t begin to play a role in Tobias’s life even now that Tobias is more self-sufficient, again because she views herself as relatively helpless and non-contributing due to her disability. There are some hints that she’s wrong, but we don’t really see her either begin to contribute to the resistance or build a relationship with Tobias until after she’s become un-blind.

Tobias’s view of Loren is often pitying. As much as Loren doesn’t initially view herself as a potential maternal figure to Tobias, he doesn’t view her as a potential mentor either. He repeatedly expresses horror or sadness at her life circumstances, and assumes that her life must be barren due to the spartan nature of her home. (Of course, that begs the question of why the hell a blind woman living alone would ever bother hanging pictures on her walls or putting doilies on her coffee tables, but Tobias doesn’t consider that angle.) Again, Tobias is allowed to assume that her life must be meaningless if she’s disabled, but it’d be nice to see some contradictory evidence in the form of her having close friends or inane hobbies or some other proof that to lead a disabled life is not to automatically lead a lonely one.

Loren expresses bitterness and desperate desire to be nondisabled. Again, it’s fine for any character to say “I wish my life was different,” and it’s a common consensus among blind writers/bloggers that being blind is often a pain in the butt. However, views as extreme as “you need vision to have a fulfilling existence” or “vision is part of what makes us human” are ableist crocks of shit. Loren doesn’t go so far as to espouse those extreme views, but she also doesn’t seem to view herself as having a well-rounded life in spite of her disability. It’d be nice to see Loren talking about sight as handy or enjoyable or a thing that the designers of 99% U.S. environments assume everyone must have, rather than a necessary precondition for a minimum standard of life.

Loren’s disability is somewhat medicalized. Same caveat as above: disabilities are by definition medical things that some bodies do or have that other bodies do not. However, discussing disability primarily through “this is how your body is different from Implied Normal of Nondisabled Body” and focusing on doctor’s notes, diagnoses, physical differences, etc. can serve to disconnect the lived experience of the individual from their body. It also tends to focus on the ways that the body is “the problem” rather than focusing on the ways that environments and attitudes are problematic, which then prevents anyone from asking hard questions about the environments and attitudes. Loren’s doctor’s note, discussion of scarring and loss, and repeated physical descriptions are somewhat more medical than social. It’d be nice to see a little more emphasis on the social factors that make blindness a disability (e.g. improperly labeled milk), and less on “your eyes are different from those of Implied Normal Nondisabled Person.”

#animorphs #animorphs meta #long post #loren fangor #ableism #disability studies #disability representation #accessibility #social model of disability #animorphs criticism #blindness representation #49 #the diversion

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pajama-nerd · 4 years

Text

Reading my way through Fazbears Frights, thinking about how none of these protagonists have ever interacted with any kind of horror media.

Reader Beware: Spoilers Ahead

Into the Pit didn’t read like time travel to me. It read more like a particular kind of haunting where the negative energy of all of the bad shit that happened at that location was locked into the one remaining 'feature' of the location: the ball pit. And Pit-Bonnie isn't the ghost of Afton, but rather the entity that was created from the memories of all that bad energy.

And the interesting thing to me about Pit-Bonnie is that - aside from the inherent creepiness of the situation and the fact that he had literally one facial expression (he can’t even blink for cryin’ out loud) - he didn't attempt to harm Oswald until Oswald went back to rescue his dad. Once Pit-Bonnie was away from the negative energy that had spawned him, he did Dad Things™. He did them in the creepiest way possible, granted, but we don't actually know how he feels because of his inability to express.

Maybe he wanted to stay. Maybe he just wanted a break from that place. Maybe that place has a hold on him, and being away from it allowed him a measure of free will.

And the fandom that I’ve seen about the Dashboard has locked onto Pit-Dad-Bonnie because the general attitude of the fandom - as far as I've witnessed - has been 'Oh. A scary thing! Well, now it's friend-shaped.' (or, in this case, Dad shaped) so of course my immediate question is, 'how would the story have changed if Oswald had made a more serious attempt to communicate with Pit-Bonnie?'

The immediate, cynical response is 'well it would have slaughtered him' but that's infinitely less interesting than the possible alternatives.

Perhaps he takes in the fact that Pit-Bonnie can't talk, and proposes an alternate method of communication. I'm talkin construction paper and crayons. And he gets Pit-Bonnie to tell his story a la Nephrite from Steven Universe. About how one day he just was. And how sometime after that, that version of Fazbear's formed around him. And how there were happy, smiling kids laughing in the pizzeria and he was happy, but how every time he tried to be friends with the kids something would happen.

The world would flicker and they would just be in that back room, like that. How he was desperate for some kind of a connection and could never have one because those kids – those memories – were doomed to die by the memory of his hands. How he noticed Oswald because Oswald didn’t fit – he was real – and how he’d wanted Oswald to help him figure out how to change what had happened (or to make it stop), but Oswald had run away. About how he’d tried to fish Oswald out of the ballpit and gotten his dad instead. About deciding to take his dad’s place so that he could get away from that place and how being here with Oswald was nice. Driving him to school was nice. Making him dinner was nice. Cleaning the house with him was nice.

(Imagine Oswald getting less and less afraid as he interprets the story, checking in with PB occasionally to make sure he's getting it right. Getting slightly annoyed tho, because he's not getting rid of this rabbit, is he? But he still needs to rescue his dad, so now what?)

Oswald eventually tells PB that he can stay, which surprises but elates the rabbit. Then Oswald tells him they have to get his dad back.

There's a negotiation. Obviously, they have to get his dad back. Has Pit-Bonnie been going to his dad's job? What about taxes? Things his dad knows how to do? What about Oswald's mom? Is Pit-Bonnie just going to pretend to be his dad around her forever? What if she wants to do...like...parent stuff? With her husband? If you catch my drift (PB does not, in fact).

Eventually PB agrees, and even drives Oswald back to the same block as the pizza place. He doesn't get close to it - definitely doesn't park in the lot - but Oswald just tells him to wait in the car and goes and wakes his dad up from the ball pit. His dad is confused. Disoriented. Way out of it. Let's Oswald lead him back to the car and sits in the back, too out of it to comment on the yellow bunny mascot in the front seat. They return to the house without incident, and his dad passes out on the couch.

Oswald eventually figures out that PB is the one making his dad so loopy - that the connection PB formed so that he could know how to drive the car, how to work the vacuum cleaner, how to make Oswald's meals, is also keeping Oswald's dad borderline comatose. It takes some convincing to get PB to give that up. PB is afraid to give that up - afraid that if he doesn't have an anchor, he'll go back to being an aimless product of rage and murder.

Oswald's solution is to spread the bond out. He'll take part of it. If PB splits his focus, it'll be less of a strain on his dad, and PB will have more than one anchor. This has the added property of giving his dad the ability to see the seven-foot-tall grinning plush rabbit (he doesn't react well. Neither does mom. Oswald has never had to talk so much in his life)

So now Pit-Bonnie is a part of Oswald’s life, and it’s hella weird at first, but everyone gets over it, because eventually you just get numb to weirdness. Except Oswald becomes obsessed with Freddy Fazbears, in an Unsolved Mysteries kind of way. Starts researching the place wherever and however he can.

Pit-Bonnie helps, in his way, after they figure out a way to communicate efficiently (modified Sign Language, because being bonded to Oswald means that Pit-Bonnie knows how to do all the things that Oswald knows how to do. So Oswald learns sign language. Which means that Pit-Bonnie knows how to sign now. He still only has the one facial expression, which makes asking questions a little complicated, but they work it out).

I imagine that Pit-Bonnie is very tuned in to the weirdness/darkness vibe that Freddy’s and its remnants (ha) give off. He starts reading local and then state, and then national newspapers, and whenever he gets the Fazbear vibe, he sets the article aside for Oswald to look at. Also he doesn’t sleep, so in the first week of Oswald’s obsession, he generates a lot of leads for Oswald by going through back issues of...everything.

This is a rambly thing, but my point is that most horror has a solution and most of the time this solution is subverted by having it happen to people who have no experience with horror movies, books, comics, or other mediums, which is…I dunno. Kinda cheap.

‘What if they ever saw Frankenstein and sympathized with the monster enough to have empathy for this thing?’

‘They’re not horror fans. And the ones that are have never seen or read the stories where empathy solves the problem.’

To Be Beautiful (a terrible, one dimensional story with a terrible message about self-image told the way that high school stories in the 80's-90's were told, which wasn't even accurate to how highs schools were in the 80's-90's) could have been solved by literally anyone being more than passively curious about the drastic changes that Sarah was undergoing. (Puberty doesn't work that fast. Her whole freaking face changed). Or by her mom going into her room at some point and asking about the 5 foot robot doll.

Count the Ways has many solutions, although, really? She shoulda chosen starvation. More time to escape or be rescued is always, always, always going to be better than a 'maybe I won't be bifurcated’ any way you slice it (I’m not sorry), but I'm fond of the idea of Oswald coming across an article about ‘theft of proprietary animatronics from a Fazbear Entertainment property’ and it leading him to Milly’s grandfather’s house in time to save her. Along with his seven-foot-tall grinning plush friend who can alter people's perception.

Fetch could have been solved by treating Fetch like a dog. Seriously. He is dog shaped. He is therefore a dog, first and foremost. Dog first, killer animatronic second. Which Greg didn't fundamentally understand (he strikes me as a cat person anyway). But Fetch spent that entire story trying to do what he thought his master wanted, and never got so much as a 'good boy' out of it. He didn't even try to defend himself when Greg went to town on him with a baseball bat because he just wanted to be a good dog for his boy. And even after that, when Greg expressed a desire to see Kimberly, Fetch still wanted to do something to get his master to call him a good boy. Honestly, if - after being warned about Fetch - Kimberly had planted her feet and said 'Sit!' I would bet actual Faz-dollars that Fetch's haunches would have dropped to the pavement out of surprise alone, because it would have been the first time in the story someone treated him like a dog.

Alec was doomed to be a teddy-bear from the moment his parents picked up a ‘how to raise my kids’ book, but he’s still alive. There’s no reason he couldn’t be rescued (by Oswald, who’s on the trail of all the weirdness related to Freddy Fazbear. I’d read that story. I’d write that story. I will probably write that story)

The Plushtrap story...had no flaws. That was the only solution, and good on those boys for making all the right choices except for the initial choices that put them in that situation to begin with. A+. Those teeth, Jesus.

1:35 am could have been solved with an apology. Come on. For a character that was supposedly in the Foster Care system being bounced from home to home, you’d think she could empathize with an entity that didn’t appreciate being thrown away. A sincere apology, a promise to never do it again, and Ella would probably have forgiven her.

I don’t remember where I was going with this. I started writing it before I clocked on for work, but that was eleven hours ago. Who can remember where a train of thought that far back?

#fnaf #fazbear frights #ramble #headcanons #how to change the outcome of a horror story

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nicoletterogers · 4 years

Text

— && guests may mistake me as ( brie larson ), but really i am ( nicolette "nic" rogers + cisfemale + she/her/hers ) and my DOB is ( 04/17/1989 ). i am a ( detective with the chiacgo police department ) and would like to stay in suite ( 302 ). i won’t be much of a bother because i am ( + loyal & plucky ), but i can also be ( - single minded & impulsive ) at times. personally, i like to ( archery, rock climbing, playing the guitar ) when i have the time to relax, and my favorite snack is ( white cheddar popcorn ) to have in my suite. thank you for checking in!

hello my loves--its me, nika, here with another muse to shower you all with. check below to get to know detective nicolette rogers and her spunky little self. as always, let a girl know if you wanna plot--feel free to send a message to my inbox, hit me up on discord, like this post or send a carrier pigeon, i don’t discriminate between contact options. (tw: death, gun violence, parent leaving/broken home)

B A C K S T O R Y

born & raised in good ol’ chi town--never left, at least not for long. loves it here immensely, couldn’t imagine going anywhere else. mom was a clerk at a local publishing house and dad worked in construction after he finished his tour of duty as an army man. her older brother was a detective in the chicago police department, but more on him later.

mother ran out on the family when nic was eight for her boss, head of the publishing company that she worked for. didn’t even bother to say goodbye--just up and left without a word. her dad was heartbroken and left to support his two kids alone, something he was not prepared for.

but the difference was that everyone liked her brother--he was calm, organized and confident. nic, on the other hand, was plucky and sassy and seemed to crave chaos in a way her brother never did. she wouldn’t ever be like him, and it kind of broke her heart to know her father would never be proud of her. so she did her own thing, made a life for herself that wasn’t always emulating her older brother. she was determined to get her life right, the way she was convinced her dad hadn’t.

however, she and her brother were still very close and they’d often have a meal together at least once a week. he’d regale her with stories of his time at the department, and she--working as a beat cop on a completely different schedule--enjoyed giving him a hard time about what he could have or should have done. it was a rather happy time in her life--one she enjoyed for many reasons.

(tw: death, gun violence) but, y’know, life isn’t happy for long. on a cool spring evening, her brother was walking home from weekly dinner with nic. he had taken a longer route than usual because he wanted to enjoy the finally warmer air of the city. as he made his way home, he heard rustling in an alleyway and assumed it as a cat stuck in a cardboard box--turns out it as not, and with a flash of light and a louder bang, her brother was no longer with us. when nic found out, she was distraught. broken.

the only reasonable thing to do is, of course, honor her brother by becoming a detective in the CPD...except her father is none too pleased with this idea and, in one of their famous fights, tells her that “girls can’t do that job.” turns out, that is not what you say to a stubborn, grieving woman because that just makes her do it more. truly though, her father was just terrified he’d lose her too but once again, he wasn’t good with his emotions and couldn’t express that.

so nic became detective nicolette rogers to honor her brother...and to see if she couldn’t solve the mystery of her brother’s passing, finally avenging him. her new role gave her the seperation she needed from the pain of both losing her father and husband and, perhaps for the first time in her life, finally flt.

H E A D C A N N O N S

important note: nicolette never goes by her full name--it’s nic or anything else, but never, ever nicolette.

she is the biggest fan of chicago sports--catch her cheering for the cubbies all day long. and don’t forget da bears.

her last meal would include: a chicago dog from wrigley field with a baja blast and white cheddar popcorn. and probably a slice of cheesecake for desert.

nic loves helping people--it is why she originally started working in the police force to begin with. even now, as a detective, she goes does the youth education program, going into schools and doing workshops for the students in the local school districts (think detective jj bittenbinder but...significantly less creepy).

her favorite show is--yes, cliche but she’s ok with that--brooklyn 99 and she absolutely adores amy santiago.

she rides a motorbike mostly because she likes the wind waving in her hair.

but don’t get her confused--she’s the biggest dork you’ll ever met, loves people and adores babies, and will help literally anyone who asks. her hearts a little...shredded at the moment but she does her best to be good.

P L O T S

Best/Close Friends

Childhood Friends

Police Force Buds

Police Force...Enemies????

Flings

idk im always down for plots leggo

#[[intro; ner]]#[[wake up sunshine; headcannons]]#hi plz plot with me #malnatiooc

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the--sad--hatter · 5 years

Text

Game Of Survival - 9 (Bucky x Reader)

@jsmith509

FANDOM - MARVEL

PAIRING - BUCKY X FEM!READER

WARNINGS - SMUT, VIOLENCE, ANGST, VERY GRAPHIC BLOOD AND GORE, SWEARING, DRUGS AND ALCOHOL

DESCRIPTION -

The Executioner - Killer of Killers, the monster that hunts monsters, the bad-guys bogeyman.

It’s a title you earned and one that you cherish. Your goals are justified, your methods are not. But when a simple murder turns into a suicide and you are left clutching a flash drive with a terrible secret on it, you find yourself caught up in a mystery that you can’t solve alone. You turn to the professionals, the experts, the heroes. The Avengers.

With the lives of everyone in the world suddenly at stake, Earth’s Mightiest Heroes have no choice but accept your help and Bucky Barnes quickly finds himself drawn in by you. He never much believed in love, let alone love at first sight so it figures he’d be proven wrong in such a spectacular way.

Masterlist

Chapter Nine

Once you were in the suite you gave it a thorough checking over, looking for anything out of the ordinary. The bedroom/lounge were clean, as was the bathroom and you went about stowing weapons around the room before you set up the laptop that had been in your small go bag.

You quickly identified the local WiFi’s available and decided on one for a bookshop a couple of doors down, clicking on it with the encryption program you were running so the IP would be run through several countries in a longs, convoluted loop. You logged into the cuisine blog you’d set up and clicked on the inbox, scrolling through the messages. No leads yet, but it had only been an hour or so since you’d left your bloody request. With a few strokes of the keyboard you quickly looked through all your assets and made sure everything was in order before you turned the screen to black and grabbed a change of clothes and headed for the shower.

You were in the process of rinsing conditioner out of your hair when you heard Bucky come in the room, calling out to let you know it was him.

“We need to talk.” He said as soon as you walked into the room, dressed in sweatpants and a tanktop and towel drying your hair.

“They wouldn’t have let me in if I had you with me. Best case scenario they would have thought you were a stranger, worst case scenario they would have recognized you.” You told him coolly.

He wasn’t thrown by the fact that you automatically knew exactly what he wanted to talk about, both of you knew the conversation was inevitable.

“Did you know you were going to kill someone before you went in?” He asked, staring you down with unrestrained ire.

“Yes.” You said simply.

“Are you sure that’s not the reason you left me behind?” He challenged.

“Would you have just stood by and let me do it?” You challenged back teasingly.

“You think you’re the only killer here? Everyone on The Avengers has blood on our hands, some of us more than others.” He snapped.

“If you have to kill someone you’ll do it, I know. But you don’t take pleasure in it, I do. You might have let me kill her but you would have drawn the line at me pinning her down and cutting her tongue out and forcing her to choke to death on her own blood. Or am I wrong about you?” You flung the towel down and met his eye, waiting for him to back down.

“You might take pleasure in what you do but that’s not why you do it. You killed ‘her’ that way for a reason, for a purpose. I wouldn’t have stopped you.”

“Easy to say that after the fact but you and your merry men are far too uncomfortable with what I do to sanction it.” You told him.

“It’s not the things you do or even how you do them that makes them feel uncomfortable. It’s the lack of remorse. People love their guilt, they get attached to their demons and then you waltz in, stained with blood and not a trace of regret in your eyes. It’s disconcerting.” He tried to explain, almost desperate to make you understand.

“Are you attached to your demons Bucky?” You asked him.

“I’m learning to live with them. The question is doll, where the hell are your demons?” He rebutted.

“I am my demons.”

~~~~~~~~~~Fifteen Years Ago~~~~~~~~~~

There was an axe hanging over your head and you were waiting for it to drop.

It wasn’t a metaphor.

It had been six hours that you’d been stood there, waiting for the rope to be cut and the axe to fall.

“If you fail this test, you will die. Do not fail.” Your father told you before he left the room.

As you waited you listened. Voices carried in old houses like these and you could hear most of what was being discussed in your father office next door.

“You’re too harsh with the girl, you’re going to break her before she even comes of age and then where will we be? It’s not as if you can produce another heir, not one that can unite the clans anyway.” Your uncle warned.

“She is my only hope for a legacy, I would rather see her die than let my legacy pass to someone unworthy. If you commit to something you must remain unwavering in your resolve. Once you turn down a path there is no turning back. It is dangerous to allow yourself the luxury of changing your mind, it leads to self-doubt and self-doubt leads to mistakes.” Your father replied calmly.

When he spoke there was an eerie silence that followed and the hairs on the back of your neck stood on end.

The axe dropped.

Your father and uncle opened the door between the rooms to see you stood there, holding the axe in your hands.

“She didn’t move until it fell and she caught it.” One of your fathers goons, the one who had been charged with watching you reported.

“Well done. You have completed your education, now you are ready to learn from me. From now on, I will teach you. You will learn everything I know.” You father decreed.

~~~~~~~~~~Today~~~~~~~~~

“Where the hell did you come from Ex? What’s your story?” He asked you, advancing on you until you were forced to crane your neck to look up at him.

“It doesn’t really matter. What I am isn’t a result of how I was raised Bucky. The fact I do what I do so well is because of my upbringing, but what I am was a choice.” You sighed.

“If it’s a choice, you can change your mind.” He implored.

“I didn’t say it was my choice.” You laughed humourlessly.

“Your fathers?” He guessed.

“No. I wanted to be what you’re trying to make me into, once upon a time. But a very smart man told me I wasn’t a hero and he was right.” You said heavily, something almost close to remorse flitting across your face as you spoke.

“Who?” He frowned.

“It doesn’t matter, he’s dead.” You said, clenching your jaw.

“It matters if he’s still in your head.” Bucky told you softly.

Your expression went cold and you huffed out disappointedly at him, shaking your head wryly.

“You claim to be ok with what I do but the second you sensed a weakness, you pounced.” You chastised.

Bucky stormed away when he realized you’d played him again. Your little moment of sadness for what could have been was a test and he’d failed. Every conversation he had with you solved a little bit more of the puzzle but somehow he always ended up with even more pieces to try and find a place for, more to solve. But the more complicated it got, the more he wanted, the more he needed to figure it out.

You ignored his inner struggle and typed in the password to unlock your laptop, checking the inbox.

There was one message there. One important message.

“Just give me something, anything.” He pleaded.

“What?” You frowned.

“Tell me something true, something real about you.”

“I can tell you The Executioner will kill again, tonight. We have a lead. Are you in or are you ready to admit defeat and go home?”

“Tell me one thing about you, just one. Prove to me that this isn’t just some game to you and I’ll come with you tonight and I’ll do things your way.” He offered.

You knew he was changing tactics but you couldn’t quite figure out what his new angle was and that excited you.

You smirked as you mulled it over, deciding whether or not to grant his request. You crossed the room to him, noting how he froze the closer you were to him until he was perfectly still as you stretched up, your lips brushing against his ear as you whispered a single word to him. His sharp intake of breath was loud in the otherwise silent room as he realized what you had said, what you had told him and he looked down at you with wonder.

You had just told him your name.

_______________________________________________________

This chapter ended up shorter because the name reveal lost it's impact if I tried to make it longer. The next chapter will be longer and more actioney.

Bucky and Ex are apparently both playing their own games, I wonder how that's going to play out?

@daisyboo11 @keepcalmandsosayweall @shirukitsune @alina-barnes @musingpredilection @sexyvixen7 @dropthepizza346 @nighmxre @chook007 @dragonrosegardens @brazen88brat @clockworkherondale @demonlover87 @life-wanderer @joe-mazzello-is-my-dad @sireennotsiren @rootbeerboogy @spnrvt @violetthoughts97 @musingsofafangirlblog

@likes-to-smell-books @thelostallycat @dilaila95 @dropthepizza346 @destiel-artemis @hiddles-rose @myfandomlife-blog @thosesexytexasboys @liveonce-sodoitright @spnrvt @tarastudiesalot @dahkness @sexyvixen7 @jaynnanadrews @littledeadrottinghood @pinkisokay @angieptt @anamcg317 @belladonnarey @queen-kayy92 @breezy1415 @penumbrawolfy @fairislesheets @lianadelphius @coolmassivenerd @youhavebeenspared @candyxcyanide @musingpredilection @isaxhorror @destiel-artemis @my-drowning-in-time @isabelcrichards @teh-nerdette @dlcita @deathofmissjackson @life-wanderer @cleo0107 @spicymagz @drdorkus @inquisitor-selvala @le-mow @zeannastardust @nighmxre @blue-cat-1989 @writingforbucky @abo4280ooof @mad4oak @jsmith509

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trumplerlaw-blog · 4 years

Text

Trump’s Grand Reopening of America

I am first and foremost a patriot. I love this country in a way that I could never fully articulate in words. Every generation of Trumpler and Hlaudy (my mother's maiden name) that has lived in the United States have served our great nation in the armed forces and deployed.

It is difficult for me to be critical of our government, particularly in times of crisis. These are the moments when, as a People, we are expected to and should be able to cohesively unify and stand together irrespective of age, race, gender, gender identification, sexual orientation, religion, economic situation, cultural background, or political leanings. Yet as the days wane, my frustration at irresponsible and indecisive national leadership mounts. It is difficult to stand together when those steering the ship wish to tear us apart.

Undoubtedly, there is an enormous tension between protecting our nations' public health and saving its faltering economy. It is a balancing act that the most brilliant political minds and tacticians who have ever lived would have a difficult time tackling. It is an unenviable task that I would not wish upon anyone.

Nevertheless, it is a time for strong, decisive leadership. It is not a time for politics, campaigning, and pandering. Our nations' need for a guiding hand goes out not only to our President but to Congress and state and local leaders and authorities, as well.

My overwhelming desire for leadership in this time of crisis brings me to the point of my rant that came to me during Tuesday morning's "Rage Walk."

For those of you that missed President Trump's daily briefing Monday night, I will give you some of the more alarming and questionable highlights.

The President's responses to every question that the press asked, even those directed to others, were long-winded, rambling, politically motivated, frequently incoherent, and often, he said contradictory things. At times, he also randomly attacked the press and democrats for no reason. The above behavior was typical bluster from the President, and while annoying and not something you would want from a leader during a crisis, I expected it.

Of note, during Monday's briefing, President Trump paraded out his new "expert witness," Dr. Deborah Birx. She is a member of President Trump's lauded "Coronavirus Task Force." If you are familiar with litigation strategy and data manipulation at all, President Trump is going to use the data projections that she, along with others, are coming up with to "reopen" the country.

When Dr. Birx was speaking, lyrics from Don Henley's song, The Garden of Allah, came to mind:

“Today I made an appearance downtown. I am an expert witness because I say I am. And I said gentlemen, and I use that word loosely. I will testify for you. I'm a gun for hire. I'm a saint. I'm a liar. Because there are no facts, there is no truth. Just data to be manipulated. I can get you any result you like. What's it worth to you? Because there is no wrong, there is no right. And I sleep very well at night. No shame, no solution, no remorse, no retribution. Just people selling t-shirts Just opportunity to participate in the pathetic little circus. And winning, winning, winning…” [This is very important to the President.]

While she was talking, Dr. Birx mentioned that the mortality rate is lower than we expected. Dr. Birx then threw out a paltry figure. The President immediately interrupted her by rambling about how there were all of these incredibly sick people who just got well on their own without seeking medical help (perhaps by divine intervention) who may have had or may not have had the virus.

After that prompt, Dr. Birx further explained that the mortality number could theoretically dramatically drop. The existing mortality number does not take into consideration a potentially large number of asymptomatic people who never got tested. It also did not account for those who had Coronavirus symptoms that medical professionals never treated or tested. It will remain a mystery, I suppose, however, how we are supposed to count those who never made themselves available to be counted or who never got counted for some other reason.

Not surprisingly, Dr. Birx then talked about how the mortality curve increases for those who are elderly or have preexisting conditions. Dr. Birx indicated, however, that the data clearly showed that while the curve increases, the majority of the dead across the board as a result of COVID-19 worldwide were over the age of eighty. While tragic and sad, reading between the lines, she and President Trump seems to agree that this age group, at the mortality rates projected, is "acceptable loss" to "Keep America Great."

Dr. Birx expects to have a full "incomplete" report to the American people by next week. Once the "incomplete" version is ready for dissemination, Dr. Birx, along with President Trump, will brief the American people on its conclusions. You should assume that the data in this report will be manipulated and spun to such a degree that it is acceptable for the President and Fox News to say "America is Safe to Reopen" again. At the very least, they will spin it to say that it will be safe to reopen within another week and change of the release of the report. Therefore, if your governor or local leaders still want to keep you and your family home or ask you to stay in your house after President Trump says it is okay to go out and play, they are assholes.

The upcoming release of this report will only cause further division and resentment in an already fractured, frustrated, and frightened nation. Rather than come up with a cohesive, unified solution to a unique, never before seen, life-altering problem that is plaguing our entire country, the President appears to want to deal with this crisis municipality by municipality, county by county, and state by state. He seems to be trying to unburden himself with the responsibility of leading this magnificent country through this epidemic.

It is a coward's move. Not the action of a daring, determined leader. It is not the move one would expect from the leader of the greatest nation this world has ever known. How a President handles him or herself in a crisis is what builds legacies, not how the stock market performed or your job numbers.

The President's piecemeal approach to crisis problem-solving is also leaving governors holding the bag and the tab. States now have to compete for the minimal remaining resources and supplies devoted to combat the virus individually. This state by state competition is leading to artificially high prices on supplies and even price-gouging.

Concerning the forthcoming report mentioned above, I imagine that the White House is already leaking information regarding its contents to your favorite Fox News types to start setting up "President Trump’s Grand Reopening of America" like it is a shopping mall. If the President had it his way, this reopening would probably include much fanfare and a military parade.

Again, this alienating approach is a narrow-sighted. America, collectively, is a robust and complex but loose connection of the souls and minds of the different types that I mentioned at the beginning of this piece. As the President, in times of crisis, you have to speak to all of us, not just your base.

Dr. Anthony Fauci, the Director of the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases since 1984, was conspicuously absent at Monday's briefing. When asked if Dr. Anthony Fauci agreed that America should reopen sooner rather than later, President Trump glibly offered, "if it were up to the doctors, they may say let's keep it shut down -- let's shut down the entire world."

To put Dr. Fauci's career in context, he has served every President since Ronald Reagan. Dr. Fauci is a man of science and public health, and he does not operate in a world of spin and political parties. He has assisted previous presidents with AIDS/HIV policy, SARS, MERS, various FLU epidemics, and, most recently, the EBOLA outbreak.

Additionally, Dr. Fauci has developed therapies for formerly fatal diseases. These diseases included Polyarteritis Nodosa, Granulomatosis with Polyangiitis, and Lymphomatoid Granulomatosis. His research has led to some of the most critical advances in patient management in Rheumatology (Arthritis) over the past 20 years. Moreover, Dr. Fauci has contributed to the understanding of how HIV destroys the body's defenses leading to the progression to AIDS.

The scientific community regards Dr. Fauci as one of the world's foremost authorities on infectious disease. He has unparalleled academic and practical experience. Moreover, he has led a large governmental agency explicitly designed to combat infectious disease for going on four decades.

As a youth, Dr. Fauci's parents raised him Catholic, and unlike the President, he grew up in a home with deeply held religious convictions. Somewhat paradoxically, while Dr. Fauci is a man of science, he has a Jesuit education and a Bachelor of Science in Classics from the College of Holy Cross.

Dr. Fauci had previously acted as the voice of reason during this public health crisis. He had often contradicted the President's bold optimism. Dr. Fauci had gone on record and said, he had warned President Trump about some of his more careless and questionable remarks, but he can only tell him to, "be careful about this and don't say that." Ultimately, he stated when the President starts giving out inaccurate information, he "can't jump in front of the microphone and push him down."

Dr. Fauci, throughout this extraordinary public health emergency, had been deeply concerned about misusing data and irresponsibly throwing around numbers and misleading information to justify a political position. He had to explain how medical trials work frequently. He also had to clarify how long it takes to get a vaccine or off label medical treatments approved for use, the risks associated with clinical trials, and anecdotal stories versus peer-reviewed scientific evidence backed up by reproducible data.

In short, Dr. Fauci is an actual "stable genius," and possibly a wizard. The White House is muzzling him at a time when the American people need him most.

If the most knowledgeable person in your administration about a subject will not assist you in getting the misinformation you want out there, you have to find someone else who will, in this case, enter Dr. Birx. I am not saying this to diminish Dr. Birx as a person or to reduce her impressive credentials. I am just telling you that you do not pinch-hit for Babe Ruth in the World Series.

Sadly, I also assume as the President has done with everyone that has ever stood in his way, he is going to begin a misinformation campaign against Dr. Fauci. The President and his people will design this campaign to discredit Dr.Fauci and his impeccable qualifications and history of service.

Since taking office, the President helped create a series of unfortunate events that assisted in our nation's inability to manage and combat this unprecedented public health crisis effectively. Despite numerous warnings, the President waited until the last possible minute to create any sort of haphazard plan to deal with the virus. When the COVID-19 crisis finally came to a head in the United States, President Trump appointed a man of faith, Vice President Pence, rather than a person of science, to lead his Coronavirus Task Force.

Most alarmingly, during Monday's briefing, the evening after 100 Americans lost their lives to the virus in a single night, the President spoke of the crisis in the past tense. He kept referring to it as a learning experience.

"Our country was not built to be shut down," the President warned during the briefing.

I certainly concur with this sentiment. My business probably will not survive the short-term shutdowns already ordered without substantial assistance. Most small businesses won't.

While there is tension between saving jobs, moving our economy forward, and saving lives, statements like the following are propaganda, misinformation, and messaging designed to create a false narrative:

"You look at automobile accidents, which are far greater than any numbers we're talking about. That doesn't mean we're going to tell everybody no more driving of cars. So we have to do things to get our country open."

The above statements are reminiscent of the initial messaging the President ran with when he was trying to stave off panic by irresponsibly comparing COVID-19 to the flu. These are the types of reckless comments that drive Dr. Fauci and cautious, thoughtful, scientific minds nuts.

No one disagrees with the President about wanting to reopen the county. We would all love that. And it is not whether people are recovering from the virus or dying. The figure on the overall mortality rate is the red herring here. It has always been about the tax the virus will put on our health care system as a whole.

The fact remains that our health care system cannot sustain massive and exponential increases in the number of cases of COVID-19. We simply do not have the qualified personnel, equipment, or beds.

At last count, we had in the neighborhood of 2.77 beds per 1,000 people. The lack of adequate care, necessary supplies, and the genuine fear that our entire health care system will collapse is real. This fear is one of the primary reasons physicians, infectious disease experts, and scientists across the board are calling for aggressive social distancing measures to at least attempt to slow the spread.

Remember, when knowledgable people talk about the lack of hospital beds, supplies, resources, and personnel, and the toll that the exponential spread of COVID-19 will take on our health care system, the epidemic is compounding an already overwhelming problem. If we do not get the rate of exposure under control, doctors and nurses will not be able to treat or see people who are gravely ill with unrelated illnesses or who suffered other kinds of life-threatening injuries.

I am not a politician, nor would I ever want to be one. Like most people who comment or judge, it is easy for me to be an armchair quarterback. I just find the current ineptitude even more remarkable and disheartening than usual.

It must be difficult for the President to watch the stock market tumble and the job losses mount since his inflated sense of self-worth seems to be directly and inextricably tied to an artificially high market and strong job numbers. These numbers were and are the entire basis of his reelection strategy. He and his team apparently have no backup plan. Rather than pivot to becoming a reassuring leader during a crisis to a country in dire need of one like Lincoln, Roosevelt, and even George W. Bush after 9/11, he is choosing to continue to go on the divisive partisan offensive. As they always have when he attacks, his rabid fan base is loving it. Like many things about his presidency and everything about this crisis, the President's insistence on his brand of "Politics As Usual," makes me incredibly sad.

............................................................................

In contrast to the President's distorted myopic view of this global pandemic, watch New York Governor Andrew Cuomo's factual, analytical problem-solving approach in his daily briefings. Unlike the President, he is not the Governor of Fantasyland. And if you want to see and hear leadership in action, Governor Cuomo had this say - off the cuff and from the heart - Tuesday before taking questions:

“And we're going to get through it because we are New York and because we've dealt with a lot of things, and because we are smart. You have to be smart to make it in New York. And we are resourceful, and we are showing how resourceful we are. And because we are united, and when you are united, there is nothing you can't do. And because we are New York tough. We are tough. You have to be tough. This place makes you tough. But it makes you tough in a good way. We're going to make it because I love New York, and I love New York because New York loves you.

New York loves all of you. Black and white and brown and Asian and short and tall and gay and straight. New York loves everyone. That's why I love New York. It always has, it always will. And at the end of the day, my friends, even if it is a long day, and this is a long day, love wins. Always. And it will win again through this virus. Thank you.”

The above statement by Governor Cuomo is a stark contradiction to our President, who previously referred to the Coronavirus as the "China Virus." His feigned disingenuous outrage during Monday's briefing about violence and hatred toward Asian Americans, mainly by those who support him, as a result of the Coronavirus, was, at the very least, awkward and uncomfortable, and more accurately and tragically, laughable.

#coronapocalypse #coronavirus #socialdistancing #donald trump #governor cuomo #covid-19 #covid19 #dr fauci #reopenamerica #data science #data manipulation

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murdermanager · 5 years

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1. F'D UP

Priya Hubbard and Jessica Borges invite their friend Keith over for rosé to tell him about their in-depth investigation of one of the biggest crime lab scandals of the century

2. Ouija Broads

Strange women talking about stranger things. Tales from the Pacific Northweird.

3. The Officer's Wife

In April 2016, hours after an argument with his wife Jessica, Griffin, Georgia police officer Matthew Boynton radios for assistance and reports hearing two gunshots coming from inside his home. Officers rush to the scene to find Jessica Boynton inside a locked closet, with an apparent gunshot wound to her head. Underneath her body, officers find her husband's service weapon. But this story of small-town romance gone wrong was far from over. The investigation into what really happened inside that closet and what happened next would captivate a small town and change the lives of one family forever. The Officer's Wife is a VAULT Studios production in collaboration with 11Alive in Atlanta.

4. Your Own Backyard

A documentary podcast series investigating the 1996 disappearance of Cal Poly student, Kristin Smart.

5. Resolved Mysteries

Eliza, Karlin & Alison update & RE-solve all of the segments from the 90's TV show Unsolved Mysteries. Watch along with us as we uncover the latest information on all of the segments in everyone’s favorite mystery show. We laugh, we cry, we drink cheap wine and we want justice! Follow us on Facebook & Twitter @resolvethepod and IG @re_solvedmysteries

6. To Live and Die in LA

In Feb 2018, an aspiring actress vanished from her Hollywood apartment. Rolling Stone journalist Neil Strauss was asked to help the family get answers. Together, they found them...sometimes at great personal risk. For the first time in a serial podcast, go inside a gripping multi-state investigation as it unfolds from the moment of the disappearance to each twist and turn in the case. Stay not only more informed than the news, but listen as the official story is dismantled with in-the-moment first-hand reporting with the leading figures in the investigation. The new #1 podcast from the team behind Up & Vanished and Atlanta Monster.

7. Chasing Cosby

For nearly half a century, Bill Cosby brought warmth and laughter into hearts across the country, cementing his image as “America’s Dad.” But he also led a dark, secret life preying on women. The comedian carefully coaxed each one into feeling safe and cared for, then left them to pick up the pieces of their lives. It all started with Andrea Constand. She carried the burden of being the only one of the 60-plus accusers whose case could be tried in a court of law. Now, she's telling her side of the story, along with firsthand accounts from more than a dozen survivors, jurors and prosecutors. From the Los Angeles Times, and hosted by investigative reporter Nicki Weisensee Egan, "Chasing Cosby" is the definitive take of the rise and fall of Bill Cosby. New episodes released every Tuesday.

8. The Catch and Kill

For the past two years, Pulitzer Prize winning journalist Ronan Farrow has been following a trail of clues from his investigation of Harvey Weinstein to other blockbuster stories about the systems that protect powerful men accused of terrible crimes in Hollywood, Washington, and beyond. But he didn’t bring that information to light on his own. A compelling cast of sources—from brave whistleblowers to shadowy undercover operatives—decided the fate of these investigations, sometimes risking everything in the process. The Catch and Kill Podcast brings you their stories, in their own words, for the first time.

9. Sick

What happens after a doctor uses his own sperm to impregnate his patients?

Sick is an investigative podcast about what goes wrong in the places meant to keep us healthy. Award-winning journalists Jake Harper and Lauren Bavis dig deep to share shocking personal stories of medical injustices, and hold accountable the people and institutions meant to care for us.

Sick's first season explores the complications of fertility medicine, one Indiana doctor’s abuse of power, and the generations of lives he affected.

10. Room 20

The sign above his hospital bed called him Sixty-Six Garage. For more than 15 years, he would lay there unidentified and unconscious. Or so, everyone believed. From L.A. Times Studios and the team that brought you “Dirty John” and “Man in the Window,” comes “Room 20,” a story about the search for a man’s identity and the truth about his accident. Investigative reporter Joanne Faryon’s two-year journey is filled with twists and turns. Now, she'll finally reveal who Garage really is. But one important question remained for her upon this discovery: has Garage been conscious this entire time? This series was produced by L.A. Times Studios with support from Neon Hum Media.

11. Bardstown

Welcome signs proclaim it “America’s Most Beautiful Small Town.” It’s considered the Bourbon Capital of the World. And in many ways, Bardstown, Kentucky is just like a lot of small, tight-knit communities all across the country. But just under the surface, there’s something darker. Not everyone wants to talk about it. And a lot of people would rather forget. That’s because since 2013, Bardstown has also been the site of five unsolved murders. Now, the team behind “Bomber,” “True Crime Chronicles,” and “88 Days” is digging into these cases to find out what’s really happening in Bardstown, and whether these murders could be related. And along the way uncovering a history of violence and fear in this otherwise quintessential southern town. Bardstown launches August 28.

12. Down The Hill

Abby and Libby - 2 young girls murdered. Investigators are searching for the killer using their biggest clue: a recording of his voice from one of the victims' phones ordering the girls Down the Hill. Almost three years later, it's a mystery that still haunts the small town of Delphi, Indiana while police say the killer may walk among them.

13. Root of Evil

When Elizabeth Short, also known as The Black Dahlia, was brutally killed in 1947, it gripped the entire country. More than 70 years later, it remains America's most infamous unsolved murder. Many believe Dr. George Hodel was the killer, thanks to an investigation by Hodel's own son. But murder is just part of the Hodel family story, one filled with horrifying secrets that ripple across generations. Now, through never-before-heard archival audio and first-time interviews, the Hodel family opens up to reveal their shocking story. In this eight-part documentary series, sisters Rasha Pecoraro and Yvette Gentile, the great grand daughters of George Hodel, take a deep dive into their family history to try to figure out what really happened, and where do they all go from here? Root of Evil is the companion podcast to TNTs limited series I Am the Night. Inspired by the true story of the Hodel family, the series stars Chris Pine and comes from acclaimed Wonder Woman director Patty Jenkins.

14. The Clearing

When April Balascio was 40 years old, something she’d feared for decades was finally proven true. Her father, Edward Wayne Edwards, really was a murderer. The Clearing is about what came after April called a detective in 2009 to tell him about her suspicions — a call that led to her father’s arrest and eventual conviction on multiple murders — and tracks the emotional journey as she and host Josh Dean dig back into her childhood, unravel the truth of her father’s life, and overturn a viral online narrative that had turned Edward Wayne Edwards into a kind of serial killer caricature.

15. Culpable

Culpable explores unsettled cases where the people who seem deserving of blame have somehow eluded justice. On February 26, 2014, Christian Andreacchio was found dead in the upstairs bathroom of his apartment from a single gunshot wound to the head. After a mere 45-minute investigation, local police ruled his death a suicide, despite substantial evidence that points to Christian’s death not only being a homicide, but premeditated murder. Host Dennis Cooper investigates and shares a compelling story about this suspicious death, the questions surrounding it, and a grieving family’s ongoing fight for justice.

#true crimme #true crime community #true crime research #true crime podcast #rec list #tcrc #tcc #tcr

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raccoonmooon · 4 years

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the poison, drunk

Post pledge ending, the hunter does not tell anyone when they leave Lunaris.

The hunter's sister (who is a hunter herself) acquires a lingering injury, and decides to take the time off to visit her sibling.

Instead she finds a mystery, and a town full of people who's help she will need to solve it.

categories: angst, hurt / comfort, eventual happy ending, maybe the hunter can have a little redemption arc, as a treat, two hunters, divergence from canon epilogue | pairings: August / F!Hunter, Finnzra, Finnzra / nb!Hunter | fic rating: explicit | content warnings (this chapter): none, but check the rating | word count: 7,735 | read on AO3

Chapter 3/? | just me and the lavender moon

chapter summary- Rowan arrives in Lunaris, Ezra thinks about moving

Rowan arrived in Lunaris just after midnight. Originally, she had planned to camp overnight and ride the last few hours of the trip in the morning, but by evening had found herself deep in the forest surrounding the little town, and thought better of it. Her instincts told her that there was more to the ancient, gnarled trees than met the eye. To say nothing of the relentless sense that she was being watched.

So she had pushed through, and now found herself alone, the steady clop of her horse’s shoes on cobblestone echoing in the narrow streets. With the moon swathed in clouds Lunaris was nearly as shadowed as the surrounding woods. And while it didn’t have the same malevolent air, it seemed still, like the quiet following the upheaval of a storm.

Eventually she found her way to the stables, situated on the edge of town between the forest and an imposing building she assumed was the local enforcer’s headquarters. The stable boy wasn’t pleased to be woken so late, but seemed used to it. She thanked him and left her horse in the safety of the barn. Shouldering her bag and stepping back out into the chill, Rowan found herself almost wishing she could stay in the warm structure, and fall asleep to the familiar scents of leather and sweet hay.

She set off in the direction she’d spotted the inn on the way into town. The echo of hooves was replaced by the increasingly familiar tap of her quarterstaff. It was a simple design, but reinforced and heavier than it looked. If she was going to have to carry around a big stick for a while, she very much preferred one that could be counted on to not break if she tried to hit something unpleasant with it. Not that she expected to be fighting monsters in the middle of a family reunion. Well. Perhaps she wouldn’t be so surprised.

After all, their shared occupation was the very thing that had kept them apart so long. While Rowan very well understood the necessity of sending hunters where they were needed at a moments notice, it was often hard to ignore the sense of isolation that such a lifestyle could result in. Being the perpetual outsider, trying to find your place in groups that had known each other for years, or trying to build relationships when you knew it could all be ripped away at the arrival of a letter, over and over again, was hard. She had seen hunters retreat into themselves, shutter their eyes to protect themselves. Turn cold and dark inside as the things they killed. Fighting darkness with darkness rarely brought light.

Rowan turned another corner in the lamplight and nearly ran into someone headed hastily away from the headquarters. She managed to narrowly avoid losing her balance by catching herself on the staff, but the stranger stumbled back a few steps on long legs before looking up at her ready to snarl something. Instead their expression turned to one of confusion, elegant brows pulled together.

“My apologies” she said, and taking in their purple sash and flickering electric aura, “Enforcer.”

They were dressed in fine, flowing materials all in shades of blue and silver. Long, silky hair a deep near-black purple at the roots, washing out like ink to a silvering heather at the tips, draped over their shoulder in a ponytail, with shorter strands curling about their face. They had striking features with high cheekbones under the piercing, pale blue eyes that flicked over her.

“I don’t recognize you hunter, identify yourself.” they commanded in a cultured, pleasantly rich voice.

She instinctively straightened at the order, matching their intense gaze. “Hunter General Rowan Velle.” and to explain her presence in their town “On temporary leave due to injury.”

A flash of disquiet broke their steely gaze “Maro’s sister then.”

They sighed, suddenly seeming very weary, and in a slightly gentler voice said “I am Lieutenant General Willenheim, did you receive the letter I sent?”

Rowan’s stomach dropped like a sack of bricks, and her expression, she was sure, with it. She knew from Maro’s letters that Willenheim was their enforcer, and there were only so many reasons a hunter’s enforcer might send a letter to their next of kin, none were good.

“No.” she managed to grate out “I did not. Are they…. Is Maro...”

It shouldn’t have been so hard to say, to imagine, they were hunters after all, and death dogged their steps like the tamed wolves so many were fond of keeping.

Willenheim frowned “No, they are..” they paused “They are alive.”

“Turned then.” Rowan took the next logical step in assuming.

“It is somewhat more complicated than that.” they said carefully, glancing around “But this is not a conversation to be had in the street.”

What trouble had Maro gotten themself into? Hells. Their last letter had seemed so... hopeful. She tried to ignore the lump in her throat.

“You said you are injured?” they asked “Does that need to be addressed first? I could show you to our healer and we’d be able to continue this in the morning.”

“It’s been three weeks since my injury, Enforcer, I’ll be fine until morning. I’d rather not wait to hear what’s happened.”

They leaned back on their heels, and gave her an assessing look.

“Fine.” they said, resigned, and apparently satisfied that she at least did not appear to be bleeding out.

They pursed their lips and glanced back towards the headquarters, then seemed to make a decision, and set off in the direction they had originally been walking.

“This way then.” they said over their shoulder.

Rowan followed, feeling ill.

They led her to what she could only assume was their home, a little ways down the street, and unlocked the door, gesturing for her to enter.

The acclaimed General Augustus Willenheim, now Lieutenant General. That must have been a recent appointment, Rowan thought, if word of a change in command had not yet reached her own headquarters by the time she’d left. Maro had called them August in their more recent letters, had spoken warmly and highly of them.

Rowan hoped their opinion of the witch was deserved, as it appeared they were now head of the order she had devoted her life to.

“Please” they said “sit.”

She lowered herself onto a plush couch opposite Willenheim. Their home was certainly lovely. Sparse and elegant, shades of blue, with silver and marble accents. Every item and bit of decor seemed to have been carefully chosen to suit the room. The overall effect might have seemed cold or austere, instead it struck her as a place meant to be a sanctuary, the eye of a storm.

There was a serious and grim look on its occupants' lovely face.

“Firstly, if you did not receive my letter, why are you in Lunaris?” they questioned.

“I’ve been stationed out in Enk, and three weeks ago was stung by a manticore on a hunt.” Their eyebrows scrunch up again at that, but they let her continue. “Enk’s rather a remote little dot on the map, and our only witch is better at combat than healing. Maro had written to me that one of their partners here is a talented healer, and as I’m on leave until healed anyway” She shrugs “I’d hoped I might kill two birds with one stone and surprise my sibling with a visit.”

Willenheim once again subjected her to an assessing gaze, “Manticore venom is not something to play about with, whatever else we discuss, you will have that seen to first thing tomorrow. Understood, General?” their tone brooked no argument.

“Of course, Lieutenant General.” she allowed.

“Good, I will give you directions to Ezra’s before you leave tonight.” They paused, looking distracted, perhaps trying to decide how best to give her whatever bad news about Maro that was so serious as to require a personal conversation with the Lieutenant General Enforcer of Eskria in their home at nearly one in the morning.

She waited. Feeling a bit numb.

Finally, they spoke, “One week ago, Maro resigned their post as a hunter. Five weeks before that they chose to consume an… experimental potion, intended to transform and ultimately strengthen a hunter. They knew at that point, that this had already directly and indirectly resulted in the deaths of several hunters. Maro was urged and advised not to do so by everyone in this town who had come to care about them, and they did so anyway.”

Willenheim took a deep breath.

Rowan opened her mouth, to voice one of the many questions she now had, but they continued before she could.

“Much, in fact most, of what I have just told you, and what I am about to tell you is confidential. But, I believe you deserve the truth about what has happened,” they paused “is happening, to your sibling. Especially if you decide to seek them out, which, I would urge you not to do at this point. Though if you are anything like them, I expect you will ignore my advice on that front.”

Rowan suspected that was so. Whatever Maro had done, they were after all, her sibling, her dearest and oldest friend, and the only person left whom she considered family. She wasn’t going to write them off without a fight.

They told her the rest of the story, starting just before Maro had arrived in Lunaris in the wake of Hunter Lane’s death. And fleshed out the hopeful skeleton tale Maro’s letters had allowed her. A darker mystery than they had implied, with implications both farther reaching and closer to home than she might have imagined.

Maro had indeed finally built themself a home, surrounded themself with people who cared about them, even fallen in love. And Rowan could see, with a sort of horror, as the story unfolded, where exactly it would fall apart for them. What exactly, about the situation the witch described, would have snagged on the well hidden defense mechanisms of their past, and led them to make such a disastrous decision.

“Fucks sake Maro” Rowan groaned, head in her hands when they were done.

She looked up at the enforcer. “I’m going to talk to them.”

It’s was their turn to massage their temples, “For what-”

They huffed out a bitter laugh “You aren’t going to be able to talk them out of an action they’ve already taken.” their tone took on a vehemence that surprised Rowan “They chose this! They decided to side with the man who betrayed us, over people who loved them! They decided that a bit of extra power was worth permanently harming themself!”

“Then why have they resigned?” Rowan wondered. “If they did this for power?”

Willenheim’s eyes narrowed “I would assume they misjudged how quickly the process would affect them.”

Rowan was unsure of what to assume, nothing was safe at this point, she supposed. Her head was still swimming with the revelation of the truth behind the initiation rites, but no time for that now. She needed to focus on Maro.

“I’m going to talk to them.” She repeated.

“I can’t stop you.” Their expression was displeased. “And I expect you will need to see them for yourself to fully accept the truth.”

“Thank you for sharing all this with me, especially at such an hour.” she said. The night was nearly over, and she could see the skin beneath their sharp blue eyes was bruised from what must have been more than one missed night of sleep.

“You are quite welcome. It’s not as though you are responsible for your sibling’s actions. Now, go and get some sleep.”

She stood, leaning heavily on her staff, got directions to Ezra’s shop for the morning, and thanked them, before leaving them to whatever rest they could wring from the remaining night.

By the time she was curled under scratchy sheets in the White Wolf Inn, the sun was already threatening to rise. For once she let sleep take her anyway.

OOO

Ezra woke as the sun rose, none of its light slipping through his boarded windows or spilling over his pillows. But he found its absence a price well worth waking in Finn’s arms.

He was spooned against the vampire’s hairy chest, legs tangled, Finn’s nose in his hair, and arm tucked against his bare chest. He hadn’t opened his eyes yet, trying to delay shaking off the warm muzziness of sleep a bit longer.

“Good morning, angel.” Finn murmured in his ear.

“S’not morning yet.” Ezra stubbornly kept his eyes shut through a yawn and flipped over, flinging an arm over Finn and pulling them snugly chest to chest, re-tangling their legs.

For a moment, he expected Maro to adjust to the movement by curling closer against his back. Then quickly realized they weren’t there, and remembered why not. Despite the short time the three of them had spent together, now they were gone, he kept expecting them to be there. Every time it was like taking a step when you expect an extra stair, a brief moment of unmoored panic. He clung all the tighter to Finnegan for it.

Finn wedged an arm between them to gently tip his chin up, bringing them nose to nose, so he could look into Ezra’s now (unfortunately) open eyes.

“I miss them as well.”

Ezra knew he did. The vampire turned idle and melancholy the moment he thought he wasn't being watched. Raven reported he spent most days in his room. The rest of the time he spent fussing over Ezra.

Ezra tilted his head a fraction and pressed the extra inch forward to kiss him. Finn responded with a gentle ferocity, sliding his hand up from Ezra’s chin to cup his jaw, thumb on his cheek, wiping away a stray tear.

After a few moments he deepened the kiss, cool tongue pressing between Ezra’s lips. He opened for him, pressing back with his own tongue and losing himself in the sensation for a while, letting his free hand roam between Finn’s shoulder blades.

Eventually, Ezra pulled back and re-opened his eyes. Neither were wearing any more than boxers under the covers, and he could feel Finn already hard against his thigh, as he was sure Finn could feel him.

“Finn…”

The vampire turned onto his back to kick the covers off, and canted his hips up to shimmy out of the soft black fabric. Ezra wiggled out of his own before they could be ripped off, he was going to run out soon, again.

He let a mischievous impulse take him, and leaned over to place his index finger on Finn’s already slick lips.

Finn took the bait and sucked the finger in, drawing a small gasp out of Ezra. He curled the finger around one of his fangs, and used it as leverage to pull Finn up.

Finn let out something between a growl and a laugh that somehow managed to convey both amusement and arousal. But he went willingly enough, eyebrow raised. Ezra guided Finn by the wickedly sharp canine, letting a grin take over his face, until he had him where he wanted him, sitting against the headboard, mouth open around his finger. He slid the digit out along the tip of Finn’s fang, with just enough pressure to draw blood.

Finn growled again, chasing the finger to pull back into his mouth. Then pulled Ezra, laughing, into his lap. The feel Finn’s firm abdomen against his cock, and Finn’s own erection between his legs, cut the sound into a gasp.

Ezra’s face fell into Finn’s neck and he let out a helpless little sound. Finn pressed a kiss to his neck and nibbled his way towards his jaw. He slid a big hand around the back of Ezra’s head and tangled his fingers in the sleep mussed curls. Then pulled his head back to ravage his neck in earnest.

Ezra was taut as a bowstring as Finn slipped his other hand, the one he’d lovingly crafted for the vampire, around both of their cocks.

Finn found a steady, twisting, rhythm, up and down, little movements of his hips pressing his tip up against Ezra’s crown as they were pressed together.

He began kissing his way down Ezra’s neck, licking the dip of his clavicle, sucking a bruise into the soft skin just below his collarbone.

Ezra groaned, breathing ragged as Finn continued the stroke of his hand and wandering of his mouth.

“Finn… Please… I need…” Finn had already released his hair and was reaching for the little jar of slick in the bedside table.

He gasped into a pointed ear as a cool finger circled his rim with tauntingly light pressure. Payback for the earlier teasing Ezra supposed, he ought to do that more often.

They kissed fully as Finn pressed the digit in, immediately finding that spot that sent a current of pleasure through him like a lightning strike.

It didn’t take long before Ezra was a shuddering mess. Moaning into Finn’s mouth, begging for more.

Eventually, Finn slipped his finger out and released their cocks with a final upward slide. He readjusted his position and maneuvered Ezra into place with hands cupping either side of his ass.

Ezra steadied himself on Finn’s shoulders and gazed into gold gone soft with a look of adoration that would have taken his breath away were he not already breathless. Finn held him in place and arced up off the bed to leisurely press up into him.

Feeling Finn move in him was always beyond satisfying, visceral and intimate. Ezra leaned back to admire the roll of muscle as Finn established a snapping upwards rhythm, knocking the breath out of him with every thrust.

“Touch yourself angel.” Finn groaned up at him.

Ezra happily obliged, timing the pull of his hand to match the rock of Finn’s hips.

Their movements quickly became desperate and stuttering, until Finn came below him with a deep groan, pressing up in a final, deep thrust. Ezra followed, spending onto Finn’s chest and abdomen.

He dismounted and curled into Finn’s side, letting his skin cool him as his breathing slowly steadied.

The world was quiet again for a moment, and Ezra kept his eyes closed, did not look to see Finn’s other arm resting on his own still chest, rather than around familiar shoulders. He did not think about the empty space.

There was a long, pitiful meow muffled by the door. Ezra flung an arm over his eyes.

“Is it morning yet then?” He could hear Finn’s smirk.

Coco meowed again.

Ezra needed a shower.

OOO

It turned into a sleepy sort of morning in the shop, and Ezra found his attention turning to the little collection of plants in the window. A coleus with vibrant pink and green patterning. An overgrown spider plant hanging from the ceiling. A few rarer herbs that did well indoors. And a little pot of succulents, spilling over the patterned sides, they needed repotting.

It was delicate work. Roots grown together needed to be gently separated. Even when great care was taken there was often damage, torn roots, a broken leaf. But plants could be hardy things, and with the extra space of a new pot (and again, with care) usually ended up better off than before.

Ezra thought about moving.

His thoughts were eventually interrupted by the tinkle of the bell above the door. Alkar practically flew up to the counter, wolf ears pinned, tail bristling. He was looking Ezra over like he was concerned something might have happened to him. Omen slipped in behind him and settled onto a stool, seeming less perturbed.

“What’s going on?” Ezra hurried to lock the door, before turning back to the pair.

“We saw Piper in the market this morning-” Omen started.

“Maro’s sister is here!” Alkar blurted.

Oh, Ezra had almost forgotten they had a sister. Maro had mentioned her once, when Finn had asked about the neat pile of letters on their cramped little desk. Her name was Rowan. She was older than them by a few years, a hunter as well. It had sounded like they missed her.

Should he have written her? He supposed Gus must have.

Ezra frowned “Has someone talked to her yet? Is she alright?”

“Ughhh.” Alkar deflated with a pout and sank to the floor.

Omen leaned over to pat him on the head. “Piper said August spoke to her last night. She’s injured? So they told her to come here today.”

Ezra spared Alkar a concerned look before addressing Omen. “She hasn’t made it in yet. Do you know how injured she is? Has anyone checked on her?”

“It sounded like she might have arrived quite late, perhaps-”

“We should be more worried about whether she’s going to follow in Maro’s footsteps!” the lycan cut in again, scowling.

“Is that why you’re so puffed up about it then?” Ezra wondered.

Omen nodded and Alkar somehow managed to deepen his scowl.

“I’m not puffed up... But yes it fucking is. You haven’t even met her yet and you’re already worrying over her. What if-”

Ezra cut him off. “She’s injured and just received bad news about a family member. She’s not responsible for what Maro’s done, and we don’t judge people by their families’ actions, yes?”

Which received an affirming nod from Omen and after a few moments of begrudging consideration, a huff from Alkar as he flopped the rest of the way to the floor.

“Sometimes I hate when you’re right.”

He was startled back up onto his elbow by a knock at the door.

Ezra looked at the clock, “That’ll be Mrs. Ellison here to pick up her sleeping draught.”

He started towards the door to let her in.

“Hey, do you want us to hang around today?” Alkar offered from the floor.

While it would be nice to have company, Ezra knew keeping track of this particular duo while also trying to run a shop was a task that required more eyes than he possessed. As though he needed any additional proof, while Omen had been innocently nodding along with Ezra through Alkar’s fit of surliness, the demon’s tail had been flirting closer and closer to the candy drawer. And as Ezra turned back to answer, it was curled into the handle.

“I appreciate the offer, but I’ll be fine. Would you two mind popping down to let Finn know what’s going on though?”

“We can do that!” Omen hopped up and towards the back curtain, tail chased from the drawer by a stern look from Ezra. Alkar trailed up after him and they disappeared with sounds of playful bickering cut off by the fall of the trapdoor.

Ezra let Mrs. Ellison in and continued his morning.

He was finding it hard to focus. Preparing ingredients for potions, what sort of injury did she have? Would he have what he needed to help her? Small talk with Mr. Barlow from down the street, would it be painful, or a comfort to meet Maro’s family? Was she very like them? Or nothing at all? Which would be worse?

By early afternoon the shop felt dense with anticipation. He decided to take his lunch out onto the front step to get a bit of air. It was a rare sunny day in Lunaris, and the warmth of the sun on his hair was a welcome change.

Ezra was taking the last sips of his tea when he spotted Coco down the street, primly hopping from a porch railing and trotting towards a crouched figure beckoning her over. A long black coat pooled around them, and they leaned heavily on a thin staff. Coco stopped in front of them for a moment, considering, before flopping over, paws tucked up, big eyes wide, no mercy. The stranger was clever enough to ignore the soft belly fur on display and obligingly give her a (much safer) scritch around the cheeks and chin.

Ezra smiled, setting his teacup on the step to stand and walk over. As he approached he heard them talking to Coco in a playful tone “You know some of your cousins are far less sweet little friend?” Their pets were rewarded with a purr, before Coco hopped back up to rub along Ezra’s leg before loping off in the direction of the shop.

The stranger turned at his approach and tucked a fallen brown curl of their curly, chin length mop behind an ear. As they stood, using the staff to take much of their weight, Ezra immediately realized that this was Maro’s sister.

There was something familiar to her. Her face wasn’t as soft as Maro’s, a curious, friendly smile framed by a narrower, sharper jaw and more prominent nose, eyes less wide, but a familiar misty grey. She was tall and willowy, taller than Maro, perhaps even a tad taller than Ezra. Under her long coat she wore a cream, collared shirt buttoned to her neck, tucked loosely into dark, high waisted trousers with a patterned purple sash spilling from one pocket. A silver axe with intricately forged designs hung at her waist.

“Is she yours?” She asked, smiling and nodding in the direction Coco had gone.

“Yeah, that’s Coco.” He offered a smile back “ Spoiled thing. Are you Rowan?”

Her eyes widened minutely, “Yes,” she paused a moment, considering him “You must be Ezra. Maro’s written lovely things about you and that vampire.”

“I am.” Ezra replied, trying very hard not to imagine Maro scratching out sweet things about them in that messy scrawl. “I was told you might need some help with an injury? My shop is just over there if you’d like to come in?”

She sighed, "I'm glad to meet you then, and yes, thank you, I suppose that needs to be dealt with first."

He led her back to his home, and even limping, she walked with the same strange grace and strength that seemed innate in most Hunters. He supposed he now knew the reason for that. She entered ahead of him and as she disappeared into the dimmer light, he was not at all surprised to feel a sense of deja vu.

#wtnc #wtnc fic #wtnc fanfic #when the night comes #august / hunter #finnzra #finn / ezra / hunter #august willenheim #finnegan kazimir #ezra lyon #lots of coco in this chapter #she's v important

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spookyspaghettisundae · 5 years

Text

No Such Thing, Part 1

The church tower bell rang in the distance, sounding midnight’s arrival through the cobblestone-covered streets of Crimsonport. The glass window panes on the residence of Sir Arthur Thompson muffled each chime of the bell as it droned on.

The witching hour.

The knight sat with his long-term guest Pàdair at the kitchen table. Both of them stared intently at the lone object in the center of the table’s surface. The tiny flames on the candles ringing around this object flickered, causing the shadows they cast in the room to dance like ghosts.

In the center of the candles lay a beautiful ivory comb, carved into the shapes of a unicorn for the handle and the toothed section to appear like its tail. Silver lined the ridge of the stylized mythical creature’s back. This artful item refused to budge, no matter how focused the two men were as they stared at it. The ringing from the clock tower had stopped, though the sound of it continued to echo in their minds.

But they expected it to move by a ghostly, unseen hand. Any time now.

Arthur’s eyes began to dry out and he blinked. He buried his face in both hands and rubbed his eyes with a sigh.

“This is silly,” Arthur whinged. “I cannot believe you goaded me into this nonsense.”

Pàdair continued to stare at the comb. Without looking up from it, he grumbled into his reddish beard, “Do not look away, now. Or you miss it.”

A gust of wind whisked the light out from all four candles. The room grew colder and the sensation of gooseflesh haunted Arthur. Pàdair and Arthur’s gazes met, both infused with a mixture of concern, fear, and that sinking certainty that there could have been no gust of wind in Arthur’s abode—all doors and windows were firmly shut to keep the wintry air outside.

The comb moved. The subtle scuffing of it spinning on the coarse wooden tabletop drew both their attention. Dim street lights from outside allowed them to watch, fascinated by this unnatural spectacle. The ivory comb turned, ever so slowly. It spun with surprising speed and froze abruptly in a different position, as if pointing in a direction past the oven and pointing at the wall. The two men looked there, seeing only wall next to one of the gridded kitchen windows.

Arthur cleared his throat, “Is that—”

“Aye,” Pàdair growled.

“What does this mean? What does any of this mean?”

“Ghosts, my friend,” Pàdair said, nodding sagely. “Messages from beyond the grave.”

Arthur wanted to utter a glib response, but swallowed the remark. He sighed again. His guest’s sheer sincerity about everything, no matter how awkward or uncomfortable, had initially led him to take him by his word when he told him about this phenomenon the first time.

“I think—I think it is not here, but pointing to somewhere else. Elsewhere in the city, even elsewhere outside the city, mayhaps,” Pàdair said, his thick northern accent adding a strange gravity and credibility to his wild assumptions.

He opened his mouth again to say something else. But the comb flew off the table towards the wall, clanging as it struck the iron oven and clattered down on the cold floor. There, it rested, still as the dead once more.

“That—that was new,” Pàdair stuttered out.

Arthur shook his head once a shiver had run down his spine, not even caused by the flying comb itself but by Pàdair’s comment. He set his jaw, reminded himself of his station, and walked over to the comb. He had been raised to ignore superstitions as nonsense that only the common folk believed in. An academic upbringing grounded in science and an adulthood marked by service and duty to the crown had rendered him rather sober towards anything “unnatural.”

He had also always lived his life by dealing with every challenge set before him.

So he crouched down and picked up the ivory comb, holding it lightly between thumb and index finger.

It trembled. Gently. He let it guide him. He twisted his wrist until it stopped, pointing him in the direction of the wall. Standing up straight, he walked the comb to the window. Pàdair stood up from his chair and followed.

The two of them peered out the window. Banks of fog rolled through the cobblestone-covered streets, almost suffocating the light from the lampposts outside.

Arthur nodded, transfixed on the empty streets. “Perhaps in the morning after a good cup of tea to warm us for the—”

“Nah. The spirits are most active now, every child knows that. And you would not wanna anger them, eh?” Pàdair clapped him on the shoulder and chuckled.

Arthur’s chin crinkled and his voice trembled, “There is no such thing as ghosts. There must be some scientific explanation for this. Perhaps magnetism and the silver in the comb.”

He rattled through different possible rationalizations as they dressed up to leave his home and investigate. Pàdair humored him, but seemed to chuckle over most of Arthur’s attempts at explaining the phenomenon away, sometimes even emitting a short guffaw at the particularly strained ones like freak earthquakes or alchemickal reactions with the materials used in the house’s construction. All the while, the ivory comb sat on a dresser, motionless, patiently waiting for them. Arthur took it as they left.

They exited the streets, armed with a gaslight lantern in Arthur’s hand and a flintlock pistol holstered in his belt. Pàdair had strapped on a sheathed hunting knife.

Pàdair cackled after insisting that Arthur should carry the comb, as his fine gentlemanly hands were primed for such a delicate task. Arthur swallowed his annoyance towards the northman’s constant ribbing, soon growing more annoyed by the comb refusing to point the way.

Without any aim, they wandered for minutes through the streets, Pàdair following Arthur’s lead. Only few windows glowed with dim lights as most people already slumbered away on this bitter-cold night. Only one couple, a gentleman and lady walking arm and arm, passed them by while giving them quizzical looks; the district remaining rather deserted otherwise.

“It is not giving you any direction, is it,” Pàdair said in the monotone of a statement instead of a question.

Arthur’s nose crinkled and he sniffed, asking his companion, “Are you not cold wearing—well, that?” He waved the lantern at Pàdair’s kilt. Only part of him was trying to deflect—the knight was wrapped in a long coat, a thick scarf, wearing his tall service boots and a tricorne hat—he truly wondered now about Pàdair’s choice of attire at this time of the year.

“Nah,” Pàdair said, shooting a glance down to the little bit of his knees exposed between kilt and high red stockings. “Maybe you should give me that lil’ keepsake after all. Maybe it responds better to me because I choose to believe in—”

He reached out to snatch the comb from Arthur’s hand but the knight snapped his hand out of the way, clicking his tongue.

“I thought it required a fine gentlemanly touch,” Arthur interrupted him with a smirk.

Pàdair pushed past and grabbed it anyway. Arthur let him take it, hoping to see it respond as little to the northman as it did to him. Surely, this would help prove that the phenomenon had nothing unnatural about it. That it had just been a freak occurrence.

The northman held the comb out in front of him like a dowsing rod, eyes focused with fiery intent and conviction. After a few moments, he waved it around like a magicked wand and then shook it, and then finally uttered a string of profanities in a foreign tongue.

“Alright,” Pàdair said. “It is broken. You scared the spirit away.”

Arthur snatched it back out of Pàdair’s hand, and typical to their relationship, the northman let him take it.

“I know someone who can figure this out,” Arthur said. “And when I say, ‘figure this out,’ I mean finding an answer to this mystery—other than ghosts and other such drivel.”

“I am all ears.”

“Bobby Simmons, someone I went to college with,” Arthur said, nodding to himself as if he had found the answer to everything.

“Ah, some ponce with an education always made things better, like the war in the north.”

Arthur glared at Pàdair for that comment; for having poked around in old wounds that had not healed. For either of them, Arthur thought. He frowned and decided to shrug it off.

“Bobby is not what you would expect,” Arthur said with an arched brow. “Got into working as a detective, aiding private customers in investigations and sometimes even helping out the police. Solved a murder case only recently, I hear. But—”

“But he’s a ponce.”

“She—”

“Come again? A woman?”

Arthur nodded again, “Yes, Roberta 'Bobby’ Simmons. Faked her gender throughout all of her time at the college, posing as a lad like the rest of us.”

Pàdair cocked his head back in surprise.

“But listen. She is not only educated well, she is brilliant,” Arthur added with emphasis on the last word. “Also a bit—eccentric? You’ll see.”

“Wait. You mean we are going to visit her at this ungodly hour?”

Arthur’s lips curled into a lopsided grin, “As I said, she’s a bit odd.”

The knight had not exaggerated, as Pàdair would soon find out. After an hour’s walk through the city into the less savory harbor district, they entered the warmth of a dingy pub near Horthall Wharf. Thick smoke made it harder to breathe in there. The deeper they ventured into the locale, the more humid it got.

The cold fresh air from out in the streets made way to the smell of sweat and cheap booze. The two men had to push through thick clusters of people crowding the establishment. Although Arthur’s attire was posh enough to draw some attention, Pàdair in particular garnered quite a few confused looks and even a snide comment from one of the other patrons.

“Go back home, northman,” said a filthy-faced man with a wide grin, displaying that some of his teeth were missing.

Pàdair smiled back at him and flipped him the bird, provoking the drunk man to lurch forward at him with a raised fist. But the drunk man’s drinking buddies held him back as he complained, swearing at them and telling them to let him go to teach the northern swine a lesson, all the while he made futile attempts at breaking free from their collective grip. Everybody could tell at a glance that the northman—a whole head taller and with limbs as thick as tree trunks—would make short work of the small lout.

Arthur and Pàdair ignored the encounter and pushed past another group. They meandered through the flocks of folk and descended down a flight of narrow stairs into the cellar. Raucous laughter resounded everywhere, the clink of mugs striking together, the stench of tobacco and opium weighing even heavier in the air down here—this place yet livelier than Arthur had expected.

The slapping of fists hitting flesh, pained grunts and shouts, and a swarm of spectators cheering them on greeted the two men as they entered the lower level where a fighting pit was located. The most invested among them shouted about their bets and called the two boxers fist-fighting each other in the pit various odious names.

Arthur looked around until he spotted Bobby and then pointed her out to Pàdair. The northman followed his gesture and spotted her by the table—eliciting a doubletake as he blinked and studied her unusual appearance.

Bobby wore a dark brown suit, though it was of cheaper make than Arthur’s and crumpled and stained dark in a few spots, with a pocket watch hanging from a button. Her dirty-blonde hair was cropped short and mostly tucked underneath a round hat, and she wore a pair of simple spectacles on her nose. Her jacket haphazardly hung off the back of the chair she sat on and her sleeves were rolled up, displaying crude tattoos worthy of a sailor on notably muscular forearms.

Had Arthur himself not known already, her get-up today could have fooled him better than ever before. It had been years since they had last seen one another, after all, and Bobby seemed to have fully adopted the guise of one of the city’s typical gentleman—albeit with the air of a hooligan about her.

With fondness, he recalled the last time they had spoken, when she saw him off as he marched into the war in the north all those years ago. A dear friend.

Right now, she sat slumped over the table, her chin propped up on a fist as she lazily looked over the fence into the fighting pit, with black rings of fatigue lining her eyes. Someone had splayed out several decks of cards over the table, leaving several empty mugs behind, where she now sat all alone. She covered her mouth to hide a yawn.

Arthur and Pàdair approached her table and stood still, awaiting her to look up at them. Her eyes went wide once she recognized Arthur.

“Good god be damned,” she said, causing Arthur to frown over her using the merciful lord’s name in vain. “Look who survived the war.”

She gestured over to the empty chairs and knocked over a mug. It shattered when it hit the floor. Some people jeering at the fighters in the pit paused, looked at the shards still rocking on the spot, stared at Bobby, then returned their attention to the match below.

“Bobby, you’re a sight for sore eyes,” Arthur said with a grin, taking a seat. Pàdair followed suit.

Without engaging at all, she pointed an outstretched index finger at Pàdair’s face, “Who’s the northman? Souvenir from the Old Frontier? Didn’t know the royal army allowed you to take those home with you.”

Pàdair gave her a crooked smile and leaned over to Arthur. “Oh, she has spunk,” he said loud enough so she could hear him.

Bobby’s brow furrowed in frustration and she wagged her finger at him while clicking her tongue, then shushed him, “Button it up, you skirt-wearing flapdoodle, I was talking to him.”

This prompted a hearty guffaw from Pàdair and a mutter, “Ah, I hate her already.”

She grabbed one of the mugs from the seat Arthur had taken while maintaining eye contact with Pàdair. She sniffed the contents and then took a greedy gulp from it.

Bobby peeled her stern, steely gaze off of Pàdair and met Arthur’s warm smiling face. She asked, “Take it you’re not here to catch up on the years gone by, yeah?”

“Well, we should actually do that that at some point, should we not? But no—you are absolutely right. It’s a case—”

“Not interested,” she said, taking another sip. Then another. “It’ll cost you a good deal o’ coppers,” she muttered after another gulp. She slammed the mug onto the table.

Arthur blinked and Pàdair guffawed again.

Arthur patted his pockets, looking for the comb, “Alright then, fine. It is a very strange case—”

She slumped back into her chair, eyes wandering over to the other tables nearby, searching them for mugs of ale she could swipe. Three men there got up and wandered to the side of the fighting pit to cheer with some drunken laughter.

Arthur asked Pàdair if he had the comb, which the northman confirmed, pulling it from his pouch and placing it on the table.

Bobby shot a passing glance at it and groaned, “I said coin, not fancy keepsakes you cheated off o’ some lady.”

Arthur chuckled and pushed it across the table, shoving cards and mugs aside to get it over to Bobby’s side. With a grin that he felt communicated his own disbelief, he said, “No, no. See, this is a strange case. This comb here is, well, haunted.”

She grabbed a mug from the table nearby and sat back down, took a sip, and then blinked as she stared at Arthur over the edge of the mug.

“Oh, you’re serious,” she said. Wrinkles creased her forehead to the point of a pattern, betraying her utter sense of disbelief. “Remember what we always used to say, Arty Sir knight-man? You’re a knight now, yeah?”

“There is no such a thing as ghosts,” he replied without answering the second question.

“Bloody right there isn’t.” She picked up the ivory comb and irreverently flipped it in her hands a few times, studying it. “Old world make, probably elephant tusk imported from the dark continent. Pagan carvings, common nickel lining. Worth a fair bit to collectors, I suppose,” she muttered, mostly to herself.

Pàdair and Arthur exchanged glances. Arthur nodded with a confident smile.

She flipped it another time and spoke again without looking up at them, “Humor me. Where’d you get this?”

“A parcel delivered to my estate in the upper city,” Arthur said.

“Addressed to a Johnn von Brandt,” Pàdair added.

Arthur’s head snapped around at Pàdair and he asked in a sharp tone, “What?”

“It was addressed to a Johnn von Brandt,” he repeated back at him.

“Look, I hesitate to call you a savage even on the worst of days, but opening up another person’s parcel is a crime in the kingdom,” Arthur hissed at him. “Do you not have any laws up north?”

Pàdair shrugged and retorted, “The delivery man insisted the address was your estate, so he gave it to me to hand it off into your care.”

“And you simply opened it without even asking me. You know, I have a reputation to uphold—”

“Von Brandt likely used to live at that address until only recently,” Bobby interrupted them. She had put the comb back down and sipped from her stolen mug, smiling in amusement over the two men bickering. When they turned their heads to give her their full attention, she continued, “The von Brandt family name is one of several that have been disgraced, with their property seized by the crown after being declared lawless bandits. Let me guess—you assumed ownership over that estate for a bargain in an auction after you returned from the war.”

Taken aback by her quick insight and being lectured on political subjects he held little interest in, Arthur cleared his throat and nodded, “Well, uhm, yes.”

“Alright, so, you received this package for a known criminal, and your—manservant? What in the devil’s name is this northerner to you?”

Pàdair chuckled, leaned in and said, “I have wondered the same.”

Arthur turned red in the face, “He was a captive from the war taken here for interrogations and prisoner exchange. And as you may know, the crown released many of the prisoners after the treaty with the north was signed. He had no place to stay—”

“And Arthur here was so kind to let me stay and learn the customs of the kingdom,” Pàdair finished with another sagely nod.

“Anyway,” Bobby steered the conversation back to the matter at hand. “What about that haunting?” She folded her hands and rested her chin against them as she leaned forward, a wry smile plastering her face as her tone and posture evidently mocked the two men for their ridiculous superstitions.

Pàdair nodded again, his face turning serious. “Listen, ghosts are no jape where I come from. There are plenty of spirits out there, benign and mischievous, good and evil. We don’t know what this is about, but—

"It’s not a ghost,” Arthur said, shaking his head and flashing a smile that lacked all confidence. He remembered what he had witnessed at midnight.

“The comb moves of its own volition, see,” Pàdair continued in all earnest. “It pointed in a certain direction—even flung itself against a wall as if the wyld hunt had swooped down to toss it.”

“It is lined with nickel, which is one of the ferromagnetic metals,” Bobby said with a tired look in her eyes. “Or perhaps a freak quake?”

Arthur nodded at Pàdair and said, “I told you—”

The comb began to float off of the surface of the table. A hand’s width up. It hovered there, dangling in the air as if held up by invisible strings. Then it jolted around and pointed in a direction, upwards and diagonal.

“That is new,” Pàdair said.

Bobby snatched the comb out of the air and stuffed it in her pocket.

With an exasperated pitch to his tone, Pàdair asked, “Wait, what are you doing? That is what I was talking about. I think the spirit is trying to tell us something.”

Bobby’s gaze scanned their environs for a few moments. Her mien had darkened. All of the confidence and the smirking mockery vanished. She leaned farther over the table towards the two men.

“Shut it, you daft cunt. I feel it wriggling in my pocket right now. And while I don’t know what I just witnessed, I know nobody else here should see a bleedin’ object floatin’ around in our midst. You know what happens if people think you’re dabbling in witchcraft?”

Arthur rubbed his temples.

“There no such a thing as gho—”

Bobby pointed at Arthur’s face, “Correct. But we’re gonna find out what this truly is, gents. This sort of phenomenon could be a scientific breakthrough waiting to happen. Also, I love me a good mystery.”

Her chair creaked as she jumped up and sprung into motion, leaving. The two men quickly followed. They ascended the stairs out of the cellar, pushing past other patrons, exiting the pub mere seconds before anybody noticed Bobby had stolen their drinks.

Out in the streets, the trio wandered into an alleyway where she produced the comb from her pocket and held it out in an open palm. All three of them stared at it intently, waiting for something to happen.

Nothing happened.

“Bloody—I could have sworn it was moving in my pocket just before,” Bobby grumbled.

The comb lifted off, hovering a few inches off the palm of her hand. It spun around and locked into position, pointing down the alleyway. She grabbed it again and nodded in the direction the comb had directed them to wander. The smirk returned to her face. “Come on. There is no such a thing as a ghost and I will prove it to you without a shadow of a doubt.”

Pàdair chuckled nervously, “I do not know too much about spirits or black magick, lass, but I do think I know that what we’re dealing with here cannot be explained with science.”

She shook her head and turned to lead the way, holding the comb out as it sometimes shifted, sometimes wriggled, pointing her down different paths.

A few steps ahead of the two men trailing behind her, she kept up a brisk pace through the city’s streets so they could not catch up.

So they could not read the growing concern behind her eyes.

(to be continued)

—Submitted by Wratts

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endoftheworldpaul · 5 years

Text

It's still technically Wednesday for me so looks like we got another close call update!

@dbhrarepairs Here's my submission for day 3, wrong blind date.

Both Convin and Elijah/Leo bc I shouldn't brainstorm when I'm tired.

If you would rather read on AO3, you can click here!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/20611682

Again, I apologize, but I'm having serious troubles with getting the read more break in here if anyone has tips I'm willing to listen Google isn't helping.

EDIT: I FIGURED IT OUT. Well, really, I just went on my laptop bc mobile, for all its benefits for my schedule, is super confusing when it wants to be.

Usually, Nines is rather reliable. Always prepared, always punctual, always one step ahead of everyone else.

Just not this week. Finals week had, as always, was hellish for most students. Even Nines felt some of the end of the year panic. And by some, it was more along the lines of going into an over-studying craze.

One problem that accompanies what his close friends have dubbed The Dark Ages is that he takes on too many extra projects in a failing attempt to distract himself.

One such project is promising four very confused and stressed friends to set them up on blind dates. Four friends that, he decided, needed something new to distract from the stresses of life.

Friend number one—Gavin Reed, a police officer closing in on his second year out of police academy—was the one who unintentionally gave Nines the idea to play matchmaker.

On a cold Friday evening, their weekly "chill day," Gavin was complaining about his coworkers, as usual.

"So, there's this new guy, a transfer from Dearborn, who is so fuckin' annoying. Dude spends his entire fucking break, I shit you not, to gush about his wife. Just got married. Who cares? Lotsa people get married, why should it be such a big deal? So I say to him, "Why don't you spend less time rambling on about the missus, and more time solving fucking crimes?" And the asshole has the gall to tell me that I'd change my mind if I could keep someone around for more than a week! What a dick right?"

While Nines loved spending time with Gavin, he made conversations interesting and he was honest, he got into moods and would, for lack of a better word, be a huge bitch about things he didn't agree with.

Nines shot a glance towards Gavin, taking in his position sprawled out on Nines' couch, one leg dangling off the edge, fiddling with his phone. "I suppose the only option would be to prove him wrong then. Show that you can 'keep someone around for more than a week' and rub it in his face, good ol' Gavin Reed style." He scowled, "But who would be this mystery date?"

Gavin looked up from his phone, shooting Nines a confused glance. "Well, I 'spose it could be one of those friends of yours. You've got like a million, it can't be that hard to find someone who'll like me. Even if I am kind of a dick!"

Nines hummed in confirmation, mentally creating a list of potential dates for Gavin. He had a lot of pros and cons lists to make.

Friend number two—Connor Stern, a newer acquaintance of his—was the catalyst for the second half of what would eventually turn into Nines' biggest embarrassment.

Connor had been more forthright with his date searching. On one of their shopping trips, devised when they found out they both lived at the same apartment complex as well as frequently shopped at the same local grocery store, he had suddenly enquired as to whether or not Nines could find someone he could go on a date with.

"I suppose, since it's been so long that I've tried dating, that I should consider pursuing romantic relationships. Now that I am about to graduate from the academy, I have more time to do so. So you have anyone in mind whom you think I could form a serious connection with, whether it be more friendly or more romantic?"

At first, Nines was a little surprised. But he quickly overcame that because a wave of excitement washed over him. Since he began planning a blind date for Gavin three days prior, Nines had closely analyzed the personalities of all of his companions. In doing so, he had gotten closer to narrowing down who Gavin's date would be. To find Connor a potential date, all he would have to do is make minor adjustments to his list of complementary personality traits and hobbies.

He gave Connor a small smile in confirmation. "I think I can come up with a person or two."

After narrowing down his list of potentials for Connor, he had to ask friends if they would be available in the set few days Connor had confirmed he would be free.

Option one, a close friend and classmate, North Dufay, stated that she had to take over for a friend who was on vacation at the taekwondo studio she worked at.

Option two, local street artist Markus Manfred, was also unavailable. His father was accompanying him to an art gallery showing in Paris, where both artists would present new works.

That left one person. The third friend roped into Nines' disaster of a plan, Elijah Kamski, genius and programmer, and massive introvert. It had been at least three years, half of the time Nines has known him, since he had even attempted to socialize with anyone outside of his immediate friend group. Jumping from one project to the next, he had a habit of ignoring any of Nines' attempts at getting him to redirect his attention elsewhere and relax. Nines hoped that, by introducing him to someone new who would match his wit and appreciate his devotion to his goals, it would encourage him to pursue other minor hobbies and allow him to de-stress.

Connor, who was sarcastic and determined, seemed like a perfect match.

Finding Gavin a date took a little more thinking than it did for Connor; he had a less approachable personality. Grumpy and irritable, many of Nines' friends would be unable to withstand sharp jabs and brutal honesty long enough to get to see his protectiveness and ambition.

North might've been a good option, but she had prior engagements. Tina might've gotten along well with Gavin, but they had dated in high school and agreed that being friends was better for both of them. At first, Chloe seemed like she might be a good match, but she had recently come out as aromantic and asexual, so Nines ruled her out.

The only option left was the chaotic ball of energy that was Leo Manfred, Markus' half brother. When he was younger, Leo had been in a bad situation, but finding supportive friends and a good therapist that encouraged him to redirect his anger to something more productive had helped him find a purpose in life, create goals.

Now a full time student, well on his way to becoming a psychologist, he was likely to enjoy Gavin's sass and dorky jokes.

People paired up, all Nines had to do was organize the details of the dates. For Connor and Elijah, he decided that a less crowded, but not isolated café just off of the main streets would be perfect. Or, was that where he had planned Gavin and Leo's date? No, he was mostly sure that he had made reservations for them at a local restaurant by Gavin and Tina's shared apartment. He didn't have time to worry about it at the moment; he had a final to study for.

Connor had the feeling that something was going to go wrong. Nines hadn't told him his date's name to prevent him from looking him up on social media platforms and form any opinions on him before their actual date. He was just told that his date was about average height, with dark hair, often wore glasses, and had horrible posture.

So of course, when someone matching that exact description walked through the door six and a half minutes after their scheduled meet up time, he hesitantly waved.

The man, indeed wearing glasses, seemed slightly out of breath. He hadn't seemed to try to dress up, dressed in a faded gray, long sleeved sweater and wrinkled blue jeans.

Flopping down into the chair across from Connor, his date sighed, stuck a hand out to shake, and blurted out "I'm so sorry I'm late! My roommate let my cat outside accidentally and I had to chase her down the street so that I could get her home and by the time I did, I had lime fifteen minutes max, and I still had to shower and stuff and then i realized that my dryer broke in the middle of this last load so most of my clothes are either soaked or horribly wrinkled and I couldn't find a shirt that made my eyes look really good and I forgot to put my contacts in and… yeah. I'm so fuckin' sorry, I wanted to try to impress you but I'm doing a kind of shit job at that huh?"

Connor blinked a few times, trying to absorb the story his date, who still had yet to introduce himself, threw at him. He tried to smile reassuringly, and shook the still outstretched hand. "Well that seems like a horrible afternoon. It's a pleasure to meet you, I'm Connor. You're also a friend of Nines' then I suppose?"

"Oh yeah! Yeah I am. Uh, I'm Gavin. It's nice to meet you." Gavin shifted in his seat. "Sorry again for being late. It really isn't normal for me, I swear."

"Well it happens every one in a while. It's sweet that you care about your cat so much that you would go out of your way to looking for her like that. What's her name, if you don't mind me asking?"

Gavin gasped and frantically pulled his phone out, unlocking it. "Her name is Dana and she's a menace! Look, she's so fluffy!" He shoved his phone at Connor, who takes in the fluffy black mass, staring up at him through the photo. Her bright green eyes reflect a tiny image of Gavin, holding his phone to take the photo and squinting in concentration. Cute.

Connor smiles. "Well, that is the most gorgeous menace I've ever seen. She looks so soft."

"Oh she is. If I don't brush her every day, she gets violent." Connor snorts. "Ha, yeah it's funnier when you're not on the receiving end of her tiny little dagger-teeth. I should probably stop gushing about my cat; you'll think I'm crazy soon! So, uh, how did Nines describe me? Because he described you as, and I quote, a kind of tall, dark haired twink with a nice smile."

Connor chuckled. "It seems like the stress is really getting to him if he could only describe me as a twink with a nice smile. He was a lot more bland when describing you. He said you're average height, with glasses and dark hair and a horrible posture. Which, I mean, at least he's been pretty accurate with his descriptions, even if they do seem rushed."

Humming in agreement, Gavin asked, "Hey, what do you do? You got a job or you studying or what?"

"Oh I'm currently in the police academy. I wanna be a lieutenant someday."

Gavin wiggled in his seat. "Oh shit, I'm a cop too! I escaped the academy two years ago."

"Really? Oh that's amazing! Maybe we'll get to work together on cases. It would be nice to have made a friend or something when I graduate from the academy. So what do you do now? What's it like, being a serious police officer like that?"

They continued chatting for the next two hours, occasionally buying each other snacks and drinks. Connor was hesitant to end the date, suggesting they walk to the park or go watch a movie.

They spent most of the afternoon together, before Gavin offered to walk Connor home. Standing on the sidewalk by the front doors, Gavin slowly took hold of Connor's hands and stood on his toes to kiss Connor's nose.

"I had a lot of fun, I'd love to see you again" Gavin murmured.

A blush crept up Connor's cheeks. "Well it's a good thing I'm free next Saturday, because I do too."

"Oh, well that's good." Gavin sighed. "I'm gonna hafta leave soon, or else Dana'll throw a fit. I'll see you Saturday okay? Is seven good? I got a half brother who can hook me up with some fancy reservations if you'd like."

Connor squeezed Gavin's hand before hesitantly letting go. "Sounds like a date. I can't wait. Goodbye Gavin."

"G'bye."

Elijah was hesitant to go on Nines' blind date. In a hurry, he only said that his date was a smart kid, a couple years younger than Elijah himself, with dark brown, curly hair.

He didn't want the guy to think too highly of him or else he might want to schedule another date, and Elijah didn't have time for that. So, he decided to show up "accidentally" almost half an hour late. Pushing the café door open, his gaze immediately landed on a grumpy looking guy, maybe twenty-ish, who was slumped over his phone in a booth in the far back.

Shambling over to the grumpy kid, he asked "Are you Nines' friend? I'm here for the blind date."

Grumpy guy glanced up at him, grumbling a "Yeah that's me. You a little late there dude."

Slouching into the other side of the booth, Elijah quoted the excuse he planned out. "I'm sorry. My car wouldn't start, so I had to get a ride from a friend. Maybe I can buy you like a coffee or a sandwich to make up for it?"

"Well, you don't have to bribe me. If you're offering though, maybe a blueberry muffin and a caramel macchiato. And also a name?"

Elijah raised his eyebrows. This kid was more blunt than he was expecting. It was… nice. "Hmm I suppose that it makes sense to give you my name. Elijah." He paused. "Kamski." Some people knew who he was. It wasn't that surprising for a programmer as young as he is to catch the attention of mainstream media if they're successful, which he was.

"Leo. Manfred." Manfred, Manfred. Why did that name sound so familiar? "Are you gonna get my stuff or were you lying about that part?"

If he had wanted to make a better impression, he might've actually laughed at that. Instead, all he did was not and stand up, heading toward the counter. As he was walking, he glanced around the café, observing a small family, a couple teenagers working on homework, and Gavin? On a date. Hmm. That's something to tease him about later.

Returning to the table, he expected Leo to still be on his phone, but instead he was casually observing him. Might as well pass the time by talking. That usually pushes people away pretty fast. "You have a job? Studying?"

Munching on his muffin, Leo hummed. "Mhm. Psychology." Maybe this kid is smart. "Don't worry though, I promise I only psychoanalyze on the second date." Oh. He's actually funny. Maybe this won't be as bad as he thought.

Elijah allowed himself to smile a little at that. "Well, well, well, looks like I have something to look forward to." Elijah what are you doing? Did you just insinuate that you would like to go on a second date with this guy?

Leo chuckles and sets his muffin back down on its plate. "Well you still gotta impress me first. Bribery doesn't work with everyone. If this were the second date, though, I'd have a hell of a lot to say about the lying and avoidance of revealing personal details. But, like I said, that'll have to wait 'til the second date."

Definitely smart. More smart-ass though. That was more appealing than Elijah was expecting it to be.

He sighed. "Well, since you caught me, I suppose I'll have to share something for the class. I'm a programmer. I'm currently working on developing AI tools that will recognise voices to activate or shut down household items, like a stove that shuts off to protect young children from lighting their homes on fire."

"That sounds pretty cool actually. Gotta babyproof the fancy smart-technology. I was expecting you to be something lame, like a very antisocial plumber or a dentist or something, but you're not that boring I guess."

This time Elijah couldn't stop himself from laughing. Maybe, just maybe, he'll let himself enjoy this date. "'Not that boring I guess' is a compliment of the highest caliber, coming from someone as attractive as you." Why not go full flirt, if he wants this to go well.

"Keep talking like that and I'll be swooning into your arms in no time. Seriously though, be careful, I'm starting to like you. That would be horrible, wouldn't it?" Leo raised an eyebrow.

Elijah smiled a little. "I guess it wouldn't be that bad. I think I'm starting to like you too." He snuck a piece of Leo's muffin, then hummed in delight. "That is a phenomenal muffin. You've just been hoarding it all for yourself over there? You are a cruel and unjust monster. Gimme more."

Snickering, Leo smacked Elijah's arm away from the plate. "Only nice dates who ask nicely get to share muffins."

Elijah sighed. "Well I suppose if it's for a muffin of this quality, it will be worth it. I would like some muffin."

Leo didn't budge.

"...Please?"

At this, Leo broke off a large chunk of the muffin and handed it to Elijah. "Well, since you asked so politely, I guess I'm required to give you some now. It's good date behavior. Gotta be good if I want ya to stick around I 'spose." He smirked. Then he glanced at his watch, a rather shiny silver. "Oh shit, I gotta go. I'm house-sitting for my half-brother and I gotta feed his birds."

Elijah hesitated in saying goodbye, even as Leo rushed to clean up. Suddenly standing, he blurted out, "Maybe we can schedule that second date?"

Leo paused, looking up at him. For a few seconds, Elijah thought he was going to decline the offer, but then he straightened his spine, smiled softly, and said, "Meet me at that Italian restaurant off of Main, next Tuesday? 6:30?"

"It's a date. I'll see you then. I'll accompany you to your car." The both of them walked side by side, just close enough that every once in a while, their knuckles would brush up against each other. Parting with a wave, Elijah started planning what he would do to show his thanks to Nines for forcing him to do this dumb blind date thing, because it seemed that it wasn't as dumb as he originally thought.

When Nines ran into Connor in the hallway, he had to see how the date went. "So, what did you think of Elijah?"

Connor froze, turned to look at Nines, brow furrowed, and asked, "Who the fuck is Elijah?" Uh oh.

#dbh #dbh rarepair day 3 #dbh rarepair week #dbh connor #connor rk800 #gavin reed #Convin #elijah kamski #leo manfred #leo x elijah #leo manfred x elijah kamski #eli n gav are half brothers #everybody's human

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storiesundercandlelight · 5 years

Text

Loving Loki - Four

Two weeks. Two uneventful weeks had passed since David and I had our day out. The day where we had also said that we would start dating each other, yet here I am sat on may couch on a Saturday morning wondering why fate and timing had been so cruel to me.

I was being selfish, I knew this yet I couldn’t help myself. So many thoughts were running through my head right now. The case was over. Detective Loki was on the news. Missing girls both found and alive. Even the father of the last girl to be found had been located after his mysterious disappearance. I wanted to be happy, I was, almost. David had been gone so much recently, the last two weeks were manic for him, not just because he solved the case but also because people seemed to blow up about this story, about the detective who had single handedly solved this brutally horrible case of the abduction of two girls.

My phone vibrated against the wood of the coffee table beside me, my eyes pulling away from the dull noise of the TV. It was David.

I know you’re mad, I’m sorry I haven’t had any time to see you. Can I come over later?

It was hard to be mad, I just couldn’t justify it. How could I be mad at someone who so patiently and passionately wanted to do his best to find the missing girl, who had risked his well being to bring her home? You just cant be mad at someone like that. But I cant deny this strange feeling inside. It had been almost three months since I moved here and the lonely feeling never fully went away. I almost cried when my friend Kate told me she was coming to visit me, I swear I couldn’t wait the three days it was going to take before she’s due to visit.

I’m not mad David, how could I be? Of course you can come over x

These little texts back and forth had been a constant part of my daily routine for the last two weeks. It was the only thing that fully reminded me that I was even in this relationship. This very new, very non-existent relationship.

Ok, I’ll be there around 5:30pm? We could order some food and watch a movie?

I had to admit he knew how to do it. Somehow he knew after so little time that I preferred to stay home and snuggle up rather than dressing up and going out. Well…except from when Kate gets here then going out is a must, the girl seems to function best under florescent lights and above crowded dance floors.

My eyes drifted to my laptop, still sat on the coffee table “Draft One” the only thing written on the screen. I tried, so so many times to get words out. God I wanted to write something. To pour my emotions out and create something that others would be still glued to at 1:00am in the morning because they simply can’t put it down without knowing the ending. I don’t know what it was but the sudden urge to leave the house was so heavy on my shoulders that I didn’t hesitate with my next text.

Skip takeout, I need milk, I’ll grab something to make for dinner x

I was pretty comfortable cooking for myself, it had been a while since I’d cooked for anyone else but the idea of trying something new with David was so exciting.

Sure sounds great x

I allowed myself a few seconds to smile at the fact that he put an x at the end of the text, its such a petty thing to notice but I did anyway. Then I jumped up, grabbed my coat, keys and bag and headed out.

The little car I’d got myself was useful enough, it wasn’t fancy or particularly expensive but it worked for me and didn’t look like a crumpled up tin can so I think I did okay. The parking lot to the local supermarket was pretty full, I didn’t expect anything less for a Saturday. But I did take notice more than once of the kids cheerfully throwing their parents groceries to each other other the carts. One wrong move and that melon is going everywhere.

I settled for teriyaki chicken, some rice and a few greens. I’d cooked it more than once and didn’t feel like a complete fool when it came to cooking it for someone else. As I walked down the isles grabbing what I need plus extra groceries for the week my phone started ringing. David?

“Hey, you okay?”

��Yeah I got a five minute break so I figured I’d call, whats that noise?”

“That would be two kids trying to decide which one of them can throw the vegetables in they mothers cart the furthest, I think they’re going for a world record”

“You’re joking right?”

“Nope, you cant make this stuff up, the floor attendant looks like he’s about to blow a fuse” I pushed myself up onto my tip toes to reach a bag of chips from the top shelf.

“If it’s the Harris kid they’ll be strung up from the ceiling by the time you leave”

“You know too many people”

“It’s a small town, so what are you cooking tonight?”

“I cant tell you”

“Why not?”

“Because if I do then you’ll have too much time between now and when you’re due over to realise you hate what I’m cooking and make an excuse not to come” I finally reached the till where a teenager was chewing gum and scanning my items at a snails pace.

“I promise I wont hate whatever you make”

“I’m gonna hold you to that when you taste it and realise that I’m an awful cook”

“Well you said awful first so maybe-“ I heard David reply to someone in the background, the till beeping and the struggle of holding the phone between my head and shoulder while packing preventing me from hearing fully what was said. “I gotta go, I’ll see you later?”

“Oh yeah, sure. See you later” The line went dead just as I’d finished paying. I grabbed my bags and said thanks to the girl who’s eyes were directly chained on the guy working the other till, she popped her gum and nodded at me without even taking her eyes off him.

The rest of the day went by pretty uneventfully, I showered, cleaned the house quickly and ended up in the kitchen. Okay, if I start the dinner prep now I can leave the chicken to marinade in the fridge and then just pull it out to cook when Davids here. I was feeling a lot more optimistic about David coming over. Maybe this would finally be the start of our relationship, no more texting and “Im sorry I couldn’t make it” calls.

I started to cut the chicken on a matt into small pieces, the rice boiling happily on the cooker beside me before hearing a knock at the door. David looked tired, but not as tired as he had been during the case, this tired was a normal kind of tired, not the kind that made him look like he was about to drop any second. As David took off his jacket I returned back to cooking, I could hear his footsteps approaching me and within a few seconds he was behind me, leaning close to me to look over my shoulder at the food. The chicken was now cooking in a pan, mixed with the veggies and sauce.

“I wont lie I could probably eat both of our portions right now” I felt a shiver run down my spine when David spoke, he was close enough that I felt his breath against the back of my ear. His hands were resting gently on my hips. I loved how easy it was to be around David despite the not so normal start we’d had. The over the phone, mostly at work and occasionally in between all of the above schedule we had seemed at first like it would never have worked but I could honestly say I was glad we’d stuck it out. The warmth of him behind me as I cooked our meal felt so right I couldn’t find anything to complain about.

“Why don’t you set the table? It’ll be ready soon” I turned my head to meet Davids gaze a soft smile tugging at the sides of my lips.

“Sure” Just as David turned to go about the job I’d set I quickly grabbed his arm. He stopped to look at me a questioning look falling over his features. I didn’t leave him waiting long before I reached up and planted a kiss on his cheek, teasingly close to his lips. As I pulled away I swore I could see the surprise on Davids face before he smiled and went to set the table. Yes I could get used to this feeling.

The food smelt and looked thankfully as good as it tasted, I poured two glasses of water while David was already happily digging into his food.

“Do they forget to feed you?”

“You have no idea” He spoke quickly before going back to his food. I smiled looking at David, ti had been so long since I’d had the opportunity to just look at him. At the department he was so rushed recently and working out regularly left very little time to fully appreciate the seemingly perfect angles of his jaw or his blue eyes that turned a stormy grey when the lighting was right.

“You’re staring”

“Huh?” I quickly meet Davids gaze, realising that he’d stopped eating and was looking at me with a small smirk. “Sorry, it’s just…I kinda missed looking at you, I haven’t really had the opportunity” I felt heat rise to my cheeks and quickly looked down at my plate.

“I know, I feel the same. I was surprised you didn’t notice me staring the other day”

“You were?”

“Yeah, you were at your desk and had this pencil hanging out of your mouth and you looked like your computer had just asked you to single handedly solve its coding, you were just so in your own world, you didn’t even notice anyone else around you, you looked pretty” David held my gaze but I could see the slight embarrassment at his confession etching over his features, he put his fork down and sighed. “I know this hasn’t been great, this whole relationship thing between us. I wanted it to be better than this but I just couldn’t think of anything but the case, I don’t normally get so involved but those girls…they need someone like me to spend too much time looking for leads and not enough time on his new girlfriend, who was well within her rights to leave me, I wouldn’t have blamed you”

“I wouldn’t have left you David. I know how hard this had been, I saw the paperwork. I don’t blame you for not paying attention to me, I couldn’t, I like you for who you are and if that includes your dedication to your work then so be it” a smile spread across Davids face and I let one spread across mine too and for a moment we did just look like two fools in love.

#detectiveloki #detective loki #detective loki x reader #jake gyllenhaal #jake gyllenhaal x reader #fanfiction

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