#so we had a hail storm last night

[zibiscusloon]

Well in recent news I fucking hate hail

[hedgehog-moss]

I was woken up last night by a sound like a machine gun being fired... loud clak-clak-clak that went on for like 10 seconds and I sat in bed completely bewildered because my brain couldn't come up with a plausible explanation for it. Then I remembered about the thunderstorm warning and thought oh shit, the greenhouse. It could possibly be the sound of thick glass cracking and breaking after a branch fell on it...?

I ran outside in my pyjamas and found the greenhouse intact—then thought oh shit, the chicken coop. Had no idea how a chicken coop could produce such a noise but I ran there anyway, and the coop was fine. It was a dry storm, lots and lots of wind but no rain or hail and I stood there uselessly for a moment, trying to think of other explanations with my 3am brain (not easy), then went to check on the llamas just in case, and I found all three of them standing with very alert ears, staring at a fallen tree—one of the four very tall wild cherries in their pasture.

So that was a relief ! From where I was I couldn't see if the tree had crashed on the fence and destroyed a chunk of it, it seemed possible but I decided that was a problem for tomorrow-me, and in any case it could have been worse. The fact that Pampe was still here boded well (for the integrity of the fence)—but seeing as the llamas were lined up in front of the tree like mourners paying their respects at a funeral, maybe she just felt that taking advantage of the tree's misfortune to immediately escape via the opening created by its prostrate body would be inappropriate.

First thing I saw this morning when I opened my bedroom window was the fallen tree, and I started feeling less optimistic because from afar things really didn't look promising for my poor fence.

(And from up close either)

But the tree missed the fence by just a few metres!

Its branches were tangled up with the other trees' branches and I think some of them slowed its fall until they broke one by one, which would explain the prolonged cracking noises, it wasn't just the trunk. But only 1 branch fell on the fence and it wasn't a large one, so there's no damage!

The God of Fences was on my side last night. :)

Consulted on whether he had been frightened by that loud sinister noise in the middle of the night, Pirlouit declined to comment, as he has more tragic problems right now. Our neighbour made hay recently which means Pirou now has several tonnes of hay staring at him and taunting him just outside his pen, out of reach. He is in a bad mood for reasons that have nothing to do with a stupid tree. It's like if you had to live right outside a pastry shop's window, except worse because you're a donkey (they already find life unfair as it is.)

I wonder if the wild cherry tree will soldier on...? Its roots + part of the trunk are still intact, and there are fallen trees in the forest with only 1 toe still in the ground who take their fate pretty philosophically and just start growing perpendicularly, like okay I guess we're sending our branches in that direction now. I'm going to leave it here and see if it rallies. I think it actually looks pretty breezy right now, it kind of looks like this:

Good luck, wild cherry! Let's see if you still have some life in you...

Oh and since we had a new obstacle, I tried to check if Pandolf remembered the word "Saute !" (Jump) and he does! We did it a bunch of times because I was trying to make him understand that I wanted 1 majestic jump and not his lazy 2-steps solution, but I didn't manage to explain it.

Maybe if I said "no :/" instead of "good great what a dog!!" he would think harder about how to improve his technique, but I'd rather fluff up his ego. Even that ridiculous failure at the end was met with a "yes amazing!!" response from me and he felt like an agility champion instead of a bumbling bag of fur. I'm going to try and get him to find his balance and walk on this part of the trunk, so I expect to see a lot more of his "argh, oops, wait" facial expression :)

[historiaxvanserra]

Every Exquisite Thing | A Regency AU

Summary: The first of the season brings with it so many things; new friends, new enemies, a masquerade ball, and a rakish young gentleman with eyes like burnished gold.

Pairing: Eris Vanserra x Archeron!Reader (Regency AU)

Word Count: 3.1k

This is the first part of a series that had been consuming my thoughs day and night for about two weeks. We don't meet Eris yet but we get glimpses and I like what I see 👀 I just wanted to give a feel for the regency vibe and see if we're feeling it or not! Next chapter well get Eris in all his regency glory and I promise you, he's worth the wait.

The townhouse that your family occupies on the main street of the Ton is unusually quiet this morning, you think. The first of the season typically brings with it an air of frivolity; the ladies in their Spring colors, gentlemen riding horse-drawn carriages through the cobblestone streets and the hum of the city beyond. A myriad of color -- lilacs and honeysuckle, dappled with the greenery that climbs along the facades of the townhouses -- a colorful oasis from the bleak gray and green of a Winter spent in the country. 

However, today, the main square, where Pryhtian’s most ancient and noble families convalesce during the fairer months, is blanketed in an oppressive palette of indigo and gray as the last of the Winter’s storms ravages the world beyond Crescent House. 

The sound of the howling wind as it rages like a great tempest through the streets rouses you from your perch on the chaise near the dying hearth. 

The street below the parlor is veiled in the shadowed hues of the storm and not a soul in town has dared brave the wrath of the elements since the dourpour began. Hail patters dismally against the window panes of your families townhouse and an ice-kissed wind crawls its way along the exposed planes of your shoulders and collarbones and in the distance you hear the distinctive draw of a carriage along the main square, near Forest House. As you near the window you observe the hail as it falls like pearls from the darkening sky onto wet, cobbled streets. 

From the oppressive darkness a carriage emerges; a considerable vehicle of polished wood, lacquered with dark emerald paint, the trim and doors are framed with delicate golden embellishments and the doors and rear bear a family crest, obscured by the gloom of the afternoon. The cart itself is drawn by four bay stallions with long, dark manes, sodden with the downpour. From the cabin steps a shadowy figure of a man, once obscured by the oppressive darkness, now illuminated by the lamplight; he’s all dressed in black, save for the white collar of a linen shirt and his long hair, curls away from his face in tousled, auburn waves. He burns most ardent against the bleak afternoon, even in the din of the oil lamps, he looks like something out of one of Feyre’s paintings. Or perhaps the formidable and brooding romantic lead of the romance novels Nesta so adores. Either way he cuts an intimidating figure in the dark streets of the main square. Tall and broad-shouldered, and rather rakish as he stalks up the steps of the townhouse opposite yours. 

From your perch overlooking the street you see him turn outward; admiring the graceful planes of his face, the aquiline nose and high-cheekbones falling to the slender cut of his waist and hips and the broad spread of his shoulders and sculpted arms. 

It occurs to you then that you have been all too obvious in your voyeurism. 

You are watching him. 

And he is watching you in return. 

The very thought elicits something in you; something dark and sentimental and terribly anxious. It is a cruel, coiling thing, in the pit of your stomach. Some ill-fated omen. A harbinger of your own downfall. The ghost at the feast, or a raven in the night that spells your undoing. Whatever it is, there is a deep sense of foreboding in you at the prospect of what this dark figure might herald in with him. 

The tolling of the city bells brings with it a flurry of movement on the street and your eyes meet his strange amber gaze across the way and he scowls. A deep furrow of a brow; the firm set of his jaw, the flex of a pale hand, before retreating into the house. 

“Come away from the window girl,” Your mother chastises in her usual cutting tone as she eyes you from her place in front of the hearth. Her gloved hand inspects the fine silk fabric of the dresses the modiste had sent to her. She holds the fabric between those fine-boned fingers and drapes each swatch over the pale skin of her slender arm with a rehearsed ease as she takes the time to scrutinize every hand-sewn seam and embroidered adornment. 

“Yes mama.” You say absentmindedly, casting one last longing glance towards the dark facade of the townhouse across the street, where the orange flicker of candlelight illuminates the window.. 

Your mother is an austere woman with a cutting sort of beauty rather unlike your own. Her eyes are cold and grey and her features, angular; feline in a way that is almost unnerving to look at. Though even in her age, she bares fine, high cheekbones, unblemished skin, and her long golden hair falls over the delicate slope of her shoulder in coiffed ringlets. She had been quite a remarkable beauty in her youth, it had been said. Now all that remains of her lost youth is an oil painting hung above the hearth-- the paint, yellowed and cracked with age-- and the legacy of her ancient and most-noble lineage. 

Her piercing gaze falls onto you again as you take a turn about the room, perching on the cushioned bench in front of the pianoforte. You run a hand over the untuned keys and in your wake dust mites filter through the stagnant air. 

That piano had once been the beating heart of this room; a symphony of high arching notes that rang through the halls of this house. 

It has not been touched since Nesta left. 

“You look drawn, my dear,” She says simply, her eyes cruel and unyielding as she looks over you and the fine silk draped over her arm, “green does so very little for your complexion.” 

She considers you for a moment longer before turning to the modiste with a quirked brow. The seamstress at least, has the good grace to look apologetically between you and your youngest sister before nodding in agreement to your mother. She murmurs that a deeper shade of green would suit you better, though your mother ignores her entirely.

“Perhaps an emerald tone would suit better” she muses to no one in particular. 

“It would make you look more…tempting” The modiste decides with a sly smile to you when your mother looses a shrill gasp. Your mother hums her disapproval once more from her spot in the armchair before turning her attention towards Feyre on the modiste’s podium as the slender woman takes her measurements for the last alterations to her gown. 

“You look beautiful Fey,” You say lightly, pulling at your own faded sage gown as you regard your youngest sister, “the silver looks exquisite on you.” Feyre smiles brightly at you from her place on the podium and pulls a few strands of her long, golden hair to frame her face. She looks as though she is wreathed in starlight in the silver gown; the high bust lays perfectly over her chest and the cuffed sleeves are trimmed with silver thread and sheer lace and accentuate the slope of her strong shoulders, the skirts fall in a swathe of silk and chiffon and the pearls and opal sewn into the skirts catch like moonglow in the blue light. She smooths the skirts with a flair of her gloved hand and admires the matching slippers that peek out from the long hem. 

“Hmm,” Your mother murmurs lowly, bringing a slender hand to her painted mouth as she assesses the garment carefully, “Yes - the silver favors you, my darling.” Your mother purses her lips once more and nods decisively at the modiste who offers a courteous bow in response. 

“I have hopes that the Lady of Autumn might name you her ‘incomparable’, afterall.” Your mother’s voice is frightfully wistful as she casts a look up to her portrait hung above the dying fire. Beside it, on the mantle Nesta’s painted face stares back impassively at you and you feel anxiety twisting within you again. Feyre laughs. A small, disbelieving thing as she thanks the modiste and exits the parlor in favor of her sketchbook. 

“She did so love Nesta when she was first presented,” You mother recalls, her eyes glassy as she sips at her cold tea with a grimace, “and your sister does so remind me of her.” 

You smile fondly at the thought of your eldest sister; painfully absent for the last few years but missed dearly. Nesta had always bore the brunt of your mother’s cruelty -- until she could bare it no more -- and then you took her place. 

“Yes mama, she will do very well at court.” You say genuinely, though your mother can’t bring herself to acknowledge you. You bite down the bitter taste of jealousy when her eyes linger on the portrait of Nesta hung along the mantel. The way her brows dip in a moment of fleeting grief for her favorite daughter. 

When she looks at you again you get the sense that looking at you now -- in the pallid light of the storm -- is like looking in a mirror. 

It is a mother’s curse you think.

A daughter’s burden. 

Breathing deeply as the modiste pins the hem of the dress you find yourself thinking of the happy recollections of your childhood; you think perhaps your mother is reminiscing on those times too. 

She had been the only daughter of an Earl somewhere on the continent once. Beautiful and graceful. Green and foolhardy. Named the incomparable of her own social season; she had dreams of an idyllic life in the countryside, summers shaded in the laughter of her many sons, and measured in the unyielding smiles of a good husband.

 Of course, as was the way of things, her girlhood ideations had been nought but that-- dreams. Dashed and divided like stardust in a vast twilight abyss. 

A series of scandals and bad investments led her to Pryhtian as the sole heir to an old name. A lamb to the slaughter by her own mother, to be the docile wife of some dull Lord, almost two decades her senior 

In time, she did the same to her own daughters.

Time is a cruel mistress; and the woman she is now is one tarnished by the years. Imposing and cynical; demanding in a way that it was impossible to please her. In your youth you recall her endless cruelty towards you all, though none more than Nesta.

Her prodigy. 

Her pride and joy. 

It was that ceaseless need for perfection that drove Nesta away in the end. 

So with the wave of her hand she gestures to you to take to the podium.

An ill-fated replacement for the daughter she lost.

Her perpetual disappointment.

The modiste is a young woman, who hails from the continent with beautiful dark hair that fell in coiled ringlets over her shoulders, she speaks to you in a low, velvet tenor and has a thick accent that distinguishes her to the natives of this land. She is favored by many of the young ladies of the Ton for her exquisite garments; each made with richly adorned and embroidered fabrics imported from her homeland. You watch impassively as she records your measurements and swatches a few scraps of fabric against your skin. The woman quickly discards the silver that Feyre had worn and opts instead for gold and offers your mother a few other options for your dresses this season; sapphire and cerulean, emerald and ruby, topaz and onyx. 

Then selects a beautiful emerald gown, trimmed with jade and adorned with matching beads and crystals that shine with the glittering darkness of some forgotten forest when the light of the storm outside refacts in their many surfaces. The modiste admires the garment as she holds it up to you; her keen eyes finding yours and smiling brightly and nodding deliberately. 

“This is the one,” She says, her accent so thick with delight that it is difficult to fully understand the words, “perhaps the Lady of Autumn might name you her favorite in your sisters place” She offers it jovially, almost in jest but your mother’s face twists nonetheless. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Your mother laughs cruelly as she regards you in the beautiful garment. You think perhaps that in you she sees all the things she hates about herself. Your mother takes a moment to scrutinize you; her eyes reap over every curve and divot of the skirts as they fall against you, every minute details to find fault where she can. 

It is a mothers’s curse, not to know a daughter’s pain. 

You imagine it is also a mercy too when she looks at you like you are her own reflection. 

Her perpetual disappointment. 

After another silent moment she nods her head to the modiste and rises to her feet. The tea cup rattles and rings viscously through icy air as she sets it down and wanders towards the doors.  

“Oh Feyre darling, you look exquisite!” Your mothers voice is shrill and dripping with pride that elicits a strange sort of jealousy and you swallow down its bitter taste. In the foyer your sister glides down the marble staircase dressed in all her finery. 

Feyre has the type of beauty reminiscent of a falling star; all pale skin, that looks like porcelain, dappled with the iridescent stardust that falls from the sky around her birthday each year. Her dress is one of flowing indigo and complemented by intricate silver embroidery along the cuffs and bust, the long line of her neck is adorned with pearls and diamonds that refract in the light of the chandelier; dashed and divided like a million stars in the night sky. 

She smiles brightly and her laugh echoes like birdsong around the hall as your mother takes her hand. And almost like an afterthought, your mother regards you with thinly veiled horror at the garment that clings to you like a plate of armor. 

A deep merlot gown, inlaid with rubies and pearls; that cast a bloody halo as you step into the light of the chandelier. The skirts bleed into a train made of gossamer thin spidersilk that has a metallic quality to it that makes you feel as though you are some ancient Goddess of love and war. 

Aphrodite perhaps, as deadly as she is beautiful. 

Your hands, though they tremble, bare many gold rings, each polished to the heavens so that she sees her face distorted in their many unblemished surfaces. There is a part of you that hopes craves your mothers love more than you long to insight her ire. 

But that part of you died the day Nesta went away. 

“How do you suppose you’re going to tempt a man into marrying you dressed like that,” She chastices, pulling at the skirts of your wine red dress, “you look like a common whore.”

“At least a whore is paid to abide the insipid company of boring men.” you counter under your breath as your mother strides out into the street. You catch Feyre’s eye and she smiles at you like a feral cat. 

The rest of the carriage ride is spent in solemn silence as the facade of The town hall draws ever closer. You mother’s idle gossip about one Lord of the other hardly seems the rouse you from though as you watch the world beyond this cart pass you by. 

The storm had broken sometime around midday and the tempest gave way to sunlight; soft ochre and gold as it filtered through the open windows of your father’s library, where you had spent the afternoon. Nestled into the worn armchair favored by your father and a quiet comfort when he is away. There, in the confines of your father’s study, you allow yourself to dream; of debauched gentlemen and tortured artists. Stories painted with the vivid imaginings of Gothic heroines and vast and sweeping landscapes. Of temptation and sacrifice.

It is a hobby inherited from your sister and one much discouraged by your mother. 

But as afternoon bled into night you were called away from the pages of manuscripts written in some foreign tongue. For, the Lady of Autumn’s masquerade ball marks the true commencement of the social season each year. It is a night of mystery and secrets; of dark romance and all things fanciful. 

It is the one night a year that you allow yourself to be swept up in the excitement of the season and tonight every eligible Lord and Lady will don their finery for a night of high-arching orchestral music and sweeping dances that herald in the social season. 

It is tonight of all nights where the Lady of Autumn will name the incomparable of the season; a young woman both fair and accomplished that will inspire awe and ire in equal measure. For her troubles she might hope to tempt an eligible gentleman into marriage by summer’s end. And as your mother gives Feyre one more adoring look you know that she is hoping that your sister will insight that awe tonight. 

The carriage draws to a tumultuous halt outside the doors of the grand town hall and you hear the distant laughter of courtiers. The chatter of the ladies distracts you momentarily and you catch their idle chatter; something about the new Duke and his wicked beauty. A beauty as cruel as he is, they say. Their chatter dies when they meet your eyes and they devolve into mean-spirited whispers about the poor Archeron girls and their absent sister. 

“Quickly girls, we mustn't be late.” Your mother instructs and steps from the carriage turning expectantly as you disembark from the vehicle with all the grace you can manage. Your stomach twists in knots and the anxiety is so consuming that it addles your mind. So much so that any intelligent thought you might have had seems to abandon you. 

The gardens of the town hallare saturated in the light of the last shadowed sunbeams as they are obliterated by the rapidly falling night; veins of indigo and amethyst that streak across the black. The air is heady and thick with the smell of wildflowers and wine and every now and again you catch the scent of half-burned oak and bergamot’s on the evening breeze. 

The first of the season is in full swing and the courtiers look like a jewel toned fire in their finery; swathes of ruby and topaz, dappled with emerald and carnelian. You had felt the shift in the air when the sun had begun to set in the sky; that anticipation so palpable you could taste it. It tastes like wood and wildflowers, undercut with something darker. 

You abandon yourself to the thought of it; what he might taste like. 

Hedonism; earthy and dangerous as you swallow it back. 

In an hour or two, when the stars materialize like a million quarts against the velvet abyss, the Ladies will retreat into the mazes, in twos or threes and their Lords, like hungry wolves will begin the hunt. 

A hunt that will last the season

[disturbedbeautywrites]

Too close to home - Tyler Owens Imagine

A/N: Alright babes, so here she is. Hope you guys like it. This is based off an actual tornado I experienced last year (Gotta love tornado alley).

Spring. It was your favorite season and also your least favorite season at the same time. It was the time of year when they flowers started to bloom, it started to warm up, and everyone seemed happier. However, it was also the time of year when tornadoes were the most prevalent. Living in tornado alley meant you were well versed in the forces of nature. They were big. They were mean. They didn’t care what was in their way. Ever since you were a kid, they scared you. You knew the signs and you watched out for them when they came.

It was the dark clouds. It was the smell of rain in the air. It was the cool air and the warm breeze mixing together to bring a perfect mix of chaos. It absolutely terrified you; especially since you worked at a news station and saw what happened when you covered storm damage.

Now, your boyfriend, was a whole other story. You were dating the tornado wrangler himself, Tyler Owens, and the two of you could not be anymore different in your opinions on the monstrous forces of nature. He thought they were beautiful and wanted to chase after them. You thought they were horrible and wanted to stay far away. But, each and every spring you let him chase his passion as long as he promised to keep himself safe and always come back home. He promised and had yet to break it.

It was your two year anniversary and the two of you were cuddled up in bed watching a movie. There was a tornado warning in the area, but Tyler had been watching the tornado tracker on his phone and he felt like there was next to no chance that the ones on the ground would come anywhere near your shared home. Most nights, he would be out chasing the storm with his crew, but he had agreed to stay home with you tonight to spend time with you to celebrate your anniversary.

Your head was on his chest and his fingers were combing through your hair, both your eyes locked on the TV. Outside, the storm was starting to pick up. The thunder was starting to get louder and the rain was starting to pound on the window harder; hail starting to mix in with it. Your eyes widened at the sound, but Tyler didn’t seem to even blink twice, his hand moving down to soothe down your spine. Of course, leave it to the tornado chaser to not even blink at a severe storm. You wished you shared his bravery, but you definitely did not. As the storm started to progress he picked up his phone to check the weather and the tornado tracker, still seeing that there was nothing coming towards you guys and you were safe to not take shelter.

But, as you were sitting there you could start to hear a train in the distance sound like it was passing through and you felt confusion start to cloud your mind. You didn’t remember any train tracks near your house.. But, it definitely sounded like there was a freight train passing by. You looked at Tyler just as his phone rang, one of the guys he chased with calling him.

He pressed a kiss to your forehead and went to standup, answering the call. He pulled the blinds back and revealed a severely dark sky outside your window before he looked at you, eyes wide. The train was getting louder and louder. “Yeah. Ya’ll stay safe.” Just as he was going to hang up the phone, the entire house went dark as the power went out. In the dark and the silence of the house you could barely make him out walking swiftly towards you. He was normally calm about everything so the swift way he was moving made a sense of dread settle through your bones and into your stomach. You had never seen him like this and you had watched him race towards tornadoes hundreds of times by now without even seeming to be phased. But, whatever was happening right now had him rattled.

“We have to get to cover now.” That was all he said as he reached out for your hand, lacing your fingers together as he pulled you towards the back door of your shared home. You had never once heard him warn you to take shelter, so something really bad must be happening. The two of you made your way outside and everything was super dark. Rain was pelting down from the sky in massive drops as it mixed with hail. The wind was whipping around you and Tyler held your hand tight as the two of you made your way towards the door that was propped up outside of the ground. He started to open it, turning around to see a massive funnel cloud making its way right towards your house.

You felt your blood run cold as it started to descend down towards the ground and you heard him urging you to hurry, reaching out to grab your wrist. He was yelling something but you couldn’t hear him over the wind, you just could make out the sound of him yelling but the words were incomprehensible. You felt a tug on your wrist as he ushered you inside, standing to take in the beauty of the descending tornado as it tore down on your neighborhood quickly.

“Ty!” You yelled out for him as you made your way down the stairs, the chaos of everything making you feel more panicked than you already were. But, the look on his eyes said everything. The passion. The dedication. “She’s damn perfect.” You could tell he was either saying the words or mouthing them, but the wind was taking possession of his voice. You knew he was wishing he was chasing this storm. However, that would’ve meant you would be dealing with this alone. You had never been in a storm like this before and now you were about to be in the eye of a tornado.

He finally snapped out of his trance and made his way down into the cellar with you. He slammed the door shut behind him, locking it into place with the deadbolt as you turned on the flashlight on your phone.

Luckily when you had moved in you had stocked the storm shelter with some food and water and a bag of clothes for each of you if you guys would end up needing it. But, you hoped and prayed you wouldn’t. You turned on the lantern the two of you kept down there as you grabbed one of the few blankets you had down there and you tried to make yourself comfortable, hearing the wind howl outside through the door.

“C’mere.” The southern drawl was the first thing you heard your boyfriend say since the two of you had left the house. He had his arm out for you as he turned his phone on to the weather channel, pulling up the radar as the weatherman went on and on about the tornado that was now knocking on your front door.

Your heart was racing and you felt like you couldn’t breathe as you slid in close to his side, covering both of your laps with the blanket as you tried not to think about what could potentially be happening a couple of feet above you. Would it take the house? Would it take your trucks? The barn? You didn’t want to think about it and you hid your face in his arm as he slid a hand under your shirt, rubbing soft circles into your skin with his thumb. “Itll be alright, darlin’.” You knew it would be, but the anxiety was still running rampant through you as well as guilt for him staying home with you tonight.

“I’m sorry you’re here and not out there right now.” Your voice felt too quiet for the situation, but you let it stay like that. Ever since you had started dating, you had never made him miss a storm. You had always told him to go. Told him to just be safe and keep you updated. Every single time he did. But, tonight he had insisted and now it was eating at you.

You felt his eyes look down at you as he sat his phone down, now using his free hand to tilt your chin to look up at him. “I would rather be here with you. If I was chasing that storm, I would be trying to outrun it to get home to you,” He kept his eyes locked on yours as the words left his lips, the normally cocky smile he wore replaced by a small, genuine one. He started to stroke your cheek with his thumb, leaning down to capture your lips to seal the words in. “There will be other storms. But there’s only one you. I’m glad I was here to keep you safe.” The words were barely a whisper as he leaned his forehead against yours, a smile forming on your lips as you kissed him again.

There might be damage done by the storm and you would probably be cleaning up debris for a couple of months, if not longer. But, you had Tyler and he had you and both of you were safe. That was all that mattered as you cuddled up to him in the storm shelter and waited for the all clear, updates coming in from his guys as they chased the storm that came just a little too close to home this time.

Tag list: @mamachasesmayhem @paigewinchester67

[mangoshorthand]

Senseless | Five Hargreeves/ GN Reader 1.3k words, Rated T/M (Steamy but not explicit).

Hello lovelies. Not a request but a little something I whacked out in a couple of hours after listening to a certain song. I will give you a cookie if you can guess which one😉. We have angst and a slightly toxic relationship. I'll warn you know, like the song that inspired it, this fic is kinda campy...

He was an unstoppable force and you an immovable object; it was fire and ice; you were each the red rag and each the bull. Static always crackled between you, even in the quiet times, the lightning ever ready to strike. 

You’d clung together as if drowning, each using the other in an effort to claw their way to the surface, though only succeeding in dragging yourselves down faster. You were drawn together by mutual brokenness and mutual need into this torrid, hurricane of a thing between you. 

You and he were like a room full of noisy machines: Discordant hums and whines creating a horrid, unbearable, nails-on-a-chalkboard din.

There were lies. There were fights and threats and harsh words. A look of rage or hurt filling his face could fill your heart with savage pleasure, and yet whenever you thought you’d given him a fatal wound, he could always turn right around and gouge an even deeper one into you, and then he would be the one enjoying the effects of his cruel tongue. 

He didn’t need to use the door, but the last time he stormed out of your apartment, he slammed it anyway.

So now he was just time you’d wasted long ago. For all you knew, he was dead, and you were proud to say you hadn’t cried a single tear over him. He’d chosen to leave, after all. He’d chosen to throw himself back into the chaos of his old life. He’d chosen that, knowing full well that it was that or you. 

So you burned his love notes, washed his scent out of your bedsheets and purged any hint of him from your life. You’d built yourself back up, somehow. 

Through a dozen changing seasons you’d long ago frozen and sweat him out of your system. He was gone, and gone for good. You didn’t waste your time thinking about him; any memory of him, on the rare occasions they occurred, was quickly pushed away and ignored until you’d all but forgotten him.

Alongside him, you were drowning, and without him you’d reached shore.

***

This should have been a night like any other.

You lay wide awake in bed, listening to the wind buffet and bluster against the window, blowing the rain into the glass with hail-like force.

Sleep evaded you. It had been a whole week of fruitless tossing and turning, in fact. For some reason your mind was on high alert.

A chill went through you despite your blankets. The dark seemed impenetrable tonight. Dense and pregnant, as if unacknowledged knowledge was waiting to overcome you while sleeping, fingers creeping into your brain and secreting unwanted ideas in the deepest recesses.

You shivered and tried to rub some warmth into your icy skin, ignoring the nervous feeling in your stomach and the light film of feverish sweat on your forehead. 

The window creaked under the continued assault from the elements and you turned over with a huff, folding and punching your pillow into a more comfortable position, though without expecting it to have any effect.

Another sound, and this time your body tensed. You sat up in bed, poised to listen. This, you now knew, was why you’d been on a hair trigger all these nights: you’d been waiting.  It was as if the wind, high for these last few days was blowing a scent along with it. Subconsciously, you’d been waiting for this night to come.  

That noise didn’t come from the window. It came from the hallway. 

Your feet were on the floor before you were aware, and you were moving light-footed towards the door, pulling on your robe to cover the goosebumps on your exposed skin.

You didn’t stop to think you might be in danger, moving completely without caution towards the source of the sound. In truth, there was no space in your mind for anything but the hope of a resolution to the flutters of anxiety and anticipation you’d been dealing with. You were drawn like a magnet to that possibility.

And, when you opened the bedroom door, you found it, because standing in the hallway was an explanation for everything. 

It was a ghost you thought was long since laid to rest. 

He stood there, chest heaving against his waistcoat, his dark hair damp from the rain and blown into disarray. 

For a moment, you and he simply stared at one another.

It was him, alright. It was his perfect, angular jaw, his smooth skin and thick brows. And there, behind the dark green eyes, was the old man looking out at you: the weary traveler who rarely allowed himself to rest, who, in his deepest heart, didn’t think he deserved such happiness. 

And, in a rush, it all came back. 

You and he were like a room full of noisy machines, but all their discordant sounds were capable of falling into some inexplicable, otherworldly harmony and, in those glorious moments, everything about you made sense.

You made sense when the fire flickered, throwing dancing light onto his face, on his brow lowered in concentration and his lips moving softly as he read aloud to you. 

You made sense when he stretched out in the sun like a cat, grass stains on the arms of his white shirt, laughing as you goofed around above him. 

You made sense when you held his head pillowed in your lap, you brushing his hair out of his eyes and he looking up at you with his steadfast gaze; looking at you as if you were home.

And you made sense when the bed sheets stuck to the sweat on your entwined legs, when your back arched off the mattress, pulled into a helpless curve by the heat of his kisses to your neck.

God, it made so much sense when you gasped his name like a prayer throughout endless night-time hours. You let him touch you in ways that nobody else ever had, in ways that nobody else ever would. Only with him could it ever seem right: only to his touch could your flesh bloom like a field of summer flowers.

So, as he moved towards you in the hallway, you grabbed him by his waistcoat, pulling him to you and along with you as you backed up towards the bed. 

His touch hit you like a freight train. As soon as his mouth was on yours, as soon as his cold fingers were in your hair, everything fell back into place. His three year absence dissolved and everything besides him fell away. 

Teeth clashed, bodies half fell onto the bed. He had a tight fist curled in your hair, pulling from the roots. You kissed him fiercely, craving him as gasoline to glowing embers on the verge of smoldering.

He tasted the same, he smelled the same. A creature of habit, his shampoo was the same eucalyptus, and it hit you with another body blow. 

His body was a homecoming, and you knew it like muscle memory: he groaned into your mouth as your tongue flicked along his sensitive alveolar ridge, and then he bucked his hips into you as you transferred it to his ear, swiping your tongue down his helix in the way he clearly still loved.

And, judging by the way his hands and mouth made you shiver and squirm against him, and how hot your sex already burned for him, he remembered you as second nature too.

His light stubble scratching pleasantly against your ear, he finally spoke:

“I’ve missed you,” he rasped.

And as he kissed down your neck, pulling your robe aside to more easily get to your chest, you let out a breathless, supplicatory whisper. You said the only thing that made sense.

“Five.”

Tag list: (please comment to be added or removed): @thebearmage, @nevbrooke-555, @fiannee, @abeeabee6969

Oneshot Masterlist >> HERE

NOTE: I take Five requests, I'm fairly versatile in what I write (fluff, smut, angst, psychological character study- I'll try it all) but I will consider them on a case by case basis. See oneshot masterlist for request status and more.

[rosewaterandivy]

Everyone But You - a Life as We Know It au

Ch. 1 - Come as a Known Enemy Memory

previous | masterlist | next

Summary: You and your nemesis, the blight of Williamsburg himself, are thrown together under disastrous circumstances. Pairing: e.m. x f!oc w.c.: 4.5K warnings: NSFW / MDNI, immersive second person narration w/ a name and background but no physical description mentioned, big sads, grief, character death, car accident, jason carver mention, legal guidance, CPS, repression of emotions, occasional catatonia, max mayfield esquire

The call comes in somewhere south of 2 A.M. It’s an unfortunate fact of life that you are stone-cold sober, awake, and pouring over the second to last manuscript from the agency. 

You answer it by the second ring.

“This is Vance.”

"Ms. Vance, this is Officer Booker at the 94th precinct in Brooklyn. I’m calling on behalf of Christine Carver, could you please come down to the station?”

The telltale sign of a migraine creeps into your head, lashing against your temples to weave around the base of your skull. A forced blink of your eyes while the words from the manuscript swim across your vision. 94th precinct… that’s, what Greenpoint? The fuck was she doing in Brooklyn at this hour?

"Is she alright?”

The officer sighs, “Ma’am, I can’t disclose personal information over the phone. But once you’re down here—"

Innately and intimately, you know something is wrong. Chrissy and Jason were leaving the city tonight, flying out of Laguardia and back to Indianapolis on the red eye, which should have left an hour or two ago. The officer prattles on about policy and regulation as you get your bearings.

"Yeah, I’ll be there in an hour or so.” A few pages scatter on the table in your haste to get up, “I’m sorry, you said your name was…?”

"Officer Booker ma’am. I’ll let the front desk know to be on the lookout.”

The line drops dead and you lock your phone before slipping it into your pocket. A spring storm whipped through the city, rain falling in sheets outside your apartment window. Slipping into the Hunter galoshes at your door, you attempt to recall Chrissy’s latest missive.

Can’t wait to see you this summer! You and Ed better play nice OR ELSE

The doorman kindly hails you a cab and escorts you to the car, umbrella in hand. You thank him and rattle off an address you’d rather forget in Williamsburg. The ride itself is a quiet hum, briefly punctuated by your various attempts to contact said resident of the Williamsburg apartment which usually ended in a hushed, “Fuck.”

By the fourth attempt, you wonder why you’d ever bothered at all.

It’s not unusual for him to dodge your calls, though it was rare to initiate contact either way. But, rather, this was The Way you had operated since Chrissy posed you Iike her life-size Barbie dolls hoping for a happily ever after— the disastrous date was seared into your memory and played on a loop at the most unfortunate of times, i.e. the night before a big client meeting or during a relay of your Top Ten Greatest Mistakes. And closing in our top three humiliations is…

So, in short, no. No, you did not frequent Brooklyn, and you certainly did not cross the East River if you could help it. Working your ass off at one of the most acclaimed publishing houses did not afford you the luxury to gallivant through the burroughs all hours of the evening, especially not if you wanted to make partner and curate your own client list.

But, clearly, this fact couldn’t be helped tonight.

By the time you arrive in Brooklyn rolling to a stop in front of the brownstone off of Bedford avenue and pay the cabbie, it’s nearing 3 A.M. Dashing onto the stoop in an attempt to avoid the rain, you glance over the numerous intercom buzzers and realize, rather foolishly, that you have no idea which his could be. Luckily, someone is stepping out of the vestibule and you’re able to slip in before the door slams shut.

It’s a walk-up, of course, because this night couldn’t cut you one measly break, could it? The squelch of your galoshes haunts you up the flights of stairs, rain dripping in rivulets onto the steps below. You pause at the third floor, a heavy bass thudding from down the corridor like a siren’s call.

Your fist pounds on the door, punctuated by the clipped sound of your voice, “Munson, I swear to all that is unholy—"

The door opens quickly, and you nearly topple over the threshold. There’s a curl to his lips that tells you he wishes you had careened, tits over ass, in an unfortunate lack of poise, and fell to a heap on his floor. Fortunately, your hand collides with the door frame and finds purchase before any of that can come to pass.

"For Esmé—In Love and Squalor, as I live and breathe.” He drawls, all biting marks and bravado.

Edward ‘Eddie’ Munson was a few things: a writer, a pretentious asshole, Chrissy’s high school BFF, the worst person you’d ever had the displeasure of breathing the same air as, and your arch nemesis— just to name a few.

“Well, if it isn’t the ice queen from the Upper West Side! What brings you down here to slum it with us plebs?”

Soaked from head to toe, the rain drips steadily down your face and body. Your mouth opens and closes intermittently, gaping like a fish. How do I say something like this? How do I tell him that Chrissy, our mutual best friend and her husband are in all likelihood dead? Do I tell him, or should I leave it to the cops down at the station?

Because, at this point, nothing has been confirmed. And it won’t be until you’re both at the precinct meeting with Officer Booker. All you had to go on was your gut.

And your gut hadn’t been wrong yet.

Maybe tonight’s the night. After all, there’s a first time for everything, right?

“Hellooooo,” He hangs on the door jamb, long limbed and impatient. “C’mon, if you came all the way down here to bust my balls you could’ve—“

“S-she,” You swallow audibly and try to correct your earlier statement. “They, they’re gone.”

Eddie straightens up. A furrow pinches between his brows. “Who’s gone?”

“Chris, Jason, they just—"

He quickly grabs a jacket and slips on a pair of beaten to hell docs before shutting the door. It briefly passes through your mind that he should get his keys, he’ll need his keys to get back in. But before you can say anything, Eddie’s hand curls around your bicep and steers you down the stairs.

“Okay, okay.” He soothes, guiding you onto the sidewalk. “Where are we going, hospital or precinct? We’ll need a cab or Uber, right?”

Eddie grabs his phone and pulls up an app before muttering, “Fucking surge pricing, what the shit.”

The rain falls steadily, on and on, in the cool spring night as you wait. A seemingly endless vigil for the pair of you, the dark sky blanketing a city that never sleeps.

The blip and wail of sirens increases the closer you get to the station. The cab ride itself had been silent, save for Eddie’s wallet chain jangling as his leg jostled up and down. You’d mostly gathered your wits on the drive over, knew what to do, who to find— your head was as clear as it could be for now.

Eddie pays the fare and nods to the cabbie in thanks as you turn to open the door. His hand finds your arm, fingers trepidatious against the damp fabric of your trench coat. 

“D’ya think…”

A pinprick of pressure at the top of your sinuses, eyes blurring with newly minted moisture. A quick sniff to clear your nostrils as you slowly exhale.

”I hope not.”

You push the door open and stride across the wet pavement. An officer holds a door open for you with a tight-lipped smile.

”Hi,” You say, clearing your throat. “I’m looking for an Officer Booker?”

A desk jockey leads you both back to a small conference room and offers you a choice of coffee or water. You take him up on it and anxiously wait for Booker’s arrival.

”Hello,” A man greets, setting a to-go cup of coffee on the table and offering his hand to shake. “I’m Officer Booker. You must be Esmé Vance. And this is…?”

”Eddie Munson,” He says with a cough. 

Booker nods, as if he expected it. “Of course,” He takes a seat and places a manila folder on the table between you. He takes a beat, looking each of you in the eye, a tinge of sorrow precedes his next comment. “There was an accident, and it is with sorrow and regret that I inform you—"

And with that, the world drops dead.

A harsh buzzing, like static, fills your ears. Unwittingly, you clutch at Eddie’s hand, slotting your fingers together. Can’t bring yourself to worry over how cold and clammy your palm is against the dwarfing warmth of his. He squeezes your hand back, nods at whatever Booker is saying, something about finding your information as her I.C.E. contact on her phone.

"The first responders found it and we took it from there. But now we need numbers for the nearest next of kin, can you supply those?”

Big, wet tears fall silently down your cheeks and you can’t bring your vocal cords to work, to say something as simple as yes.

"Uh, yeah,” Eddie replies instead, accompanied by a violent sniff. “Her parents are back in Hawkins, Indiana— Peter and Ellie Cunningham.” He rattles off their home phone number as you watch, mesmerized, tremulous tears falling unabated down his face.

There’s scruff bordering on five-o’clock shadow peppering his cheeks and jawline, errant curls falling from the sloppy topknot on his head. He looks exhausted, as if the last half-hour has robbed him of sleep, bluish hollows like crescent moons underneath his eyes.

But he hasn’t let go of your hand.

No, he’s held it like a vise. As if it’s the only thing tethering him to the ground. 

“You said the car flipped? It—It flipped when it hit the…”

Booker looks at both of you, really takes a long, hard look.

Two kids, really. Early thirties, if he had to guess, and hopelessly floundering in the midst of a goddamn bitch of an unimaginable situation. Shit, he couldn’t tell which way was up at that age, and by then he’d had a badge and a gun.

Then, as if it’s dawned on you for the first time:

"They have a baby, w-who is she with now?“ You stutter out, dread curling low in your stomach. You clench Eddie’s hand all the harder.

The harsh whisper of your voice brings a halt to the conversation. Eddie gapes back at you, wide eyed and woebegone.

”If you’ll excuse me,” Booker says, rising to leave, “I’ll get a deputy to contact the parents and ascertain where the child is. Sit tight ‘til then.”

The door clicks shut. 

And the wail that careens up your throat is enough to kick-start Eddie’s survival mode into gear. He pushes away from the chair to sit at your feet, one hand grasping yours while the other winds around your waist and presses you to his torso. Sobs wrack your body, loud and hiccuping, while his lips murmur softly at the crown of your head.

Nothing he’s saying registers. But he’s there and warm, one large hand trailing the expanse of your back, up and down and over again; it’s almost soothing. He’s taller than you, something you’d always known from his penchant to loom over you, but you don’t seem to mind it just now. 

Tucked under his chin and pressed to his chest, it feels almost safe. His physical proximity and the way his body seems to mold around your own, protecting you from the sickening reality that she’s gone, and the sharp pain that kicks up in your gut, lends you enough comfort to make an attempt at processing this disaster. Chrissy and Jason, both gone in one fell swoop. Their daughter, Zoë, effectively orphaned and alone.

A beautiful, innocent little girl, a veritable copy of her mother, all blonde hair and blue eyes. Soft coos and footie pajamas, waiting for parents who would never return. 

What would happen to her?

It’s that very thought that snaps you out of your tear-streaked state as Officer Booker returns. Eddie sets you back on the chair, hands patting along your arms to check that you’re okay, at least for the moment. Catching his eye you give him a small nod.

"The Cunninghams have been informed and are on their way. The child was with the nanny, but CPS has taken over her care for the time being.”

”What, why?”

Eddie’s posture has changed, what was once hunched in an uncomfortable precinct chair has now straightened up, his spine pulled taut with tension. 

“It’s procedure until the next of kin can be notified.”

”No, that’s—" You stand abruptly, “We’ve gotta go. I mean, unless you need anything…?”

He shakes his head, “No, you’re free to go.” He stands and offers his hand to you once more, “My sincere condolences to you both.”

Leaving the precinct in a blur, you hardly realize you’re back on the sidewalk. On auto-pilot, you step out to hail a cab. Eddie, the lingering presence behind you, continues to silently brood.

As the cab pulls to the curb, a sharp jerk of your arm pulls you backward to collide with an oomph against him. You turn an apology on the tip of your tongue that vanishes at the sight of him. 

For all you know of Eddie Munson, one thing is for certain, it takes a lot to render him silent. And while you were rapidly losing it in the station, he had held it together. But the second you mentioned Zoë, all the fight left him. 

“Munson,” You croak, trying to draw him out from his racing thoughts. “We’re going to her, she’s not going to be alone, I promise you.” His eyes track your face in the light from the street lamps. “We’ll be on the next flight out, but we have to get in the cab first, okay?”

He nods, so subtle that if you’d blinked you would have missed it. You release the breath trapped in your lungs, a slow exhale as your hands settle on his forearms. Cautiously, you step forward and wrap your arms around him. He hesitates, body as tight as a tripwire, before he settles against you. The slight weight of you reminding him that he’s not alone in this.

"We’ll figure it out,” You murmur, voice scratchy from all the sobbing.

And for a moment, you just hold one another in the crisp spring morning. Birdsong twitters from above as the gloomy clouds of last night’s storm begin to clear. Elsewhere, people are beginning to rise and greet the new day, coffee percolates and sheets rustle. 

But in that moment, you’re able to forget all that— to push aside the fact that there are other people in the world and instead revel in the heartbreak you both feel, in the odd familiarity of each other.

Eddie uses the key Chrissy gave him to unlock the house in Loch Nora. It’s just after 6 A.M. of that same dreadful day and the house looks homey. A laundry basket propped up on a credenza, overflowing with burp cloths and tiny onesies. He flips a switch, and the entryway is bathed in a dull warm glow. 

“No, no,” You continue speaking into your phone, as you shut the door. “What I don’t understand is why we can’t see her now? Ma’am, I know you have protocol but we’re the godparents, isn’t there a precedent for that?”

Eddie moves like a ghost through the house, finds himself wincing as he catches sight of the Carver family photos with Chrissy’s bright smile. As he moves further into the house, your voice falls away.

All business since the cab ride. You swept through his studio like an automaton, throwing things into a duffle and didn’t bother to shut dresser drawers either. It looked like a criminal had ransacked his bedroom for a paltry collection of clothing. 

Eddie was tasked with packing his backpack, which he couldn’t muster up the effort to adequately do, and settled for tossing in his laptop, a few charging cables, and whatever else he swept off of the cluttered desk before zipping the bag.

Spent less than twenty minutes at your own place on the Upper West Side and returned with a neatly packed hardshell carryon and a leather tote bag, all the contents neatly organized and at the ready. 

And, he had to hand it to you, the efficiency you deployed everywhere from check-in to the TSA Pre-Check line, to wrangling an upgrade for the plane ride itself, and now playing verbal chess with the CPS representative was… impressive. Albeit frightening. 

But he also found it rather cold and unfeeling. Because, while yes, he had held you as you fell to pieces in the police station and witnessed your grief, since then you’d been too… together. Neatly packaged with a shiny bow on top, your sorrow packed tight and lying in wait underneath the glinting veneer of propriety.

The click of your heels on the hardwood floors alerts him to your presence. 

“Yes, I’ll be at this number. Thank you, goodbye.” You huff and lean against the arm of the sofa. “They won’t do anything, not until the case worker arrives this morning, at least.”

Eddie nods, “I’m sure that she’s fine, Vance.” His voice is soft, tired. “Why don’t you get some sleep? The guest room is upstairs and—“

A shake of your head, as you bring the phone back up to your ear. “No, I still need to contact the lawyer for Chr— uh, the will.” You reply, unable to speak her name, a little uneasy at the fact that she had a will in the first place.

Eddie tsks, his lip curling in disbelief, “C’mon, are you serious? What lawyer is going to be in-office and answer the phone at this hour, Dewey, Cheatem, and Howe?”

Fixing him with a glare Medusa would envy, you purse your lips. “Then I’ll leave a message with their answering service. And,” You turn, tossing the last bit over your shoulder, “If it’s an attorney that Carver hired, I can guarantee they’ll call back within the hour.”

And, true enough, the offices of Mason & Finch returned your call within thirty minutes. But really, who was counting?

You find Eddie’s limbs sprawled all over the couch in the den, the tv light flicking against the pallor of his skin. Grabbing the remote, you catch sight of Katharine Hepburn swanning across the screen in Bringing Up Baby. 

Tossing the remote to the side with a clatter, you accidentally (somewhat) wake Eddie. 

“The fuck Vance?” He sounds groggy and confused, slightly alarmed that he was jolted awake by a piece of plastic to the face.

”The attorney has arrived.” You say in lieu of a greeting, “And CPS hasn’t called yet.”

He rises slowly, stretching as a cat might— arms flexing above his head causing the hem of his shirt to ride up and reveal a smattering trail of dark hair down his abdomen. With a roll of your eyes, you turn and walk back into the study at the front of the house.

Maxine Mayfield Esquire, junior partner at Mason & Finch, has made herself comfortable at Jason’s mahogany desk. Briefcase stowed at her feet, she runs a hand through her hair, loose in her haste to make this meeting on time. The sealed last will and testament of Mr. and Mrs. Carver sits at the center of the desk, ominous and forlorn.

Technically, she wasn’t on-call for estate cases currently. But when the secretary had phoned her to see who was available this week, the second Max heard the words “fatal collision” and “Carver”, she was up and out of bed. She knew she needed to handle this case, though the name the secretary gave her was unfamiliar: Ripley Esmé Vance.

Whoever this person was, Max knew Eddie wouldn’t be long behind.

Before she’d left for the Carver’s that day, Max had trusted Lucas to rally the troops for an all hands on deck situation. She couldn’t tell him much, or if Eddie was even in town yet, but she knew Lucas would see to it that he wasn’t alone. 

Mason had briefed her over the phone on the drive over about the proceedings, what to expect from the beneficiaries, how to liaise with CPS, who to contact if Vance and Munson refused custody. Though, she didn’t anticipate needing that particular bit of information.

Rising to greet who could only be Vance, Max is nearly bowled over at the sight of Eddie. He looks haggard, which is to be expected, but it’s a stark contrast to the pristine image of his counterpart. 

Esmé Vance oozes sophistication— black Tahitian pearls adorn your neck contrasting with the gray sweater and wide legged trousers you’re sporting. Not much taller than Max, the inch or two gained in whole part due to the heels that click against the floor as you go to greet her.

"Ms. Mayfield,” You say, with the husky voice of a silver screen siren, “Thanks so much for seeing us this early, we appreciate it.” 

As you shake hands, the singular ring on your right hand catches Max’s notice. A clean and simple signet nestled on an elegant finger. Your nails are impeccable, a dark plum shade that Max makes a note to get the name of later.

In short, Chrissy’s best friend is just as the bubbly blonde had bragged— her polar opposite in nearly every way. Max wasn’t sure if she wanted her or simply wanted to be her, but she’d deal with that later.

"Hey Red,” Eddie says, leaning against the doorframe.

She excuses herself to wrap him in a warm embrace, professionalism be damned. He accepts it willingly, and she allows herself the luxury of inhaling the familiar scent of stale cigarettes and coffee.

"Hey Ed,” She replies, stepping back after a moment or two. “I’m so sorry about Chrissy.” She turns back to Esmè, eyes misty, “My condolences to you both.”

Soon after, they get down to brass tacks. Max reads the will aloud, the legalese meaning absolutely jack shit to Eddie, that is until:

"Joint legal and physical custody of Zoë Lux Carver is granted to Ripley Esmè Vance and Edward Waylon Munson—“

"I’m sorry, but what?” Eddie’s voice is louder than he intended, so distracted by the fact that he’s been granted custodial rights over an actual baby, that he completely misses that you don't even go by your given name.

It’ll come back to him later, sleep-addled and at wit’s end, no doubt.

Max pauses, noting the lack of reaction from you. Hmm, interesting. “Did Chrissy not discuss the guardianship arrangements with you?”

Eddie shakes his head, you decline to reply and turn to gaze out of the window. You’re quiet, which can only mean one thing.

"You knew about this Vance?”

"Well,” You hedge a reply, “I didn’t think it would necessarily come up. But… yeah, she mentioned it after Zoë was born. Though I didn’t know she meant joint custody.”

He turns back to Max, “What does that mean?”

"It means,” You supply, turning back to the conversation, “That we raise her together. Joint as in the two of us,” Your fingers gesture between the pair of you, “Not as in what your studio reeks of.” And then, you pantomime taking a drag from an imaginary joint, as if to prove your point.

"Gee, thanks for the tip, Officer Krupke.” 

Max watches, idly amused by the pair of you, a knowing smile gracing her lips. “Right, so if you refuse custody, Zoë will be placed with another willing caregiver, preferably family, but if not, she’ll go into foster care.”

"Oh, fuck no!”

"Over my dead body!”

Your exclamations override one another, the volume of the conversation increasing for so an early an hour. Max desperately wants a coffee, maybe an Irish one. 

“Okay, so you’re agreed on that, at least.” Max turns over to the next page in the document. “Everything else is pretty standard: all liquid assets are left to Zoë, kept in a trust until her twenty-first birthday, which you are both guardians of.”

She pauses for a moment, very much entertained that Chrissy, and by extension Jason, have left you both in charge of everything. A realization that has Eddie rolling his eyes beside you.

”You’ve also been given the deeds to the house in Hawkins, as well as the brownstone and, besides a few personal effects left to other people, everything within the properties seems to be yours.”

The redhead passes a copy of the document to each of you, along with her card. “When you have questions, you can reach me at these numbers and Eddie has my cell, too.”

Your mind is reeling, trying and failing to piece together the remnants of a life left behind. A puzzle that only you and Eddie can solve, or so it would seem. Before you can ask for confirmation or voice any of your concerns, Eddie’s voice rings through the room with an incredulous, “Properties? As in, plural?”

Max clears her throat, “Uh, yes. They want you to raise Zoë either here, in Hawkins, or—" She trails off to confirm the location of the other property. “New York. They closed on a property there earlier this week.”

"Huh,” He says, collapsing back into the club chair in front of Jason’s desk. “They never mentioned that.”

"Zoë.” You say once your tongue begins working again, “How do we— Where is she now?”

Max gives you a relieved smile. “Well, I’ve already arranged for her transfer. The foster family she was placed with last night will bring her to CPS. They feel that she’ll adjust best in her own environment. So, first, she needs to be picked up and brought here.” 

“Right,” You say, rising from your chair, “Can you excuse me, for just one moment?” And walk, as calmly as you can, out of the study and through the house to the back deck. 

It’s as if you can’t get enough air into your lungs, but the quicker you breathe in, the faster your heart beats. Your skin pricks with cold despite the warm morning sun.

”Ohmygod,” You heave out in a rush of air, “Ohmygod, ohmygod.” 

There has to be a better solution than co-parenting with Munson. How Jason’s attorney even let Chrissy pair you together for the foreseeable future truly boggles the mind. The pair of you loathe each other, further compounded by one disastrous interaction after another. This was insanity, there was no way in hell it could ever work!

You brace your hands on your knees and will yourself not to throw up. Never knowing that at precisely that very moment, Eddie is doing the same in the front yard of the house, just as petrified as you.

[a-dumb-sarcastic-bisexual]

These Clone Wars headcanons are long overdue

I saw someone say Anakin couldn’t have taught Ashoka everything cause that man’s stiff as a damn board and I laughed my ass off cause they were right but then it got me thinking that this would be a perfect moment for Ahsoka to teach Anakin something

So she gently persuades him and by that I mean she forces him to do some simple stretches in the morning nothing too bad just stuff you’d probably do before gym class and after a while it kinda becomes a pseudo-joined meditation for them

After a while when Anakin started becoming more comfortable with the stretches she started teaching him yoga which he quickly fell in love with cause he found it was one of the few things that calmed him down as traditional meditation should

When Ahsoka stopped being Anakin’s padawan in the cannon timeline or in my delusional timeline where they both left the order and everyone’s happy he had to find something else to call her and for the first couple of months he would always introduce her starting with “my”

The nicknames would usually fall into one of two categories the first being the unhinged nicknames like “my little hell-raiser” or “my little desert storm” and then there are the cute and sappy ones like “my little Soka” or his personal favorite “my little sister”

And with the last one people would ask “Oh is she adopted” and while Anakin could go the normal route and say yes he would instead go his route and look at the person like they’re crazy and say “No why do you ask?”

Which leads me to my next headcanon of you know when people say “If you spend enough time with something you’ll start to resemble it” Well that kinda happens with Obi-Wan Anakin and Ahsoka

In the beginning they all looked as different as a group could look but after a while people started to notice their eyes looked weirdly similar and they held themselves in the same way and their facial expressions mimicked each other and oh my force when did they start looking related?

And this works in their favor later on when they leave cause remember yall they all left and lived happily ever after… 

Anyway it works out for them cause when Anakin reiterates “No we’re all siblings” people don’t even think about it they just kinda accept it and move on cause the galaxies in shambles and weirder shit has happened

Even though Ahsoka blames Anakin for crashing everything he’s ever flown it doesn’t truly bother her the risky moves and “fancy flying” become predictable after a while and weirdly comforting 

It should concern her that barrel rolls and 90-degree drops are more soothing to her than a trained pilot who flies by the book cause yeah sure the flight is smooth but will the pilot make jokes while they’re being shot down

It is a truly hilarious show of fate that Anakin Skywalker got put in charge of the biggest adrenaline junkie this side of the galaxy and even though they both know this fact neither one of them will mention it 

Ahsoka’s just grateful to experience the feeling of a rollercoaster without ever being on one and Anakin’s grateful to finally find someone who just nags him when they freefall instead of screaming at the top of their lungs or puking when they land

Ahsoka will jokingly rat out Anakin to Obi-Wan when he picks on her it’s not uncommon for the older Jedi to hear things like “Master, Anakin keeps floating my sabers to the ceiling” or “Master, I can’t find my headwrap and Anakin’s hiding again can you help me look”

Just funny little tidbits throughout the day and sometimes council members will hear those anecdotes and for some reason they think “Oh she’s willing to rat him out for real” which has led to some council members asking her the bigger questions 

Like “Where was your master last night we tried hailing him but he didn’t answer?” and when Ahsoka responds with “Oh he’s been in his room all night tinkering with his arm” they correct her and say that the guards never reported him returning from a late-night excursion

She’ll come up with something like “Oh he left? Well I’m sorry masters I never saw him go and I could have sworn I heard him” which is a lie she told him to say hi to Padme as he left and the only thing she heard that night was her music 

But for some strange reason the council decides to believe her cause even though she’s Anakin’s padawan she has a strangely trustworthy face and has a wrap sheet of throwing him under the bus in the past 

Little do they know she wouldn’t sell him out for real and Anakin pays loyal people generously and by that I mean baked goods and boba and her favorite movie being played while they eat dinner

I don't know what it is about Anakin that gives me morning-person vibes but he just does now I’m not saying he’s like super bubbly in the morning but being up at five am when no one else is around just soothes him for some reason 

This however doesn’t stop him from staying up late to work on some projects or having a movie marathon with Ahsoka it just means those things are infrequent 

Obi-Wan and Ahsoka on the other hand feel like night owls to me the duo has so much going on throughout the day and while they’re both extroverts at heart nighttime is when they really unwind and get to relax 

All this to say it’s very funny imagining the normally broody Anakin smiling serenely at six in the morning barely needing a cup of caf while the normally happy duo of Ahsoka and Obi-Wan are reduced to grumbling grumpy messes that are death-gripping their cups of caf 

The Jedi don’t say “I love you” at least not in the normal way that everyone else does instead he makes snacks for his padawan while she frantically studies for a test that she forgot about or they say things like “Hey master I think I figured out why your prosthetic keeps locking up”  

Or one of them discovers his favorite tea in his cupboard after the younger two come back from a mission but he knows they were stationed three star systems away from where the tea is normally sold

Or the younger coming home from the same mission to find that all the chores they couldn’t do were taken care of 

You know the minuscule things that most people wouldn’t bat an eye at but to each other mean the world

[thebrickinbrick]

Light and Shadow

Enjolras had been to make a reconnaissance. He had made his way out through Mondétour lane, gliding along close to the houses.

The insurgents, we will remark, were full of hope. The manner in which they had repulsed the attack of the preceding night had caused them to almost disdain in advance the attack at dawn. They waited for it with a smile. They had no more doubt as to their success than as to their cause. Moreover, succor was, evidently, on the way to them. They reckoned on it. With that facility of triumphant prophecy which is one of the sources of strength in the French combatant, they divided the day which was at hand into three distinct phases. At six o’clock in the morning a regiment “which had been labored with,” would turn; at noon, the insurrection of all Paris; at sunset, revolution.

They heard the alarm bell of Saint-Merry, which had not been silent for an instant since the night before; a proof that the other barricade, the great one, Jeanne’s, still held out.

All these hopes were exchanged between the different groups in a sort of gay and formidable whisper which resembled the warlike hum of a hive of bees.

Enjolras reappeared. He returned from his sombre eagle flight into outer darkness. He listened for a moment to all this joy with folded arms, and one hand on his mouth.

Then, fresh and rosy in the growing whiteness of the dawn, he said:

“The whole army of Paris is to strike. A third of the army is bearing down upon the barricades in which you now are. There is the National Guard in addition. I have picked out the shakos of the fifth of the line, and the standard-bearers of the sixth legion. In one hour you will be attacked. As for the populace, it was seething yesterday, to-day it is not stirring. There is nothing to expect; nothing to hope for. Neither from a faubourg nor from a regiment. You are abandoned.”

These words fell upon the buzzing of the groups, and produced on them the effect caused on a swarm of bees by the first drops of a storm. A moment of indescribable silence ensued, in which death might have been heard flitting by.

This moment was brief.

A voice from the obscurest depths of the groups shouted to Enjolras:

“So be it. Let us raise the barricade to a height of twenty feet, and let us all remain in it. Citizens, let us offer the protests of corpses. Let us show that, if the people abandon the republicans, the republicans do not abandon the people.”

These words freed the thought of all from the painful cloud of individual anxieties. It was hailed with an enthusiastic acclamation.

No one ever has known the name of the man who spoke thus; he was some unknown blouse-wearer, a stranger, a man forgotten, a passing hero, that great anonymous, always mingled in human crises and in social geneses who, at a given moment, utters in a supreme fashion the decisive word, and who vanishes into the shadows after having represented for a minute, in a lightning flash, the people and God.

This inexorable resolution so thoroughly impregnated the air of the 6th of June, 1832, that, almost at the very same hour, on the barricade Saint-Merry, the insurgents were raising that clamor which has become a matter of history and which has been consigned to the documents in the case:—“What matters it whether they come to our assistance or not? Let us get ourselves killed here, to the very last man.”

As the reader sees, the two barricades, though materially isolated, were in communication with each other.

[cleolinda]

Short answer: They’re not sure; storm survey teams are going out to assess damage in Chilton County and then the weather service will “officially rule if it was caused by tornadoes or straight-line winds.”

The fact that we don’t even know, after a forecast of golf ball-sized hail and 80 mph winds and free trips to Oz, is fantastic. Any morning-after that doesn’t make national news is a good thing.

The 2011 Tuscaloosa-Birmingham tornado is lurking in the subtext of all this. Any time I post about storms, I’m thinking about that, and about the fact that the two houses directly behind us got nailed by trees last December. The house to the left has been seemingly abandoned, still unrepaired.

We’re fine. Yard, trees, container garden look good. I honestly don’t even know what happened. I get storm headaches like a goddamn human barometer—I’m more accurate than weather apps at times—and I honestly didn’t have one yesterday afternoon, so I knew the storm wasn’t going to be as bad as we’d feared.

I saw someone mention silent migraines on here the other day, and I didn’t understand what that meant until I had one last night. I can’t really explain it, it was just—I didn’t have headache pain per se, but everything else felt Bad and Wrong. I was dizzy, irritable, sensitive to light, couldn’t think straight, hellaciously drowsy—I ended up falling asleep with the weather channel on and phone alerts set to loud. I slept like a rock and woke up at 2:11 am, around the time the tornado watch was supposed to end. So normally I sit listening to whatever alarming noises on the roof directly over my head, or watch the sky turn alarming colors through my window. This time, I have no idea.

None of this is particularly enthralling, but I went on about storm prep at such length yesterday that I figured I’d update. That said, I do have that “headache hangover” feeling, so something definitely passed by.

[janicho88]

When It All Falls Apart -Chapter 6

Pairing- Jensen x ex!Padalecki Reader

Word count- 2,454

Warnings- Some language. Drinking, dealing with a breakup. Angst, If I missed something let me know!

A/N-Sorry for the last chapter, but you all had to know it was coming. A little off canon, SPN ended after 10 years. We still got all the characters in during that time though. Thank you to @writercole and @leigh70 for your help with this. You two are amazing!!

Summary-Y/N Padalecki loved acting on Supernatural.  Working alongside your older brother and your boyfriend, but after ten seasons the guys have chosen to hang up the guns.  Now the three of you are moving on to other projects, but that’s all that needs to change right?  While you have moved to Austin to be closer to your family and boyfriend, Jensen is working elsewhere.  Distance is only the start of your troubles.

Series Masterlist

Walking out of Jensen’s apartment building you hail a cab to take you to an airport hotel.  You manage to keep yourself together until you check in and close the hotel room door behind you. This weekend really couldn’t not have gone much worse.  You don’t bother changing out of your clothes before you collapse down on the bed in tears.

Back in his apartment, Jensen is pacing the floor and keeps looking at the door.  ‘What the hell just happened,’ he thinks to himself,  ‘there is no way things have really been as bad as she thinks.’ Grabbing the half full bottle of whiskey off the counter he takes it to the couch where he drops down in the corner spot.  By the time he passes out, the alcohol is much closer to the bottom of the bottle.

You aren’t able to get much sleep Sunday night and you get yourself over to the airport before 5 am.  Just in time to find out your flight has been delayed because of the incoming storms.  Sitting down in an empty area near the terminal, you pull your hat down further to help hide your face.  The black clouds and claps of thunder are very fitting of the current turbulence you feel in your heart.  

It is a few hours late, but the plane is finally ready to board.  With the layover in Atlanta, you should be arriving back in Texas around 3pm instead of 11:30am.  Maybe no one will notice you’re coming home too early then.  You aren’t really up to rehashing everything with Gen and Jared when you get back.  You didn’t think you would be able to, but you manage to sleep most of the way to Atlanta, making that flight feel much shorter.

Your family isn’t expecting you for a few more hours, so you take a cab back home instead of calling one of them to pick you up.  Thankfully, no one is home when you arrive.  A half an hour before your flight is supposed to land, you text Jared that you are back early, and have a ride home.  You’ve had a little bit of time now to try and make yourself presentable enough to face them, without giving anything away.

Jared and crew arrive home a short time later with some pizza, and you join them in the dining room.

“How was the trip?” your brother asks, around a mouthful of food.

“Okay.  Toronto’s a nice city.  Saw the aquarium, CN Tower, and did some shopping.”

“How’s Ackles? Is he ready to come home?”

“He’s okay, really busy.  I don’t know.  He seems to be having a good ole time up there,” you don’t notice the bitterness in your answer, but Jared and Gen do.

“Tom,” Gen turns to her son, “why don’t you go play in the living room?”

“Okay,” the little guy doesn’t take much persuading.

“How are you and Jensen?” she asks once Tom is gone.

“We’ve been better,” you answer vaguely.

“Did this trip help at all?”

“It’s made where we stand pretty clear.”

“That’s good right?” you brother questions.

“Where is that?” Comes from Gen.

You clean up your spot and set your plate in the dishwasher, on your way out of the kitchen you pause and turn to face them briefly.  “We broke up,” you announce before disappearing upstairs.  Before you shut the bedroom door you hear Gen yelling.

“Jared Tristen Padalecki put that phone down now!”

“I’m going to…”

“Do nothing to interfere in this.”

You aren’t surprised when there is a brief knock right before Jared enters the room.  He walks around the room for a moment before sitting down across from you on the bed.  “So what happened?”

“I was right, our relationship has run its course.”

“What did he do?”

“Jared, you know I love you, but I’m not letting you put yourself in the middle of this.  Some relationships just don’t work out.  Jensen’s life and mine just don’t fit together anymore.  He has a lot going on, and I just don’t have a place in his life.”

You see your brother clenching his jaw working over what you said, you continue before he can say anything.  “The two of you are best friends, what happened between him and I shouldn’t change that.  Please don’t let it.”

“I told him if he ever hurt you, I would kick his ass.”

“I believe that, but I’m asking you not to.  You also told a few of my exes that, and never followed up, don’t start now.”

“First time for everything,” he mumbles.

“I wish things didn’t turn out the way they did, I really do Jare.  I guess it’s better to realize it’s not going to work out now then before things go any further.”

“I don’t understand how this happened, I know Ackles was crazy about you.”

“Was, " is the keyword in that sentence.  Can you please just drop it?”

He comes over to give you a hug before leaving the room.  When he opens the door, Gen is standing on the other side.

“I just wanted to make sure I didn’t have to stop Jared from doing anything crazy,” she says as she walks in.

Jared gives her a kiss before he leaves and she joins you on the bed.  “Seriously, are you okay?  I know you won’t bring Jared in the middle of this.”

“No, this fucking sucks,”  you tell her as you start to cry again.  She moves next to you and wraps you in a big hug.

“I’m so sorry sweetie.  I’m here for whatever you need, let it all out.”

“I really thought he was my forever, ya know.”

“What happened this weekend?”

You go on to tell her all about your time in Toronto, ending with the breakup.  “I think a part of me is always going to be in love with him.  Right now, I can’t even think of seeing him again just knowing how hard it’s going to be.”

“It’s going to sting for a while, but you’re going to get through it.  You have friends and family that are going to be there for you to lean on.  You said it yourself, the way things have been lately, you didn’t deserve that kind of treatment.”

The two of you sit together a little bit longer before she has to go deal with a shouting Tom.  You turn the television on to try and distract yourself before going to sleep.  Maybe Bones will help with that.

Up in Toronto, Jensen’s day hasn’t gone off much better.  He is awoken by the ringing of his phone.  Leaning up from the couch he makes the mistake of opening his eyes and the bright sunlight is not welcomed by his hangover.  Closing his eyes he tries reaching around for his phone before finally locating it.

“‘Lo,” he answers.

“Bloody hell, are you still in bed mate?” Karl asks on the other end.

“Never made it there, what’s up?”

“We were supposed to meet for breakfast ten minutes ago before going to work on this scene. Jack, Anthony and Erin are already here.  I take it you aren’t going to make it.”

“Fuck.”

“Think you might have already done that last night with your girl.”

Jensen lets out a dry laugh while holding his head. “I’ll meet you at the studio.”

Forcing himself from the couch, he makes his way to the kitchen for some water and pain pills.  Drowning those he attempts to get himself ready for the day.  Grabbing sunglasses and a hat before leaving the apartment he stops for a greasy fast food breakfast on his way to set.

He is the last one to arrive, everyone else is standing at the back of the room waiting for the choreographer in charge of this fight scene to finish getting ready.  Eric is off to the side going through notes with the director.

“Where’s your better half?  She comin around for a tour today?” Karl asks, looking around.

“She’s gone,” Jensen says lowly before taking a drink of his coffee. 

“I thought she said her flight was this afternoon?”

Jensen just shrugs.

Karl takes a minute and studies the man who has become a friend to him.  “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Jensen walks over to a chair and sits down by himself waiting for things to start.

They have been given instructions for this scene yesterday and today,  some of it has even been demonstrated. They go through the first rehearsal, and there are some mistakes all around.  By the fourth time, it seems to be mostly Jensen who is struggling with it.  They call for a break and Karl takes him off to the side.

“I’m going to ask this one more time.  What is going on?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s a load of shit.  You’re fucking awful out there, and you smell like a damn brewery.”

Jensen sighs and turns away running a hand down his face before looking back to his friend. “Y/N left me last night.”

“To go back home?  We’ve got less than a month left of filming now, before long you’ll be back home with her.  Or hop a plane to go see her this weekend.  Pull it together, mate.”

Karl starts to turn back around, but the next sentence from Jensen stops him.  “No, she left me.  Said I was an asshole and she couldn’t take things anymore.  Or something like that.”

“I’m sorry.” 

Jensen just nods, “let’s try this again.” 

It takes a few more tries, but they all finally get it down the way Kripke and the director want it.   As they are all grabbing their things, Karl goes over to talk to Jensen, but Eric beats him to it.

“I heard what you said to Karl.  I think you and I need to talk.”

Jensen doesn’t say anything as he follows his boss and long time friend out of the room and to his own trailer.  Eric waits for him to open it up before following inside.

“What’s going on?”

“I thought you said you heard what I said to Karl?” Jensen retorts as he grabs two waters out of his fridge.

“I did, and I also talked to a very upset Y/N last night at the restaurant.”

“I’m sorry she bugged you to bring her along.”

“She didn’t, I ran into her in the elevator.  Why didn’t you bring her, or invite her along?”

“She isn't part of the cast.”

“I know this group and they include friends and significant others when they go out if someone is in town.  Have things really gotten that bad between the two of you?”

“That’s what she seems to believe.  I thought we were fine.  Things have been busy, I don’t see her much, but I didn’t think it was anywhere near as bad as she seems to.”

“You were putty in that girl's hands the first time you met.  Took you long enough to act on those feelings.  Watching you last night, today even.  I don’t think she is too far off from her claim.  Maybe this role is getting in your head a little bit.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jensen questions him with a glare.

“Think about it.  You were actually so pissed off that I brought her along last night, you made her leave.  The guy she used to date, would have gotten up the moment he saw her, had his arm around her the whole night showing her off to his friends.  I’ve never known you to be upset at seeing her.”

Jensen doesn’t respond to that.

“I remember walking by you facetiming each other in between scenes if one of you wasn’t on set, even before you started dating.  I barely hear you talk about her now, let alone talking to her.”

“No phones on set policy here, remember.”

It’s Eric’s turn to roll his eyes.  “You’ve been a friend a long time, and I would hate to see you lose probably the best thing that has ever happened to you, because you are being an idiot.”

“She left me.”

“When you go home after filming wraps, and you have a chance to get your head out of your ass, you might want to buy some knee pads.”

“What for?”

“You’re going to have a lot of groveling to do.  Before she left, she asked me to keep an eye on you, she still cares about you.”  Having said his peace Eric walks out of the trailer.  

The door doesn’t stay shut for long, Karl is coming in next.  “So what happened?”

“Eric talked to Y/N last night, apparently he seems to see her side.”

Karl stares at Jensen before rolling his eyes and shaking his head. “I mean what happened with you and your girl?  I was a little surprised she left the restaurant.”

“I told her she shouldn’t have made Eric bring her.”

“So you were just going to leave her home alone?”

“Why is everyone so caught up on that?  It was a cast get together.”

Karl holds up his hands.  “So she left because you made her go home?”

Jensen starts pacing his trailer.  “Why is that everyone’s hangup here?  Everything I do is for us, yet she can’t see that.  I work hard so that we can have a good life.  She says we never talk, that’s not true. Then she tells me she doesn’t mean anything to me anymore.  I don’t know what more she wants from me.  All I do is for her.”

Karl is quiet for a minute, “this about forgetting her birthday?”

“I didn’t forget, I just didn't realize it was June already. Besides, I made that up to her already.”

“I see, she seemed like a great girl.  Sorry, things didn’t work out for you two.  Do us all a favor tonight, we got some big scenes to film tomorrow, try and keep it sober.”  With that Karl makes his exit also.

Jensen throws his bottle of water across the trailer in frustration.  Grabbing his bag he heads out to the car to get out of here and back to the apartment where no one will give him any more shit tonight.

Despite Karl’s earlier remark, he pulls a beer out of the fridge as soon as he’s out of the shower, he finds himself in the bedroom staring at the picture of the two of you on his nightstand. ‘How the hell did we get to this point?’ he thinks to himself as he drowns the bottle and tips the picture down.  The sight of your smiling face hurts too much to see. 

Thank you for reading!

Chapter 7

Tags

SPNForevers- @winchest09 @flamencodiva @whatareyousearchingfordean @waywardbeanie @deanwanddamons  @emoryhemsworth  @atc74 @sandlee44 @akshi8278  @fantasydevil2002 @writercole​ @440mxs-wife   @nervousfandom @lunarmoon8 @thoughts-and-funnies @downanddirtydean @katelyn--renee​ @that-one-gay-girl​ @lyarr24​ @pineapleavocado​ @siospins2​ ​ @ariesbabe1993​  @graciebear73  @stixnstripesworld​ @spnbaby-67​  @treat-winchesterswith-kindness​ @charmed-asylum​ @winchestergirl2 @jawritter​ @hobby27​  @amyzombie1013​  @sexyvixen7​ @leigh70 @krazykelly @nancymcl @candy-coated-misery0731 @kmc1989 @supraveng

WIAFA Masterlist

@woodworthti666 @spnfamily-j2 @stoneyggirl2 @creative-writing92 @kaz11283 @deans-baby-momma  @let-me-luv-you @senjoritanana @itzabbyxx @djs8891 @tmb510 @perpetualabsurdity @mellyie @fiftyshadesgrl @jessicalynnann

[readyforthegarden]

I saw your post and say this prompt: "your morning voice is so hot." [laughs] "what?" and immediately said DANNY!!!

Allie my love, here is a sweet little blurb for you and Danny (god I bet his voice is so deep and raspy in the mornings 😭)

💖💖💖

You were always a heavy sleeper. Throughout your life you’d slept through numerous thunderstorms, parties, and even a late night car chase through your old neighborhood. But last night was one of the first nights every sound woke you from your slumber.

Being in bed with Danny wasn’t new, in fact it was something that happened regularly. Neither of you had been looking for anything serious. A casual hook up here and there turned into a friends with benefits situation as the two of you got closer over time.

But now, things were different. A bad storm had rolled through last night, taking out power lines, winds so strong the tornado sirens had gone off a few times. Just your luck you’d been at Danny’s place, getting ready to leave after one such netflix and chill session, when the first sirens blared.

“I didn’t realize how bad it was getting,” you moved towards the window in Danny’s home, glancing out at the storm as lightning flashed across the sky. You felt a hand encircle your wrist, and you were dragged back softly.

“Best not to be so close to windows with the tornado sirens going off,” Danny informed you softly. “Come on, let’s move somewhere a little safer.” Following him down the hall of his apartment, you let him lead you into his bathroom, where there were no windows. “Safest place we have, usually we’d climb into the tub and huddle up.”

“You’ve been through tornados before?” you asked, trying to hide the fear in your voice. Truth be told, where you grew up you never had to worry about them. There weren’t common enough to even have drills about them in school.

“Growing up in a rural area, at the end of tornado alley, yeah, I’ve had a few run ins.” Danny shrugged. “Nothing too bad; we were always really lucky it was only a few shingles off the roof or some hail that cracked a window, and never anything more serious.”

“That’s still terrifying.” The wind blew against the building, almost screeching against the siding, and you found yourself climbing into Danny’s bathtub. Holding back a chuckle, Danny climbed in too, sitting behind you. His long legs rested on either side of you, and you felt more at ease. When the lights flickered, you jumped, and felt his arms encircle you, gently pulling you back against his chest until you were positively snuggled into him.

“Wanna hear a funny story?” Danny asked softly. You nodded, willing your nerves to stop getting the best of you in this storm as the power fully went out, the bathroom in pitch darkness as the storm raged outside. “This one time on tour, the venue we were in didn’t have dressing rooms for all of us. So Josh, our singer got the only one so he could meditate and do his warm ups and everything, the rest of us had to get ready on the bus.”

“Josh sounds like a diva.”

“Oh he is,” Danny chuckled. “But anyway, the venue was pretty secluded, so there wasn’t any chance of anyone really seeing us go back and forth. I thought I’d brought back my whole outfit, but it turns out, I left my pants in the venue.”

“Oh no,” you giggled, already envisioning Danny looking around in just his underwear for his clothes.

“Oh no is right,” he continued. “So I had my shirt on, you know the silver mesh? And nothing but my boxer briefs. And I thought I was being so sneaky and so fast, running from the bus into the venue. But it turns out, I wasn’t. I heard some whistles and saw some fans that had gotten to the venue late that saw the whole thing!” Danny laughed, his chest rumbling against your back.

“You probably made their lives, honestly.” you joked back. “Your ass is amazing.”

“Yeah?”

“I have no complaints.” you replied, shifting slightly in his arms as your leg had fallen asleep. The two of you chattered on quietly, Danny succeeding in taking your mind off the storm completely. After a while, the two of you realized how quiet it had gotten, and you cleared your throat.

Moving away from Danny, he let go of you without protest, letting you stand and stretch your legs, holding onto the nearby edge of the sink as you stepped out on pins and needles in your feet from being tucked away too long. Pulling your phone from your pocket, you squinted at the bright light from the screen, your eyes had adjusted to the dark in the bathroom.

“It sounds like the storm is over, I think it’s safe for me to head home.” you said quietly. Danny stood up from the bath, exiting it much more gracefully. There was a silence between the two of you, as neither of you really wanted you to leave.

“Y-you know it’s probably a mess out there.” Danny cleared his throat. If the power is out, some of the traffic lights are also out, and I’d hate for you to be driving so late and have to deal with that.”

“Oh, it’s not a big deal.” You hadn’t thought of the traffic lights being out, and with how people drove in the area, it was a whole new wave of anxiety.

“I insist,” Danny reached out, taking your hand. “They’ll be working all night to get the power back on, you can stay here and leave in the morning so at least there’s some daylight to help you see.”

“O-okay,” you nodded and agreed.

“Good, now help me find some candles, and we’ll get ready for bed.” the two of your scrounged his apartment, only finding three decent sized scented candles to light. You carried the vanilla cinnamon bun one around with you, placing it on the bathroom sink as Danny found a spare, unused toothbrush from a dentist visit and gave it to you to use before bed. The two of you brushed your teeth together in the candlelight quietly and you couldn’t help but notice how Danny’s olive skin radiated the warmth of the candle glow. You longed to touch him again and feel it, be wrapped up much like you were earlier.

Once done with your night routine, or what you could do of it with Danny’s products, you left the bathroom, heading for the living room, planning to camp out on the couch.

“Where are you going?” Danny’s voice stopped you. Turning with your candle, you shrugged, nodding towards the sofa.

“I was gonna sleep out here…”

“Why?”

“Don’t you think sharing the bed is a little….” you regarded Danny with wide eyes, shrugging again. “Intimate?” you expected him to agree, or make a sarcastic joke that you’ve both been more than intimate with one another, but all he did was smile warmly.

“No, I don’t.” those three words had you up all night. You laid in Danny’s bed, next to him, thinking about them. You would drift off occasionally, and a quiet rumble of thunder would wake you, or Danny’s shifting in his sleep, disturbing the sheets. At one point the thought keeping you awake was how you were wearing one of his old shirts he had cut into a tank top as a sleep shirt, and it still smelled like his cologne mixed in with his detergent.

Finally, sleep caught you in its grasp, though not long after, you were being woke by the sounds of birds chirping outside the window. Soft sunlight beamed through the blinds, Danny still snoring softly next to you. Thinking this was as good a time as any, you slowly got up, moving as little as possible so you didn’t wake him. You were halfway through tugging your jeans back on when his voice stopped you.

“What are you doing?” Danny’s voice was lower than you’d ever heard it, sleep laced through it making it rasp as he lifted his head up from the pillow.

“I was gonna head out,” you smiled sheepishly, finishing fastening the button on your jeans. “I don’t want to overstay my welcome.”

“Fuck that,” Danny reached out towards you, and without thinking you moved to the bed, sitting down on the side you slept on. “You’re not leaving, not until we have breakfast, at least.”

“Danny-“

“I’m tired of the bullshit,” Danny told you, blinking the sleep from his eyes, though his voice still held traces. “I want to be with you. I don’t want to be casual anymore, I like you, and I want to have something with you. What do you want?”

You took a few moments to register what he was saying, but once it hit, you couldn’t help the grin on your face.

“I want that too, Danny.” you nodded. Danny sat up in the bed, bringing one of his large hands to the back of your neck and pulled you down to him in a kiss. He kept leaning back until you were practically on top of him, giggling as he kissed you. “Does that mean I get to stay over more often?”

“Every night you want to,” Danny whispered back.

“Good, I liked waking up next to you.” he smiled at the comment, and you continues. “And your morning voice is so hot.” Danny laughed, the sleep gone now, but the sound was still etched in your brain.

“What?”

“Seriously! It’s the hottest thing I think I’ve ever heard.” Danny, knowing he was fully awake now, tried to lower his voice, but couldn’t quite get the rasp again. “It’s okay baby, how about you try and wake me up later tonight with it?”

“It would be my pleasure.”

💖💖💖

[handeaux]

Memories From Half A Century Ago; The Cincinnati Tornadoes of April 1974

On the evening of April 3, 1974, your narrator interviewed a woman who found a perfectly new, pristinely crisp, twenty-dollar bill in her front yard. This random occurrence of good luck became newsworthy because her miraculous benefit had floated down into her yard from a passing cloud that had recently spawned an F5 tornado.

At the time, I was not a reporter exactly but everyone that evening became either a reporter or a source. The memory of that day remains so fresh and clear it seems impossible that it transpired exactly fifty years ago.

In the fading afternoon, a heavy storm blew in as I drove a clunky Ford Econoline van from the Hopple Street Viaduct onto Westwood-Northern Boulevard. I was, at that time, a senior at the University of Cincinnati desperately yearning to graduate and move on to the next chapter in my life. To cover tuition, I worked as a printer for the Western Hills Publishing Company. Our offices were on Davis Avenue in Cheviot and our printing presses occupied a floor in the historic Crosley Building on Arlington Street in Camp Washington. My duties as the junior member of the printing crew involved shuttling copy and page flats from the editorial offices to the typesetting and composing staff.

As I climbed out of the valley toward the English Woods housing development, hail scattered across the road. Hailstones rattled on the van’s roof, then pounded, then stomped. It sounded like some gremlin with a baseball bat hammering on the roof as ice balls the size of oranges smashed into the asphalt all around. Tree branches cracked and split and thatched the roadway.

Somehow, I made it to Cheviot and pulled into the Press parking lot. It was full of people, just standing around. I got out and looked at the van. The roof looked like a moonscape, there were so many dents in it.

“Hey! Look at this,” I shouted. No one turned or said a word. And then I saw why.

Stretching from the horizon halfway to zenith was the tornado. It was impossible to comprehend the scale. More than two miles away, we heard no sound except endless sirens calling to one another from every direction. Where we stood transfixed it did not rain. There was no wind. There was only the tornado.

“Look at all that paper swirling around,” someone said.

“Those are garage doors,” another answered.

We watched as the horrendous vision scraped its way northward, the finger of God plowing a furrow along South Road out in Mack. We watched as it withered and lifted and twisted into nothingness against a pallid sky, waving it seemed in farewell at last as it vanished. We stared at each other, silent, unable to find any words.

Gradually, we realized that all the lights were out. There was no power in the offices. The publisher sent me around the corner to a hardware store to buy all the candles they had in stock. It was going to be a long night.

At this point, for the benefit of readers younger than I, it is necessary to explain a few details. The cash register at the hardware store was mechanical. It did not require electricity, much less Wi-Fi, to operate. The editorial offices were stocked with manual typewriters. The telephones were landlines, on a separate network, and functioned even when the power was out. Everyone had a battery-powered radio.

Anyone with the ability to write a coherent sentence became a reporter. I was sent out, still wearing my printshop uniform, in the divotted Econoline, to gather eye-witness reports. I found a small crowd at the Western Hills Country Club who had been herded into a downstairs bar while the sirens howled. They queued up for every available telephone to check in with their families. I found people in shock, wandering through piles of rubble that had been their homes, clutching any random possessions they recovered. I saw ambulances backed up in a line, waiting for utility poles and power lines to be moved. I saw people wrapped in blankets, standing in the middle of nothing left, sobbing on each other’s shoulders.

There were people who swore they saw two funnel clouds and people who claimed there were four, twisting like snakes in the sky. There were people who confessed to being so transfixed by the surreal wonder of the twister that they stood paralyzed as it swooped down on their houses.

And, in the curious way the universe laughs at we mere humans, I found humor.

There was the guy who, in a dispute with his insurance company, was photographing damage to his roof when the warning sirens erupted. He saw the funnel approaching and dove into his basement. When he emerged, his roof was gone, and so was the rest of his house, but he bragged that he had the photos to press his prior claim.

I talked to one of the rescue workers who told me about a kid, maybe 15 or 16 years old, who approached him and begged him to hide a bottle of vodka. The kid didn’t want his mother to know he had the bottle hidden in his bedroom – the bedroom that was now nothing more than a debris field.

Meanwhile, at the University of Chicago, Dr. Theodore Fujita drafted a questionnaire to be sent to almost every newspaper, every radio station, every television station in the country. Dr. Fujita asked a lot of questions about the duration and intensity of the 148 confirmed tornadoes reported that day. He and Allen Pearson of the National Severe Storms Forecast Center hoped to refine the tornado classification system they had created just three years previously. Someone at the Press filled out the questionnaire and sent it back.

A year later, having graduated from the university and transferred to the newsroom, I found a largish cardboard tube lying amid the usual pile of news releases and complaint letters that constituted our daily mail. On opening the tube – it was addressed to no one in particular – I found a map of the eastern United States titled “Superoutbreak Tornadoes of April 3-4, 1974.” Dr. Fujita, compiling all those questionnaires, had mapped and labeled every one of those 148 tornadoes.

In the center of the map, there was my tornado, the only tornado I have seen with my own eyes, officially designated as an F5 monster.

[theadventurek9]

So I might have not slept last night, and I might have forgotten what time the trial was at.

But we have another good one to put in the books because Aayla carried me when I wasn't at the top of my game.

My footwork was terrible, I forgot what order of exercises we were doing, and there was a massive storm going on outside. (Howling winds, thunder, hail...)

Rally Masters 199/200 (one point lost because I forgot a rule that makes ASCA and AKC different for the same sign.)

Utility A : 195/200 (she dropped both of the articles when bringing them to me and had crooked go outs, but overall it was a very nice run!)

Aayla earned her RM, RMX and UD titles today for ASCA.

[thethirdromana]

I got curious about how 19th century newspapers actually reported on storms and shipwrecks. Here's an example from the Teesdale Mercury, 29th January 1890:

RESCUED IN MID-OCEAN The liner Gallia brings particulars of the rescue of 18 mariners in the North Atlantic by Captain Munro, of the British steamship Stag, on the 29th ult [?], while on a voyage from Shields to New York. The sinking ship was the old American clipper-built ship Shakespeare, and the crew had already been left to their fate by one passenger steamer, and had abandoned all hope. Captain Munro in his account says the wind was blowing at hurricane force, and his ship was making its way through big seas when the wreck was seen through a veil of hail and rain. He made for the vessel, and found it was a dismasted ship, wit h the crew waving and shouting in a frenzy of despair. He continues: " At that time it was blowing a frightful hurricane, and a boat could not have lived a moment in the seas. Shortly after a heavy snow squall shut out the fast-sinking ship, and all that day and night the vessel was obscured, but every once in a while we could see the flash of lights and rockets telling us where they were. All that night we sailed about the ship, hoping that the storm would abate sufficiently to allow us to go to the crew's succour. For hours we could not see their distress signals, and it gave me intense anxiety for fear I would lose them. When morning dawned I again made a search for the ship. After hours of fruitless endeavour the snow squall suddenly ceased, the mist cleared away, and disclosed the ship to our view. She was almost level wit h the water. The sea was still frightfully high, but I knew that the crew's safety depended upon m y promptness. I ordered away the port quarter boat and called for volunteers to man it . Every one of my crew to a man instantly responded. Second-officer Noell and four of my ablest seamen manned the first boat and rowed to the rescue. On account of the heavy sea the boat could not get within 50ft. of the sinking ship. Then those on the ship threw my men a line. I shouted to everyone to put a lifebelt on and jump into the sea, and then, with the aid of the rope, pull themselves through. Owing to the sea my lifeboat could only rescue five men the first time, and it made four successive trips, each of the men having first to jump into the sea, and then, with the aid of the line which was attached to the ship, swim towards the lifeboat. On the two last trips a fresh crew of volunteers, in charge of First-officer William Hanson, went to the wreck. Chief-officer Fred Matte, the last person to leave the sinking vessel, could not hold on to the rope, his hands being so sore and blistered from exposure and cold, and had to swim the whole distance, my men dragging him out of the water benumbed and exhausted. The rescue, although attended with the gravest difficulty, was successfully accomplished, and the conduct of my men and the presence of mind displayed by the Shakespeare's crew are deserving of the highest praise. We abandoned the ship and the late captain's pet dog to the mercy of the elements, and continued on our trip . The rescued men were weak and exhausted from fatigue and exposure, and were one mass of bruises and sores. They had been tossing about the Atlantic for nearly three months, having left Hamburg on Oct. 24. Their ship was dismasted in a gale on Dec. 17, in which she also sprang a leak. For four days and nights, amid frightful hurricanes, the big seas constantly sweeping over them, the brave crew manfully worked at the pumps in a hopeless endeavour to keep their ship afloat. Capt. Mullar died from heart disease on Dec. 16, and just as a big sea swept his ship on the following day, hurling the mizenmast wit h part of the mainmast to the deck, his body was buried in the sea."

Who knew that one of the areas where Bram Stoker allowed himself creative licence was the inclusion of paragraph breaks?

[mortimerlatrice]

KinnPorsche Music in Context: Episode One

It needs to be said: I started thinking about how a few of the songs used as KinnPorsche background music had incredibly apt or punny titles months ago. It’s been sort of poking around in my head that it might be some light, surface level meta to collect!

Ho boy was I wrong. I don’t know what I expected because absolutely nothing in KinnPorsche is just surface level. In episode one, I have already found several hysterical jokes, commentary on the shifting power dynamics, water symbolism, and many more gems.

Here is the link to my episode one Spotify playlist. I know there are quite a few playlists out there, but even scouring three of them, I still found additional songs that were not cited or mentioned.

There are 37 (yes, you read that correctly, 37!) songs in episode one and that's in addition to a handful of reprisals, so the insanely long list is under the cut.

For other episodes (as I get to them), go here!

We start, of course, with our beloved theme song, เพียงไว้ใจ (or PhiangWaichai) by Slot Machine. There’s plenty of thoughts on this, I’m not digging into it.

Introducing Kinn – Quantum Sonata by FormantX.

Kinn and Big head into the Italian’s den – Our Final Mission by Christoffer Moe Ditlevsen. This is the last time Big will join Kinn on a mission as his head bodyguard (I’m not crying, you’re crying.)

Introducing Don and the Italian gang – Waltz for Little Italy by Bireli Snow.

Introducing Porsch – Diggin' the Drama by The New Fools.

Kinn making accusations and  Porsche mixing drinks hoping to get lucky – Covert Affairs by Christoffer Moe Ditlevsen.

After Kinn's iconic "I'm more like my mom," we are introduced to the song that makes the most appearances this episode: Concerto No. 2 in G Minor, L’estate (Summer) composed by Antonio Vivaldi. Now here’s where the KinnPorsche crew start to do what they do best: give us things to obsess over and over analyze.

The concerto has 3 movements and to be honest I’m not 100% sure that they pull from only one of them for the show. Remember when I said I wasn’t musically inclined? If anyone wants to chime in, please do.

Another fun thing about this Concerto? It is traditionally associated with or accompanied by a trio of sonnets (one for each movement). Oh, did I mention Vivaldi was Italian? Themes.

Anyway, the sonnets translated from Italian to English:

I. Allegro non molto– Under the heat of the burning summer sun, Languish man and flock; the pine is parched. The cuckoo finds its voice, and suddenly, The turtledove and goldfinch sing. A gentle breeze blows, But suddenly, the north wind appears. The shepherd weeps because, overhead, Lies the fierce storm, and his destiny. II. Adagio; Presto– His tired limbs are deprived of rest By his fear of lightning and fierce thunder, And by furious swarms of flies and hornets. III. Presto– Alas, how just are his fears, Thunder and lightening fill the Heavens, and the hail Slices the tops of the corn and other grain.

Source

Porsche and his fanclub at Hum Bar – Late Nights by Daxton.

When Yok calls Porsche over to the bar – Mysterious Madeline by Lucas Pittman.

As Kinn is driving over the bridge and they realize they're being followed (and when Porsche is making eyes at the woman across the bar) – Road of Fury by John Abbot.

Big and Kinn fleeing into the tunnels when Big is shot and Kinn is being chased down – They Are Coming by Hampus Naeselius.

There is a brief snippet here with a snare drum and a cymbal (I think?) when Porsche is cheekily asking Kinn for money and pissing in a bottle, but I couldn’t isolate it enough to find it. Any help would be appreciated!

Here, we’re introduced to the perfect fights song, Absolute Power by Hampus Naeselius, when Porsche beats down the street thugs and drives off with Kinn.

She Knocks by Lukas Amil plays when Porsche is being a brat and leaves Kinn at the gas station.

When Porsche comes home to Chay bandaging up Arthee – In Rain - Indigo Days. Can you say water symbolism?

The Joys And Sorrows of Life by Johannes Bornlöf gives a little hope when Porsche and Arthee are sitting and talking about finances and how much they could make off Kinn’s watch.

Porsche at the underground fighting ring has three songs in quick succession: Back to Where it Began by Rockin' For Decades,

Second Hand Slide by Lucas Pittman,

And Around the Bend by Pip Mondy as he turns the fights to his favor. [It is worth noting that they use a sort of stripped down version during most of it, but I couldn't find that version, so they may have done it themselves]

When Porsche comes home to Chay and Arthee celebrating making so much money off the watch we get Gentleman at Heart by Indigo Days. I think this one’s interesting because I’m actually not sure if it’s about Arthee or Porsche…

When Don finds his men tied up and (maybe dead?) – Let Me Introduce Myself by Rune Dale. This comes right after the scene where Korn chastises Kinn for his decision to enrage Don instead of “giving him gifts.” This is Kinn telling Don exactly how he plans to run things and how very different he is from his father. Kinn's mother must have been ruthless with a good sense of humor.

When Kinn asks Chan about finding Jom/Porsche, we're back to Vivaldi’s Concerto. Like the shepherd, Porsche's Destiny hangs over his head.

College Porsche and his stolen pastry get Moonshiner's Turn by Martin Landström.

Jom is approached to act as "a waiter who's actually the greatest boxer undercover,” our dear theater kid gets Concert Hall Hideout by Stationary Sign.

A moment later when Porsche realizes he's been caught? Cheese! by Alexandra Woodward. [This one is not on the Spotify playlist but I did find it on Epidemic Sound.]

When Porsche calls Chay, worried that Chay may be targeted or even taken by Kinn? Extraction by Christoffer Moe Ditlevsen. Which is a truly horrible double entendre because the very next song is

Clogged Up by Jerry Lacey. I'm not even dignifying this scene with a response.

Kinn sweet talking Yok (with veiled threats) – Infiltrator by Christoffer Moe Ditlevsen.

Porsche’s kidnapping – Honor the Brave by Hampus Naeselius. 

Kinn reading Porsche his own biography – Beryllium - Farrell Wooten. Beryllium is, according to a brief google search, a natural metal that is expensive, brittle, and dangerous to work with (toxic).

Porsche's fight theme – Absolute Power. Except who has the power this time?

Brief reprise of She Knocks as Kinn once again watches Porsche walk away from him (or throw himself off the boat in this case).

When Korn and Kinn discuss how to force Porsche, and moving into the next scene when Porsche finds Chay cleaning up after another break-in, and through to Porsche finding Thee being beaten up – The Stakeout by Christoffer Moe Ditlevsen.

When the loan shark tells Porsche that Thee still owes despite Porsche believing they had paid things off, leading to Porsche forcefully kicking Thee out of his and Chay's life? Ghosting by Christopher Moe Ditlevsen.

When Porsche finally tells Thee to leave and after, when Porsche goes home alone to clean up his ruined house, we get one of my all time favorites – Bitter Heart - Instrumental Version by Memi. Although the soundtrack presumably uses the instrumental version, I would argue that the lyrics were taken into account when choosing it:

“Suddenly you look like a stranger A face I knew, but I must've forgotten … We know we could've done it better Fought for the little things that we wanted … Oh, I wish that you hadn't pulled the trigger Shot me down with my bitter heart My blood is getting thicker You shot me down, you shot me down With my bitter heart”

This is getting way too long, so I cut some of the lyrics but I strongly recommend checking out the original.

As Chay tells Porsche that their parents would be proud of him, there is a very brief reprisal of In Rain.

It then switches to No More Drama by Eric Feinberg as they hug and Porsche tucks Chay in. This calls back to the song that first accompanied Porsche, Diggin’ the Drama, and Porsche has made his decision. He can't keep living like this and he can't let Chay live like this either. 

Porsche's letter and Kinn pouring himself a drink – a reprisal of Gentleman at Heart.

During the famous "your life is mine" scene where, at least in the translation, Porsche asks if Kinn is a god, we get a third reprisal of the Concerto. Porsche's destiny is set, the storm has blown in and ruined his life leaving him desperate.

When Porsche confronts Korn and asks to be Big and Ken's boss and through to Korn Playing Chess – So to Say by Taylor Crane

At which point we get one, final reprise of the Concerto as Korn places the Queen on the board and the game begins.

Finally – Free Fall by Slot Machine.

And, in the interest of being thorough....

Episode Two Preview – Global Impact by Philip Ayers.

[buckgasms]

If you're still up for a distraction I've got one for you. DarkMafia!Bucky showing reader who they belong to after she tries to leave because he flirt with another woman...

Angry Bucky has been staring at me in my ask box for over a week now.... 🤭

Thank you darling @wolfieash for the beautiful distraction and for putting up with my stupid questions, love you so much boo 😘

I may do a part 2 if you lovelies so desire...

Warnings: dark!Bucky, slapping, arguing, scary Bucky is scary....but we kinda like it don't we?

------------------------🐦----------------------

You sat at the bar, your leg crossed over the other, scowling at Bucky. He had spent an entire evening flirting with some total bitch. A total bitch who kept looking at you with a look of smugness on her face that you were absolutely dying to slap off. You waited as long as you could but when Bucky leaned in a whispered something in her ear, that was the last straw.

You stood from your seat and stormed out of the bar, hailing a cab to take you home. You reached for your phone with shaking fkgners and texted Bucky:

"Don't bother coming to find me, if you wanna spend the night with a whore feel free, cos I won't be here when you get back". You hesitated before hitting send and glared out at New York City as the cab sped you back to Bucky's and your apartment.

You were midway through chucking some clothes in a suitcase when the door burst open and Bucky was pacing through the apartment to find you. He looked around at the packed bags and glared at you. "The fuck is this?" He asked and you scoffed as you continued throwing things haphazardly into a new bag. "Exactly what it looks like, I'm leaving. I'm not gonna be treated like that, you wanna get your dick wet, do it without me." You tried to barge past him but he grabbed your arms, the rings on his fingers digging into your skin painfully. He dragged you into him, his angry face inches away from yours. "You fucking insane? You belong to me little bird...you ain't going anywhere." He dragged you over to the bed and threw you down, but you struggled up. "I'm fucking packed. I'm going you peice of shit". He picked up your packed bags and tipped out the clothes and items you'd packed and chucked the bag away. "There you're all unpacked now. Stop being a fucking brat before I really lose my temper birdie."

You folded you arms across your chest and shrugged at him. He ran his hand over his face in frustration and kicked your suitcase again. You shuffled over the bed and got up, pacing to the bedroom door and made it into the living room before his hands were on you and he lifted you up and carried you, kicking and screaming back into the bedroom. "Let me go Bucky, I don't want to be here, let me go!"

You landed back on the bed but this time his hands grabbed at your silky dress and tore at the fabric, exposing you to him in one swift move. You struggled with him, pushing and shoving his hands away but he was slicker and stronger so before you could catch your breath he had pinned you down on the bed, his knees trapping your hands on the mattress.

"Fucking calm down" he panted and you finally stopped struggling before looking at him, hot angry tears burning your eyes. "You're pathetic, you act like some big boss, like you're something special and you're just a pig. A pig who can't keep his dick in his pants." You sobbed and started struggling again before his hand clapped against your cheek, making you still in shock. "Don't fucking speak to me like that again... Ever. You know what happens to people who disrespect me don't you little bird? So why you runnin' your mouth like a stupid girl huh?" You whined, tears spilling down your face and you wiggled again making him bring his palm down again and you squealed.

"You know what made me laugh about that little message you sent? You told me I could spend a night with a whore... but that's what I do every night isn't it... My little bird?" He started pressing kisses you your face, licking your tears away and and chuckling a little as you sobbed.

"Tell me birdie...you my little whore? You belong to me don't you?" You looked up at him and nodded, heart pounding in your chest as he glared down at you, daring to deny him. "Good. Everytime you come tonight you're gonna scream that ok Birdie? And I'm gonna fuck all of those little holes, all night. Just so you remember who owns you." You whimpered, his weight still crushing you in a painful position, "and if you ever speak to me like that again, or try and leave over something so fucking stupid I'm gonna end you birdie... Do you understand me?"

You nodded and whispered to him, "Yes Sir" you said and he growled before finally releasing you from your pinned position. You stayed totally still as he pulled off his jacket and pulled off his shirt. "Get on your knees birdie, that mouth needs to be reminded of what it's good for before anything else happens..."