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missromantic-x · 5 years

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Peter Pan and Captain Hook

Shin Soukoku Week Day 4: AU My best piece, hands down. Oh goodness I love how this turned out. The shimmering blue waters of Neverland kissed the golden lips of the sand. Peridot coconut trees swayed in the light sea breeze. Seagulls screeched on the shore, and their shedded cream-white feathers drifted along the beach. Mermaids lazily say upon the rocks, picking lilies for their elegant flower crowns. Their scales refracted a thousand rainbows. The native children tackled each other with stray branches they’d found on the edges of the dense forest surrounding their campground. The sound of laughter and song filled the endless sapphire blue sky. Salt encompassed the air with the twinge of adventure. And there was Atsushi Pan, lounging in the midst of all the grandeur. He laughed to himself, remembering how he’d reached the land through the residual glitter from a dream. He believed he’d been eighteen at the time, but time on Neverland wasn’t sensical, per se, so his memories could have been slightly off. On a night when he’d been trapped alone in the orphanage cellar, one of many normal nights back there, a spunky little fairy had greeted him. According to her, she had come from a far away place called Neverland, where children never grew old and joy was at the end of every corner. But that beautiful peace was disturbed by the devastatingly handsome yet terribly brutal young pirate Captain Rashomon and his motley crew of scoundrels from the mainland. She had been looking for a strong boy to fight the evildoers, and, due to their tough upbringing and will to live and let others live with them, orphaned boys were the best pick. Well aware that he was getting kicked out of the orphanage thanks to his birthday being that day and eighteen-year-olds being legal adults, he gleefully took the fairy’s hand, and pledged that he would be the best hero the island ever wanted. The fairy, whose name he learned was Higuchi Bell, wasn’t wrong when she’d said Captain Rashomon was devastatingly handsome. He looked like the kind of man the female caretakers at the orphanage would be more than willing to spend a night with. He held a regal and mysterious air to him, despite his place as an outlaw. (Then again, Neverland didn’t have any laws.) However, the most notable thing about the captain was his magical blade. See, his right hand had been cut off, supposedly by his old leader on the mainland. In its place was the strangest thing: a piece of black cloth. But this was a magical cloth, one that could extend infinitely and acted almost like a cat’s tail in the sense that he treated it like a part of his own body. This fabric could become a whip or a sword or a combination of both if he so desired. However, Higuchi hadn’t been completely honest about Rashomon’s intentions. He most certainly wasn’t evil, moreso at a loss. He’d worked previously with another pirate whom had drowned at sea, and with that pirate’s body was his most treasured thing. None knew what it was. Regardless, he did pillage the land in search of it, and that was more than enough to call the inhabitants attention. Atsushi stretched out like a cat after a nap, yawning a bit. He’d heard three gunshots in the distance: those were a signature sound of pirates. Pressing himself off the ground, the brittle sand crunching under the sudden force, he leapt into the sky and flew towards the noise. As normal, Rashomon was alone. A small wooden rowboat sat at his feet, and if Atsushi squinted, he could see the Jolly Roger in the distance. But mostly, his eyes were drawn to the pirate. Today, he wore a dark red velvet tailcoat with black swirls, with gold embellishments on the pockets and the edges. His undershirt and jabot were a pure white, a stark contrast to his black pants. Over his left hand was a white glove, and his right hand had changed itself to look like a second glove. On his left cheek, there were elegant face-painted silver swirls that matched his eyes. He looked so beautiful it was hard to remember their supposed rivalry. It also made Atsushi’s leaf-patterned green tunic and black pants look even more basic. The cloth on Rashomon’s arm stretched out to Atsushi, and dumped him into the boat. Once he was settled with a job well done, he hopped in as well and began to row toward the hidden inlet they had discovered during their first battle. Ever since then, it was their self-declared battle space, as well as a place for other secret things. They landed without a hitch, and both climbed out of the boat wordlessly. A small smile crept up the captain’s lips as he brushed aside the palm fronds to reveal the special place. A small gasp came from Atsushi’s mouth as he took in the sight. Lining the entrance and the edges of the roofless cavern were pastel red candles that shimmered with tangerine flames. In the center lay an expensive-looking blanket with a flower centerpiece of yellow and violet. And on that blanket…Atsushi breathed in deeply through his nose…was what had to be the most delicious-smelling feast he’d had in long time. He caught scents of cinnamon, freshly grilled chicken, goat cheese, earthy vegetables, and newly squeezed lemon. “Did you set this all up for me?” queried Atsushi tentatively, unsure if he was dreaming. He never could discern the two in this place. Rashomon’s face was cleaner than a slate. “It is the best I can do for my rival. I would hate to win a fight due to having the unfair advantage of being well-fed, and since I have this food, I may as well share it.” This made Atsushi smile. Every time they did things like this, they were always coming up with excuses like this. They both knew that no secrecy was necessary in the hidden cave, but it was an odd habit the two could not break. Rashomon sat down on the blanket, and Atsushi sat on the opposite end. They ate in silence for a while. Then a thought came to Atsushi’s mind that was completely nonsensical but wildly addictive at the same time. Blushing madly, he whispered, his voice trembling a bit, “I do not think that some outlaw would set up such a nice meal for me. Surely he has poisoned the dish with something foul. In order to make sure he has no unfair advantages, I will pass the poison onto him.” Rashomon looked up from his food, clearly startled, but then he began to smile gingerly. “Ah! To think you have known me for this long and still do not trust me! I shall gladly prove to you that you are incorrect.” He rose from his seat and sat beside Atsushi. The cloth on his hand took hold of the hero’s chin to pull him in closer. Atsushi’s heart beat like a caged bird in his chest, and his stomach tickled with butterflies. He leaned in, still shocked that he had initiated this. At that second, their lips met. He could taste all the flavors of the ocean, from the waves to the driftwood floating in its depths. He could smell the lingering scent of seawater and jasmines. He could feel the curves of those perfect lips on his own. “I forgot how deadly the poison is,” Rashomon murmured. “Once one has a taste, they must have a second.” His fingers tangled themselves in Atsushi’s silver hair. “Alas,” Atsushi mumbled. “The poison has taken full effect on me as well.” He wrapped his own arms around Rashomon’s back, the soft fabric of his coat twisting in his tight grasp. At last, they broke the kiss. The two fell backward, their fall softened by the feathery grass behind them. Atsushi turned his head to look at the pirate. He looked so happy and peaceful, his face finally void of his hardened expression. Now, it was one of pure bliss. Rashomon’s beautiful eyelids fluttered, his dark eyelashes following in suit. “The second effect of the poison is one that makes you lose your sanity. Sometimes it results in people calling each other by their first names, no matter their status.” The sun fell between Neverland’s snow-peaked mountains, and the sky became an ombré shade of yellow and purple. “Then what is the final step of this poison?” He shifted to face Atsushi. “The afflicted say insane things, such as ‘I love you, Atsushi Nakajima,’” “I love you, too, Ryūnosuke Akutagawa.” They kissed again. “You know,” Atsushi began, “I’ve heard that you’re a little sickly and overtired.” Ryūnosuke raised an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t want to win a fight just because you got frostbite or because you because too fatigued and lost your balance. And, they say that people stay together to get warmer, and sleep to get less tired,” he rationalized. “Fine,” Ryūnosuke agreed. “We should be able to spar without issues tomorrow.”

#Shin Soukoku Week 2019 #shin Soukoku #sskkweek19 #sskk #Nakajima Atsushi #Akutagawa Ryūnosuke

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charlesxavirs · 6 years

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Ohohohoh! Please, if you want to I won't make you I'm sorry- Stenbrough? That's my actual shit and I love it but if you for any reason I will be okay I'm so sorry I'm a literal mess.

okay so i’ve had this written for ages and i’ve tried to expand on it and write more but it’s just never really happened so i might as well just post it. hope you enjoy! read on ao3 )

Stanley Uris considered himself a man of many talents. He could recite well detailed spiel about any bird at the drop of a hat, he had got washing his clothes down to a precise science so none of the colours would even dare to run, and he had to admit that he was quite flexible, although he wouldn’t ever admit that on a first date. Yet, despite his vehement efforts, despite his dedication and despite his might, he cannot get fucking glitter out of his hair. He’s tried washing it, brushing it, even vacuuming it once with Eddie’s careful guidance. He dreads the days when it is inexplicably part of his routine, and he prays and prays and prays that he’ll be able to get it out of his curly locks come bedtime.

He never fucking does, though.

And so, Stan was in a foul mood as he pulled up in the parking lot this morning at precisely five minutes to seven. As usual, he was the second car in the lot and he took the time to count the binders on his passenger seat again before he gathered them in his arms, to make sure he had replied to any emails he had to and ran over his lesson plans in his head before stepping out of the car and making his way towards the staff entrance of the small elementary school.

Just as he had expected, Ben was sat behind his desk at the main office, looking bleary eyed as he sipped at his coffee and flipped through papers that Stan would ask about if it wasn’t so early in the morning and if Ben didn’t look so tired. Stan threw him a smile and waved at him the best he could with his arms full, a wave of fondness washing over him as Ben offered him a bright smile in spite of his fatigue, and he started his trek along the red bricked corridor to his classroom.

Stan had started teaching just four years ago, starting off with Kindergarten kids at Derry Elementary before moving to the fifth grade the year after, and he’s stayed there ever since. His psychology degree was supposed to lead Stan into the world of therapy, yet instead, he got pulled into early years development, which ultimately led to him training to be a teacher. His father was more than displeased at sudden change in career choice, hoping his son would be a hotshot shrink in no time, but Donald Uris had to admit that it was nice to have Stan close to home. He also had to admit that Stan was good at his job.

The kids loved him. They giggled at his sarcastic remarks, groaned at him whenever he set homework and were unafraid to come to him with their 10-year-old problems, seeking his fair judgement and level headed advice. Yes, Stan Uris loved his kids dearly, he even admitted to shedding a tear here and there when his classes finally left for middle school, and he’d be damned if they weren’t going to grow up in a safe and loving place. The thought of packing it in and walking the career path his parents had hoped he would pave after college was a tempting one when he came home with stack after stack of homework sheets and essays and school books, but the way the kids eyes would light up when they saw his neatly written praise on their last homework assignment was more than enough to quash the idea. In short, Stan loved his class, and his class loved him.

Stan pushed open his classroom door with his shoulder and blindly searched the cold wall with nimble fingers until they settle on the light switch, and he flooded the room with the white, artificial glare of the ceiling lights. He walked the well known path to his desk at the front of the room, reaching down to pick up a stray pencil by his chair after he set his folders down on the clutter free table. He took pride in his classroom, keeping it clean and tidy at all times. An untidy working space means an untidy mind, his mother had always told him, and he very much believed it to be true.

Over the summer, he had spent a full day painting new displays on the walls, changing the colour scheme of the room from light yellow to sky blue, penning sparrows onto the walls with help from Richie. All of his pencils had been sharpened, papers organised, glue sticks neatly stacked and reading books tidily arranged on shelves.

“You’re like Mary Poppins when she does all that clicky shit.” Richie had astutely commented, trying to snap his fingers for added effect, but he somehow ended up punching himself in the face.

Stan wished Richie took the same pride in his own classroom instead of giving Stan shit for doing so himself. Richie was content to replace the framed picture of Bill Nye above his desk with an updated snap and buy a new board pen every year. He loved his friend dearly, but he often wonders how he even became qualified to teach, considering he was a health hazard on legs, always tripping over chair legs or barely skimming the children’s faces when he got too animated with his hand movements. Stan had been teaching for a year longer than Richie had but he had known Richie all of his life. In fact, Stan likes to credit himself as the guiding force for getting him off his ass and into the workforce.

It had been a Sunday, when they were both Juniors at UCLA, and Stan was putting the finishing touches to his project for his Primary Education class. He was sat cross legged on the floor of his cramped apartment, blasting Abba, the ground in front of him covered in newspaper as he dabbed his project delicately with his one dollar paintbrush and paint. Everything was peaceful in the world of Stan, that was, until Richie bounded through the door in a whirlwind of neon colours and unruly hair, already speaking at one hundred miles per hour.

“Stanley the Manley, you’ll never believe what the fuck just happened. So i’m sat there, enjoying my weekly Dorito date with that weird guy down the street and- what the flippity fuck is that?”

Stan looked up at him, carefully setting his brush down on the newspaper and moving curls out of his eyes, following Richie’s gaze down to his project, standing sturdily in front of Stan.

“It’s homework.” Stan said, stretching his stiff arms above his head. “It’s a fish.”

Before he knew it, Richie was kneeling on the floor next to Stan, eye to eye with his papier-mache creation, staring it out with trepidation in his gaze.

“So I’ve gotta do a shit ton of consumer research just to have the chance to grace the airwaves, but all you’ve gotta do is make a fish?” Richie whined, sitting back on his heels and pouting at Stan. He reached out his hand to touch, but Stan quickly swatted it away before leaning back down to apply another coat of purple paint to his aquatic masterpiece.

“If you’re that bothered, why don’t you train to become a teacher, Trashmouth.” Stan chastised, ignoring the ‘humph’ that escaped Richie’s as he watched him paint. Stan never actually expected him to do it. He had turned up at Stan’s door almost a year to the day later, holding a handmade dog, wearing a bowtie and donning a kippah on over its curly ears. Stan had answered the door with a hand on his hip, eyebrow raised. Richie had only grinned, his cheeks turning red with the force of him holding back a laugh at his own joke.

“It’s a Cocker Staniel.”

Stan slammed the door in his face.

And now here they were, almost five years later, Richie running late as usual and Stan dreading the looming presence of glitter on his Thursday morning.

Parent-Teacher conferences were the bane of Stan’s existence. He held two every year, one in October while the kids were relatively new in the class and one later on in the year, normally before they left. Usually, the parents didn’t care at all or seemingly cared too much, berating Stan for things as trivial as how he worded homework sheets to the way he dressed. The sheer stress of such things meant that Stan spent the short hour between school ended and his first appointment with Eddie, the school nurse, drinking juice boxes with an ice pack held securely to his head while they chatted aimlessly and watched reruns of Judge Judy on the room’s shitty TV set. This year, though, was going to be the first time he’d handle the parents smoothly and professionally, and he certainly wasn’t going to have a breakdown in his store cupboard afterwards. No way.

He heaved in a sigh, revelling in the slight burn of his lungs as he drank in the air. It was getting closer to half past now, and Stan finally started to get into gear, setting up for the day, refusing to look at the offending vials of metallic crap until he had to. It was 8:55 when Richie finally pulled up outside, fifteen minutes later than he usually was, and he didn’t even afford himself the luxury of mithering Stan as he sprinted down the corridor, hands full of boxes and slammed his classroom door behind him. Richard Tozier was well suited to be a second grade teacher, Stan thought, considering he was a second grader himself.

He opened his door at 8:59, only just making it back to his desk before the whiny ring of the school bell flooded his ears and children started to walk through the door, unbuttoning their coats as they bid him good morning, groaning as they saw what Stan had written on the whiteboard, and Stan couldn’t help but smirk. If they were going to destroy his classroom and his life with pipe cleaners and glitter glue, he was going to make their brains explode with maths.

Stan was sticky by the time 4:30 rolled by. In an effort to make his class a bit more cheerful, he had allowed them to make name tags for their books and work so their parents could easily identify them that evening. He hadn’t, however, thought it was such a good idea when Timothy Jones had walked into him with a full pot of PVA glue, subsequently spilling it down his neatly pressed chinos, covering them in a shiny, brown stain that was going to be a bitch to get out. He couldn’t possibly greet parents looking like there had been an oil spill on his trousers, so in a last resort to gain some semblance of put togetherness, he went knocking on Richie’s door.

“Woah there Stanley,” he grinned as he cut what looked like a melted dinosaur out of a piece of blue card, adding it to a pile of similarly drawn jurassic creatures. “Looks like someone didn’t make it to the can in time. Say, I didn’t know you were into watersports.”

Stan didn’t dignify him with a response, instead sighing and muttering a halfhearted ‘Beep Beep’. “I don’t suppose you’ve got any pants, have you?”

Stan should have known to fear the worse as Richie’s face lighted up with mirth and he spoke to Stan with his Southern Belle drawl.

“Well, Sir, I surely surely do.”

And that’s how Stan ended up sat behind his desk, listening to parents talk about their kids as if they were the only ones on the planet, wearing a pair of hot pink yoga pants that barely fitted him, never mind Richie.

(“Where the fuck did you get these?” “They’re Eddie Spaghetti’s. I-” “Never mind, I’d rather not know.”)

He nodded empathetically as they talked about their children, resisted the urge to roll his eyes as they told him how to do his job, but under no circumstances did he stand up from the table. Propriety be damned, he didn’t want to be fired for public indecency. He was almost done at five minutes to six, his schedule closely adhered to, and if all went well, he’d be in bed by seven. He only had one appointment left, and he let himself relax in his chair, straightening his papers and ticking off names as he waited.

Five minutes passed. And then ten. And then fifteen. It was quarter past six, and he was still waiting for his last appointment to turn up. A pang of annoyance gnawed at Stan. He had been preparing for this for over a month and the parents didn’t even have the decency to listen to him talk about their own kids, for God’s sake. Huffing, he started to pack away, stuffing sheets back into their binders when a ball of emerald and auburn and brown came charging through the door with a small boy in tow.

“I’m so s-sorry, I thought Noah’s mother was coming instead.” the man groaned, panting as he ran a hand through his son’s hair.

He quickly caught his breath and made his way in front of Stan, offering him his hand to shake. If Stan wasn’t so annoyed, he would have noticed the way his blue eyes sparkled or the warmth of his touch or the way his mouth quirked as he spoke. But Stan was irritated, so instead he shook the man’s hand and refused to look at him as he pulled his sheets back out. Stan quickly realised, though, that Noah was stood next to his father, grinning up at Stan.

He quickly softened, smiling back at the boy. Noah was a boisterous member of his class, yes, but he was polite and was quiet when Stan needed him to be and often had an amusing anecdote about his Aunt Bev and Uncle Georgie. Noah Phillips-Denbrough was a good kid, and Stan liked him very much.

“Hey buddy.” he greeted as Noah waved back, his grin widening as he shot back an exuberant ‘hi!’, almost shaking as he gripped to his father’s arm.

Looking at the pair now, Stan could obviously see the family ties. He had had a few dealings with Audra Phillips, and from what Stan could gather, she was a reserved woman who only seemed to speak when she was spoken to, quite unlike her son, who was rowdy to say the least. While Noah had inherited his mother’s swarthy skin and tightly coiled locks, it was easy to see his father in him. Their eyes both lit up in the same carefree way when Stan looked at them and the smile on their faces seemed to be permanent. That, and the blue hue of their eyes were almost identical. While Stan knew divorce often made kids shrink into themselves, Noah had done anything but, and he thinks Mr. Denbrough had been part of the reason why.

“Sorry we’re so late, Mr Uris.” Noah beamed, no evidence of regret traceable on his face, and Stan’s grin involuntarily widened.

“Don’t worry about it Noah.” he said, throwing him a wink that made the young boy dissolve into giggles. “Hey, why don’t you go and finish your drawing from today while I chat to your dad?” he suggested, and Noah didn’t have to be asked twice before he was sitting at one of the rickety desks and scribbling away.

Stan turned his attention back to the man in front of him, cutting him off with a wave of his hand as he tried to speak again, probably to apologise again. “Why don’t we get started, Mr Denbrough.”

“Bill, please.” he insisted, and the smile on his face had Stan repressing a blush.

“Okay then, Bill,” Stan didn’t miss the man’s chuckle, “Let’s talk about Noah’s progress so far.”

In all fairness to Stan, he was completely professional from there on in, only making eye contact when appropriate, never letting himself stray from the topic of Bill’s son, and he certainly didn’t let himself get excited when Bill pushed the sleeves of his dress shirt up to his elbows. Stanley Uris was a paragon of a teacher, answering questions thoughtfully and easily. So what if Bill’s appointment lasted twenty minutes longer than it should have, it’s not like Stan was counting.

It went so well, however, that Stan had ignored one huge, almighty, dirty big fat flaw. He had completely forgotten that nothing good ever happens to him, and sooner or later, it was all going to go tits up. Fortunately, he didn’t have to wait long for it to happen.

“Thanks a lot for seeing us, Mr Uris.” Bill had a smile on his face and his voice was dripping with an appreciation that had Stan blushing.

Stan waved his hand in front of him, turning to smile at Noah, who was once again glued to Bill’s side. “Thank you guys for coming.” He shot him a small wink, making the boy beam up at him.

When he turned back to Bill, there was a look clouding his piercing eyes that Stan couldn’t quite decipher, yet it made the warmth on his cheeks deepen further, and before he knew it, Bill was standing out of his chair, arm out in front of him to shake, and Stan was following suit.

He only realised what a huge fuck up it was when Noah burst into fits of giggles.

“Mr. Uris why are your pants pink?” he squeaked out in between laughs, clutching onto Bill’s arm to hold himself up.

Stan’s cheeks burned now, and he was pretty sure you could see him in the dark with the intensity of his blush. He glanced at Bill out of the corner of his eye, surprised to find that his cheeks were the colour of his pants, and he didn’t miss the way his eyes ran over Stan’s somewhat scantily clad legs.

He cleared his throat, the deep bass of his chuckle reverberating in Stan’s chest as he pushed a stray strand of auburn hair from his eyes. “The pink suits you.”

All Stan could do was limply shake the man’s hand, squeak out a pathetic goodbye and usher the pair hastily from the room.

He let his head fall with a thunk against the pink painted door as he shut it closed behind them. Stan had prided himself on keeping himself composed for the past five years, no matter how hard it was. He had people complain about him when his shirt sleeves were too short or when the amount of time designated to reading was deemed ‘questionable’. The way Stan was feeling now had to stop. Yes, he’d had crushes before, but never on a parent. It was hard enough for him being gay in Derry, it was even harder to try to be so and teach at the same time. The last thing he needed was a silly schoolboy crush to come along and wreck the order he’d created.

So, Stan did what he usually did when he’s had, what he’d consider, a stressful day: go home, eat a shit ton of ice cream and watch Say Yes To The Dress until his eyes melt.

Thank God it’s Friday.

#niamh writes #works #this is like 3k words so i doubt it's gonna show in the tags #sigh #stenbrough #stan x bill #stanley uris #bill denbrough #i luv my boys #Anonymous

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josh-washington-wants-pizza · 6 years

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Imagine Connor Romance

BEEP-BEEP You shuffled a bit on the grey sofa where you were sleeping, a brown leather jacket lay aslant on your torso. The silent television played, casting an array of colours around the room. Its light would burst, filling the space with a sudden brightness. Blues and greens across the surface of a glass coffee table, shimmering off the small number of picture frames that lined a solid, lonely wall. Then the dark resumed once more.

BEEP-BEEP Another deep, slumberous breath impelled a slouching arm awake. Your hand crept along the soft piece of furniture that, as of lately, had so grievously become your new bed.

BEEP-BEEP "Yeah, okay." You groaned, fatigue in your voice. Fingers colliding with the tabletop, there was a slight sting of fleeting pain but nothing to wince at. You grabbed the riotous cellphone nearby, seemingly louder than usual as it broke precious quietude. Your other hand slipped over your face, almost fully awake now and rubbing the lack of rest from your eyes as you brought the cell to your ear.

"Yes?" You answered rough and forceful but your eyes flitted open and adjusted to tenebrous shapes. A neon clock pulsed yellow, reading four in the morning.

"It's Connor, we have somewhat of an emergency. I'm going to need a ride if you don't mind. Detective." "What about Hank?" You sat, fully attended, scrambling for your pants somewhere on the floor. A new flash of light from the television flooded the room again, illuminating the entirety of the seating room. "I can't seem to get a hold of him. Didn't have time to check the usual spots." "I'll be there in ten. Keep trying him, okay?" Putting your pants on and securing your holster and badge, you took but a moment to fix yourself up and presentable and out the door, you went.

The chilly air hit you hard but there was no time for that. You left your gloves and zipped your jacket to the neck.

You yawned on arrival to the station, waiting but a few seconds before the car door opened and a surge of cold shivered you alert. "Thanks." The gentle voice announced and a tall individual climbed in. His hair was neatly made, save for a distinctive few strays, smartly fallen to one side. You faintly huffed under your breath at his readiness. Jacket, shirt, tie. Well put together, as usual. Yourself on the other hand. Messy but still surprisingly elegant hair. You smelled like last nights nightmare and your stomach cried out in an embarrassment of dinner-skipping revenge. At least the smudgy eyeliner hid your sleepiness and became a look you didn’t know you could work.

"Long night?" Connor teased. Of course, he could tell. Why would you even forget that? "No luck reaching Hank?" "No, unfortunately. I did leave him four messages." You chortled lightly. "He's not going to like that. Where are we going and what are we looking at?" "An old building on the North side of town." He relayed the address. "At approximately 3:15, cleaning services assigned to the complex found a deceased man on the second floor. There doesn't seem to have been a break in and nothing appears stolen." "Okay, let's see what's been going on over there."

Red and blue and yellow car lights painted the sidewalk and warehouse facility at it's South wall. A police team had already sectioned off the streets and secured the industrial cleaners. "Hank?" You closed the car door, spotting the grey-haired man. A beer gut that's starting to finally shed. A tired expression that left one guessing if it was due to sleep deprivation or exasperation from his fellow coworkers. Connor closed the passenger's door and shrugged his shoulders with a quizzical visage.

The two of you approached the scene, Hank was in one of his moods. Arguing with a uniformed man at the gate. "That's a complete fuck-up, and you let it happen!" He gestured a harsh pointed finger toward the complex before crossing his arms. "Like I said. The new guy stepped all over the place before we got back from talking to the cleaning crew. Should have kept a closer eye on him but it's been a busy night. What else do you want me to say about it?" "How about you move aside and let us do our thing now?" You said, fixing your badge to your belt and sending Hank a glance of disbelief while you walked past the yellow tape. "We didn't know if you received the call." Connor stood next to him and Hank fixed his eyes in sarcasm. "I got your messages. ALL of them." They made their way in and followed the trail of hustling police. "Do your thing, Connor. I'll check in with the coroner on standby. [ Y/N ], talk to the cleaning crew and get a detailed statement." You drew your attention to Connor as he was about to proceed with investigating the area. Something you wanted to say. It was on the tip of your tongue but the situation weighed on your mind. It would probably sound strange to everyone else in the room that would hear you say it. Definitely inappropriate, considering what Connor was. Still, you latched onto your words long enough for Hank to notice. He raised a brow, ready to tell you to move your butt along but it was decided. You opened your mouth and said, "Be careful, Connor." He looked up at you from the scene with a baffled tilt to his head. "Last time you got shot in the arm. Don't make it a habit and get yourself too damaged." Without looking back you left for the decaying lobby to start your work, primarily to hide your burning cheeks. But, what were you more embarrassed about? Would anyone find it absolutely ludicrous to care about a fixable Android? Would Connor think it was trivial of you? No time to think about that!

The sunlight rose into the sky, the birds and the city woke to their daily routines. The entire investigation of the complex took a gruelling while. Gavin Reed and his team arrived to finalize the scene. You could almost cut the tension his presence caused. There were whispers that Gavin had a thing for you. Such as the noticeable way he watched you walk by. It's been said that he truly fell head-over-boot when he watched you perform the Detroit Police training course that came around every six years.

"You kids going to that celebratory crap tomorrow night?" Hank searched his pockets for his car keys. "For the Captain? That's tomorrow night?" You groaned, desperate for a shower and some sleep. A little food if you could squeeze that in without falling face first into it. "Yeah, I hear ya." Hank unlocked his car door. "See you there." You smiled, knowing how those words might have gotten under his skin. Hank hated Jeffrey Fowler but he also respected the man to a significant degree. He could show up for the spite of it or because he actually cared to see his old pal rewarded for his duties.

Connor got into your car and flagged Hank down through the window. "Fowler was very pleased when I told him we would all be there. Said it would be like old times again." "Ah-huh, stop promising shit for me, would you?" He rolled his window back up before Connor could apologize. "Niiiice." You put a pair of shades on and laughed a little. "Can I ask you a personal question?" Connor leaned back in the seat and rubbed the coin he picked up from within your cupholder between his index finger and thumb. "Always" you made for the end of the street. "Did you mean what you said, back at the crime scene?" Fantastic. You wanted to play it cool but your arms became stiff and your gaze was stone-forward. "I did." You managed, trying to keep your face from turning red. At this point, it's become something of a practice. When did your feelings for Connor become a thing of second-guessing and making sure no one else notices them? No- wait. That's perfectly natural. Eventually, you get close to everyone you work with and you care about what happens to them in this dangerous field of work. Gavin Reed popped into your mind. Eh, almost everyone.

"Am I unaware of any negligence in my decision making or inefficiencies in accomplishing my objectives?" Connor was sure that that wasn't the case but he asked anyway, to ease you out of further humiliation. "Don't do that." "Do what?" A small smile crept onto his face and he raised a brow in lightheartedness. "That thing that you do. Where someone says something, and you respond after processing the best conversational exchange route that will get them to spill what you want to know." You checked the calendar on your cell out of nervousness. "It's-" "If you say 'it's part of my programming' I'm gonna kick you out. We know damn well it's not." Connor swiftly laughed, his smile widened and now he raised both brows in defenselessness.

You reached the station and Connor stepped out of the vehicle. He turned around and leaned on the door, angling his head to the window, levelling himself. "I would never want anything to happen to you, either." He said, tossing the coin back into the cupholder. "Get some rest detective." He tapped on the roof of the car in a polite gesture of: take care.

Your composure was failing you and somehow, you felt defeated. The Detroit Police Department liked its share of gossip. You thought you overheard whispers about the way you looked at him. Sometimes it sounded like bits of jealousy for rising in the ranks and getting to work with "Team Hank". That was four years ago though. Were they still sour about it? Perhaps the gossip was true then. Did you? Look at Connor differently? In any case, he was factually different.

You had the secret nickname of "Iron Heart" behind your back. You've been asked out more than once and you always said no. The people you worked with began to assume there was something abnormal about that. The ladies still learning drill and protocol loved Gavin Reed for his confidence but when they caught on to his mysterious infatuation. "Iron Heart" became "Bitch of Stone." Yet-

You stood under the shower upon reaching home-sweet-this-is-what-I-can-afford. The water rolled onto your skin like a magical spring of rejuvenation. The eyeliner streamed down your face in a black weep, collecting in a mess on your hands and extended down. Until it washed away.

And yet, he's still on your mind. You swept the condensation from the bathroom mirror. Hair soaked, droplets of water sparkling in the light. The hot steam, coiling off your shoulders.

Staggering toward your best days comfort, your most humble slice of happiness, your high-resiliency foam cushions wrapped in thick poly fibre; old friend. Down you went. Face first into the sofa and it seemed like your heavy heart dragged you down harder. Faster. Sweet dreams.

On the day of the party, you picked out your best dress. You haven't seen this curvy number since your sister got married. It brought back some fond memories that made you smile and you thought it looked good on you for once. Your earrings dangled and your hair was in a rare mood to your liking. Most importantly, you wanted to see Hank and Fowler embrace in forgetful bygones and share a toast. Those two deserve the good times they used to share together.

Getting there was a trip of nerves. You wouldn't have guessed the occasion would be this luxurious but the ballroom was filled with the finest. Golds and greys and grand staircases. You scanned the scenery and its magnificence. Moderately taking your breath away. You nodded a hello in return to those who nodded first, catching some of the attention from bystanders. This wasn't anything you were used to and you started to conceive how out of place you felt. It was then that you caught a glimpse of Hank between the cluster of people. As you made your way to him, the crowd dispersed in a loud chatter. It was revealed that he was standing at the bar, enjoying a martini. "Of course." You approached with a lively smile. "Who the hell is this?!" He stood back and took a spirited look at you. "No idea I knew a movie star." He took another sip. "Drunk already?" You joked "You look very handsome yourself. Clean up pretty well, actually." The two of you looked out at the floor. "Take a good look." Hank leaned on the bar and placed his drink on the granite top. "Room full of assholes." You couldn't help but burst out in laughter. "Come on, Hank. Somewhere in that old grumpy guise, there's a guy that cares deeply about a lot of things." Hank winsomely smirked at the way your painted lips curved along your face and made you glow. His expression grew soft and respectful of you and he quickly reflected on you as a precious jewel. A daughter that he would give anything to see safe in your years.

Connor tightened his tie in the elevator's silver reflection. When the doors opened he followed the sound of the gathering. There were a few people he recognized and worked with. Some shook his hand in welcome and others refused to acknowledge his presence. Only one stood with a mean gaze in his direction. Gavin Reed. His invitation must have been out of courtesy, he japed to himself. "Law or not, Androids don't deserve to intermingle in this kind of event. Trading class for shit with this tin-can walking around." Reed remarked aloud when Connor passed. He paid them no mind and continued on. In the main room, he noticed Hank raising his glass from across the noisy floor, trying to catch his attention. Connor dodged the bobbing mob and caught his hand in a handshake. "Well, you kids are making me feel old! Good to see you out of that stupid jacket of yours." "Thought I’d change it up a bit?" Connor looked around the room in observation. Hank placed an olive in his mouth and bit down. Taking a handkerchief out of his breast pocket and fixing it into Connor's. "[ Y/N ] is here already, better go say hello or something before someone else does." He put a toothpick between his teeth, eyes following Reed and his company making their entrance. "She went that way." He added and tossed his head in direction. Connor took a slim glass of champagne, to which Hank dropped a brow in bemusement. "What's that for?" He asked, Conner waved his hand "I'll catch you later."

You swept yourself inside a balcony that held two other souls. Their conversation faded when the stars met your eyes and the breeze gave you comfort. Essentially, you were just tired and doing your best to relax. Reed somehow noticed your figure between the swaying curtains. The way your back curved whilst resting your elbows on the stone slab, inclining somewhat forward and looking out below. Before he could finish his saunter, a slow animosity festered. First at the sight of Connor and secondly, his close familiarity with you.

"So, is this an evening or what?" The sweet and cordial voice broke your solitude. You turned to him with a tranquil delightment that caught him off guard. "That's the most inane thing someone has ever told me." Your eyes fell to the glass in his hand. "At least it will definitely be something you'll remember then? For you." He handed you the glass. You took a sip and looked back up at the sky. "What do you see?" Leaning on the stone rail, to catch the kindness of the swift gusts. "I see…" Connor relaxed himself, leaning over likewise. His inspection of the stars and the swaying trees and the sound of the water fountain below; brought a humble amusement to you. "Everything" he finally spoke, his tone was earnest and soft. His hair flowed in generous bearing, falling back into place. You thought how lovely he was in the moonlight and studied his features in an astonishing silence. Eyes, skimming over the smallest of detail. Connor bent his head to your quietude. He regarded your study of him. Tracing your quick admiration of him from his eyes, to his lips and he did the same without notice. "Would you like to dance?" He held out his hand, looking for anything you might like to engage in. Something within the space of each other. Something he hoped you would enjoy. "Mmm, okay." You hesitated briefly, stomach filling with an exciting fuss. "I haven't danced to this type of music in a while. Be nice." You took his hand and he led you to the floor.

Gavin threw his head to the side in annoyance. It seems that lately he had been losing all of his battles and expanding an inner loathing regarding Androids. Connor twisted his hand into a leading position and took you by the waist with the other. Holding on firmly, you placed your free hand onto his shoulder. Piano, harp and strings invited their guests into a dreamy motion. There was only a small select few that passed coarse glances. They were people that clung to a rudimentary view of Androids and the humans that sought them with courtship. The pace was a slow rhythm, a few twirls for the woman. Connor was attentive to the language of your body, your partnership was fluid and meaningful. Hank reflexed a double-take and almost choked on what would be his final drink of the night. "You gotta be shittin' me." He watched his two associates come together closely, the frivolity in the aura surrounding them, the deep and understanding passion in their focus.

"Not so bad after all." Connor beamed in an obvious nature. "I would say the same but nearly everything you do is to perfection anyway." "I wish there were other things I was good at." "Like what?" The curious quality in your voice made him think about his words. One could even assume he felt a quiet embarrassment. "Liiike.. Knowing how to say things that need to be said. Getting my timing right would probably be the first step." "I think a lot of us wish we were a little better at that kind of thing." The music slowed to an even sway and you found yourself in a comfort you hadn't known in a long time. You dropped your hand away from Connor's and clasped them neatly around his neck instead. He wrapped his arms around your frame, first putting his hands to your back and tracing your figure down, down until they settled around your waist. It gave you a chill you fought against, unsure of anything else but the moment now. You reposed your head against his chest, to keep from losing yourself in his view.

Gavin nearly bit down on his tongue at the sight but what upset him the most was that everyone else had seen it too. The whispers about the woman and the Android instead of [ Y/N ] and himself. Across the room, Hank was dumbfounded but proud. A wonderful feat was happening right in front of him, that bridged the idea of you both jointly and fondly. A kick to society, he thought and was happy about.

The lights dimmed to Fowler's admittance down the grand staircase but just before the beautiful melody came to a halt. Connor raised your head by the chin and touched his lips to yours in the dark. You held onto his shoulder with an arm draped around and slithered your other hand onto the back of his head. Taking his hair between your fingers. Connor parted your lips easily enough, your acceptance of him was benevolent and affectionate. He planted a hand at the curve of your lower back and the other just an inch from your posterior. The way you felt was enticing and it was utterly new to him. His tongue brushed with yours in an inquisitive probity and your breathing quickened to his enchantment of such a thing. Lungs. Air. Experiencing them through you. You were filled with his scent and the unexpected warmth of his mouth.

The lights flickered on before you both gently parted but the uproar of claps and cheers meant for the unnoticed speech of Jeffrey Fowler had everyone's engrossment. The moment seemed to belong to both of you alone. You took Conner's face into your hands and he looked down at you lovingly. Your hands were warm and a comfort to him, he took them into his and studied the lines on your palms. To this, Hank discovered while making his way up to Fowler. He paused for a short while and noticed you two had now laced your fingers together. Not tightly but in a loose and charming way. Your awareness was on Fowler now. Both, whispering to one another and smiling at the gathering that had collected around him to congratulate his honours. It seemed to have been the perfect picture in Hank's mind. Reminding him of earlier years, when his wife held him by the arm and this mere action made the world complete in a way. He shrugged these former pieces of memory from weighing too densely and continued on toward Fowler with a new elation.

Connor extended his arm for you to take. "We better give Hank some backup."

And Hank certainly did feel altered in a restored sense of the word. If Connor had felt like a son to him now, you were definitely the daughter-in-law to fulfil this new family of his.

#detroit become human #connor detroit become human #detroit connor #hank and connor #Lieutenant Hank Anderson #hank anderson #imagine romance #video games

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enidbrack8352-blog · 6 years

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Business And Industry.

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reyna6160050553-blog · 6 years

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Weight-loss

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itsworn · 7 years

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Stored for 30 Years, Garage Find 1970 Plymouth Road Runner 440+6 Convertible Is a Diamond in the Rough

It is a story we hear more and more these days: A car guy passes away, and his survivors just don’t share his passion for the steel hulk that’s sitting in the garage, or parked next to the shed, or stashed in the barn. You get the idea. Not knowing anything about the car, or our hobby, the family winds up asking around to see if anyone wants to buy “Dad’s old car.”

Usually Dad’s old car had a lot more sentimental value for him than collector value for anyone else. Sometimes, though, the old car can be a real gem, even if it’s in the rough.

The father-and-son team of Terry and David Stoker of Stoker’s Hot Rod Factory in Upland, California, was on the receiving end of just such a contact. A local man who owned several collector cars had passed, and a friend of the family (who was also a friend of the Stokers) was trying to help them sell the cars. Among them was this largely original 1970 Road Runner convertible with a 440 Six-Barrel and four-speed. The drivetrain is numbers-matching from stem to stern. Part of a build sheet found in the rear seat springs confirms the car’s VIN. The odometer shows 82,000 miles and change.

Rare is a term thrown around a lot in the car hobby, but this one truly is. Plymouth made only 658 convertible Road Runners in 1970. Just 34 had the 440-6BBL engine, 14 with automatic transmissions, 20 with four-speeds. David figures if you drill down far enough, given the number and type of options on this car, it is likely a one-of-one.

Oh, you better believe they bought it.

As much as we love a good backstory when it comes to cars we feature, this car’s history has been mostly lost to time. The patriarch of the family that sold it to the Stokers bought the car in New Jersey in 1973 and not long after moved the family to Southern California. “The yellow and blue California license plate starts with a 6,” David points out, “which means the car was first registered here in 1974 or 1975.”

In the small-world department, Terry and his brother Steve remember seeing the car in the late 1970s or early 1980s “sitting on jackstands, all filthy, not covered or anything, near Don Lugo High School in Chino,” says David. The brothers were Mopar guys, so the rare bird left an impression.

“I don’t know when it was parked, but the last year it was registered was 1985,” David says. It sat outside for decades before going into a garage when the family moved to a newer home. It was from that garage that the Stokers got the car, which had been covered in “boxes and junk.” (It was pulled out before they could get a photo of it in there.)

As best as David can tell, three things have been altered on the convertible: The original B3 Ice Blue paint was covered by a poor-quality red paint job “sometime in the 1970s,” he says, the original AM/FM radio was replaced by an aftermarket radio, and the steel wheels and dog dish caps were swapped out for Appliance slotted mag-style wheels.

Fortunately they are getting the original radio and wheels back. And while the respray is so bad that it peels right off in the jambs, “they prepped and primered the body panels, so we’d have to be really, really careful to sand the car down to the original paint,” David believes. “I don’t think it’s worth it.”

The Stokers are huge fans of original iron, be it a muscle car or a hot rod, “so if this car had its original paint, we absolutely would not touch it. If it were the original blue we’d get it running and that would be it. It’s a personal thing with us. But the red paint just kills it for us.”

Their plan is to get the convertible running again “and drive it the way it is, to make sure the motor and trans are good and figure out what it needs,” says David. Then they will mount a complete restoration. “We might play with it the way it is for a while, assuming we can get it to run. We have the wheels coming. They’ll be blue, but it’ll function. You could get away with fixing the rust and leaving it the way it is if you wanted to.”

But auction prices are strong these days. A B5 Blue/white 440+6 convertible optioned similarly to this car sold for $107,000 at Mecum’s 2016 Indy auction, while a 35,000-mile Citron Mist Metallic/black 440-6BBL convert, an older restoration by Julius, fetched $160,000 at Mecum’s Kissimmee sale that same year. Given the quality of the Stokers’ work, this car could very well eclipse that.

So the next time someone asks if you’d be interested in Dad’s old car, check out the garage before answering.

At a Glance

1970 Road Runner Convertible Owned by: Stoker’s Hot Rod Factory, Upland, CA Restored by: Unrestored Engine: 440ci/390hp 6-BBL V-8 Transmission: A833 4-speed manual Rearend: Dana 60 with Super Track Pak and 4.10 gears Interior: White bucket seat with console Wheels: 15×7 Appliance chromed steel Tires: P215/65R15 Goodyear Eagle GT Special parts: One of 20 built for 1970; power options include top, windows, brakes, and steering; Air Grabber hood; remote driver mirror; Tic Toc Tac

David Stoker says he and his father, Terry, plan to “use as much of the original parts as possible” in the Road Runner’s eventual restoration. “Everything is pretty much reusable or rebuildable.” The small amount of rust on the car is limited to small patches on the rocker panels, the quarters, and behind the rear window.

Like most of the Road Runner, the convertible top is original and in remarkably good condition considering how many years it sat outside. “The fender tag didn’t call for a power top, but it’s definitely a factory power top,” says David. “Apparently they left a few codes off.” The car’s power steering is also not listed on the fender tag.

“I am not sure if it runs. I haven’t touched it,” David says of the 440, which with its triple-Holley induction was rated at 390 hp and 490 lb-ft of torque. “But I have been under it.” He found the Road Runner’s VIN stamped in the block, the transmission, and the rearend.

The 440’s massive air cleaner would seal to the Air Grabber apparatus under the hood, so when the toothy trap door opened, fresh air would feed those three hungry Holleys.

The front-seat upholstery looks its age, but the rest of the interior is sound. “The floors are good,” says David, thanks largely to the owner moving the car from New Jersey to California when it was just a couple years old.

The Pistol-Grip shifter was new to the Road Runner for 1970. Note, too, the groovy graphic equalizer under the dash.

There are 82,265 miles showing on the Road Runner’s odometer, likely original mileage given how many years the car was parked. Next to the speedo is the Tic Toc Tac.

David found this much of the car’s build sheet in the rear-seat springs. “The rest of the build sheet is in pile the rats made, but what’s there has the VIN, which proves it’s a six-pack convertible.”

1970-plymouth-road-runner-440-6-convertible-trunk-lid-detail The car’s original B3 Ice Blue paint is most evident in doorjambs, on the firewall, and on the underside of the trunk lid—places that weren’t prepped (or painted at all) when the car was resprayed in the 1970s.

The post Stored for 30 Years, Garage Find 1970 Plymouth Road Runner 440+6 Convertible Is a Diamond in the Rough appeared first on Hot Rod Network.

from Hot Rod Network http://www.hotrod.com/articles/stored-30-years-garage-find-1970-plymouth-road-runner-4406-convertible-diamond-rough/ via IFTTT

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