#There were storys told about them from shops people too… they were suspected of shoplifting but no one chould ever prove it.

[darewolfcreates]

Sunny and Cobald my sillys :]

#splatoon #splatoon art #chicken scratch #artists on tumblr #splatoon ocs #splaoon oc #cobald #sunny #my ocs #videogames #videogame art #cobald gets jester like pants just so you know not to take him even slightly seriously. #he looks so stupid #i love him #Sunny was known among the local poverty kids in the district they frequented. Storys of a big kid who was silent and dangerous. #Who chould disapear into the shadows. But also sometimes would give them candy. #There were storys told about them from shops people too… they were suspected of shoplifting but no one chould ever prove it. #Cobald wasent necessarily a poverty kid but lived close enough to hear the rummors. He never went hungary but he still dreamed of a better #life. As he grew up he tried to follow in the footsteps of sunny and make a name for himself. #He taught himself how to be good with computers and started experimenting with making his own. #He would steal from shops around the city and even who he doesent have as many mussels or physical skills as sunny #cobald is a slippery lil weasel #Around the time when he starts a life of crime he finally meets sunny face to face. #He has so much respect for sunny and sees her as this golden idol. #Sunny sees this lil twink kid whos way too exited about commiting crimes and finds his demeanor adorable. #Who let his scrawny deranged kid onto the streets? Well its mine now. #Fast forward and cobald runs an operation. Hes a hacker and a tech guru. #He has many “grunts” who work for him and his underground operation. #Everyone thinks he is the ring leader of this operation he runs but really sunny is the only thing thats keeping this thing #from falling apart.

[alaskasmonsters]

No Strings to Hold us Down | Takami Keigo

(spoilers for chapter 299 ahead!) 

requested by @waffleareniceandfluffy​: can I request a hawks x reader where yk how ehe in the car with best jeanist faked his death all that yeah and he says he’s free of his shackles can you do where they’re both free and they discuss his backstory (reader is childhood friend she knows about his abuse) and can you include any other thing chapter 299 with him as like can u make it hella angsty but with a little fluff and definitely a fluff ending.

part two

pairing: takami keigo x fem!reader

w.c: 4.269

warnings: spoilers for ch. 299, some amount of angst (with happy ending), mentions of neglectful parents

a.n: so this took me a hot minute and i’m so sorry you had to wait for so long! it’s also like 4 k words and i don’t know how or when that happened i-... i hope it’s angsty enough and i hope you like it! please enjoy :) <3

The silence hung thickly in the air of the freshly washed car, weighing heavily on you. A glance to the side told you that Keigo was still asleep, head propped up against the window.

He’d fallen asleep as soon as you’d taken off from the hospital, the only sign he was still alive was the even lifting and lowering of his chest.

You knew he was fine, Keigo was the most stubborn person you knew and as long as he hadn’t given up yet, there was nothing that could keep him from going on. Still, there was this little voice at the back of your head, barely an itch, that urged you to make sure just once more, if he was still alive, still breathing, still going.

He’d taken a lot of damage during his battle with Dabi. The villain hadn’t held back, hadn’t even hesitated when he’d burned his wings off, almost ruining the cells in his shoulder blades they were sprouting from beyond fixing, before he had moved on to his face and neck, leaving nasty burn marks behind wherever his hands had reached.

You remembered when you had stormed into his room, ignoring everyone who told you to take care of your own injured first, to take it slow, saying Keigo needed rest now, and you had first laid eyes on his battered form. The bandages covering his body, the absence of his wings, the peaceful look on his burned face as he was still sleeping soundly.

For a moment, a never ending moment, you had thought he was dead. You wouldn’t have known what to do then, when Keigo had actually left you behind, all alone in a big cold world, a world even colder without his silly jokes and genuine smiles. It had been awful, that feeling of dread, heavy and suffocating, that had taken a grip on your throat and squeezed.

Then the beeping of the vital signs monitor had reached your eyes, barely audible through the ringing of your ears and the loud beating of your eyes and you’d been able to breathe again.

Since then you hadn’t left Keigo’s side, even denied Best Jeanists help when he’d suggested to accompany the two of you. He’d wanted to drive, since you were still heavily injured, but you’d denied.

It felt too personal, visiting the house of Keigo’s mother, a woman you’d only met once before but had heard too many stories about, to not be by Keigo’s side when he had to face her after years of separation.

Luckily, Best Jeanist had realized this and instead agreed to meet you back at the hospital later, leaving Keigo and you alone on your ride to your destination.

Out of the corner of your eyes you saw your friend’s body stirring, straightening out of his hunched over position, his eyes blinking open tiredly before he seemed to recognize where he was.

“I’m sorry. I fell asleep,” the robotic voice of the translation app he was using, chimed through the car.

Another reminder of how close Dabi had gotten to him, you thought.

You glanced at him, your eyes falling on the muzzle he was wearing that prevented him from using his voice.

You smiled at him, hands tightening their grip on the steering wheel as you stopped at a red light.

“It’s okay. I’m glad you’re alright.”

You seemed to repeat yourself around him a lot since he’d woken up. “It’s okay.”, “I’m glad you’re alright.”, “How are you feeling?”. At this point you felt like a broken record. If he noticed, Keigo didn’t mention it.

“I’m glad that everything with Best Jeanist went smooth,” the voice chimed back.

You remembered when Keigo told you about it. The plan involved Best Jeanist. Before he’d even asked the man himself about it.  He probably hadn’t been allowed, the commission usually forbade any exchange of important information between the two of you, but Keigo never cared.

He had always told you anything, it’s been like that since forever.

The rest of the 40 minute ride was endured in silence. Keigo was looking out of the window, eyes unfocused, and you tried to focus your attention back on the street. The concerned voice was pushed to the back again.

You arrived soon after, parking the car in an empty spot and exiting the vehicle together with Keigo. The mansion at the end of the street caught your eyes immediately and you were once again impressed how much money the commission was willing to spend to keep their little pet obedient.

“Is that it?” you asked, covering your eyes against the blinding winter sun.

“Inside that house,” Keigo assured, passing you without giving you a second glance.

You let out a sigh, sensing his nervousness, maybe even fear to see his mother again. Locking the car, you followed after him, stomach churning with something you could only identify as dread.

When you arrived at the door Keigo rummaged around in his pockets before he pulled out a key card. He hesitated, grip tight around the little piece of plastic, before turning to you and typing a few words into his translation app.

“Before I fully recover and show my face again...you know there is something I need to be sure of.”

Maybe he felt like he had to explain himself, as if you didn’t already know exactly why he came all the way here to see his mom again after he hadn’t even bothered to keep in touch with her the last few years. His eyes were searching your face, hand on the handle and you gave him a soft nod.

“I know,” you replied quietly.

He opened the door wide and you entered the house.

It looked just as spacey and clean as the outside let suspect. The interior was beautifully put together, the furniture was expensive looking and excessive. It looked all very tidy and you knew that the way everything was decorated has probably been the work of interior designers.

Something about the fact that the place reminded you strangely of where Keigo was living stuck with you. His apartment was just as clean, just as nicely decorated by the hands of strangers, just as well put together.

How ironic.

The similarity of it. Mother and son both separated and still connected through the hands of the commission, the organisation the woman sold her son to.

It made you feel sick, no matter how much Keigo acted like it didn’t bother him, it just seemed to anger you twice as much.

How these people working for the Hero Public Safety Commission managed to make it appear all nice and clean from the outside, sweeping all the unpleasant details under the rug. They made Keigo the perfect hero, paid off his mother and ensured their comfort, ensured your comfort to him. Only to have the man in their debt.

The commission loved how close you and Keigo were, if only to use your friendship against you and use it to their advantage. Although it had only been him they had taken in, fixed up and trained for years, you were just as much controlled by them as he was. Due to your friendship.

They didn’t think of you as talented or as perfect as him. Hawks was charming, impressive, loved by the public, the number two hero! You weren’t even in the Top Twenty, your quirk wasn’t as flashy as most of Japan’s Top Heroes’ and you weren’t as loved by the public either.

You were only useful to them when it came to the dirty work, keeping Keigo in line that was (and you hated it hated it hated it), being the one responsible when he had to get punished after a mistake he made because it was on you when you didn’t pay enough attention, wasn’t it?

And only because the two of you had been childhood friends. Because you knew Keigo better than anybody else in this world, even himself. Keigo did have no issue sacrificing himself, burning himself out in the process if that meant he did a good job. You were the one who had to ensure he was at peak performance at all times.

Of course, being the commission, they had also used their sources (you didn’t believe it was Keigo who had told them, he would have never done as much) to uncover your awful past and find out about your family home just to use those things against you. As leverage. As if Keigo’s safety and wellbeing wasn’t motivation enough.

Your past was filled with pain and regrets.

Your mom, who’d left you with your dad after you were born and your dad who’d turned to alcohol and drugs to numb the pain.

The man had neglected everything. His health, his job, his life...you. So it had been your responsibility to keep the both of you afloat. You had started shoplifting when you were merely old enough to tell the difference between left and right. Everything you’d stolen, you’d taken to keep your dad and you alive.

The commission knew about this and liked to use it against you. It didn’t matter that you’d only been a child, old enough to know better for sure but too young to see any other possibilities for your hopeless situation.

You had met Keigo back then, too, when you’d been 7 and he’d been 8, after you had stolen from a small shop and accidentally caused havoc when you were caught and ran away, causing two cars to crash into each other when you’d crossed the street without looking, which forced one of them to swerve the other way so it wouldn’t hit you.

Keigo had found you hiding behind a group of trash cans in an alleyway crying, saying his feathers had tingled and that’s how he knew something had happened in the city. He had wanted you to return what you’ve stolen but when you had told him in tears about your situation and begged him not to tell anyone he had taken pity on you. Making a promise to not snitch on you if you were being more careful.

That’s how you’d become friends.

Although he’d gotten in trouble for leaving his house, beaten and screamed at by his paranoid piece of garbage of a father, who believed he’d tried to rat him out or something...That didn’t stop Keigo from seeing you again.

You would both sneak out in the middle of the night to see each other, meeting in forests and on playgrounds all around the town. He’d share food with you or bring you little things he’d managed to sneak from his dad’s newest gig.

Since that day in the dirty alleyway, Keigo had never stopped taking care of you. The both of you felt connected through your abusive fathers and (in Keigo's case emotionally) absent mothers. You both had scars you'd rather hide with everyone but never each other and you both felt lost, unable to be yourself in a home you didn't belong in.

You had realized, even at your young age, that you could never let him leave because you’d never find a person like him ever again.

So when the commission got involved, when they took him away, isolated him from his old environment, which involved you as well, your heart broke.

Although Keigo, sweet caring Keigo (who now had to go by Hawks. Commission’s orders.) still never entirely left you. He’d asked the commission for one more favor beside taking care of his mother and him. They had to ensure your safety, get you away from your father and into a better household.

You were the very first person he’s saved and although he tried to downplay it you knew he was proud of the fact that it held him together on days he didn’t feel much like a hero.

These days, it was rather often...

The house remained silent, the calls of the robotic voice for Keigo’s mother echoing through the big room.

No answer followed.

You looked around the room, noticing that what you had called clean before was really just the absence of everything that was supposed to tell someone that this mansion was inhabited. No dirty dishes, no books or newspapers lying around, not even a glass of water on the sink.

“Do you think she left overnight?” you asked, strolling around.

Keigo didn’t answer your question so you turned around to see him standing with his back to you, something clutched into his hand. Curious of what he had found you stepped up from behind him to look over his shoulder, catching a glimpse of what looked like a letter addressed to Keigo.

From his mother.

“Did Dabi use people for this...? How did he even get this far...?”

You hummed softly, reaching up to grasp his shoulder tightly. Keigo had already suspected that it must have been his mother to tell Dabi or people Dabi sent about his real name and family background. Still you knew there was a little part of him that had hoped this not to be true.

Now, though, with the letter that his mom left behind in her abandoned home, there was no doubt about it.

His shoulders sacked and his body hunched over as he let out a deep sigh, barely audible through the muzzle.

“Guess it really was my mother that leaked it then,” for some reason even the robotic voice sounded heartbroken about the fact.

You reached up to card your fingers through the hair at the back of his head, or rather the part that wasn’t covered by bandages.

“I’m sorry, Kei,” you mumbled lowly.

He leaned into your touch and let out another deep sigh, the tiredness that had been edged into his features ever since he had woken up in the hospital bed seemed even more prominent now under the cold lights of the living room.

“When the name “Takami” had been taken from me, the relationship between my mother and i had finally disappeared. I had always thought i was fine with that,” he explained, the robotic voice breaking the silence again.

“What i thought of as being saved was just me turning my back on everything. Even on you, y/n.”

You looked up in surprise at his words, staring at the back of his bandaged head with furrowed brows.

“You’ve never turned your back on me, Keigo,” you assured him, giving his shoulder another squeeze.

How he could even think that he’d ever done as much was beyond confusing to you.

Keigo reached to put his hand on your hand, the skin warm against yours and the touch comforting. He tightened his grip ever so slightly.

“Yes I did,” the speech assistant continued, “After we’ve met again a few years back, I’ve run from you, kept my distance, because you represented what i wanted to be but couldn’t.”

After we met again a few years back.

You’d seen him in the news one day, when you were still training in hero school, and recognized him immediately as your childhood friend, even after all the years you’d been separated.

The huge red wings were a distinct tell.

You had run out of the Starbucks, leaving behind your freshly ordered drink to where you’d heard the incident had occurred. Out of breath and disheveled from all the running you’d gotten there just in time to reunite with Keigo for the first time in years.

Since then you’d never left him out of your sight again, too scared you’d end up losing him again.

Hearing Keigo say that he’d tried the complete opposite, keeping a distance to you because of what you’d represented, something he wanted to be but couldn’t...what did that even mean?

“A guy who helps people...”

Your hand felt cold when Keigo dropped his own again, letting it hang off to his side.

“That’s the only thing that’s returned. Actually it’s refreshing,” he continued.

The air around you felt heavy, suffocating, just like earlier in the car, just like when you’d stepped into his hospital room. Although now the reason for it was a completely different one.

“What do you mean?” you asked quietly, your voice barely a whisper.

“The commission is currently at a stand still, y/n, in total dysfunction.”

You swallowed thickly at the reminder. The commission, the one thing haunting the both of you whenever you were with each other, the organization holding Keigo in an iron clasp and ensuring his obedience with your help...since the Jaku Hospital Raid, since Dabi exposed Endeavor and Hawks, the number 1 and number 2 heroes of Japan, they’d been silent.

Scarily so.

“There is no one to give me orders anymore. And they won’t be able to control you anymore either. I won’t let them.”

You took a step back away from the man when you noticed how violently he smashed the screen, his shoulders tense and the recovering wings under his jacket bulking.

“Keigo...” you tried weakly.

“They won’t get to abuse your kindness anymore, have you chained to me..”

You didn’t have to see the look in his face to know what emotion was displayed on it, neither did you have to hear his voice.

Your heart dropped at the words, at the bitterness he so desperately wanted to put into them but couldn’t because of his injured throat.

“Keigo,” you repeated, this time with more insistence.

“I know why you did it. You wanted to return the favor. I saved you, you save me,” the electronic voice sounded awfully smug all out of the sudden.

Your stomach twisted, a horrible hot sensation built in your chest and you had to clench your jaw to stop yourself from saying the first thing to come to mind.

Which would have been an insult.

You clenched your fists, pinned them to your side as you stared at Keigo’s back, your face twisted into an ugly expression.

“No, fuck that,” you spit, “how dare you?”

His face came into view when he turned half to look at you over his shoulder, eyebrows lifted in surprise at your outbreak.

You snarled, unable to contain the hurt as tears started to build behind your eyes.

You’d always been an emotional crier and you really hated it.

“It’s not about a favor. Don’t say shit like that.”

Hawks cocked his head, eyeing you for a moment before he fully turned towards you. His posture was more relaxed than before but there was a question behind his eyes.

He lowered his glance only to type in the next words...

“What? You care about me so much, sweetheart?”

You scoffed, wiping at your eyes in frustration.

“You know i do, stupid bird brain,” you said, still angry.

How could he even believe for a second that you endured the commission’s whining and yammering out of guilt. How could he not know how much you cared for him after all the years you’d been by his side now, after all the times you’d been there for him.

Keigo grasped your wrist, stopping your frantic wiping to push them away and make place for his own hands, thumbs softly brushing the wetness from your cheeks.

He found your eyes, his own wrinkling at the edges.

“No chains left,” the phone chimed.

You watched in anticipation as Keigo reached behind him, hands moving to his neck, and removed loosened the clasp, pulling the muzzle off.

Now you could see the smile, too.

“To shackle us down,” he told you with a hoarse voice.

“Kei,” you scolded him, looking down at the muzzle between his fingers.

You took a step towards him, closing the distance between you. Then you reached forward to gently run your fingers down his throat. The fabric of the bandages was rough against your fingers.

Hopefully he hadn’t started talking too soon.

“Y/n.”

You looked up at him and caught his eyes that were staring down at you with a determination you’d seen directed at you so often before, but couldn’t deny they had still the same effect on you as if it were the first time. Making your head all dizzy, that was.

“When we’re driven into corners, we find liberation. That’s when a true person’s nature rears its head. That’s why Bubaigawara was such a great guy,” he explained, gripping your wandering fingers into his hand, holding them close.

“At heart, he was desperate to be a help to others. I also want to be like that.”

You smiled up at him, squeezing his skin between yours.

“You’re already like that, Kei. You’ve always taken care of me, haven’t you?” you teased, hoping to ease the tension between the two of you a little.

“I think it was more the other way around, y/n.”

“I don’t-“

“Without you...i would have never known what it is like to have someone care for you. To have someone by your side no matter what. To understand...i think i would have never understood what it meant to love.”

You froze, staring up at Keigo with wide eyes. He tightened his grip around your hand, feeling that you wanted to draw back, instead keeping you close, thumb softly stroking the back of your hand as a way of calming you down.

“I think i love my mother, but that’s more out of obligation than anything,” he explained, searching your eyes but you couldn’t tell what he was looking for, “I never feel like i have to be anything than me when i’m with you. Nothing about being with you feels forced, or like it’s an obligation. It’s just...us.”

The room was spinning suddenly as you felt something cold wash over you. Your chest tightened, your heart daring jump out with every harsh beat against your ribcage.

He couldn’t be saying what he was saying...right?

He didn’t mean that. He couldn’t mean that.

“Keigo...are you saying you love me? As in...in love with me?” you wanted to laugh, just a little, to lighten the mood, but it got stuck in your throat on its way out.

Unlike you the man in front of you looked calm, not at all deterred by your panicked state.

“Yeah, I do. I think I have for a while now, but i didn’t fully realize until recently.”

Still gripping your hand in his left one he raised the other to your face, gently cupping your cheek. You leaned into the touch instinctively.

A faint smile tugged at his lips at your action.

“It’s alright if you don’t return my feelings, but I think you do.”

You frowned in thought.

You’ve never thought of the man in front of you as anything else than just Keigo, the kind hearted boy whom you met in a dirty alleyway, the one that brought a little girl food and presents every now and then. The teenager who wrote letters once in a while to keep you up-to-date. The man who you spend your free days with, eating chicken and watching movies.

You meant it when you’d said you wouldn’t leave his side, not if you had any say in the matter. Now, you weren’t entirely sure what you meant with that.

Stay with him? Forever?

Maybe Keigo was right.

He was always able to read you better than anybody else, just like you were the one to know him best as well. That’s also why he noticed your inner turmoil just by looking at your screwed up face.

“May i kiss you?”

Your breath hitched, warmth spreading through your chest as your heart fluttered in your ribcage.

“Yeah.”

His lips were warm against yours, the touch soft and delicate. Like he was testing the waters, giving you the opportunity to pull away if you wanted to.

The feeling was foreign to you. You had kissed other people before, quick pecks, sloppy kisses, passionate making out...But this, this felt different to all of them.

He kissed you gently, carefully, holding you with a delicacy you weren’t used to.

Your heart pounded in your chest as your knees suddenly grew weak, hand reaching out to curl around the back of Keigo’s head, urging him even closer.

He pulled you in, accepting the closeness happily as he deepened the kiss. The taste of toothpaste invaded your mouth.

Your mind went blank, the only coherent thought you were able to grasp was that you were making out with Keigo...in his mom’s house.

How ironic.

Your lips tingled when the two of you parted again, the aftertaste of peppermint lingering on your tongue. The warmth in your chest had spread to your face and you weren’t sure if you were blushing out of embarrassment or glowing because wow...that was something.

Keigo was staring down at you with an undefinable look in his eyes, but he looked happy, content like this and it made something in your chest flutter softly.

You did that.

“I-“ you started but the wide grin spreading on your face against your will, growing despite your attempts to suppress it with a bite to your tongue, made your voice die with a squeak.

The man chuckled, the outline of his wings moving under the fabric of his jacket and the thought of Keigo ruffling his wings joyfully in response to your obvious happiness...you wanted to kiss him silly.

“I think i love you, too, Keigo.”

He might have been the happiest bird man in the whole entire world when you said those words and for a moment...just one small moment, you really felt like the two of you could be free.

Taglist: @crystal-lilac​

#bnha spoilers #bnha #mha #bnha manga spoilers #bnha 299 #keigo takami oneshot #keigo takami x reader #keigo takami fluff #keigo takami angst #takami keigo #bnha oneshots #bnha fluff #bnha x reader #mha oneshot #mha fluff #bnha angst #hawks oneshot #hawks x reader #hawks fluff #hawks angst

[vickyvicarious]

well now I have to headcanon that Killian enjoys cooking

(Regarding this gifset.)

Anon I agree. I very much agree. To a... schmoopy amount, so prepare yourself.

.

Emma spent most of her adult life living alone, and a decent amount of her childhood essentially raising herself. She’s gained a lot of skills from those experiences - the useful but depressing stuff, like clocking liars and abusers from ten paces, how to get a good deal at a pawn shop, how to shoplift, to break into cars, how to fill the silence with music so loud you stop thinking about how lonely you are, how to fire a gun, exactly how far ten dollars can stretch if you need. Sure, she’s learned all that.

But some of the stuff is just plain useful. Emma’s known for a long time how to manage her money, how to do laundry, how to keep a house clean, how to sew up rips in your clothes to make them last longer, how to cook. Some of those skills she hasn’t needed in a long time, and others she doesn’t use much just because she doesn’t like to, and she no longer has to. Still, even if she doesn’t especially love cooking, for example, she isn’t actually forced to live on takeout. Before Storybrooke, that was more of... a choice.

(Eating alone in your own home has never been something she’s liked. At least in a bar or a restaurant, she could hear other people, watch them.)

Living with Mary-Margaret, she wound up cooking a little more often, and during her time in New York she remembers making dinner with Henry most days. He was pretty awful in the kitchen himself, could burn water, so she didn’t let him do anything too important, but it was more about the companionship. Even having him doing his homework in the kitchen while she whipped something up was just as good. Sure, there was still pretty regular order-in days, and they ate out sometimes, but for the most part they actually had real meals together. She remembers making a decision to do that when he was still small, to always set aside this time to cook and eat together and share their days. 

It was a curse memory, fake, but Emma liked that routine. Even after moving back to Storybrooke, at least once everything eventually settled, she tries to keep that going. She still doesn’t especially love cooking - it’s more about the end result for her, having that time to sit down together as a family and enjoy something you made together.

So when she and Killian started living together, she made sure to tell him. Emma wanted him to know everything that mattered to her, wanted him to be involved in it. She... also wanted to know ahead of time, if he was terrible in the kitchen and shouldn’t be allowed anywhere nearby. His other household skills were a bit of a hit-or-miss. He was really good at cleaning, but could never remember when to take the trash out. Maybe she expected him not to have any skill with plumbing or cleaning out the gutters, or using a washing machine, and to be fair he learned those all pretty quickly, but she was surprised when it turned out Killian didn’t know how to fold anything neatly. If a lightbulb went out, he usually just ignored it, lit an actual gas lantern if there wasn’t enough light. He actually had a lot of interest in how to decorate the house, but hated changing the thermostat for some reason, preferring to just wear more layers if it got cold. 

Anyway, the point was - she was pretty sure he’d be fine with the idea of family dinners, knew he’d be willing to help even if it were just via setting and clearing the table and doing the grocery shopping, but she wasn’t sure if he’d be interested in actually making the food. And more than that, she wasn’t sure he’d be any good. He had, after all, lived most of his life on ships that had actual cooks to take care of that kind of thing. It might just be something he couldn’t do.

She definitely didn’t expect the way his face lit up at the idea.

“That sounds brilliant, love,” he told her. “You’ll show me how to use everything?”

Of course she agreed, and Killian had always been a quick learner (which was why she kept finding herself surprised at the chores he never seemed to pick up). So the way she only had to explain each modern cooking implement once was not a surprise. He was good with a knife, so she put him on veggie duty, and they made a simple but tasty chicken dish. Nothing unusual, pretty much the kind of cooking she always did. Quick and easy, healthy enough, didn’t taste amazing but definitely not terrible either.

When they sat down to dinner Killian’s face did... something.

It wasn’t quite a sneer.

It also wasn’t quite not a sneer.

“Well, it’s alright,” he said.

.

Those comments became increasingly common over the next few days. Emma’s pasta sauce was “a tad runny, but not bad,” and her tacos “could use a bit more spice,” and her ribeyes were “perhaps a little too long on the stove, love?” and her Sunday morning pancakes needed “a splash more buttermilk, I suspect.” Killian wasn’t picky, he ate every bite, and he didn’t exactly nag her about her cooking. Just one or two comments, not necessarily even directed at her so much as him musing aloud about the food. But every side dish he made tasted amazing, even if it was just a simple salad, and he very clearly had opinions and it wasn’t like Emma even liked cooking all that much anyway. She’d never claimed to be a genius at it. But she’d never admitted to being bad either, and the little snubs over and over got increasingly irritating until one day she just snapped that he should be in charge of dinner then, if he cared so much.

Killian instantly looked contrite.

“I don’t want to step on your toes, love,” he said. “If you enjoy cooking - just maybe another shake of the pepper next time -”

“I don’t like cooking,” Emma snarled, “I just like eating together. Except I’m liking it a lot less when I’m constantly getting criticized!”

“Oh,” he said, a little taken aback. “Oh. Well, then.”

And then he completely took over.

It started with him making her own staple recipes, just being the one in charge of the actual meals. He told her she didn’t have to help if she didn’t want to, and Emma was pissed enough to agree that she wouldn’t. Except then the simple pan chicken she’d been making for ten years came out tasting like it never had before, and there was this sort of lemon-y sauce with it? And he’d made asparagus and some kind rice pilaf thing as well, and even though he claimed he’d just “tweaked it a little” it was so clearly a completely different meal. A better meal. Definitely.

He went through all her favorites like that, completely elevating them beyond anything Emma had ever dreamed of making herself. They took longer, of course, but unlike her he didn’t care. He’d be in there for an hour or more; she’d hear him singing sea shanties to himself as he kneaded homemade bread. Whenever she (begrudgingly, at first) complimented his cooking he’d get this very sweet smile on his face. He rarely seemed satisfied with his own efforts either, still making little comments about how it was a shame the bread had come out a little too chewy, after all -

It was ridiculous. And that was before he started trying to recreate various meals he’d eaten over the course of his long life, a wide variety of vastly different foods he cobbled together from memory and instinct alone. She started helping him out more often, definitely over her irritation at this point and dipping right into fascination. She liked to watch him think, the way he’d dip his hook into a sauce then suck on the tip with his brows knitted together, before adding a little more of some seasoning or other. Now that he was in charge and no longer holding back out of respect for her feelings - or whatever the hell he’d been doing at the start - he’d talk through his decisions. Whether that was muttering aloud about needing more garlic, or telling a long and convoluted story about the first time he’d had this particular curry in a tiny dockside tavern and then delayed leaving port until he could at least partially figure out the recipe from taste alone - thus setting off a chain of events that led directly to his first near-death experience at the hands of mermaids. When he’d come back five years later, the tavern was gone.

Their spice cabinet grew, and their fridge filled up. The pantries too, and the cooking implements, though that happened more gradually. They’d started off with a coffee machine that automatically brewed a pot every morning; five months into living together, Killian acquired a French press and, always an early riser, ground beans himself every morning as she woke up. By the time she got out of the shower and downstairs, he would hand her a cup with exactly the right temperature, flavor, and timing. This went along with the breakfast he’d made, of course.

Emma bought him a set of cookbooks for Christmas; Henry got him some kind of complicated food processor that led to a sharp increase in soups and smoothies and sauces. His repertoire increased. Instead of going to Grannies for New Year’s Eve, they had a party for their family, and Killian went all-out on making a giant feast with Emma and Henry as his hapless assistants. She tried to tell him New Year’s was really more about partying than dinner, but he insisted he didn’t care and made a roast. It was obviously delicious, everyone who hadn’t had much of Killian’s cooking yet lost their minds a little and he alternated between incredibly smug and that familiar bashful grin. Later, they had some kind of pudding for dessert, and played board games for a while until everyone had digested enough to actually move - only then did more traditional festivities commence. They drank, danced, sang, all watched the ball drop and shouted the countdown together; and Emma kissed Killian at midnight, feeling a sharp burst of joy that finally, she could have something like this. Starting a new year surrounded by those she loved, and who loved her back, laughing giddily and dancing together with her parents and her son and the man she’d fallen so so hard for.

But even that paled, honestly, to the next morning. They hadn’t bothered with attempting to clean up, just waved everyone out the door where they’d stumbled down the street in a loud, happy cluster. Emma’d sent Henry to bed, then grabbed Killian and yanked him to their bed, and they hadn’t gone to sleep right away at all. When she did eventually fall asleep, it was blissful and slow, sated in every possible way - and well into the night.

When she woke up, late, it was to an empty bed, sunlight filling up the room. Going downstairs, she heard that familiar low croon from the kitchen; stepped over the streamers still scattered on the living room floor and rounded the corner to see Henry slumped at the table, yawning over a plate of pancakes. Killian at the stove, timing his song to a flip of the newest pancake. She could see blueberries in it. Coffee and orange juice waiting for her at the table. Bacon. Three different kinds of syrup.

Emma started crying.

Henry jerked up out of his chair, rushing to her in a panic. He held her arms and called her over and over, “Mom, mom, what is it?”. Killian moved the pan off the heat so it wouldn’t burn then came over to her too, gently touching her arm. He didn’t say anything, just looked at her.

“Mom, please,” Henry said, and pulled her into a hug - and he was so tall now, so much bigger than he’d been when he found her all that time ago. “Tell us how we can help.”

She shook her head, unable to speak clearly enough to explain they already had, that absolutely nothing was wrong and it hadn’t been for a while now. She didn’t know how to tell them exactly how monumental it felt, walking in here and seeing them both calmly engaged in such a familiar routine. How she’d woken up alone and had been doing so for months and never once worried Killian was gone. She knew he was downstairs, making breakfast.

Emma didn’t know how to say this was the moment she finally realized she had made a home, found a family, and that neither was ever going to be taken away. She didn’t even know why this was that moment, after all the more significant events they’d been through. It didn’t make sense that her deepest doubts would suddenly be banished by a simple breakfast she’d had countless times before.

“You made my favorite,” she sobbed instead, hugging Henry back tightly. She pressed her cheek into his hair, reached out to catch Killian’s hand and tried to blink past her tears to meet his gaze. “I-it’s my favorite breakfast.”

So stupid. So insignificant, after everything, so small, so - so important somehow, the most important thing in the world. Killian had made her favorite breakfast. Henry was there to eat it. Emma hadn’t cooked herself or asked him to make blueberry pancakes specifically or for either of hem to share this moment with her, hadn’t done anything besides sleep in. And it didn’t matter. Here they were, and Henry was always sleepy in the mornings but affectionate still, and Killian’s cooking was delicious and he always sang during and Emma loved them both so much.

Henry held onto her tightly, swayed on the spot a little. Killian reached out to wipe away her tears. He moved his hand to Henry’s shoulder, squeezed gently until he stilled, and then touched the back of his hook gently to her cheek and leaned over Henry to kiss her. Soft and slow.

“I know, Emma,” he told her after, smiling so soft and his voice rough with emotion. Emma had no doubt that he understood exactly what she meant; that he knew just what she couldn’t say and he felt that wonder too. That same incredible contentment, somehow more stunning than the fiercest joy. “I know.”

#captain swan #cs ff #ouat #my fic #replies #anonymous #i haven't written an askbox cs fic in so long and it feels so gooood #i got really emotional with this one i dunno. not what i was thinking when i started it at all #but yes killian cooks #also i know there are tense errors and stuff. i wrote this straight into the response box and have not edited. will get to it later

[mor-beck-more-problems]

Downtown Detectives || Morgan & Marley

TIMING: Current

PARTIES: @detectivedreameater & @mor-beck-more-problems

SUMMARY: Marley meets another detective.

CONTAINS: Proof Morgan should stick to her day job.

If you’re looking for a sketchy witch, you go to the sketchy witch place in town. Morgan loitered around Amity Row for hours, hoping to spot one of the faces she and Winston had pulled from Coraline’s social media feed. She hadn’t been settled in White Crest very long, just a few months like Morgan, and there were only so many people who were old enough to have the kind of experience to alchemize iron in a body where there should be none. Maybe the parents of one of her college friends, maybe someone from her new D&D group, or-- Morgan’s brow quirked as she saw someone walk out of Stone’s Philosophy. She wasn’t close to the man, but she recognized him from enough faculty meetings to recognize him as Dr. Fridlund from the Chemistry department. He was the kind of guy that gave kids extra credit just for wearing a school shirt on Friday, the kind of guy you would think to trust. The kind of guy who you might meet in some sketchy secondary location because just in time to flex his secret alchemy skills.

Morgan saw him making his way to Eye of Newt, which had started seeing a sudden uptick in business after Vera figured out she’d been slipped a Monkey’s Paw. Morgan made a beeline for the door, power walking faster than any suburban mom ever had, and cutting him off at the door. “Hey! Doctor Fridlund, right? Or, Eric, can I call you Eric? It’s just so weird and great to see you around this part of town! I kinda miss the old Chem Crew a little.”

“I’m sorry, but who are you?” Eric Fridlund adjusted his polo and leaned back on his heels to put some distance between them.

“Morgan Beck? I took on some of the intro classes last semester, because of the TA shortage? We were at a faculty lunch together? You were really excited to talk to me because your mom and I are from the same city!” Excited was a bit of a stretch, but she was going to make him feel as bad as possible for not remembering her. “It’s such a shame we don’t get to see each other more, but you’re busy taking on extra undergrad tutoring sessions, right? I feel like I heard that from one of my summer kids. Coraline Adams?”

Eric Fridlund pretended to understand exactly what the strange woman was saying and tried to ease his way around her. “Of course! So great to run into you. Anyways, gotta--oh.”

Morgan shifted, blocking his way once again. “Actually, I had a weird question for you!”

This part of town was, ironically, where Marley felt the most at home. And the most powerful. Walking around Amity with a badge on her hip and sunglasses firmly shielding her eyes, people shrunk out of her way, or gave her strange looks. That was fine with her, she liked it that way. No one got too close. This was how it was supposed to be, after all. And checking into a lead (even though she was technically still on leave, but sneaking into the precinct late at night to nab some files had been so easy) made everything feel even more normal. Apparently there was some suspicious activity that needed to be looked into down here, likely some sort of drug territory dispute, but of the...supernatural variety. It was right up her alley, literally. The lead told them that the last known sighting of one of the suspects was near Stone’s Philosophy, a cheesy name for a stupid magic jewelery shop if Marley had ever heard one. But the name didn’t matter, because she was here now, and as she went to head into the shop, something else caught her eye. Two people near the entrance to the shop next door, Eye of Newt, and one of them clearly looked uncomfortable. Interesting.

Marley turned and paused, watching them for a moment. The shorter, curly haired woman seemed to be cutting off the man’s route. She had that pinchy, determined look on her face, and Marley recognized it. It would be easy enough to walk away and let them go about their business, but Marley was the curious sort. And so she crossed over and came up behind the two of them, hands on her hips. “Everything okay over here?” she asked, quirking a brow.

There was a tone of voice cops had when they were getting ready to throw their weight into a situation. Morgan knew what the woman across from her was before she clocked the badge at her hip. She went rigid, smiling stiff as she said, “Yes, of course! Just catching up with a friend, right?”

Eric Fridlund considered his options. He had too many shoplifted items in his bag to want to invite too much scrutiny, but he sure wanted to get out of this interaction and get back to his wife and dog. “Sorry if we’re blocking the entrance, we’re just wrapping up here, though, right?”

“Yeah, you were gonna tell me about the last time you saw Coraline. She was in your summer seminar, right? It’s just, you know, so weird that she hasn’t been in class so close to finals, you know?” Morgan touched his arm and steered them away from the door, barely concealing her irritation at the officer. Eric brushed her off with a more pleading look the officer’s way, but obliged nonetheless.

The situation was already strange to Marley but when the name ‘Coraline’ came up, her entire body stiffened. She remembered reading that name on a recent missing person’s report. And while it could be coincidence, Marley’s years as a detective in a small town like this told her it wasn’t. “Did you say Coraline?” she asked, stepping over towards the two, leaving all air of intervening behind. “That wouldn’t be Coraline Adams, would it?” The nervous look on the man’s face didn’t escape her, either. He knew something. Her eyes sharpened and she could feel the want trickling into her bones, the need to feed. It was all she could get these days, was little snacks like this. But the other woman presented a small problem. And so she’d play along for now. “Why don’t you answer the question, buddy, huh? Make this easier on all of us.”

Of course someone had called the flipping cops. Morgan didn’t even know how long Coraline had been missing for, but her body had been stashed at Erin’s for well over a week. Her friends would have noticed eventually. And, what with the whole playing your cards close game supernaturals always had to play, someone had involved the cops without realizing it was the last thing anyone needed. Especially Coraline. But Eric was getting a little wormy under the officer’s attention. Morgan couldn’t rule him out as a real lead. Morgan set her jaw against her irritation and rolled with it. “Uh...yeah. It is, actually.”

“I don’t know. I’ve already emailed the dean of the science college, letting him know that Coraline’s failing my seminar because she refuses to come to class or communicate with me,” Eric said irritably.

Yes, Morgan thought, because she was murdered. “That’s it? You just went straight to her dean?”

Eric shrugged. “I’m a busy guy, and University protocol doesn’t require me to do anything else. Now, uh, speaking of busy--” He gestured with his shopping bag before he realized his mistake in drawing attention to it, flushed, and started to extricate himself from the two women.

Marley could sniff out guilt in almost anyone. Eric looked ready to bolt, his body stiffening at just the mention of Coraline, and the way his eyes averted the conversation when he admitted to having contacted the Dean and only the Dean about her absence. Marley put a hand up, blocking his path, and leaned against the building so he couldn’t escape by her. “Actually,” she said, “you’ve become suddenly not busy, right? Because...you wanna stay here and have a nice chat with us outside of this store, instead of, say...down at the station.” Her eyes sharpened and her stare could be felt, even from behind her glasses. “Right?” When he stopped moving, Marley dropped her arm. “So, why don’t you start from the beginning, hmm? When did you last hear from her?”

Morgan couldn’t help but side-eye the officer. She’d never had one on her side before, not that she knew it was her side. It was more of a coincidence than the law giving a shit for dead, lost fae or knowing how to handle them. She tried to subtly shift her body to pen Doctor Fridlund closer against the shop and peek around his shirt sleeves and collar. Her parents had always worn their transmutation circles on their person, and she knew enough from photos and stories that tattoos were a common practice for serious witches since they couldn’t be lost. There was one of those ‘edgy’ leather bracelets that had ridden up his arm. She couldn’t tell if there was a charm or not, but without being able to tell for sure…

“What? No, I’m...my wife is expecting me and it’s my turn to walk the dog, and I don’t see any, you know, official warrants or anything. I’m positive I don’t actually have to talk to either one of you. You--” Eric pointed to Morgan. “Are you with her? Is this some ridiculous undercover set up?” He tugged on his polo again. “You know what, it doesn’t matter, and I don’t care. I don’t know when she stopped coming to class, at least two weeks ago, if the cops really wanna come take a look at my attendance sheets, they’re welcome to it. I’m sure the tutoring logs are still around somewhere too. We were meeting one on one for help for a few weeks, and then nothing. It’s not pretty, but it happens all the time. Now, if you’ll excuse me?”

Marley narrowed her eyes. People often didn’t cooperate under stress, but it was also a symptom of guilt. He was giving excuses that didn’t make one-hundred percent sense. The other woman was getting squirmy, too, glancing around at the man as if looking for something. Marley followed her gaze only for a bit before turning her attention back to the man. “You know, I think I’d love to pay the school a visit on your behalf. Should I just come directly to your office? Or let the front desk know who I am and what I’m there for? Cause I’m good either way,” she stated firmly, standing between him and his quick exit. She wasn’t entirely convinced this man actually knew anything, but if he did, she was going to get it out of him. And if he didn’t, there was still another thing he could give her. “If she stopped coming to class two weeks ago why did it take you a full week to report her missing to the Dean?”

Eric Fridlund went still. “Christ, she’s missing? Did you know about this?” He whirled his attention on Morgan.

Morgan made no reply.

“Look, the memo to the dean was just a standard form, University Protocol. I put in her ID number, checked why I was technically concerned, she had missed over a week of class and needed to do something or else take a failing grade, and I said something about how we had after class meetings. These idiots realize they’re in too deep all the time, and they’re too busy whining into their cell phones to remember to drop or leave notice. It’s unfortunate, but it happens. My job is to get the real grown ups looped in and hope for the best.”

“But you didn’t say why,” Morgan said.

“I don’t know!” Eric snapped. “Obviously if I knew she was missing, I would have acted more accordingly. If she’s in serious trouble...Christ, I don’t know. What do you think, Beck, another round of grief and crisis inservices?”

“I don’t know, Doctor Fridlund. I’m still wondering why you’re either dangerously negligent or hiding something besides your stupid shopping bag.” She reached for his arm and pulled, dragging down his bracelet as she upset the contents.

“Hey! She can’t do that! Officer, she can’t do that, right?”

Whoever this woman was, Beck, it seemed, she was just as fed up with this boring professor as Marley was. He wasn’t giving her any answers she wanted, and she could feel the anger rising inside of her. “So glad the university has a professor like you who seems to care so much about his students. Waiting whole weeks before reporting them missing while thinking they’re just drop-outs or lazy and not, I don’t know, in need of help? Possibly even using this as a cry for help? Just...delighted,” she growled. It was apparent this situation was more than just a case to Marley, but she glowered into the man’s eyes from behind her shades and restrained herself, just barely, from peering into his fears.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she answered slowly, turning her head away as the other woman yanked on him. “I don’t see her doing anything.”

Eric puffed, indignant at this treatment. These bleeding hearts were always after him. He stooped to pick up his knick knacks with what dignity he had left (Christ, he needed to see someone about this. He’d stolen a golf hat from one of the shops and he didn’t even like golf). But before he could get that far, he felt the officer’s eyes on him and looked up. More than anything he wanted to tear his eyes away, to be anywhere but this godforsaken street. “No,” he whispered. “You can’t...this isn’t happening…” He backed away from them both and let the bag fall from his hands. He ran, stumbled to his knees in the street, got back up, and kept running.

Morgan reached out for him again, “Get back here--!” But whatever had come over him was too strong to listen. He left without picking up anything from the ground, and even leaving his bracelet behind. Morgan stooped to pick it up. She recognized the transmutation circle at once and grimaced, burning to have the power to make the ground swallow him up. “Well, that was interesting,” she grumbled. And not exactly illuminating for her peace of mind. She’d passed off her own spellcraft as pure aesthetic to know not everyone with a circle knew the first thing about equivalent exchange.

Coward. Marley flicked her eyes away from him and let the fears fall away. He didn’t actually know anything, she could tell just by the taste-- his fear was darker, different. He didn’t care about Coraline or what happened to her. But she was definitely going to be paying him a visit at the school, and that time, she’d come for him full blast. Whatever he was hiding, he held power somewhere, and she could use that to her advantage. Turning back to the other woman, Marley sized her up. “So...what’s your connection to Coraline?” she asked, raising a brow. “A worried friend? Interested party? Wannabe detective striking out on her own?”

All of Morgan’s rising warm feelings for the officer flatlined. “Oh, I’m just…concerned.” That much was true. “And the guy, you know, he gave me these weird vibes, you know. I just happen to think, you know, it’s a shit show out there and more people should care. Crazy, I know.” Morgan shrugged and looked down at the stolen things on the floor. There was an athame with its price sticker still on in the mix, but most of it was mundane garbage. Morgan grimaced. Completely useless. “Thank you, for whatever you did over there. But I guess I should be going too…”

Marley watched the woman fumble in her words. She was lying about something, but hiding it behind small tidbits of truth. Frowning, Marley moved to pick up the bag. She supposed she should return it to the store it was stolen from. Turning to look back at her, Marley gave her best attempt at a smile. She had a hunch, and it was time to test it out. “Of course,” she said, coming back over to her. She stuck her hand in her pocket and pulled out one of her cards. “If you think of anything else, feel free to contact me. After all, people like us,” she leaned in a little closer, “we gotta stick together, right?”

Morgan went stiff. What did she mean? Could she smell the death on her? Hear her lack of heartbeat? She was remembering to breathe, right? Or maybe the officer meant something else. Maybe it was people like them as in women, or queer women. All lady officers looked butch, and this one carried no small amount of swagger. Morgan offered her a smile and ran a hand through her hair. “I’m not sure what you mean exactly, but I appreciate the sentiment. I don’t generally find police officers to be very sympathetic when it comes to my side of the tracks.” She offered her a wave and started to edge away.

Marley noted the woman’s stiffness at the question, watching her work out exactly what Marley meant. Whatever she said next, Marley already had her answer. Body language was so telling after all. “Well, not all officers have blindfolds on,” she said in return after a moment, “just know there’s someone looking out for you on the squad.” Or watching them closely, in her case. A tip of her head, a crooked smile. She wanted to stay longer, to figure out what exactly this woman was-- but it wouldn’t do to push such a twitchy looking person. “Hey, wait,” she called out, not moving from her spot, “I never  got your name. I’m Marley.”

Morgan nodded, her smile curving up in a friendly way. Something sounded familiar about that name, she just couldn’t figure out how. She almost wanted to ask if she knew Jane Wu, but she didn’t want to put the reckless not-zombie into any more trouble than she already got into by herself. “I’ll try and remember that,” she said. “Maybe I’ll look you up sometime to say hey. If you hear from a gal named Morgan, you know it’s probably me.” Keeping the bracelet clenched tight in her fist, Morgan backed herself out of the street and high tailed it for home.

#wr marley #wr chatzy #wr marley chatzy #downtown detectives #wr #wickedswriting

[prescottsownthisshithole]

Roads [2/?]

First chapter here Warnings: fluff, bad english A/N: Here it is, I hope you’ll like it as much as the first one! You were on the road for two days. Daniel was tired, Sean was quiet and you did not know what to do. You saw Esteban getting shot and... you saw Daniel doing this... whatever it was. The only thing that you knew you had to do was take care of Sean and Daniel. You walked beside the road, Sean was looking up and Daniel was whining. You stood in front of the Trout Spring Trail sign. - Are we there yet? - asked Daniel. He was really tired and confused. You understood him completely. You saw hopeless look on Sean's face. You answered, before he could even open his mouth. - We are really close Daniel. - you smiled and ruffled his hair. - Y/n! - he shouted and pouted. - Oh, don't be mad. You're too cute. - you winked at him. - Are you hungry? - you asked both brothers. - Like a wolf. - said Daniel. - Well, I have a sandwitch for you, so I'll give it to you both when we will get there okay? Daniel smiled and overtook you and Sean, so you could talk. - I have a chococrisp bar for him too. - you nudged Sean. It was wierd, the only conversation you two had with eachother was about Daniel or at night when Sean had nightmares and you comforted him. - Thank you, for everything. - he said softly. - No problem Sean. Maybe we can talk when we'll find a place to crash?

- Yeah, I think so. - he smiled for a second. - Come on, guys!- shouted Daniel. - I have found a map! *** Some time passed, you discovered a beautiful place to crash. The boys had made a bonfire and ate something while you were staring at the stars. Daniel was really tired so you told him a goodnight story and he fell asleep. You sat next to Sean hugging him softly. - You okay? - you asked. - No. - Sorry, it was a stupid question. - you said. - No, I'm sorry, you shouldn't have come with us. I shouldn't drag you into this. It's just... - his voice broke down as he started crying. - I love you so much, I can't lose you too. You kissed his forehead. - Hey, look at me. It's okay Sean, you are so strong. We will get through this together and I wont leave you, I promise. I love you.- He smiled a little, tears still streaming down his face. - Come on, you should get some sleep, okay? He just nodded, you lied down. You hugged him from behind. - Thank you, querida. - Always Sean. *** The next day you have found a gas station. Sean was in a little bit better mood and Daniel was happy, because he ate a chococrisp for breakfast. You counted your money, deciding to buy some food for the three of you. Before you entered the building something had got your attention. It was the newspaper. You took it and read the title of the article „police is seraching for suspects Sean and Daniel Diaz.”. - Shit, they are looking for you. - you said looking at Sean. He just kissed your forhead and you two entered the building. - Hello there. - said the shopkeeper. You answered politely and decided that you'll take care of the hot dogs and coffee while Sean will buy some sweets. By the time he found you, you and Daniel were talking with Brody. He seemed like a very interesting person. You noted in your mind to check his blog later. You bought all the supplies and you were ready to leave, when you saw a dog. You sat down and patted him on the head. - He's so cute! - you said. - It's a she. - said the lady. - She is looking for a home. - Oh, Sean can we take her? - asked Daniel. - Y/n and I love her arleady. - Daniel pointed a finger at you while the dog was licking your hand. - Please. - Unfornately, we can't keep her for now. - you said. - Even though I really want to, we can't, I'm sorry Daniel. He pouted and Sean thanked you for helping him. You've said your goodbyes to the lady and left the shop. You and Sean sat down by the picning table drinking coffee and Daniel had gone to the toilet. - It wasn't how I imagined this weekend. - said Sean and you took his hand. - Don't worry about it, let's find a place we can stay the night, okay? You were worried too. The money was ending, the police were looking for them, your guardian was probably worried about you all. It was tough, but you needed to be strong for all three of you. Daniel sat next to you and started eating while you and Sean found a place to stay. - Hey kids, looks like you're out camping. - said the old man who appeared behind you. - Oh yeah. - answered Sean. - Seems dangerous to camp here all alone. - We are here with our dad, he stayed in the camp. - I hope you paid for all of that. - We... - We don't tolerate shoplifters. - We paid for this. - said Sean, your blood started boiling. Something was wrong. - Well let's go inside, you can show us what you've bought. - No thanks, we have to go. - you said, trying to hide your rage. You all have left your seats and packed your stuff. - Nope, you're coming inside. - said the man and grabbed Sean by the collar of his shirt. - Leave him alone. But it was too late, the man hit Sean... The man have not found you and it seemed like he stopped looking. You knew where he took Sean, so you tried to help him escape. After a few tries you succeed. Your boyfriend face was smashed. - I'll fucking kill this old prick. - you said. - I'll take care of you later, now, let's get out of here. *** - That's basically how we ended up in here. - said Sean to Brody. - Thank you so much, man. - No problem. You sat in the back with Daniel and Mushroom. They were sleeping peacefully and you were sitting with your eyes closed, listening to Brody's and Sean's talk. - So that's your girl, huh? - asked Brody. - Yeah. - you could hear a smile in his voice. - You love her? - More than you could imagine. She is the best, she takes care of me and Daniel. - Looks like you need to do the same for her. She loves you too, I can see that in her eyes. - Well, my dad used to say the same thing. Sometimes he would even ask when I'll propose. I miss him so much. You tried not to cry and pretended to be asleep all the time. Brody pulled off and you saw him hugging Sean while he was crying. It was so hard for him. You wished that you could change everything. Mushroom licked the palm of your hand. - Wanna pee girl? Come on. You left the car with a dog and she had gone to pee. You looked at the ruined town. It must have been so pretty, you wondered who lived in there and how many people escaped. - Y/n, come on, it's raining. - In a minute, I need to take Mushroom. Few minutes later you were all in the car again. Sean fell asleep and you watched the sun go up while talking with Brody. It was a long journey coming.

#Sean Diaz #victoria chase x reader #lis 2 sean #sean diaz x reader #sean diaz imagine #nathan prescott #nathan prescott x reader #nathan prescott imagine #nathan prescott fanfiction #nathan prescott angst #life is strange #Lis2 #life is strange fanfic #life is strange imagine #life is strange 2 #diaz #chloe price #rachel amber #warren graham #Kate marsh

[philosophyofpolitics]

Shoplifters of the World Unite

Slavoj Žižek on the meaning of the riots

Repetition, according to Hegel, plays a crucial role in history: when something happens just once, it may be dismissed as an accident, something that might have been avoided if the situation had been handled differently; but when the same event repeats itself, it is a sign that a deeper historical process is unfolding. When Napoleon lost at Leipzig in 1813, it looked like bad luck; when he lost again at Waterloo, it was clear that his time was over. The same holds for the continuing financial crisis. In September 2008, it was presented by some as an anomaly that could be corrected through better regulations etc; now that signs of a repeated financial meltdown are gathering it is clear that we are dealing with a structural phenomenon.

We are told again and again that we are living through a debt crisis, and that we all have to share the burden and tighten our belts. All, that is, except the (very) rich. The idea of taxing them more is taboo: if we did, the argument runs, the rich would have no incentive to invest, fewer jobs would be created and we would all suffer. The only way to save ourselves from hard times is for the poor to get poorer and the rich to get richer. What should the poor do? What can they do?

Although the riots in the UK were triggered by the suspicious shooting of Mark Duggan, everyone agrees that they express a deeper unease – but of what kind? As with the car burnings in the Paris banlieues in 2005, the UK rioters had no message to deliver. (There is a clear contrast with the massive student demonstrations in November 2010, which also turned to violence. The students were making clear that they rejected the proposed reforms to higher education.) This is why it is difficult to conceive of the UK rioters in Marxist terms, as an instance of the emergence of the revolutionary subject; they fit much better the Hegelian notion of the ‘rabble’, those outside organised social space, who can express their discontent only through ‘irrational’ outbursts of destructive violence – what Hegel called ‘abstract negativity’.

There is an old story about a worker suspected of stealing: every evening, as he leaves the factory, the wheelbarrow he pushes in front of him is carefully inspected. The guards find nothing; it is always empty. Finally, the penny drops: what the worker is stealing are the wheelbarrows themselves. The guards were missing the obvious truth, just as the commentators on the riots have done. We are told that the disintegration of the Communist regimes in the early 1990s signalled the end of ideology: the time of large-scale ideological projects culminating in totalitarian catastrophe was over; we had entered a new era of rational, pragmatic politics. If the commonplace that we live in a post-ideological era is true in any sense, it can be seen in this recent outburst of violence. This was zero-degree protest, a violent action demanding nothing. In their desperate attempt to find meaning in the riots, the sociologists and editorial-writers obfuscated the enigma the riots presented.

The protesters, though underprivileged and de facto socially excluded, weren’t living on the edge of starvation. People in much worse material straits, let alone conditions of physical and ideological oppression, have been able to organise themselves into political forces with clear agendas. The fact that the rioters have no programme is therefore itself a fact to be interpreted: it tells us a great deal about our ideological-political predicament and about the kind of society we inhabit, a society which celebrates choice but in which the only available alternative to enforced democratic consensus is a blind acting out. Opposition to the system can no longer articulate itself in the form of a realistic alternative, or even as a utopian project, but can only take the shape of a meaningless outburst. What is the point of our celebrated freedom of choice when the only choice is between playing by the rules and (self-)destructive violence?

Alain Badiou has argued that we live in a social space which is increasingly experienced as ‘worldless’: in such a space, the only form protest can take is meaningless violence. Perhaps this is one of the main dangers of capitalism: although by virtue of being global it encompasses the whole world, it sustains a ‘worldless’ ideological constellation in which people are deprived of their ways of locating meaning. The fundamental lesson of globalisation is that capitalism can accommodate itself to all civilisations, from Christian to Hindu or Buddhist, from West to East: there is no global ‘capitalist worldview’, no ‘capitalist civilisation’ proper. The global dimension of capitalism represents truth without meaning.

The first conclusion to be drawn from the riots, therefore, is that both conservative and liberal reactions to the unrest are inadequate. The conservative reaction was predictable: there is no justification for such vandalism; one should use all necessary means to restore order; to prevent further explosions of this kind we need not more tolerance and social help but more discipline, hard work and a sense of responsibility. What’s wrong with this account is not only that it ignores the desperate social situation pushing young people towards violent outbursts but, perhaps more important, that it ignores the way these outbursts echo the hidden premises of conservative ideology itself. When, in the 1990s, the Conservatives launched their ‘back to basics’ campaign, its obscene complement was revealed by Norman Tebbit: ‘Man is not just a social but also a territorial animal; it must be part of our agenda to satisfy those basic instincts of tribalism and territoriality.’ This is what ‘back to basics’ was really about: the unleashing of the barbarian who lurked beneath our apparently civilised, bourgeois society, through the satisfying of the barbarian’s ‘basic instincts’. In the 1960s, Herbert Marcuse introduced the concept of ‘repressive desublimation’ to explain the ‘sexual revolution’: human drives could be desublimated, allowed free rein, and still be subject to capitalist control – viz, the porn industry. On British streets during the unrest, what we saw was not men reduced to ‘beasts’, but the stripped-down form of the ‘beast’ produced by capitalist ideology.

Meanwhile leftist liberals, no less predictably, stuck to their mantra about social programmes and integration initiatives, the neglect of which has deprived second and third-generation immigrants of their economic and social prospects: violent outbursts are the only means they have to articulate their dissatisfaction. Instead of indulging ourselves in revenge fantasies, we should make the effort to understand the deeper causes of the outbursts. Can we even imagine what it means to be a young man in a poor, racially mixed area, a priori suspected and harassed by the police, not only unemployed but often unemployable, with no hope of a future? The implication is that the conditions these people find themselves in make it inevitable that they will take to the streets. The problem with this account, though, is that it lists only the objective conditions for the riots. To riot is to make a subjective statement, implicitly to declare how one relates to one’s objective conditions.

We live in cynical times, and it’s easy to imagine a protester who, caught looting and burning a store and pressed for his reasons, would answer in the language used by social workers and sociologists, citing diminished social mobility, rising insecurity, the disintegration of paternal authority, the lack of maternal love in his early childhood. He knows what he is doing, then, but is doing it nonetheless.

It is meaningless to ponder which of these two reactions, conservative or liberal, is the worse: as Stalin would have put it, they are both worse, and that includes the warning given by both sides that the real danger of these outbursts resides in the predictable racist reaction of the ‘silent majority’. One of the forms this reaction took was the ‘tribal’ activity of the local (Turkish, Caribbean, Sikh) communities which quickly organised their own vigilante units to protect their property. Are the shopkeepers a small bourgeoisie defending their property against a genuine, if violent, protest against the system; or are they representatives of the working class, fighting the forces of social disintegration? Here too one should reject the demand to take sides. The truth is that the conflict was between two poles of the underprivileged: those who have succeeded in functioning within the system versus those who are too frustrated to go on trying. The rioters’ violence was almost exclusively directed against their own. The cars burned and the shops looted were not in rich neighbourhoods, but in the rioters’ own. The conflict is not between different parts of society; it is, at its most radical, the conflict between society and society, between those with everything, and those with nothing, to lose; between those with no stake in their community and those whose stakes are the highest.

Zygmunt Bauman characterised the riots as acts of ‘defective and disqualified consumers’: more than anything else, they were a manifestation of a consumerist desire violently enacted when unable to realise itself in the ‘proper’ way – by shopping. As such, they also contain a moment of genuine protest, in the form of an ironic response to consumerist ideology: ‘You call on us to consume while simultaneously depriving us of the means to do it properly – so here we are doing it the only way we can!’ The riots are a demonstration of the material force of ideology – so much, perhaps, for the ‘post-ideological society’. From a revolutionary point of view, the problem with the riots is not the violence as such, but the fact that the violence is not truly self-assertive. It is impotent rage and despair masked as a display of force; it is envy masked as triumphant carnival.

The riots should be situated in relation to another type of violence that the liberal majority today perceives as a threat to our way of life: terrorist attacks and suicide bombings. In both instances, violence and counter-violence are caught up in a vicious circle, each generating the forces it tries to combat. In both cases, we are dealing with blind passages à l’acte, in which violence is an implicit admission of impotence. The difference is that, in contrast to the riots in the UK or in Paris, terrorist attacks are carried out in service of the absolute Meaning provided by religion.

But weren’t the Arab uprisings a collective act of resistance that avoided the false alternative of self-destructive violence and religious fundamentalism? Unfortunately, the Egyptian summer of 2011 will be remembered as marking the end of revolution, a time when its emancipatory potential was suffocated. Its gravediggers are the army and the Islamists. The contours of the pact between the army (which is Mubarak’s army) and the Islamists (who were marginalised in the early months of the upheaval but are now gaining ground) are increasingly clear: the Islamists will tolerate the army’s material privileges and in exchange will secure ideological hegemony. The losers will be the pro-Western liberals, too weak – in spite of the CIA funding they are getting – to ‘promote democracy’, as well as the true agents of the spring events, the emerging secular left that has been trying to set up a network of civil society organisations, from trade unions to feminists. The rapidly worsening economic situation will sooner or later bring the poor, who were largely absent from the spring protests, onto the streets. There is likely to be a new explosion, and the difficult question for Egypt’s political subjects is who will succeed in directing the rage of the poor? Who will translate it into a political programme: the new secular left or the Islamists?

The predominant reaction of Western public opinion to the pact between Islamists and the army will no doubt be a triumphant display of cynical wisdom: we will be told that, as the case of (non-Arab) Iran made clear, popular upheavals in Arab countries always end in militant Islamism. Mubarak will appear as having been a much lesser evil – better to stick with the devil you know than to play around with emancipation. Against such cynicism, one should remain unconditionally faithful to the radical-emancipatory core of the Egypt uprising.

But one should also avoid the temptation of the narcissism of the lost cause: it’s too easy to admire the sublime beauty of uprisings doomed to fail. Today’s left faces the problem of ‘determinate negation’: what new order should replace the old one after the uprising, when the sublime enthusiasm of the first moment is over? In this context, the manifesto of the Spanish indignados, issued after their demonstrations in May, is revealing. The first thing that meets the eye is the pointedly apolitical tone: ‘Some of us consider ourselves progressive, others conservative. Some of us are believers, some not. Some of us have clearly defined ideologies, others are apolitical, but we are all concerned and angry about the political, economic and social outlook that we see around us: corruption among politicians, businessmen, bankers, leaving us helpless, without a voice.’ They make their protest on behalf of the ‘inalienable truths that we should abide by in our society: the right to housing, employment, culture, health, education, political participation, free personal development and consumer rights for a healthy and happy life.’ Rejecting violence, they call for an ‘ethical revolution. Instead of placing money above human beings, we shall put it back to our service. We are people, not products. I am not a product of what I buy, why I buy and who I buy from.’ Who will be the agents of this revolution? The indignados dismiss the entire political class, right and left, as corrupt and controlled by a lust for power, yet the manifesto nevertheless consists of a series of demands addressed at – whom? Not the people themselves: the indignados do not (yet) claim that no one else will do it for them, that they themselves have to be the change they want to see. And this is the fatal weakness of recent protests: they express an authentic rage which is not able to transform itself into a positive programme of sociopolitical change. They express a spirit of revolt without revolution.

The situation in Greece looks more promising, probably owing to the recent tradition of progressive self-organisation (which disappeared in Spain after the fall of the Franco regime). But even in Greece, the protest movement displays the limits of self-organisation: protesters sustain a space of egalitarian freedom with no central authority to regulate it, a public space where all are allotted the same amount of time to speak and so on. When the protesters started to debate what to do next, how to move beyond mere protest, the majority consensus was that what was needed was not a new party or a direct attempt to take state power, but a movement whose aim is to exert pressure on political parties. This is clearly not enough to impose a reorganisation of social life. To do that, one needs a strong body able to reach quick decisions and to implement them with all necessary harshness.

Slavoj Žižek

LRB onlike

#Žižek #Europe #Riot #Marxism #Hegel #Politics #Philosphy

[warriorsouljah-blog]

Reposted from @mediablackoutusa It was Atlanta Officer Che Milton’s first week on the job when the call came in: Head on over to the neighborhood dollar store where someone was trying to shoplift a pair of shoes. The suspect, he found out, was only 12. And the shoes she was trying to take, a mere $2. Between tears, the girl told Milton how even a $2 pair was too much for her family to afford and that she was just trying to do something nice for her 5-year-old sister. This is where this story takes a turn, where it goes from an officer responding to a to his entire department banding together to help a little girl. What he saw Milton asked the girl to show him where she lived. She took him to a small house in a rough part of town. The home was bereft of furniture. She told Milton theirs was a family of seven: mom, dad and five children. She explained her husband worked a lot and she stayed home. She couldn’t work because she couldn’t afford day care for the little kids. “I saw the conditions. There was no food in the house and the kids were there,” Milton told CNN. Milton went to a nearby pizza shop and picked up four large pies. He went back to the house and dropped it off. That was in February and Milton’s gone back a couple of times, dropping off diapers or clothes or checking up on them. “I have made mistakes in my life also,” he says. He knew he wanted to help. Soon after the shop -lifting incident, when Milton’s sergeant called him in, he thought he was in trouble. It was the opposite. The department heard about the little girl and decided to share her story. The support was overwhelming. It received numerous calls to help the family. And soon, it will post clothing sizes of the children on its Social media page so people can help donate. “The way that Officer Milton handled this incident showed that not only is he here to enforce the law but also to go the extra mile and be a bigger part of the community he is policing,” the department told CNN. https://www.instagram.com/p/CR71aFvhH3r/?utm_medium=tumblr

[metawitches]

Episode 2 of Stumptown, Missed Connections, explores how Grey and Dex became best friends instead of romantic partners. It also provides background on a part of Grey’s past that he’s ignored for years, which is now coming back to haunt him. After the pilot focused on Dex’s time in the military, PTSD and lost love, Benny, this is Grey’s chance to be seen as more than just an amiable sideman.

The story of Grey and Dex’s hook up 6 years ago, his past as a felon who did time for Grand Theft and the return of his partner in crime in the present day to draw him back into a life of crime runs parallel to Dex’s case of the week. She’s hired by a bar patron, Alan (played by Jay Duplass from Transparent) who wants her to help him find a woman he fell in love with at first sight, then lost. It turns out that the woman, Katrina (played by Zosia Mamet from Girls) is a con artist caught up in a life she can’t escape on her own. Katrina’s crime partner, Megan (Megan Le) is still very much in the picture and not okay with losing her business partner.

Recap

Dex foiled a bodega robbery 6 years ago when the robber took his crime one step too far and asked for her Fiona X beanie in addition to the cash from the register and her pockets. Some things are worth defending as a matter of principle.

As thanks for chasing the robber away, the bodega manager gave Dex a liter of beer. On her way out the door, she and Grey walked into each other. She dropped the beer and it broke on the pavement. The cops were on their way, so Grey offered to buy her a beer somewhere else. They ended up spending the night together at his place.

And thus, a best friendship was born.

Actually, it’s not that simple.

The next morning, she tried to sneak out, but set off his security system. He didn’t offer her breakfast because he was starting his annual 3 day detox cleanse. She couldn’t remember his name or anything about him, while he had every detail about her memorized. Grey tries to get some conversation going, but Dex cuts him off because all she wanted from him was what she got last night, and now she’s ready to leave. Once she’s gone, Grey muses that he dodged a bullet, and makes a green smoothie for his cleanse.

In the present day, at the bar, Grey makes an identical smoothie for this year’s cleanse and gives half of it to Dex. Dex is complaining loudly that a drink this healthy goes against everything she believes in. After they choke down the first swallow, Grey asks if she’s called the lead Miles gave her in episode 1.

It was a guy who wanted Dex to find out if his wife was cheating. Dex told him that if he was suspicious, the odds were that she was. Grey asks why she didn’t wait to tell him that until after she’d done some work for him and gotten paid. Dex didn’t want to take advantage of the guy, but Grey reminds her that she’s broke.

Ansel joins them and tells Dex that he lost his phone again. Dex bought him a belt clip, but Grey and Ansel agree that it’s too uncool to wear. Grey passes Dex a drink and tells her to take it to a potential PI client who’s sitting in a booth.

The man, Alan, tells Dex that he met a woman in a bar several days ago and talked with her for hours. He thought they had a real connection, but when he tried the phone number she gave him, it didn’t work. He wants Dex to find the woman and he’ll pay $1,000. Dex is skeptical, but she’ll search as long as she gets paid either way. Alan has felt this once before, with his late wife. If what he felt with Katrina is real, he doesn’t want to miss out on what they could have together.

After Alan leaves, Dex looks over at Grey and remembers more about the beginning of their friendship. She went back to Grey’s apartment within moments of leaving, because she’d forgotten that she didn’t have a car anymore. She was supposed to go car shopping that morning, so Grey drove her to the car lot, looked over the car and complained about her decision to buy the car. It’s the car she’s still driving with the magical mix tape stuck in the stereo. He complains because he’ll have to fix the car, because he’s a car guy, but you know he wants to help her.

In the present day, the car runs but is finicky, which makes it personalized to Dex. She visits a high end restaurant bar to question the bartender about Katrina. The bartender called a cab for the other woman, so Dex is able to get her address. At the apartment building, Dex asks a woman to hold the door open for her, but the woman refuses, on the grounds that someone who lived there wouldn’t ask her to.

Dex finds another way into the building. When she reaches Katrina’s apartment, she can hear a man and a woman arguing. She knocks on the door, posing as a neighbor, and tries to find out what’s going on. That leads to her getting into a physical fight with Katrina’s (ex)boyfriend, Doug, who then leaves.

Dex explains why she’s there and, touched, Katrina agrees to come meet with Alan. She really liked him, but gave him the wrong number on purpose because she thought she’d ruin his life. She thinks that Dex finding her and the car playing Love Will Keep us Together are signs that she and Alan are meant to be after all.

Dex is not impressed, obviously. Her sign is another parking ticket. Does this mean that Miles is her Mr Right (or Right Now)?

Alan and Katrina have a happy reunion. Dex tells Grey the story later while he works on her kitchen sink drain. She’s caught up in the idea that they could have met their soulmates that easily. He wants to know if he gets a percentage of her fee for sending her the client. Ansel walks in and asks if Dex downloaded the tracker app for his phone. She goes to find the app and discovers that Alan’s check bounced. Ansel and Grey stay at the house while Dex goes in search of her pay.

While she’s driving to Alan’s house, she finds Ansel’s phone in the car. She discovers that Alan must be wealthy, judging from his house. But there are signs of foul play, since the door is ajar and there’s broken glass. Alan isn’t there, but his dog Millie is. Just as Dex says “Hi” to Millie, someone hits her in the head and knocks her unconscious.

After the commercial break, Dex is recovering at the police station with Miles and Cosgrove, who are being as ridiculous as usual. They are blaming her for breaking and entering into Alan’s house, even though the door was open and she called the police. Cosgrove also mentions that Dex is acting as a PI without a license. Alan is apparently heir to the Brantley Vinyards fortune. Dex suggests they check out Katrina’s ex, but they have other ideas, including holding Dex on the breaking and entering charge for as long as they’re allowed to, simply to harrass her. Then Miles accuses her of asking for special treatment because they’ve slept together.

Seems like it’s going the other way around to me. He actually lectures her about it until a hottie who’s dressed to show off her chest (nothing like the tight horizontal stripes to make things look even bigger) gets led in and straight out says that she name checked Miles in order to have him take care of a speeding ticket. He takes the ticket and promises to make it go away, no questions asked, no admonitions about driving more carefully.

This is not okay. He’s should be better than this as a cop and a person. He shouldn’t be stringing Dex along when he cares about someone else. I am not in the mood to view corrupt cops as good guys right now. Cosgrove and Miles’ actions toward Dex are already borderline illegal, since they’re clearly just holding her to keep her out of the way, and they don’t intend to charge her.

Dex sees the exchange and understands the implications, especially since Miles and the woman hold hands, then embrace. She’s been put in her place as the hook up who can take care of herself, while this woman is the damsel in distress who needs him.

Dex remembers more of her first morning with Grey. They went out to breakfast, where he told her he’d just gotten out of a 4 year relationship and wasn’t looking for anything serious. Before that, he did 18 months in prison for grand theft, a crime he committed with a man named Jack Feeney. Dex says that the only other criminal she’s slept with is a woman named Sammy who is a compulsive shoplifter.

In the present day, Ansel finds that Grey’s ex partner, Jack, has taken advantage of an unlocked door to wander into the bar. He’s getting himself a beer from the tap and tells Ansel he’s looking for his old pal, Greyson McConnell. Then he harasses Ansel, looking for information on the keys to a safe or anywhere that Grey might keep valuables. Ansel refuses to help or take the tip/bribe he offers before he leaves.

Learn to repect boundaries, people. A door that’s ajar, with signs of a fight, and one that’s unlocked are two very different things. Neither is an open invitation to enter, though Dex really was thinking of Alan’s best interest.

The cops have brought in Doug Blix, Katrina’s ex, for questioning, but he knows her as Kaitlin and tells Miles that she stole a substantial amount of money from him. He still loves her though, and would have given her the money if she’d asked for it.

Katrina turns out to have several aliases, a record of charges brought against her that don’t stick and an accomplice named Megan. Dex recognizes Megan as the woman who wouldn’t hold the door open at Katrina’s apartment building. Megan has worked with other partners in several other states and is a suspect in a murder case that’s similar to Alan.

Dex tells Miles that they have to find Alan before Megan and Katrina kill him. Miles responds by telling her that she’s not part of the investigation and should go home.

Grey and Dex feel weird about the case, since Grey sent Alan to her, thinking he was helping both Dex and Alan, and Dex thought Katrina and Alan really did care about each other. Now they’re worried that Alan will be killed. It’s so unlike the result of their own meet cute in a bar.

Grey helps Dex track down the fraud alert on one of the checks that bounced and gain entrance into some of Alan’s accounts. A while later, they get a security alert that someone tried to withdraw $50,000 from one of the accounts. Dex can use it to find the con artists once she calls the police.

Cosgrove lectures Miles on not getting in over his head with Dex. He explains that he’s a jazz fan. There’s the perfectly composed music of John Coltrane and then there’s the raucous, freeform, rebellious music of Charles Mingus. Miles is a Mingus fan. Dex is complicated and always on the edge of spinning out of control, like Mingus, but Miles can handle it, at least for now. They might as well take advantage of her talents, for as long as it works out between him and Dex.

Ansel tells Grey that Jack stopped by. Grey tenses up.

Dex finds Alan and tells him that the check he wrote her bounced. He tries to fire her. She explains what’s really going on. He tells her that Katrina wants out of her life of crime. He withdrew the $50,000 as a pay off so that Megan would leave him and Katrina alone. She tries to talk him into talking to the police before making the drop off, but he refuses. While he’s distracted by their conversation, she plants Ansel’s phone, with the tracker app, in his car.

He starts to repay her the $1,000 he owes her from the $50,000 in cash he’s carrying, then realizes it has to go to Megan. He promises to pay her the $1,000 tomorrow.

If he’s still alive.

Jack comes back to the bar while it’s open and Grey’s bartending. Grey seems happy to see him. It’s been ten years since they’ve seen each other and Jack’s been in prison a few more times.

Jack looked up Grey because even though Kane is locked up for life, he’s calling in his money and he’s sending Frank to collect it. Grey says that isn’t right, since Kane doesn’t need the money in prison, but Jack says it’s the truth. They were each holding $250,000 for Kane. Jack has spent all of his.

Grey invested the half he was holding in the bar, which is successful. He can pay back the money slowly. Jack doesn’t think Kane will go for an installment plan. Jack suggests they burn down the bar for the insurance money or else make a run for it. Grey’s not leaving, but Jack decides to run. He reminds Grey that he was the one who was against settling down one place years. ago.

Dex follows the signal from Ansel’s phone and remembers back to 6 years ago, when she and Grey were getting to know each other. He sits on the couch and plays video games with Ansel while she makes lunch. Then Grey asks her out to dinner that knight.

Dex follows Alan to a local cheap motel and bribes a maid into letting her unti the room. Alan is tied up, with a plastic bag over his head. Katrina’s accomplice Megan jumps Dex as soon as she’s inside the room. A fight ensues, until Dex knocks Megan unconscious with the room phone. Dex races to get the plastic bag off Alan’s head.

Katrina is grateful to Dex and the police for saving her from Megan, but most of all she’s grateful to Alan for believing in her and believing she wanted to leave the con artist lifestyle behind. Miles is skeptical about Katrina’s sincerity and wonders if she’s just using all of them to escape the criminal life.

Cosgrove concedes that Dex did a good job on this case. But she tells her to follow the law and get her PI license if she wants to continue in this line of work. Cosgrove leaves and Miles comes in, asking Dex to explain Alan and Katrina’s love at first sight. Dex says nobody understands a relationship but the people in it, and even they don’t always see eye to eye.

Dex asks Miles about the situation with the woman he fixed the traffic ticket for. She’s the widow of a friend of his who died several years ago. He helps her when he can.

Miles is called out to a crime scene at Fremont Bridge.

Dex watches as Alan, Katrina and Millie are reunited. Alan pays Dex and tells her that he hopes she finds love, too.

In a flashback to 6 years ago, Grey drives Dex home because she called him after getting drunk, even though she stood him up for their dinner date. He correctly assumes the possibility of romance triggered her binge. She tells him about Benny, her true love. Dex has extreme survivor’s guilt. She thinks that if she crosses the line from friendship or hook up to love with a partner, then they’ll die because of her. Grey suggests that they just stay friends and don’t cross the line again. Dex agrees, saying they dodge a bullet.

In the present day, they share a beer to celebrate their 6 years of friendship. They’ve continued to dodge the bullet and have never crossed the line between friends and lovers. But they give each other a lingering look to let us know that they both still think about crossing the line.

Jack Feeney’s body washed up with the tide at Fremont Bridge. Things don’t look good for Grey.

Commentary

Now we have to meet Sammy, compulsive shoplifter and Dex’s former lover.

Yikes, Grey has got some big issues to work out with the mob. Or maybe the mob owns his bar now. I’m glad it wasn’t just Dex’s issues keeping the two of them apart, but he needs to come clean with her.

I don’t think we know what happened to Dex’s parents, do we? It seems extreme for her to decide that everything she touches gets killed, based on one boyfriend dying in  a warzone. It’s also a giant cliche. It would make more sense for her to feel that way if she can twist her parents’ death into being her fault, too. It might even provide a larger mystery for her to solve.

  Images courtesy of ABC.

Stumptown Season 1 Episode 2: Missed Connections Recap-Explores how Grey and Dex became best friends instead of romantic partners and looks at Grey's criminal past, which is catching up to him. #Stumptown Episode 2 of Stumptown, Missed Connections, explores how Grey and Dex became best friends instead of romantic partners.

#Cobie Smulders #crime drama #Jake Johnson #Jay Duplass #metacrone #Missed Connections #Psychological Thriller #Stumptown #Zosia Mamet

[gaiatheorist]

Humbug.

(3am on Sunday morning, I’ve skimmed the headlines, social mobility department walk-out, concerns about the long-term functionality of multi-academy trusts, and mental health support ‘available in all schools by 2020.’ I have opinions, but they’re too close to the bone.)

Merry Christmas Theresa-Ebeneezer.

The Facebook friend who always posts that she finishes her Christmas shopping and wrapping by the end of November has put up her usual “BOOM! Done!” status, other people are posting putting up trees. My inconsiderate, bin-stealing neighbours put up their blue-flashing outdoor lights last weekend, it’s a month-long migraine. Another former colleague Facebook-posted her shock at seeing a shoplifter ‘tackled’ by security, and then expressed her concern that the woman was stealing Christmas presents, socks and toiletry gift-sets. I’m not shoplifting, because I don’t ‘do’ Christmas.

“I don’t celebrate Christmas.” is enough to close-down most of the superficial “What are you doing for...?” and “Would you like to come...?”, when the initial “Nothing.” and “No, thank you.” responses aren’t accepted. Tell people you don’t celebrate Christmas, and they tend to assume you’re a Jehovah’s Witness, they bugger off before you start trying to ‘convert’ them. There was a tongue-in-cheek Guardian article a couple of days ago, about turning down invitations, and how to sneak away from parties you didn’t want to go to in the first place.

I’ve never liked Christmas. Aside from my ranting that it’s a sterilised bastardisation of a pagan festival, claimed by Christianity, to suit their calendar, the commercialisation and the compulsion are what really irk me. (Side-rage about a former colleague, who had a Christmas spreadsheet shared with her husband. “I’ve put this ring on, but I don’t really want it, what if he buys me that? Is £300 too much for a ring, do you think?” That’s how they choose to live their lives, it’s none of my business, it only irritated me so much because she kept squawking on about it when I was trying to work.) Most people are more materialistic than I am, nobody’s ‘right’ or ‘wrong’. The ‘expectation’ among some children and adults infuriates me, whether that’s adults ‘hinting’ to partners on Facebook, or the inevitable slew of sulky children posting “Worst Christmas ever, my life is ruined!” when they open the ‘wrong’ iPhone. 

For the better part of 2 decades, I told the in-laws not to buy me anything for Christmas. 17 or 18 years later, they were still giving me a jumper two sizes too big, and two pairs of tights. I don’t wear tights, and I loathe jumpers that touch my throat. “The bill’s in the bag, if you want to swap it!” One year, I swapped the jumper for a slow-cooker. It genuinely would have been easier for all concerned if they paid any attention at all to me saying I didn’t want anything, because I REALLY didn’t want tights and a jumper. I wonder if, now my son is 19, they’ve stopped pestering him, from September, to tell them what he wants for Christmas? He’s cut from the same cloth as me, he doesn’t ‘want’ much, and when he decides he really needs something, he buys it himself. Thank the Gods for Steam vouchers.

The ex was quite materialistic, and hideously susceptible to advertising. The bastard ‘Furby’ ended up in the shed after a while, the batteries ran down, and it started making random spooky noises. The ex played with the ‘Robosapien’ more than the kid did, after I’d been scouring the internet for weeks to find one. I shudder to think what assorted tat he’ll present the boy with this year, last year he bought him a £100 coat, a scarf, and I think the camping-filtration water bottle. “Thanks, Dad, now I can have clean drinking water wherever I am!” (The water bottle might actually have been the previous Christmas, either way, it’s at the back of one of my cupboards, because it’s of no real practical use, and the kid sees no point in buying replacement filters for it.)

I was absorbed into that family, with the “You’ve GOT TO, it’s Christmas!” mentality. I don’t have to do anything, I especially don’t-have-to sit at a table where people chew with their mouths open, eat food from each other’s plates, and that one unfortunate nephew tries to eat all of the mashed potato. Seriously, I’ve seen hungry dogs eat more slowly, and with fewer sound-effects. “Have a bit more!”, no thank you, it’s quite uncomfortable enough just being here, without entering into an eating competition, I don’t need to stuff myself until I’m distended, and I know which serving dishes you’ve touched with your eating utensils. 

I don’t have to go there this year, but I’ve probably complicated my own life by appearing in public, at my brother’s wedding party, I was productively invisible until I did that. I’ve had more contact with my family in the last month than I did over the last 20 years. I’ll be politely declining well-meaning invitations soon enough, because of the ingrained assumption that nobody should be alone at Christmas. I do see the point for people who don’t want to be alone, and it’s heartwarming to see initiatives popping up for people who want to share food and company, I’m just not one of those people. 

I imagine my sister-in-law will be the most forceful, and I will have to play the brain damage card with her, because she simply won’t understand the don’t-want-to explanation. The sensory overload with my brain injuries is a constant background-battle, lights, sounds, smells, ‘normal’ environments are exceptionally stressful and painful for me now. My maternal half-sister might be difficult, but I think she’ll eventually accept my reasoning. I’m not expecting either of my parents to push the point too far, they both know why I cut contact with them. The paternal half-sister probably doesn’t know the back-story, again, I’ll use the medical angle when she suggests a pub-lunch over the holiday period, which I suspect she will. I’m not sure whether Porsche-man will have another go at ‘involving’ me with his version of Christmas, I think I was direct enough with him that doing ‘nothing’ for Christmas didn’t mean there was a gap he was obligated to fill. 

The boy will most probably go to his Dad’s for Christmas Eve, and to the in-laws for Christmas day lunch. I’ve already ‘spoiled’ his Yule-box, by telling him he’s essentially getting a food-parcel, and a recent text message, asking me if I liked Bombay Sapphire gin will probably have been his Dad, or Grandparents, ‘stuck’ on what to buy me. (Absolute CRINGE at the year the ex sent me into every shop in the village to look for ‘proper’ Bailey’s, saying it was for his Grandma, and then presented the Bailey’s, wrapped in a carrier-bag and Gaffa-tape to me. I don’t like Bailey’s, and could have bought multiple bottles of wine with the £16 that came out of my bank account anyway.) I’ll chuck a bit more rubbish in amongst the noodles and canned goods, slightly smirking at the year he asked “Mother, did you just ram-raid the pound shop for all of this?”, and the year he was disproportionately excited about a pound-shop version of the ‘JML bobble-off.’ Rubbish is ‘our’ tradition, and I’ll probably put that tin of Moose soup in again, I think he’s had that about four years in a row, now, oh, and that football I found in the garden, that’s still mostly wrapped from last year, he peeled back a bit of the paper, and said something quite rude to me. 

The kid and I aren’t Christian, so there’ll be no midnight mass, or church-related activity of any kind. We’re not particularly consumerist, he’ll see the practicality of the food-parcel, because he cocked up his student finance application, so has less disposable income this year. What we’re both going to have to deal with in our own way is the compulsion, with other people telling us what we have to do, “because it’s Christmas.” He likes his grandparents, even though they’re both a bit deaf, and both refuse to wear their hearing aids, they’re both a bit dim-racist, and very old-fashioned in their perspectives on a lot of other things, too. I’ll support him in whatever he wants to do, even if that means he stays here with me, coating the furniture in popcorn, and slurping his tea. (Yes, he does, and I do want to cause him physical harm when he does it.) 

No tinsel, no fairy-lights, no plastic tree. With both of my parents now knowing where I live, there’s a chance they might send Christmas cards, I hope they’re not glittery ones, I hate glitter. The kid finishes his university term on the 15th of this month, so he’ll probably be back with me some time between then and the 17th, until his next term starts on January 15th. ‘Probably’ because he’s dependent on the ex for transport with his multiple bags of stuff, and the ex does what he wants, when he wants to, regardless of any plans other people might have. I’ll sacrifice the relative order of the house for a month, and probably do a fair bit of leaving-the-room when the kid slurps tea, or puts that tedious Dungeons and Dragons role-play thing on TV. (Seriously, some of the broadcasts are five hours long, he’ll sit, for five hours, watching other people play Dungeons and Dragons.) I’ve been stock-piling food for months, we won’t starve, but we might end up eating a lot of potatoes. I’ll schedule a ‘big shop’ just before he’s due back, and have the ‘difficult conversation’ with him that I have very limited funds available for top-up shopping, so, if we do re-watch any of our box-sets, we can’t really play the drinking games any more. (It did get a bit dangerous at one point, when we were watching GoT, and decided that ‘horse’, and ‘legs’ were rules, as well as ‘naked’, ‘death’, and ‘full title.’)  

I don’t ‘have to’ put decorations up, I don’t ‘have to’ attend any gatherings or events, as much as some family members might want to take pity on the poor spinster aunt. I know they’ll only make the invitations because they care, and because they worry, but that’s their world, not mine. I’ll goof about with the boy in my world, we’ll try not to get on each other’s nerves too much, with me falling asleep in the evenings, and him not going to bed until the early hours of the morning. We’re both very bad at eating, and both have a tendency to ‘save’ the best of the food for the other, I’ll have to steer on that, there’s a lobster in the freezer, and I might put a frozen chicken in the next grocery order, if I can condense-down the un-labelled containers of ‘brown stuff’ to make enough room. It’s not the biggest goose in the butcher’s window, and “You, boy, what day is this?” has no meaning any more. I don’t need to play Bob Cratchitt, and ask Mr Scrooge for another lump of coal, because I’m wearing four jumpers, the kid doesn’t feel the cold as much as I do, but, if I catch him wearing his dressing-gown over his clothes, I’ll turn the electric heaters on.

My family can take the roles of ‘Christmas Past’, and stay there, the kid is my ‘Christmas Present’, I don’t know what ‘Christmas Future’ will play out to be, I wouldn’t want to, as much as I hate not-knowing, there are some things I’d rather not know.