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leonardcohenofficial · 2 years

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here’s the NYtimes interview with alan alda reflecting on the fiftieth anniversary of M*A*S*H (text below the cut)!!

By Saul Austerlitz Published Sept. 16, 2022 Updated Sept. 17, 2022, 1:10 p.m. ET

When we think of the default mode of much of contemporary television — mingling the tragic and the offhand, broad comedy and pinpoint sentiment — we are thinking of a precise mixture of styles, emotions and textures first alchemized by “M*A*S*H.”

Created by Larry Gelbart and Gene Reynolds, “M*A*S*H” aired on CBS from 1972 to 1983. (It is currently available to stream on Hulu.) Over the course of its 11-year run, it featured alcohol-fueled high jinks and other shenanigans alongside graphic surgical sequences and portrayals of grief, blending comedy and drama in a fashion rarely seen before on television. Set among the doctors and nurses of a Korean War mobile surgical unit, “M*A*S*H” made use of the mockumentary episode decades before “The Office” ever tried it, featured blood-drenched story lines long before “The Sopranos” and killed off beloved characters without warning well before “Game of Thrones.”

The “M*A*S*H” series finale, titled “Goodbye, Farewell, and Amen,” remains the most-watched non-Super Bowl program ever broadcast on American TV. The heart of the series was Alan Alda, who played the acerbic and devoted surgeon Hawkeye Pierce throughout the show’s more than 250 episodes and also wrote and directed dozens of them.

The actor revisited “M*A*S*H” in a video interview ahead of the show’s 50th anniversary, on Sept. 17. Alda, 86, who was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease in 2015, discussed famous scenes, the series’s battles with CBS (“They didn’t even want us to show blood at the beginning”) and why he thinks the audience connected so deeply with “M*A*S*H.” These are edited excerpts from the conversation.

How have you been feeling?

Good, thank you. You mean with regard to Parkinson’s or the Covid or what?

All of the above, I suppose.

Parkinson’s I’m on top of. And I haven’t come down with Covid yet.

What does it mean to you to know that people are still interested in “M*A*S*H” 50 years later?

I got the script submitted to me when I was making a movie in the Utah State Prison. And it was the best script I had seen since I’d been in prison. I called my wife and I said: “This is a terrific script, but I don’t see how I can do it. Because we live in New Jersey, and it has to be shot in L.A. And who knows? It could run a whole year.” To go from that to 50 years later, it’s still getting, not only attention but it’s still getting an audience, is a surprise.

What kinds of conversations did you have with Larry Gelbart before the show began?

With “All in the Family,” I think the door was open to doing stories about things that really mattered. So when I got out of prison and went down to L.A. to talk to them, the night before we started rehearsing the pilot, I wanted us all to agree that we wouldn’t just have high jinks at the front. That it would take seriously what these people were going through. The wounded, the dead. You can’t just say it’s all a party. And we talked until about 1 in the morning at a coffee shop in Beverly Hills.

Do you feel there was a shift over the first season away from the booze-fueled humor of the early episodes?

Yeah, there was. Partly because people who were submitting story lines thought that that’s what was wanted. Larry Gelbart rewrote most of the shows the first season. Midway through the first season, there was a show called “Sometimes You Hear the Bullet,” and that was a real turning point. Because in that show, a friend of Hawkeye’s shows up among the wounded, and he dies on the operating table. That’s the moment where McLean Stevenson [as Lt. Col. Henry Blake] says: “There’s two rules in war: Young men die, and then Rule 2 is there’s nothing you can do about it.” Something like that. [The exact quote: “There are certain rules about a war. And rule No. 1 is young men die. And rule No. 2 is, doctors can’t change rule No. 1.”]

The network was furious about this. Some guy in charge of programming said, “What is this, a situation tragedy?” Soon after that, we were getting more popular. And the more popular you get, the less they complain.

Was CBS also concerned about the language used to tell these stories?

The most striking example to me was early in the series. Radar [Gary Burghoff] is explaining to somebody that he’s unfamiliar with something. And he said, “I’m a virgin at that, sir.” With no sexual context. It was just that he’d never done something before. And the CBS censor said: “You can’t say the word ‘virgin.’ That’s forbidden.” So the next week, Gelbart wrote a little scene that had nothing to do with anything. A patient is being carried through on a stretcher. And I say, “Where you from, son?” And he says, “The Virgin Islands, sir.”

Early in the show’s run, Gelbart and Reynolds went to South Korea and recorded 22 hours of interviews with doctors, nurses, pilots and orderlies there. How did those interviews make their way into story lines for the show?

We had reams of transcripts of those conversations. I would go through them looking for ideas for stories. And I could see that the other writers were doing the same thing, because there’d be circles around sentences and words. Sometimes one little phrase would spark the imagination of one of us, and that phrase could turn into a story.

Larry and Gene went to Korea at the end of the second season, and they got a lot of material for stories. But they had also found that we had, by paying attention to the lives that they lived, we had made up stories that were very similar to things that had actually happened.

People may not remember that you directed 32 episodes of “M*A*S*H” and wrote 19 episodes. How did you start getting interested in writing and directing?

At the end of the first season, I wrote a show called “The Longjohn Flap.” I borrowed the idea of “La Ronde,” but made it long johns instead because it was reflective of what their lives were like in the cold. I had been trying to learn writing since I was 8 years old. I wanted to be a writer before I wanted to be an actor.

Were there story lines that you thought “M*A*S*H” hadn’t quite tackled yet that you wanted to bring into the world of the show as a writer and director?

When I wrote, I tried to find out a little bit more about each of the characters. Who is Klinger [Jamie Farr] really? What was underneath — I almost said, what was underneath the dresses. [Laughs.] What was underneath the wearing of the dresses? Who was Margaret [Loretta Swit]?

I see on the internet that people assumed that because I was politically active, trying to get the Equal Rights Amendment passed, that in my writing I was trying to make political points, too. And I wasn’t. I really don’t like writing that passes as entertainment when it’s really propaganda. I want to hear a human story.

The unexpected death of Colonel Blake (McLean Stevenson) in the Season 3 finale, “Abyssinia, Henry,” remains one of the biggest surprises in television history. What was it like to shoot that sequence?

Gelbart showed me the scene. I think [it was] the morning of the shoot. I knew, but nobody else knew. He wanted to get everybody’s first-time reactions. And it really affected Gary Burghoff on camera. I think everybody was grateful for the shock.

It shocked the audience, too. I had a letter from a man who complained that he had to console his 10-year-old son who was sobbing. But it was one of the ways for the adults in the audience to realize that another aspect of war is that things happen that you don’t expect.

Was there ever a point when you got tired of fighting the Korean War on TV? The old joke is the show lasted almost four times as long as the actual war.

Around a year before we finally ended it, I felt we were getting toward the end of our ability to be fresh every week. I started suggesting that we do a final movie-length episode that really could end it. First of all, we were getting too old to play these people. And after you tell stories about a group of people 250 times, it’s hard not to repeat yourself or say things that sound like they’re supposed to be funny but aren’t really.

What did it mean to you to have Hawkeye leave Korea scarred by the death of a child in the final episode?

You just described exactly what I wanted to do with all the characters on the show. I was looking for stories, each in a different way, that showed how everybody left the war with a wound of some kind. Everybody had something taken from them. And Hawkeye was just one of them.

Earlier in your career, you had been on another great military comedy, “The Phil Silvers Show,” also known as “Sergeant Bilko.” What did you learn about acting from your pre-“M*A*S*H” TV work?

The first thing I learned on the “Bilko” show was you have to know your lines before you go in for the day’s work. I had come from the stage, where I would learn my lines during rehearsal. And the first thing they did is say, “OK, you’re up for your phone conversation,” where it’s a page of dialogue. It was an eye-opening experience. [Laughs.] I staggered through that.

Why do you think the audience connected so deeply with “M*A*S*H”?

Aside from really good writing and good acting and good directing, the element that really sinks in with an audience is that, as frivolous as some of the stories are, underneath it is an awareness that real people lived through these experiences, and that we tried to respect what they went through. I think that seeps into the unconscious of the audience.

They didn’t even want us to show blood at the beginning. In the pilot, the operating room was lit by a red light, so you couldn’t tell what was blood and what wasn’t. Which, once we got picked up, was ditched.

And giving us a feel for the circumstances that the real people had to go through, so that you could see that the crazy behavior wasn’t just to be funny. It was a way of separating yourself for a moment from the nastiness.

You can’t get as harsh as it really was.

Correction: Sept. 16, 2022 An earlier version of this article described in error the viewership statistics for the series finale of “M*A*S*H.” It was the most-watched non-Super Bowl program ever broadcast on American television, in terms of total audience, not the highest-rated non-Super Bowl program. A rating refers to the percentage of TV households that watch a program. The “M*A*S*H” finale remains the highest-rated program, of any kind, ever broadcast on American television.

#mash #alan alda #M*A*S*H #tv: mash #happy reading!

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jim-bones-spock · 4 months

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LOVE AND OTHER PICKLES, a BabeRoe fic for @mutantmanifesto for the #hbowarsanta23

Hello there, @mutantmanifesto! It's me, your secret santa. I had so much fun writing this little fic for you, I truly hope you enjoy it :') I had a blast being your secret santa this year and I wish you all the best for this holiday season!

Title: Love and other pickles

Raiting: T

Pairings: Baberoe with a side of Webgott and cameo by the ever amazing Chuck Grant

Summary: When Babe's takeout meal gets mistakenly stolen by someone in his building, the young man doesn't have any other choice than to start a passive agressive post-it note war on the bulletin board for everyone to see. The thing is: he didn't expect someone to actually answer...

Tags: Modern AU, enemies to friends to lovers, kinda enemies, gratious mentions of pickles and smoked meat sandwhiches, holiday fun, HBOwarsanta23, secret santa

Link to AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/52501954

Or read in its entirety below the cut!

LOVE AND OTHER PICKLES

Babe didn’t know he could get this angry over a pickle.

As in, a literal pickle. A perfect sour pickle, crunchy and heavenly in its vinegar distribution. The perfect balance to his takeout meal he had ordered, a rich smoked meat sandwich, filled to the brim with tender meats and dijon mustard.

The only bright part of his day, which, Babe thought, was depressingly telling of the state of his mental health.

Looking down sadly at his sandwich container, neatly placed by the delivery guy right by his mailbox, Babe couldn’t believe this was happening. His shoulder sagged, his eyes closed.

“What the hell took you so long?” said the ever-annoyed voice of Joe Leibgott right behind him.

“My pickle,” Babe whispered, his sadness slowly morphing into indignation.

Babe could physically feel Joe wrinkling his nose. “Hey, man, gross. Don’t talk about that stuff,”

“No, it’s… The restaurant forgot my pickle,” frowned Babe. “They never do, usually. They even put it in a little separate box and everything.”

Joe looked inside Babe’s bag and looked up, his deadpan delivery mastered. “Why would you want pickles with Chinese food? Is that a new thing kids do these days?” he added, as if he weren’t only two years older than Babe.

Now fully confused, Babe looked down at his bag. “Chinese food? I ordered a smoked meat sandwich!”

Joe shrugged. “Looks like someone from another apartment took your order by mistake. I wouldn’t blame them, honestly.” Joe pointed at the multiple food delivery bags, all waiting in front of their respective mail box’s apartment numbers. “I mean, look at the mess here! We can barely walk, it’s like a minefield of cold hamburgers.”

“But… We have a system,” Babe complained, waving in the general direction of the lobby. “People can’t just… take whatever they want and not check their bags!”

Joe sighed, a clear sign for Babe that he was already done with this conversation. He looked at his nails as he offered his measly sympathy. “Maybe they were as tired as we are. Maybe they were evil and took yours just to spite you. Now, stop whining,” said Joe, as if he weren’t the biggest whining baby of all time, “just eat the stranger’s food. We have to finish the presentation before tomorrow or else Nixon’s gonna have our skins.”

Babe grumbled under his breath. They did have to work late, hence the delivery at his condo and he and Joe working until probably midnight and then some. Still, Babe could not shake the pettiness growing inside of him like a vine. The feeling was familiar. His friends called it Babe’s Petty Principles.

As soon as Joe left after a tiring evening of crunching numbers and deciphering numerous Excel documents, Babe, half manic with fatigue, took a sharpie pen, his trusty post-it notepad and wrote down a few lines, what he thought would send a clear message.

Taking the elevator down, he stepped into the empty lobby. Sticking the post-it note on the bulletin board for all to see, he smirked. Ah. That’ll show them.

To the pickle thief - how dare you!!!! I was looking forward to that pickle all day. Shame on you. That smoked meat sandwich was mine.

Contented, Babe then went to sleep, unaware of the ridiculous set of events he had just put into motion.

The next day saw him awake around seven. Sure enough, Babe went on with his routine, the thief almost out of his mind. With breakfast and coffee down the hatch, he dressed in his usual gray suit, white shirt and black tie, put on his winter coat and made his way down to catch his bus headed downtown.

As he opened the front door of his building, letting in a cold December wind that ruffled his amber hair, Babe stopped dead in his tracks. From the corner of his eye, he could spot a bright blue post-it on the bulletin board. As the pickle incident came thundering back into his mind, Babe remembered distinctively using a yellow post-it note. Which could only mean one thing.

The thief had answered.

Retreating back into the warmth of the lobby, Babe hurried to the board. Instead of his chicken scratch, there was a new note written in neat and elegant cursive. Babe could only gawk at the response.

To the weirdo who likes pickles: why.

I threw the pickle away. Also, the sandwich was okay, although there was too much salt for my liking.

Signed: the pickle thief

Babe audibly scoffed as he ripped the post-it from the bulletin board. How… dare the thief write that! The smoked meat sandwich was deliciously salty and the… The pickle! In the garbage? Unacceptable!

Babe saw red, his cheeks heating up as they usually do under stress.

“Oh yeah?” he muttered, crumpling the note in his fist. “We’ll see, then, pickle thief. We’ll see who will have the last laugh.”

As he ruminated on the bus, dark snow clouds literally hanging above his head, it dawned on Babe that he was taking this way too seriously. That it could happen to anyone, mixing up delivery bags.

Then, the image of his dear pickle in the trash came back to him in a flash. Babe sighed.

He knew himself pretty well, after almost thirty years of living in his own head. He knew that he didn't have a choice.

He'll take this way too far and win the post-it war. He had to.

As soon as came back home after a tiring day, Babe took the yellow note with the message he had carefully crafted during his lunch hour out of his pocket and pinned it right where the rude answer had been.

To the pickle thief,

Your crimes will be punished. How dare you throw away a poor innocent pickle. I should call 911 on you!!!! Poor small, innocent pickle! I will have revenge.

I am vengeance.

Now fully certain he had the last word, Babe was actually surprised to see a new post-it the next morning as he made his way through the lobby. Whoever was answering, they must be working nights, because Babe never saw a glimpse of anyone in the mornings, nor around five in the afternoon when he came back tired and hungry from the office.

This time was no different: a blue post-it note waiting, mocking him from afar. Babe hurried to the board, almost dropping his case in the process of tearing the offensive bit of paper from the wall.

Calm down, Batman. You seem a little obsessed over the pickle. Are you having pickle problems on your side?

Signed,

The pickle thief who recommends you get checked out.

Babe knew exactly what to answer. Without hesitation, he dug in his bag for his post-its and scribbled the answer leaning on the board itself, his tongue sticking out of his mouth for better focus.

Wow, that’s rich, coming from a guy (I guess?) who can’t even read the numbers of the apartments right! You can’t just take anything in front of you and call it Chinese food.

We. Have. A. SYSTEM. The world would crumble if we can’t get our orders straight!!!!

Triumphantly sticking the note to the board, Babe turned to the elevators, only to see his next door neighbor, Chuck, waiting in front of the reflective doors, his usual calm expression now puzzled. Babe waved as he walked closer.

“Hey, Chuck! How’s it going, man?” Babe asked, eyeing the already pushed button to call the elevator.

“It’s… I’m fine, thank you,” answered Chuck, still looking curiously over Babe’s shoulder at the board displaying his passive-aggressive note. “Uhm, Babe… What were you doing?”

Babe chuckled, his face heating up. “Oh, it’s nothing, really,” he answered, pushing the button a couple of times just in case it would help the elevator come down faster. “Just a pickle issue.”

Feeling Chuck’s stare on the side of his face, Babe kept his gaze carefully averted, scratching his head and scrunching his nose as he prayed for the doors to open.

“You’re having… pickle issues?” Chuck repeated. Judging by the tone of his voice, Babe was right to avoid his eye.

“No, no, not like that, jeez, why does everybody…” Babe trailed off with another nervous chuckle, scratching his nose. “I mean, someone took my delivery meal ‘by accident’”, he added, air quotes and all, “and now we’re having a friendly conversation over it.”

Silence.

“Through the bulletin board," Babe added, voice weak, "with post-it notes.”

It took a long few seconds for Chuck to process the information.

“Oh,” he eventually said, his deadpan delivery as Chuck as could be. “So it’s a Babe’s Petty Principle kind of thing. I see.”

The elevator finally dinged, the doors sliding open in front of them.

“You know what, I’ll take the next one,” said Babe, looking down. “I… forgot something in my car.”

Chuck nodded and entered the cabin. “I hope you win,” his neighbor said, “but don’t get that poor guy kicked out of the building for a pickle.”

“It was a very good pickle!” Babe shouted at the closing doors, as Chuck’s laugh echoed in the lobby.

In the reflection of the doors, Babe could see his cheeks were as red as his hair. He sighed, and pushed the button calling the elevator again.

I’m a new guy (confirmed) here. I didn’t know the “SYSTEM”. I do know how to read though, and you don’t need that many exclamation points when you write.

-Pickle thief

Babe grabbed the latest note absentmindedly that morning, reading it on the bus. Rolling his eyes and crumpling the paper in his coat pocket, Babe arrived at the office and headed straight for his post-it notes. Before he even opened his emails or removed his coat, Babe was furiously scribbling.

I’ll write as many as I want, new guy !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Then, blindly grabbing another post-it note, he covered it in exclamation points. Finally satisfied, he rolled back his office chair, looking up and nearly tipping over when he realized Joe Liebgott was watching him from above, leaning on the dividing wall between their cubicles. Even though Joe didn’t physically roll his eyes, Babe knew he was doing it in spirit.

“Back at it again with the passive aggressive notes, I see,” Joe trailed off, smirking.

Babe shrugged, discarding his coat on the back of his chair and turning his work laptop on. “The guy keeps answering ,” he muttered, half amused and half annoyed that Joe could read him so well.

“Look like you found your match,” Joe pointed out, glancing down on his side of the wall to grab his coffee mug and slowly sipping the hot liquid. His friend wiggled his eyebrows, much to Babe’s dismay.

Babe groaned. Just as he began praying for something, anything to wipe the smug expression off his friend’s face, he glimpsed David Webster, accountant extraordinaire, strolling in behind Joe, his expression furious.

Thank you, Lord, Babe thought as he assessed Webster’s level of anger to be a solid seven out of ten.

“Looks like yours found you ,” he said, smirking as Joe’s eyes widened.

“Liebgott,” Webster snapped, right on cue, “how many times do I have to tell you to file your reports before the due date?”

Closing his eyes only for a moment, Joe turned to face his work nemesis, as Babe liked to call Webster, who, when not in presence of Liebgott, was actually a very decent guy, albeit sometimes a little arrogant.

“Webster, it’s eight in the fucking morning,” Joe snapped back, and Babe settled in his chair, thankful for a distraction this early in his work day.

Webster scoffed. “I can read the time, thank you very much. I was here at six this morning, because of you, fixing your mistake so that the company wouldn’t implode .”

Leigbott put down his coffee mug, raising his eyebrows to give Webster a snarky once-over. “Not my fault you have nothing else to do in the mornings. You probably sleep in a suit, waiting to go to work.”

“I don’t sleep in a suit, you know very well that I sleep in- '' Webster started, before shutting his mouth very fast, his cheeks reddening.

What? thought Babe, watching Joe’s eyes dart over to him and back to Webster.

“Anyway , that’s not the point,” Webster continued, flustered. “I need you to make copies of this document and go give them to Nixon, because I’m not taking the fall for your incompetence.”

Joe rolled his eyes. “Fine. Let’s go.”

Babe watched them leave, their steps angry, but their expressions… almost eager? Babe blinked, shutting down the thought. He hadn’t had his coffee this morning yet. He wasn’t ready for the truth. He decided to wait for his friend to come back, but not before shamelessly stealing Joe’s mug off his desk and taking a few sips.

If his hypothesis was true, Joe would owe him much more than one coffee.

For starters, therapy.

Alright, this is getting out of hand. Sorry for the pickle, won’t happen again.

Signed: pickle thief, over and out.

“Well, now I feel bad,” Babe told Joe after showing him the last post-it the next morning at work. “Maybe I pushed too far.”

Joe shrugged in his office chair, handing the post-it back. “Nah. It’s good, you won. You got it out of your system.”

Frowning, Babe leaned on the cubicle wall and gave Joe a sarcastic look. “Like you got Webster out of your system?”

Joe’s smile was all teeth. “Twice last night, I got him out of my system.”

Babe groaned. “Joe, come on! Why didn’t you tell me you were seeing him?”

Shrugging again, Joe leaned back In his chair. “Dunno. Didn’t think it would be a recurring thing until it was.”

“So are you… official?” asked Babe, folding the post-it in his pocket.

Liebgott smiled again, this time a little more genuine. “I guess, yeah.” Then he seemed to remember where he was, because he snickered. “I won’t tell him, though, and I'll complain that he forgot our anniversary in a month. That’ll drive him mad.”

Babe kicked him lightly in the shins. “Hey. Be nice. Webster’s a catch, actually. Don’t know how he fell for your ugly mug.”

Liebgott sighed. “Yeah, me neither.”

A pensive silence fell on the two friends. Wanting to lighten the mood, Babe nudged Joe’s shin again. “You know he actually went to Harvard?”

“Webster went to Harvard? No, really? He never mentioned it before,” Joe answered, completely deadpan, while Babe barked a laugh.

“You really should write to the pickle thief if it’s that important to you, you know," Joe eventually said after a few hours of serious work. "Maybe invite him somewhere to make peace, or whatever.”

“Yeah, maybe," Babe said, his mood immediately picking up "Thanks, Joe, that’s actually a great idea."

“I am smart most of the time, you know,” Joe muttered, sighing dramatically.

I’m sorry, man, I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. Let me make it up to you.

Sandwich shop, this saturday, seven o’clock. My treat. I’ll be wearing a blue sweater.

-E. Heffron

The bell jingled and Babe’s head shot up for the tenth time since he sat down at a quarter to seven. Thirty minutes later, no sign of his pickle thief. This time it was a family making their way to the counter, the children running around happily while the father gave their order.

i dont think he’s gonna show , Babe texted Joe, frowning.

Joe’s answer came swiftly. Just wait. Maybe he was busy stealing other pickles.

Babe decided that he would wait until eight, to give the guy the benefit of the doubt. He ordered another coffee and sighed, scrolling on his phone.

Around seven thirty, the door opened once more. This time, Babe almost didn’t look up, engrossed in an online quiz about which Hunger Games character he was. Glancing up, he saw a man scanning the restaurant, then zoning in on Babe, his fierce eyes as focused as a hawk. The man looked down at his blue sweater, then started to approach.

Babe gulped.

While the guy walked towards him, Babe had time to detail him. Green, almost hazel eyes, dark hair as jet black as the night sky in January, pointy nose with the tip reddened by the cold outside, and the most attractive set of features Babe had ever seen on a man completed the portrait.

His face was as sharp as it was delicate, his strong cheekbones making him look straight out of Babe’s favorite tv dramas. A light stubble covered his cheeks, and as he walked even closer, Babe cringed as he realized the man was frowning deeply. Something in Babe suggested that this was probably his neutral expression, but Babe couldn't count on wishful thinking.

The stranger took his last steps towards Babe, who started to really panic. His pale skin and the dark circles under his eyes suggested someone who probably rarely got out. Then again, Babe had the same matching set of dark circles, so perhaps the guy was working in a soul-sucking office too.

The man wore a long black coat made of wool, unbuttoned, and when he finally stopped right in front of the table, Babe could make out dark blue scrubs underneath. Ah. Not an office worker then, maybe more like a doctor, or a nurse.

Great. Babe antagonized someone who helped others on the daily. Nothing to calm his anxious conscience.

They stared at each other in tense silence for what seemed like an eternity. Babe maintained eye contact, trying to decide if it was normal to be slightly aroused by the intensity of the man in front of him, while being terrified of his scowling.

“Heffron?” the man asked after eyeing him as Babe did to him not a minute ago.

His voice was raspy and Babe was delighted to hear a Cajun accent, hidden beneath the layers of animosity the man seemed to radiate towards him.

“Y-Yes, that’s me. Uhm. Please, sit down,” said Babe, willing his voice not to waver.

The man seemed to think about it, then sat in the booth in front of Babe, stiff as a stick. They sat in silence, Babe’s face hotter by the minute. He felt so warm, from awkwardness and panic, the only image his brain conjured was the Wicked Witch melting at the end of W izard of Oz.

“So,” Babe said after clearing his throat. “Uhm. Pickle thief.”

“Eugene Roe, actually. Pickle thief was my father,” Eugene Roe said with an absolutely deadpan delivery that made something in Babe’s stomach flip.

“Right. The famous mister pickle,” Babe joked lamely.

Then, something incredible happened. Eugene's expression softened, like he thought Babe’s line was actually a little funny, but wouldn’t let it show. It gave Babe a little courage. Maybe this wouldn’t be so disastrous after all.

“Look,” Babe breathed out as Eugene kept looking at him, “I’m gonna say it right now: I’m sorry I was a jerk through post-it notes.”

Babe swallowed before continuing, keeping to the little speech he prepared and practiced to a supportive Chuck Grant last night. “I shouldn’t have snapped, it wasn’t fair to you. It was a Babe’s Petty Principle situation and it shouldn’t have escalated like that, so, uh… Yeah.”

Beyond embarrassed, Babe grabbed his empty coffee cup, nervously tapping the sides with his short nails. “Sorry,” he added again, wincing.

Eugene blinked, the first sign that he heard anything Babe had just said.

“Babe?” he asked, his frown deepening.

“Yeah?”

“No, I mean… Your name is Babe? Babe Heffron?” Eugene asked again, his puzzled expression doing unfortunate things to Babe’s stomach.

“No, uh… My name is Edward, but everybody calls me Babe,” he explained, feeling a familiar blush creep up to his ears. “I’m the youngest of my friend group.”

“Ah. I see,” Eugene said slowly. He leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms. “No way I’m calling you Babe.”

“But you just did,” Babe contered, smirking.

Eugene gave him a dark look. Oops. Why was it so attractive? Babe’s stomach felt like it was on a rollercoaster of contradicting feelings.

“So anyway, sorry. Again. I thought you wouldn’t show up,” Babe said, while Eugene flagged down the waiter.

“I just came out of a shift at the hospital, actually. I came straight here when I saw the board,” Eugene casually explained. “Hi,” he added when the waiter came over. “We’ll have two smoked meat sandwiches, pickles for both. Thank you.”

The waiter nodded and disappeared behind the counter. Babe watched as Eugene removed his coat, revealing a small, but strong frame.

“So… You’re a doctor?” asked Babe, desperate to hear Eugene’s drawl in any way possible.

“Surgeon,” Eugene clarified. “You?”

Babe sighed. “Marketing. I mostly do Excel spreadsheets that nobody looks at after. Exciting work.”

Eugene shrugged, his expression once again softening. “S’not bad. What else do you like to do, except antagonize perfect strangers in your building?”

Babe smiles sheepishly. “I only antagonize the doctors in my building, actually.”

The smallest smile undid the frown on Eugene’s face. “I see.”

“I'm actually a boring person,” continued Babe, eyeing the waiter as he got out of the kitchen balancing two plates on his arm.

“Someone who has a catchphrase for his… what was it again? Petty principles? That’s not boring to me,” shrugged Eugene, just as the waiter stopped by them and delivered their orders. They both nodded in thanks as he walked away.

“My friends coined it. I can be… I mean, principles are important,” Babe said, waving his hands around, intent on being the most humble he could be.

“Yeah, that’s why you’re going to give me your pickle again,” said Eugene, his eyes now twinkling with a light Babe was enchanted to see.

Oh, he wanted to play it like that, uh? Alright. Babe could play.

“No way,” he answered, placing a protective hand over his plate, “ you owe me a pickle, mister.”

Eugene frowned, but this time Babe could tell it was fake, which made his heart miss a beat.

“What about the emotional damage I had to endure? I demand reparation,” Eugene said, crossing his arms on his chest.

“But you don’t even like pickles. You threw the other one away!” countered Babe, now genuinely confused.

Eugene scratched at his cheek to hide his mouth. “I might have lied about that.”

Laughing, Babe threw his hands in the air. “I knew it! I knew nobody in their right mind could say no to a delicious pickle with a smoked meat sandwich.”

“So… Can I have yours?” Eugene said after Babe dropped his arms.

Babe dramatically sighed. “I see only one way of settling this. We’ll split the pickle. How ‘bout that?”

Eugene pretended to think about it. “Yes, that would be satisfactory.” He extended his arm so that Babe would shake his hand above their plates. “Shake on it? From now on, we’ll always split the pickle.”

Babe eagerly took Eugene’s hand. It was firm and dry, and Babe had to make his brain shut up about the other things Babe would like to see Eugene’s hands do.

“Agreed.”

They shared a smile, Eugene’s first real smile since he stepped in the restaurant. Babe was glad, a million pounds off his shoulders.

Reluctantly letting go of Eugene’s warm hand, Babe started eating his sandwich. Soon, Eugene joined him. They ate in companionable silence. Babe eyed Eugene every chance he got. The doctor ate with appetite, even licking his thumb when a splash of mustard dropped on his fingers.

“So,” Eugene eventually said. “This might be the weirdest meal I’ve ever shared."

“Not me,” Babe casually answered, cutting the pickle in half and placing it delicately on Eugene’s almost empty plate. “Last night I ate dinner with my friend and his soon-to-be boyfriend.”

“What was weird about the dinner?” Eugene asked, seemingly curious.

“They kind of love and hate each other so much, they ended up aggressively complimenting each other. It was tense,” Babe added.

Shuddering, he thought back on the ferocious intensity in Webster’s eyes as he declared that no, Joe was actually the most wonderful person he ever met as Joe practically growled in agony at Webster.

“Oh… You’re right, that’s a weirder meal than this one,” Eugene said, laughing.

“Wait until you hear this other one,” Babe added, galvanized by Eugene’s laugh, “the other day, my friend Bill-”

The night dwindled away as they both shared stories of their respective friend groups. Eugene ended up telling Babe a few gross hospital stories, while Babe spilled the crunchiest office drama. Hours went by without the two men ever checking their phones, or wanting to leave.

Babe could feel a certain warmth as Eugene relaxed and laughed more easily. He was still guarded, but that made his smiles all the more rewarding. Babe was quickly addicted and discreetly texted Joe when Eugene went to the bathroom.

Pickle guy okay. Might be on a date, now??????

WTF??? please call me after.

Babe could feel Eugene’s eyes on him more and more, and let his blush reign freely. There was no way he could hide the effect Eugene Roe had on him, even if he just met the guy. As the night went by, Babe could feel a certain tension come back, this time a much more pleasant tension. Babe knew it well, could feel it in bars when he eyed a good-looking stranger for a night of fun, could feel it when he (mostly tried) to flirt with the blind dates his friends would send him on.

What really emboldened Babe was that Eugene was giving this energy right back, was now making jokes and letting the silences linger, happy to be in the moment with Babe. Thrilled by this unforeseen turn of events, Babe, for once, let it happen and didn’t fight the lightness and giddiness he felt, letting himself be totally genuine.

All of that because of a pickle.

As the closing time approached and they had to put on their coats to brave the cold outside, Babe found himself wanting this evening to last forever.

“Well, this was… uhm… very fun,” Babe commented, stepping outside and holding the door for Eugene. “I’m glad I could say sorry in person. And I’m glad you didn’t think I was a total jackass,” he added sheepishly.

“I’m happy you reached out… and that you’re not a psycho killer,” Eugene added, flashing him a small smile as he went outside.

The clouds above hid the dark sky, rendering it more like a soft, gray color. Suddenly, Babe looked up. Heavy snowflakes, as if on cue, began to slowly fall down on their heads. Babe’s heart leapt in his chest as he looked back at Eugene to find out that he was already looking at Babe.

“You look like an angel,” Eugene whispered, almost to himself, pointing at the halo of a nearby streetlamp illuminating Babe’s hair, bright white snowflakes sticking to the copper strands.

“That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me,” Babe said, his voice strangled, after a few seconds gathering himself so he would not have to muffle a yell in his thick scarf.

Eugene looked down, smiling, and Babe couldn’t believe the sweetness of the moment. The snow falling felt more like powdered sugar at this point, with how sweet they were being.

Always the go-getter, Babe took a step forward, bringing him closer to Eugene. The other man did not move, turning his head so that he could look at Babe from the corner of his eye.

Being slightly taller than Eugene, Babe had to look down, inhaling through his nose to calm his nerves. He blinked a few times, drinking in the sight of Eugene, the tip of his nose already turning red, smelling the sharp, cold air around them alongside Eugene’s warm and rich scent.

Slowly, leaving plenty of room for Eugene to take a step back, Babe leaned down. Not only Eugene didn’t push him away, he leaned in , like he knew exactly what Babe would do. and pressed his parted lips to the corner of Eugene’s mouth in a chaste and sweet kiss. Electricity seemed to travel between the two, a sharp realization of wanting more, of seeing the other, almost like a recognition.

“Weirdest date I’ve ever been on,” Eugene chuckled warmly when they separated, his hand flying to his lips, like an afterthought.

Babe smiled wide, holding onto the sides of Eugene’s coat. He feels like if he let go, he would float away.

“Tell me about it,” he whispered, feeling himself blushing furiously as they walked back to their homes.

The next day, on the bulletin board, two post-it notes were pinned for everyone to see.

I’m very, very, very glad you stole my pickle :) How about same time, same place, next week?

I’ll be there

I think this time, it’s you that stole something of mine.

#band of brothers #BOB #hbowarsanta23 #I hope you'll like it!!!#baberoe #webgott #modern au #christmas exchange #happy reading!

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terror-slut · 2 years

Note

Please write some 001 fanfics!

Change of Heart

Chapter 01/?? Click HERE for this fic’s masterlist!

Reader is a troubled pediatrician at Hawkins lab when she crosses paths with this lovely orderly. Nothing will stand between Peter and his revenge. Not even really pretty distractions.

Pairing: Peter Ballard x f!reader

Word count: 1117

Ratings & warnings: SPOILERS, period typical sexism, violence, blood, NSFW, swearing, no (Y/N), no described defining features for reader. Ratings may change as chapters are added.

A/N: your wish is my wish as well my command!

She doesn’t talk much.

Not to her colleagues, at least. She speaks with dr. Brenner because she answers to him and she speaks to the children when they need her.

But not to the other doctors and nurses, not to the other orderlies. Not to him.

It has never bothered Peter before. He doesn’t need her, has no reason to let her live when his plan eventually comes to fruition. In his mind, she is just like everyone else who works at Hawkins Lab. Another mindless sheep pretending to care for the children, but in reality only interested in prodding their supernatural brains in the name of science and a paycheck at the end of the month.

Eat. Sleep. Work. Reproduce. Die.

It was stupid of him to let her become a distraction. He should have killed her when he had the chance.

“Peter,” one of the kids in the rainbow room groans to him, tugging on the spotless white sleeve of his uniform.

He crosses eyes with little 015 when he looks down, the boy looks paler than usual and his lips are chapped. The kid’s eyes are watery and his nose runny.

“I don’t feel so good, Peter.”

Alec locks eyes with him and then nods, signaling that it’s fine, under the illusion that he can handle these kids on their own while Peter is away.

“Come with me, 015. The doctor will make you all better.”

A disheveled mess greets the pair when he and 015 arrive at the sick bay, something that he’s not used to from the Hawkin’s lab pediatrician.

Though usually neatly put in a tight bun, her locks now tumble in unkempt tresses down her face and deep, purple circles have appeared under her eyes. It is out of the ordinary and bound to capture Peter’s attention.

“015 is not feeling good,” he states the obvious, expecting her to ignore him as she usually does. When her eyes find his deep blue ones before they wander off to 015, his interest is piqued once again.

Something is off, which meant the puzzle pieces could change and be rearranged. Peter always keeps his eyes open for little shifts in the matrix that could mean he has to change his initial plan. Has the doctor’s obvious distracted state any real meaning to him? Could and would she form a problem?

Peter watches as she sits the kid down in her office, producing a penlight and has him follow the light for her.

“Does it hurt anywhere, 015? Do you remember when it started?” She asks him, squatting in front of the kid so that they’re at eye level.

“I’ll come back later to pick him up,” Peter says, but before he can make his way out of her office and back to the rainbow room, she calls after him. Knitting his brows together in amusement, he turns around on his heels to look at the doctor.

“Yes?” His hands are folded neatly behind his back, ever the friendly, harmless orderly. She’s at least a head smaller than he is.

“I know we’re not supposed to intervene with the kids. And I’m not asking you to,” her eyes dart around the hallway. He wonders what she has to hide. “But tell dr. Brenner if you see any of the bigger kids picking on the smaller ones. I’ve had too many kids in here with nosebleeds that didn’t stem from their powers.”

“Why?” He asks. Not why should he tell dr. Brenner. He understands her motivation behind that. But why him? Why can’t she tell Brenner herself? Unlike Brenner and himself, she has always been on good terms with the man. What happened?

“I…” she hesitates, worrying her lip between her teeth as he looks down upon her. “You seem like a good guy, Peter. You’re here every day, you spend every waking moments with these kids. I know you care for them. Please?”

Please.

Please? Fuck.

If Peter was the person she assumed he was, good and kind, maybe he would fulfill her request. But he is far from that person and she must surely be delusional to think he cared. The only person Peter looks out for is number 001, and that meant that drawing attention to himself would only make dr. Brenner suspicious of him. He could and would not risk it, not even when she asks him so prettily.

“I’ll be back for him. After dinner,” she looks dejected, but it doesn’t matter to Peter. The clicking of his shoes on the tiles announce his retreat.

With a disappointing huff she watches the lean orderly go before turning back to 015 with a fake smile plastered on her face.

“Alright, kid. Let’s get you all better.”

It’s long after dinner when Peter makes his nightly rounds around the lab, enjoying the peace and quiet, free of the chatter between doctors that could be heard during the day. It’s moments like these Peter enjoys most. The deathly quiet where he can take a moment and think.

Back when he had just been assigned the job of an orderly, he used to take these moments and try as he might to rekindle his power. Every night for days, weeks, months he tried, until he had no choice but to accept that the blocker in his neck did it’s job. There was no way around it.

Later, he took these moments to order his thoughts and form a plan. An escape plan that not even dr. Brenner could see coming. He would be sure to make them all pay, Martin Brenner the first to atone and the last to die.

Nowadays, he saw these quiet moments as the calm before the storm. Much like a spider, he shakes his long limbs loose and his mind wanders off to a place he’d be able to call home. Somewhere he could be well and truly alone.

“For fuck’s sake!” Peter’s head snaps up at the muffled cussing coming from behind a closed door. His body stiffens and his breathing becomes steady like an animal ready to pounce on it’s prey.

Seconds pass like rain droplets joining a winded river as he waits for another sound.

Suddenly, a door on his left flies open and he has his hand halfway lifted before cursing dr. Brenner and his idiotic power blocker.

To his surprise, it’s not one of the other staff members on duty, or even one of the kids.

It’s the pediatrician.

And she’s not wearing her lab coat or her white pants, either. She’s wearing a pastel nightgown. His hand falls, in sync with her face when she notices him.

“Peter?!”

“Doctor.”

A/N: well, that’s the end of chapter 01! If people enjoy it, I’ll definitely continue. I have a bunch of ideas for this pair and I love getting in Peter’s head to discover his motivations etc. Also lmk if you want to be tagged for future chapters!

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darlingsart · 3 months

Text

Okay SO I went ahead and started that Patchilles Modern AU series that I've been talking about lol you can find the link to it here:

You Take My Breath Away

Important Tags: Explicit, Achilles/Patroclus, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Getting Together, Eventual Smut

Description:

Closer to him now, Patroclus is suddenly met with the sweetest scent. He hadn’t noticed it inside when they were surrounded by so many people, and the smell of alcohol, but he notices it now. Rose petals and warm, sweet honey. With the faintest hint of citrus beneath it all. Patroclus had never taken in a scent so pleasant before, and that was saying something because Briseis liked to douse herself in perfume all the time. But this is different, this feels like… home.

When Patroclus tags along to a party hosted by a well-known band, he doesn't expect to actually hit it off with the lead singer, Achilles. They inevitably grow closer, quickly falling for each other but they’re both too afraid to make the first move. That is until they suddenly can’t deny their feelings any longer.

#tsoa #the song of achilles #patrochilles #modern au #angie.txt #Just put this up last night but I know a few people were asking about it here so I thought I'd make a post #happy reading!#now back to our regularly scheduled programming #❤️❤️

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jamiesfootball · 3 months

Note

do you happen to know the title / have the link to that jamie auditory processing fic?

Sure do! It's called 'Cityzens' by MayAChance and it fucking rocks!

@faithinchances does an amazing job at weaving together an absolute tour de force of hilarious cat acquisition (BEST CATS. AMAZING 10/10 CAT PORTRAYAL) and fucking heartbreaking character introspection. The story picks up directly after Jamie is sent back to City in season one, and it is THE story to me for exploring Jamie with his old teammates in a football environment that he actually understands. As such, this fic runs Richmond-critical, and god does it work, poking critically at comedic moments until the suspension of disbelief pops like a balloon.

Then there's the aforementioned undiagnosed auditory processing disorder, the portrayal of which makes me fucking feral. The sheer amount of effort it takes Jamie just to be able to hold a conversation - to say nothing of the times he flat out gives up on understanding what's going on. Combined with what is clearly some undiagnosed autism, touch-starvation, and the fact that so many of his coaches seem to fucking hate him for reasons he can't seem to ever puzzle out, and this Jamie is struggling all over the place just to keep it together.

And then there's his fucking dad. Because Jamie's back in Manchester, and this is all taking place between his return in season one and the breaking point of him quitting football in season two, and oh, OOOH, when I say I was on the edge of my seat when I found out the story was drawing to a close.

My emotions are literally spilled all over the floor with this fic. Can never recommend enough

Link here for fic *

*Note: For those that don't know, with locked fics you need to be logged into AO3 for the link to open, which doesn't always work if you're on mobile in the tumblr app. if issue persists, open link in desktop browser once you're already logged in to AO3)

WAIT I FORGOT TO MENTION. PEP IS IN THIS ONE. A VERSION OF PEP. HE'S GREAT!

#happy reading!#fic rec #jamie tartt's undiagnosed auditory processing disorder #jamie tartt

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the-hard-deck · 1 year

Text

IceMav Fic Recs: 15k+ Fics

If you've got a craving for a longer IceMav fic, try out one of the fics below: Dreams of Impact by thecarlysutra [19.8k, M]

Maverick's trip in Darkstar takes him further than he ever imagined possible.

Reccer's Notes: Lovely exploration of the IceMav relationship via a sadly under-used plot device in the fandom.

Indian Ocean. Present Day. by tryfanstone [16.4k, M]

Isolated on an aircraft carrier in the middle of the Indian Ocean, cut off from any source of information about the global political and environmental disaster which has engulfed the planet, Maverick and Goose struggle to make sense of an increasingly claustrophobic command structure and failing resources on board. When a refugee helicopter is spotted approaching the carrier, its pilot could be the catalyst for an explosive re-evaluation....

Reccer's Notes: IceMav over an intriguing background - the plot kept me on the edge of my seat while reading.

Kings of the Air by FabulaRasa [24.9k, M]

Fighting and fucking: two things he did extraordinarily well. How could he have known what the effect would be when you combined the two?

Reccer's Notes: Kings of the Air is a must-read fandom classic, and a great fic about how Ice and Maverick's relationship may have gone if they'd both taught at TOPGUN after the first movie. Note that the fic is archive-locked and you must be logged in to an Archive of Our Own account to read.

Lead Me On (To The Other Side) by boasamishipper [19k, T]

Goose talked to him most nights. His choice of conversation was normal — movies he’d seen, music he liked, stories about his wife and son — and sometimes Ice almost forgot that Goose was dead at all.

Reccer's Notes: A terrific Ice POV fic that delivers on its premise: What if Ice starts seeing Goose's ghost? It also has sequels, for your further reading pleasure.

Make A Wrong One Right by boasamishipper [18.8k, T]

Terrified, Maverick grabs the newspaper off the doorstop and tears the thread off, tearing it open. There’s a story about the nuclear reactor that exploded in Ukraine in April, and another about the death of Ted Lyons. Ronald Reagan is the president of the United States, the Cubs beat the Dodgers last night 9-4, and Aliens is the number one movie in America. The newspaper is the San Diego Union. The date is July 26, 1986. Maverick clamps a hand over his mouth and barely makes it back in the house in time to fall to his knees and vomit into the toilet. - Maverick makes a wish and wakes up thirty years in the past. He reacts accordingly.

Reccer's Notes: The time-travel fix-it is a time-tested plot, and boasamishipper uses it to great effect here to explore how an older Maverick might react to being catapulted back to a time when Goose is still alive.

May by leoandsnake [33k, M, also on FF.net here]

Twelve years into the future, Maverick's marriage to Charlie is dissolving, his relationship with his son is strained, and he has to cope with Iceman returning from a decade-long tour of duty to teach alongside him at Top Gun Academy.

Reccer's Notes: May is a bittersweet fic - Ice and Maverick's relationship is complex and formed by events occurring during their time apart. A unique take on their relationship within Top Gun fic.

The Next Step by thedevilchicken [21k, E]

When he takes a job as an instructor, Maverick has issues to deal with. Ice shouldn't be the one to help him.

Reccer's Notes: Another classic 'what if Ice and Maverick both taught at Top Gun post-movie.'

time = distance + speed by omnidirectional [25.2k, T]

Maverick hasn’t seen Iceman in years. But inevitably, they always cross paths again sooner or later. Five (plus one) potential timelines in which Maverick meets Iceman again 35 years later; some more on the comical side, others less so. Or, a pre-emptive strike: Six scenarios I’d prefer to see than whatever the actual sequel turns out to be. (If it ever comes out.) Reccer's Notes: Written right before Top Gun: Maverick came out, this fic is a great 5 + 1 that's funny and emotional in turns. All the different scenarios are fascinating and great to read about.

When We Get Around to Talking About It by COMPACFLT [69.5k, M]

Goose has been dead for a week and a half when Iceman loses his first wingman in a dogfight with six Soviet MiGs over the Sea of Okhotsk. Goose has been dead for thirty years when Iceman loses his second wingman to a surface-to-air missile on the tail-end of a mission he's responsible for: he's sent his family on a suicide mission to destroy a uranium enrichment facility in Siberia. This is the story of those thirty years in the middle. (Or: Tom Kazansky rises through the ranks while trying to stay a good man. If he ever was one to begin with.) Reccer's Notes: Written post Top Gun: Maverick and taking its story into account, this fic is a nice look into Ice's PoV as he goes through the years between movies. You can tell the author put a lot of thought, time, and research into the fic. It also has additional stories in the series for further reading.

#top gun #top gun: maverick #icemav #iceman kazansky #maverick mitchell #fic recs #icemav fic recs #happy reading!

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athousandbyeol · 2 months

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oceanview. [myungha x yeowoon fanfic]

myungha let those words wilt in his chest as yeowoon took his hands, walking along the barren roads to a seaside cafe near the beige sand—love yourself more than you love me.

yeowoon is myungha's oceanview, and myungha is yeowoon's summer view. together, they're an endless avenue.

specially dedicated to @a-slut-for-vegaspete <3 thanks for reading my thought vomit for these past few days. and thanks for recommending this drama to me, soph <3

#love for love's sake #tae myungha #cha yeowoon #myungha x yeowoon #myung ha x yeo woon #love supremacy zone #lee taevin #cha joowan #fanfic #ao3 fanfic #mood: older - lizzy mcalpine #i'm in my love for love's sake brain rot and it's getting serious #happy reading!#na writes #for myunghayeowoon

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missingn000 · 11 months

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the phantom guardian, chapter forty-one: king of curses is now posted!

link

playlist

happy reading!

#AHHH THIS CHAP IS SO INSANE YALL #the emotions...the stakes....the physical combat & cool abilities...you'll see #i'll keep all the insanity to the chap itself. i hope you guys like it because i'm really proud <3 #happy reading!#tpg

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daisynik7 · 7 months

Note

you’re doing the lords work with these ino writings i’m so grateful to you

awww, thank you anon, but I'm only a minor part of these contributions! literally so many delicious fics out there right now, I'll list some of my faves currently:

This one by @/yuutasprincess, day 5 of her kinktober event - pussy drunk ino, need I say more

facetime by @/chosoist - phone sex and mutual masturbation, of course I love it

Lost in Translation by @/honeybleed - whipped ino is SOOO CUTE, this one is super sweet and fluffy

on location by @/gojoloves - boyfriend!ino is so cute and charming, but can get naughty fast, I really love this one

AND, I just read one on ao3 this morning that I HAVE to share: tried to change the ending (peter losing wendy). no spoilers, except for that I was in near tears by the end. just do yourself a favor and read it, you won't regret it.

#takuma ino #asks #read these now for the ultimate ino fix!#takuma ino fic recs #happy reading!#and happy friday!

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anubis-005 · 7 months

Note

Omg I’m obsessed with your Nené’s inferno au. Where can I read the complete story (if there’s a fic)?

You're so wonderful and I love you 😭🙏💕 The story is not complete yet, but there have been a few fics made for it! Thanks to @baronesscmd (seriously thank you so much Cat I am forever a mess about it!) the introduction can be found here [be advised rated M] For added reading, please take this lovely one shot by my dear friend @istoleyourboat And this wonderfully dark character study of Lord of the Flies Tsukasa by the marvelous @thatsrightdollface [be advised rated M]

#opakitty #Nene's Inferno AU #asks #happy reading!#And thank you for following the AU 😭❤️💕❤️💕

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cloudwhisper23 · 2 years

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HEY! I DIDN'T DRAW THIS BUT YOU SHOULD CHECK OUT @pixlokita HERE ON TUMBLR! SHE'S AWESOME AND SHE'S THE ONE WHO DREW THIS ART!!!

-clears throat- Thank you so much for deciding to draw this, Pix! You're awesome, and I appreciate your continued support of my writing projects as I keep accidentally adding more of them to my wip list. I hope you, and everybody else, enjoy reading the chapter!!!

Organized and Not Part of the Plan

Chapter 46

#There Are Others #CC fnaf #he got real mad #tbh I get so excited that I share excerpts with Pix anyway #and gave her the inspiration to draw this #but still #not my art #credits go to Pixlokita for drawing this #she's awesome and y'all should support her #amazing fren #incredible artist #she writes a comic #which is also a really impressive feat #like comic writers will forever be amazing individuals #as well as other writers #y'all are awesome #anyway #enjoy the chapter!#happy reading!

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terror-slut · 2 years

Note

11/10 will be patiently sitting and waiting for another chapter of “Change of Heart”. that man has me WHIPPED and the way you wrote him!? absolutely captivating. <33

Change of Heart

Chapter 02/?? click HERE for this fic’s masterlist!

Reader is a troubled pediatrician at Hawkins lab when she crosses paths with this lovely orderly. Nothing will stand between Peter and his revenge. Not even really pretty distractions.

Pairing: Peter Ballard x f!reader

Word count: 1403

Ratings & warnings: SPOILERS, period typical sexism, violence, blood, NSFW, swearing, no (Y/N). Ratings may change as chapters are being added.

A/N: bit of a backstory on the reader and more character building for these two <3 I also made a little playlist, check it out if you’d like. Also, I will be updating this fic bi-weekly!

Thick, visceral silence fills the hallway as they stare at one another. Him, all long limbs and easy going smiles, clad in the same uniform as always. Her, caught like a deer in headlights in nothing but a pastel nightgown.

“What? You’ve never seen a girl in a nightgown before?” Her tone is cold when she breaks the silence, but he can tell the pediatrician is nervous by the way she crosses her arms in front of her chest, and doesn’t dare to look the tall orderly straight in the eye.

“I have. Just not in here,” his reply has her roll her eyes in the back of her head, but Peter watches the slightest blush creep upon her cheeks. How amusing.

“Forgive me if I’m wrong, doctor, but your shift ended hours ago.”

“Yes, it has,” she is purposefully being evasive, her walls are right back up and stronger than ever after Peter smothered her request earlier that day.

Certain that the door she opened for him prior remains ajar, he reminds himself that surrender is not something that comes to him naturally.

“And yet, you’re still here,” a soft smile graces his lips, signaling that there is no bad intent behind his questions, only curiosity. “Why?”

She sighs, taking in the lanky figure of the orderly in front of her. He towers over her, much taller than she herself is. His hands are folded neatly behind his back like always and despite her indecently dressed body and his fully dressed frame, he keeps a respectable distance between the two of them.

She’s never thought of him as anything but friendly, the way he greets her like clockwork despite her insistence on ignoring her coworkers. And although he shut down her request, she knows he cares for the kids at Hawkins lab. Peter Ballard might be the most trustworthy guy in the entire facility. Really, what’s the worst thing that could happen?

“If I tell you, can we get out of this hallway? There’s cameras everywhere and I don’t need my business discussed like it’s the morning news,” He nods, blond hair falling in sync with the incline of his head.

“I will follow your lead, doctor.”

And so, they arrive back at her office, though it looks more like a makeshift bedroom now. On the floor lies a sleeping pad meant for camping trips, and her uniform is neatly folded and placed on the chair where 015 was sitting earlier that day. On her desk stands an electric kettle and a few dishes, ready to be used.

Peter quietly watches as she puts a large cardigan on over her nightgown before facing him again. His arms are crossed in front of his chest now, and her desk supports his frame as he leans against it.

“Tea?” She’s stalling. He shakes his head.

“I’m more interested in you than I am in tea,” the corner of his mouth twitches up in a smile when she tries to hide her reddened cheeks for the second time that night. How easy she is to coax. “Don’t you have a loving husband to return home to? Why is it that you’re still here, when it’s nearly midnight?”

Eat. Sleep. Work. Reproduce. Die.

That comment seems to set her off, her face brewing up a storm.

“Please, don’t. That is the festering root of my all my problems,” she scoffs, walking over to the desk where Peter’s tall frame is leaning against.

“Your husband?”

A bitter laugh escapes her.

“I’m happily unmarried, Peter,” she explains, lifting herself up upon the desk. He scoots over to give her the space to sit without breaking eye contact.

“But ever since my mother passed, my father is hell bent on finding me a man,” now her guard is lowered, but her fingers are still anxiously tying themselves in knots, Peter notices.

“He wants me to marry a man who can provide for me. He was always against the whole med school thing, but my mother had my back. I graduated some time ago, and my mother passed away not long after,” she bites the inside of her cheek to keep from crying in front of him, afraid of what he might say or think of her.

“He’s old school. He believes women belong in the kitchen and going to university and having a job is just my rebellious phase until I settle down,” she scoffs.

“I would rather die, Peter,” the tone of her voice is so genuine that something deep inside his chest reacts to her words. His lungs seem to expand further against his ribcage and something warm and unfamiliar slashes aggressively, needy, at the base of his belly.

“I would rather die,” she repeats, “than live the life my mother lived. I’d prefer death over having my academic aspirations squashed because I’m busy cooking dinner for a husband who doesn’t see me as a person, raising kids I never wanted and cleaning up after them every single day. Even the idea makes me nauseous.”

“When I told him I wanted to specify in pediatrics, he laughed at me. He said my maternal instinct won after all. God, I was so angry I considered changing my mind.” the memory of it boils her blood all over again until Peter squeezes her clenched fist with his cool hand. He weaves his fingers through hers until her hand relaxes in his. Only then, he lets go.

“What happened today?” He asks.

“He arranged a date for me, tonight. Some desperate old fool who gets off on the thought of having a younger wife,” the tone of her voice is bitter, but he can detect something else in there.

Fear.

“I couldn’t go, Peter,” she says. He understands.

“My dad and I had a fight this morning, right before I left. He told me if I didn’t show up tonight, I shouldn’t bother coming home at all. Ever again,” a shakey sigh leaves her lips. “Dr. Brenner said it was okay for me to use the office, at least for tonight. Tomorrow, I’ll face my dad again. But right now, I just need some time to recharge.”

Eat. Sleep. Work. Reproduce? Live.

She softly bumps his shoulder with her own when he stays silent like he has for most of her rant. Worry settles in her bones.

“I’m sorry. I hope you don’t think badly of me, now. I don’t even think… I mean, I don’t know what I was thinking, really,” she carefully slides off the desk to create some space between herself and the orderly. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Forget I said… anything.”

“You shouldn’t worry about what I think,” her shoulders loosen a bit when the words leave his mouth.

“Or what anyone else thinks. But for what it’s worth, I think you’re a magnificent young woman,” he, too, takes a step away from the desk and towards her, overcome with the sudden urge to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Instead, he digs the heels of his shoes in the solid tiles of her office floor in an attempt to ground himself.

“You shouldn’t have to conform to anyone else’s idea of who you are,” his voice is so soft and his words nearly addictive. She could hear him speak for hours upon hours.

“You don’t think it’s selfish?” she asks, frowning in disbelief at his opinion on the matter.

“It is never selfish to choose yourself, doctor,” he cocks his head to the side and sends her the same comforting smile he gave her earlier, and this time, she smiles back.

“Thank you,” she says, while taking a step closer to him. The cardigan she had put on earlier is starting to slip off her shoulder, and she’s so close now that he can feel her breathing on his face. She smells like pomegranate and lemongrass and he wants to touch her now, find out if her skin is really as soft as it looks, if every part of her is as pretty as he imagines it to be.

“No need to thank me,” he says instead. The fabric of her cardigan is soft against his touch when he slips it back up her shoulder, covering her from his wandering gaze.

“My point still stands,” she then says.

“And what point is that?” he asks.

“You are a good guy, Peter.”

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