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peakywitch · 4 years

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Behind the Garrison, by the Canal - Finn Shelby

Word count: 1630

Warning: mention about sex and semi-nudity (?)

A/N: i wrote it in spanish and translated it, apologies if you see any mistake!

gif: @el-cheung

A soft knock on the door interrupted (Y/N) from his reading. She looked up curiously from her book, not knowing who it might be.

Her mother? She was upstairs sleeping with the baby.

Her father? He was working.

Her older brother? He was meeting his fiancé’s parents.

Finn? No, he was at a family meeting, it couldn't be him. Plus, they never met each other during the day.

Y/N got up from the uncomfortable purple sofa, going to the door. She tried to peek through the small window to find out who it was. Suit, a peaked hat, a cigar. A Blinder.

Sh took a deep breath, had her brother gotten into trouble? Having exhaled, she opened the door, showing Finn.

"Finn?" she asked curious and somewhat nervous, they were only supposed to see each other half past eight, behind the Garrison, by the canal.

If her father came earlier from work, she was dead.

"Hey, Y/N." he smiled, as he spoke fast.

"I know we said to meet in a few hours, but since I have the afternoon free, I thought about asking you if...you could...lend me another book?" the nervous smile was still there.

The young girl was teaching the younger Shelby how to read, and since he learned, he read every book there was and to be.

Pride and Prejudice? Finished in 72 hours.

Little women? One week.

Hell, he'd even read the bible and could recite some verses from memory.

On one occasion, Finn told Y/N that he had corrected Isaiah, about the bible:

"I will fear no evil!" Isaiah said humorously, as he answered Arthur about whether he was afraid on one of those many illegal occasions. “Jesus said it, you know, Arthur? And I…” Finn cut him off, correcting him.

"Isaiah, that’s Psalm 23:4." Finn said casually, as he finished his cigarette.

Arthur, John, and Isaiah burst into laughter, of course after trying to figure out how Finnny Boy knew so much about God.

"Sure, Finn. Give me a moment." Y/N closed the door, took the Illustrated edition of Alice in Wonderland that he was reading, took out the bookmark, and returned to the door. She opened it and Finn was still wearing that nervous smile.

"Here it is, have fun with Alice, the Queen and the Mad Hatter, Finn." Y/N's smile made Finn's hand shake.

A few weeks ago, the boy had killed a man. His hand did not tremble, his head did not hesitate. But, oh shit, his heart exploded in anger that night, at home. Finn would never admit it, but it scared him to grow up and be as savagely violent as Arthur, or as distant as Tommy. Fear and anxiety were eating him alive, until he realized that his hand was shaking when she smiled at him.

“Thank you, beautiful." He smiled, as he exchanged the borrowed copy of Romeo and Juliet for that copy of Alice. After a wink and a "see you later" he walked away.

With a stomach full of butterflies, Y/N closed the door.

"Hello friend," she whispered to the book. "Have they treated you well?"

Y/N sat down on the couch again, going over the sentences she had marked with her black pen for the umpteenth time. As she was fanning through the pages, a piece of paper fell on her legs. Curious, she took it in her hands and saw Finn's handwriting. She knew it was his, she had taught him to write in italics. Also, she would recognize that misaligned handwriting and that soft stroke anywhere.

“I thought I knew love until your beauty seduced my eyes. Page 118 –Finn”

She smiled.

After greeting her father who had just arrived from work, Y/N commented that she would go to sleep and skip supper. The clock in her room read half past seven in the afternoon, which gave the signal to Y/N to escape through her window.

She wrapped herself up, looked at herself in the small mirror on her wall, and went out the window. Although the house had two stories, Y/N's room was downstairs, making it easier for her to get out the window.

Legs out, then the torso, the arms, and finally the head. Once outside, she adjusted her hair and began her short walk.

Y/N lived just five minutes from the Garrison and should meet Finn in an hour. But she wanted to stop by the Garrison to say hi to Harry. Also, she was to bring him a shirt that her mother had fixed for him.

As she thought of Finn, the five minutes turned into two seconds, and Y/N found herself in front of the pub. It was Friday, so it was full of men with inhuman amounts of alcohol in their blood. She took a deep breath and opened both doors, the smoke from so much cigarette making her dizzy.

She walked over to the bar and saw Harry serving a scotch. Her nose narrowed, remembering that awful taste she'd tasted with Finn.

"It's horrible," Finn had said, "I don't know why my brothers drink this shit."

"Hello Y/N" Harry greeted, anyone could hear her mother's Irish accent on him.

"Hi Harry, I bring you your shirt. Mom thanks you for making her focus on something other than the baby."

They both laughed, as Y/N handed him the bag. After a casual chat, some questions about her father, her new brother and her mother, they said goodbye. Y/N passed by the private booth, but didn't hear a soul. Maybe Finn was already by the river.

It was a matter of seconds before she reached the river, in their usual spot. She sat on a rock and waited.

Two, five, ten, fifteen, thirty minutes.

It was ten past eight, maybe quarter past eight.

Finn wasn't coming, and Y/N was starting to get scared. It was late, she shouldn't be alone. It was eight thirty, she had waited fifteen more minutes.

"God, don't let anything bad happen, please” Y/N said between prayers.

When she got up, she started walking in the direction of his house. To Finn's house. She was sure he was reading. She headed to Finn's house mainly because she was only a few feet away from it and also because she wanted to know if he was okay.

When she arrived and saw the light on, she was relieved. She knocked on the door, she would ask him to accompany her home.

"I’m going!" Finn yelled, there was a laugh and a slim, semi-naked woman who was wearing a man's shirt opened the door, still laughing.

"Lydia I told you that..." Finn's laughter stopped "Oh bloody hell."

Finn had come up behind Lydia, shirtless and his suspenders dangling at his sides.

The floor shook under Y/N's feet. The rest was blurry, for both of them. Finn remembered the cold hitting his shirtless chest as he yelled Y/N's name all over Watery Lane and Saint Mary's Street, asking for forgiveness and for her to listen to him. Y/N remembered the knot in her belly, hearing nothing except her breaths and feeling how Finn's words he had written burned her heart. Her heart, for the first time, was breaking along with the trust she had in him. Because she thought he was good, she believed that he loved her and that he wouldn't be fooling around with others after all those kisses and secret talks on the river.

When she got to the door of her house, Y/N was trying to open it. But the key was on the other side.

"Can you hear me for a damn moment!?" Finn yelled, coming to her side. He took the sad girl by the arm and turned her around.

"Do not touch me! Don't ever touch me again in your fucking life, Finn Shelby!" she bellowed, tears spilling from her eyes.

"Okay." he quickly separated from her, releasing her “But you have to listen to me. I…She…” his voice trembled.

"Did you sleep with her, Finn?" Y/N whispered.

"No...I..." the boy nervously combed his hair as he looked at the floor, Y/N knew instantly that he was lying.

"You had sex with her?!" Y/N let out in a strangled cry, asking but claiming at the same time. Her angry eyes were focused on Finn's, who were scared "And don't lie to me, please don't lie to me."

"Yes."

Y/N’s throat went dry, while her heart kept on breaking.

"Since when?"

"Five months now."

"Oh..." Y/N let out bitterly, then laugh "You are so afraid of looking like your brothers that you forget a detail: You are them, you always were and always will be."

“Don't tell me that, Y/N. You can't tell me that…” Finn cried.

"Yes, I fuckin’ can. You could shag her, I can tell you the truth. I'm not lying to you, Finn. I never lied to you."

“Do you remember two weeks ago, on the river? You said…” Y/N interrupted him.

“I said how I felt, Finn. Now I feel so much, so much pain and hate that I wish I had never told you."

Finn's face was a complete puzzle.

The door slammed open, appearing Y/N's older brother.

"Bye, Finn."

She entered the house, and headed straight for her room, ignoring her brother's whispers about how she should never have gotten together with Shelby. That they do this, they do that.

“Y/N! I am talking to you!" Peter said, entering his little sister's room.

"Peter, stop it, ok?" exploded Y/N “I know I didn't have to hang out with the Shelby family. But you're also dating a stupid woman and nobody tells you anything! "

Peter backed away, shocked.

“No… Peter, sorry. Wendy is…"

“Save it, Y/N. I opened the door for you, so that Dad wouldn’t kill the Shelby himself. But first thing tomorrow morning, they want you down. Both of them."

And just like that, Peter left the room, leaving Y/N in a mess and crying.

#finn shelby #finn shelby imagine #arthur shelby imagine #arthur shelby #peaky fucking blinders #peaky blinder fanfic #peaky blinders #thomas shelby #tommy shelby #tommy shelby imagine #joe cole #john shelby #john shelby imagine #polly gray #michael gray #alfie solomons #the peaky blinders #birmingham #luca changretta

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hotchley · 3 years

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so why can’t you see (you belong with... each other?)

This is probably my favourite out of all the scenarios planned.

It’s also so incredibly stupid and even more self-indulgent than the rest put together, but you know what, I laughed and that’s the main thing. But seriously. This is a really silly one.

It involves a bucket of water and a white shirt. That’s all I’m saying.

@whoreforthebauteam I hope you enjoy this one as much as I did, and once again, I am so sorry that this is so late, but it’s only going to get slower from here because this chapter was already half-written when I published the other one....

Also I kid you not, I am uploading this with my sister in the room it is so stressful I cannot have her seeing my laptop screen

previously: part one, part two

read on ao3!

Chapter Three: Attempt Two- Emily Prentiss

The thing about Emily Prentiss was that she got on Aaron Hotchner's nerves at least six times an hour. That number went up when they were on cases because she would deliberately act up just to piss off the officers. And as much as he wanted to laugh or applaud her for her antics, he couldn't, because someone had to be responsible.

But that did not make him the mom of the team. It didn't. It just made him the slightly more responsible member that remembered to carry painkillers and chocolates for everyone, as well as plasters because there was no telling what would happen to them- and okay maybe he was the mom.

The point was, as much as Emily Prentiss annoyed him, he also knew she would die for him. Literally. That was not an exaggeration, because okay sure, she hadn't really died that time with Ian Doyle, but it had driven the point home. And he would die for her.

Which was why he was listening to her talk about something. He honestly wasn't even sure what was going on in the conversation anymore, but she seemed to be content with him not actually listening, so he assumed it was something she just needed to get off her chest.

Emily was actually not talking about anything important. She was just getting him distracted enough that he wouldn't notice when she picked up the bucket that she'd left by her desk when everyone else left for lunch.

Morgan had looked at her strangely when she said she was going to stay back and get ahead on her paperwork, but then he just shrugged and headed out with Reid, JJ and Garcia. Hotch left his office a minute later, and she grabbed the bucket Anderson had left in the supply closet, filled it with water and hid it under her table. As Rossi was in a meeting, he couldn't ask any questions.

When Hotch came back from the bathroom, she went and asked him to walk with her. Because she was his best friend- something neither of them would ever willingly admit- he couldn't say no and after circling the building, she was now able to finally enact her plan.

He hadn't even noticed that she was holding a bucket full of water.

Then he turned back to face her, and she looked between him and her bucket with an awkward grin on her face.

"So, JJ took off her blazer this morning and I accidentally stained it with my pen but I don't want her to be sad or cold so I thought I would just wash it now. Whilst nobody but you is here because I may need instructions on how to hand wash things," she said quietly.

"You have got to be kidding me," he said.

She shook her head.

He sighed. "Right. I think the best plan of action is-"

Before he could finish speaking, she saw Rossi holding the door for Strauss. It was now or never.

She threw the bucket of water over his head, completely wetting his hair and shirt. His shirt that happened to be white because she had told him to wear the white shirt and blue tie the night before when JJ had been with Will and Henry and they had both been lonely.

"Emily!" he shouted. "What was- why did you do that?"

She covered her mouth to hide her smirk. "I'm so sorry. That wasn't- I just lost my grip on the handle. I genuinely did not mean for that to happen. Are you okay?"

He crossed his arms over his chest, already well aware of the fact that his shirt was now practically see-through and clinging to his body in an almost uncomfortable way. But he wasn't an idiot. She had done that on purpose. Why, he did not know. But she had.

"I'm really cold," he whined. He was watching her carefully, trying to find any clues as to what her plan was. However, the bullpen was still empty and there were no cameras dotted around, so a prank seemed out of the question.

"Okay, well, what I'm going to do is…" she trailed off, appreciating how his shirt seemed to cling in all the right places. Objectively, he was attractive. And besides, nobody else was there, so she could stare as long as she wanted. It wasn't anything she hadn't seen before. And the water had caused his hair to fall onto his forehead, much like it had in the years before she'd joined the team.

"Emily!" he said, beginning to shiver. He would have gone up to his office and changed his shirt, but if he wanted to do that, he needed her to move out of the way.

Emily pretended she hadn't heard him, choosing instead to look past him and at Rossi and Strauss. Her plan was for Rossi to see Hotch dripping wet and shivering, but still incredibly attractive and with his hair making him seem younger and much more approachable. It would shock him into realising that he was attracted to him, so when he inevitably went up to his office to see if he was okay, he would also ask him out on the date.

Strauss met her eyes, jaw wide open. Emily's own eyes widened slightly as she panicked. The relationship between Erin and Aaron had started to improve after Haley's death, but things between her and the rest of the team still felt tense at times. She raised an eyebrow and Emily opened her mouth. To say what, she had no idea.

"What?" she replied, far too late.

Erin and Dave were not coming any closer, but she could hear the team in the elevator, all shouting at each other. Aaron looked at her, panic in her eyes, and she realised she had thirty seconds to make her decision. She either waited for her plan to unfold the way she wanted it to and risked everyone else seeing, or she let it fail.

When she looked over, Erin was dragging Dave away from the bullpen and towards a random office than nobody ever used. Emily sighed, and heard the team's voices begin to come closer. It didn't look like her plan was going to work, but there was no harm in waiting for just one more moment. If Strauss would just turn around, it would work.

Strauss did not turn around and there was only so long she could pretend to be frozen in shock and fear.

She stepped out of the way, and the door to Hotch's office closed just as the team got to her. They looked at her crestfallen face. Then at the bucket still by her feet. Then at the water emerging from it. And then JJ looked up at Hotch's office. The blinds were closed.

"What did you do?" she asked.

Emily turned to her with a pout, and she rolled her eyes before pressing a kiss to her girlfriends' cheek. Emily smiled after that.

"You have to promise to not laugh at me," she said.

Derek immediately started laughing. "Emmy, you can't say things like that and expect me to not."

Spencer hit him lightly. "Emily, I don't promise to not laugh, but please just tell us what happened."

She sighed. "I tried. I really did, but my timing was off and it failed."

"Wait, what did you try?" JJ asked.

"I poured a bucket of water over Hotch," she mumbled.

JJ started laughing. Derek's jaw dropped and Reid just stared at her, a faint blush on his cheeks.

"Emily Prentiss, he is wearing a white shirt," Derek whispered, looking behind him and seeing that Hotch's office door was still closed and that the blinds were still shut.

"I know that. Rossi was meant to see him, realise just how hot he is and think: wow, I really want to kiss his dumb face, but I don't know what happeened! I think Strauss grabbed his arm and pulled him somewhere else. The point is, he hasn't seen him and the moment is ruined."

JJ patted her arm in a fake gesture of comfort. "I guess you're not getting a coffee either. And-" she paused as she noticed the pen on her blazer.

"And what?" Emily asked, pouting.

"I'm never letting you borrow my work clothes ever again," she said.

Emily smirked. "That's what you always say."

Derek shook his head at their antics, but smiled to himself as he took his seat. He wasn't against the idea of setting them up, he just had no idea how he would do it. He knew Hotch better than most people, and he knew that the man deserved all the love in the world. It was just about getting him into a situation where that could happen.

He started to plot to himself, but disguised it by completing the paperwork he'd nicked off Hotch's desk in the morning. Hotch would realise, but Strauss wouldn't. He was remarkably good at forging his Unit Chief's handwriting. Maybe he would teach Jack the next time he saw him…

Hotch had changed into the dark blue shirt he kept in his go-bag whilst all this was happening, but he wasn't ready to open the blinds. Or unlock the door. He needed a moment to try and understand why Emily had poured a bucket of water over him.

She could claim it was an accident till she was blue in the face, but he wasn't an idiot. She hadn't lost her grip on the bucket, she had deliberately lifted it so it would go over him. He just didn't understand why. She'd walked in when he was showering to ask about the remote enough times to know what he looked like without a shirt- he gave up locking the door after she kicked it in- and was happy with JJ.

She had nothing to gain from his shirt going see-through.

With a deep sigh, he opened the blinds. The team pretended to be extremely invested in their work, but he knew they all knew what had happened. When he looked at Derek's desk, he noticed that some of his paperwork was on there. Derek met his eyes, daring him to say something.

He opened the office door, but bit his tongue and didn't shout down at him.

Erin decided enough time had passed for Aaron to get himself together. She had no idea what the BAU A-Team were up to, but she also knew that Aaron would be incredibly embarrassed if Dave saw him soaked. So she dragged him down an empty corridor, ignoring his surprise and praying nobody saw the two of them.

That time, as fun as it had been, had passed. She just hoped he didn't get the wrong idea, and that Aaron had a spare shirt. The two of them were meant to have a meeting with one of the senior chiefs.

"So, is there a reason you're not letting me leave a storage cupboard?" Dave asked, pulling her from her thoughts.

"You can go now," she said.

He frowned, but didn't push as to why they had been there in the first place. She waited before following after him, smiling at Agent Anderson, who looked flustered when he realised just where her and Dave had been.

When she saw Dave walking into Aaron's office, she went the other way to get her office, not wanting to interrupt their moment. Besides, from what she could see, Aaron's shirt was now dark blue, which meant everything was fine.

"You changed," Dave said, as he entered Aaron's office. He'd actually been dropping in to gossip to him about Erin dragging him along, but that immediately went out the window when he realised Aaron wasn't wearing the white shirt.

"Yep," Aaron said, not even looking up from his paperwork.

Dave didn't mean to push. He really, truly did not. But something in him felt the need to turn and see what the kids in the bullpen were doing. And when he did, he knew they had to be involved. There was no other explanation.

"So what happened?"

Aaron looked up at him, glare slightly softer than normal but still present. "Emily Prentiss poured a bucket of water over me."

Dave blinked, then smiled. He couldn't laugh. He wouldn't laugh.

"It is not funny! We're lucky we just got back yesterday, or else I wouldn't have had a spare shirt. And I have a meeting with Strauss later, imagine how bad it would have been," he whined. He didn't mean to, but Dave knew him from his earliest days at the BAU. Sometimes he just slipped into old habits.

"Aaron, I'm sure she didn't mean to pour an entire bucket of water over you," he soothed.

Aaron's glare hardened. "Yes, she did. Why, is beyond me. But she did! I mean honestly, the one time I step out of my comfort zone and don't wear a blazer, she does this."

Dave raised an eyebrow. "Well, whatever her reason, you look handsome now as well," he said, before leaving.

If he had stayed, he would've seen the colour rise to Aaron's cheeks as he ducked his head, unsure what he was meant to say in response to the compliment. He only looked up when he was sure Dave was gone.

Handsome.

It was a nice thing to hear. He could almost imagine it being whispered as he turned up at his door with a bouquet of flowers, ready to take him to dinner and- he needed to stop. Him and Dave were just friends.

They wouldn't work. They couldn't work.

Right? Right. It just would never happen/

Dave was unaware of Aaron's inner turmoil, but Penelope Garcia, who had finally been informed of Emily's failed plan, was plotting her own matchmaking scene. She wasn't cheating by involving her girlfriend in it.

She was just pushing them together a little more forcefully than Emily had. JJ had set things in motion, Emily had caused the feelings to start stirring, and she would add the last few drops of fuel that would make everything explode in one big declaration of romance.

It would be perfect.

And she would be able to lord it over everyone else until the end of time.

#criminal minds #criminal minds fic #hotch x rossi #aaron hotchner #david rossi #emily prentiss #penelope garcia #derek morgan #spencer reid #jennifer jareau #sumayyah writes cm

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dangerousconnoisseurdonut · 3 years

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Choice #7; Cowboy/Steampunk Fusion

Right, here we go with lucky #7; So, a Gotham that is still kind of young and a bit like the Old West like Back to the Future Part 3. The Wayne's are throwing a party with their 8-year-old daughter, Bryce in attendance.

Everything is going swimmingly until a youngish Theo Galavan and his Maniax show up, including 14-year-old Jerome and Jeremiah, as well as 'Matches' Malone intent on robbing the place.

Anyway, Jerome and Jeremiah think Bryce is cute but are a little messed up in the head so they think branding her with their mark is like a promise ring as they promise they are going to be big time Outlaws and treat her like a queen, and the brand is meant to scare other hoodlums off.

Thomas naturally goes to protect his daughter but Theo, who was looking for an excuse, shoots him, then Martha. He hits Bryce and sets fire to the home, figuring he's killed the last of the Wayne's, so now there's nothing stopping him from taking over Gotham.

Too bad he didn't see Matches go back inside to save poor little Bryce. Remember how Matches said he doesn't kill babies? Well, I expanded that to kids as well. Now, Matches feels bad for his part in Bryce becoming an orphan so he takes her and moves away from Gotham to help make her strong and train her to be a bounty hunter. Along the way, she meets and is trained by old west heroes like Bat Lash, El Diablo (Lazarus Lane), and of course Jonah Hex.

Matches also teaches her the most important thing she'll need to know to get close to Theo Galavan; how to act and sound like a man. To be a perfect duality; female vigilante and male Bounty Hunter. As she reaches her 18th year, he knows he's dying, so he kills himself after explaining everything she'll need to know, and makes it look like she killed him, so 'The Bat' will have her first Bounty, and she goes one step further; as she was branded, so too will she brand her victims with the insignia of a bat. For her male persona, she takes the name, Matthew Malone.

It takes her a year to make it back to Gotham as Matches took her to Mexico or something to keep her safe, and along the way she meets Lucius Fox who worked for her father, and Lee Thompkins, a doctor who was run out of Gotham by Galavan's partner, Sofia Falcone.

She helps Lee sneak back into Gotham, disguised as Thomas Leslie (if you have a better suggestion, I'm open to it). Gotham has changed a fair bit in the eleven years she’s been gone as there are now fairly tall skyscrapers, but people still get around by horse and buggy, though these horses are robots, hence the steampunk element. By an amazing coincidence, the saloon Matthew stops in at to get a cold beer, is patroned by the Valeska brothers, who still work for Galavan but now have their own crew; who else, but the Horribles. Everyone else clears out when the Horribles announce their impending arrival, but 'Matthew' wants to finish his beer, then he'll leave. Jerome tries to hassle him, but Matthew ignores him until Jerome goes for Matthew's gun (yes, he has a gun, I will explain later), only to find Matthew has a dummy gun that is coated with a mild form of Tetrodotoxin; not enough to kill him, but his arm and mouth go numb. Others would be offended at this; Jerome, his brother, and the others all find it hilarious; even Victor laughs at it. Matthew then pulls out $100 bill and pays for the first round of drinks for the Horribles as apology for the gun.

Matthew goes to leave but the Horribles invite him to have a drink with them; anyone who can shut Jerome up deserves a drink. They ask him if he's a Bounty Hunter with the kind of money he has, and he answers yes. They ask him about his family, and he‘reveals' he's the‘son' of Matches Malone, who Jerome and Jeremiah vaguely remember. When Matthew reveals his father was killed by The Bat, the others are intrigued and ask if he actually saw The Bat as no one is certain if she's real or just a legend. Matthew then rolls up his sleeve and reveals a 'Bat Brand', which she gave him when he tried to protect his father.

Before more can be said, Selina Kyle, protege of Tabitha Galavan and Bryce's childhood friend comes in with some news she just got from the telegraph office; The Bat was sighted not too far from Gotham, and may be on her way to their city. The Horribles are all excited to test their skills against The Bat, but Matthew warns them that she is lightning quick with her whip and daggers and is good at using the shadows to disappear, and that's without taking into account her horse; a large black stallion named Daredevil (if you think it should be Ace, tell me, but Daredevil sounded more ‘Old West’), a far cry from the steampunk horses everyone in Gotham uses. He then rises to leave, saying he's hoping to find lodgings and work in Gotham for maybe a month as his last Bounty managed to get him pretty good, and he could do with some steady work for a bit. Selina offers a room at the 'House of Instant Happiness' she owns; normally $50 a night, but she'll knock it down to $40 if he helps keep the rowdier customers under control the nights he's there. He agrees, and they shake on it; Selina notes in passing that, even for gloved, powerful hands, they seem a little small for a man, but brushes it off.

That night, someone from the Narrows is dragged out into the streets as he can't afford his ‘protection' this week, so Sophia is determined to make an example of him; as her enforcer goes to pull the trigger, however, a large piece of metal, later determined to be in the shape of a bat, comes whistling through the night and hits the guy right in the hand, taking it off; The Bat has come to Gotham. She swings down and informs Sofia that ‘she has never liked bullies'. Sofia responds that she doesn't like rodents that get in her way. The Bat responds that Sofia's face may be a little pinched, but there's no need to call herself a rodent.

A fight breaks out, and the worst injury The Bat gets is a black-eye while she takes down three of Sofia's best men and Daredevil takes out one of Galavan's men. The next day, Matthew is again at the Saloon when the Horribles arrive and they ask him if he's still looking for work. He responds yes he is, so they take him to see Mayor Galavan who is more than happy to take on the son of an ‘old friend'; it helps that Matthew can fight like nobodies business and is as good a shot as his father. While there, Matthew meets the Galavan's butler, and her heart clenches painfully in her chest; it's Alfred, and he just looks so downtrodden, not at all the man she remembers playing with her as a little girl. A week goes by with the days as Matthew and nights as The Bat, and Lee worries that Bryce will burn herself out before she gets her revenge, but Bryce is determined, more so ever since she saw Alfred. Matthew manages to move up a little when he manages to hold off the Bat long enough (maybe Lee in her costume? I haven't figured that out yet). What's surprising is how friendly Matthew gets with the Legion of Horribles as well as Deputy Mayor Oswald Cobblepot, his assistant Edward Nygma, and even his bodyguard, Victor Zsasz, all of whom are treated like dirt by Galavan and Sofia.

Bryce finally gets her chance; Galavan is holding a party at his house with his lieutenants, and Matthew is invited for protection. The setting is too perfect to pass up and she lays a bomb, ready to die herself if it means she'll take down Galavan as well. Problem is, Tabitha is there as well, which means Selina is there, along with the Horribles, Oswald, and poor Alfred is slaving away in the kitchen. She doesn't care about her own life, but she can't risk theirs; yes, Jerome and Jeremiah were there when her parents were killed and branded her, but she’s honestly come to like the two psychos. She manages to sneak a note to Selina, hoping she'll get the Horribles and Alfred out in time, signed by The Bat.

Selina manages to get the Horribles together and get them to Alfred, who was always rather nice to ‘The Freaks’ as Sofia and Galavan call them so they don’t want to see him get hurt either. When she shows Alfred the note, he just about has a heart attack; it may be more mature than when he last saw it, but he'd know that handwriting anywhere; it's *Bryce's* handwriting. He reveals a mark hidden on the paper near the signature; a heart with thorns wrapped around it;Bryce and Selina’s ‘secret symbol’ that they always signed their notes with to appear more ‘cool’. Selina can hardly believe her childhood friend is alive and well (if a little nuts to dress like some kind of Zorro/Bat hybrid and fight Outlaws) and Alfred, knowing his beloved little Mistress is alive, realizes why Matthew Malone looked so familiar. Matthew is really Bryce, which kick starts the reasoning in the twins minds; Matt, as Bryce, was the cute little girl they promised themselves to all those years ago. They manage to locate the bomb and disarm it.

Later, after the party, and Bryce mourns the lost chance of getting her revenge by warning Selina who must have found the bomb and disabled it out of loyalty to Tabitha, she meets up with Lucius at a cave just outside Gotham, unaware that the Horribles and Selina have followed her. They watch as Bryce, Lucius, and Lee all argue about just how far Bryce is willing to go in her revenge. Yeah, Lee wants to put Sofia in the ground, but she wants to be alive to enjoy it. Bryce responds that she has spent the last eleven years of her life training for this chance; learning sword and pistol, becoming ambidextrous so no one would even think to link left-handed Bat with right-handed Malone, learning to deepen her voice and more masculine habits so no one would suspect a thing. She hasn't gone through all that just to see Galavan get away with his crimes; she's going to kill him (remember, Bryce was raised by Matches, El Diablo, and Jonah Hex, not Alfred; she doesn’t quite have the same problem with killing as she normally would). Selina, Bridgit, Ivy, and Ecco all manage to get back to the city before Bryce and lay a trap in her room. When Matthew arrives, he and Selina talk for a few minutes before she deliberately calls him Bryce, and asks how she could not tell her that she was alive. Bryce goes for one of her smoke bombs to get out fast, but the others manage to ambush her, tie her up, and manage to knock her out before giving her to Jerome, Jeremiah, Jervis, Jonathan, and Victor so they can... interrogate her. ;)

They take her back to their private place where Jeremiah examines her arm and, sure enough, there's their old brand right where they left it when Thomas Wayne tried to stop them. He and the others, who are in a relationship, talk to her and find out her plan to kill Galavan, which they wouldn't mind as Galavan is a chicken-heart, no lip, slimy worm, but they also like Bryce so they don't want her to enact her suicide mission. To keep her from escaping, they tire her out with sex (cheesy, I know, but she is an escape artist and a very determined woman; they have to keep her energy low while they come up with a plan that doesn’t involve her dying). Bryce has had sex before, both as a woman and as a man (she has a strap-on, OK?), but it was always painful as her partners cared more for their pleasure than hers, which didn’t bother her as sex was just a tool to get close or a means of getting information. But the guys are all tender with her and make sure she enjoys it and she doesn’t know how to block this out like she does pain. Particularly with Jonathan as the little sweetie has never been with a woman before so the others guide him on what feels good for a woman; she’s embarrassed when he actually makes her squirt. But when she hears word that Galavan and Sofia have captured Lee and Lucius, she knocks them out with one of Jonathan's gas bombs, and goes to turn herself in. Galavan tortures her and Sofia goes to kill Lee, only for the Horribles, Oswald, Ed, Zsasz, and undercover lackey Joe Chill, who in reality is Marshal James Gordon to come charging in to save the day. During a scuffle, a lamp is knocked over, Sofia is killed by Barbara who wants Lee to be in a threesome with her and Tabitha (Lee: Hey, I’ll try anything once), and Galavan's house is set on fire. Bryce takes after Galavan, determined to see this end as it began. Victor can't follow because of all the flames and Jonathan's suit is hardly fireproof, so it's up to the other three. They see Galavan and Bryce fighting, but Galavan is about to get the upper hand and kill her when he's shot from behind; it's Alfred with a shotgun.

Alfred: Consider that my resignation from your service... Bloody Bastard.

It's not easy but they all manage to get out and Bryce will be laid up for a while, but she's done what she set out to do. Too bad she doesn't know what to do now that's gotten her revenge.

Bryce is in a room owned by the Sirens, surrounded by her friends just after the fire: Well, I should be up and around in about a week or two, then I’ll find a new city to go to and-

Ivy: Wait, you’re leaving?!

Male Horribles who have been waiting outside the room for the OK to come in but have been listening at the door: LEAVING?!

Bridgit sighs as she stands, rolls her eyes, walks to the door, opens it, and the male Horribles, excluding Victor as he naturally has more sense, all come tumbling into the room: Behold, Bryce; you’re idiots.

#Another choice #somebody stop me #gotham #poll #cowboy

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taekakane · 4 years

Text

i can’t sleep so here is my shingeki no kyojin/attack on titan modern AU dump

1. Levi, Hanji and Erwin live in the same apartment complex and they also share a dorm

2. Mikasa’s parents survive in this AU and her mother manages to give birth to her younger brother, whom they name Touta

3. Eren’s parents aren’t usually around as his father moves up the ranks in pharma and his mother works late shifts at the diner to save up for a family car

4. Reiner forced Annie and Bertolt to helo him mess with Marco’s entrance exam score. Marco got expelled due to this and he left behind a note before moving away with his family, which the class misinterpreted as a s*icide note

5. Annie works part-time at the local coffee shop on mondays, wednesdays and fridays.

6. Historia and Ymir are the school’s power couple

7. Hanji sometimes helps Dr. Jaeger with getting chemicals for formulating medicines

8. Levi and Hanji and her other friend Mike are in a band together

9. nobody visits Armin during the winter months. this is because his hypersensitivity to cold causes him to get terribly sick, and Armin is like a demon when he is sick. his eyes swell up and are bloodshot, his nose is blocked and he can only breathe through his mouth, which somewhat contributes to his involuntary salivation. he is covered from head to toe with sweat from wrapping himself in one too many blankets and his hair is unkempt from him moving about and scraping his uncut nails against it in rage. in addition to this, he also gains unknown herculean strength, which, Jean theorizes, is powered entirely by spite and bean soup, as demonstrated when he throws Jean out the window with one hand after he snuck in trying to find out what was wrong against the warnings of Eren and Mikasa.

10. Armin can switch from a generally nice and friendly personality to a sassy one in a matter of minutes, due to the amount of time he spent with Historia in middle school

11. Mina Carolina was in love with Marco so after his apparent “death” she sent his parents flowers every other day she can. it is later revealed that he had donated some flowers to his local orphanage and kept the rest to plant in a meadow out back and took lots of photos with them.

12. Jean is a star athlete and is often picked for sports day activities, most notably the 100m hurdle race and pole vaulting

13. Armin is able to forge many of his classmates’ handwritings and as such has taken a liking to sending random love letters to others to make it seem like someone else sent them just to start some drama. he’s only been caught once by Annie but as she always says. “its none of my business.”

14. Thomas Wagner sells hot dogs so he can afford consoles his parents don’t want to buy from him (”ZIS ARE ZE BEST FRANKFURTERS IN ZA DISTRICT!!!”)

15. when Marco pays them a visit at a skate park one summer afternoon, Reiner devises a plan to get rid of him for good. he is immediately kicked by Annie and suplexed by Bertolt

16. Levi sleeps with a large dolphin plush that Hanji won for him at a boardwalk fair

17. Erwin is usually up first followed by Levi, so Erwin is normally on breakfast duty.

18. Eren’s friends are a top priority to him. if he finds that someone hurt even one of them he would destroy anything and/or anyone associated with the perpetrator before the perpetrator themself. Armin feels like a sudden neglect from his parents is too much for him to bear so he takes it out on others any way he can. Mikasa looks at him and sighs. maybe she knows something???

19. Eren and Armin have a slogan they tell each other before doing something reckless. “believe in you i’ll believe in me. believe in me and i can count on you!”

20. Armin can’t have strawberries. his body is sensitive to certain chemicals in food and the aphrodisiac will just make him erratically horny :/

21. Mikasa and Levi sometimes like to go to the park for some quality Ackerman bonding time!

22. Levi’s softer, somewhat childish side only ever comes out when he’s around his mother. she lets him do that since she barely got to spend time with him when he was younger.

23. for the longest time Levi thought Kenny was his dad

24. Kenny wants a secret powers that lies with the government yet for some reason Levi doesn’t care anymore.

25. Jean used to get horrible grades in class but Marco had inspired him to do better. now when anyone catches him slacking off they use the phrase “remember Marco” to help get him back on his feet.

26. whenever Armin is feeling stressed he turns off all the lights and has himself and 80s dance “party”

27. sometimes Mikasa and Eren have strange arguments but quickly change the subject whenever someone else enters the room

28. Sasha and Connie love watching football and they often bet their snacks on which team will win which match

29. Sasha’s father is a chef who taught her his expertise at a young age. her love for cooking grew and she wanted to spread the joy of food to many others. she has plans for starting an NGO to give healthier meals to starving kids around the globe

30. Armin is a softcore weeb/otaku but a hardcore gamer.i mean seriously if you saw his setup you’d be soaking wet

31. Bertolt never actually confessed to Annie. he just started calling her names like “sweetie” “dearie” “bay-bay” and “muh princess” and she just sorta went with it

32. Erwin and Hanji teach at Eren’s school

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thugsclub · 3 years

Text

Thugs Club

Beginning of a Jeff Beck fanfic series. Callie is being helped by Jeff in her apprenticeship, so she turns to him for advice when a situation gets hot!

You may remember me from previous Tumblrs such as overunder-sidewaysdown.

Wednesday was Callie's favourite day.

Mornings at college were full on, get your hands dirty days, with no paperwork or lectures, and afterwards Jeff would take her to Riverhall for some extra training in his workshop. They were currently rebuilding an engine, and were taking a break for coffee in the big warm kitchen, the dogs sat at their feet.

"So" Jeff asked after the technical talk had worn down "How's Peter Perfect?"

"Peter isn't" Callie winced at the thought of the last humiliating breakup.

"Want to talk about it?"

Callie looked at his face, the lines around his eyes and the scar on his adorable nose, and thought how much she liked him. It wasn't every rock star who would volunteer to spend time teaching the terminally unemployable how to build an engine, after all. She took the plunge.

"We decided to just be friends, but his version of just be friends included still having sex so I did, once, after we were just friends. So I finally told him where to stick it."

"Good for you. Look, if you don't mind me saying, do you think it might be an idea to take a break from sex altogether for a while? I mean it seems like every time you sleep with someone some kind of three act tragedy happens."

"You have a point there. I mean it is how I lost my last job"

"Concentrate on getting the apprenticeship done and getting into work. Don't worry about Peter Pervert" Jeff suggested "You can come down here any time you like and use the workshop if it'll help"

"Thanks" Callie said. She thought she might take him up on that.

When she got home, determined to have a healthy meal, an early night, and a new start in the morning, she logged on to her bank to look at her account. Not her regular Lloyds account, but the one nobody else knew she had. How many of those idiots who sneered at her for her years of unemployment and job hopping could say they had a Swiss bank account? There wasn't much money in it, but then you didn't need much to set one up, all you needed was the right paperwork. It was a fun secret to have.

But, as Callie looked at her balance, she got the shock of her life.

Meanwhile, in a large elegant building in Washington DC, over which flew an enormous stars and stripes, a white haired military man burst into a room so violently that his young blonde secretary jumped.

"Ashleigh, I heard from my contact that the money never arrived!" he hissed "I thought you said you sent it last night"

Ashleigh looked puzzled "I did, Colonel." She clicked away and flipped the screen "Account number ending in 426."

"426? 426? It says 462 here! Damn what have you done you silly little bitch!"

With a long suffering sigh, Ashleigh went to a filing cabinet and riffled around until she found a piece of paper "It says 426 here. In your actual handwriting"

She handed it to him, and he saw with a sinking feeling that he was right. He couldn't blame this on Ashleigh. He had fucked up, big time. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead.

"See if you can find who's bank account it is. I want a name and I want that money back before it blows this thing wide open."

After a few moments of confusion, Callie knew exactly what she was going to do. She was going to ring Jeff.

"Callie!" he sounded flatteringly pleased to hear from her "What's up?"

"I was wondering if you had time for a coffee tomorrow. Something... weird just happened and I need your advice"

"Sure. Usual place"

"That would be great. And by the way it isn't about sex this time"

After reassuring him she was okay and it was nothing pressingly urgent, she ended the call and started preparing herself dinner, all while mulling over who can have put an obscene amount of money into her secret Swiss bank acount.

#classic rock fanfic #jeff beck fanfic

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mysteryofren · 4 years

Text

Nice to see you again.

part 4 of so happy together.

Part 3

______________________________________________________________

The sun peeked through the trees, giving your face a nice warmth to it. You stretched and yawned reaching over to wake up your grandpa, but to your surprise the spot where he was the previous night had been empty. You'd wondered if he had gone inside to sleep the rest of the night. You sat up and looked through the little plastic window of the tent. Sure enough, the view of the sunrise was still breathtaking. The trees on the distant mountain had changed. Some taller, some not there at all. Had it really been that long? You paid closer attention trying to see what else could have possibly changed. To your knowledge other than a couple fallen trees. Nothing was drastically different. A sound pulled you from your thoughts and you looked towards the opening of the tent.

“Hello there, good to see you're up. I brought some cocoa to help us keep warm.”

You grabbed the mugs from your grandpa holding them while he struggled to get inside. You looked at the two mugs. He still used the same one he did as when you were a kid, and he even gave you the old batman mug that you found at a charity store. You remember begging him for it. All because the logo was shiny, and you wont lie you still loved that about it. There was something else about the cup of hot chocolate he had brought it. It had a giant pile of whipped cream, tiny marshmallows put over it, and cinnamon sprinkled on top. Exactly the way you preferred it.

“I hope you're cocoa order hasn't changed since you were 13,” he said, grabbing his mug from your hands.”I haven't had a need for mini marshmallows in my pantry in a long time, I'm glad I had a reason to buy it again.”

“I don't think I'll ever change my cocoa consuming ways, I always make it at my dorm in the winter but it's never as good as when you make it.” you did your usual habit when you drank hot chocolate. Straight for the whip cream first. As a kid you would just go right in and just start drinking, and it would always result in whipped cream and cinnamon all over your face. When you were 12 you came up with the rational idea of either not putting as much whipped cream on it, or eating it before you started drinking it. 12 year old you decided eating it first was the best way to do it, and damn was she right.

“Once we're done if you could help me pack the tent that would be lovely, our guests will be here at about 4 in the afternoon.” he informed you as he sipped on his drink.

Once more time went by quicker than you enjoy. The sun was shining high when you two decided to start getting the house and yourselves ready. The house was already decorated and ready, you just had to pack the tent, clean your mess from last night's festivities and set the dining room up. Your grandfather left the tent mugs in hand, and you stayed back. As you started piling the blankets on the back yard table you heard Christmas music blasting from the kitchen. You hummed along as you folded the blankets up, and dismantled the tent. After you finished packing the tent up and you walked it over to the shed where you knew he usually kept it. You listened as the birds chirped, and the trees moved restlessly as the cold wind blew. You were content. At this moment nothing and nobody else existed. Not the hell that was the republic boarding school, not the pain you felt from your parents neglect. Nothing. Just you, the birds, and the trees. You opened the shed door, and put the tent in its rightful place. You walked back towards the table that was covered in blankets, and started piling them in your arms to reduce the amount of trips you would need.

As you walked in with the first set of blankets the most heavenly smell hit your nostrils. That couldn't be what you thought it was. Certainly he wouldn't be doing that much for you. You quickly ran the blankets to where they belonged and jogged towards the kitchen. Sitting on the counter was a pan. As you approached it the glorious smell grew stronger and stronger. Just as you had suspected. He made mama's cinnamon rolls. The ones she would make you for breakfast on your birthday. The ones you looked forward to every year up until she passed, but how did he do it. She had always said she never wrote it down and that it just came from her heart.

“They won't even be close to hers, but i was cleaning out the attic when i found a little box with her handwriting on it. Turns out she did write all of her best kept secrets down.” he said with a laugh as he dried some dishes. “Grab two plates, forks, and knives and we can dig in.”

“On it,” you said, racing towards the cabinet that held the plates,”who's coming over tonight?”

“Well just some friends from work that also didn't have anyone to celebrate with. I was hoping you would help me cook as there's going to be a lot of people here tonight.”

You placed the plates down by the pan and grabbed forks and knives in the drawer beneath the sink. “Of course i love cooking with you.”

You both talked about what the day would bring as he served you your cinnamon rolls. He was right, they were not everything hers always were, but he made them by hand and out of love so they were still pretty damn good. After you finished up you did the dishes, and got started with the cooking. He insisted you both started with the sides as the ham would take the longest. After 3 grueling hours of cooking, cleaning, and repeating, it was 1 in the afternoon. He had gotten started on the ham when you informed him you were going to start getting ready.

“As soon as you're finished, come down and switch with me so I can get ready!” he called out.

“You got it!” you yelled already halfway up the stairs.

As soon as you reached your room you laid your outfit out on the bed. A black long sleeve shirt, with a plain red skirt, and black stockings to go under it. It was the most fashion forward, but it was perfect for Christmas dinner at your grandfather's house. You grabbed a robe from the closet, a small bag from your night bag, and a curling iron. Once you had everything you would need you headed for the bathroom. You took a quick shower and stepped out. First you plugged in the curling iron, and as it heated you took the time to wash, moisturize and tone your face. You blow dried your hair and once you were sure it was dry enough you started putting loose curls in your hair. Once you were satisfied with the curls you left them to cool and opened the bag up. It wasn't the extent of your collection, but it had everything you needed to do a simple makeup look. From the moment you could understand your mom started teaching you how to do your make up. It was the only form of bonding you had, even then it wasn't really a hobby of hers, she just needed you to wear it so all of you would look picture perfect at all times. It ended up benefiting you in the long run. It led you being in charge of make up when it came to school plays.

You quickly looked at the clock and saw that it was already 3:24. You did some final touches to your face and ran your fingers through your hair breaking the curls apart, making them appear almost natural. You packed up your things and rushed to your room to get changed. After one final look in the mirror you made any adjustments you needed to before you went downstairs.

You had just gotten downstairs when you heard a small gasp. “Aren't you a vision of beauty?”

Looking Up you saw your grandfather. Staring at you from the living room.

“Look at you my angel. How is it you've made it this far without men starting wars for you?”

“Mother says they're too intimidated by my ambition.”

“Well your mother's right, men are terrified of a woman after success, but that's just more a reason for you to chase after it. Don't let her get to your head, your grandmother's ambition and passion is what drew me to her.” he said matter of fact as he took off his apron and walked over to you.

He took you in his arms and sighed loudly. “When did you start growing up? I can't stand the thought of my granddaughter becoming a woman.”

You hugged him back “you act like i'll never see you again.”

“Well who knows, I never see your cousin that's for sure.”

“I wouldn't do that to you. Ever”

“I know my dear. Anyways keep your eye on the ham, I'm going to head upstairs and get ready.”

He let go of you and walked up stairs, you walked over to the kitchen looking into the window of the oven. it was almost ready, but not quite yet. This is what you loved about your grandparents, even though they had more than enough money to hire a personal cook, or just cater things like this. They still insisted on cooking. Your father grew up in a family that had a personal chef. He always said it tasted too professional. Too high priced. Mama had grown up in a lower class family. Her family had cooked with whatever they could have. She talked about how her father and brothers would hunt for meat for the family. When mama and pop pop first met at Dartmouth, she invited him to dinner at her house. Pop pop said it was the first time he ever had a meal made by someone who wasn't a professional chef, and he fell in love with the thought of cooking. Throughout the years she taught him everything she knew, and through that they fell in love. When you started coming to their house more and more they insisted you know how to cook, and you were grateful for it. After about 10 minutes you checked the ham again. You would guess it needed another hour.

The familiar sound of footsteps drew your attention. Your grandfather walked into the kitchen. He had put on a pair of black slacks, with a long button up tucked into it, and over it was a goofy red and green christmas sweater. He had also taken the time to comb his hair down and put some gel in it to keep it in place.

“So final ruling from the queen of fashion herself. How does it look?” he spun around slowly with his arms slightly in the air.

“Tuck the sweater into the pants too.” he followed your suggestion without question.

“Much better.” you said with a smile.

“I can always count on you to keep me from looking like a fool.” he said as he walked over

“How's the ham doing?”

“Good. It needs maybe an hour more.”

“Perfect,” he said looking into the oven. Just then the doorbell rang out.”Our first guests have arrived, be a dear and set the table for me while I let them in.”

Without hesitation you grabbed the plates and started laying them out. Earlier in the day you had set out the silver wear, this was the last step.

“Ahhh hello Y/N,” you looked up seeing Luke.”Wonderful seeing you again.”

“Luke!” you exclaimed walking over to hug him. For some reason it felt better treating him like an old friend in this setting rather than at school. “What on earth are you doing here?”

He gave you a quick hug back. “Well seeing as my sister is out of town, and your father invited my parents, I figured why not come over. It's a good way for us to see old friends and catch up with my parents.”

Us? Who was with him. As far as you could recall he wasn't married. Just as you had pulled away from him you looked at the entry of the dining room and saw him. Ben. standing there in your grandfather's house. Well isn't this interesting.

“You remember Ben right?” Luke said motioning him to come over.

“Of course i do. How could I forget.” you said extending your hand. Yeah how could you forget a beautiful asshole like him.

“Nice to see you again Y/N,” he said as he shook your hand. “Mr.Kenobi, you have an absolutely beautiful house. How'd you find a place like this in the area?”

Way to play innocent and sweet.

“Why thank you Ben, and please call me Obi-wan, being called Mr.Kenobi makes me feel old, and I already get that feeling too much with my granddaughter around.”

“She can't make you feel that old Obi-wan.” Luke said walking over to speak with his friend.

“Ahh but she does. You remember when she was a child, now look she's almost ready for college.”

“Speaking of college,” Luke spoke before looking towards you. “Your grades are quite impressive, young lady. Impressive enough that there's talk of you graduating this year instead of next.”

At this point Ben grew bored and walked to the living room. “Well I'm flattered Luke, but i would like to graduate next year. I have all my necessary credits, but staying the extra year gives me a chance to earn more, and I feel it would look better to colleges.”

“Smart girl. In that case i'll let the counselors know you'd rather do that.”

“Thank you, Luke.”

You heard another ring, and saw your grandfather and Luke walk away. You turned back to finish setting the table when you felt weird. Looking at the entryway you spotted Ben looking at you again. You both stared at each other for a second, before he looked away.

Tonight was going to be a disaster.

#ben solo fanfiction #ben solo #bensoloxreader #teen!ben solo #ben solo x reader #star wars tfa #star wars au #star wars fanfiction #star wars tros #star wars #teen!reader #star wars x reader #reader insert #kenobi!reader #obi wan kenobi

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prorevenge · 5 years

Text

My hippie math teacher was real garbage.

So some background: as a kid, I’ve always been pretty good at math. It was always my best subject, I’d catch onto concepts easily, but I hated it. Not because math was hard or anything, but because no matter how much I hoped, my math teacher would always be the type that would be like “Use the formula I gave you or it’s wrong.” Now, see, my mind works in what others call “a super weird way.” Every time I was taught a new concept in math, I wouldn’t use the formula that the teacher gave us because I’d have a hard time remembering it and I thought it was too time consuming and expanded. Instead, I’d come up with a more efficient, step skipping formula that worked just as well.

Other students would ask me how I do the math so fast, and when I shared the formula with them, they found it much easier and did it just as fast.

So rewind to 7th grade. I was like, 12 or something at the time. I had finally got a good teacher that allowed freedom for multiple formulas because “math is math.” We had her for about a few months, and I really liked her teaching. She got into a freak car accident and took her leave, and from what other staff members told me, she was “lucky to even survive.” I never knew how bad the crash really was, but from what I was told, she cheated death. Staff said she was supposed to come back in a few months, and until then, we would have a long-term substitute.

Before I knew about the accident, I walk to class over in the way corner of my school. At the time, I remember having a class right before that was on the opposite corner of school, so I’d often be late if I walked too slow. So, I turn the corner of the building and notice there’s no students waiting outside, meaning the teacher had already opened the door. Unusual, but I checked the time, and I was earlier than normal. So, I knocked on the door. I waited and waited for someone to open the door, because usually it’s the nearest student to the door who opens it. I knock. And knock. It’s about a few minutes of constant knocking until someone opens the door, but he’s looming above me.

When I look up, it’s a new teacher, long hair and a beard, kind of looks like Jesus. Yes, he was a hipster. He opened the door right after the late bell and said “you’re late.” I explained to him I had been knocking the past few minutes and nobody answered the door, to which he responds “That’s because I told them not to. You should have been here when I opened the door to begin with.” I wanted to explain I had a far away class and I couldn’t be considered late since the late bell didn’t ring, but he didn’t take any of it. I had to go to detention that day.

So, let’s call this teacher Mr. Hippie for convenience. I sat next to my friend, lets nick him Bro, and ask what’s the deal with this guy. Bro tells me that I’ve already made a bad impression, told him to elaborate, to which he explains the whole accident long term sub thing.

So to summarize the first part of his teaching, he didn’t actually teach us anything. Instead, we did completely pointless activities that have nothing to do with math. One of these activities was a class game where we had to tell each other a list of jokes and whoever got the most laughs got the most points and won the game.

So we read these jokes that we’ve been given, and it’s a list of inappropriate jokes. They were all pretty racist, sexist, etc which we already knew he was extremely prejudiced based on his everyday, passing language towards us (some include “girls have good handwriting because they waste their time practicing their letters” and “the only guys that climb mount everest are white dudes because they’re the dumbest people out there” and “girls wouldn’t get raped if they just stop overestimating their strength” whatever that one even means). I can’t think of all the jokes off the top of my head, but here’s some I remember:

Why are religious Jamaicans obese? Because at church they chant “Praise the Lard.” What’s Miley Cyrus’ favorite food? Roast twerky. Why can’t the Kardashian’s swim? Because they have more plastic in their butts than in the whole ocean.

I objected against playing this stupid game because of all the offensive jokes in it, some of which I related to and was offended by. He sent me out of class that day. Bro got sent out eventually as well, because instead of using the offensive jokes, he said a stupid knock knock joke that made the class laugh out of pure stupidity. “Knock knock.” “Who’s there?” “Pizza delivery guy. I burned your pizza because it had pineapple on it. Bad move, cuz.”

At some point when we actually started learning math, Hippie was a douche, He did the same old same old docking me points for not using his formula thing. We were doing white board problems, to which he forced me to do the most complex ones. When I did them correctly and showed my work, he’d think I was wrong until he checked his calculator. Bad move. So, instead, he erases my work off the board in front of literally the whole class, and says to me dead in the eye: “You didn’t show your work.” So, I said, “Alright, I’ll show my work.” So I did. Again. And he erased it. By that point, I was fed up with his bull, so I just left it at that.

When we took tests, we would grade the papers as a class. He would tell us the answers, to which he’d screw up on middle school level questions. Every time I got a different answer, I would ask him to do it on the board, and that would prove he was wrong and I was right. He hated me more for asking questions.

Every time I “technically” got a question wrong, he would call me an idiot, slow, stupid, etc. etc. and even passed a few “maybe if you were a guy you’d be more useful.” I tried telling this to the teachers, but they weren’t having it. I tried waiting until he would finally leave, but info came out that our teacher wasn’t coming back, so we’d have him even longer. So naturally, I did some digging.

Bro and I searched his full name up online and found an admittedly hidden link to his Instagram account, which I won’t leak, but it was golden. He posed himself literally as Jesus, with several sexual and racial posts and memes. He had solid evidence of smoking weed and vaping off campus too, and it looked like he was also becoming the path to an antivaxxer at some point. Some posts included things like “You can’t cure cancer, yet you take away our medicine?” Followed by a picture of weed or something of that sort.

Though it wasn’t exactly what I wanted him fired for, I brought it up with the counselor. She said they’d look into it. While it was followed up by several other students, I was walking home one day when I saw Hippie with a big bag of what looked like posters as he threw it in his trunk and drove off. We came back one day to a brand new, female teacher. Posters that Hippie put up were gone, just like the ones he threw in his trunk the other day. She explained to us the old teacher had been fired for suspicious online activities, and will likely have a hard time ever getting a new job. Since then, the Hippie’s name had been removed from the account, but it’s still up and running by him.

We had that new teacher for the rest of the school year, which wasn’t exactly long, but she did teach us math and threw us a big party on the last day of school, though she still didn’t approve of alternate formulas. Sorry this was quite a long one, fellas, but I thought it was worth sharing.

TL;DR: Got a math teacher fired for his inappropriate Insta after he made sexual jokes and racial slurs and straight up insulted me for months.

(source) story by (/u/TheAcidicFire)

#prorevenge #by /u/TheAcidicFire #pro revenge #revenge stories #pro revenge stories #pro #revenge #last10

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fruit-teeth · 5 years

Text

One Small Stone

Alternate title: Sniper’s first headshot

/(Hey so I’m thinking about making a whole series like this about each mercenary’s origin story. They’re gonna get dark, but that’s to be expected I guess. Anyway, I hope you enjoy and let me know if you would be interested!)/

“The year is 1955, the month is September, and the day is the seventeenth…”

This was what the class repeated in unison every day before class began. Before this, they would recite their morning prayers, once again in unison. This was their daily routine, and Lawrence had become accustomed to it ever since his parents sent him to this Catholic school.

His family wasn’t as religious as many of the others who attended the school. They didn’t attend mass regularly, they only prayed before meals on occasion, but Mrs. Mundy had a portrait of the Virgin Mary hanging above her and her husband’s bed, and Lawrence would lay there for hours sometimes just staring at it. She was so young, and it made him wonder what it was like having the Son of God as a child at a young age. No one ever really spoke about that; there were a lot of things in the Bible that were strange to him, and yet they were things nobody spoke about.

He wasn’t the type of boy to question his teachers, though. He was quiet, he did his homework, and he had a small circle of friends who were just like him. It seemed like an average childhood, but that was fine because he liked the routine.

Yet there was something different about this day. The school year had just started recently, and the boys had a new teacher named Miss Simon, and they did not like her at all.

Lawrence had been feeling more chatty than usual on the first day, so he had been telling his friends about how his dog caught a giant frog in her mouth over the weekend and how exciting that had been to see, when all of the sudden he noticed the classroom had gone eerily quiet halfway through his tale. He looked up, seeing Miss Simon looming over him.

“Mr. Mundy,” she began, staring down at him coldly. “Do you think you’d like to keep sharing your story with the class? Maybe I should let you teach today,”

Lawrence felt himself shrink into his seat, and his face reddened with embarrassment. He could hear his classmates giggling, and he just wanted to disappear. He couldn’t stop thinking about it for the rest of the day, and when he got home the first thing he did was hide in his room.

He never told his parents, though. Lawrence had been taught to respect authority—he knew that if he’d told his parents about the incident, he’d probably just get punished for talking over a teacher in class.

Still, no matter what he did, Lawrence had found himself on Miss Simon’s radar. She clearly didn’t care for him, for whatever reason, and he always felt like he was doing something wrong. She’d scold him for doodling on his paper, she’d scold him for his sloppy handwriting, and even when he walked in the hallway, she’d yell at him for walking too fast. He felt singled out, but what made it so much worse was how she treated his friends.

She was kind to his friends. She laughed with them, got on their level, spoke gently to them, and they all loved her. They couldn’t understand why Lawrence didn’t like her—they would say, “Maybe you should be nicer to her!”

“But I am!” Lawrence wanted to scream. “She just hates me!”

The weeks passed. Lawrence tried his hardest to get on Miss Simon’s good side, but it was hopeless. She couldn’t stand him, and he didn’t know why. He prayed to God for help, but even that seemed to go unheard.

And then it happened. On December 14th, right before Christmas break, Lawrence was helping a friend with some math equations. Dalton, his friend, was very stressed out over the work, and because Lawrence was better at it, he decided to help him.

As he hunched over the desk, scrawling numbers on the paper, Miss Simon barked at the boys, “We’re going to have reading time! Come over here, now,”

Dalton got up and shuffled away quickly, though he was clearly very agitated about the math problems. Lawrence, however, didn’t get up right away. He began to put away his pencils into their case.

“Lawrence Mundy, did you hear me!?” Miss Simon snapped, raising her voice.

“Yeah,” Lawrence replied hastily, standing up quickly. “I’m coming, okay?”

Perhaps Lawrence spoke a bit too harshly, or he just wasn’t polite enough for Miss Simon’s liking. Whatever the case, when he got up from the desk and turned around, Miss Simon was right there, and she grabbed Lawrence by the shoulder strong enough to knock the wind out of him.

“Get in the corner,” she hissed, grabbing the scruff of his neck as if he was a kitten and dragging him towards the corner.

Lawrence didn’t understand why this was happening, and he started to protest. “But-but why!?”

“Don’t ‘why’, me!” she shoved him into the corner, turning him around so he was facing it. “Stay there! Stay there and pray to God for forgiveness! We’ll all pray for you,” she turned to the class. “Won’t we?”

The class rumbled in agreement, murmuring amongst themselves. Lawrence began to sob, and he pressed further into the corner, praying he would just disappear. He felt like everyone hated him: his class, his teacher, probably even his parents if Miss Simon called them (which she likely would—she always called home to parents when students misbehaved). The worst part was, though, that Lawrence didn’t even really know what had provoked this.

He cried for probably the whole day. His friends avoided him, he got stares from other students, and he could hear everyone whispering about him. Things weren’t much better when he got home, as Miss Simon had, in fact, called his parents and told them that he’d been very rude to her.

“Dear, what’s the matter?” his mother sat with him after dinner, stroking his hair. “Why did you speak that way to Miss Simon? That isn’t like you at all,”

Lawrence sniffed, the tears rolling down his cheek. “She hates me,” he whimpered, pressing into his mother for comfort.

“Oh, now,” she rubbed his back tenderly. “I’m sure she doesn’t hate you…after all, she said she would pray for you,”

The words punched Lawrence in the gut, and they made him angry. He didn’t know why, but he felt some new, bitter type of anger building up in him. It was foreign, but he welcomed it.

That night, as Lawrence laid in bed, he recalled the story of David and Goliath: how Goliath was a giant who crushed everything in his path, and how David had taken him out with only one stone and a sling. Lawrence had a sling, it was in his closet, and he had stones, too. He’d always thought the story didn’t make any sense, for how would that work? A stone couldn’t take out a giant…could it?

There was only one way to find out.

The next morning, the bus dropped Lawrence off at the usual time. It was the day before Christmas break.

He walked up to the front of the building, but instead of taking his usual route to his classroom he ducked inside of the supply closet. Lawrence had heard some talk from the other students of an opening in the ceiling, one that could access the air ducts, and the boys would often use it to spy on teachers in the teacher’s lounge. Sure enough, Lawrence found it, and he climbed into the opening and began his journey through the ceiling.

He found Miss Simon in the lounge by herself, and she took notes on her notepad about something while she listened to the radio. She was a bigger woman, but Lawrence felt taller than her for the first time as he loomed above her in the ceiling.

Carefully, so carefully, he moved the grate out of its spot (to his delight, it wasn’t screwed into the duct with anything) and he placed the stone in the sling. Miss Simon had no idea—she didn’t even know he was there, and that he was aiming straight at her head.

Thunk.

It was loud, and it startled Lawrence a bit. Miss Simon barely reacted; she didn’t even make a noise. She just touched the back of her head, saw the blood, and stood up to head for the door. Yet didn’t make it there, and she collapsed within seconds, bringing down the cabinet with her as she tried to grab it for support.

Lawrence watched, in awe of what he’d just done. But he barely had time to think, as he heard the door opening, and he quickly scrambled back towards where he’d come from to make his escape.

Miss Simon didn’t show up to class. The boys were all very confused, but the one who knew what happened was Lawrence, and he didn’t dare say a word. Eventually, a substitute showed up, and all she said was that Miss Simon wasn’t feeling well and had to go home.

As Lawrence rode home on the bus, he felt a new feeling of invigoration and pride. It was wrong, he told himself, since Jesus would never approve. But…he felt strong. He felt like he could do anything, now. He didn’t regret this at all.

He was the last one on the bus when it arrived at his stop. When he made his move to leave, the bus driver stopped him.

“Have a merry Christmas, Lawrence,” she told him.

Lawrence paused. He hadn’t told her his name…maybe she knew his mother. But she spoke in a different accent, which was quite unusual. He just nodded. “Thank you, ma’am. You too,”

As the bus doors closed and Lawrence headed for his house, the driver watched silently, her golden eyes reflecting off the door’s glass.

She knew what happened today would send him down the path she was hoping for.

#writing #my writing #tf2 #tf2 fanfiction #tf2 sniper #child abuse tw #christianity #tf2 administrator #origins #sniper's family

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dschribe · 4 years

Text

What Would Jake Do?

I taped a photocopy of Jake’s latest press photo to the cinder block wall above my desk, and on it I wrote with a Sharpie in all caps, HERO.

If I looked over my shoulder, I could see the real Jake, across the hall, past the copier, though the open door to his office, beyond his assistant Joan’s desk, seated in profile on the couch he used as a desk chair, leaning over paperwork on the giant coffee table he used as a desk.

Sometimes he, JBC, would say, “DPS, you got a minute?”

I’d go across the hall to discuss a piece of copy, some item of marketing, or be handed a 5 x 7” index card with some notes on it, written in Sharpie, which is where I got the habit. (I once called his handwriting “angst-ridden” and he said immediately, “That’s not angst, it’s Sharpie.”)

I was a week out of college, a college I never once went to on a Thursday, because a midweek season’s pass to Stratton Mountain was way cheaper than the one for the weekends. Plus I had a growing skateboard and snowboard retail business I needed to tend to.

Burton, just a couple of hours up the road from me, was my biggest supplier and, I thought, likely the only one that would still be in business in ten years. So it was there, in my senior year, I sent the one and only unsolicited resume in my life. Nobody called for months.

About six weeks before I graduated, I was having the greatest game of my life on the Funhouse pinball machine outside my shop. The vendor who collected money from the games let me paint my quarters red. He’d fish them out and give them back to me, so long as I didn’t block paying customers. I got real good at that game; the phone rang about 45 times before I lost the ball.

The Burton HR woman scolded me for letting the phone ring so many times during business hours, but then told me that Burton folks wanted an interview. I thought I could hear an eye roll. But I scheduled a time, and a couple of weeks later I drove up to meet with Dennis Jenson, the head of marketing. A couple of more weeks went by. Then I got the callback to meet Jake.

I’d seen Jake a few times but never spoken to him. Although the sport was still small, we all looked up to him. He was older than all of us. Killing time in the UMass library I had stumbled across an issue of Time Magazine with a cover story called “Twenty Something.” It was about my generation. I didn’t realize I even had one until I read it. (It would be a little longer before they called us Generation X.) Our generation wasn’t supposed to have heroes, but we had Jake. And maybe Time had it all wrong; three years earlier they had called snowboarding "the worst new sport."

On the drive up to the Burton headquarters for my interview, I grew increasingly nervous about the meeting. When I got close, I pulled over in a panic and paced around the outside of my car. I contemplated turning around. Leaving my hometown of ten years, my friends, my business behind: it was all terrifying. It was also terrifying to go meet my hero. They say you never should.

I had a portfolio of my work—photos and press coverage of my shop, the skateboard and snowboard demos we held, and our skateboard camps. I had the letter that proved I had been the one to get “snowboards” as an entry into the Yellow Pages. I had the work I did to help get the word “snowboard" literally into the Merriam-Webster Dictionary, via my lexicography teacher. And there was a photo of a gang of kids, all mid-ollie, from skate camp.

The first time I taught anyone to ollie was the night before a skateboard contest I held to raise money to open my shop. As they signed up, the kids saw me building the ramps in the roller rink where it was going to be held, and demanded they get to skate them before the big day. Late evenings after the rink closed, we built and skated on the ramps. When any kid asked for help, I showed them what little I knew, and I knew enough to ollie.

One kid had been trying all week but not getting it. He told me it was impossible for him to learn it. I put out a scrap of 2x4 lumber. I pointed out that it wasn’t even that high; it was 1.5” x 3.5”. A few pointers and attempts later, and he cleared it. We high five-ed and I went back to my amateur ramp carpentry.

The contests was a success. The clear winner, who everyone knew would take the prize, snapped his board in half in the middle of his run. Nearly every kid in the place shoved their own board out onto the course so he could keep going. I started to see this wasn’t at all about competition. This became more clear to me as the kids were leaving: they all thanked me. That one kid I taught to ollie told me it was greatest week of his life. He was so genuine. The feeling of getting a kid to believe he could do something he thought he couldn’t do, changed me.

It took me a long time before I could see it, but ever after my life became a pursuit of trying to help people see that what seemed impossible for them, was possible, including levitating a wooden board with wheels off the ground. Snowboarding seemed just as impossible when I tried to learn it. Then it clicked and it was like walking on water. I sold snowboards knowing everyone who learned would be likewise transformed.

As I debated turning back from my interview, I flipped through the portfolio on the hood of my car. I studied the photos of skate camp, and thought about how snowboarding was starting to change how those kids saw the mountains and themselves. I had to go see Jake.

In the interview, he let me do most of the talking, and I went through my portfolio. Then I told him the story of teaching kids to ollie, of teaching a community to skateboard, and how snowboarding felt like the next step—maybe to teach a generation to ride.

He said, "Well in that way we’re a lot alike. That was a hell of a pitch. You should work in marketing.” I got the job, and with it, started a career I never imagined: in marketing.

I went to my graduation ceremony, car packed with all my possessions, then drove to Vermont that night.

My marketing coordinator job, as one of four people in the Burton marketing department, required writing a lot of copy. My first meeting with Jake was to write a press release about him, as we had no stock bio to give the media. In the process, I got to spend hours with him, hearing his whole story, and I hadn’t even gotten my first paycheck yet.

I came back to Jake a few days later with the piece. I titled it “Everyone Calls Him Jake.” I had no idea what the process would be when I handed it to him. He pulled out his Sharpie and started writing notes on it as he read. For the most part, it remained intact—but what he marked up was an impressive collection of notes on grammar, style, and narrative voice. He cared about the words. I had found a great editor.

He said, “This sounds like someone who went to college wrote it.”

I said, “Yeah, let’s not underestimate our riders’ intelligence.”

He nodded in agreement and kept reading.

In the opening paragraph I referred to Jake as the “patron saint of snowboarding.” He said he was’t sure if he was cool with the title. I explained to him that any other way to say it—inventor, pioneer, sponsor, champion, mogul—either wasn't accurate or would alienate core riders who didn’t want an authority figure in their sport. He finally put his pen down and said, “Okay, leave it.”

My writing continued that summer, on catalogs, hang tags, in store displays, and instruction manuals. There was a new snowboard binding, adjustable to over 2 million positions on a snowboard, that needed a lot of explanation. I wrote a lengthy manual for it and then the description for the catalog. Deep inside, I hid a little challenge: if anyone could show the math behind the stance options, they would get a prize.

The writing continued into the summer, but there were other projects, too, like making a video of all our riders. Jake came by the studio one night to see what we’d put together, a film I called, “Push.” He said he didn’t like the title, but as I did when we were writing copy together, I challenged him on it. The name stayed.

About a week later he came over to my desk and handed me a beanie that said “Push” on it, and told me he found it at one of our retailers he’d visited. “It’s to remind you not to push so hard for your ideas. Try to listen little more,” he said. “Oh and if you’re ever in one of our retailers, buy something. Those guys need our support. Even just a hat like this.”

I lived by both pieces of advice ever after.

With all the work, I’d forgotten about the math contest until five envelopes showed up one day in my mailbox. I had five winners. I needed to get them a prize.

Another of my projects that summer was to deliver a sign for Burton retailers, made out of a cross-section of a log. It was being produced by a sign maker down the street named H. G. Wells, as in Homer G. Wells. His ability to tell stories lived up to his literary name, and his business was called Sign Language. As a punning, snowboarding, English nerd, I spent a lot of time hanging out with Homer G. Wells while he worked. Each log slab had a metal inlay of Burton’s newest logo, dubbed the "B-13.” The B-13 came from the design team led my Michael Jager, whose agency JDK was a little further down the road from Homer. I hung out there a lot that summer, too, watching them make ads and design snowboard graphics.

With all these creative people around, I wanted to make things, too. Homer had a drawer full of experiments and spare parts for various Burton items he’d been prototyping. In it I found a few examples of the coveted “Air Disk” medallions that the pro riders had been seen wearing around their necks the past winter. He gave one to me. He also had a little brass cube of metal with a backwards B-13 on it. He told me he was working on a branding iron but he decided to use a different metal. He gave me that too.

I wore the Air Disk around my neck, but after watching Homer make a few more log signs, I had an Idea. I would make my own miniature version, one that I could wear like an Air Disk. I burned a B-13 into a little slice of a branch by putting the brass cube on a hot plate. Homer made me a rubber stamp with "Burton Snowboards" in a circle that fit around it so it looked like its big brother. With a screw eye and piece of twine, I made myself next year’s model of the Air Disk necklace. I felt like I was a Burton team rider.

Years before, I first met Burton team riders who worked at one of the country’s first snowboard schools at Stratton Mountain. When I discovered snowboarding and started selling boards in my shop, one of the kids who worked at the roller rink next door bought one. As a starving computer science student, I did not have a car, but he had access to his dad’s, so for a discount on the board he drove us to Stratton to take our first lesson.

We both struggled while our instructor, pro snowboarder Suzie Rueck, tried to get us to adopt the counter-intuitive stance that makes snowboarding possible.

When I finally got the hang of it and I could make turns, leaving Jeff behind, Suzie said to him, “Wow, your friend must be quite an athlete.”

“He’s not an athlete,” Jeff said, with a sneer, “He’s a fucking mathematician.”

Back at college, I eventually switched from Computer Science to English, but my respect for math continued. My Burton math winners deserved a great prize, so I made five more of my log necklaces, and dropped them into the mail bin.

The next day there were 50 right answers. The day after a couple hundred showed up. In all, the pile got to over a thousand, yet I was hellbent to make them all a log necklace.

The wood for Homer’s full-sized sign was from downed elm, found on the forest floor and full of worm holes. (Our discriminating Japanese distributor would reject their shipment of them because the inferior wood showed insect damage.) Likewise I wanted deadwood for my miniatures, so I had to scrounge fallen branches from the woods across the street from Burton during lunch. After work I hand-sawed disks into the night. I had the hot plate running with the branding-cube, the rubber stamp inked up, and the eyes and the twine set out—in the foyer between the two doors at the entrance to our building, where the light was good and I could reach an outlet with the hot plate’s cord.

The last person out that night happened to be Jake, who stopped to ask me what the hell I was doing. I explained the situation and he said to follow him, he'd show me a better way. He helped me carry my supplies out back to the now-empty snowboard factory, turning lights on as we went. He powered up the dust vacuum and showed me how to use the same radial-arm saw that cut wooden snowboard cores to length. He set up a production line with all my supplies, clamping things in place so I wouldn’t have to pick them up and put them down repeatedly. He explained how, in the beginning days of Burton, he’d gotten in over his head more than once on snowboard production; he had learned the hard way how to manufacture a product in quantity.

Once I was up and running, he handed the operation over to me. Before he left he said, “Two things. One, you know you don’t have to do this all by yourself. We’re all here to help. Two, I thought with all this college-level copy we’ve been writing, you’d know not to fucking underestimate the mathematical intelligence of snowboarders.” And he laughed.

Then he handed me a key, “Lock up when you’re done.”

I said I would leave the key on his desk.

He said, “Keep it. Now that you know how to use the factory, you might as well have a key to it.” And he left.

Just a few months after college, I was a professional writer, a marketer, and someone with the key to the building. But it was even bigger than that: I was trusted—trusted to be the voice of Burton, the messenger of the sport, and the night foreman of the greatest snowboard factory ever.

As the voice of Burton, I’d work with Jake to write everything from letters to our senators about what a snowboard boot was (for some tariff legislation, which I learned needed to be address to the “The Honorable Senator Patrick Leahy") to re-writing the mountain resorts’ “Skiers Code” to be inclusive of snowboarders. Some of the stuff I wrote would get faxed to our distributors around the world to get translated.

One time I wrote an unfortunate press release that made fun of one of our distributor's cultures. I left it as a joke for Jake. The next day his assistant Joan came across the hall to hand me the fax receipt that confirmed she’d gone ahead and saved me the step of faxing it to the distributor myself. I was mortified. Then Jake came in laughing and said, “Don’t make fun of other countries. We’re a global company. And besides, that kind of shit is just not funny.”

I’d write really long emails and Jake would print them out and hand them back to me with, “Just tell me what you want,” written in Sharpie.

One all-company meeting I wrote some notes for him on an index card, suggesting a few talking points based on what I’d been hearing in the halls. He handed it back to me after he spoke with Sharpie written over it, “Who’s running this company God dammit?” I saved that one; it always makes me laugh.

As a messenger, I had to represent snowboarding to the industry, the press, the resorts, the United States Olympic Committee, anyone who might help (or get in the way of) snowboarding’s growth. I also had to represent Burton to the pro riders, who Jake would remind me, I had to listen to.

“If you were good enough to decide what’s right in snowboarding, you’d be riding, not sitting at that desk. Plus the riders have two ways of being right. First, they should know, they ride more. Second, if they’re off, they’ll set a new direction and call it right."

When he made me head of marketing, he told the company that I was always brutally honest about how I felt about the direction of the company, and that he didn’t want that to change. He let me know that my views from behind a desk counted too.

As unofficial night foreman of the factory, I always had projects going. We built skate ramps, buried a time capsule, and pulled all-nighters collating press kits. I designed and helped build trade show booths in a corner of the warehouse before packing them into crates and shipping them to Las Vegas, San Diego, Montreal, and Tokyo. I made a sign that said, “My Boss is a Protestant Carpenter,” and someone came up with the idea of bracelets that said “W.W.J.D.”—What Would Jake Do. Some nights I'd skateboard around the factory with my friend Andy, the PA system blaring music from a telephone dialed into it, duct taped to the speaker of a boom box.

It was in the factory, at another all-employee meeting almost ten years later, when my title was president, that Jake said he trusted me implicitly as the conscience of the company. Standing there, I still had that key in my pocket, and a million lessons from Jake in my head. One of them: by all means, do meet your heroes.

Jake passed away 27 years after I first started working for him—when I was 27. So half my life, his words have been with me. He and the people he assembled at Burton gave me a home, a career, and I hope, an open mind. They gave me a platform to help teach generations to snowboard, along with the humility to step off of it and just listen. My experience with Burton led to a job at another company where I could help teach a world that if you have a body, you are an athlete.

They say when you die, you can’t take it with you. Another way of looking at it is that when you die, you get to leave all of you behind. Losing Jake, for me, is being left with everything he had to give. I don’t feel loss, just the unspeakable pain of permanently indebted gratitude.

The day he got the news, The Honorable Senator Patrick Leahy, still in office, tweeted of Jake, “He was the soul and patron saint of snowboarding, and a beloved Vermonter whose vision has had worldwide reach.”

It makes me so proud: the title Jake accepted in 1992 in my first week, something I was able to give to him. I am grateful I was invited there to push for it.

#snowboard

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porkchop-ao3 · 5 years

Text

A Thrill I’ve Never Known (Chapter 6)

Jemima Jones

Up to some mischief with Johnny boy. Contains a little mistreatment of minors (not by any of the main characters btw)

(All chapters tagged with #ATINK and also posted on Ao3, username PorkChop)

John rode us to the trapper, keeping a fast pace on his horse that reminded me how much I missed riding. We arrived quickly, and John helped me down from the horse when we slowed to a stop near the stall. The trapper looked between us as we approached, greeting me with a nod.

“Funny to see you with some company,” he noted. I placed the pelts down on his table and unrolled them.

“I've been making friends,” I said a little drily. He inspected the pelts, checking their quality.

“Not your finest work,” he noted.

“The deer? I didn't skin those,” I said, and he glanced up at John. “Not him, neither.”

“My, you really have been making friends. You could teach them a thing or two about skinning.”

“Didn't wanna be a smart ass,” I shrugged and the trapper laughed.

“I'll give you ten dollars for the lot.”

“Sure,” I nodded.

“You ain't gonna haggle?” John asked.

“I've haggled with this feller so much he don't even need it no more, that's a good price.”

“If you say so,” he shrugged.

I took the money, pocketed it, and said my goodbyes before mounting John's horse again. He rode us back onto the track, keeping to a trot.

“Where to next, Valentine?”

“If it ain't too much to ask,” I replied.

“Oh it's pushing it, but I'll let you off,” he said, his tone light and jovial. He picked up the pace to a gallop, a longer ride ahead of us than the one down. “Though, I ain't sure what you're planning on buying with ten dollars.”

“It'll probably stretch to a pair of pants. A blouse if I'm lucky.”

“Pants?” John questioned.

“More important than a pretty frock, I reckon. Cheaper too. If I'm gonna be working and hunting more, the pants'll come in handy,” I explained with a shrug. He nodded in understanding.

“I was speaking to Dutch the other day about what sorts of jobs we could get you in on.”

“Yeah? I don't wanna shoot nobody,” I said, right off the bat.

“Didn't think you would. But I was thinking, you did a pretty good job of bringing me into that ambush the other day. Reckon we might be able to flip that on its head, use some of your performative skills.”

“I weren't performing anything, John. I thought I was gonna die,” I deadpanned.

“I know. And I ain't suggesting we use you as bait like those other fools did, either. A distraction, though. You got that quiet, vulnerable thing going for you–”

“You think I look vulnerable?” I balked, staring at the back of his head with my face screwed up.

“Now I know you a little better, no. But I think you could pull it off; you're young, quiet, polite, you could bend all that to your favour.”

“And do what exactly?”

“Say we take a bank, right? You could distract the tellers, easy, while we go in and take control of the place. And they wouldn't even have to know you were in on it, you're just an innocent little thing tryin'a open an account, or, get a hold of some misplaced funds.”

“A bank. Gosh, John, all I've robbed is drunkards in saloons and the occasional empty homestead.”

“Alright, we start off smaller then, we'll figure something out.”

“I'm willing to try,” I nodded.

“That'll make Dutch happy.”

“And if I do all this; help you lot make money, you'll help me get my horse back?” I asked.

“Of course, we'll do our best,” he glanced over his shoulder at me and smiled.

“And then I can leave and get back to what I was doing before, and Dutch won't have to worry about me squealing on you 'cause I'll be incriminated too,” I thought aloud and John chuckled.

“I suppose that's right. That's if you even wanna leave at that point.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“I mean this life gets pretty addictive, hard to get out of. And Dutch, the community he's built with all of us? Well, it's nice knowing you've got people who'll have your back.”

“I don't know. I think I'm better off on my own.”

“Alright, I ain't gonna try and change your mind,” he said, and we rode in silence the rest of the way to Valentine.

John accompanied me to the general store, where I was able to purchase a pair of men's work jeans and a belt to keep them up, since they were a little loose around the waist. John was carrying them in his satchel for me. I couldn't afford a top, so I'd have to keep borrowing the girls’ for the time being, but it was a start. A step back towards independence.

John wanted to run an errand before we headed back, to check to see if the group had received any mail. We stopped by the station and I waited outside for him, sitting on a bench, people watching. There was a woman nearby – dressed in mint green with her blonde hair styled in an immaculate updo – obviously going on a trip judging by the large case sat by her feet. She was causing a scene, yelling at the top of her lungs to the young boy she was with. He must've been about ten, not very old at all, and his case had opened up, spilling his clothes all over the floor. I hadn't seen it happen but I doubted it was his fault at all, but you'd think he'd committed murder with the way she was hollering at him. I watched in uncomfortable silence as he tried to gather it all up again, flushing with humiliation.

I jumped when John came out to meet me, a letter in hand.

“Letter for Arthur,” he said, inspecting it. “I think it's from Mary, judging by the handwriting.”

“Mary?” I questioned. He looked over his shoulder, distracted by the screaming woman for a moment.

“Last I heard she'd got married. She's an old girlfriend of his,” he told me. I felt an unnecessary amount of pressure to keep my expression as neutral as possible.

A loud snapping sound echoed across the decking, and John and I looked towards it. The kid was sprawled out, clutching his cheek. I covered my mouth, looking up at John who was analysing the situation, looking between the boy, the woman, her case. He turned back to me.

“You wanted some new clothes,” he said under his breath. “Why don't you go talk to her? I'll get you some; she looks about your size.”

My heart pounded at the prospect but I found myself nodding. I cleared my throat and rose to my feet, brushing out the creases in my dress as I made my way over to her, thinking over what I could say. My mind was drawing a blank, I hoped to God something would come out of my mouth when I reached her, and I could improvise my way through it.

“Hello, ma'am?” I said, smiling nervously at her. She looked up at me from her boy, eyes narrowed and expression sour. The kid went back to gathering his things

“Can I help you?” She hissed.

“I was wondering if I could help you, actually,” I told her. “You see, you look like a woman of means, that dress of yours is mighty pretty. I don't s'pose you're looking for a servant girl at all? I'm looking for work and I have a lot of experience, worked for a number of high standing folk.”

“A servant girl?” She scoffed, turning to face me head on, simultaneously putting her back to her baggage. The boy had his back to it too as he knelt on the floor; I saw John strolling by from the corner of my eye, glancing around.

It was pretty quiet on this side of the station, nobody was close enough to really be paying any attention, John just had to get the timing right and I trusted him to do it.

“Yes, could I be of assistance? I can cook, clean, sew… do childcare.” I added, my voice going up at the end. Her expression shifted to one of consideration.

“You any good at tending to horses, too? Our stable boy got sick and died not long ago,” she said without any softening of her words. It shocked me how easily she just said that, like he wasn't even a person at all.

“Oh, of course. That was actually a huge part of my last job.”

“And why'd you lose it? You gotta be looking for work for some reason.”

“My previous employer lost his fortune, he was a heavy gambler. He couldn't keep me,” I explained, shaking my head sadly.

I saw John again, walking behind the woman. As casually as anything he just dipped down and picked up the case, strolling on by around the corner where his horse was hitched. A flutter of exhilaration appeared in my tummy when she didn't even glance back.

“Well,” the woman said, reaching into her purse and pulling out a pencil and a small diary. She scribbled something down before tearing out the page, offering it to me. “You drop in at this address soon and we can talk more.”

“Thank you!” I beamed at her, clutching her hand as I took the note, squeezing it in appreciation. “Jemima Jones, it's a pleasure,” I lied, spewing out the first name to automatically roll off of my tongue.

“Mrs. Schwartz. Don't get your hopes up, you have to meet my husband, first,” she told me and I nodded.

“Of course. I will let you get on, then, and I'll see you soon,” I nodded and gave her a little bow before all but skipping off. She watched me leave, an odd look on her face, but I was gone in seconds. I stuffed the note down into my chemise, saving it for later.

John was sat on his horse, ready and waiting with the case on his lap. “Nice work,” he grinned at me.

“You too!”

He held his hand out and helped me up, then handed me the case. "Hold onto me, and don't be shy, I know you've only got one hand with that case. I don't wanna be losing either of you.”

I shuffled closer to him, wrapping my free arm firmly around his midriff; then he set off. He moved quickly, taking off straight into a gallop to get away from the area as quickly as possible, we probably only had about thirty seconds before the woman would notice her baggage was gone and luckily we were out of there before we heard anything to suggest she had.

I was grinning the whole way back, thoroughly exhilarated by the whole thing. I'd robbed a handful of people but none of them were as exciting as that; working with a partner, getting out clean, robbing from someone I could say probably deserved it. It had been fun.

We arrived back at the camp and Karen was keeping guard, looking between us and at the way I was pinned so close to John. She cocked a brow.

“We’ve been busy today!” I told her.

“You have, huh?” There was an edge to her tone and she made even more of a point of looking back and forth between us. I rolled my eyes and jumped down from the horse as soon as it came to a stop. I held the case up.

“We relieved some sour faced hag of this. I think Mary-Beth'll be pleased; she can have her clothes back,”

“Ooh, I wonder what else is in there,” she said.

“Y’all can do what you please with the rest of it, I'm just interested in some new clothes.”

John and I headed into camp, placing the case down on the table near Dutch's tent. He noticed us and immediately headed over, smoking a cigar. There was a padlock keeping the luggage secure and John pulled something out of his pocket, using it to try and jimmy it open.

“What's this?” Dutch asked when he reached us.

“The new girl's first job,” John explained. “We saw this nasty piece of work slapping her kid around in the middle of the station, thought we'd take the opportunity to get some new clothes for her.”

John got the lock open and revealed what was inside the case. Laying on top was one of those big fancy hats, he moved it out of the way and there was a high end dress to match underneath it. When he moved that, I was relieved to see some more every day clothes below. I reached in and pulled out a plain, peach coloured skirt; it felt pretty high quality and there was a fair amount of fabric in it, which would come in useful when riding horseback. I draped it over my arm and pulled out a cotton blouse with fine lace running down either side of the buttons down the centre. It was far prettier than anything I'd owned before but it wasn't too elaborate that I'd feel silly wearing it.

“We can sell some of this,” Dutch said, lifting up the hat. “Should be worth something.”

“There's jewellery too,” I told him, pulling out a little drawstring bag that felt heavy. I handed it to him and he grinned.

“Very nice. You did good. What was your method of acquiring this?” He asked.

“I distracted her, posing as a servant girl looking for work, and John picked it up and walked off with it, just like that,” I explained excitably.

“Well done, you two! My dear, you have what you'd like from in here and leave the rest by my tent. You might as well keep the case, too,” he patted the top of my arm and gave me an appreciative nod before turning on his heel.

“I’d call that a job well done,” John grinned at me, and I mirrored his expression. “Nice to see you're pleased, too, I think this is the first time I've seen you smile.”

“It's been fun! Exciting. Thank you, John.”

“And thank you,” he held his hand out to me and I shook it firmly.

Karen was behind us, watching the whole thing with an unreadable expression. I smiled at her and she smiled back, turning away, concentrating on her guard duties.

John handed me the things I'd bought from his satchel. “I'm gonna go put Arthur's letter in his tent, leave you to it. Good work today, I hope we can bring you in on more jobs, if you like.”

“Yeah, I'd like that.”

He nodded, tipping his hat before heading off.

I finished going through the case and decided to keep a few things; a couple of skirts and blouses, some bloomers and camisoles, a chemise, two jackets, one of which would be warm enough in cold weather. I had a decent wardrobe coming along and I neatly packed it all into the case with my new pants. I'd acquired a small leather satchel, too, that'd come in handy.

There was quite a haul of decent stuff I wasn't keeping, lots of elaborate clothing and jewellery, as well as some shoes that looked brand new but were far too impractical for me to consider keeping. I was lucky in the sense that my kidnappers had at least left my boots on my feet, anyway. I left all of the stuff near Dutch's tent like he'd asked me to, and then headed off to change into my new clothes.

#rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #fanfiction #john marston #dutch van der linde #karen jones #ATINK #rdr2 fanfic #arthur morgan fanfic #arthur morgan x female reader

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redactedfing-blog · 5 years

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Megamind Modern Cowboy AU (Part 1)

@all-these-trees-stealing-mah-o2 cheers for the motivation I did the thing:

NOTE: It was heavily inspired off of a post by the aforementioned person and in the film, it sounds like Megamind is called “Lee”, so I used it as his name. I also found out cowboys still exist in America so there’s that too.

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Usually, it was said that the city was more predictable than the country.

So when Warden John Taylor heard a loud crash coming from the prison courtyard one Christmas morning, he was perplexed. Three prisoners huddled around the foreign object, gawking at whatever was inside.

He expected it to be a bomb, or some failed attempt to smuggle contraband into the prison by some gang member who still had contacts on the outside. Most unexpectedly, though, it turned out to be a rather frightened, and equally confused baby. The shock made him see past the infant’s cerulean blue skin, wide emerald eyes and abnormally large head almost immediately. Why would a child end up here of all places? Not even his brother Shaun, a prison guard, could believe his eyes. Both of them thought they had seen everything down where they grew up in Louisiana, but they were wrong, it so seemed.

The blue infant had a fish, which looked unnervingly like a piranha. Any hand going towards the infant was met with a stern, toothy glare. There was also some sort of pacifier, which glowed with hues of electric blue. John thought it might have been toxic, the way it was glowing, but the infant seemed unharmed when they had it.

Speaking of unharmed, the kid hadn’t managed to come here without a few bruises, much to both John and Shaun’s anger. The infant couldn’t have been more than just a week old, but despite the fact the child appeared bright and well, both feared that they may have suffered some brain damage on their journey here. A long wait in the prison infirmary negated these worries, as well as giving new ones. The infant, (now confirmed to be male), had a strong immune system to the most bizarre of diseases Earth could offer. The more common ones, however, did serious harm. One dose of the common cold wiped him out, leaving John unsure if the kid would even make it to a year old. Luckily, it appeared he would.

Sure enough, John adopted the infant and was very quick to let Shaun know of his new position, which was now Uncle Shaun. The infant, now named Lee, began to grow up into a happy (though not very tall) young boy. For the first four years of his life, he went between staying in the prison and traveling down to the family ranch in Louisiana. John saw it fit that he could grow up alongside the rest of the family, and adopted or not, they were quick to like him. Grandma and Grandpa Taylor were happy to have another grandchild to spoil with treats, and Rodney, his cousin, became his best friend (second to Minion, of course).

There were times where Rodney and Lee could pick up an ice pop, run into the valley and now return for hours, insisting that they were playing cowboys and that they had to go and hunt the thieves. Brandishing their ice pop packets and folding the top, claiming they were ‘guns’. They would dash through the marshes, squealing and laughing as they hid behind trees, clamber up hills, and even go far enough to pet some of the cattle. They would return hours later covered in sweat, boots and their kerchiefs covered in dirt, grinning with traces of sugar around their mouths. They never went very far, only how far their short legs would take them, and Uncle Boe always kept an eye out while they were adventuring.

Lee always began crying when they had to go back to Michigan for the other part of the year.

When they lived at the prison, back in Metro City, John could see that his son was easily influenced by the other prisoners. Most of their “advice” wasn’t too bad, but John didn’t see the need to be telling a young child to hit anyone who got in their face, especially without reason. At least John could be assured that Lee wouldn’t be hurt, given that the prisoners closest to where the kid was were moderately harmless in nature. He didn’t bat an eye when Lee was enrolled in kindergarten the following month and didn’t really think about how the other children would react to his appearance. Not only was he blue, but he had a rather solid Cajun accent, which would be enough to make anyone raise their eyebrows. Now, John himself had that same accent, and he was quite proud of it, but young kids rarely understand how differences work, and this was one of those times they didn’t.

The school was a disaster. Every day John watched his son return to the prison with bruises or cuts, and every dad he came back quieter and quieter. It was odd, really, considering the fact that he had a reputation for being a rowdy child back home. Seeing him barricade himself in his room, without a word to anyone, was incredibly worrying. What was even more worrying, however, was when he returned without the invention he had made that morning, or when a note saying “space-freak cowboy” was taped to his back in what John couldn’t shake looked like the teachers handwriting. Whatever the prisoners had taught him to suddenly came to light, when he was sent home early for punching (or at least trying to) another kid. John was aghast at Lee’s hand because it seemed that his hand had suffered more damage than the other student. The bones were shattered, with multiple breaks and fractures from his wrist to his knuckles. It was almost as if he had punched a brick wall.

The school fiasco went on for four months, with complaints from a parent that Lee was trying to ‘attack’ their child. The complaints only came from one person, and whenever John, or whoever was investigating, asked for proof - the parent never delivered any. They always claimed that it was the ‘emotional’ damage done to her son, who John found out was named Wayne, and not the physical damage, despite teachers reports and the parent originally claiming that Lee had physically attacked him. Whenever John went to speak to his son about this Wayne kid, all he could see was that Lee began to physically tremble, followed by him seething with anger and crying about how horrible Wayne was, but that nobody wanted to see it.

It wasn’t until one day, where Lee set off a blue paint bomb in the school, that John found out everything that had happened. He had been expelled, and through a stream of tears, Lee recited everything that was said and done to him throughout the past number of weeks. This time, it was John, and by extension, Uncle Shaun, who were seething with anger, and remarks that the parents of these monsters of kids were entitled and ignorant. One call back home to the rest of the Taylors sealed it, and a month after his fifth birthday, Lee was told that he, along with Uncle Shaun and his dad, were moving to the Louisiana ranch permanently. John remarked that he had never seen Lee look so eager to go somewhere following going to school, and the sluggish, unwilling attitude that the school had given him had turned into one of excitement. Shaun was worried the kid would fall out of his car seat should he become even more eager.

Once everything was settled, all of Lee’s aunts and uncles were quick to tell him about how he didn’t need to be worried about the ‘dirty rats’ that were the children and teacher of the Lil’ Gifted school, and that the ranch was going to be far more fun. Like Rodney, Lee began to be homeschooled, though his family remarked that they needn’t be bothered given that Lee was exceptional at learning, and could already breeze through physics textbooks intended for college students. This didn’t stop him from teaching Rodney, however, and they would always rush around the ranch afterward. In between the horses, the metalshop, the kitchen, the garage, there weren’t many places where they wouldn’t go.

Rodney, to Lee’s description, looked vaguely similar to Wayne. Though he had more freckles, dotted across his face and arms, and his hair was more wavy and poofy, in comparison to Wayne having rather flat, combed, (“dumb”, as Lee put it) hair. Rodney was two years older than Lee, unlike Wayne only being one year older, and Lee was quick to mention that Rodney was obviously, much cooler and nicer than Wayne could ever be. Rodney took pride in this and said that if he ever saw Wayne, he would deliver him a smack in the face. Lee never mentioned that Wayne was invulnerable, partially because he really did want to see him get slapped across his smug, entitled face, and partially because he didn’t want to bring up what happened to his hand months prior.

As far as Lee was concerned, whatever happened, had happened. It didn’t matter because now he got to stay at the ranch forever and he didn’t have to see his stupid classmates or the loud city or that ugly superman-imitating Wayne again. Still, he missed some of the prison ‘uncles’, and he didn't want to remember how much weight the words that the teacher had said to him held. He wasn’t a monster, nor was he very evil, despite what she insisted. His dad had reassuringly told him that she would lose her ability to teach, and wouldn’t be able to teach anywhere ever again. It had still hurt him, though. Still wounded whatever pride he had. It was the one thing he never mentioned to his dad, even during his outburst. However, that didn’t matter right now. He could do something about that later.

For now, he was going to settle down in front of the (only) television and chow down on the apple pie his grandparents had lovingly made beside Rodney, and watch Tom and Jerry until he could put Minion in his tank, go to his new room and go to bed. As far as he should be concerned, everything was going to be great.

#megamind #megamind fanfic #megamind modern cowboy au #megamind au #cant believe i wrote something #i hope yall like it #cowboy

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latetothegreysparty · 6 years

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She Gets That From You: Chicken Scratch

Good evening, lovely people! I’ve finally found the time throughout the chaos that is my life to write another little fic. I have another work in progress, but I’m not sure how long it will be until that one gets uploaded. Anyway, back to the topic at hand, here is the next installment in the She Gets That From You series. I hope you all enjoy it!

She Gets That From You: Chicken Scratch

“What’s up, Els?” Amelia asked as she walked into the kitchen. Ella had been working on her homework studiously at the kitchen table for the last 20 minutes with Amelia periodically checking in to see if she needed any help. As she fully entered the kitchen and saw her daughter, she was surprised to find that her daughter had set her pencil down and was now staring dejectedly at the worksheet in front of her.

“Nothing,” the sullen 7 year-old replied, never lifting her eyes from the page in front of her.

Amelia sat down in the chair next to Ella and placed a hand on her small shoulder. “Hmmm, really? Nothing?” she asked. “Because it looks to me like you’re feeling down.”

The little girl glanced up to meet her mother’s eyes, giving Amelia an even better view of the sadness lingering in her eyes. She stared up at her mother for a moment before finally saying: “I hate handwriting class.”

“Hate is a pretty strong word, Ella Margaret,” Amelia chastised gently. “We’ve talked about that before.”

Ella huffed out a breath. “I know, Mama, but I do hate it. Handwriting is the worst!”

Amelia decided to let this one go. Though she generally tried to teach her daughter to avoid using the word “hate,” her main goal was to teach Ella not to use that word in reference to other people. If Ella was this adamant that she disliked a class in school, it probably wasn’t the end of the world that she’d chosen to use that word. “And why is it the worst?”

Ella gave another small huff as she crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m so bad at it, Mama!” she lamented, her voice bordering on a whine. “I try so hard, but I��m terrible at it.” As she spoke, she bent down to pull a folder from her backpack. She opened the folder, pulled out a stack of papers, and splayed them on the table. Amelia glanced down at the pile of papers, and she immediately could see what had been bothering her daughter.

Unsurprisingly, the daughter of Owen Hunt and Amelia Shepherd was an accomplished student. The combination of intellect, ambition, and work ethic that she’d inherited from both of her parents meant that she always did very well on her schoolwork. She was quite used to getting near-perfect scores on all of her assignments and exams, and Amelia and Owen had grown to expect nothing short of glowing reviews during parent-teacher conferences. The stack of handwriting assignments lying on the table, however, were a departure from Ella’s usual performance. Instead of the scores in the upper 90s that she usually received, her scores on these assignments ranged from the high 70s to the low 80s.

Amelia glanced back up from the papers on the table when she heard her daughter begin to speak again. “Every assignment I get a bad score. I spend more time on handwriting than any other class, but my grades are still bad.”

Amelia nearly told her daughter that the grades she was receiving weren’t bad grades, but she stopped herself before the words came out. Ella Hunt was a perfectionist like her mother, and there was no way Amelia would be able to convince her that average grades were fine. She expected to excel, and she was disappointed when she did not. Amelia was hard-pressed to try to convince her daughter to think differently when Amelia herself expected excellence in all her endeavors.

With that in mind, she tried a different approach. “Nobody is good at everything, Els,” she said. “We all have some things that are easy for us. You are an incredibly talented girl, and that means almost every subject in school is easy for you. But nobody finds everything easy. For some people, math is hard. For other people, reading is hard. For you, writing neatly is hard. That’s okay. I understand that it’s frustrating, though. I get really upset when things are hard for me, too.”

Ella didn’t look very convinced by her attempts at reassurance. “But your handwriting is so pretty,” Ella argued, looking pointedly at the neat penmanship on the grocery list that hung on the refrigerator.

Amelia lifted her small daughter out of her chair and onto her lap then turned her so that she sat sideways across Amelia’s lap. She used her right index finger to tip Ella’s chin up so she could look her in the eye. “Do you know whose handwriting isn’t pretty, though?” Amelia asked. Ella shook her head wordlessly. “Daddy’s,” Amelia supplied.

Ella’s eyes widened in surprise. Apparently she’d never paid any attention to the chicken scratch on the notes her father had written when she’d had to be absent from school when she was sick. “Daddy has bad handwriting?” she asked, her voice displaying her intrigue at this new information.

Amelia nodded seriously. “He sure does. Everybody in the hospital complains because they can’t read the things Daddy writes.”

“But he’s so good at everything!” Ella argued.

“Not everything,” Amelia corrected. “Like I told you, babe, nobody is good at everything. Everybody has things that are difficult for them. Some people, like Daddy, are good at more things than most people, but even people like Daddy have things that are hard for them. For him, one of those things is writing neatly. You seem to have inherited that from him.”

Ella’s face softened a bit. Hearing that her chicken scratch handwriting had come from her father seemed to pacify her a bit. She idolized her father. Being told that she took after him was one of the highest forms of praise anyone could give her. Finding out that he struggled with neat penmanship just like she did made her weakness far easier for her to except. “What does Daddy do to be better?” Ella asked.

“I’m not really sure,” Amelia admitted. “But I have an idea. Could you please go get Daddy for me and bring him to the kitchen?”

Ella wordlessly nodded before climbing down from Amelia’s lap and scampering out of the room. Within moments, she was returning to the kitchen with her small hand encased in Owen’s larger one. “What can I do for my two favorite ladies?” Owen asked with a smile. As he spoke, he pulled out the kitchen chair next to the one Amelia sat in and lifted Ella into the chair.

Amelia smirked as she met her husband’s eyes. “Miss Ella is having a tough time with her handwriting homework tonight. She’s a little frustrated that good penmanship doesn’t come naturally to her. I thought that since she’s not the only Hunt who struggles with neat handwriting, maybe we could all work together on this assignment.”

Since Owen was standing behind Ella’s chair, safely out of view of the 7 year-old, he felt comfortable rolling his eyes at his wife’s unabashed complaint about his poor penmanship. Nevertheless, he was more than willing to do whatever needed to be done to help his little girl. “Sure, Mama, what do I need to do?” he asked before sitting down on the other side of Ella.

Amelia slid a sheet of lined paper and a pencil toward Owen. “Why don’t you do the assignment alongside Ella?” she suggested. “What’s the first thing you need to do, love bug?”

“This week we’re practicing writing our g’s,” Ella explained. “We start by printing ten of them.” Owen nodded seriously and followed along, beginning to print a few g’s on the lines on his paper.

Amelia looked at his paper first. “Daddy, your circles are awfully flat,” she corrected. “Make them rounder, please.”

Owen nearly snapped back with a snarky comment. By this point in his life, he’d grown frustrated with the frequent remarks he heard about his handwriting, and he had a pretty short fuse when people criticized his penmanship. Before he said anything, though, he stopped and reminded himself that he was here for Ella. She was struggling with her homework, and she needed to see him struggling too to realize that it was okay to have a hard time. “Okay, Mama, I’ll work on that,” he said calmly, utilizing all of the willpower he had within him to keep his voice neutral.

For the next 30 minutes, Amelia looked over Owen’s and Ella’s writing and helped them correct their errors. Ella was amazed to see that her father got just as many corrections as she did, if not more. After Ella finished writing the line she was working on, she looked up to her mother. “That’s the last one,” she said.

“Look at that! You did it!” Amelia celebrated.

Finally, after an hour of grimaces and pensive looks, Ella cracked a small smile. “I finished,” she confirmed quietly.

“You didn’t just finish,” Amelia said, “you wrote very nicely. I’m so proud of you!”

“But it took me forever, Mama,” Ella argued, the hint of a whine once again returning to her voice.

Amelia opened her mouth to reply, but Owen spoke before she had the chance. “That’s okay, kiddo,” he assured. “It took me just as long as it took you. When something is hard for you, it’s going to take you a little longer. That’s just how it works. You shouldn’t be ashamed because something is hard for you or because it takes you a long time. We all have a hard time with something. The thing that matters is that you work hard in everything you do. I’m proud of you for working hard on your handwriting, even though it’s difficult and frustrating for you.”

Amelia beamed at the pair in front of her. “You get your work ethic from your father,” she said before pressing a soft kiss to her daughter’s forehead and then repeating the action on her husband. As she stared down at the lines that Owen had painstakingly written out and the matching sheet of lines that their daughter had produced, she could feel her heart swell. Ella really was just like her father. For that, Amelia was extremely thankful.

#omelia #omeliafic #omeliafanfic #amelia shepherd #owen hunt #omelia family #grey's anatomy #greys anatomy

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betsynagler · 5 years

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Critical Thinking is Hard

I’m lucky: I grew up in a family where thinking was encouraged. My parents treated me and my brother like we were brilliant, which makes you want to be brilliant, and come up with your own ideas. They liked to talk about stuff, and, while they definitely treated us like kids, they also didn’t really shelter us too much. My mother was always ruining TV shows for me by pointing out the sexist moments in television, from reruns of The Brady Bunch and Star Trek, to Charlie’s Angels, Three’s Company and, well, it was the 70s and 80s, so pretty much all TV shows. But they still let us watch them, as well as R-rated movies which may not have been age-appropriate, and while they told us not to smoke pot, when we found out that they smoked pot, they gave us reasons for why it was okay for them and not us (since they “weren’t going to have any more children,” which seemed to make sense at the time). Another thing they did was encourage us to take responsibility for our own decisions from a fairly young age, which meant that you could stay up until 10 or 11 pm on a school night if you really wanted to, but it’d be your fault when you felt like shit all the next day. One can debate the pros and cons of this method of child-rearing (pro: de-mystifying drug use and other taboo behaviors to the degree that they actually start to seem uncool; encouraging kids to develop strong ethical compass and think through their actions; con: kids are even more weird compared to their peers, and precociously develop anxiety and guilt about their own actions). Nevertheless, it did start me on the road to learning the value of thinking for myself.

I didn’t really come into my own as a critical thinker until junior high, however, when I spent two years in a program for gifted students. First, isolation from my peers at a time when I was supposed to be learning the social skills of adulthood and the bullying that naturally flowed from that taught me to look for other people’s faults as a means of self-defense. That made me critical, if not necessarily thoughtful. But then I also had two years of Mr. Snyder teaching me social studies. Many of us in the gifted program had all of the same teachers for all of our academic subjects two years running. This meant that we got to know those teachers really well, and, in the case of Mr. Snyder, came to greatly admire and be shaped by his worldview. Mr. Snyder wasn’t an obvious candidate for intellectual guru to early adolescents. He wasn’t particularly handsome, and he’d had polio as a child and walked with a prominent limp. But he was funny and charismatic, gave terrific lectures that were like brilliant comedy monologues or TED talks, and knew how to make his students feel smart and special — in part because we had made it into his class, but still. We liked him so much that several of us would get to class early every day so that we could draw cartoons of him on the blackboard with clever word bubble-jokes, and he loved that. Too see him come into the room and look at our clever depictions of him and smile and make jokes right back at us, to feel appreciated for our intelligence and creativity, a sensation could be hard to come by as a suburban New Jersey youngster, was wonderful. The class was a mutual admiration society and a bit of a cult of personality that I think hugely affected all of us who took it.

I learned a lot there, as we studied political systems, geography and the history of the ancient world, among other things. We were assigned projects that were unlike anything you’d typically get in junior high or even high school, a combination of fun, self-driven exploration, and out-of-control amounts of work. We had to make a map of the world that included every single country, city, major mountain range and body of water, using color-coded overlays — something that I would have enjoyed, and sort of did, except that, since I was in 7th grade, I was terrible at judging how long it would take and left it until the last minute, and had to repeatedly re-letter the smudged plastic to make it readable in my 12-year-old handwriting. The following year, when we did separate units on Greece and Rome, we had to either fill in an entire outline that he provided with a paragraph or more on every subject, or do a handful of more creative projects designed to help us probe the topics in more interesting detail. After choosing to do the outline for Greece, thinking it would be easier, and ending up with several pounds of handwritten paper (I could not type) on everything from Sparta to Socrates to Doric columns that was probably 75+ pages long, Mr. Snyder had stared at the pile and admitted to me that he hadn’t really expected anyone to choose that option, that he’d made the outline so absurdly long to encourage people to do the creative projects. I probably got an A more because he didn’t want to read the whole damn thing than anything else, and on Rome, I did the projects, like going to a Roman-Catholic service and writing about it — which I did by interviewing my Catholic friend, Tara, instead of actually going to the service myself — or going to the Met to observe and then expound upon the differences one observed between the Greek and Roman statues — which I did after 15 minutes of taking furious notes on a Sunday when we arrived just as they were getting ready to close. Just because I loved Mr. Snyder didn’t mean that I, like any other kid, wasn’t always trying to get out of doing homework in any way I could.

The thing I learned and remember best, however, was not the facts, but the method. We had a class about political and economic systems — communism, socialism, capitalism, authoritarianism — and the first thing Mr. Snyder did was define these terms for us, explaining that they weren’t what we’d been told they were. Specifically, “communism,” the way it was looked at in the budding Reagan Era of the early 1980s, wasn’t actually communism at all. Real communism was an economic system that someone named Karl Marx had come up with, in which everyone owned everything, nobody was rich or poor or more powerful than anyone else, and that was, in fact, kind of the opposite of what the Soviet Union had become. This somewhat blew my mind. Here was the boogeyman that everyone talked about as the great evil threatening us with destruction — and remember, in the world of an American kid who had trouble sleeping at night because she obsessed with how we were one button push away from nuclear war, that meant genuine annihilation — and it wasn’t even what it really was. How was this possible? How was everything that we saw on TV and in the newspapers and at the movies just plain wrong? It turned out that, once you delved into it, the evolution of the term “communism” in the popular vernacular was an education in how concepts entered the public consciousness and then were propagated endlessly in the echo chamber of the media and society until they became something else entirely, usually in the service of some political or social end. Sound familiar? It wasn’t the same then as it is now that we have the Wild West known as the Internet, in some ways it was easier to get an entire culture to basically think one incorrect thing rather than many insane things, but the ability to miseducate a huge swath a people without their questioning it? Yes, that existed, and understanding that was a very big deal to me. It meant that you always had to look deeper than the surface of things to be sure you understood the reality, even when it came to what those things were called.

Why doesn’t everyone get taught to think this way? Well, like most things in life, it gets increasingly harder to learn as you get older. The more set in our ways we get, the tougher it becomes to look at ourselves critically (which is essential to critical thinking, because to truly get that you must dissect and assess the viability of ideas, you have to start with your own assumptions), much less change the way our brains function in terms of adopting new ways of doing anything that’s really embedded in there, much less ways of doing everything, which is kind what it means to change the way you think. Plus, it’s in the best interest of those in power to keep the bulk of the human race from doing it. It’s tough to build an army of people who don’t automatically follow orders, or have a religion made up of people who are always questioning the word of God, or build a movement if the followers are continually asking the leaders, “Is that really true?” And so we’ve arrived at this situation where we have so much information out there now to make sense out of, and the bulk of us without the tools to figure out how to do that — and many who reject those tools because they’re told education is just liberal elite brainwashing. Instead, you see a lot of people turn to a kind of twisted, easy version of “critical” “thinking” espoused on the fringes of the left and right, which disposes with the thinking part and instead just espouses wholesale rejection of anything dubbed “establishment” or “mainstream,” no matter how awful the alternative may be (and at this point we know: it’s pretty awful). Add to that the folks who skillfully exploit the overwhelm of information and lack of analytical skills to support their own greed, lust for power and desire to win at all cost, and you end up with an awesome new and different kind of embedded orthodoxy, that encourages us to silo ourselves within “our” (really their) belief systems, walled in with “alternative facts” and media that support them, and defending it all tooth and nail with false equivalencies that encourage us not to critique thoughtfully based on evidence, but to to pick apart every idea that doesn’t fit or even makes us uncomfortable (“Well, every politician lies” was one of the most egregious ones I heard used recently to defend the president).

And, when it comes right down to it, can you blame people? Thinking is exhausting, especially in this environment, and even human beings with the best intentions manage to ruin everything good anyway. Like, even though my parents didn’t make us believe their ideas, of course they still managed to inculcate in us their most mundane opinions. My father was particularly good at doing this, particularly when it came to eating (yup, Jews), like how fast food and chain restaurants should be avoided not based on nutrition but on lack of flavor (which I guess is why we still ate at White Castle), or how chocolate was really the only kind of acceptable dessert. It’s amazing that, no matter how far I’ve come as an adult, I still find it really hard to shake these ideas — like I saw a conversation on Facebook about how pie was superior to cake, and I just thought, Huh? But there aren’t any good chocolate pies. Another case in point: by the time I was a senior, Mr. Snyder had moved up to the high school, and was teaching an AP history class that I had the option to take. I decided to take economics instead, because I had never studied it, because one of my best friends was taking it, and, on some level I’m sure, to show that I didn’t need the wisdom of this idol of my 7th and 8th grade self, now that I was all of 16. I heard from people who took Snyder’s class that in his first opening monologue of the year he mocked those of his former students who had decided not to take his class — which I think might have just been me. That wasn’t really an appropriate thing for a teacher to do, especially since I was kind of doing what he’d taught us: to move on, do my own thinking and evaluate him critically. But as a human being, it’s hard to be a charismatic leader and just let that go — which is why the world has so many despots, and celebrities, and despotic celebrities. On other hand, my economics class was a terrible waste of time because it turned out that I didn’t like economics and the teacher was boring, so perhaps my premature rejection of Mr. Snyder and my 8th grade way of thinking, just to prove that I could do it, hadn’t been the best decision either. It’s hard not to wonder if I’d be just a slightly better, smarter person today if I’d accepted one more opportunity to take his class.

I’ll never know, but I guess the fact that I’m telling you this story means I haven’t given up on critical thinking. Maybe it’s because self-flagellating comes naturally to me, but these days, more than ever, I try to employ those skills as much as I can, even as it grows increasingly fucking hard. On top of all that media landscape stuff I mentioned a few paragraphs back, I also have this stupid menopause business I mentioned in my last blog post, which just amplifies all of the emotion that drives me as a human to err on the side of insanity, as if there weren’t already enough bad news, and bad “news,” out there driving a person in that direction. There are so many bad actors with so many tools that can be used to manipulate our fear and greed and lust into steamrolling our thinking these days, and all we have to fight back are these little broken piles of poop in our heads. And yet, we all do have them, aka brains, and so we have the ability to use them. And as one of those cynical-on-top-but-at-bottom-idealistic folks who believes we all also have the capacity to change, no matter how hard it might seem, until the day we die, I think we all have the ability to learn how to use them better. And yes, that means you, and your friends, and your kids, and even your cousins in Florida maybe, if we all just try a little harder.

I’m not sure what Mr. Snyder would say about me now, as I try to get people to think about stuff with this blog that almost nobody reads, but considering how many years he spent trying to teach adolescents about Platonic ideals, I’d imagine he’d approve. So in honor of him, and any teacher you’ve had who inspired you to think more, and more better, let’s advocate in 2019 not just for “our values,” but for the value of intelligent thought, even if we have to do it one mind at a time.

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freakingcardgames · 6 years

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Random Barian Headcanons

Long ass post because I didn't want to lose these

Seriously, it's random but I didn't want to lose them. Feel free to add to them if you want.

Since Nasch and Merag are technically still known as Reginald and Rio Kastle they inherited the Kastle parents' estate which included the mansion and a massive monitary portion. They both decided to be smart and invest a chunk of the money and the rest is in multiple savings accounts so they can dip into it when needed.

All of the boys got full time jobs to help with taxes, bills and to support Merag's pursuit of higher education.

The boys would die for her. She's like their mom and little sister all in one.

The boys let her take her pick of rooms first because no one wants to fight with sister/mom.

The first couple months of them living together were complete chaos. It took a while for them to understand that they were all on the same page and just trying to get by.

It took them even longer to come to realize Vector wasn't a mass murderer anymore and to kinda accept him for the mess he is.

They help each other out when needed.

Alit, Nasch, Merag, and Gilag are the only ones that can drive. Nasch only has his motorcycle, Gilag has a VW bug, Alit has a "clunky shit wagon", and Merag has (the Yu-Gi-Oh universe version of) a two door Honda Accord.

Alit's car gets passed around between himself and Nasch when he has to run errands. Nasch hates his car because it's falling apart but it still runs.

Vector is learning to drive and Gilag is teaching him. He's not bad at it and will get better with time.

Out of the four, Nasch is the best driver. He's the road trip driver whenever the seven decide to go anywhere together.

Vector and Durbe can cook basically five star meals. The first time vector actually took the time to cook, people were super shocked that it turned out amazing.

Nasch

One of those people that writes in half cursive and half print and it frustrates him.

Had a major identity crisis after the numbers war but then realized because his and Merag's souls were thrown into Reginald and Rio's bodies they lived on in a weird way. Merag coined the term "full body donation" and Nasch stuck with it. It helped him cope.

He also had trouble coming to terms with the realization that he's gay. He told Durbe first who's response was something along the lines of "Dude, I knew this entire time."

He gets super confident as he gets older and it looks good on him.

Merag

She decided to pursue higher education with the desire of becoming a nurse pratcicioner specializing in the burn unit.

She's the one that everyone goes to when there's a problem.

She can do math like nobody's business.

Can't cook to save her life

Vector

The most mentally damaged after the numbers war. Merag forced him to go to therapy to see if they could do anything. He obviously doesn't tell the entire truth to the therapist with the fear of being called insane and dropped off at a mental ward.

He got put on anti-depressants and has been doing better day by day.

The other Barians were cautious around him because mass murder and stuff but once they saw how he was struggling they all decided to keep an eye on him.

He hangs out with Yuma occasionally and they do dumb stuff. Vector enjoys the company of someone he doesn't live with

Gay AF and total bottom boy

He's not afraid to be flamboyant and it's hilarious

Gilag

He's secretly got a big heart and is very patient.

Watches trashy TV like "the real housewives" and whatever movie Allit forces him to watch.

Works the night shift of security at random museums around Heartland. He loves it because it's quiet most nights.

He has printing handwriting. The first time he left a note on the fridge Mizael thought he typed it. This caused an uproar and when he came home they made him write in front of them so he could prove that his writing is actually that pretty

He works out with Alit every Tuesday, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday.

Everyone knows not to bother him when they know he's working out

The cleanest of the Barians. Everything in his room has its place and he always makes sure it gets put back.

He's straight but supports those who aren't with all his heart.

Cinamon roll too pure for this world

Alit

Not afraid to kick a bitch if they threaten him

Secretly very funny and comes out with jokes no one could have even thought of

He cares deeply for the six other Barians but won't show it.

Bisexual and proud of it.

Mizael

He has a nack for interior decorating. He decided the suits of armor that lined the upstairs hallway had to go so he put aside a spare room to display them. (Durbe took one and has it in his room. He swears it fits the aestetic.)

He has dragon figurines decorating his room.

He also loves plants. He's got a lot of those too.

He cares deeply for any and all sort of animals. He rescued a box turtle he found that had a broken shell and was missing a leg.

He kept it and he adores it. It's name is "Ares" because it was a fighter from the get go.

He enjoys studying different ancient religions and societies. His favorite is roman.

He needs reading glasses and picks the larger frames because its more convenient to him.

Durbe

He writes poems and short stories in his free time but would never let anyone else know

Nasch insists that his entire personality can be defined in the phrase "washed up meme". Durbe will never admit that it's true

He can't swim but loves water

He developed a fear of heights and won't go in elevators if possible.

He loves going to the self published books on Amazon and reading the really shitty ones. He's got a collection now and it's a problem.

#headcanons #barian headcanons #zexal #yugioh zexal #barians #help i have too many of these

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metricanxiety · 7 years

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I’ve Been Wishing For You

aww hell yeah. i added in a teensy bit of spaceboy!dan becuase i live for that shit ;))))

also phil has a tattoo but hes not a punk lets be cleAR

Phil had always loved the rain.

He didn’t like being caught in it, but he loved the comfortable atmosphere of being curled up in blankets as the rain poured outside. Especially when he was at work.

Owning a flower/plant/coffee shop wasn’t the easiest, but why would Phil ever do anything that was easy? He loved what he did. He loved the people that came in, his regulars.

Phil’s shop was really unique, especially being on the corner of a busy street in the heart of London. It was white on the outside, with vines growing on the walls, with the logo, that Phil designed himself, painted onto the window. He had flowers growing in pots on all eight tables, with even more bins filled with various plants, succulents, and mosses. This was his passion.

The shop smelled strongly of the outdoors, which you don’t smell very often in London, and soft whiff of coffee. Not only did he make flower and plant arrangements, but he also served some of the best coffee served in London, which had turned the place into a cafe as well.

Phil was so successful with his business, he had employees working full time, and the regulars had started giving him reviews on Yelp, which were fantastic. His business was booming, not one moment of the day was quiet around him.

But Phil wasn’t happy.

Of course, he was happy that his dream had finally come true, but he wasn’t satisfied with what his life had become. His job was his life, and that’s not the ‘dream’ Phil had in mind. When he was just getting started, he dreamed of having a family work alongside him, making the place more personal, more appealing to families. But he was 29 now, and hadn’t dated anyone in three years.

He wanted the life of one of his regulars, Dan.

Dan was an astronomy major in Uni, and had a teaching degree. He taught year fives about the stars, and planets, and at twenty five years old. He came in after school had let out every day, and ordered the same caramel latte, and sat to grade papers. Or well, put ‘good job!’ and ‘amazing work!’ stickers on the margins. The handwriting was almost too messy to read, but it was an A for effort.

Dan seemed so happy with what his life had become, and Phil was jealous. Since Dan had been coming in regularly, they had gotten to know each other quite well. Dan was the only real friend Phil had in his life anymore, and he wasn’t going to let go of him anytime soon.

Now, although Phil hated to admit it, he was actually head over heels for Dan. He couldn’t quite explain what it was, maybe the curls the swept to the left on his head, or how long and awkward he was, or the way his brown eyes would light up whenever he talked about what he was passionate about. Phil found Dan to be quite the most gorgeous human he had ever come in contact with.

Phil always looked forward to three thirty, because that was the time Dan would always show up. He made sure to have a caramel latte hot n ready for Dan’s arrival, and two freshly cut peonies to have on Dan’s table. They were Dan’s favorite flower, due to the fact that Phil had them on the table the first time Dan went to the shop. And ever since Phil had basically fallen for Dan, he never failed to give him peonies. But could you blame Phil? The flowers stood for romance, he couldn’t help himself than to woo Dan over with them. He hasn’t picked up on the symbolism, yet.

So Phil was mindlessly tapping his fingers on the counter, listening to the soft patter of rain hitting the windows, and pavement outside. The clock read three twenty three, and Phil was waiting in anticipation for the brunet to burst through the doors with damp hair, his face flushed, and a smile. His day was quite boring, after the morning rush nobody really came in, other than teenagers who skipped school, or unemployed adults that are either homeless, or stay at home parents. Around lunch time, the second rush of the day, he dealt with the busy, rushed business people, until it calmed own again. So here he is.

A woman was sitting with a stroller next to her, with, who he assumed, to be a friend she was catching up with. They were talking about how one of them was getting ready to adopt a third child, and the other was thinking of getting pregnant again. They couldn’t have been five years older than Phil, and had families, lives, and here Phil was. Plants were his family.

Not that he didn’t love plants. Fuck, he had vines tattooed up his left arm, as a sleeve. It was the only tattoo he had, the only one he wanted. People thought it was weird that this nerdy guy who owned a hybrid of a coffee shop and florist had a tattoo. But Phil loved destroying stereotypes.

“Yeah, Cam is starting year six this year, and I don’t know if I’m ready for my baby to be growing up so fast. Its just so weird you know?” Phil listened in, sighing.

The bell dinged, making Phil’s ears perk up, looking over at the door and seeing the man he had been waiting for. He was closing his umbrella, leaning it against the wall. Dan turned around when he shrugged off his rain coat, smiling when he saw Phil.

“It costs extra for you to occupy that space for your umbrella, you know.” Phil said, beginning to make Dan’s drink. Dan chuckled, fixing his fringe.

“Well, I’ll have to file a complaint for umbrella discrimination. My umbrella will leave a zero out of five star rating on yelp for this disgraceful business.” Dan smiled, leaning against the counter, resting on his crossed arms.

“I’m sorry to break it to you, but your umbrella doesn’t have opposable thumbs. I don’t think it would be able to figure out how to type.” Phil joked, handing Dan the mug of coffee. Dan gave Phil his card, but Phil declined.

“What?” Dan asked, not grabbing the mug until Phil took his card to pay.

“It’s on me today.” Phil smiled, he motioned for somebody to cover the till, as he walked around to the front of the counter. Dan smiled, thanking Phil as he took the mug.

“Would you care to join me as a strategically place stickers on these papers?” Dan asked, swinging his backpack next to the small table that he always sat at. The peonies rested on the table, and Dan picked them both up and set them in the vase that was at the edge. Like he always did.

“I would love to.” Phil slid into the seat across from Dan, taking off his apron and draping it on the back of his chair.

“I had the most crazy day today. My kids were all buzzing with excitement because the thunder was so loud.” Dan started, he pulled out his binder full of papers he needed to ‘grade’. He was surprised to see the thick stack of papers, and the small stack of stickers he had. Phil laughed. “But I guess they were like that in all their classes, the other year four teachers had the same problem.”

“So it was a stressful day, then?”

“No, I bullshitted the entire lesson. It’s not like they were paying attention. These papers are from the warm up I require every day. Year six teachers are getting more strict about that, so I’m trying to prepare them for it next year.” Dan took a sip of his coffee, peeling stickers off the sheet, having one on his five fingers. He placed one down, then moved on to the next assignment, repeat.

“How do they know if they did well?” Phil chuckled, grabbing half the stack of papers, and a sticker sheet. He might as well help, it would be kind of rude to just watch Dan work while Phil was literally slacking off at his own job. Good job he was his own boss, he guessed.

“We grade them in class. But one time I tried telling them to just keep the warm ups in their completed folder, and they got really offended that I wasn’t going to put stickers on them.”

“Is astronomy the only thing you teach?”

“No. I have to teach all sorts of science, but I like to focus on astronomy, because well, fuck it. I love it. I’m not so good at everything else, though.”

“Maybe I can help out with botany. Because, everyone knows I don’t know shit about plants.” Phil’s tone was sarcastic, because well, fucking look at him. Of course he knew everything about plants.

“Oh yeah, because children really care about having the knowledge that cabbage is 91 percent water contents.”

Phil leaned over the table, smacking Dan, making them both laugh. He looked up to Cleo, who was working the till, seeing her devilish smile at him. Cleo knew about Phil’s little, well, obsession, and has been trying to hook them up forever now. Phil didn’t know exactly what she did to Dan, but she put Phil through hell. She wouldn’t let him forget about Dan any second of the day.

Mistakenly, Dan had told her he was gay before he and Phil were close, and Phil just had a ridiculous teenage crush on him, and that spiraled and entire conversation about why you should totally just go for it Phil he told me to my face he likes dick so go while the window is open.

And now look, Phil had finally gotten the courage to go sit with Dan, without even thinking about it. Something was different today, but Phil couldn’t quite pin it.

“Do you do this at home as well?” Phil asked, trying to spark up a conversation. Dan laughed.

“Oh god no. When I get home it’s literally just lesson planning. This is the most relaxing part of my day, if I’m honest.”

“Wow, guess I’ll have to make your trip here more stressful. You’re not allowed to have fun.” Phil said, and Dan let out a noise like a giggle, making Phil’s heart soar.

“You’d have to completely change yourself then, because that’s what makes the trip here worth it every day. Even in the pouring rain.” Dan tilted his head toward the window, referring to the current weather. But he said t in such a smug way, smirking at Phil during and after, and Phil was in shock.

Was he flirting with me?

“That’s easy.” Phil picked up the salt shaker on the table, shook a fair amount into his hand, and successfully dumped it into Dan’s coffee.

Dan looked up wide eyed, his jaw dropping. “Did you really?”

“I did.” Phil crossed his arms on the table. Dan got up off the chair, and strode over to his umbrella, it already making a tiny puddle of water from the rain running off the fabric. He sprinted back over to the table, and shook the rest of the droplets over Phil’s head.

Phil gasped, swatting the umbrella away from above his head. The two women had turned and were watching, giggling as Dan shoved the papers into his bag, laughing as he swung it over his shoulders, and started for the door, running. Phil gave an unsure look to Cleo, before she shouted ‘Go!’, and Phil took off after Dan.

He heard the bell chime when he ran out of the building, and Dan was already halfway across the street, looking back at Phil, the umbrella long forgotten. “Oops?” Dan said, raising his arms as if he didn’t know what he did, breaking into a laugh when Phil finally caught up. They hadn’t been outside for thirty seconds, and they were already drenched, their hair dripping wet. Phil shook his head, bringing his hands up to his hair, and ruffling it, while shaking it in Dan’s face, adding more water than what was coming down. “What you get for putting salt in my coffee!’

“Hey, you deserved that!” Dan started walking backwards, making Phil follow him. He was almost running sideways by the time Phil caught up. “You told me to completely change, because I’m so awful.”

“Don’t put words into my mouth.” Dan remarked. “I told you to change yourself because YOU wanted my experience to be less enjoyable.”

Dan sped ahead, turning the corner, and going down an ally. The rain wasn’t as intense, the buildings shielding them, Phil had grabbed Dan’s wrist, both laughing. He held both arms in one hand, making Dan squirm as he laughed hysterically, and brought a hand to his neck, maing it seem as if Phil were going to grab his face and kiss him, but at last minute he flicked Dan right under his ear. “Oops?” He mocked Dan’s statement from earlier.

Dan wiggled his arms free, and started poking Phil on his sides, tickling him. “Oops,” Dan yelled, trying to escape Phil’s arms when he reached out to defend himself. He crossed his own over his chest as Phil had his arms wrapped around his torso, dropping Dan’s bag, pulling his back into his chest. Phil had lifted Dan’s feel off the ground slightly, both still laughing at each other, over nothing. “Phil!”

Phil interlocked their fingers, on both hands, keeping them wrapped around Dan, on a whim. “Whoops, looks like our hands are stuck together. That’s weird?” Phil joked, pinning Dan around. He knew it was cheesy, but they were already acting cheesy, so it only added to the moment.

“What a shame.” Dan said, smiling with dimples adorning his cheeks. It had been a while since Dan had found somebody he really liked. The last time being in Uni, but that was years ago. He really grew an affection towards Phil, which is why he kept going back to his shop every day, and would occasionally order flowers, or plants to his house, just because he knew Phil picked them out, and arranged them.

But being a teacher took up most of his life, so he never really had time to date, or do anything to hang out with a person, and Phil was just somebody that he got to know without even knowing he was doing it, and figured out he kept going because he really fucking liked Phil, but didn’t know how to act on it.

Dan moved his hands around Phil’s neck, tugging lightly on the hair that was at the bottom of Phil’s neck. “Your hair called me, and asked why you didn’t leave it in 2007, and I couldn’t help but wonder the same exact question.” Dan teased, his tongue poking out of his mouth as he giggled with Phil’s sarcastic eye roll. “Oh, sorry, does that offend you?”

“You literally have the exact same haircut, you’re just curlier than me.” Phil laughed. Dan had pulled Phil’s head down more, pressing their foreheads together. They both had no idea how they had gotten to this point so quickly, but were happy that it was finally happening, at least, they hoped.

“You know,” Dan started, “the kids finally pointed out that I always have peonies in my vase last week.”

“Tell them where you got them, it will get me more business.” Phil said, sounding serious. Dan tried to hold back laughter, kicking his shin.

“And then one of them, all bold like, said, and I quote, ‘my mummy told me peonies are romantic, does somebody fancy you, Mr.Howell?’ And I couldn’t help but fucking blush because of fucking course Peonies symbolize romance after I had fallen for the guy that kept supplying me with them voluntarily.”

Then it was Phil’s turn to blush, because holy fuck, Dan figured out his secret plan, and it fucking worked. It worked. He could barely believe what he had just heard. It was like every single dream he ever had was finally coming true, and the rain soaking them didn’t even matter anymore, because he was so shocked that this was happening, this boring day had turned so amazing, Phil thought he was dreaming.

“Ah, you have uncovered my secret plans!” Phil tried to cover up the fact that he was internally freaking out, and seemed to do it pretty well in that case.

“Secret?” Dan asked, giggling. “Are they secret if I find out before you even tell me?”

“It worked didn’t it?”

They both laughed, their noses bumping together, making them just that more eager. And suddenly, Dan pushed his head up, and their lips collided, locking together to naturally, and perfectly.

Neither of them could believe what was happening, yet at the same time they could. Phil ran his hands up and down Dan’s sides, exhaling when they pulled back.

It wasn’t for long, though, as Phil went straight back down, kissing the breath out of Dan. He bit down on Dan’s bottom lip, and Dan opened his mouth enough for Phil to slip his tongue in, which Dan had dreamed about Phil doing forever now.

Phil brought his hands to Dan’s cheeks, running the pads of his thumbs on his cheekbones. Dan gasped, Phil’s other fingers lightly brushing against his neck, making Phil smirk.

“You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this.” Dan said, Phil just pressed their lips back together, showing Dan how much he agreed.

Phil’s keys jingled in his hands as he tried to unlock the door to his flat, Dan kissing his jaw as he hung off Phil’s arm. Both of their minds were racing with adrenaline.

Turns out that standing in the middle of the rain making out isn’t going to take them any further, so Phil suggested that they go to his flat down the street to ‘dry off’ and ‘change’. Dan knew what he actually meant, and didn’t hesitate to agree to it. But could you blame Dan? He’s been waiting for this for a year and a half, he was not going to pass up the opportunity. obviously.

Phil pushed the door open, revealing his apartment to Dan, for the first time. He didn’t think that this would be how he showed Dan his life at home for the first time, but hey, no going back now.

He didn’t think pushing Dan against the wall would be the right approach to start this, as he didn’t know what Dan’s boundaries were, so he settled for just hugging Dan from behind as he looked around the flat, taking in what he could.

Phil had a plant of some sort of variation on any surface of his house, vases of flowers, regular potted house plants, succulents, etc.. But to top that even more, he had posters of old video games, movies, and cartoons. But they were professionally framed, making Dan giggle at how nerdy Phil exactly was.

“Suits you.” Dan smiled, leaning into Phil.

“I know, it’s a lot.” Phil laughed, kissing Dan’s cheek.

“No, no. Really, it suits you. I like it.” Dan turned around, placing his hands on Phil’s chest. He blinked up at hi, leaning up and pressing a light kiss to Phil’s lips. Phil had dropped Dan’s bag onto the floor next to the door, before wrapping his arms around Dan’s waist.

“Wouldn’t expect you to go for the nerd who owns a florist cafe.” Phil joked, kissing Dan’s giggle away. Phil slid his tongue into Dan’s mouth, making the kiss more needy, and rough. Dan squeaked, tugging Phil closer by his shirt, tilting his head.

Phil’s hands cupped Dan’s face, running the pads of his thumbs across his cheekbones. His skin was smooth, and up close, Phil could see the small freckles that littered Dan’s face, which made him even more adorable than he could imagine. He was completely head over heels for Dan, and the fact that he had finally reached this stage with him was exhilarating. “Wouldn’t have expected you to go for the primary school teacher.” Dan said between kissing.

Dan’s fingers found their way to the top button of Phil’s shirt, slowly looping it through the hole, successfully undoing it.

This was what Phil had wanted, he wanted somebody that he was completely head over heels for, somebody that felt the same for him that he felt, and this was when he finally realized that he got what he was looking for.

Maybe opening that coffee shop wasn’t his only dream, because after today, it won’t be his top priority anymore.

“You don’t even know what I’m feeling for you right now.” Phil pulled away. Dan blushed.

“Trust me, I do.”

Oh my god im sorry this is literal shit but i tried my hardest

Send me requests!!! but please specify if you want smut or not bc i dont know what you want if you dont!!!! ty

#metricanxietyfics #phan smut #phan smut oneshot #dan and phil fanfiction #ask #request #dan and phil oneshot #dan and phil au

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