#that said. I'm so scared to see my supervisor's reply. I'm so scared of it.

[asinglesock]

I quit my job! and I ruminated over it for several days first but it still felt really impulsive!

#a sock speaks #grad school tag #this is part of me paring down my responsibilities to the bare minimum so I can hope to stay afloat #I wasn't making much money anyway. this is probably going to mean minimal restaurant food for the rest of the school year but that's okay #and I should probably wait on buying a car #but man. I had to do something. a good percentage of my many hours of sitting in bed feeling helpless were over this job #and I tried several days in a row to force myself to be better. and it wasn't enough! #yes I need to face my fears but that also means facing my fear of failure. and sending emails I know are going to make people unhappy. #I don't really know if this will make things better or worse but it will at least make things different #that said. I'm so scared to see my supervisor's reply. I'm so scared of it. #local construction

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

The Slow Path

If you feel like it, I was wondering if you could write something for Sanders Sides using the trope where the villain gets captured by the heroes and put into a rehabilitation program, and they expect to be, like, tortured or whatever but the heroes are being genuinely kind?? – anon

Read on Ao3

Warnings: allusions to past torture and captivity

Pairings: anxceit

Word Count: 3197

When Deceit is finally captured, the world holds its breath as the trial for the supervillain ends with...a compromise. No ordinary prison can hold the slipperiest convict in history, so instead, he'll be transferred to the heroes' complex for rehabilitation. For Virgil, a hero who fought Deceit many times and spent far too long in his captivity, being assigned as his primary care supervisor is...far from ideal. These things take time, after all. Time that has to be willingly spent. The two of them walk the slow path as Janus figures out where to go from here.

"After what I put you through, I'm amazed you can still stomach being in the same room as me." Despite the injury, Janus's gaze was as dark and piercing as ever. Virgil still struggled to meet it and kept his eyes trained on his task instead, grateful for the excuse not to.

"Hold still."

"So scared, even now," Janus continued softly, "poor thing. Have you stopped waking up screaming yet?"

Virgil pressed down on the wound at that, viciously. Looked up. Glared. "They told me to save you. They didn't tell me to make you comfortable. So shut your mouth."

Janus hissed through his teeth, turning it into a low chuckle as Virgil turned to grab more supplies. "That's it…get it out. Maybe it will help you sleep better."

Virgil took a deep breath in an effort to make his hands stop shaking. This was just another patient. Just another patient. He was a professional, he could do this. Every life is deserving of saving, no person should be left untreated, especially when it was this bad.

"I can see the gears turning in your little head over there," came Janus's voice, "trying to rationalize what you're doing."

"I'm trying to remain professional in a stressful work environment, actually."

"Aw, do I make you nervous?"

"Yes," Virgil replied blandly, going back to work, "keep as still as you can, please."

"Mm…please," Janus sighed, shifting despite the warning, "I did miss hearing that pretty word from your lips."

A cruel smile touched the corners of his mouth.

"Although…you didn't say it right this time."

Virgil gritted his teeth, trying to lose himself in the clinical analysis of what needed to be done. He needed to close before the villain lost too much blood, but there still might be debris that could cause infection. Of course, trying to find the debris might be more of an issue in and of itself…

"Look at you," Janus said, "you're trying so hard to be so strong…when we both know you'd rather run right out of this room and never come back."

Virgil swallowed.

"Don't you remember last time you got locked in a room with me?" Janus's hand turned and brushed his arm as he leaned forward again. He couldn't stop the flinch. "Did you miss it as much as I did?"

"No."

"Oh, now, I don't believe you." Janus grinned. "I think you do miss it. Look at how complicated things are out here…nothing is easy. You have to guess yourself all the time, no such thing as a black-and-white decision."

He indicates his prone form.

"Even now, you could choose to let me die. With the scope of my injuries, no one would suspect you. And who could blame you? After all I've done?" Janus's gaze sharpens. "But you would wriggle and writhe with that pesky moral compass of yours, wouldn't you?"

"I'm not letting you die."

Janus hummed. "But part of you wants to. The part of you that still wakes up at night screaming. The part of you that's still there, with me. The part of you I made."

Virgil just reached for another piece of gauze. His hand didn't shake.

"But with me…oh, you didn't have the burden of complicated 'decisions.'" Janus watched as Virgil picked up another tool. "All you had to worry about was pleasing me and staying alive. Things were simple, easy."

He tilted his head when Virgil didn't say anything.

"Don't you think?"

"I think," Virgil said, frowning at the wound, "that unless you want to risk shrapnel getting into somewhere you really don't want it to, you should try and be quiet for at least thirty consecutive seconds."

Without letting Janus respond, he picked up a sharps container and went for the biggest pieces.

"Easy," he murmured as he worked, "you're doing great. I'm almost done."

"So considerate," Janus hissed, "are you like this with all your victims?"

"You can ask them."

"After you send me to my grave?"

"After you're cleared to stand trial." He dropped the last piece into the container and set the tools aside. "That's everything. Good job."

Janus didn't say anything as he began to stitch the wound closed. His hands didn't shake anymore, steady as could be as he threaded the needle.

"You'll need to give them at least a week before they can come out."

"You're good at that," Janus said quietly, missing its usual malignancy and seduction.

"Practice makes perfect. You shouldn't even scar, though I won't promise it."

Janus narrowed his eyes. "What are you doing?"

"Stitching you up. It's not safe to use staples or glue on a wound like this, though you will need to limit movement for a while—"

"Stop it," Janus interrupted, glaring at him, "stop it now."

"Stop…stitching you up?"

"Stop pretending," he snarled, "stop the whole kindly doctor act."

"One, this isn't my 'kindly doctor' act, and two…"

Virgil paused as he glanced up, words stilling on the end of his tongue. He looked at the villain. Janus's glare was fierce, but lacked the significance of scowls past. It looked almost misplaced on his face, almost like he couldn't recognize it.

He glanced at the rest of him. Janus's knuckles were white on the bed covers, his muscles tensed like he wanted to run. Did the painkillers wear off?

Or…

Virgil's eyes widened.

Janus was scared.

"I think," Virgil said slowly, "that you're the one that misses it."

Janus scoffed. "Why would I miss you? You were fun as a toy, but really, you—"

"It was easy," Virgil interrupted quietly, "it was simply. You had all the control and I hated you. You didn't have to ask."

He scoffed again, but it was weaker.

"And now we're here," he continued. He gestured around the quite pitiful room. "And I'm helping you. And you can't understand why."

"You must be so proud of yourself," Janus spat, "do you feel smart now?"

"I'm stealing almost verbatim from my therapist, actually." Virgil picked up a new tool and laid it under his hands. "I suppose I should thank you."

"Thank me?"

"Not many people have the chance to confront their trauma like this," he said, "so…yeah, thanks."

Janus stared at him.

"I'm going to finish stitching you up now," he said in a quiet voice, "tell me if anything hurts. Your painkillers should be wearing off soon."

Janus didn't say anything as Virgil continued to treat his wound. As he worked he began to take pains to be gentle, to warn Janus if anything in particular was going to hurt. Janus never responded, but he saw the fist near his arm loosen and go slack against the covers.

Had anyone ever treated Janus like this before? Had anyone ever shown him kindness? Or had he always stitched himself up, put himself back together behind closed doors where no one could see?

"There," he murmured, tying off the last suture, "all done."

He packed up his supplies and turned to leave, placing a new dose of painkillers and water on the nightstand. There came the quietest 'thank you' as he shut the door.

***

    After the trial, he found a small bottle of his favorite liquor on his desk with a note that said: As part of my compensation. – J

***

    "You're not injured already, are you," Virgil said when he walked in to see Janus near his desk, "or is training with Remus as tough as I remember?"

"He didn't hurt me," Janus said, but the tone made him pause.

This wasn't pride, this wasn't irritation, it wasn't even derision.

It was confusion.

"No," Virgil said gently, coming to touch Janus's shoulder, "no, he didn't."

***

    The stitches didn't scar. Neither did any of the other wounds Virgil treated when Janus came to him first.

He tried not to take too much pride in that.

He failed.

***

    "Why do you do this," Janus asked one night as Virgil carefully cleaned a wound on his face, "what do you get out of it?"

"I know this might be hard to believe, but being nice and kind to people makes me feel good."

"Why?"

Virgil reached for another antiseptic wipe and cupped Janus's face, thumb lightly pressed to the underside of his jaw. "Because I decided that other people deserve to live in comfort and safety, and so helping them makes me happy."

"It's that easy?"

"Easy," Virgil laughed, "no, not easy. But worth doing."

When he applied the bandage over the scrape—a minor thing, really, the result of an accident and nothing intentional—he felt Janus's hand tentatively grip his sleeve.

***

    "I hurt someone," whispered into the quiet of Virgil's private quarters late at night over glasses of water and cups of tea, "today."

Virgil set aside his book and looked up at Janus as he stared off into space. He folded his hands and waited. After a few moments, another shaky breath came from the bed and Janus's hand flexed.

"I didn't mean to. I just—I just said something. They were—they were talking about me and about you and I just—I just—"

He swallowed, the soft glow of the lamp tracing the roll of his throat with golden fingers.

"How do you do it," he whispered, "how do you—defend people without hurting them?"

Virgil was quiet for a long time. Then he sighed, "I don't know how to answer that, Janus. It's…it's just a matter of trying."

"I don't know how to do that."

He held him until they both fell asleep, tracing the patch of skin where a scar might have been.

***

    "They're sending me out into the field."

Virgil looked up from straightening his tools. Janus looked at him, fingers still twitching on the doorknob. "Are you ready for that?"

"No." He took a deep breath and pushed his shoulders back. "But I'm going anyway."

"Well, if you get yourself hurt, you know where to come."

***

    After the thirteenth mission, he stopped coming to Virgil before he left.

Even after they lost count, he kept coming after he came back.

***

    "Whatever you're doing," the supervisor said to him when he passed Virgil in the hall, "keep doing it."

Great, Virgil wanted to say, the moment I find out what that is, I will.

***

    When he looked up to see Janus standing there, fiddling with the doorknob again, he set down his paperwork and stood, reaching for the cabinet.

"No, I'm not hurt."

"What's up, then?"

"I, um…they asked me out for drinks."

Virgil paused, blinking. "Who did what, sorry?"

"The—Roman asked me if I wanted to join him, Logan, and Remus for drinks."

A strange feeling curled in Virgil's chest. "Do you want to join them?"

"Yes."

"You don't need permission from me to enjoy yourself, Janus," he said gently, "if you want to go, you can."

The feeling didn't leave as Janus smiled and turned to go, nor did it vanish when it became a regular thing.

***

    Janus didn't come back after he returned from his last mission and Virgil told himself it was fine.

***

    Logan asked him out for drinks alone. He finds out from Remus. He told himself it was a good thing.

***

    Janus told him about Logan's new fascination with a TV series as Virgil patched him up after a rough training session. He smiled and laughed through the whole thing, not wincing as Virgil applied compresses and bandage wraps. He didn't even blink when Virgil accidentally pulled it too tightly.

"You and Logan seem to be getting along well," he said, unable to keep the maelstrom of emotions out of his voice.

"Yeah, we are." Janus grinned. "Don't worry, sweetie, you're still my favorite."

He sent Janus away with too much of a blush to hide.

***

    The blush didn't stop coming back again, and again, and again.

***

    "I'm doing this for you!"

"You shouldn't be redeeming yourself for me, you should be doing it for your own sake."

Janus raised his eyebrows. "Sweetie, you really think I give a fuck about redemption for my sake? It's for you. You are the only thing here worth being good for."

Virgil blinked, stunned. "That's—I mean—well—"

A familiar smirk crossed the once-villain's face, a gleam in his eyes. But it was softer now than it used to be. "My life belongs to you, don't you remember? The second you saved it, saved me."

He took a step closer.

"I'm yours."

"You're just teasing me," Virgil mumbled.

Perhaps, but only because the words were devastatingly effective and couldn't possibly be sincere, lest Virgil start to believe them.

"Teasing?" Janus laughed. "Oh, sweetie, you'll know once I start teasing you. No, that was nothing but the truth."

Virgil started to back away. Janus followed.

"Isn't that what you wanted? What all of you wanted? For me to be good? You spent so much time talking about it, going on and on about how good it was…"

"Okay, but that's—"

"And then you were right there, taking care of me, helping me, being good to me."

Virgil's back hit the counter and before he could move, Janus had his hands braced on either side of him. He looked up as Janus leaned into his space, voice softened.

"Is it any wonder, sweetie," he murmured, "that I want to be good for you?"

Virgil swallowed. They were too close. They were too close and Janus was being too articulate and too pretty. His hands twitched on the counter. "Now you're definitely teasing me."

Janus chuckled. "Yeah. Yeah, I am."

But he didn't move. In fact, he settled more comfortably against the counter.

"What're you gonna do about it?"

Virgil's face flushed. He tried to glare but Janus only smiled wider. He raised an eyebrow, looking Virgil up and down.

"For someone who was so squirmy every time they were captured," he said, soft enough not to arouse the worst of Virgil's instincts, "you're not trying very hard to get away from me. Could it be that you want to stay here?"

Virgil gritted his teeth. "Stop."

"'Stop,'" Janus mocked gently, "stop what? I'm not hurting you, am I?"

As a parody of the injury checks Virgil so often gave him, Janus leaned closer, stopping just shy of their chests bumping.

"I'm not even touching you," he whispered, mere inches from his ear.

"Stop," Virgil managed in a strangled voice, "please."

The once-villain froze. For long seconds, neither moved. Then Janus took a deep, slow breath.

"There was a time," he said softly, "when I would've given anything to hear you say that."

He dropped a hand, giving Virgil an escape route. He stood up a little, moving to one side, but not pulling away entirely—thank god, Virgil's not sure what he would've done if Janus had tried to move away. After another moment of hesitating, he felt Janus cautiously cover his hand with his own.

Virgil took several deep and shuddering breaths. Okay. Okay. He had to get himself under control, to calm down. Goddamnit, he was out of practice dealing with this version of Janus. Even the hesitant touch of their hands had him sighing, head falling forward onto Janus's shoulder with a thunk.

Janus tensed when Virgil's head made contact, then slowly relaxed.

"…was it the teasing?"

Virgil huffed. "Yes and no."

"You didn't use to react like that."

"Well, you were always trying to kill someone or do something awful. I had other things to focus on."

He could tell Janus wanted to make a joke, but he swallowed it and shook his head. "And the other part…?"

Yes, the more difficult part to explain. Virgil sighed again, leaning against the counter, closing his eyes.

"I never wanted you to mistake a forgiveness arc for a redemption arc."

"…am I supposed to know what that means?"

"The common perception of 'redemption,' the one that Patton likes to peddle, is uncomfortably Christian. And while I might have to listen to him sometimes, I don't have to listen to him about that." When Janus still looked lost, he continued. "The whole thing about atoning for what you've done, repenting, all that. Walk a mile on your knees so that people will see you've changed. That's not—that's not redemption."

"…no?"

Virgil shook his head. "No. That's not the point. No one else gets to look upon you and decide that you're a good person. We can make people stand trial and have consequences for their actions, yeah, but we can't morally deem you a good person. That's—that's like saying we're God."

Janus huffed. "Well, if anyone should have it—"

"No." Virgil shook his head. "No one should have it. Least of all me. I don't want it," he continued when Janus looked like he was about to protest, "I'm not asking for that power or that responsibility. I'll save the people I can save. I'm not going to judge them too."

Janus was quiet for a moment, running his fingers over Virgil's hand absentmindedly. "Shouldn't I be forgiven," he said after a while, "if I'm…redeeming myself?"

"Forgiveness and redemption do not equate."

"Something else Patton peddles? Along with every TV and movie ever?"

"Yes. Look, I forgave the people who hurt me for the first ten years of my life." Something dark flickered over Janus's expression. A familiar anger, though never directed for them, so it took a moment to recognize it. "Even though they never earned it or asked for it. Does that make them good?"

"No." Janus's hand tightened. "Who—"

Virgil flipped his hand over so their palms pressed together. It startled Janus into silence; the contact, although it was chaste, still made Virgil's head spin. He took a deep breath, buzzing slightly.

"So," Janus said in a slightly strangled voice, "I shouldn't ask you to forgive me?"

"What?"

"I want you to forgive me," Janus continued, voice soft and unsure, "what if I want you to forgive me?"

"…want or need?"

"Want." Janus pressed a little closer, still giving him a way out. "What if I want you to forgive me? What do I have to do?"

Virgil swallowed heavily. "Why…why do you want me to forgive you?"

Another gentle scoff left Janus's throat and he smiled ruefully. Moving slowly, he pressed Virgil's hand over the spot on his side where a scar never had the chance to form. "Haven't you guessed, sweetie?"

***

    Give me time, he'd said, and Janus had left.

Give it time, his therapist said when he asked her what he should do.

Give this time, he thought as he looked at the unopened bottle of his favorite liquor, note still attached.

***

    The bottle finds its way into Janus's new quarters, a different note attached.

If you want it, it's yours. I'll be in my room at 6pm this Saturday. – V

***

    It was never only about the liquor.

General Taglist: @frxgprince@potereregina@gattonero17@iamhereforthegayshit@thefingergunsgirl@awkwardandanxiousfander@creative-lampd-liberties@djpurple3@winterswrandomness@sanders-sides-uncorrect-quotes@iminyourfandom@bullet-tothefeels@full-of-roman-angst-trash  @ask-elsalvador @ramdomthingsfrommymind@demoniccheese83@pattonsandershugs @el-does-photography @princeanxious@firefinch-ember@fandomssaremysoul@im-an-anxious-wreck@crazy-multifandomfangirl @punk-academian-witch@enby-ralsei@unicornssunflowersandstuff@wildhorsewolf @thetruthaboutthesun @stubbornness-and-spite @princedarkandstormv  @your-local-fookin-deadmeme @angels-and-dreams@averykedavra @a-ghostlight-for-roman @treasurechestininterweb @cricketanne @queerly-fluid-fan @compactdiscdraws@cecil-but-gayer@i-am-overly-complicated@annytheseal@alias290@tranquil-space-ninja @arxticandy @mychemically-imbalanced-romance@whyiask@crows-ace @emilythezeldafan@frida0043 @ieatspinalcords @snowyfires@cyanide-violence@oonagh2@xxpanic-at-the-everywherexx@rabbitsartcorner @percy-07734@triflingassailantofmyemotions @virgil-sanders-the-gay-emo@cerulean-watermelon@puffed-up-bees@meltheromanstan@joyrose-fandomer@insanitori@mavenmush@justablah65@10paradox10@uhhh-hi-there-i-am-nervous@cutebisexualmess@bella-bugatti-frogetti-baguetti@ultrageekygirl

#dragonbabbles #sanders sides #fic #janus sanders #deceit sanders #sympathetic deceit #virgil sanders

[like-rain-or-confetti]

Rogue met future S/O in a funny way.

Basically she casually went to his base and he was like "Why would you come to one of most dangerous people in Gotham uninvited? Don't you know who I am?"

"A guy who doesn't pay his taxes, Y/N L/N from the IRS. Come to take care of late payment. Any complaints please direct towards my boss."

Top 5 + Joker because in BTAS he is canonicaly scared of IRS so it would be beautiful.

Is this a bad time?

This individual is absolutely nuts. No doubt about it. They just showed up? At his door? Willingly? Knowingly? "Don't you know who I am?" You simply smiled. "Ah yes, very much so. You have quite the reputation but you're reputation also includes not paying your taxes... (Y/N) (L/N) from the IRS. I'm here to discuss your late payment. Any complaints please direct to my boss." With a flick of your wrist you revealed a card between two fingers. "All contact information is on there, Monday to Friday- nine to five, be sure to not contact on bank holidays. Now can I come in or is this a bad time?"

The Joker: The Joker, unexpectedly, wailed before stumbling back to create some distance between you both. You took the opportunity to cross the threshold. "Someone get the Batsignal on!" He screeched. "Sir...its eleven thirty in the morning." You said softly. "No one will see it." "Who do we call to be saved from the IRS!?" He bellowed in horror. You shrugged. The Joker sized you up. "Oh they're sending the pretty ones are they!?" His eyes narrowed to slits. "Well they're gonna have to try harder than that!" He began to pace. "I assure you, sir, I just want to discuss your missed payment with you." You tried. "Nuh-Uh! I'm crazy enough to get tangled up with the Batman but the IRS? No, thank you!"

The Riddler: "No..." He groaned in dismay. "...go away! I'm busy! I don't have time for this!" "I'm sorry, I'm afraid I can't do that, Mr Nygma. The part about asking is more of a formality. Protocol insists I speak with you today. As i said, if you have a complaint, I can give you all the contact details." "I already have a complaint- you're here!" He snapped. You seemed unphased by the response and your reply came smoothly. "I'm sure, your plans to destroy the city will remain intact sir. They are always rather frightening to endure, I assure you. Now the sooner you let me in, the sooner you can get back to your plans." You raised a good point. He lazily smirked. "Ah but I'm still in control! You see that gate is encrypted so only I can let allow you entry!" "Voice print accepted. Welcome, the Riddler." It was the two words that were the unlocking mechanism. His voice along with the words 'allow' and 'entry'. "No!" He cried out. "Thank you, Mr Nygma." You smiled as you pushed the door open.

Scarecrow: He scrutinised you, eyes travelling up and down your body multiple times. To gas or not to gas...that is the question. "My supervisor knows where I am and the GCPD will be sent here if I'm not heard from in the next hour." You said. He internally sighed. Of course, the IRS are just that serious. He sighed and held his door open a little wider. "You lot need to lighten up." He muttered. "Sorry?" You asked. "Nothing. If memory serves me, I was in Arkham so yes...I missed a lot of payments." He began icily as he closed his door behind you.

Black Mask: "In fact you did, I was about to change my doormat to go away." He glared holes into you behind his mask. "Apologies for the inconvenience, sir, but I'm afraid protocol insists I come in and speak with you." He huffed. "I swear, the second you lot sniff out money you come sprinting. We rich people are human too." He sneered. "I assure you, its nothing personal, Mr Sionis." You said smoothly. "Of course not." He said flatly. "If it were, you'd be dead before you could say anything nevermind try to get at my money." You blinked. "In fact..." Roman snatched the card between your fingers and dialled. "Immediate fucking answer machine!? Do you people even try anymore or do you enjoy that we have to listen to a robot thanking us for our patience fifty fucking times!?"

Two-Face: "Ah shit." He groaned. "Indeed, Mr Dent." You nodded. "This is bullshit!" He exclaimed, his voice deeper. You seemed startled and then you remembered two personalities. "Heads, I let them in..." He began. "Tails, we slam the door in their face." He finished with a deep voice once again. He dug a coin out of his pocket, scratched on one side. With a clink! The coin was tossed in the air, caught and pressed on his other non-scarred hand. Heads. "Flip that shit again!" The deeper voice growled out. You smiled. "It's heads. It's only fair, Mr Dent. Let's discuss your missed payment."

Mad Hatter: You were grabbed by the wrist and dragged inside. "Not today, Jabberwocky." "Pardon me, Mr Tetch. I'm (Y/N) (L/N) with the IRS?" You tried again. He spun on his heel. "The what? You're who?" "I'm-" He cut you off. "You're not Alice- have you seen her? I do hope the Jabberwocky hasn't gotten to her!" "Alice...who?" You asked. "Would you like some tea!?" He asked suddenly. "No...thank you." You said carefully. "Mr Tetch, about your payment-" You were interrupted again. "I've already told the red queen I did not steal the tarts!" He exclaimed. "Mr Tetch, you owe us money. You skipped your payment again." Jervis crinkled his nose. "On second thought, maybe you're the Jabberwocky." "What-" You didn't get to finish. Just as quickly as he hauled you in, you were pushed out.

#request #batman #batman villains #batman scenarios #the riddler #scarecrow #the joker #two face #black mask #mad hatter #edward nygma #jonathan crane #harvey dent #roman sionis #jervis tetch

[dragon-kazansky]

Yes please do! Take your time on writing it! I understand the name changes. If you need to message me it you can

I'll try and keep it simple. These names are made up because I want to keep my colleagues privacy.

This is a long story.

When I got in this morning, my supervisor (Polly) and my colleague (Anya) were chatting. My supervisor had been ill with covid last week, so her shifts had been covered by our boss (Matt), who had to cover other shifts because 2 other colleagues then tested positive for covid. This is important to remember.

Matt was pissed that he had to cover so many shifts (2 of those being supervisors because otherwise we wouldn't have anyone to open the cafe). Which left the rest of us, myself, Abbie, and Anya.

When I got in, Polly and Anya turned to me and asked me about what happened yesterday. I told them everything. Abbie worked last Wednesday with Matt, and one other colleague who hadn't rested positive yet. Matt was getting worked up with all the orders, and was being quite demanding. Abbie has mental health issues due to her troubled childhood, and was doing her best to be her normal cheerful self and get everything done. On Wednesday afternoon Abbie complained about a pain in her chest. Matt asked if she was in pain, she replied that it hurt, so yes. He didn't do anything. Abbie tried to ignore it and carry on. A bit later her arm was tingling and her chest felt worse. Matt wouldn't call medical at the centre. Abbie panicked and called an ambulance, she was scared she was having a heart attack. He didn't say anything to her.

Abbie went to hospital that afternoon.

Yesterday Abbie was on shift with me, she was Ok. Basically she had an anxiety attack under the stress of Matt. Matt is to blame. Her doctor has her on medication as of today.

Now. This is where things take a turn.

We have this supervisor, Chloe. No one likes her. No one likes her because she's a snitch, she thinks she's a manager, she is not, and she complains about the way our actual manager (Polly) does things. Keep in mind, Chloe only supervises two shifts a week.

Yesterday Abbie confided in me about everything that had happened. Abbie wanted to make it clear that she was going to call her doctor that afternoon (yesterday) about taking sick leave because she needed time to calm down and get her head straight. Her mental health was declining. I can't blame her.

Last night I got a message from Chloe asking me to cover a shift tomorrow. Wednesday and Thursday are my days off at the moment. They're my days. The message basically read If Abbie gets a sick note, can I ask you to come in so I'm not left alone with Matt. I said no. I have plans. I'm not cancelling them. She replied with OK.

Back to this morning, I had told Anya and Polly about the message. It clicked. They wouldn't have known anything had happened yesterday unless someone had said something. I had only just arrived, so I hadn't told them because they already knew. Matt had called them this morning asking about all the whining Abbie had been doing. Well, the only other person who could have told him about Abbie's rant is the only other person sho was there: Chloe.

Why would she have asked me to cover a shift that she couldn't guarantee Abbie would be excused from? Because she was going to tell Matt about it so he could change the rota to accommodate the change.

Polly called Abbie to check in with her. As of today she is on medication. That only happened today. Chloe couldn't have known yesterday it would actually happen. She was preparing for a 50/50 chance ahead of time. She gone behind Abbie's back about her mental health to the boss. That's Abbie's business, not hers.

Abbie is now on a minimum 2 week sick leave. She sent a letter to Matt, without seeing him face to face because she can't stand to. They are a staff member down tomorrow, but I'm not cancelling my plans to cover it. These are my 2 days off during the week.

Matt apparently tried to play it off to Polly that everything he had said to Abbie (I don't know all the details there) on Wednesday was a joke. But what kind of joke has someone ending up in hospital?

Polly, knowing no one can stand Matt, and Chloe too, wants everyone to get together at some point to try and do something.

There is more regarding Matt but that doesn't directly connect to this. I feel so sorry for Abbie because none of that should have happened. I hope she takes plenty of rest. She has a 10 month year old she needs to look after. If her mental health gets worse, then what? :(

This is my work life!! Talk about the drama.

#I look into my life

[seriouslycromulent]

I've been holding on to this article all week, and I'm glad I finally made the time to read it. It's very enlightening, and speaks to the importance of how "Representation Matters" can be a phrase so easily co-opted by the majority (as per usual), then twisted to serve the status quo.

It's really sad because the cast clearly deserved better. I adored the show, and was happy to name it as one of my favorite binge-watch marathons of the quarantine. I hope to see everyone (especially the Dad and Kimchee) in future projects. But all in all, the final season along with this news feels even more bittersweet.

Here is the article behind the link. The bolded sections are my own emphasis.

-----

‘Kim’s Convenience’ stars decry ‘overtly racist’ storylines, lack of representation

JUNE 7, 2021 2:29 PM PT By CHRISTI CARRASSTAFF WRITER

“Kim’s Convenience” has officially closed up shop, and its stars are opening up about their frustrations with the show’s approach to Korean Canadian representation behind and in front of the camera.

After the hit CBC sitcom debuted its fifth and final season last week on Netflix, actors Simu Liu and Jean Yoon voiced their concerns regarding the series’ “overwhelmingly white” production team, “horsepoop” pay and “overtly racist” storylines, among other alleged grievances.

Based on actor and playwright Ins Choi’s stage production of the same name, “Kim’s Convenience” premiered in 2016 and centered on a Korean Canadian family operating a convenience store in Toronto. In the show, Liu — star of Marvel’s highly anticipated “Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings” — portrayed Yoon’s on-screen son, Jung.

“I’ve heard a lot of speculation surrounding myself — specifically, about how getting a Marvel role meant I was suddenly too ‘Hollywood’ for Canadian TV,” Liu remarked Thursday in a lengthy Facebook post reflecting on the end of the program.

“This could not be further from the truth. I love this show and everything it stood for. I saw firsthand how profoundly it impacted families and brought people together. It’s truly SO RARE for a show today to have such an impact on people, and I wanted very badly to make the schedules work.

After setting the record straight about his career trajectory, Liu expressed disappointment with the way that he and his character were treated as the series progressed.

“I WAS, however, growing increasingly frustrated with the way my character was being portrayed and, somewhat related, was also increasingly frustrated with the way I was being treated,” he said. “It was always my understanding that the lead actors were the stewards of character, and would grow to have more creative insight as the show went on.

“This was not the case on our show, which was doubly confusing because our producers were overwhelmingly white and we were a cast of Asian Canadians who had a plethora of lived experiences to draw from and offer to writers. ... there was deliberately not a lot of leeway given to us.”

Liu also sounded off on “Strays,” the forthcoming spinoff series spotlighting Jung’s work supervisor, Shannon, played by Nicole Power. The offshoot is set to premiere in September on the CBC.

“I love and am proud of Nicole, and I want the show to succeed for her... but I remain resentful of all of the circumstances that led to the one non-Asian character getting her own show,” Liu wrote. “And not that they would ever ask, but I will adamantly refuse to reprise my role in any capacity.”

In addition to creative differences, Liu accused the CBC of purposefully underpaying him and his castmates in comparison to other popular shows such as “Schitt’s Creek,” which boasted “brand-name talent” but received lower ratings than “Kim’s Convenience,” according to Liu.

“For how successful the show actually became, we were paid an absolute horsepoop rate,” he wrote. “The whole process has really opened my eyes to the relationship between those with power and those without. In the beginning, we were no-name actors who had ZERO leverage. So of course we were going to take anything we could. ...

“Basically we were locked in for the foreseeable future at a super-low rate ... But we also never banded together and demanded more — probably because we were told to be grateful to even be there, and because we were so scared to rock the boat. Maybe also because we were too busy infighting to understand that we were deliberately being pitted against each other. Meanwhile, we had to become the de facto mouthpieces for the show (our showrunners were EPICALLY reclusive), working tirelessly to promote it while never truly feeling like we had a seat at its table.”

Shortly after Liu shared his thoughts on social media, a television critic for Canada’s Globe and Mail dismissed his comments as “unfair” and “mean-spirited,” prompting Yoon to defend her costar on Twitter.

While both Liu and Yoon credited Korean Canadian artist Choi with introducing the Kim family to mainstream audiences, they also alleged that his influence over the series was eclipsed by a dearth of Korean representation behind the scenes.

“Your attack on my cast mate @SimuLiu, in the defense of my fellow Korean artist Ins Choi is neither helpful nor merited,” Yoon replied to the Globe and Mail’s rebuke of Liu’s statements. “Mr. Choi wrote the play, I was in [it]. He created the TV show, but his co-creator Mr. Kevin White was the showrunner, and clearly set the parameters.

“This is a FACT that was concealed from us as a cast. It was evident from Mr. Choi’s diminished presence on set, or in response to script questions. Between S4 and S5, this FACT became a crisis, and in S5 we were told Mr. Choi was resuming control of the show.”

The scene partners also addressed the alleged absence of diversity on the “Kim’s Convenience” writing team, which “lacked both East Asian and female representation,” as well as “a pipeline to introduce diverse talents,” according to Liu.

“Aside from Ins, there were no other Korean voices in the room,” Liu wrote. “And personally I do not think he did enough to be a champion for those voices (including ours). When he left (without so much as a goodbye note to the cast), he left no protege, no padawan learner, no Korean talent that could have replaced him.”

“As an Asian Canadian woman, a Korean-Canadian woman w more experience and knowledge of the world of my characters, the lack of Asian female, especially Korean writers in the writers room of Kims made my life VERY DIFFICULT & the experience of working on the show painful,” Yoon tweeted.

Despite trying “so hard” to make himself available as a creative resource, Liu said efforts made by him and others to improve the show from the inside were dismissed. Without adequate input from talent of Korean descent, Yoon added that the show’s authenticity suffered.

“The cast received drafts of all S5 scripts in advance of shooting BECAUSE of Covid, at which time we discovered storylines that were OVERTLY RACIST, and so extremely culturally inaccurate that the cast came together and expressed concerns collectively,” Yoon tweeted.

“My prior experience had taught me that if I just put myself out there enough, people would be naturally inclined to help,” Liu wrote. “And boy was I wrong here. I wasn’t the only one who tried. Many of us in the cast were trained screenwriters with thoughts and ideas that only grew more seasoned with time. But those doors were never opened to us in any meaningful way.”

Representatives for Choi and the CBC did not immediately respond Monday to The Times’ requests for comment.

#kim's convenience #simu liu #jean yoon #cbc #asian representation #canadian television #representation matters #anti-asian racism

[silverspectre]

en garde, pret, aimer! || lockwood & co.

pairing: light florence bonnard x anthony lockwood

genre: fencing(?)ish!au and also maybe straying away from canon bc what iS canon at this point, fluff, platonic main relationship, eventual angst, pre-canon??? aka beFore the series takes place

words: 3.8k

tags: fluffy!!, young lockwood nd flo, fencing stuff, apologies for the french (literally lol), i wrote this like half a year ago i’M SORRY-

what to expect: “’Why else would I be here? Tea time?’”

a/n: so this was beta-read and edited by two lovely people! i appreciate their help so much, as they’ve made this story what it is now. thank you so much @piratekingimogen​ and @willowwisk​ for your help! is this canon-compliant? someone ask jonathan stroud. this will be my last fic for a while, unless i have a spontaneous bout (pun intended) of inspiration. thank you all for your support!

translation: en garde, prets, allez = on guard, ready, go (used to start a fencing bout) / en garde, prets, aimer = on guard, ready, love (used to start this story)

The train ride from London to Paris is a particularly long, arduous journey. There's not much to see; reading a book 50 times or twiddling your thumbs is perhaps the most productive thing one can do. However, though a subjective opinion, it's a great deal less dull when in the company of a pretty girl whose name you learn through one piece of black licorice.

Florence Bonnard. It was elegant and flowed off the tip of your tongue. She was pretty; her teeth shining white and her long, blonde hair practically another shade of gold, shimmering in the sunlight. Anthony Lockwood could only stare at her.

To Anthony, Paris was a dream of any fencer. It was hailed as the fencing capital of the world, home to countless famed swordsmen and agents. He could merely wish to be like them. He was sure he was on his way, however. He'd been invited to a DEPRAC-sponsored competition in France, and of course, he absolutely had to go. His supervisor, Nigel 'Gravedigger' Sykes, forced him anyways.

He made the acquaintance of Florence Bonnard only a few minutes ago, when she huffed into the train compartment that was otherwise empty except for Anthony's doe-eyed presence. Looking upset, she plopped herself down diagonal from him. She didn't even acknowledge his existence.

"Hi?" he squeaked out. His voice was a little scratchy. He coughed, then repeated the word in a much more confident tone.

"Well? What are you?" This was the first he'd heard the girl speak.

She spared a glance at Anthony.

"I'm, uh..." He thought fast. She didn't

know him; no one on the train, as far as he knew, knew his name. He could reinvent himself, banish the name used so fondly by his parents and sister. He could be...

"I'm, uh... Lockwood. Just Lockwood. Yes. That's me."

"Lockwood... classy," she commented. She paused, in thought. "Though... I think I'll call you Locky."

"L-Locky?" Lockwood stuttered. This was not how she was supposed to react to his name.

"Locky. It practically rolls off the tongue, don't you think?" She smiled, slightly exposing her white teeth. It was a pretty sight. He could've stared at her for a second or an hour before he registered her answer.

Lockwood was caught off guard. "W-well, what's your name, then?"

She smiled a pearly white smile. "Wouldn't you like to find out," she said slyly.

A sweets trolley rolled down the aisle, pushed by a plump old woman. "Anything you'd like to buy?" She popped her head in the compartment.

The girl scanned the trolley, then made up her mind. She turned to Lockwood. "You'll have to buy me a liquorice to find out my name."

"I'll have a bag of liquorice, please," Lockwood immediately said to the lady, pulling out two pounds and exchanging it for a bag. He didn't know why he complied so easily - maybe he'd fallen under a trance for her. 

He handed one to the girl, who looked momentarily startled before recomposing herself. "So, what's your name?" Lockwood asked.

"Florence Bonnard," she simply replied. It matched her, Lockwood thought. Prim and proper, it matched her perfect posture and neatly combed hair.

"You fence?"

"Why else would I be here? Tea time?" 

"O-of course not, but you're just so pretty-"

Oh no. He'd let it slip.

Florence Bonnard's lips curled upward. "Thanks, Locky. I'll remember that on the piste."

He was suddenly scared to imagine Florence Bonnard on the piste, with her blonde hair tied up and her body in first position, sword ready to attack. With her confidence, double of his, how good could she be? Lockwood felt his stomach turn queasy. How good were the others on the train?

She poked Lockwood lightly. "Worried?" she teased. "En-garde," she mimicked a referee, "prets-" she made a face, "allez!" She pretended to poke Lockwood with her rapier, then laughed.

Lockwood couldn't help but laugh with her at her imitation.

"What's your agency?" Lockwood asked.

"That'll cost you a liquorice," she stated.

He handed her one.

"Sinclair & Saones. 'm an apprentice for 'em. You?"

"Nigel Sykes."

"Really?" she drawled. "You seem like the Rotwell type - well, then again, you weren't sitting with the lot in the first place."

"Rotwell and Fittes agents always win, don't they?"

"I'll give 'em a run for their money. How old are you?"

"Ten."

She looked up and down. "Alright then."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

She smirked. "Nothing... When's your birthday, then?"

He told her.

"I'm older than you."

"So what? That doesn't mean you'll be better!"

Florence Bonnard smiled. "We'll see about that."

Nigel 'Gravedigger' Sykes, or just Sykes, was Lockwood's mentor. He was a bit scraggly, but not enough to make him incompetent with a sword. He was on the slightly mad side, yes, but was an extremely skilled swordsman. Lockwood was constantly amazed by his ability.

"You rely on remises too much. Practice on your footwork, you're doubting yourself too much.”

They'd been practicing for two hours - maybe more. Lockwood didn't even bother trying to count the bouts. His hair stuck to his sweaty forehead, his breaths hot in the mask. Lockwood's legs were sore and his arms hurt from all the attack, parry, and riposting he'd done.

The competition started in three days - Sykes had decided Lockwood needed to cram in as much practice as he could. On and off the piste, Lockwood could hear Sykes' voice in his head, telling him to Parry quarte or Eat your breakfast, it's free food! Food was accommodated at the hotel which sponsored DEPRAC for the competition. The rooming was nice as well, Lockwood being lucky enough to get a room to himself rather than most participants in the tournament who had to share a room.

When the competition finally rolled around, he'd won the first bout easily - almost too easily. Regardless, a win was a win, even against some Bunchurch agent with half a brain.

The real competition - or so he'd heard from rumours - was Quill Kipps of Fittes. He was apparently a prodigy fencing-god in his mid-teens, favoured by the majority of the crowd. He was tall and ginger, from what people had been telling him. Easy to spot in crowds. Lockwood was curious to see the famous Kipps in practice - rather, he was curious to see what any Fittes or Rotwell agent could bring to the table.

Lockwood had yet to see the mysterious Florence Bonnard do her bout. He was eager to do so after showering and slipping into the stands to watch the next bouts. After a win from Alexander Fawley, and another from Emily Schreiber, Quill Kipps was up. The teen was fast, and his every move was clearly calculated. It was everything Lockwood could aspire to be.

Florence Bonnard was fast as well, to Lockwood's surprise. She was extremely quick on her feet and could get a touch faster than the referee could blink after saying allez. It was impressive, being younger than a lot of contestants- and she wasn't even a Fittes or Rotwell agent.

Lockwood considered what he'd do if he was ever tasked with being her opponent, but only for a split second. It was too unrealistic he'd make it that far. But still, he had a vivid image of her lunging, ponytail swaying and rapier thrust as the tip of her blade touched his side. Now was not the time to daydream.

The second bout passed, 14-15. Lockwood had won in a landslide, attacking the split second his opponent hesitated.

After, as Lockwood chugged a bottle of water on the side, still sweaty and clad in his fencing gear, Florence Bonnard approached him. "Good bout, Locky," she said in her sly way. "Although, your footwork could be better." His gaze was stuck on her, even as she stalked off in true Florence fashion. 

"Th-thanks?" It was already too late; Lockwood just watched her straw-colored hair swish away. She was one interesting girl. He sighed, staring at her back.

Lockwood's days consisted of eating, practicing, and sleeping. He would occasionally watch other agents practice, to pick up on faults and techniques they used. That's, at least, what Sykes had told him to do. Half the time Lockwood just drifted off, staring at a wall corner or, as a current example, a blonde ponytail. ...Blonde ponytail...? It was Florence Bonnard in the flesh, practicing. Of course, Lockwood just assumed this fact, judging by the fencer's posture and hair. It was unmistakably her.

Lockwood hadn't seen her much, either because their schedules didn't match up or she barely practiced. She was very good, sharp on her feet and maneuvering like she was on ice. It was scary the way she got a touch so fast. He assumed she'd practiced a great deal privately; at least, that's how he comforted himself at the sight of her skillful rapier patterns.

Lockwood's eyes jumped to a tall ginger-haired fencer - no doubt Quill Kipps, practicing a couple metres away. He, too, was skilled. Close to Florence's level, but not quite. This could be the year someone from a small agency won - though, Lockwood couldn't keep his hopes up. Being the crowd favourite, who was to say he didn't have a couple tricks up his sleeve?

Bouts three and four passed, and just somehow, Lockwood had survived into the quarterfinals. The numbers were dwindling down; Florence Bonnard, not much to his surprise, was in strong.

The quarterfinals passed, but now that he'd won, more pressure had been draped on him. Practices stretched late into the night, leaving his muscles incredibly sore and eyelids drooping on their own accord. He almost forgot to shower one day, planning to sleep in his fencing gear. Sykes had been drilling into him much more. The lineup for the semifinals was posted; Lockwood would be fencing against Quill Kipps.

To say he was nervous was an understatement. He sweated at the thought of fencing the teen. No matter how much he analyzed Kipps' fencing, he never felt ready. Sure, he wasn't as good at Florence, but she was substantially better than Lockwood - as was Kipps. The day of the bout, Lockwood almost froze before walking in, trying not to look at the crowd. It was bigger than any he had fenced for before. He sucked in two deep breaths then pulled the mask over his face. Sykes patted him, whispered quick advice in his ear. Lockwood wasn't paying attention, more focused on the judges, rhe referee, and the feeling of his feet on the ground. He and Kipps did the salute, like any other bout.

The referee started to speak, also like any other bout. The words were muffled in Lockwood's jumbled mind. His thoughts were racing at 100 kilometers per second, tumbling around each other, unlike any other bout - but he didn't need to hear the words regardless. He knew what they were.

"En-garde."

Lockwood stared at Kipps.

"Prets."

He took a deep breath, readying himself.

"Allez!"

The bout began.

Immediately, swords clinked and clashed against each other as the agents attempted to protect themselves. Lockwood's mind went pure blank, and his body went into autopilot.

1-0. Sure, a rough start, but he could catch up.

1-1. Tied, that was okay.

2-3. Lockwood was in the lead-

5-7. Halfway there!

11-10. No, losing wasn't an option-

13-14. His sword was a blur in front of him, basically acting of its own accord. Parry, riposte, attack-! It was all too quick. Kipps had lost his balance, and Lockwood took the opportunity. He lunged, slashed with his blade just to earn a point. His blade felt something soft - he got a touch! - but then Lockwood actually looked at the tip of his blade.

Quill Kipps was stunned entirely. He'd fallen on the piste and stared up at the younger agent. The moment was silent; practically in slow motion. The crowd held their breath in disbelief.

Lockwood had struck Quill Kipps with his rapier on the bum. The judges were in shock. It was a touch, though, right? It... counted? The referee gestured, and Lockwood pulled his raper away.

The bout ended.

Lockwood won. Lockwood won, against the star of Fittes agency. Quill Kipps, meanwhile, fumed. His cheeks were redder than his hair, which was matted with sweat.

"I'll beat you next time, Anthony Lockwood..." he murmured.

The crowd was having its fun; booing in disappointment or cheering in amusement, Lockwood couldn't tell. He convinced himself it was the latter. He didn't mean to stab Kipps in the bum. It just happened. It's not like anyone ever goes into a bout thinking, "Oh, yeah, I'm going to riposte a clean one up his bum."

Sykes was impressed, though he seemed more pleased by the last touch Lockwood earned.

"You'll be going up against that Bonnard girl, so you better clean up that footwork of yours. Her bladework is quite fine, too, I'd say. Sharpen yourself up, Anthony - no pun intended."

Practice, as always, lasted to the evening - Lockwood had just gotten out of the locker room, hair wet from his shower when he heard a familiar rasping tone.

"Locky~" Florence Bonnard sing-songed, conveniently leaning on a pillar outside.

He approached her.

"Finals are tomorrow," she said, smiling. Her teeth glinted - it was charming. Her eyes shimmered a bright blue - when had he missed this feature of hers? She was breathtaking. He didn't react, dumbly nodding as he stared at her.

"Oh, and by the way? Stop staring at me sometimes, it's creepy, Locky. I know you like me, but you're too... you." She tapped his nose, ignited a blush across Lockwood's cheeks.

"Cute," she commented. "See you on the piste." She walked away in her typical manner.

Florence Bonnard beat him the next day, 13-15. It was completely fair. Her attacks were clean and precise, and she hesitated not a second. It was a blur in Lockwood's head; one second her blade was against his torso; the next, her blade had touched him 14 other times and the referee proclaimed her the winner. He wasn't disappointed, however - she, from a small agency, had won, not a Fittes or a Rotwell agent. He decided it was well-earned on her part, completely ignoring the way she had so softly put him down the day previous. She was just so attractive.

She gave him a toothy smile after the bout and patted his shoulder. "Don't be too upset, Locky." It was safe to say he wasn't.

2 years later.

It was terrible. It was one of those moments in your life where you can recount every detail of where you were and what you were doing exactly when it happened; heck, you could even recite the exact seconds.

Lockwood was reading the morning newspaper, sipping his pulp orange juice (the joys of being a blue whale!) when he read the news.

Both Sinclair and Saones (of the Sinclair & Saones agency) had died on a case, with poor Florence Bonnard being the only survivor. Florence Bonnard - the name reminded Lockwood of so much; mainly, his puppy crush on her when he was younger. He failed to see the appeal now, but platonically, she was wonderful, despite how much she demanded liquorice.

He visited her on the shorelines of the River Thames; it was mainly where she resided, to the most of Lockwood's knowledge. He slipped a bag of liquorice hidden under his coat for her.

Her appearance was slightly disheveled and a straw hat covered the half of her face. 

"Locky!" she croaked, but her voice lacked its usual mirth. In fact, it was incredibly fragile; to put an exclamation mark after it would never properly do it justice. She looked cold, shivering in what appeared to be her agent clothing. Her rapier was still attached to her side.

"You're shaking." Lockwood sat beside her.

"A-am I, Locky?" she hiccupped. She took a deep, shaky breath, then laughed, an echo of bitterness and a sore throat.

"I heard what happened," he said softly. "How?"

"How else, Locky?" she said, less of a question than a horrible revelation. Her voice was terribly sad, full of pain and memories. "It was ghost-touch. I protected myself with an iron cross 'til dawn against the Limbless." Her fists clenched in her skirt. A tear dropped down her cheek - which Lockwood noticed to have fresh, small scars and what looked like to be traces of tears on her slightly muddied face. It was the exact opposite from the pristine, composed Florence he'd known for so long.

"I'm sorry."

"You needn't be."

"Did you get hurt anywhere?"

She shrugged, wincing as she touched her cheek.

"I could-"

"Don't. It'll heal on its own." He wanted to tell her to clean it as well, but he could tell she'd turn down the advice in the same manner.

"Well," Lockwood said, "what are you doing next?"

Her grip tightened on the fabric of her skirt. "I don't know."

"You could train with me," Lockwood offered gently. "I don't have an agency or anything, but-"

"I-I think I'll try that. Thank you, Lockwood."

"Also, I brought these." He handed her the bag of liquorice.

A slight smile appeared from under her hat.

Her swordsmanship was still intact. Lockwood could for sure confirm this after she'd disarmed him 5 times. She'd lost her will, though. She looked pained picking up a rapier and could barely glance at salt bombs. Lockwood didn't ask. It seemed too personal. Over the course of 3 months, nothing had changed. If anything, it seemed to be harder and harder for her to fight properly.

"Locky... I don't think I can do this."

"Do what?" Lockwood knew perfectly well what she was referring to. "You're amazing with your rapier, still."

"This whole... 'agent' thing. I-I don't think I can go back." She was incredibly vulnerable with no snarky remarks or sarcasm in her voice. It hurt him to see her like this. He'd once felt similar, in his pain-filled rage when Jessica died. He couldn't look at ghosts, couldn't bear to think of them. Unlike Florence, however, he'd had rage to direct toward ghosts; she just felt pain.

Lockwood nodded. "You're sure?"

"It's been 3 months. Every time- every time I can still see their bodies next to me. Hear the screams, see the Limbless. I can't do it."

He hesitated, then put a hand on her shoulder. "I understand. But- what will you do?"

"I'll find something, I'm sure."

"I'm always here, Florence. I've been thinking about starting an agency, so if you need anything..."

Florence Bonnard smiled her classic grin. She patted his hair - he took so long gelling it in the morning.... Her blue eyes shone like the sea. "Don't worry yourself, Locky. I've got this."

For months, Florence wandered from thing to thing in search of replacement for being an agent. She hadn't found much. With the Problem raging, agents were in the highest demand, and it was hard to ignore all of the flyers and inquiries looking for one. Lockwood had been concerned she'd find nothing, constantly reminding her of his offer. One thing was clear, though: she was never becoming an agent again. She didn't need to say the words, but it was mutually understood even as Lockwood asked her to train with him.

Slowly, she gravitated toward relic collecting. It exercised her Talent, yet comforted her. She could be free from expectations, and not have to be perfect or clean; she could collect the relics on the River Thames and sell them. It would sustain her and calm her. Most importantly, it was an environment she was comfortable in.

As time went on, her straw hat became faded of color and gained splotches of mud on them. She traded her agent fit for a padded jacket and Wellington boots. It suit the job. For once, maybe she was happy.

"So, you're sure you don't want to become an agent?"

"Locky, the only reason I came was because you said you had liquorice. I'm perfectly happy as a relic woman." She smoothed down her padded jacket and adjusted her signature straw hat.

"I have my license now. I'm recruiting-"

"I'm happy where I am, thank you very much." She took a sip of tea and plopped a liquorice in her mouth.

Lockwood sighed. Florence Bonnard, as always, was impenetrably stubborn. she'd started going by Flo Bones, which was catchy, and fit her relic woman persona. Lockwood respected this. He could see how happy it made her, though not particularly sanitary.  He recalled the day she'd first told him of her new occupation. They'd been sitting on the banks of the River Thames, near where Lockwood had comforted her the morning after tragedy struck her.

"So... you're becoming a Relicwoman? Where will you get the sources?"

"The river has enough," she gestured to the muddy shore of the river. "My Sight's been getting stronger."

"Be careful, Flor-"

"Oh, and Locky, I've started going by Flo Bones - it's quite fitting, don't you think? I like it. It's catchy." She'd lifted her hat, just enough to wink at Lockwood before pulling it down again.

"Well, my offer will always stand, Flo. You're a spectacular agent - you know my address. 35 Portland Row, hasn't changed."

"You haven't an agency to work for, Locky, have you?" Flo mused bluntly.

"Working on the license. I plan to open my own agency, agent run. What d'you reckon I call it? I was thinking 'Lockwood and Company.'"

Flo gave a grunt of approval. "'Lockwood and Co.' It's decent."

"Thanks, Flo."

She'd nodded. "Now go. I can't be seen hanging about the lots of the upper class. See you, Locky."

He pushed the bag of liquorices to her, the memory making him smile sadly. "It's all yours." 

Lockwood couldn't find any agents willing to work for him. Flo, being one of his main friends, was painfully aware of this fact, subject to his forever hanging offer of employment. 

"Oh, cheer up. Don't be lonely. You'll find someone. Lockwood & Co.! It'll be known through all of England." She softened for a second. "Anyway, I have an auction to attend." She stood up, bits of dirt falling from her jacket. "Bye, Locky!" He reached out to her then restrained himself - but she'd already exited 35 Portland Row, shutting the door behind her.

"Bye, Flo." He stared at the closed door, at his slightly outstretched hand. He could only hope she was right, and he'd find someone soon.

#lockwood & co #lockwood and co #anthony lockwood #flo bones #florence bonnard #lockwood #the screaming staircase #lockwood x flo #what is the ship name for them??? #fencing #fluff #jonathan stroud #fanfic #angst #lockwood fluff #lockwood angst #lucy carlyle #george cubbins #*silverspectre

[stingslikeabee]

❝ excuse me dear, i just need to use your back door. ❞ (Roche. WINK WONK. I'm sorry I laughed for 5 minutes about this quote, I had to send it)

the man from uncle sentence starters . accepting

Business had been fairly uneventful that night – movement at the lounge was clearly under control, so she left things under Ava’s care and stepped into the kitchen to talk with Charlie for a while. A guest had ordered some of their rarest and most expensive dishes and she wanted to see them prepared – as someone who liked to cook (but no longer needed to do it), Melissa sometimes enjoyed to just watch it being done.

These requests – they were the reason why she had invested so much in hiring and training people in addition to ensuring a cast of beautiful and charming girls. She wanted to have her establishment famous not only for the quirky costumes and the good time in the rooms upstairs – she wanted to be the #1 entertainment option in all of Wall Market. Ambitious goals, for sure – but slowly, she felt like they were getting somewhere, and her financials were absolutely exciting.

But her attention was suddenly diverted to the kitchen door – a loud crashing noise came from the lounge, enough to be heard over the sizzling of the food on the grill and the occasional blender turned on. Then some additional shouting followed, with furniture tumbling and girls screaming and Melissa moved, getting away from the kitchen counter to return to the main area of the inn.

But before she reached the door, Roche came running from the lounge – he stopped just before he could crash into the madame, his reflexes always astonishing to a normal human being like Melissa. Roche had a devilish grin on his face, his hair just slightly out of place – maybe because of running? – but before she could ask whatever was going on or even when the SOLDIER had arrived, he enveloped her in a hug, dipped her quite dramatically and kissed her passionately on the lips.

Time stopped for her – Melissa’s senses were completely assaulted by Roche, and his effect on her was very much like the one of a powerful drug. Suddenly she could only focus on his scent, on the way he tasted, the warmth of his embrace and how she never, ever wanted for it to stop.

But it came to an end – and as swiftly as he had invaded the kitchen, he brought her back up and a thumb gently caressed her cheek as he smirked and said:

“Excuse me dear, I just need to use your back door.”

“You – what?” but before she could ask for anything else to explain the chaos that had taken over the inn, Roche was gone again – with incredible speed, he darted through the bewildered kitchen staff and left using the back door, followed a couple of seconds later by three suspicious-looking guys and then finally by a couple of the inn’s own security, who stopped running when they realized that Roche (and his pursuers) had left the premises.

“What,” Melissa said in an astonishing cold voice – one that meant her fury was just about to be unleashed if they didn’t have satisfactory answers, “Has just happened?”

“I believe, ma’am, that Roche just, uh, kissed yo-”

“I meant this fucking MESS,” Melissa’s voice was raised then – first sign of her full-on queenly mode. The personnel around recoiled a bit, one of the security guards now having the decency to look ashamed of his earlier words, stepping back. Leo, the supervisor of the bodyguards, cleared his throat and attracted her attention, her gaze simmering with rage.

“My apologies, Mel. Roche came running into the inn and we didn’t really have time to ask what had happened before these guys came running too. They seemed to be trying to get to him – they ignored the girls, but over the course of their chase they knocked over a few things and scared everyone. We… Didn’t really have time to do much.”

“…I see,” she eventually replied, her tone more clipped but controlled now. A few people let out the breath they had been holding and slowly, the kitchen staff resumed their positions and food preparations were carried on normally – she returned to the lounge with her security team and made sure to stop by and to offer a few drinks on the house to the potentially surprised (or scared) guests to make amends.

Later, she texted Roche about what had she just witnessed – but she didn’t receive any explanations until the night was over and she walked into her own room – only to find the SOLDIER himself by her open window, arms crossed over his chest and a smirk on his face that would be infuriating on anyone else.

On Roche, however, it just defused Melissa’s defenses completely.

“I thought I should drop by and apologize in person… Again,” he said, in a reference to their first meeting after some commotion accidently created at the inn during his inaugural visit to the establishment under her management, “How cross are you right now?”

Melissa did not respond – she merely kicked off her heels and let her hair down, walking over to Roche with decided and quick steps before wrapping her arms around his neck. He was quick to pick her up in his arms and take her to bed, both crashing on the mattress in a tangle of limbs and desperate kisses. Once he pulled apart, however – he was still smiling.

And the madame loved him for it.

“A little bit less angry than a moment ago. Keep going… And I might just forgive you completely.”

“As my queen commands.”

#Roche #shinrasfirst #the man from uncle starters #replied #I have no excuses for this #but the scene just hit me #like in Tom and Jerry when you have these endless chases #and they ignore anything else on their path #just overall chaotic energy and one very public kiss XD

[ionlyspeakinmyheroacademia]

Late Nights and Lavender Tea

series masterlist ☕️ 

Pairing: Izuku Midoriya x Ochako Uraraka

Warnings: Some lauguage, gets a lil steamy at some parts, slow burn, MAJOR SPOILERS

Summary: After a year of friendship, Uraraka realizes that she is totally in love with her best friend, Midoriya Izuku. There's just one slight problem. She's in a happy, committed relationship with Iida Tenya.Or is she? As their relationship progresses, she sees a side of Tenya that scares her- and she wonders if she made the right choice to get with him in the first place. And her resurfacing feelings for Izuku aren't helping her case, not in the slightest.Midoriya Izuku always avoids romantic relationships, but he simply cannot avoid his feelings for Uraraka Ochako. She's taken, but Izuku can't help but hopelessly pine after her. After seemingly the millionth late-night talk over tea, he realizes that he's head over heels in love with her. He's in love with a girl who's off-limits. He can swallow his feelings for her sake, of course.That's okay with Izuku. If she's happy, he's happy for her. It's really okay, honestly.Teenage relationships are hard. That's one thing they've both realized.

Notes: This is my first fic, let me know what you think! (cross posted on ao3)

Chapter 5: Out of the Frying Pan

Ochako was exhausted. She’d been up since before they had gone out to patrol yesterday, and they had left pretty early, considering Ryukyu usually didn’t even get up until noon. Nejire Chan, on the other hand, had them up and working at six AM. She had gone straight from patrol to taking on the group of low-level villains with Tsu, Nejire, and Ryukyu, where she had been kidnapped when they left her to keep watch. 

She shuddered, pushing thoughts of the night before away. It was too soon to think about it. She looked over at Tenya, still asleep on the chair next to her bed. He was so peaceful as he slept, the anger gone from his features. Outside the door, she could see her parents talking with the doctors and Ryukyu and Nejire, who had just arrived, and Tsu burst into the room, flying over to Ochako, throwing her arms around her. 

“I was so worried about you!” Tsu cried, tears falling rapidly, as she sobbed into Ochako’s hospital gown. 

“Shh, shh,” Ochako soothed, rubbing her friend’s back consolingly. 

“I should never have left you alone-”

“Tsu, it’s not your fault. It’s my own fault, I volunteered to stay by myself. It’s my own damn fault that I was too stupid to realize I needed help.” Before Tsu could tell her she was wrong, Ryukyu and Nejire hurried in, and Nejire, not unlike Tsu, pulled Ochako into a hug. 

“Are you okay? What did they do to you? Who saved you again? Was it that guy in the chair? Isn’t that your class rep? Oooh, is he your boyfriend? I could have sworn it was the green-haired problem child. Deku right?” Nejire, as always, erupted into a million questions, leaving Ochako flustered.

“Don’t suffocate her, Nejire,” Ryukyu scolded, and set a hand on Ochako’s shoulder. “Ochako, I’m so sorry I put you in danger. As your supervisor, the blame falls on me for your capture. I'm so sorry for putting you through that.”

“Ryukyu-” Ochako started, when Tenya sat up groggily, turning to the women in the room, looking confused before he registered what was going on. “Hey sleepyhead,” she teased, smiling at him warmly.

“What time is it?” he asked sleepily, taking his glasses off to rub his eye. 

“Around seven,” Ochako’s father said as he walked into the room, followed by her mother, both of them holding two cups of coffee.  

“Would you like one?” Ochako’s mother asked Ryukyu, who accepted the caffeine gratefully because she wasn’t used to being up at this hour. 

“No, thank you,” Nejire answered when Ochako’s father asked if she wanted his other cup. “I have enough energy, at least that’s what Ryukyu says.” 

“Well, alright. Iida, would you like it? I have sugar here if you want anything,” her dad asked, turning to her boyfriend.

“Yes, thank you sir,” Tenya replied, taking the steaming cup from her father, blowing it off before taking a sip.   

“Anyway, Ochako, honey,” her mom said, coming over to stand next to the bed, “You’re cleared to be discharged so that they can get you to Recovery Girl. That way you can be back in the dorms by tonight.”

Ochako nodded, smiling warmly at her mother. “Okay, mom,” she answered, as her mom reached down to ruffle her daughter’s hair. 

“We’ll give you guys some time alone,” Ryukyu said, putting an arm around both Nejire and Tsu, and walking out of the room. 

“I’m going to head out too, if that’s alright, Ochako,” Tenya smiled softly at her, leaning over to kiss her forehead. “I have to report back to Manual.”

“Of course, see you later Tenya,” she answered, returning his smile. 

“He’s an okay kid,” her dad said, watching Tenya walk down the hall, putting his helmet back on. Ochako didn’t respond, just watched him walk away, thinking about what her friends had told her a few days before. 

“You okay, baby?” her mom asked gently, tucking Ochako’s hair behind her ear and turning her daughter’s face to look in her eyes. Ochako shook her head, tears leaking out of the corners of her eyes, the mask she had put up to hide her pain tumbling down with those three little words. “Aww, sweetie, shh, shh.”

“I was so scared, Mom. I didn’t think I would ever see you guys again, I…” she choked out, sobbing as her parents threw their arms around her, “I thought I was going to die all alone, tied up in a old warehouse, with no way to be heard or seen, I thought I was going to die, and no one would know what happened to me, you guys would have lost your only daughter, and I would have never gotten to tell you I love you.”

Her parents soothed her as she sobbed into their shirts, whispering calming words to her, rocking her back and forth, kissing her hair, and her mother crying with her. 

“We love you Ochako, we’re so glad you’re okay,” her father said, his voice shaking, and her mother nodding, sobbing at the thought of her daughter dying.

“If it weren’t for Deku, I’d be dead,” she looked at her parents in the eyes, “I owe him my life.”

“The next time I see him he’s getting a huge hug, make sure to warn him,” he mother said, her voice muffled by Ochako’s hospital gown, and Ochako and her father laughed. 

“I will mom,” she replied.

“Anyway, I brought donuts,” her father burst out suddenly. “I didn’t have enough to share with everyone, so I didn’t get them out when your friends were here, but I got you chocolate creme, your favorite!”

“Aw, dad, you didn’t have to do that!” Ochako exclaimed, but took the donut anyway, biting into the fluffy pastry, savoring the sweetness. 

“Anything for my favorite daughter,” he laughed, ruffling her hair. She smiled as he passed a donut to her mother, and all three of them squished on the bed, catching up before Ochako had to go back to school.

…

“That should do it for today,” Recovery Girl sighed, “I couldn’t fully fix your leg without using all your energy, so you’ll need a crutch until tomorrow, and I’ll fix it in the morning, all right sweetie?”

“Yes, thank you so much ma’am.”

“Your welcome dear,” Recovery Girl replied, smiling at Ochako, and handing her a lollipop. “Make sure you’re careful with that leg tonight, and don’t do anything to raise your stress levels. You need to rest, especially after what happened last night.”

Ochako nodded, unwrapping the sucker and putting it in her mouth. 

“Anywho, I’ll see you in the morning dear.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Ochako said, and stood, reaching for the crutch, and started slowly out of the room, adjusting to how the crutches sat under her arm, rubbing uncomfortably, causing her to wince. She made her way to the dorms, admiring the sunset, savoring her time alone, or at least she thought she was. 

The events of the night before had planted fear in her heart, growing into paranoia, and Ochako felt herself looking over her shoulder constantly. This was the first time she’d been alone since the capture, and it was starting to dawn on her that she wasn’t okay, not in the slightest. She was terrified, in a way she had never been before. 

I hate this feeling, I don’t want to live the rest of my life in fear. I’ll never be able to do anything, she thought, rubbing circles on her temples, stopping to adjust her crutches. It was then when she heard the sound in the trees behind her. 

It was a quiet noise, only a small crack in a branch, but she jumped, landing painfully on her still injured leg. Her heart raced, staring at the trees, hoping it was nothing, only a squirrel or a large bird. She groaned inwardly, turning back to the dorms. I’m such an idiot, she scolded herself, UA is heavily guarded, I’m perfectly safe here.

But no matter what she told herself, she was still frightened, and she hurried to Heights Alliance with her heart in her throat, moving as fast as her injured leg would let her. 

When she reached the building, she breathed a sigh of relief, and composed herself before pushing the door open. 

“She’s back!” she heard Mina cry, and all at once, she was swarmed by her classmates, questions being thrown at her left and right.

“All right, everyone, move out of the way, Ochako’s boyfriend coming through,” Tenya called from the back of the group, and all of their classmates moved out of the way reluctantly, and Tenya made his way towards her.

“Hey,” she said, kissing him lightly on the cheek, and smiling up at him. 

“You okay?” he said softly, so only she could hear, keeping the conversation between them. 

“Yeah, just tired, Recovery Girl took a lot of my energy healing my injuries, and she still has more to heal tomorrow.”

“Do you want to go sit down?”

“Sure, that sounds nice,” she replied, and he helped her over to the couch neighboring the one where Todoroki and Sora were sitting, Todoroki’s head in Sora’s lap as his boyfriend played with his hair.

She leaned against Tenya’s chest, closing her eyes and trying to drone out the conversations of her classmates. She let her mind wander, thinking back to the other night, with the girls, remembering what they had said. Tenya had been acting normal, back to the way he’d been before the Sports Festival, before everything had gone downhill. Ochako had never been in a relationship, so she really didn’t know what to expect, but she knew something was wrong with her and Tenya’s relationship, but she cared about him too much to let him go.

“Why are you so tired babe?” she heard Sora ask Todoroki.

“Well, I got like, two hours of sleep, thanks to Midoriya. I covered for him after he went and broke the rules, and ended up getting chewed out all night, and when Midoriya finally got there, dear ol’ dad and Burnin lectured him. And of course when I tried to leave I got in trouble, so I didn’t go to bed until at least six-thirty this morning,” Todoroki answered, and Ochako sat up, looking at him quizzically.

“What do you mean? What did Deku do?” Ochako asked, genuinely confused.

“He saved you. We had specific instructions not to, but he was distraught, he said he really needed to make sure you were safe,” Todoroki said, and then turned to her, puzzled. “Why, did he not tell you?”

“That little shit,” she said under her breath, and stood up, positioning her crutch under her arm and hobbling towards the elevator. 

“Where are you going?” Tenya called.

“To give him a piece of my mind!” she yelled back, hitting the up button and tapping her good foot impatiently. He was in for a hell of lecture, that was for sure. 

Izuku had been studying when Ochako burst into his room, fuming. 

“Hey! You’re back! How are you-”

“Uh uh, I have a bone to pick with you,” she growled, limping over to him, and putting her free hand on her hip. “Izuku, what were you thinking! You could be expelled for defying a direct order like that! Do you not remember what happened last year with Bakugou? I won’t let you get expelled for me!”

“What was I supposed to do, Ochako? I couldn’t let you get killed, I couldn’t. I know I didn’t follow the rules, but someone once told me, ‘Meddling where you don’t need to is the essence of being a hero’. I couldn’t let you die, I just couldn’t, and I’m sorry if that makes you angry, but I saved your life, and I’m proud of that. I had to save you Ochako,” he said, bursting into tears, hastily wiping them away. She stood there in shock for a moment, staring at him as tears started to fill her own eyes. She stumbled forward, and threw her arms around his shaking shoulders, both of them sobbing into each other’s shirts. 

“I’m sorry Izuku, I just don’t want you to throw your future away for me,” she cried, her anger ebbing away as they held each other.

“I’m not sorry,” he whispered, burying his face in her hair, even though he knew deep down he shouldn’t. “I’ll never be sorry for saving you.” I love you, his heart was repeating over and over, and he wanted to scream those three little words as loud as he could, but he bit them back. She was with Iida, she had a boyfriend. He stifled another sob, and hugged her tighter, trying to commit her to memory. They stayed there for a good while, just hugging each other tightly, trying to hold each other’s sadness in, patching up the holes the two of them had left in each other’s hearts. 

…

“So,” Izuku asked, sniffling. “How are you feeling?” The two of them had been sitting in his room for a while now, after breaking down in front of each other. They had sat in silence for a good five minutes, Ochako sitting in his desk chair, and Izuku sitting rigidly on the edge of his bed. 

“I’m exhausted, I mean, I already was, and then I cried, so now I’m extra tired,” she answered, laughing lightly, cutting the laugh off with a yawn.

“Do you want to lay down? I need to keep studying anyway, and it’s getting late,” he suggested, immediately cursing himself. You idiot, his brain screamed at him.

“Do you mind?” she asked, “I could use some sleep.”

“Of course not, here,” he jumped up awkwardly, moving over to the desk as she shuffled over to the bed, slipping her slippers off and getting under the covers. He turned the lights off, leaving on the lamp on his desk, and sat down, trying to distract himself from the fact that Ochako Uraraka was in his bed. They sat in awkward silence for a few minutes, and Izuku stared blankly at his notebook, doodling absently, anything to distract him from her.

“Izuku?” he heard her whisper from behind him. 

“Yeah?” he said quietly, turning to look at her, and saw tears shining in her eyes. “Hey, what’s wrong?” He moved to sit on the bed next to her, and brushed her hair from her eyes gently. 

“I’m scared ‘Zu,” she whispered, tears spilling over. “I don’t want to sleep, I’m scared I’ll have nightmares again.” He reached over and wiped her tears away. 

“Shhh, it’ll be okay Ochako, don’t worry.”

“I haven’t slept since this morning, and I didn’t sleep for long, I had these terrible nightmares…” she wiped her tears away hastily. “Sorry, this is the second time I’ve cried in front of you in an hour. God, I’m so pathetic.”

“No you’re not,” he reassured, setting a light hand on her knee. 

“Midoriya, have you seen-” he heard a voice from behind him, and a swift intake of breath. 

Izuku turned around, and smiled at Iida. “Hey Iida, what’s up?”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” Iida roared, storming over to Izuku and ripping him off the bed, picking him up and throwing him by the collar of his shirt into the All Might covered wall.

“Whoa, what’s going on?” Izuku said after grunting in pain. “Why the hell did you thro-” He was cut off by Iida’s fist colliding into his face.

“Tenya!” Ochako screamed from behind them, trying to stand up, reaching for her crutch. “What is wrong with you! What are you doing?”

Izuku slid to the floor, pinching his nose that was gushing blood. He looked up to see Iida, his eyes full of pure malice, pulling his arm back for another punch. Izuku prepared himself for the blow, but it never came. He opened his eyes to see Ochako’s hand on Iida’s arm, pulling it back. Iida swiveled around to face her. 

“Stop, please, stop,” she whimpered, trying to reason with him, but Izuku could see his arm twitching. He tried to make a sound, but he was too late- Iida had already slapped Ochako across the face.

#my hero academia #bnha #bnha fanfic #my hero academia fanfic #midoriya izuku x uraraka ochako #midoriya izuku #uraraka ochako #slow burn #spoilers

[flojocabron]

12/05/18: It was a bittersweet day today. I found the usual great things at the local fleamarkets and Mexican customs found me too, as I tried to make it home. Lemme show you the goods and then the bad news at the end. You tell me if it was just timing or bad luck. The first get was Dark City on bluray for $3.00. After that, hidden under some table, a casefull of X-Men comics! I looked through them and the guy initially said, 4 for $1.00. But he changed his mind and offered $10 for it all! Of course I bought them! A quick trip to the car and it was back to searching! The next stuff was scattered all over, but I searched thoroughly. 11 manga, a big mousepad, that ps2 game, apollo 13 DVD, a gamegear baseball game and some more magic cards. I got a great offer for everything, $10 dollars! It was an impulse buy, but I found a little baggy of Lego dimensions blocks for $2.00. In the next stall I found a big binder full of 90s PC games, original and backup copies. I saw some familiar logos, and for $4.00 I found disc only copies of sewer shark sega CD, Supreme Warrior sega CD, and Blood Omen legacy of Kain ps1and thrown in for free to the lot was that ninja turtles toy! As i was getting ready to leave and pay for Dark Souls 360 for $4.00, I got a call from a friend who wanted me to find him a cheap tablet. I didn't see any there, so I went to the other fleamarket. I didn't see any there either. But I'm glad I went! As I found a dreamcast with a power cable for $8.00! And after that, I found taped together: Megaman legends and Megaman x5! I snatched that up real quick! I peeled them apart, and sadly MMX5 had a metal gear game in it. But Legends was complete! I already have at home MMX5 disc only, so I could use the case. I asked how much for both. $10, The lady replied. Sold! It was already midday and after getting something to eat, I went back to the first fleamarket again. Towards the end, they pretty much give stuff away. I found a place with a $5.00 bag deal. The bag was a good size and so was the stuff. I found some DK bongos and gamecube dance mat. A new/old CD burner, some DVDs, games, and other random things and junk. I was giddy and pleased with my haul. That is until I made it to the Mexican border and got the red inspection buzzer! Damn. A customs officer told me to open my trunk. I could see his eyes light up with money signs as he did his job. He gave me the same scare tactics of people caught importing too much goods. I knew then and there, I was fucked. They had to call their supervisor and give me their estimate over the value of the goods I had. I told them, these are used goods and I didn't pay retail. But they didn't care. They slapped me good with an $800 peso ($41 US) fine. They said my stuff was worth $247 US dollars and taxed me the equivalent of 16%. Fuckers. I've gotten buzzed in the past with more things them this and they've let me go no problems. But since its the holidays, they know they can get away with charging people whatever they want. They just want their cut. And cut me they did. And so ends another day for this collector.

#video games #videogame collecting #fleamarket #comic books #manga #dvd collecting #ps2 #xbox 360 #sega cd #dreamcast #megaman legends #ps1

[imxthexhandler]

I love you, honestly and it hurts seeing you like this and I feel like I can't do anything. All I can say is that I've known you for years and I can say FOR A FACT, that you are an amazing writer. You have so much on your plate like work and loneliness. And you're so overworked that you must feel like you can't reach out to anyone else. But I've always been here and I've ALWAYS loved you. I'm sorry I don't call or text as much, but I should. You should hear how amazing you are and have been. Pt1

( @theserpentsjester​)

OOC: Originally, I wasn’t going to reply to this publicly, because at first, I felt it was meant to be private, but I thought I’d just…go ahead and respond, in case anyone else was wondering.

P.S. This said this was “part 1″ of your message, but I never got a “part 2″ or anything else, just FYI.

TLDR: The answer is nope, not alright in the head at all. Not gonna kill me though, so don’t freak out.

For those that want to know more, the rest is under the cut.

Okay, so I’m not 100% sure what the fuck is up with this year, but my mental state hasn’t been this bad in a while. Even when I usually go through my depressive spells throughout most years, I can usually pull myself out of it. Even if it takes me a long time.

I don’t know if it’s because I’m still struggling to come to grips with a family friend being murdered, another friend (whom I…guess I had stronger feelings for than I realized) having passed away from natural causes, my brother’s deployment, my father having another serious health scare, or my supervisor getting cancer and me suddenly having to take a much larger/more stressful role with my job, but just… Yeah, 2019 has not been my year.

I’ve been so physically and mentally exhausted that I just come home and sleep most nights. I barely stay awake much past dinner. Even being too tired to cry. It’s the main reason I haven’t been writing, even more so than the usual bullshit of I just don’t feel good enough. That’s still there, too, but it’s mainly just been the exhaustion.

Shit, since my supervisor has been out for her surgery and recovery, I think I’ve gotten….two lunch breaks? And that’s in three weeks.

So, yeah, I’ve been really exhausted.

That’s just the work side of stuff, too. Not even going into details about my self-loathing, the fact I’m so stressed out with everything in life that I barely have been able to keep down food. Granted, I have no desire to kill myself, I can’t say I haven’t thought about dying.

And I know I’m not alone. I know I have a lot of friends–many here–that I can go to. That’s the sucky part of depression. I know I’m being illogical. I know I’m not alone. I know people care, but…I just feel like I’m being a burden. I logically know I’m not, but just…I can’t seem to make that voice shut up, though. I really hate it.

So now I’m...basically “faking it till I make it”? If that makes any sense. Yes, I realize it’s not healthy, but hey, you gotta do what you gotta do to survive, right?

[sending-the-message]

I'm still having nightmares about the day I found the door to Hell by Aaron_Abysmal

The nightmares have started again. 

Hell, I don't know that they ever went away. But I'm remembering bits and pieces of the horror again when I wake, covered in cold sweat, goosebumps spread across my arms and legs like a rash. Two nights ago I screamed so loudly that I woke myself up. 

I'm just an old man now, mind and body used up by years of manual labor and hard alcohol. I just celebrated my 78th birthday last week. When you're young you never think something could fuck you up for that long. 

You see, I used to work for the Water Department in a small city when I was in my early twenties. 

For a kid pretty much fresh out of high school, the pay was decent and the work wasn't hard if you were good with your hands. Every once in a while you'd have to go fix a pumping station, maybe, or unclog a sewer drain after a hard rain, but other than that it was easy and uneventful work. Until the day I saw the door to Hell.

That particular day I remember coming in and seeing my supervisor, Al Nell, buckling his utility belt. A green hardhat with a headlamp sat on the table next to him. That was never a good sign. 

"What's up, boss?" I asked, dreading his answer before he gave it. These kinds of work orders came up from time to time when the canal overflowed or the sewers backed up, and nobody liked doing them. 

"Good, you're here," Al grunted. "We got a main pump on the fritz. Jansen's still out sick, Denton and Gorcizca are on call, and Brewer's still on his honeymoon 'til next week. Looks like you, me and Gordon are going down on a little field trip." 

I opened my locker with a sigh. It was going to be one fuck-all of a day. 

Nobody liked going down into the sewers: the smell was awful, it was cramped and dark, and God forbid you got lost down there. The sewer system was old (very old) and somewhere along the course of time some shitpot had lost the blueprints. It was like going into a dark, shit-covered labyrinth without a map. Actually, that's exactly what it was. 

Jimmy Gordon came out of the bathroom as I was tightening my utility belt. I could hear the faint sound of the toilet flushing as the door closed behind him.

"Just sent some supplies down, in case you guys need lunch while we're down there."

I shot him the bird. 

"Gordon quit fuckin' around. It's going to be a long day and I want to spend as little of it as possible wandering around in the dark with you assholes." Al said. 

We put on our hardhats, I grabbed our enormous metal toolbox, and we piled into the utility truck. 

We drove down to Pumphouse #3, which was conveniently located amidst an area of lush overgrowth of tangles and bushes that ran adjacent to downtown. We did a few tests and located the pumping station that seemed to be the problem. From there we marched down through the tangles and blackberry bushes and found it just a little way off from the river. 

"Weird," Jimmy said as we approached the concrete cylinder. "The cap's already off it. You think Denton or Gorcizca already made the call?" 

"Fat chance," Al said and spat out a stringy glob of brown chewing tobacco. "They're laying pipe for a new residential off Broadway." 

"Maybe some kids were fuckin' around?" I suggested. 

"Who cares what moved it, let's get down there and fix it." Al started climbing down the steel ladder into the pumping station. Jimmy and I exchanged amused glances and then followed suit, me going first then Jimmy. 

The pump was fucked, all right. For one, the rotors were all clogged up with thick mats of long orange hair. That alone should have been enough to prompt us to find out just what the hell had been down here. But that wasn't all. 

A few feet away from the pump, in the mouth of the drainage pipe that ran from the pumping station into the sewer system, was a small red shoe no bigger than my hand. A child's shoe. 

"How in the hell did a kid get that pump cover off and end up down here?" Jimmy asked, his voice a mix of astonishment and unease.

"Doesn't matter how they got down here," Al said as he picked the tiny sneaker up grimly. "What matters now is that we find 'em and hope to God they're in one piece when we do. Looks like they lost a good lot of hair in that pump there." 

His eyes trailed to the tangle of hair stuck in the pump, and then back to the shoe.

"Carlton get the pump up and running. Gordon and I are on the search party." 

I nodded. Jimmy's face was pale and solemn. They clicked on the utility lights on their helmets and disappeared into the darkness of the sewer pipe. 

It took me about 30 minutes to splice the wires that were shorted and clean out all the shit clogging the pump. When I finally managed to pull out the knotted hair I found clumps of bloody scalp came with it. During that time I kept looking toward the opening of the pipe, expecting Al and Jimmy to come back carrying a scared and crying kid. But they never did. I finished up with the pump, packed up all the tools, closed the tool box. Staring into the black O of the sewer pipe I drew a long, deep breath. The newly repaired pump began to whir softly behind me. 

I drew the flashlight from my utility belt and entered the narrow sewer pipe.

My boss had been with the Water Dept. for ages, and he'd probably been down in those sewers a dozen times. Nell told me stories of people he'd worked with before that got lost down there and never came back. Just gone. "They belong to the sewers now." He'd say solemnly. "You go down there, you'd do well to take after Hansel and leave yourself a trail of breadcrumbs to find your way back out, or you'll belong to ‘em, too."

I found their trail easy enough. Every fifty yards or so I'd find a burning fusee producing red light, and a large orange X spraypainted at every fork to indicate which tunnel they'd taken. It was dead silent down there. I heard not the sound of scurrying rats or trickling water, but the air was electric like the atmosphere right before a big storm. They'd gone deep - much deeper than I was comfortable with. At one point I came to three pipes, each spewing clean water, greywater, and sewage. And don't you know there was a big orange X above the shitpipe. I couldn't see what made them take this winding course, it seemed too specific for a search. 

I sat the toolbox down, rolled up my pant legs, held my breath, and squeezed into the pipe. It sloped down deep. Real deep. As I descended I couldn't help but wonder just how far under the city I was, and who the hell would run pipe this deep. But as I got farther I could hear them talking excitedly. I came out of the tunnel, it wasn't as much a pipe anymore as it was an underpass, and couldn't believe what I saw. It was some grand underground cathedral, bigger than a ballroom. A hundred yards away I could see Nell and Gordon hovering around something.

"What the hell is this place?" I shouted.

"Carlton! Come check this shit out. Ain't never seen nothing like it." Gordon hollered back. Al's face was pale and scared. 

It was a door. A small oak door, maybe three feet high, big enough for a child or a dwarf. There was a big iron X across it, and a strange symbol that looked like a devil. A greenish-yellow light glowed brightly under the door. They'd found the door to Hell itself. 

"Damn thing's locked." Gordon muttered as he shook the handle. "Whaddaya thinks in there?" 

"I'm not sure we want to know." Al replied softly. He pointed to a pile of small bones at the foot of the door. If there was any doubt as to their nature, the tiny human skull that rested on top of the pile settled it.

"How'd you guys find this place?" I asked. This wasn’t something Waterworks put in. This was something else entirely. Some kind of lair. The atmosphere down there was charged and intense, and I swear I could feel the presence of evil itself.

"We heard a little girl crying once we made it in a little way. We kept calling out to her, trying to catch up to her, but she just kept saying 'help me' and running deeper into the damn sewer. Strange thing is, we followed her cries all the way here and now she's nowhere to be found."

"Where's the toolbox Carlton? I wanna see if I can jimmy the-" Gordon suddenly uttered a shrill scream that echoed off the stony walls of the chamber. 

I followed his gaze up the wall. Descending the domed stone wall toward us was an enormous scorpion at least eight feet in length. Its hollow exoskeleton glowed a translucent silvery-blue in the shadows. The inner claws of its mouth twitched and clamped with excitement. Al began running backwards, but Jimmy stood there petrified. 

"Run Gordon!" I yelled. Bemused, he turned and looked at me and then back to the hideous creature that had just climbed down the wall. 

Jimmy made as if to hit it with his flashlight, but a giant glowing pincer caught him at the forearm and snipped his arm clean off in one motion. A jet of bright blood sprayed onto the tiny glowing door. Jimmy shrieked in horrified agony, and then the scorpion's tail pistoned forward and its orange stinger pierced through his chest with a wet thud. 

I'm ashamed to admit it, but we fled. Turned and ran like cowards, and left Gordon there to die. I'm not sure what two men could have done against a scorpion as big as a pickup truck, but I'm still ashamed nonetheless. 

We scuttled back up the way we'd came and found orange Xs sprayed at all four intersections of the fork, like someone was trying to throw us off track. 

"What the hell, Carlton?" Al wailed. 

"I didn't do this. It wasn't like that earlier."

"C'mon, we came in right so we'll go back left." He pointed to the far left pipe.

"We came out of one of those middle pipes. We came out right, but not all the way." 

"Damnit boy, I know where I'm going. Now come on!" He grabbed my arm fiercely, but I pulled back.

"Al, I swear to you we came through one of the two in the middle. Look, there’s the toolbox." I pointed to our heavy-duty box sitting in front of two of the middle pipes.

"Suit yourself but I'm getting the hell out of here." He turned and went down the pipe on our far left. I watched him go, staring from him to the semicircle of orange Xs to the toolbox, and then picked one of the middle pipes. That was the last time I ever saw Al Nell.

Maybe Al was right, but still to this day I don't think so. Regardless, I wandered around in that damp, dark and smelly labyrinth and never saw another orange X. Some intersections I came to looked familiar, and I kept going the best I could remember, and when I couldn't remember I went with what felt right.

I'm not sure just how long I was down there but I suspect it was two or three days. Lost in that dark, wet warren I thought I would starve to death, never to see daylight again. At one point, I came to a big pile of our dead fusees, like someone had gone and gathered them all up and heaped them together. By then I was tired and scared and thirsty. I sat down right there with my flashlight and slept for a while in the muck.

I awoke to the sound of Al shrieking somewhere in the distance. His screams seemed to float down there in the dark, echoing from every surrounding pipe. The blood-curdling sounds came in bursts and lasted for several minutes before they finally stopped. I'll never forget hiding there in the dark listening to those shrill screams of agony. Not until the day I die. 

I sat there fixed to the damp and filthy ground, clutching my flashlight as a rat scurried past me. I don't know how long passed, minutes or hours, before then I heard something slinking down the sewer pipe towards me. 

Plop. Squish.

Plop. Squish.

Plop.

"Carl-ton," I heard Al croak from the darkness. But what came out of that pipe wasn't Al. It was a little girl with matted orange hair, a faded grey dress speckled with spots of dark green mold, and a missing shoe. The top part of her scalp was missing.

"Are you okay little girl?" I asked and got to my feet uneasily.

"I told them there were no monsters in the sewer, Mister. They bet me two bucks I wouldn't touch the bottom of the well."

There was something off about her calm demeanor in this setting. She smiled and extended a tiny pale hand toward me. I went toward her to take it, but stopped when she whispered:

"I won the bet... but I guess monsters are real after all."

That was when I realized, even with my headlight blaring on her, she cast no shadow. Her eyes became cloudy and white, and there was only purple gore where her throat had once been. She started laughing madly but it wasn't the sound of a little girl's laugh. It was deep and booming - the sound of a demon.

"No!" I shouted and threw my flashlight at her head. I turned and ran as fast as I could, twisting and winding down pipes blindly, ducking or crawling in some places. Eventually I saw light up ahead. I went toward it with the desperation of a prisoner with freedom in sight. It was a pumping station. I crawled out of the grimy pipe and gripped the steel ladder that led to my freedom. I risked one last glance back into the dark sewer and saw a pair of enormous yellow cat eyes staring back at me and then I got the fuck out of there.

I packed my shit up that day and headed as far south as I could afford to go. I didn't stop until I was out of money and then kept going. I only ever had one cop question me about what happened once I set up residence in Louisiana, and they didn't sound very interested. A couple of quick questions and then he abruptly wished me a good day. I don't know if they ever found Al but something tells me not. He belongs to the sewers now.

I had night terrors for years. I drank a fifth of whisky every night just to get to sleep. Even then I couldn't sleep unless every light in the room was lit, and I refused to go anywhere remotely dark or cramped. Nyctophobia and claustrophobia the doctors called it. I found odd jobs in manual labor here and there doing electrical patchwork or building fences or painting. But never plumbing. Then one day, the nightmares just stopped completely like someone had flipped a switch.

I'm still not sure what was down there. Maybe it was some kind of Pandora's Box, full of horrors, or maybe we found the door to Hell itself burried down there beneath the city. My heart tells me it's the latter.

Last night I dreamt I was back in those dreadful sewers. I came into that hellish mausoleum and saw Gordon’s skeleton surrounded by the tattered green rags of his uniform. And then Hell's door swung open. I awoke screaming so violently my throat hurt and found I pissed the bed.

As far as I can remember, I haven't had a nightmare about what I saw that day in over 30 years... and now they've come back.

#reddit #nosleep #scary #story

[flojocabron]

12/05/18: It was a bittersweet day today. I found the usual great things at the local fleamarkets and Mexican customs found me too, as I tried to make it home. Lemme show you the goods and then the bad news at the end. You tell me if it was just timing or bad luck. The first get was Dark City on bluray for $3.00. After that, hidden under some table, a casefull of X-Men comics! I looked through them and the guy initially said, 4 for $1.00. But he changed his mind and offered $10 for it all! Of course I bought them! A quick trip to the car and it was back to searching! The next stuff was scattered all over, but I searched thoroughly. 11 manga, a big mousepad, that ps2 game, apollo 13 DVD, a gamegear baseball game and some more magic cards. I got a great offer for everything, $10 dollars! It was an impulse buy, but I found a little baggy of Lego dimensions blocks for $2.00. In the next stall I found a big binder full of 90s PC games, original and backup copies. I saw some familiar logos, and for $4.00 I found disc only copies of sewer shark sega CD, Supreme Warrior sega CD, and Blood Omen legacy of Kain ps1and thrown in for free to the lot was that ninja turtles toy! As i was getting ready to leave and pay for Dark Souls 360 for $4.00, I got a call from a friend who wanted me to find him a cheap tablet. I didn't see any there, so I went to the other fleamarket. I didn't see any there either. But I'm glad I went! As I found a dreamcast with a power cable for $8.00! And after that, I found taped together: Megaman legends and Megaman x5! I snatched that up real quick! I peeled them apart, and sadly MMX5 had a metal gear game in it. But Legends was complete! I already have at home MMX5 disc only, so I could use the case. I asked how much for both. $10, The lady replied. Sold! It was already midday and after getting something to eat, I went back to the first fleamarket again. Towards the end, they pretty much give stuff away. I found a place with a $5.00 bag deal. The bag was a good size and so was the stuff. I found some DK bongos and gamecube dance mat. A new/old CD burner, some DVDs, games, and other random things and junk. I was giddy and pleased with my haul. That is until I made it to the Mexican border and got the red inspection buzzer! Damn. A customs officer told me to open my trunk. I could see his eyes light up with money signs as he did his job. He gave me the same scare tactics of people caught importing too much goods. I knew then and there, I was fucked. They had to call their supervisor and give me their estimate over the value of the goods I had. I told them, these are used goods and I didn't pay retail. But they didn't care. They slapped me good with an $800 peso ($41 US) fine. They said my stuff was worth $247 US dollars and taxed me the equivalent of 16%. Fuckers. I've gotten buzzed in the past with more things them this and they've let me go no problems. But since its the holidays, they know they can get away with charging people whatever they want. They just want their cut. And cut me they did. And so ends another day for this collector.

#video games #videogame collecting #fleamarket #comic books #manga #dvd collecting #ps2 #xbox 360 #sega cd #dreamcast #megaman legends #ps1