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gallusrostromegalus · 7 months

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The Van Has Officially Declared It Spooky Season

---

I've got my parent's van for the week and it seems determined to establish my status as The Local Cryptid by terrorizing an innocent 7-11 clerk.

...I might need to back up a bit.

My mother is an eminently sensible woman who knows herself well, and when The Plauge hit, she knew she'd need some sort of mentally and physically engaging craft project to keep herself from going insane and massacring the local zoning and water management boards (even if they have it coming). So she and Dad acquired a utility van and converted it into a camper van because while they love camping, they're past the age where their joints and immune systems will tolerate sleeping on the cold ground in a nylon tent.

They did a terrific job of it and my mom taught herself woodworking and carpentry and now the van has it's own cabinets, fold-away dining table, and removable queen-sized bed with memory foam mattress. My Dad was already a computer engineer, but he learned the dark magics of automotive software and electronics to install after-market backup cameras, a media player that would take a terabyte hard drive and a solar-powered battery and outlet so they could wake up and just turn on the kettle and griddle for breakfast without having to exit the van into a cold morning on an empty stomach.

Truly, the height of Camping Luxury.

My parents are both in their mid-seventies and my primary life goal is to be at least half as cool and hale as they are when I get old.

Anyway, they take it out at least a dozen times a year and it works fabulously, but, being as I am on good terms with my parents and also finishing the process of moving house, I've been borrowing it to move large and cumbersome objects that will not fit in the back of my equally lovely but minuscule Honda hatchback.

It's a Great Van. Very easy and comfortable to drive. Stunningly good MPG for it's size. The best cruise control I've ever had in a car.

It's just also. Quirky. Mischievous, even.

---

If this van has a fault its that it bears the unfortunate affliction that all lightly used white utility vans have in that the combination of an utter lack of branding features and the large dent/scrape I accidentally put on it while trying to escape a Denny's last Thanksgiving means that this vehicle is one addition of a Badly Spray-Painted "FREE CANDY" on the side away from being the sort of vehicle you see in an edgy horror movie.

It's got the same issue that Doberman Dogs have where they look like the sort of creature that likes to snack on toddler's faces whilst actually having personalities made of marshmallow fluff. This vehicle is unnecessarily menacing and I think nothing short of an airbrushed Epic Van Wizard will correct this. People see this van pull up and lean over and squint suspiciously at me when the driver's side door opens, and then look moderately confused when, instead of Charles Manson, a small, potato-shaped creature with neon purple hair and a statistically unlikely assortment of dogs emerges.

My own two dogs, Herschel the Hanukkah Goblin/Corgi and Charleston Chew The Taco Dumpster Dog, Do Not Like The Van. Even with the bed in it, they have a tendency to slide and roll around in the back, and both WILL chew through dog saftey belts or other attempts to secure them in there.

On the other hand, my house mate's dog, an exceptionally tall standard poodle whom we lovingly call "The Creature", loves the Van because SHE wears her doggy seat-belt with only mild complaining and gets to sit up in the passenger seat like A People.

Also like A People, The Creature likes to stand and walk around on her hind legs. It doesn't hurt her and it's entirely voluntary, but every so often I will feel a hand on my arm and instead of my husband or friend, it's a canine that's taller than I am on her hind legs who wants to stare at my face with soulful, concerned eyes. The Creature's favorite thing is that she is exactly the right height for me to hold her arm in Genteel Fashion and walk around the pet food or hardware store with her like I'm a count escorting a debutante around a royal ball.

---

As it stands, I am set to inherit this vehicle whenever my Honda gives up the ghost, and I fully intend to paint an Epic Van Wizard on it when that time comes.

The other peculiarity of The Van is that while Dad did manage to successfully install all his after-market electronics, not all the electronics get along. Sometimes, they fight for Dominance. The Terabyte Music Player and the Backup Camera have a particularly contentious relationship, and turning on the music has about a 25% chance of turning on the backup camera as well, and turning on the Backup Camera is equally likely to turn on the music.

Firthermore, The Van has a favorite song.

I am not kidding that Dad filled an entire terabyte hard drive with music and the software to sort it via the radio controls, but of all the Early Boomer Dad Rock (Kingston Trio over The Eagles) and Irish Folk and Symphonies and the entire discography of Weird Al Yankovic, The Van's favorite song- The one it picks to play as victory music every time it beats the Backup Camera at their weird electronic game of rock-paper-scissors -is The Liberty Bell March by John Phillip Sousa.

You all know this song already.

...but in case you've forgotten the tune:

youtube

Yeah.

The Van's favorite song is the goddamn Monty Python's Flying Circus Theme Music.

It does not play this song at a normal volume.

Every time I turn on the Backup Camera and it manages to turn the music player on as well, The Van insists on absolutely blasting this nonsense on at the maximum volume it's physically capable of producing, which I know is loud enough to be heard from the Denver International Airport's Pickup zone when they Van decided to start playing it from the economy lot about half a mile away.

Perhaps it's The Van's way of honoring the aesthetic sensibilities and sonic enthusiasm of Mr. Sousa.

...I can't help but wonder if the purpose of an Epic Van Wizard is to control this sort of faerie-like malarkey, and channel these chaotic energies into things like Spell of Don't Break Down In Nevada or Enchantment Of Always Have Good Parking.

---

So last Friday the 13th, I get a call from my friend and housemate, at said airport.

It's roughly 11PM at night, and I have already retired for the evening. I am in the exact minimum of clothing required to be a decent housemate and not scandalize the neighbors should I happen to walk by a window. My feet are up. There is a cat in my lap and fictional British people murdering each other in highly inventive fashion on the tv. -But my friend has returned from her friend's wedding,and either American or United Airlines has managed to lose her luggage, including, among other valuable possessions, the keys to her car. ...So she cannot just drive home as originally planned.

There are, as luck would have it, her spare set of keys not eight feet from me.

Being a good and decent person, I agree to bring the spare keys to her so she may get home before daybreak and not spend a semester's worth of tuition on an uber across the greater Denver traffic jam.

Being also that she Loves Activities, and it's her mom we're going to pick up, I elect to take along The Creature.

I am primarily focused on remembering how to get to the airport and not leaving my friend's spare keys on the counter, so I throw on a pair of flip-flops, step outside, remember that it's AUTUMN and my minimal evening attire is not sufficient thermal protection, step back in, grab the first coat in the closet I lay hands on, pull it on, check that I have her keys again and leave.

The trip to the airport is largely unremarkable, save that it becomes necessary for me to put on sunglasses to drive, despite it being nearly the witching hour and almost entirely darker than the inside of a cow.

It's necessary because this blissful darkness of night is violently punctured by a startling number of cars that seem to have installed miniaturized but no less powerful lighthouse bulbs in where their headlights ought to go so the oncoming traffic and sports cars that insist on tailgating me in the slow lane alike illuminate the road and my mirrors with the kind of radiance I'd normally associate with the arrival of a Seraphim.

I arrive at the distant highly discounted airport car lot where my housemate is waiting, deeply apologetic. It's nothing. I say. Once I see that your car starts up, I'm gonna go to that 7-11 across the way that I parked in front of, get a slurpee or something and I'll see you at home.

While she is retrieving her vehicle (an equally eccentric but much more stately Subaru that is old enough to be elected to congress) I rifle through the loose change in the glove box and discover that I have exactly $6.66 in small bills and coins. The Subaru, continuing it's long voyage into vehicular immortality, immediately starts up.

Upon her return, we all remember that my friend had all her camping gear in the backseat of the car and there is no room for The Creature to ride home with her parent, so I again assure her it's nothing, and will just take The Creature into the 7-11 with me. She is trained as a service animal and needs the practice after the plague.

I wave my friend off and turn to enter the 7-11.

I promptly trip over the jutting back bumper of The Van and fall, cartoonishly, face-first onto the sidewalk.

Fortunately, I have a lot of practice falling on my face, and have learned not to throw my hands out but instead cover my face, so my unexpected self-inflicted attempted curb-stomping lightly scrapes my hairline and nothing else -my sunglasses even stay in place- and I get up and resume my quest for a slurpee.

It's well known that the airport is a lawless place, and the 7-11 across from the discounted airport parking at the stroke of midnight is no exception.

I know it's the stroke of Midnight because there's one of those Audubon society bird-call clocks that makes bird noises, and my arrival is heralded by the twittering call of a Summer Tanager. I am almost charmed enough by the unusual choice of chronological device to excuse the exorbitant Airport-adjacent mark-up of Slurpee prices. I stand at the machine for some time, trying to decide on a size for the price and guess what the fuck "Blue Lighting Blast" is supposed to taste like.

The Creature is being Very Polite but is somewhat agitated, I assume because she *just* saw her mother for the first time in three days and then she LEFT with no explanation, so The Creature is on her hind legs, staring woefully into my eyes, asking to be escorted around the 7-11. Even though that's not what she's not supposed to be doing, there's nobody else in here, so I let her hang off my arm and discuss various Slurpee Flavor options with her.

We eventually decide on an experiment in which I try a Small Blue Lightning Blast, and discover it tastes a bit like licking a nintendo cartridge but in a pleasantly satisfying way.

I go up to pay and realize something is amiss.

The Cashier is a young man staring at me with wide eyes, one had over the register and the other wrapped up in his rosary.

I look down at myself.

In my haste to reunite my friend with her spare keys and service animal, I had left the house in the following accoutrements:

Flip Flops. Not matching. It's below freezing outside. That last part is not particularly odd footwear for the weather in for Colorado, but it's an important detail for the rest of the ensemble.

Assorted scrapes, bruises, cuts and welts on my arms and legs that come with doing outdoor work and living in a house with three dogs and a fully-clawed cat that all want to be in my lap all the time. It's cold out, so vasoconstriction has pulled the blood away from my skin, a trait that served my ancestors well during the last Ice Age, but leaves me with pale skin to contrast the various wounds and I look like a corpse that fell out of the back of a pickup truck.

The black Bootyshorts with "CRYPTID" painted in bright red gothic font across my ass, that @theshitpostcalligrapher gave me for my wedding present.

A peculiar but extremely comfortable garment that straddles the line between "Lacy Camisole" and "Industrial-Strength Sports Bra" like the Ever Given straddling the Suez Canal. It is also Bright Red. with black accents.

The Jacket I had grabbed out of the closet, which is in fact, a black Velour Dinner Jacket.

The Tokyo-Ghoul inspired reusable anti-covid mask a friend made me with the set of Coyote Teeth.

My sunglasses, which are shaped like a Halloween Bat. The lenses are the wings and the body is the nose bridge. It is ALSO bright red.

A Very Large and remarkably Humanoid Poodle that I have been audibly affectionately calling "Dear Creature" who is hanging off my arm like she's my Prom Date.

The Very Large and remarkably Humanoid Poodle is ALSO dressed up in a black Dog Sweater that has white bones printed on it to look like its an X-ray jacket showing off her skeleton.

I look like I am taking my Very Fancy Werewolf Girlfriend to a particularly casual Dinner Party for Vampires, but the thing that's really selling it and probably alarming the kid the most is the fun accessory I acquired in the parking lot not five minutes earlier:

The "Small Scrape At my Hairline" is actually a painless but PROFUSELY bleeding head wound that I had somehow entirely failed to notice covering my face, neck, decolletage and magnificent cleavage with blood like a Tarantino Film Extra.

This does explain why The Creature has been delicately trying to use her bodyweight to push me down onto the floor for the last ten minutes. So I don't injure myself while we wait for the paramedics she hoped this kid called to arrive, you see.

The Creature has such a High and Naive Opinion of humanity.

I decide this social situation is already fucked, and the only way out is through, and with haste, before I start dripping on the floor.

"Hi there!" I say cheerfully, to indicate this is a visually alarming but not terribly serious situation. "Just a Small Slurpee!"

The Cashier has entered the relevant code into the register before I finish the sentence. His gaze flicks off me just long enough to look at the total, and he grips his Rosary harder.

$6.66

"Oh cool! I have exact change!" I say, taking the money out of my as-yet-unsanguined pocket without looking and slap it down on the counter. "You have a good night and be safe out there!" I wave, leaving.

I get in The Van, mortified, buckle The Creature up, and as I make to leave, I have to put it in reverse, which automatically turns on the backup Camera.

It also turns on the music player.

I make eye contact with the cashier as the dulcet tones of John Phillip Sousa boom from the van hard enough to make the windshield and the windows of the 7-11 rattle for the nine-and-a-half seconds I have to wait to be able to turn the volume back down. Not knowing what else to to, I give him a thumbs up, and leave.

Anyway, now I know what my Future Van Wizard has got to be dressed like, and what their familiar is.

---

If you enjoyed this story, please consider donating to my Ko-Fi or Pre-ordering my Family Lore Funny Stories book on Patreon

#Family Lore #Dogs #It's Halloween babey #friday the 13th #blood mention #I hope that kid had a good night and at least one of his friends believed him #Long post #Video

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audiomobile · 1 year

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dcxdpdabbles · 5 months

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DCxDP: Immunity system

Danny gets confused for Tim Drake when he stop for gas in Gotham on his way to visit Dan. His clone had set up shop- a literary comic book shop- in Metropolis.

Danny was going for the weekend to help him run the red dot sale and also spend time with his Clone turned older brother.

Dan after being released from his prison and getting a Core Cleanse in the FarFrozen ectoplasm iced pools, had mellowed out greatly.

It turns out Dan had gone mad after suffering a dip in contaminated ectoplasm. He called it "Pit Madness" and Clockwork assured him it was a real medical condition

Much like getting bitten by a rabies-infected animal, Dan's condition was not his fault despite turning him violent.

After the Big Reveal with his parents - who took the news surprisingly well- Team Phantom introduced Elle and Dan to them.

The two clones had been quickly made official Fentons and now Danny had an older brother and a young sister.

Elle lived at home with Danny and his parents, but Jazz and Dan moved out after high school graduation. Danny was thinking of moving in with Dan to go to college.

He wasn't sure, but he still had a whole year to decide.

Danny found a gas station within his GPS map and stopped at the closest one. There weren't a lot of people around, so he assumed that was a slow day.

He was not aware the locals avoided the area due to the danger of feuding gangs. He was also unaware that while pumping the gas, a Scarecrow goon was watching him.

That goon knew his boss had been getting a bit bored with his experiments, and he knew it wouldn't be long before his boss turned on his employees to relieve his boredom.

He was just starting to sweat, thinking he would be the new genuine pig until Tim Drake himself rolled out of a beat up car in the bad part of town.

He practically gift-wrapped himself for Scarecrow! The goon grins, creeping up behind the distracted young man.

One of the employees' inside the gas station had clocked Tim Drake too and had been staring at him - how could he not when Tim was a Bi icon?- and sees the moment the goon covers the boy's mouth with a clotch and yank him into a van that speeds away.

For a moment, the employee only gawked after the speeding vehicle, too shook to do anything as it disappears around a corner.

He scrambles for his phone to call 911. He prays that his slow reaction does not cost Drake's life.

(His call's transcript pings on Oracle's program designed to pick up the civilian names of the Bats if ever used in the emergency hotlines)

Sadly it is hours before the Bats have even an idea of where Tim (actually Danny) was taken to.

Danny wakes up in a warehouse, strapped to a table. He only had a brief moment of thinking his worst fear was coming true ,his parents, were going to rip him apart molecular by molecular, despite it being two years since they learn.

Thankfully a man dressed in a ridiculous Halloween costume steps into the light and he knows it's not his parents.

"Lovely expression Mr. Drake. Let's see how lovely that fear truly is," the man says in a raspy voice, holding up a needle. He stabs Danny with it and the boy blanches as the hot liquid enters his blood stream.

A minute goes by.

Two.

Three.

"Ugh was that supposed to do something?" He questioned, moving around his restraints to check his chances of escape without outing himself as Phantom.

The camera pointing at him limits his options.

The man dressed as Scarecrow lets out a gleeful cackle. He doesn't answer Danny, instead turning to the door- from where Danny can lift his head, it looks like he's in a basement of some kind- and shouts, "Bring me experiment six two six!"

A bulky man comes in carrying a tray of tubes. Danny watches as Scarecrow carefully selects a tube and pours it into another needle. "Lets see how you handle this"

The answer is Danny handles it very well. In fact he takes all seven tubes without a single reaction. Honestly it's the needle that's a real bother.

Scarecrow is both impressed and slightly insulted by the end of it. "How did a simpleton chloroform work on you but not my brilliant science!?"

Danny squints at him. "I would call this many things but never science, let alone brilliant, you fruitloop."

He gets knocked out again for his cheek with a new chloroform rag.

He wakes to the same made leaning over him again, but this time, there is also a clown in purple. Danny can only stare as the clown cackles.

"I think you're losing your special touch if Tim Drake is immune to your Fear Gas." The clown says, and Danny wonders if a costume convention exists in town.

Danny is happy to see that besides being knocked out and tied him down they haven't really done anything to him. "Who are you supposed to be?"

The clown face spams before a wide, mad grin breaks across his face. If Danny were to look of the definition of madness in a dictionary he knows this guy would be the example for it.

"I'm just a simple chum who wants to see the world laugh," The clown tells him, holding a squirt flower in Danny's face. "Let's see that smile!"

Danny squeaks as the liquid splashes in his face, some going up his nose. He coughs while the two men stare intensely at him.

After a moment Danny gets himself under control. "Ugh what was that? Is smell nasty"

The clown face freezes, rage bleeding into his eyes as the scarecrow one scoffs "seem you are also losing your touch, chum"

"No no no. Our little friend just needs a higher dosage! I'll have him laughing in no time!"

He doesn't. After a gas tank full of that nasty-smelling stuff is forced onto his face, and five different needles stabbed into his arm the clown is forced to admit Danny is immune.

They still call him "Mr. Drake" even though Danny tells them between needles that's not his name.

After hours of attempting to get a reaction out of him- both by clown and scarecrow- , Danny is knocked out again by the little rag.

When he comes two three people stand over him. The two from before, though clown now looks murderous and scarecrow politely interested, and a women in green with leaves splat across her outfit.

So Danny got kidnapped by a Scarecrow, a clown, and a nymph? Sounds like the beginning of a bad joke.

The gas mask is forced back onto his face and another Danny struggles he can do nothing as he is forced to breath in a new gas.

The woman watches his reaction with a keen eye before nodding "He should be pretty far gone now"

Scarecrow shakes his head. "There isn't a single reaction. He isn't affected by your pheromones."

The woman scoffs, leaning over Danny and fluttering her eyelashes "You're going to kill dear old dad for me"

Danny glares at her. "Like hell, I will."

His voice is muffled by the mask but they hear him and the woman actually looks shocked "He might need a higher dosage "

"By all means, give it a try. Neither Joker or I saw a difference in Mr.Drake even after adjusting his intake."

"How is that possible?"

"Maybe because you all suck!"

The clown slams his hands on the table. "I am one of the best chemists in the world, brat!"

"And the ugliest!"

Danny doesn't see the knife until it's pressed repeatedly into his left leg. He screams around his mask as the Clown spits and swears at him.

The other two only watch, neither seemingly bothered by the man stabbing a teenager.

Then the knife is plunged into his stomach, and he screams as the world almost whites out in agony.

Danny, blinks the white hot pain, and is just barely thinking of going ghost when the door bursts open and a group of people wearing more costumes pour in.

A man dressed as a Bat flings the clown away with an outraged cry. Danny can't see where the clown lands, but he hears fighting all around him.

A boy in a hood and mask appears in his line of sight. There is a worried frown on his face as he quickly picks at the locks keeping Danny down "Do not worry, Drake, we are here."

Danny finally gives in to the pain, running to blissful darkness as a man in a red helmet lifts him off the bed and makes a run for the door.

The kid provided cover for them.

#dcxdpdabbles #dc x dp crossover #Immunity system au #Danny is confused as Tim #Then stumped all the villians with his immunity #he was there for three days #the bats think hes tim #where is the real tim? no one knows #TW: slight torture

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tinydreamerphilosopher · 1 year

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starlightdelrey · 1 month

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the view between villages

platonic ! f1 grid x reader

summary: f1 is a dangerous sport - it's common knowledge. but accidents - bad accidents - aren't as common. seeing the youngest (and only female) driver crash and not immediately respond is something the boys never thought they'd have to experience, and the rest of the world is just as devestated.

cw: major accident, graphic descriptions of injury and vehicular damage, graphic descriptions of car accident, mentions of death, blood and gore, negative emotions such as sadness and regret, angst, mentions of religion,

song pairing is "the view betwen villages" by noah kahan

(not based on any particular race)

today's race felt off to begin with. When y/n had attempted to leave her aging yorkie, comet, in her hotel room - like she had done for the past couple months - he began to whine.

"poor baby," she mocked, but turned the small TV on and switched it to the channel that would be broadcasting the race live. "look, com. watch me on the tv."

the dog had complied and jumped onto the un-made bed, but when she left and closed the door, he had whined once or twice before calming down.

she made a mental note to get him checked out at the vet, but got distracted when she showed up to the paddock and got a look at the track.

"the weather wasn't as shit yesterday during quali," she said off-handedly to max verstappen, who was chatting to the engineers.

"are you worried?" y/n was a good racer, it was clear - but whenever max saw how small she looked in comparison to everyone else on the team he had a small sense of dread. it wasn't new, just annoying.

"nah." she grinned at him, her hair already pulled back into a french braid for ease during the race.

---

"lights out.... and away we go!"

the lights blink out and y/n is already gunning it, attempting to bypass the boys from mclaren.

she discovered early on that locking up would be her main issue today, and she made it clear on her radio.

"i keep locking up."

her voice was calm but shook a little as she struggled to steer, and she spoke only in short sentences to prevent stuttering.

"copy."

finally, she worked out a system to braking that prevented the struggle, but in speeding up, found that she'd made her way into a mass of cars.

"watch out, y/n. keep out of trouble - wait until everybody else has moved out of each others way."

"ok. pulling back-" the radio crackled and then went silent as a car careened into the side of her.

---

the audiences at home got to watch a replay of the impact.

somewhere in australia, a family consisting of two parents, a teenaged boy and a little girl are watching the race.

the boy reacts first, jolting. "was that logan sargeant and y/n y/ln?"

"yeah... turn up the volume?"

the mother grabs the remote and obliges, terse.

"was that the girl driver?" the barely 5 year old asks, brows furrowed.

"baby, go play in the other room." her father dismisses her, and when she slowly shuffles out, eyes trained on the screen as the commentators relay the details, her dad huffs.

"now. and don't look at the screen anymore."

she squeals and runs out, and the boy starts to jiggle his knee up and down as they wait for more information.

across the world, houses go silent.

---

"and it looks like logan sargeant attempts to pull away from the crowd but misjudges the distance between himself and y/ln. we can see him here slam right into the right side of the body of her car, and she goes spinning out, right into barricades. oh! and if we slow it down, you can see that the force of her chassis hitting the barricades not only forces the car to lift fully off of the ground, but it also tips - the top of the vehicle flips up into the barricade until it falls back into place. that is a nasty hit for rookie red bull driver y/n y/ln."

the commentators keep talking, thinking nothing of the accident, until the cameras switch to the red bull team, who are trying to get into contact with the girl.

"y/n, are you okay?"

silence.

"can you respond? y/n we need a vocal response. anything, okay kid? even if you can just hold down on the radio button so we know you're there."

no response.

the commentators continue.

"and it looks like we're getting no response from red bull driver y/n, who has just crashed."

---

his whole body jerks on the impact, and he spins out off the track, coming to a shaky stop.

"shit, shit, shit!" his voice cracks.

"are you okay, mate?" the radio crackles at him as he's fighting back tears.

"yeah - was that y/n i hit?"

"yes, we can confirm the crash involved both you and y/ln. we are receiving word that it is a red flag crash."

"is she okay?" he doesn't get a response at first, so he tries again. "is y/n okay?"

"no word yet. sorry, logan."

"fuck! i'm so sorry - i really thought it was clear, i just... fuck."

"calm down, sargeant. wait for pick-up and keep yourself collected. we'll tell you as soon as we find anything out, okay mate?"

"sure."

he lifts himself from the smoking chassis and the world watches as he kicks it out of frustration before letting his head lower.

there's a sickening feeling in his stomach as he sees the girls unmoving vehicle.

he pictures her inside, and the fact that she's so much smaller than the older men cause his mind to unravel with pictures of her limp and unconscious.

---

inside the car, y/n blinks her eyes open, groaning.

her ears are ringing and her head hurts, and the body of her car is so warped that it's vacuum sealed her into the vehicle.

in the back of her mind, y/n feels the pain in her right thigh and left ankle, and her right shoulder feels dislocated.

"kid, we need an answer." the radio's muted and crackling, and when y/n tries to respond, she realizes that something on her end is fucked because they're still begging for an answer.

she goes to climb out of the car, but a sob tears out of her chest at the immense pain that suddenly blooms throughout her whole body.

she falls heavily back onto the seat and pants, closing her eyes.

she feels slight relief from the pain when she fully relaxes and closes her eyes, and nestles into her seat a little to get comfortable.

the need to sleep takes over her and she obeys, nodding off.

---

inside her hotel room, comet's ears pull back in concern as he hears his owners name being called out repeatedly from the television.

---

"red flag, max. we need to restart the race."

verstappen stills, his ears suddenly ringing. he has a bad feeling about the red flag but just can't place it.

"what's happened?"

"there was a crash between a williams and y/n. to the pit lanes, please." the voice on the other end seems calm, but there's a waver to it.

"fuck, are you joking? are they both okay?"

"the williams driver... logan sargeant, we're hearing, is up and out of his chassis. we've heard nothing from y/n yet."

he'd fight them, ask for more information, but knows that red bull would be the first to hear anything.

"tell me if you find anything out."

"copy."

as he drives to the pit lane, max replays her grin at him as she reassures the dutchman.

"nah." her nose is scrunched and hair pulled out of her face.

he thinks about how bulky the helmet looked on her, the barely 20 year old driver somehow never managing to put on any muscle, no matter how hard she tried.

he prays to jesus, zeus, allah, and even the virgin mary - surely she'd have sympathy to max's prayers, as she's lost someone dear to her before. any deity he can think of is immediately begged to ensure the safety of his partner.

---

a whining noise pulls y/n back into consciousness, and she furrows her brows.

"i'm trying to sleep, com. shut up." when she opens her eyes and sees the battered cockpit in front of her, she realizes that she's not hearing her dog cry, it's just the ringing in her ears that are back.

and then suddenly all she can see is comet waiting for her. comet, waiting in a hotel room that she'll never re-enter. what's gonna happen to the mutt if she dies? her parents are over-seas, she has no boyfriend to look after him. comet would be all alone.

and then all the guys on the grid are flashing through her head. she knows, vacantly, that logan crashed into her. he'd never forgive himself if she died. verstappens win streak would be fucked if he was grieving over his teammate. even lewis hamilton, who was the first driver to openly back her as the only woman on the grid.

she screws her eyes shut and lets out a heavy sob, steeling herself.

---

the commentators are no longer focused on the race.

"and i think i can speak for all of us when i ask, where is the goddamn safety car and ambulance? young driver y/n y/ln has been stuck in the wreck for about a minute and a half now, and there has still been no aid for her. which is a cause for concern about the overall safety of f1, as- oh my god!"

---

charles is already on his way back to the pit lanes, muttering manifestations under his breath for y/n to be okay.

he's shaking, filled with lead and a lump in his throat. he and y/n aren't super close, due to their team differences, but every time he spoke to her she had a certain gleam in her eye that one only had when they weren't afraid of death.

this worried him. racing was her life - would she succumb easily? it was a known fact that many drivers drove as if they had nothing to lose.

the idea of her choking on mortality in her chassis scared him more. maybe her body was broken, and the pain was all she could feel as the life drained from her? he worried for those that would have to witness the blood and bruises when she was pulled from her car.

"we've got an update on y/n."

he was pulled out of his mind. "tell me. please."

"she's getting herself out. the paramedics were taking too long, so she took it upon herself, apparently." a startled laugh falls out of charles' lips as he cheers back.

---

muscles screaming, y/n forces herself to lift out of the cockpit, allowing her body the only relief of rest once her upper half is slung over the halo. for about five seconds she stops, before she forces herself to continue.

the safety car and paramedics are here now, and camera crew for the live footage plus the netflix crew are close behind.

people are shouting at her to stop, but she continues to claw her way out of the wreckage.

she's crying and praying to a god she never knew she believed in as she forces her broken legs out of the car, sliding over the side to the ground.

she stands and looks around at the medical crew who are advancing towards her and tries to take her helmet off. she can't, and they're reassuring her that they'll do it for her.

y/n looks out at the audience and raises one arm to greet them. she's met with immediate raucous applause and, swaying for a few seconds, she falls.

---

"you would never believe it. this lady is pulling herself out of her car. as the camera zooms, you can really see the absolute strength this is taking her - hold on, we're getting audio now."

the world watches with bated breath as the coverage of her climbing out of the car begins to play. you can hear the agonised screams she lets out as she forces herself to exit, and just how broken some of her limbs look. her left ankle hangs limply, and she has to use both arms to force her right leg out of the cockpit.

"what a magnificent scene. y/n y/ln has kissed death, and still lives to tell the tale. we see her now, standing on the track as the medical staff come to her aid, and she falls. a very fair response to what she has just gone through. a round of applause to y/n y/ln, the girl who kissed death!"

---

"so lando, congratulations on p4. obviously, the whole crash between logan and y/n caused a damper on the overall race. how do you feel about it?" the interviewer pushed a mic at his face.

"the crash? yeah, it was terrifying not knowing if she was okay or not. i'm not surprised she ended up climbing out of the chassis herself," he laughs softly. "i've never known her for being patient."

"how do you feel about her new nickname?"

"nickname?"

"people are calling her 'the girl who kissed death'."

lando can't stop a high-pitched laugh from escaping. "girl who kissed death? that's stupid. oh god, i can't wait for her to find out about that. she'll be proper pissed off."

"right, well, thanks lando. have fun celebrating!" the interviewer bids him farewell.

---

a few months later:

over the healing process, y/n was forced to give multiple statements, post social media posts, and even a quick video from the hospital bed, but when she sees comet, her resolve finally fails.

she begins to tear up as the scruffy dog barks at her, jumping up and down.

"someone's excited to see you," lewis hamilton, the temporary guardian of the dog, grins.

roscoe stomps his feet and licks y/n, panting at her.

"awe, little babies. i was so scared of dying and leaving comet all alone, but i think he would've been fine."

lewis glances down at the kneeling girl in front of him and tsks, nudging her with his foot. "don't say that, y/n. nobody would've been fine."

"yeah?"

"yeah. have you seen all the tiktok edits of your crash? people were terrified. i was terrified."

y/n doesn't say anything, but stands to hug the british man.

he holds her back, before clearing his throat. "save that love for death. heard you've kissed it before."

"fuck off."

--- la fin ---

#formula one #f1 #formula 1 #formula one imagine #f1 imagine #f1 grid x reader #f1 angst #formula one angst #lewis hamilton x reader #lando norris x reader #charles leclerc x reader #logan sargeant x reader #max versappen x reader #f1 oneshot #formula one oneshot #starlightdelrey

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mostlysignssomeportents · 10 months

Text

Autoenshittification

Forget F1: the only car race that matters now is the race to turn your car into a digital extraction machine, a high-speed inkjet printer on wheels, stealing your private data as it picks your pocket. Your car’s digital infrastructure is a costly, dangerous nightmare — but for automakers in pursuit of postcapitalist utopia, it’s a dream they can’t give up on.

Your car is stuffed full of microchips, a fact the world came to appreciate after the pandemic struck and auto production ground to a halt due to chip shortages. Of course, that wasn’t the whole story: when the pandemic started, the automakers panicked and canceled their chip orders, only to immediately regret that decision and place new orders.

But it was too late: semiconductor production had taken a serious body-blow, and when Big Car placed its new chip orders, it went to the back of a long, slow-moving line. It was a catastrophic bungle: microchips are so integral to car production that a car is basically a computer network on wheels that you stick your fragile human body into and pray.

The car manufacturers got so desperate for chips that they started buying up washing machines for the microchips in them, extracting the chips and discarding the washing machines like some absurdo-dystopian cyberpunk walnut-shelling machine:

https://www.autoevolution.com/news/desperate-times-companies-buy-washing-machines-just-to-rip-out-the-chips-187033.html

These digital systems are a huge problem for the car companies. They are the underlying cause of a precipitous decline in car quality. From touch-based digital door-locks to networked sensors and cameras, every digital system in your car is a source of endless repair nightmares, costly recalls and cybersecurity vulnerabilities:

https://www.reuters.com/business/autos-transportation/quality-new-vehicles-us-declining-more-tech-use-study-shows-2023-06-22/

What’s more, drivers hate all the digital bullshit, from the janky touchscreens to the shitty, wildly insecure apps. Digital systems are drivers’ most significant point of dissatisfaction with the automakers’ products:

https://www.theverge.com/23801545/car-infotainment-customer-satisifaction-survey-jd-power

Even the automakers sorta-kinda admit that this is a problem. Back in 2020 when Massachusetts was having a Right-to-Repair ballot initiative, Big Car ran these unfuckingbelievable scare ads that basically said, “Your car spies on you so comprehensively that giving anyone else access to its systems will let murderers stalk you to your home and kill you:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/09/03/rip-david-graeber/#rolling-surveillance-platforms

But even amid all the complaining about cars getting stuck in the Internet of Shit, there’s still not much discussion of why the car-makers are making their products less attractive, less reliable, less safe, and less resilient by stuffing them full of microchips. Are car execs just the latest generation of rubes who’ve been suckered by Silicon Valley bullshit and convinced that apps are a magic path to profitability?

Nope. Car execs are sophisticated businesspeople, and they’re surfing capitalism’s latest — and last — hot trend: dismantling capitalism itself.

Now, leftists have been predicting the death of capitalism since The Communist Manifesto, but even Marx and Engels warned us not to get too frisky: capitalism, they wrote, is endlessly creative, constantly reinventing itself, re-emerging from each crisis in a new form that is perfectly adapted to the post-crisis reality:

https://www.nytimes.com/2022/10/31/books/review/a-spectre-haunting-china-mieville.html

But capitalism has finally run out of gas. In his forthcoming book, Techno Feudalism: What Killed Capitalism, Yanis Varoufakis proposes that capitalism has died — but it wasn’t replaced by socialism. Rather, capitalism has given way to feudalism:

https://www.penguin.co.uk/books/451795/technofeudalism-by-varoufakis-yanis/9781847927279

Under capitalism, capital is the prime mover. The people who own and mobilize capital — the capitalists — organize the economy and take the lion’s share of its returns. But it wasn’t always this way: for hundreds of years, European civilization was dominated by rents, not markets.

A “rent” is income that you get from owning something that other people need to produce value. Think of renting out a house you own: not only do you get paid when someone pays you to live there, you also get the benefit of rising property values, which are the result of the work that all the other homeowners, business owners, and residents do to make the neighborhood more valuable.

The first capitalists hated rent. They wanted to replace the “passive income” that landowners got from taxing their serfs’ harvest with active income from enclosing those lands and grazing sheep in order to get wool to feed to the new textile mills. They wanted active income — and lots of it.

Capitalist philosophers railed against rent. The “free market” of Adam Smith wasn’t a market that was free from regulation — it was a market free from rents. The reason Smith railed against monopolists is because he (correctly) understood that once a monopoly emerged, it would become a chokepoint through which a rentier could cream off the profits he considered the capitalist’s due:

https://locusmag.com/2021/03/cory-doctorow-free-markets/

Today, we live in a rentier’s paradise. People don’t aspire to create value — they aspire to capture it. In Survival of the Richest, Doug Rushkoff calls this “going meta”: don’t provide a service, just figure out a way to interpose yourself between the provider and the customer:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/09/13/collapse-porn/#collapse-porn

Don’t drive a cab, create Uber and extract value from every driver and rider. Better still: don’t found Uber, invest in Uber options and extract value from the people who invest in Uber. Even better, invest in derivatives of Uber options and extract value from people extracting value from people investing in Uber, who extract value from drivers and riders. Go meta.

This is your brain on the four-hour-work-week, passive income mind-virus. In Techno Feudalism, Varoufakis deftly describes how the new “Cloud Capital” has created a new generation of rentiers, and how they have become the richest, most powerful people in human history.

Shopping at Amazon is like visiting a bustling city center full of stores — but each of those stores’ owners has to pay the majority of every sale to a feudal landlord, Emperor Jeff Bezos, who also decides which goods they can sell and where they must appear on the shelves. Amazon is full of capitalists, but it is not a capitalist enterprise. It’s a feudal one:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/28/enshittification/#relentless-payola

This is the reason that automakers are willing to enshittify their products so comprehensively: they were one of the first industries to decouple rents from profits. Recall that the reason that Big Car needed billions in bailouts in 2008 is that they’d reinvented themselves as loan-sharks who incidentally made cars, lending money to car-buyers and then “securitizing” the loans so they could be traded in the capital markets.

Even though this strategy brought the car companies to the brink of ruin, it paid off in the long run. The car makers got billions in public money, paid their execs massive bonuses, gave billions to shareholders in buybacks and dividends, smashed their unions, fucked their pensioned workers, and shipped jobs anywhere they could pollute and murder their workforce with impunity.

Car companies are on the forefront of postcapitalism, and they understand that digital is the key to rent-extraction. Remember when BMW announced that it was going to rent you the seatwarmer in your own fucking car?

https://pluralistic.net/2020/07/02/big-river/#beemers

Not to be outdone, Mercedes announced that they were going to rent you your car’s accelerator pedal, charging an extra $1200/year to unlock a fully functional acceleration curve:

https://www.theverge.com/2022/11/23/23474969/mercedes-car-subscription-faster-acceleration-feature-price

This is the urinary tract infection business model: without digitization, all your car’s value flowed in a healthy stream. But once the car-makers add semiconductors, each one of those features comes out in a painful, burning dribble, with every button on that fakakta touchscreen wired directly into your credit-card.

But it’s just for starters. Computers are malleable. The only computer we know how to make is the Turing Complete Von Neumann Machine, which can run every program we know how to write. Once they add networked computers to your car, the Car Lords can endlessly twiddle the knobs on the back end, finding new ways to extract value from you:

https://doctorow.medium.com/twiddler-1b5c9690cce6

That means that your car can track your every movement, and sell your location data to anyone and everyone, from marketers to bounty-hunters looking to collect fees for tracking down people who travel out of state for abortions to cops to foreign spies:

https://www.vice.com/en/article/n7enex/tool-shows-if-car-selling-data-privacy4cars-vehicle-privacy-report

Digitization supercharges financialization. It lets car-makers offer subprime auto-loans to desperate, poor people and then killswitch their cars if they miss a payment:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4U2eDJnwz_s

Subprime lending for cars would be a terrible business without computers, but digitization makes it a great source of feudal rents. Car dealers can originate loans to people with teaser rates that quickly blow up into payments the dealer knows their customer can’t afford. Then they repo the car and sell it to another desperate person, and another, and another:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/07/27/boricua/#looking-for-the-joke-with-a-microscope

Digitization also opens up more exotic options. Some subprime cars have secondary control systems wired into their entertainment system: miss a payment and your car radio flips to full volume and bellows an unstoppable, unmutable stream of threats. Tesla does one better: your car will lock and immobilize itself, then blare its horn and back out of its parking spot when the repo man arrives:

https://tiremeetsroad.com/2021/03/18/tesla-allegedly-remotely-unlocks-model-3-owners-car-uses-smart-summon-to-help-repo-agent/

Digital feudalism hasn’t stopped innovating — it’s just stopped innovating good things. The digital device is an endless source of sadistic novelties, like the cellphones that disable your most-used app the first day you’re late on a payment, then work their way down the other apps you rely on for every day you’re late:

https://restofworld.org/2021/loans-that-hijack-your-phone-are-coming-to-india/

Usurers have always relied on this kind of imaginative intimidation. The loan-shark’s arm-breaker knows you’re never going to get off the hook; his goal is in intimidating you into paying his boss first, liquidating your house and your kid’s college fund and your wedding ring before you default and he throws you off a building.

Thanks to the malleability of computerized systems, digital arm-breakers have an endless array of options they can deploy to motivate you into paying them first, no matter what it costs you:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/04/02/innovation-unlocks-markets/#digital-arm-breakers

Car-makers are trailblazers in imaginative rent-extraction. Take VIN-locking: this is the practice of adding cheap microchips to engine components that communicate with the car’s overall network. After a new part is installed in your car, your car’s computer does a complex cryptographic handshake with the part that requires an unlock code provided by an authorized technician. If the code isn’t entered, the car refuses to use that part.

VIN-locking has exploded in popularity. It’s in your iPhone, preventing you from using refurb or third-party replacement parts:

https://doctorow.medium.com/apples-cement-overshoes-329856288d13

It’s in fuckin’ ventilators, which was a nightmare during lockdown as hospital techs nursed their precious ventilators along by swapping parts from dead systems into serviceable ones:

https://www.vice.com/en/article/3azv9b/why-repair-techs-are-hacking-ventilators-with-diy-dongles-from-poland

And of course, it’s in tractors, along with other forms of remote killswitch. Remember that feelgood story about John Deere bricking the looted Ukrainian tractors whose snitch-chips showed they’d been relocated to Russia?

https://doctorow.medium.com/about-those-kill-switched-ukrainian-tractors-bc93f471b9c8

That wasn’t a happy story — it was a cautionary tale. After all, John Deere now controls the majority of the world’s agricultural future, and they’ve boobytrapped those ubiquitous tractors with killswitches that can be activated by anyone who hacks, takes over, or suborns Deere or its dealerships.

Control over repair isn’t limited to gouging customers on parts and service. When a company gets to decide whether your device can be fixed, it can fuck you over in all kinds of ways. Back in 2019, Tim Apple told his shareholders to expect lower revenues because people were opting to fix their phones rather than replace them:

https://www.apple.com/newsroom/2019/01/letter-from-tim-cook-to-apple-investors/

By usurping your right to decide who fixes your phone, Apple gets to decide whether you can fix it, or whether you must replace it. Problem solved — and not just for Apple, but for car makers, tractor makers, ventilator makers and more. Apple leads on this, even ahead of Big Car, pioneering a “recycling” program that sees trade-in phones shredded so they can’t possibly be diverted from an e-waste dump and mined for parts:

https://www.vice.com/en/article/yp73jw/apple-recycling-iphones-macbooks

John Deere isn’t sleeping on this. They’ve come up with a valuable treasure they extract when they win the Right-to-Repair: Deere singles out farmers who complain about its policies and refuses to repair their tractors, stranding them with six-figure, two-ton paperweight:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/05/31/dealers-choice/#be-a-shame-if-something-were-to-happen-to-it

The repair wars are just a skirmish in a vast, invisible fight that’s been waged for decades: the War On General-Purpose Computing, where tech companies use the law to make it illegal for you to reconfigure your devices so they serve you, rather than their shareholders:

https://memex.craphound.com/2012/01/10/lockdown-the-coming-war-on-general-purpose-computing/

The force behind this army is vast and grows larger every day. General purpose computers are antithetical to technofeudalism — all the rents extracted by technofeudalists would go away if others (tinkereres, co-ops, even capitalists!) were allowed to reconfigure our devices so they serve us.

You’ve probably noticed the skirmishes with inkjet printer makers, who can only force you to buy their ink at 20,000% markups if they can stop you from deciding how your printer is configured:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/08/07/inky-wretches/#epson-salty But we’re also fighting against insulin pump makers, who want to turn people with diabetes into walking inkjet printers:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/06/10/loopers/#hp-ification

And companies that make powered wheelchairs:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/06/08/chair-ish/#r2r

These companies start with people who have the least agency and social power and wreck their lives, then work their way up the privilege gradient, coming for everyone else. It’s called the “shitty technology adoption curve”:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/08/21/great-taylors-ghost/#solidarity-or-bust

Technofeudalism is the public-private-partnership from hell, emerging from a combination of state and private action. On the one hand, bailing out bankers and big business (rather than workers) after the 2008 crash and the covid lockdown decoupled income from profits. Companies spent billions more than they earned were still wildly profitable, thanks to those public funds.

But there’s also a policy dimension here. Some of those rentiers’ billions were mobilized to both deconstruct antitrust law (allowing bigger and bigger companies and cartels) and to expand “IP” law, turning “IP” into a toolsuite for controlling the conduct of a firm’s competitors, critics and customers:

https://locusmag.com/2020/09/cory-doctorow-ip/

IP is key to understanding the rise of technofeudalism. The same malleability that allows companies to “twiddle” the knobs on their services and keep us on the hook as they reel us in would hypothetically allow us to countertwiddle, seizing the means of computation:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/12/algorithmic-wage-discrimination/#fishers-of-men

The thing that stands between you and an alternative app store, an interoperable social media network that you can escape to while continuing to message the friends you left behind, or a car that anyone can fix or unlock features for is IP, not technology. Under capitalism, that technology would already exist, because capitalists have no loyalty to one another and view each other’s margins as their own opportunities.

But under technofeudalism, control comes from rents (owning things), not profits (selling things). The capitalist who wants to participate in your iPhone’s “ecosystem” has to make apps and submit them to Apple, along with 30% of their lifetime revenues — they don’t get to sell you jailbreaking kit that lets you choose their app store.

Rent-seeking technology has a holy grail: control over “ring zero” — the ability to compel you to configure your computer to a feudalist’s specifications, and to verify that you haven’t altered your computer after it came into your possession:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/01/30/ring-minus-one/#drm-political-economy

For more than two decades, various would-be feudal lords and their court sorcerers have been pitching ways of doing this, of varying degrees of outlandishness.

At core, here’s what they envision: inside your computer, they will nest another computer, one that is designed to run a very simple set of programs, none of which can be altered once it leaves the factory. This computer — either a whole separate chip called a “Trusted Platform Module” or a region of your main processor called a secure enclave — can tally observations about your computer: which operating system, modules and programs it’s running.

Then it can cryptographically “sign” these observations, proving that they were made by a secure chip and not by something you could have modified. Then you can send this signed “attestation” to someone else, who can use it to determine how your computer is configured and thus whether to trust it. This is called “remote attestation.”

There are some cool things you can do with remote attestation: for example, two strangers playing a networked video game together can use attestations to make sure neither is running any cheat modules. Or you could require your cloud computing provider to use attestations that they aren’t stealing your data from the server you’re renting. Or if you suspect that your computer has been infected with malware, you can connect to someone else and send them an attestation that they can use to figure out whether you should trust it.

Today, there’s a cool remote attestation technology called “PrivacyPass” that replaces CAPTCHAs by having you prove to your own device that you are a human. When a server wants to make sure you’re a person, it sends a random number to your device, which signs that number along with its promise that it is acting on behalf of a human being, and sends it back. CAPTCHAs are all kinds of bad — bad for accessibility and privacy — and this is really great.

But the billions that have been thrown at remote attestation over the decades is only incidentally about solving CAPTCHAs or verifying your cloud server. The holy grail here is being able to make sure that you’re not running an ad-blocker. It’s being able to remotely verify that you haven’t disabled the bossware your employer requires. It’s the power to block someone from opening an Office365 doc with LibreOffice. It’s your boss’s ability to ensure that you haven’t modified your messaging client to disable disappearing messages before he sends you an auto-destructing memo ordering you to break the law.

And there’s a new remote attestation technology making the rounds: Google’s Web Environment Integrity, which will leverage Google’s dominance over browsers to allow websites to block users who run ad-blockers:

https://github.com/RupertBenWiser/Web-Environment-Integrity

There’s plenty else WEI can do (it would make detecting ad-fraud much easier), but for every legitimate use, there are a hundred ways this could be abused. It’s a technology purpose-built to allow rent extraction by stripping us of our right to technological self-determination.

Releasing a technology like this into a world where companies are willing to make their products less reliable, less attractive, less safe and less resilient in pursuit of rents is incredibly reckless and shortsighted. You want unauthorized bread? This is how you get Unauthorized Bread:

https://arstechnica.com/gaming/2020/01/unauthorized-bread-a-near-future-tale-of-refugees-and-sinister-iot-appliances/amp/

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this thread to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/24/rent-to-pwn/#kitt-is-a-demon

[Image ID: The interior of a luxury car. There is a dagger protruding from the steering wheel. The entertainment console has been replaced by the text 'You wouldn't download a car,' in MPAA scare-ad font. Outside of the windscreen looms the Matrix waterfall effect. Visible in the rear- and side-view mirror is the driver: the figure from Munch's 'Scream.' The screen behind the steering-wheel has been replaced by the menacing red eye of HAL9000 from Stanley Kubrick's '2001: A Space Odyssey.']

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

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tra1nchi · 1 month

Note

Lololol look who is here again?? Cuz Ive nothing better to do ~ 💋anon

Bttm male robber reader x police officer (ive a police officer and militar kink that is unfixable) degradation kink again and roughly sex <33

uniforms are the only reason I'm attracted to ghost,, MINORS DNI!! Bttm male reader,, Uniform/Authority K1nk,,Degradation,,Rough s3x!!!

You've been stealing from places since you were young,,at first you started with pity crimes!! Stealing small chocolate bars from the local gas station to feed your brother until you finally got all the way up to a bank heist.

You had been planning this for months,, Waiting until your brother falls asleep in his sleeping bag to take out your terribly sketch map!! As much as you like to call yourself a seasoned burglar,,you weren't the best one out there!!

After sneaking into the bank late after dark,, you managed to steal a couple hundred bucks!! You were ecstatic but what you didn't know is that you accidentally triggered a secruity camera!!

The banks system automatically alerted the cops,,Dispatching only one officer on the point of a seemingly unarmed inexperienced robber!!

He disliked his job,,nothing ever exciting ever happened to him!! His co workers talking about how they stopped a shoot out or was in a high speed carrace when all he had to say was that he saved a cat from a tree!!

So when he found you,, cowering away from him in an alleyway,,clearing his throat as he adjusts the dashcam on his uniform,,hiding it from sight as he grabs you,,putting handcuffs around your shaky wrists!!

he ignored your begs and pleads that you didn't do it!! Clearly seeing the bag of money in your hands as evidence,, leaning you up against his car as he tightens the cuffs around you!!

What he didn't notice was how flushed your cheeks had got!! The way his uniform seemed to powerful and masculine turned you on in a way you never expected!!

"Lowlife criminal, how embarrassing for you." The man grumbles under his breath as he glances around the area before shoving you flushed up against his vehicle.

"Be quiet you pathetic slut" He must have noticed how turned on you got!! Zipping down his fly and roughly pulling down your own pants!! Shoving his cock inside of you roughly without any warning!!

Your body being flushed against the cold metal of the car,, rocking back and forth by the sheer passion going into his thrusts!! His cock hitting every mark inside of you as his hands grip deep into your hair!! You can't even fight back with your wrists tied!!

#{bttm male reader}#bottom male reader #sub male reader #x sub male reader #x bottom male reader #{anon asks}#{h4rny ask}#{💋}

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jinjeriffic · 3 months

Text

DCxDP Prophecy Universe Part 7

Part 6

It took Damian the rest of the afternoon to prepare for his trip to Amity Park. Jon helpfully agreed to cover for him, on the promise of a copy of the upcoming Cheese Viking 2 and getting filled in on all the hot Bat gossip afterwards. Wasn’t friendship grand?

Pennyworth thankfully agreed that ‘bonding time’ between the Super Sons was a good use of fall break and even took the time to ‘Prepare some healthy snacks for the young Masters, lest you eat junk food the whole week’. The task also handily distracted the butler while Damian packed the Batwing with all the necessary surveillance equipment he would need and set up the program to spoof his flight data. Damian had no doubt that Father wouldn’t be fooled for long, but with the Bat it was always better to ask for forgiveness rather than permission.

The flight to Illinois was mercifully uneventful. Damian rappelled off in the middle of the eponymous city Park, then instructed the autopilot to take the plane to a wooded area outside city limits and park there in camouflage mode. Once he was sure his arrival had gone undetected, he changed into civvies and with his backpack full of gear set off in the direction of Fenton Works on foot. In jeans, sneakers, a dark hoodie and a baseball cap he looked like any other kid his age, even if he was out after curfew. Damian made sure to stick to the shadows and ducked behind cover whenever a car passed him.

All in all it took him until the early morning hours to arrive at the correct address. Intellectually, he had known the Fentons operated their workshop out of the family home, but he was in no way prepared for the monstrosity of a building that greeted him. Damian couldn’t help but stop and stare in disbelief.

What had once started out as an ordinary brownstone building had a glaring neon sign out front, proudly proclaiming the company name. Perched precariously on the roof was a gigantic metal structure that looked like a cross between a cartoon UFO and an observatory. There was no way this was legal or sane. If something like this had popped up in Gotham it would have been flagged as a Rogue hideout and bugged to hell and back. Hell, Damian was half tempted to break in immediately to start planting cameras but was held back by the likely presence of a custom security system. Mad scientists were rude like that and Damian didn’t want to tip his hand too early. He would have to at least wait until he was sure the Fentons weren’t at home.

Damian tucked his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and strolled past the building at a fake casual pace. The windows were dark and the building was silent, except for the faint hum of the neon sign. This early on a Saturday morning, the residents were likely fast asleep. He spotted an electric scooter chained up next to the stairs leading up to the entrance and made the deduction that it likely belonged to Daniel. Under the guise of retying his shoelaces, he dropped to one knee and surreptitiously attached a bug to the vehicle. Ideally he would get the opportunity to bug Daniel himself, but for now this would have to do. Hoping that no one had noticed him, Damian continued down the street.

He had researched the area ahead of time and had found an apartment a few buildings down and across the street that was advertised as available for rent and was unoccupied. Breaking in and disabling the home alarm was child’s play, and after making sure he was alone in the apartment, Damian settled in to begin his surveillance.

He pulled the handheld radiation detector out of his backpack and after making sure it was operational he slipped it into his pocket. With no way to boost its range he would have to get pretty close to Daniel with no major obstructions in the way in order to verify if he had been in contact with the marked bills he had slipped Phantom. But Damian was confident in his ability to stay undetected. After all, Daniel had no reason to suspect he was being stalked by a curious Bat.

Damian kept himself occupied by listening to the local radio broadcast over his comm. The hosts sounded like chipper twenty-somethings, excitedly shilling for various local events happening over fall break, in-between shilling for local businesses. Why anyone would want to eat at an establishment called the Nasty Burger was beyond Damian. Whenever they stopped nattering to play actual music it was a blessing even if the appeal of the songs was entirely lost on the young vigilante. Finally, at 8am they had an actual news segment. Most of it was covering major US and global events, nothing Damian hadn’t already heard. Elections, natural disasters, rising tensions in Bialya…

“...and in local news, the City Library has announced that clean-up after last week’s ghost attack is finished, and they will be open at their normal hours on Monday!” the female host said cheerily, as if she was talking about the weather. “As usual, we would like to remind our listeners to keep their third eyes peeled for any ghost sightings! In case of a ghost attack, follow standard protocol and head to your nearest ghost shelter. Thank you! And here’s Mark with sports!”

Damian was flabbergasted. Ghost attack? This city experienced supernatural incursions and treated it like it was a normal occurrence? He’d read that the Fentons were ghost hunters, but he hadn’t thought anyone was taking them seriously! If Amity Park was under attack on a regular basis, how come the Justice League didn’t have a file on the city? Surely the news should have leaked to the outside world by now!

It was rare that Damian was caught so utterly wrong footed. His cursory research into Amity Park had turned up nothing like this! He was itching to get back to the Batcomputer to do a deep dive on the city and its history. Unfortunately, all he had on him was his phone which was ill suited for serious data compilation. At best he could scour local news sites and social media for any hint as to what was going on.

After half an hour of fruitless searching, he gave up in disgust. There was no mention of ghosts anywhere, save for the Fentons’ own website. Yet the news report had been almost blasé about the subject! Something was rotten in the State of Illinois.

All he could do for now was stare out the window at the Fenton’s front porch and hope his quarry made an appearance soon.

At 9.13 AM there was finally movement at the Fenton house. A dark-haired teenager in jeans, a light T-shirt, a backpack and a bicycle helmet bounded down the front steps and unlocked the electric scooter. It was unmistakably Daniel.

Damian hurriedly packed away his things, grabbed his backpack and left the apartment. He made sure to rearm the security system and lock the door, leaving no trace of ever having been there. Of course Damian wasn’t about to pursue his target across the rooftops of an unknown city in broad daylight. He would just have to wait for Daniel to arrive at his destination and follow him there. He retrieved his phone and pulled up the tracking data. It looked like the teen was headed towards the city center.

Damian tuned his comm to the listening device he had planted and set off towards downtown Amity at a light jog. For a while, all he heard was background noise. After about ten minutes, Daniel came to a stop.

“Hey Tucker, ready to go?” That had to be Daniel.

“Hey Danny!” a second male voice answered, “I was just waiting for you. Sam says she’ll meet us at the main entrance of the mall.”

“Sweet. Hopefully we can grab something cool from Game’O’Rama if we beat the rush.”

“You said it, my dude. Come on!”

The tracker resumed its movement. Now that he had a destination, Damian used his phone to call a cab. There couldn’t be that many malls in a city this size.

Daniel and his friend ‘Tucker’ kept up a steady stream of idle chatter on their journey. Damian learned more than he ever wanted to know about the attractive qualities of the female students at their high school, the tediousness of the homework assignments they had received for the week and the reviews of recent horror movie releases. Inconsequential chit chat as far as Damian was concerned. Once the pair arrived at their destination they parked their scooters and were soon out of range of the listening device. Damian cut the transmission and spent the rest of the short cab ride trying to find information on Daniel’s companion. Since they were apparently classmates and he had a first name to go on, it didn’t take long to narrow it down to Tucker Foley. Damian made a mental note to investigate him in depth later.

The mall was moderately busy when he arrived but nowhere near as bad as Gotham. Luckily there was a floorplan displayed at the entrance and it didn’t take Damian long to find the Game’O’Rama store. Predictably, it was dedicated to video games, gaming accessories and memorabilia. A sign in the window announced a major weekend sale, likely what had drawn Daniel and his companions. Damian slipped on a pair of mirrored sunglasses to conceal his eyes and meandered into the store. Wandering between the aisles, pretending to examine the games on offer, it didn’t take him long to find his quarry and Damian got his first good look at the trio.

Daniel was almost a head taller than Damian, slightly paler and with his dark hair mussed up from the scooter ride earlier. His clothes were slightly threadbare, and not the kind that was intentional. His white T-shirt bore a faded NASA logo and his jeans were frayed at the cuffs. He had dark circles under his eyes, though not nearly as bad as Drake got when he was on a case. Nonetheless, for the moment he seemed cheerful and at ease. He was examining the back of a disk case.

“I don’t know Tuck, I’m not much for medieval fantasy,” he said amusedly, “and a lot of these monsters look like ghosts we’ve seen. I get enough of them on a day to day basis, I don’t need them in my video games too.”

Again, this talk of ghosts.

The African American male next to Daniel had to be Tucker Foley. He was just a few inches shorter than Daniel, with his hair in shoulder length dreadlocks partially covered by a red beret. A matching red T-shirt with white Atari logo and baggy camo pants screamed nerd even before you got close enough to notice the black rimmed glasses and the clunky looking device he was tapping away on. Where did he get it from, the middle-ages?

“Look, the reviews are pretty great, and if we avoid everything ghost related what’s even left?” the boy argued, “You can’t let ghosts ruin your fun, man.”

“Tucker’s right, Danny.” the third member of their group chimed in. She was dressed head to toe in black, with a sheer, lacy top, a knee-length skirt, fishnet gloves and stockings and a pair of combat boots. With the thick soles giving her added height, she was almost as tall as Daniel. She wore eerily pale foundation making her dark purple lipstick and eyeshadow pop out even more. She had a small nose stud with a matching purple stone. Her earrings were shaped like spiders dangling from a web and she wore a pentagram necklace. Damian knew some of his schoolmates belonged to the goth subculture, but Gotham Academy’s dress code heavily limited such self-expression on campus. He guessed this girl was either really dedicated to the style or really dedicated to pissing off her parents. Maybe both.This had to be ‘Sam’.

“Besides, if Technus couldn’t ruin gaming for us no one else should either!” she continued.

“Fiiiiine,” Daniel sighed, clearly playing up his reluctance. “but if Amity gets attacked by an army of goblins next I reserve the right to say ‘I told you so’!” He double checked the price tag. “Splitsies?”

The girl scoffed and plucked the case from his hand. “I’ll take this one, you can pay for lunch later. Why don’t you two go ahead to Pineapple Republic for those jeans you wanted? I’ll catch up to you.”

“If you’re sure. Thanks Sam!” Daniel leaned over and gave her a peck on the cheek. “I guess we’ll see you there.”

“Yeah, thanks Sam.”

“Go on, shoo!” she laughed and headed over to the cash register as the boys left the store. Making a split second decision, Damian grabbed a random game from the shelf and got in line behind Sam. He leaned slightly towards her, pretending to examine the figurines behind the counter and stealthily stuck a bug to her skirt. Now he could listen in on their conversation without having to risk being noticed.

After paying for his purchase he wandered off in the direction the other teens had taken. He would just have to leave the game somewhere ‘accidentally’ at the earliest opportunity. Pretending to check his phone he tuned his comm to the frequency of the new bug.

“...I think those are still a little short on you.” Sam said amusedly.

“Man, I’m glad I finally got my growth spurt, but having to replace most of my wardrobe is gonna be a pain in the ass!” Daniel complained.

“Look at it this way Danny, this could be your chance to branch out. A whole new style, a whole new you!” Sam countered enthusiastically.

Damian walked towards the source of the signal. He didn’t follow the trio directly into Pineapple Republic, instead heading into the shoe store across from the clothing store. Browsing there would let him keep an eye on the entrance.

“Let me guess, would this style include black, black and more black?” came Foley’s snarky voice.

“Black is timeless, I’ll have you know,” Sam sniffed in mock offense, “and Danny does look good in it. Just try it?”

“I don’t know Sam, I don’t wanna blow my allowance on clothes that don’t feel like me.”

“Oh! We could always try the thrift store, they have plenty of cool stuff! And upcycling is great for the environment.”

“Uh, hard pass,” came the flat reply, “I would like to survive the year with some of my dignity intact, please.”

“Yeah dude, if Dash and his cronies caught wind of Danny going to Goodwill or something they’d never let him live it down.”

“There is nothing wrong with buying second-hand!”

“Says the girl in $500 guaranteed cruelty free designer boots.” Foley shot back.

“That’s different!” Sam sputtered, “And besides, I don’t see why you still chase the approval of those jerks.”

“Easy guys, settle down,” Daniel said placatingly, “Sam, you know it’s different for us. You might be able to brush off Paulina’s snarky comments, but I can’t just brush off Dash trying to rearrange my face. I’d rather not paint an even bigger target on my back.”

Sam gave a loud sigh. “Ugh, stupid high school politics. I can’t wait to graduate.”

“I dunno, if things go according to plan you’ll have to deal with real politics, Ms Future Administrator of the EPA Manson.” Daniel teased.

“You mean Senator Manson.” Foley chimed in.

“Madam President Manson!”

“Stop it guys!” the girl laughed, “I’ll leave the political ass kissing to someone else. I just want to save the planet! But I gotta get my doctorate first.”

“Well if you do end up having to take over the country to do it, there’s one thing to keep in mind,” Foley said sagely, “You can’t be much worse than President Luthor.”

The two replied with fake gagging noises while Foley just snickered.

“But seriously, since you brought up mixing up my style… I was thinking of getting my ears pierced.” Daniel said hesitantly.

“Really? Ooh, do you want studs? Danglers? An industrial?” Sam gushed excitedly.

“Well… aw nuts.” Daniel’s voice was suddenly tense.

“You know what?” Sam rushed out, equally tense, “I think you should go and try these pants on. In the changing room. Right now.”

Damian frowned. What the hell had happened? He glanced out the shop window but couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Suddenly, he heard distant screams and the sound of glass breaking. It’s almost like being back in Gotham.

Part 8

#dcxdp #dpxdc #dc x dp #dp x dc #danny phantom #batman #batfamily #damian wayne #robin #prophecy universe #the one where clockwork uses prophecies to mess things up (and set things right)#no beta we die like danny #tucker foley #sam manson #help the length of this fic has run away from me #team phantom is 16 btw #damian is 12

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tektronixtechnology · 9 months

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ilariyalavorowrites · 1 month

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Stalking Me, Stalking You (CSI Nick Stokes) Part three

Imagine: You never saw it coming, you never knew he was there until the moment he struck. For months, this individual had stalking you from the shadows, trying to find a way into your life. Never quite able to but in his mind, time was running out and soon enough you would be completely out of reach. This was the moment to act, to ‘rescue’ you and steal you away.

Warnings: Angst with a happy ending, kidnapping, hurt but eventual comfort. Suffering, lots of suffering, slow-moving plot, stalking, obsessive behaviour.

Pairings: Nick Stokes x Reader and Reader x OC (one-sided)

Word count: 3,068 words

Universe: CSI

Reader gender: Female

Part three of ten

Tagged: @just-call-me-the-old-hag @horsedragonllama @space-helen @kneelforloki @flopiboni

Previous / Next

Monday, Midnight

Greg and Morgan sat side by side, as Archie worked his magic on the various clips of CCTV. Each of the three larger monitors displayed different parts of a timeline that had been created by the day shift’s visual and audio tech Franklyn. They watched as their friend exited her known and preferred coffee shop with her piping hot beverage alone. This had been the last place that she had seen when Officer Sawyer had taken the barista’s statement.

“This is the only first clip that Dayshift obtained after the warrant for her finances came through” Morgan stated with the matching report in hand. The short clip showed nothing out of the ordinary. There was no one tailing her, no strange car parked with a window partially wound down with the driver trying to look casual as their eyes trailed after her.

“It confirms the Barista’s statement at the very least” Greg replied as his gaze shifted to the second screen. Archie paused the first clip and then slid the cursor to the play the next one.

All of them were teetering on the edge of professionalism. Trying their best to push aside their personal feelings. They needed to try at the very least to view the evidence collected like any other case. It was going to be a long night especially as Greg and Morgan had been the ones assigned to review what was already there for this shift.

The plan was for hands on deck over the next few shifts, to hand over the new details and brief the incoming day shift at the end of their night then repeat the process with a fresh set of eyes the next night.

“This one isn’t the greatest quality, it’s a wall-mounted camera from one of her neighbours that was discovered by the door-to-door interviews” Archie stated as the pixelated footage started. Both Morgan and Greg noted the timestamp, it had been captured at 2:30 in the afternoon.

“This camera will only record when the motion detection is triggered as you both know” Archie reminded them as they all watched as a battered, Silver Chevrolet Cruze drove past. It did not match the make and model of the car that the Detective had, which had yet to be located even with the BOLO that had been put out with all the necessary details. It had vanished into thin air.

Notes from the lead CSI Ava Dane stated that none of the neighbours had recognised the car when they had spoken after reviewing the footage. One neighbour had commented that he noticed the vehicle when he had returned from home at around 3:10 but he had heard tyres screeching loudly about twenty-five minutes later and when he looked at the window, it was gone.

There had been a slight skid mark noted and photographed from outside that particular address which had been run through the system and matched commonly used wheels. It had the first dead end.

“Franklyn managed to recover a partial plate after cleaning up the image, I won’t be able to get much more than that due to video quality” The tech apologised, knowing that this was not what the two of them wanted to hear.

“It’s a start at least” Morgan responded, trying to remain positive as she turned to the next report. Her eyes rapidly moved over the data displayed there. “It looks like the day shift ran that plate, there’s a fair few listed but they eliminated half”

As her eyes drifted down the page, they stopped over one particular name. As memories of the case that she had worked on came flooding back. The Detective had been waiting for her at the scene.

Vaughn Mikhailov was a two-bit drug dealer, he and his older brother Artem had been targeted and shot at in a drive-by gangbangers after they had tried to move in on the turf of another local dealer. The initial warnings had been ignored by the pair, and this had led to the car being targeted. Vaughn had been in the backseat, he had barely been clipped by a single bullet in his left shoulder but Artem hadn’t been as lucky.

He had died at the scene, bleeding out whilst waiting on the paramedics. Vaughn had been cooperative to a point, but eventually, he just screamed at her friend when she had in his eyes failed to get justice for his brother.

It was not always possible to reach a satisfactory end to every case, it had been one of those which slipped through the crack when the leads had all run cold. Morgan remembered that her friend had noted that this had not been her first rodeo with either of the Mikhailov brothers.

“The first time I met them was when I was working the beat, I arrested Artem for soliciting a working girl and Vaughn for dealing. Both of them had rap sheets as long as your arm. It's their mother, I feel for each time one of them ends up in court”

There had been sympathy that lingered as she listened, as it turned out their mother had raised both the boys single-handedly after their father had run off. She had tried her best but they had been drawn into the fast-paced lifestyle of wheeling and dealing. As she watched, the detective informed the woman of her son’s death.

“What is it, Morgan?” Greg asked, noticing that Morgan had not spoken and became transfixed by one of the reports further in. He leaned, to see what she had been reading. It was the list of cars compiled by the plate search.

“Vaughn Mikhailov,” She said looking up to meet his gaze. Greg’s gaze narrowed perplexed as he did not recognize the name. However, before he could reply, Morgan beat him to the punch.

“It was a drive-by shooting case, I worked a few weeks back and she was the lead detective assigned work to the case alongside me” She started, knowing that she would need to give him more than that if they were going to start to seriously look at him as a potential suspect.

“He and his older brother were targeted after trying to move into another dealer’s turf. His brother died at the scene. He was far from happy with how things went but he had a chip on his shoulder as she had arrested him more than a few times in the past” Once she had finished speaking, Morgan waited for Greg to process the information that had been dumped upon him.

“So he held her responsible for not finding his brother’s killer then. Greg asked, Morgan nodded before one last comment. “He had an axe to grind”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------Tuesday, 4 am

With one hand poised, Nick firmly knocked upon Russell’s closed office door. In a roundabout way, he had expected the text summoning him to the supervisor’s office but not this soon. He had hoped that he would be one way approaching Russell but then again, at least this way soon enough everything would be out in the open.

This was not the way that he had hoped that this conversation would be initiated. He knew that she had already started telling her partner and fellow officers about her boyfriend whenever she had a spare few minutes. She had also scheduled a meeting with HR on the day that she was meant to be returning to work. Nick then would approach Russell around the same time as she would have been seated down with HR. Effectively killing two birds with one stone

This had always been their plan when things became more serious between the two of them. Multiple discussions had arisen, on when, where and how they approach their collective jobs regarding their romantic relationship and the potential impact on both of their jobs that would need to be addressed and solutions put into place.

She had planned to offer to be moved from Graveyard to Swing or Day if no other compromise could be reached. Where it would be possible for both of them both work the same shift pattern without any issues. Departmental policy had previously torn Sara from the team when her relationship with Grissom came to light, they had wondered how it would have played out for them.

Yes, they were still colleagues working alongside another one, but not under the same direct supervisor. They crossed over for Homicide and Forensic evidence collection and investigation came hand in hand. Without one, you couldn’t have the other.

“Come in” Russell’s voice called from behind the door, bringing Nick back of his thoughts as he pushed the handle and then the door inwardly. “Hey Russell…” He greeted the man sitting behind the desk but what he hadn’t expected was Catherine being in the room, standing off to one side behind Russell.

“Shut the door Nick” Russell continued as he went through the motions of crossing the threshold and closing the door behind him and moved further into the office to stand before the pair staring straight at him.

“I know this is about Detective..” Her name rolled off his tongue, one that had fallen on his lips many times before. “Look, I know that I should have told you..” Nick started to try and explain the position that he had found himself in.

“Nick, I need to know that you’ll be able to recuse yourself if you cross that emotional line where you start to lead your heart, not your head. For as long as you can remain objective then you still work on the case but the moment, that you step over that line. I will remove you and you’ll be treated just like every other significant other or next kin on every other case that had past through this department” Russell spoke with a conviction that could not be ignored or overturned. This was a promise that he would not go back on.

Nick quickly nodded, happily agreeing with his supervisor’s conclusion. “This will have to be logged with HR and I’ll arrange the meeting shortly” Russell said before turning to Catherine. “Anything you want to add?” He said, pulling her into the dialogue. Catherine had been quietly observing the short back and forth between the pair.

“Nicky, from here on out, we’ll be watching closer. Please understand, that we want to bring her home as much as you do. Still, we have to follow the rules and ensure there nothing can be challenged further down the line” Her words held a warmth that Nick had felt before, the familial love that had developed and grown over the many years that they had worked together. Once again, Catherine was looking after him, all whilst balancing the integrity of the crime lab and their necessary work on top of that. It was a well-practice balancing act that she had perfected over the last decade.

All it took would be one step in the wrong direction and it would come tumbling back down. That could not happen, no it would not help.

------------------------------------------------------------------------Tuesday 2 am

As the night rolled by, evidence was processed, reviewed and reported, with the new findings and avenues to venture down next added to the ever-growing list.

The one initially weak lead that had cropped up early in the shift strengthened as prints from the scene which had been set running whilst the sun was still up bore fruit. Morgan’s theory now seemed more plausible as the same name popped up once more, this could not just be a coincidence in the name of bad blood.

Morgan turned to Greg, still trying to wrap her head around this as there were still too many variables that did not make a lick of sense. She could understand the steps taken to enact some twisted form of payback by breaking into the detective’s home and destroying everything that she might hold dear. There were no signs of a struggle, no blood splatter or trail to imply that they had been lying in wait for her to return.

With the crime scene photos laid out on the table between them, this felt much like the pieces of a puzzle waiting to be put together to reveal the image displayed upon the box when a handful of key tiles were missing, creating holes in the image. “This isn’t the primary scene, there is no indication that she ever came back. Two separate indications with one connecting factor, her” Morgan said, churning over the thoughts in her head out loud as she tried to make any sense of it all.

“What do we know about Vaughn Mikhailov, beyond his last arrest report?” Greg started before listing off what had been discovered thus far “His prints are all over this crime scene, his car matches the mark and model spotted on the neighbour's CCTV but why would a dealer break into a cop’s home in broad daylight?” He posed the question to Morgan, the blonde’s face twisted in confusion as she tried to gather together a logical answer but found none.

“How did he find her address? That’s what bugs me unless he tailed her previously but according to the neighbour’s statement” Morgan replied, fishing out the relevant document from the box on her side of the table and turning to the right page. “That car had never been caught on camera before that day and those cameras had been up for more than six months”

“The only way that we’ll get satisfactory answers is that Vaughn Mikhailov needs to be found and brought in for questioning” Morgan nodded her head in agreement, the two-bit criminal had a lot to answer for.

“Brass put has BOLO out on Mikailov’s car”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------Tuesday, 4:30 am

The blinding flash of blue lights and screeching sirens were not out of place as the convoy of vehicles pulled up in front of the homestead. Its chain link fence had seen better days, half still attached to the poles that marked the edge of the property and the rest lost within the depths of the tall grass that desperately needed cutting.

The property itself was registered to one Nikolai Mikhailov, the cousin of their prime suspect. It was not out of the ordinary for Vaughn to crash on his cousin’s sofa when his mother threw him out for the third time that week. Officers had called the property in the past, more often than not on matters of public nuisance or disturbance. Nikolai loved to party well into the small hours and was not shy about using violence to silence any complaining neighbours if they dared to call the cops on him.

Detective Captain Jim Brass surveyed the scene from behind the cruiser’s side door and soon found what he was looking for. With the garage door half enough, it was plain to see the car parked within, its license plate matching the suspect’s known vehicle of choice. No lights could be seen from the street as Officers tentatively approached the front door, ready to burst through the door and apprehend whoever was on the other side.

With the fury of valkyries leading the charge, the officers breached through the threshold as calls of LVPD came and went as Jim watched them disappear inside. This had to be it, this had to be the end of the road.

He was not the only one listening in, as the Officers inside cleared the scene. The investigated interest ran through from the bottom straight up to the top. She was one of them

‘419’ The code of a dead body came crackling over the airwaves, a dead body had been discovered. A chill rushed through him as he envisioned the very sight of her lying there, with empty, glazed-over eyes staring up at him as he wondered why.

’It’s not her’ The voice of Officer Mitchell soon followed as Jim released the breath that he hadn’t known he was holding back, then again he wasn’t the only one. Nick stood silently by, with bated breath as Morgan and Greg left with kits in hand. This was their scene now as they had been the ones to discover the connections that led to this.

Hodges stood in the doorway, reading the scene before him. The air was still tense as they all waited for the relief to set in but yet that felt too premature. The lab tech cleared his throat to try and catch Nick’s attention. He watched for a moment then tried a different approach.

“Nick, this was left at Reception for you” Hodges called into the room, as he held out the unstamped manila envelope for the other man to take. Nick Stokes was scrawled across the front in a large and unfamiliar hand.

Nick frowned, he was not awaiting any post as he took it. “Thanks, man,” He said as he turned it over, inspecting it from every angle. There was nothing about the envelope that stood out, it was a standard A3 office stationery that was stocked by countless suppliers but the question arose of who had sent it.

As he carefully opened the sealed flap and reached inside, Nick quickly found the content. A series of photographs which he slid out. Hodges slid up beside him as he turned over the first which revealed little other than what he already knew to be true.

“Is that…” David questioned at the sight of his friends and colleagues locked in a rather passionate embrace. “Yes,” Nick curtly replied, annoyed at the very prospect that they had been followed and their privacy had been invaded like this as he turned over the next one.

It was the last one that drew a shocked gasp from Hodges, as he shook with a rage that he hadn’t felt for some time. The sight of her bound and unconscious in the boot of an unidentifiable vehicle with the words I WIN STOKES, SHE IS MINE written in bold, block capitals across the top of the image.

Each had focused upon her, she was the object of this maddening desire. A tail had been placed as her routine was documented. He held pride of place in a number of the images, whether he liked it or not.

He was taunting him, this was just his opening move.

45 notes · View notes

fluentmoviequoter · 3 days

Text

Two of Them

Requested Here!

Pairing: Jim Street x fem!reader

Summary: When Hondo asks you to help catch a car thief, you meet Jim Street. As you get to know one another, you learn that you have a lot in common, but balance each other out perfectly.

Warnings: r loves cars/owns an auto shop & is sarcastic and makes jokes (very similar to Street), mentions of robbery and murder, fluff, softie Street

Word Count: 4.7k+ words

A/N: There's so many things I love about this request and a ton of (personal) references! I hope you all enjoy!🤍

Masterlist Directory | Jim Street Masterlist | Request Info\Fandom List

Someone wolf whistles as the garage door opens, and you walk faster to see what is worthy of such attention. When you step into the garage if your auto restoration shop, your jaw drops.

“Is that a ’59 Impala?” you ask breathlessly.

“Sure is,” Joel, your righthand man and drivetrain expert, answers. “She’s here for a tune-up. I know you’re busy, boss, so I can handle this one.”

“Yeah, right!” you exclaim. “All of my childhood dreams are under that hood.”

“You dreamt about reconstructed motors as a kid?”

“Do you talk to your wife like this, Joel? Because she’s never going to let you buy a C-10 with that attitude.”

He chuckles before he waves toward the office. “Impala owner is in there. Wants to talk to you.”

“Thanks, Joel. Don’t start without me!” you call over your shoulder.

As you enter the lobby, you put on your best customer service smile and straighten your shirt.

“Good afternoon,” you greet. “You must be the owner of that beautiful Impala.”

“Yes, ma’am. My friend Rick Castle told me that you were the person to see. I had the car restored by a guy in Texas, a ground-up rebuild, but it’s not riding as smoothly as it was before. The passenger side – sorry, I’m not very good at explaining these things – it almost feels like it’s bounding while I drive,” he explains.

“Okay, that’s really helpful. It sounds like it’s probably an alignment issue. We can look at it today and give you a call when we find the issue,” you suggest.

“That would be great. Thank you.”

You review the paperwork he completed with Joel quickly before telling him bye. After putting his contact information into your computer system, you rush back to the garage.

“Let’s find out what’s causing the involuntary hydraulics,” you tell Joel.

“Hondo, get 20 squad in here!” Hicks calls.

As they gather in the situation room, Lieutenant Lynch queues a video pulled from a security camera. Street recognizes the location as the building they raided a few days earlier but remains quiet as she begins speaking.

“This is, of course, the building you raided. If you’ll recall, we hoped to locate an unidentified subject tied to several car robberies, assaults, and more recently, carjacking with deadly force. He killed a driver during a carjacking gone wrong and has continued to get more violent with each crime. We still haven’t identified the perp, courtesy of his never-ending vehicle supply and seeming knowledge of traffic cams. He didn’t seem to think about the security camera across the street from the parking garage before the raid, however.”

She presses a button on the tablet in her hand, and the video begins to play. Several cars come and go, but there’s nothing unusual. Hicks raises his hand to point to the time stamp, and the guys watch, waiting for some smoking gun or clear picture of the guy running from the cops. All that happens, though, is a man leaving in a convertible. Lynch pauses the video again and looks up expectantly.

“Was that a Triumph?” Luca asks excitedly. “Those are still rare in the states, even decades after they stopped manufacturing them.”

“It’s not stock,” Street adds with a shake of his head. “That’s not standard suspension, and the paint is too new to be original. Whoever brought that over had a lot of work done to it.”

“Which is great, makes it easier to find,” Hicks agrees. “Except there’s no plates, no registration, and no one has reported it missing. There’s not even a T3 in that color registered to anyone through the California DMV. We have something to look for, but no more information on who we’re looking for.”

“I know someone who can help,” Hondo says. “Classic cars, new paint, rebuilds…”

“You have a car guy?” Deacon asks. “Why?”

“Of course, I have a car guy,” Hondo scoffs. “My dad may have introduced me.”

“That makes more sense,” Luca says, nodding with Deacon.

“Hold on, guys,” Lynch calls. “The tech team thinks they may have found another lead. Consensus is this video is the same driver.”

She plays a new video, this one taken from a gas station camera. Another newer sports car pulls in, but no one exits the car. It sits for nearly three minutes, then pulls out.

“I’m not as versed as these guys, but that looks like a Lamborghini,” Tan comments. “Can’t be too hard to trace those in Los Angeles.”

“It is when they don’t have the original drivetrain. The back tires spun out way too far in that turn. It’s been modified, too,” Luca points out.

“He’s either got a thing for modified sports cars or he’s someone who’s flipping them to be completely different cars after he steals them,” Street hypothesizes.

“Your car guy gonna be able to help with that?” Hicks asks Hondo.

“Oh, yeah,” he answers. “This case’ll be closed in a week.”

“Then get out of here. You’ve got a rare car to track down.”

“One more thing,” Lynch says. “Really, I promise this is the last thing. None of those cars have been seen again. Seems like he drives them once and then ditches them.”

“He has to have his own garage, then,” Street says. “One that I wish I had.”

“Then it’s a bigger target,” Hondo declares. “Let’s roll.”

The chime connected to the front door of your shop rings loudly and you tell Joel to go check on the customer. You are under a 1977 Chevrolet Nova and elbow-deep in the engine bay. Even if you’d wanted to be the first face they saw, given that it is your business, you wouldn’t be able to get out from under the car before they assumed no one was here.

“Ah ha,” you murmur.

You pull the broken mounting bracket down past the ballast. It falls to the floor with a loud ting before you roll out from under the car. As you sit up and wipe your grease-covered hands on your coveralls, you see Hondo looking at you with his brows raised.

“Hello,” you greet.

“You got a little something right… everywhere,” he jokes.

“Funny,” you reply as you stand. “If your eyesight is that good, it’s no wonder you made SWAT.”

Someone laughs behind him, and you lean to the side. His entire squad waits in the lobby, and you wave before returning your attention to Hondo.

“I take it you’re not here about your dad’s car then,” you muse.

“Not today. We need some help with a case, if you have the time,” he explains.

“Sure. I’ll have Joel take you to my office. Let me clean up and I’ll meet you – all of you, I guess – in there in a minute.”

“Thanks. I owe you one.”

“You owe me an entire car at this point, Hondo,” you call as you walk out of the garage.

Once you’re out of your stained overalls and have washed all of the grease and car-related grime off of your skin, you return to your office. Hondo and three other men wait beside your desk, and you invite them to sit. Hondo introduces you to Tan, Luca, and Street, and you shake each of their hands before you sit across from them. Hondo rolls his eyes when you smile at Street, but you’re not sure why.

“So, what exactly does Metro SWAT need from an auto shop?” you ask.

“Long story short, there’s a guy stealing sports cars; classics, fresh off the floor, and everything in between. Then he’s customizing them, driving them once, and ditching them for a new illegally obtained ride,” Hondo answers.

You nod as you think, then lean on your elbows on your desk. “Why customize them?”

“To make them untraceable, we think,” Luca answers. “You can’t report a car missing if it doesn’t exist anymore.”

“That tracks,” you agree. “But then the question becomes, how do you ditch them? You can’t leave something like that at a chop shop, the parts would bring more issues.”

“Private garage,” Street says. “Or maybe he’s selling them out of the county. Lots of possibilities.”

“It takes an incredibly rich, incredibly dumb person to treat cars like that,” you comment.

“We deal with criminals,” Hondo interrupts. “Rich and dumb is kind of our thing.”

“No, Hondo, cars aren’t like people. They fight back, they don’t just disappear without a trace.”

“She’s right,” Street adds. “These cars are more than property to be stolen.”

“What are you saying?” Hondo asks.

“Ever read Christine?” you joke.

“Or heard of Decepticons?” Street adds.

You smile at him again, and he nods before he winks quickly.

“So, can you help us or not?” Hondo inquires.

“Yeah, of course. What do you need me to do?”

“We’ve got some security cam footage of the cars he’s altered. We need to know where he’s getting the work done, or info on where a private garage big enough for a collection like this would be.”

“I’d be happy to look. I can’t promise anything, though. My clientele is more of the rebuild this classic or fix this issue not the I want to make a rare sports car even more unique off the books.”

“That’s why we’re here.” Hondo looks at his phone quickly and huffs. “Uh, Street, you stay and go over the videos with her. Deac said he and Chris need backup.”

“You got it,” Street answers.

Hondo thanks you quickly before he, Luca, and Tan leave. You’re left alone in your office with Street and aren’t sure how to start a conversation after joking together while Hondo filled you in on the case.

“Uh, here’s the videos. There’s only a few on this, but it should be enough to get an idea of what he’s doing,” Street says as he passes you a memory stick.

You take it from him and insert it into your computer. As the videos begin playing, you rewind it, pause it, and take a few notes. The cars in it don’t have anything in common, other than the fact that they’re stolen and modified.

“Well, I can say for sure that my guys didn’t do this work. Nobody I work with did, either. I’ll ask around and see what I can find,” you tell Street.

“I appreciate that,” he replies. “You know, when Hondo said he had a car guy, I was expecting…”

“A guy?” you guess.

“I mean, yeah. Middle-aged, beer belly, his name on the sign. The usual.”

“Sounds like my shapewear is doing its job if you don’t see a beer belly,” you joke.

“Please, you know how pretty you are,” Street replies.

“Seems like you think so.”

You lean forward and smile as you return the video drive to Street. He returns your smile and opens his mouth, likely to make another joke, before Joel knocks on the door.

“We’ve got another customer, boss. With a ’73 Corolla,” he informs.

“Excellent timing,” you mumble.

Street stands as you do and says, “Call Hondo, or me, whoever, if you find anything. Thanks for helping.”

“I will. Thanks, Street.”

He leaves through the lobby, and you take a deep breath. Joel smiles as he watches you, but you tell him to get back to work before he can comment.

“On what?” he yells behind you.

“Hondo, we’re not even doing anything,” Street groans in HQ the following morning. “Just let me go make sure she doesn’t need help or anything!”

“She knows more about cars than you do,” Hondo answers.

“That’s not what I mean. C’mon, man, she has an auto shop. Are you really going to make me sit here when I could be solving a case in my dream garage?”

“Hondo!” Deacon calls. “We’ve got another video. New car this time, but it doesn’t look modified.”

Street looks toward Hondo expectantly, and nearly cheers when Hondo sighs and tells him to go. He accepts the video and rushes to his motorcycle. Work will be more fun with you, he thinks.

“You’re back,” you say when Street walks into the garage.

“And you’re working on a 1960s Mustang,” he says dreamily.

“1964,” you tell him. “Want to take a look?”

“I’m supposed to be working. We have a new video with a different car.”

“Surely it can wait a few seconds, so you can look at the new 289 sitting pretty under the hood.”

“Yeah, we can wait,” Street agrees as he follows you to the hood of the car.

After Street takes a few minutes to admire the work you’ve done on the Mustang, you lead him to your office and bring up the new video.

“I haven’t seen it, but the people in the lab didn’t think it had been modified,” Street explains.

“Okay. Let’s see,” you say, turning the screen toward him.

Your shoulder presses against his arm as you watch, but you’re both too interested in the sports car on the screen to notice that you’re in shared space.

“I don’t see anything,” Street says.

You drag the video slowly and pause it when the wheels turn.

“That car shouldn’t be all-wheel drive. It’s a minor conversion compared to the other work you’ve shown me.”

“Who makes a Datsun 240z all-wheel drive?” Street murmurs.

“Who steals a Datsun 240z?” you counter. “They stopped making them for a reason. Short of a complete overhaul, they weren’t worth their weight in metal.”

“As right as you are, that doesn’t bring us any closer to finding this guy.”

“No,” you agree. “And none of my friends have heard anything. We’re getting the word out, though, so as soon as it reaches the right person, I’ll have more information for you. It’d be great if he decided to switch garages and was my next customer.”

“It would be easier.” Street leans back in the seat and looks at the pictures on your wall. “Best and worst customer to date, go,” he asks.

“Ooh, okay,” you say excitedly. “Best? A writer who lives up in the hills has brought me over 20 different rare classics to restore from the ground up. The worst was last week. Kid came in with a brand new, stock Lambo Huracan and wanted the double-clutch tranny switched out for a 4-speed automatic.”

“In a Huracan?” Street repeats incredulously. “I… I feel like I just aged twenty years.”

“Tell me about it. I asked him if he could drive it the way it was and never got an answer.”

“Did you do it?”

“Are you kidding? No! I’m in this business for the cars, and that’s just sacrilegious.”

Hondo knocks on your open door, and he’s leaning against it with his brows raised when you look up.

“There’s two of them!” he exclaims dramatically as he looks back at the rest of the guys. “I thought you and Street were bad enough separately, but this isn’t fair.”

“Can I help you Hondo?” you ask, ignoring his comment. Although, you don’t hate him viewing this as you and Street, together, as one.

“I just came to see if anything came of that video,” Hondo says.

“Nothing inherently helpful. Your smoking gun is still lost.”

“Keep looking,” Hondo requests, tapping his knuckles against the doorframe before he leads 20 squad away.

Street watches him leave, shakes his head, and turns back to you to ask, “How’d you get into cars?”

“My, uh, my home life wasn’t great growing up. Cars were my escape. From the time I was old enough to realize that walking out into the driveway to mess with the cars got me away from the fighting, I was out there constantly. Then it became a love for cars and everything they mean to people. This isn’t just my job, it’s my passion.”

“I lived in foster homes for too long,” Street says. “When I met my brother, Noah, he got me into motorcycles, which led to cars. We dreamed about getting a Ducati someday.”

“See? Cars mean something, they’re more than electronics and gas to get you from A to B. They’re life itself for some of us.”

“And you treat them like that. When I get that Ducati, I’ll bring it to you.”

“For what? Those are perfect as is.”

“Maybe it’ll just be an excuse to see you.”

You smile and shake your head, but you know that you’d welcome him in, anytime, with or without a Ducati.

“… And then after the toe, caster, and camber are matched up on both sides, we can move on to complete the diagnostics,” you finish.

“Okay,” the young girl says. “I need to call my dad really fast. Can I come back in and let you know after that?”

“Of course. Take your time.”

As she walks out, you notice Street standing in the doorway to the garage.

“That happen often?” he asks, gesturing toward the girl standing outside.

“Occasionally. Mostly with younger customers,” you answer. “Must be nice to have a parental relationship like that.”

“Tell me about it.”

“So, what can I do for you, Officer Street?”

“Are you ever going to call me Jim?” he asks.

“I like cars, so Street is more fun,” you reply with a shrug.

“I actually came to give you a break. Hondo said you’ve been sending him updates day and night. You have to step back from it all before you burn out,” Street explains.

“I can’t. I have cars to finish, and some of my contacts have leads that seem promising, but they have to go through a chain of different garages, and…”

Street steps to you and lays his hands on your shoulders. He waits until you look into his eyes and relax to say, “You need a break. Trust me.”

“I need to finish with her,” you whisper. “Five minutes?”

“Five minutes,” he agrees. “And then I’m dragging you out of here if you won’t go willingly.”

Five minutes later, you follow Street into the small customer parking area outside the lobby. He walks to a motorcycle, and you eye it in admiration.

“This is your bike? It’s gorgeous, Street,” you say, running your fingers over the smooth metal body.

“It’s fast too,” he replies.

You accept a helmet and put it on as he climbs onto the bike. The Cardo logo on the side of the helmet catches your attention, but as you sit behind him and wrap your arms around him, you’re more than happy to ride in silence and decompress.

When you get back to the garage, you climb off the bike and hug Street before he can swing his leg over.

“Thank you,” you say softly. “I did need that.”

“I’m not just a pretty face, you know,” he jokes as he returns your hug.

“Neither am I. And you shift into fourth too soon. That’s why it revs harder.”

“I knew coming to see you would embarrass me eventually,” Street laments. “But at least you’re pretty and really close to me.”

“I can move,” you say against his shoulder.

“No, thanks. Not until I have to go back to work.”

His phone rings in his pocket and you laugh as he grumbles, “Hondo always has to ruin the moment.”

The phone on your desk rings again as you lower the new L1 engine into a C-10. You roll your eyes at the sound but refuse to answer it.

“Somebody else answer the phone!” you call. “I can’t answer another stupid question today!”

Joel salutes you as he walks through your open door. He returns a moment later with the cordless phone in his hand and smiles.

“It’s Street. Would you like me to pass along your message?”

You extend your cleaner hand and tuck the phone between your ear and shoulder to say, “Hey, Street.”

“Can you remove the hemi from my Charger?” he asks. “It’s too loud when I drive.”

“I will hang up on you,” you threaten.

The line beeps and you pull the phone from your ear with pinched brows.

“Not if I hang up on you first,” Street says from the doorway. “Which is rude, by the way.”

“Have more videos for me to watch?” you ask loudly as you lean into the engine bay of the truck.

“No, just wanted to drop by. Nice body… the truck, I mean.”

“Sure, you did.”

You grunt as you stand and pass a screwdriver to Street.

“I don’t work here.”

“Yet you’re here every day,” Joel says from inside the cab of the truck.

“Not my fault your boss freelances for my boss,” Street replies.

“I told Hondo this morning that I hadn’t heard anything,” you interrupt as you wipe your hands on a rag.

“I know. I just wanted to drop by. I got off early, so, here I am.”

“Hmm. I was hoping you’d say you were undercover or something.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want to believe this is how you dress when you’re not in uniform,” you joke.

“You’re covered in-“

“I’m at work,” you defend. “Hazards of the job. And don’t bring up the fact that my laundry room smells like motor oil because you can’t prove that.”

Your phone buzzes on the workbench behind you, and you apologize as you walk past Street to get it. He watches your eyes widen as you press the screen a few times.

“Call Hondo,” you demand.

“But-“

“I know who your car thief is. He’s on his way here right now with the Triumph T3.”

“How? Why?” Street questions.

“The guy he hired to do the work thought they were really his cars. Apparently, my name came up and with the message about him going through the automotive grapevine, his former mechanic recommended me for a modification tune-up,” you explain quickly.

Hondo arrives less than ten minutes later with the rest of 20 Squad. He asks what is so urgent as he looks between you and Street, though there isn’t much room between you.

“He isn’t ditching the cars. He’s still driving the cars because the Triumph slid last night and now he’s bringing it here to be repaired,” you tell Hondo.

“Okay, it slid and he’s bringing in one stolen car. What does that mean for me? And no automotive speak,” Hondo replies.

“Could I interest you in the Cybertronian translation?”

“Tell me what my bad guy did.”

“If I can convince him to list every car he may want me to work on in the future, could you get a warrant? I’ll try to get an address and a name for him, though they may not be legitimate.”

“We can certainly try,” Deacon agrees. “But he doesn’t seem like the type that will answer questions.”

“I have a way of getting people to talk. Especially car people. Guys like him like to brag, so if I one him up, he won’t have a choice but to tell me what you need to know.”

“Just be careful,” Street says. “Don’t let him get so cocky he thinks he has to prove himself in any way except talking about cars.”

“I won’t. But you guys need to get out of sight. He’ll want to see the garage and get a feel for the security.”

“We can pretend to be security,” Street argues.

“Nah, you got a cop face, man,” Joel says from inside the truck.

“Joel, I’m going to marry your boss and ask her to fire you,” Street shoots back.

“I want to hear more about that later,” you interrupt. “But seriously, get out of sight.”

A few minutes later, a Triumph T3 stops outside of the lobby entrance. The man who enters looks like the driver in the security videos, but you have to get more information before anything else can happen.

“Hi,” you greet. “You must be the gentleman Josh told me about. He said you had a classic, but I was not expecting a ‘50s Triumph. That’s a gorgeous car, sir.”

“I appreciate it. She’s my baby, but the steering is a bit off since I hit a wet patch last night and the back end slid.”

“That sounds like a simple enough fix. If you can just fill out some information-“

“Josh said you’d do this off the books for me, like he has. Cash upfront.”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” you agree. “Go ahead and pull her into the garage.”

He nods and exits the front door. You sigh and move into the garage, planning how to get him to talk about the other cars he has stolen and where he keeps them.

“Nice facility,” he compliments as he enters your garage. “Yeah, well, I’ve got a couple incredibly rare classics that I work on often, and those customers deserve the best.”

“Rarer than a 1953 Triumph T3?” the man asks, defensive and growing insulted.

“Oh, yeah. I’ve had a Model T in here, several European cars, including a T2, plus modern sports cars.”

“I’ve got a garage full of classics that make those seem like Hot Wheels.”

“I don’t know,” you murmur as you lift the hood of the Triumph. “I’ve had my hands in a 1931 Bugatti Type 41. I don’t think it gets much better.”

“My collection is worth a dozen of those outdated bugs!” he exclaims. “The Triumph, a Lamborghini Aventador with custom drivetrains, and I’d bet this car that you haven’t seen a Datsun 240z in mint condition with all-wheel drive. If your little dump of a garage could handle even that! My 25,000 square foot garage has cars you’ve never even heard of.”

“LAPD SWAT!” Hondo calls as he and his team enter the garage. “You’re under arrest for grand theft auto, carjacking, assault and battery, murder, and about fifteen more charges that I don’t have the patience to list. Now, when an arrest warrant goes through without a name, you know that’s a bad person.”

“Do not push him up against this car!” you demand as Hondo grabs his shoulder. “Toolbox, wall, anything other than a pristine T3.”

“Thanks for the help,” Hondo calls over his shoulder as he leads the thief out of the garage.

“It’s a shame such a pretty car has to go into evidence before it returns to its owner,” you tell Street.

“Yeah. Listen-“

“You didn’t hear a word I just said, did you?” you ask.

“Do you want to go out with me?” he asks.

You smile as you answer, “I’d love to.”

“Trust me, you’re gonna love this place,” you promise as you take Street’s hand. “All of the food is served in trays that look like classic cars.”

Street laughs as you bounce excitedly and uses your joined hands to pull you close.

“If you could buy one classic car, what would it be?” he asks.

You answer without hesitation before asking him the same question.

“Car? Probably an Aston Martin or a ‘60s Impala. Something sleek, classic, dangerously fast,” he answers. “Motorcycle is still a Ducati.”

“You’d suit an Aston Martin or an Impala,” you agree. “Or you can just ride shotgun in mine.”

“I was born to drive,” Street says dramatically.

You laugh at him as you slide into a booth in the restaurant. Street follows, setting the tray of food before you as he sits beside you.

“Are all of our dates going to be car-themed?” Street asks.

“You’re the one who already planned our wedding, and I’ll go ahead and tell you now that I’m not firing Joel, so you tell me.”

“I don’t care what we do as long as you’re there,” Street decides.

You smile as you turn toward him, and when you raise your chin, Street kisses you quickly. You momentarily forget about the car-themed trays holding your food, too distracted by his affection to care about which model you got. But then he tells you he got the better one and you push him away from you to check. Street laughs as he pulls you close again, and you’ve never been happier to have so much in common with one person. Maybe there are two of you, but the balance and love Street brings is perfect.

#jim street x fem!reader #jim street x reader #jim street fluff #jim street fic #jim street imagine #jim street #swat x reader #swat cbs #fem!reader #requests #hanna writes✯

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azaleaniath · 1 year

Text

~ ROTXO X FEM! SULLY READER ~ (MODERN AU)

Unexpected

synopsis: You and your siblings are invited to a party with Ao'nung. You had expected a calm evening at his house, without Rotxo. Turns out it wasn't anything like that and you have to face your crush sooner or later.

warnings: flirting, alcohol, mild mentions of sex, jealousy aged up to 21

SFW | 4.5k words

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

How great. You had totally forgotten that it was friday and Ao'nung had invited you and your siblings over to party with him. Until Lo'ak had stormed into your room to tell you to get inside the car, you were totally unaware that this party would take place tonight. You heard your older siblings car honk in the parking lot as Lo'ak told you that they've been waiting in the vehicle for 15 minutes.

You checked the time on your phone. 08:42 pm

two missed calls from: skxawng bro

3 minutes ago

new message from: big bro

'u coming? We're in the car waiting for you'

Fuck.

A quick look in the mirror followed.

Beige plaid flannel pajama pants and a brown hoodie, unbrushed hair in a messy bun, that was definetly not the perfect fit for a party. But it was just Ao'nungs house, right?

"There's no time to change, we're already late! Hurry up girl, Tsireya already asked where we're at!"

"Have you seen me?!" you barked at him, quickly grabbing your most important belongings.

"You promised me you'd come with me! If you let me down now I'll tell mom and dad about the exam you fucked up last week!"

You only growled at him before slipping out of bed and letting him drag you downstairs. He barely left you any time to get into some shoes as he urged you outside and into the car. Neteyam started the vehicle as soon as he caught sight of you in the back mirror.

"Yo bro, you got the address?"

Lo'ak asked his brother once he got in and clipped the buckle of his passenger seatbelt. Neteyam tipped around on his the display of his built in navigation system, furrowing his brows.

"Yeah, it's only a few miles but I don't think I've ever been there before..." A cold shower ran down your spine.

"Wait. We're not going going to Ao'nung house?" You tried fixing your hair, checking yourself in your front camera of your phone. Neteyam shook his head. Wonderful.

"So we're going to this unknown destination and I look like shit. Why am I even coming with you..." you questioned, not expecting an answer.

"We'll just have a fun night, okay? Lo'ak, I'd appreciate if you and Ao'nung wouldn't fight this once." Neteyam said, steering the car with one hand while checking the upcoming redlight.

"We're friends bro, it just makes me wanna puke to see how he touches you, especially in public- ugh!" Lo'ak shook his head in disgust, to which Neteyam only blushed.

"Oh shut up, don't make me start talking about you and Tsireya. Your staring makes me uncomfortable too, baby bro."

Lo'ak, definetly feeling offended by this, tried to draw the topic away from himself, instead of that he brought you into the conversation. "Well, at least I talk to the person I like, other than y/n."

You gasped, feeling your cheeks flushing at his comment right away. "H-hey, what's that supposed to mean?!"

"Oh come on, you know who I'm talking about~" your brother cooed, Neteyam grinned to himself silently. Your blushed cheeks only deepened in color as you caught his expression in the mirror.

You decided to stay quiet as well, there was nothing you could say to your defense anyways. These feelings you held for Rotxo were undeniable. He was just the cutest, most caring metkayina you had ever met. This boy had owned your heart for some time already. The way he would look out for his friends was most adorable. It probably would be an unsolved mystery to you why he and - out of all people - Ao'nung got along so well. They were like salt and pepper, moonlight and sunshine. Yet they had been the closest friends since childhood. It truly made you wonder.

You stayed silent until the arrival. When Neteyam pulled up to the parking lot you could only stare at the building of the club, jaw dropped.

It wasn't just any towns club as it seemed. Instead, Lo'ak and you gasped at the sight of the bougie looking, black building. The music could already be heard from outside, loud booming basses causing your ears to twitch.

"Is this the right address?" you finally asked. Neteyam explained that Ao'nungs father had some connections and therefore knew the owner of this club.

Great.

The three of you got out of the parked car soon and walked towards the long entrance line. Again you looked down on yourself, nibbling on your bottom lip in nervousness. "They'll never let me get in there, guys..."

Neteyam patted your shoulder, giving you a reassuring look.

"If Ao'nung says 'don't worry-"

"Then I'm especially worried." Lo'ak finished, before your older brother corrected him with a scolding look.

"Then there's no reason to worry."

You didn't even bother getting your ID out, pretty certain that they wouldn't let you in either way.

After some time, you were finally next in line. The bouncers checked the three of you up and down, trying to swallow their laughs.

"You're most definitely not getting in there like that, young lady." One of them huffed, lowering their sunglasses a bit to muster you once again.

"We're invited to the lounge." Neteyam spoke calmly, but the two men only crossed their arms in front of their buff chest, letting out a hearty laughter.

"In your dreams maybe, boy."

Neteyam's face got a bit more serious as they started laughing and he copied their pose.

"We're guests of Ao'nung. I don't think his parents would like to hear about this occurrence."

They immediately froze in their laughter, then checked the digital list again. Your eldest brother leaned over their little tablet and pointed out your names. You too peaked over to the screen, feeling a cold shower slowly run down your shovering spine.

Rotxo status: present, arrived at 08:28pm

The very first name on the list. After that followed Tsireya, then Neteyam, Lo'ak, you and also Kiri. She had decided to stay at home and study. Oh how much you wished you could swap places with her right now.

You punched Lo'aks upper arm rather unpleasantly, and he exactly knew why.

"I thought he isn't here tonight?!" you hissed in anger, "You said he wouldn't come?!"

Your brother rubbed his arm in pain before your brothers showed their ID's.

"I'm sorry okay? I didn't want you to leave me alone with Ao'nung and Neteyam!"

"You know I can hear you?" Your oldest brother growled, getting his wristband as well as Lo'ak.

"You'll be fine. Let's get in and find them."

Your heartbeat quickened just at the thought of meeting Rotxo tonight. Especially since you looked like you just woke up and this club was worth more money than you'd possibly ever make.

"I'll get myself an uber and go back ho-" Just then you got interrupted by a loud, familiar voice. Ao'nungs head appeared from behind the bouncers, giving them a quick nod and pulling the three of you in with a loud, happy cheer.

"My favourite guests, finally! Eywa, took you long enough! Did Lo'ak drive?" Ao'nung chuckled, pecking Neteyam on his cheek before his blue eyes fell upon you. He checked you up and down, starting to laugh in disbelief.

"I invited you to party with me, not for a sleepover!" You simply sighed, eyes rolling back slightly.

"But hey, whatever. Let's go guys, let me show you around, just follow me."

Not only Ao'nung noticed your eyecatching wardrobe. Some people who passed you turned back to you, pointed at you, laughed at you.

How fucking embarrassing.

Part of the tour of course included the fancy bar close to the lounge. Your eyes shot wide open at the sight, and you quickly decided to climb onto a bar stool, clawing at the surface of the bar.

"I'll stay right here. You go have fun!" Your voice fought against the loud music as you leant closer towards the three men, then over the surface towards the bar table. Ao'nung simply shrugged and pulled a tab card out of his pockets, handing it to you.

"All drinks are on me of course, but don't go too crazy or my father will kill me!" He gave you a warning look before his expression softened again and he lead the two other Sully's into a more calm area. You could spot your brothers and Ao'nung from back there, sitting down on the expensive furniture next to two other figures. It didn't take you long to identify them as Rotxo and Tsireya in the neon light.

The smaller man looked into your direction after a quick talk to his best friend, his eyes started searching for you desperately. For a second, you met his gaze. The butterflies in your stomach went crazy at the mere sight, causing you to turn back around with a heated face, calling out for the bartender as soon as he was free. You needed something strong, and preferably a lot of it.

~~~

A few drinks for confidence later you looked back to your group, just as you noticed Ao'nung pushing himself through the crowd, only to lean against the bar next to you. By his look alone you could tell that he was definitely up to something. This smug grin was nothing new.

"You're not enjoying yourself?" he almost yelled so you could hear him despite the loud music.

"Come sit with us, y/n! We'd love to have you around!"

You pursed your lips, looking back at the group. Lo'ak and Tsireya made their way to the dance floor and you knew your brother way too good. By his walk alone you could tell he was already tipsy as he chased his girlfriend through the dancing people. Rotxo and Neteyam were currently talking on a couch, but that didn't keep the smaller metkayina from looking up to you with a shy smile. That alone caused your heart to throb in your ribcage.

"I don't know..." you mumbled, but Ao'nung could read it from your lips.

"Come, I'm sure it will be fun! And I think Rotxo could use some company too, huh?" Your eyes lit up at his words instantly, but you could only stare at the empty glass your hands clenched around. Ao'nung was indeed spoiled, but definitely not stupid or blind. He knew why you hesitated.

As you slowly turned to the man besides you, he took the empty glass from your tight grip and shoved it away. "I'm sure he'd be happy to have you around!" he reassured loudly before he gently dragged you towards their corner. Eywa, it was humiliating to pass all these people in your outfit. Some of them you knew from college or high school, others from Ao'nungs circle of friends. What had you gotten yourself into? You assumed to be drinking at his house, without so many people, without so much pressure, without Rotxo. But here you were.

As soon as you dropped yourself next to Neteyam you tried to hide from Rotxos eyes behind the rather broad figure of your brother. By eywa, your heart was about to burst just at the sight of him.

Ao'nung noticed immediately and asked Neteyam to get a drink with him. In shock you froze, wanting to keep Neteyam here for a while longer, but he excused himself for a minute. And now you were there, with Rotxo and a few people you barely know.

He greeted you with a sweet smile, waving at you. Of course he too was wondering about your wardrobe. Yet he found it rather cute, but confusing. You pulled your knees closer, trying to hide in that oversized hoodie of yours.

He scooted closer to you, but you could only look to the ground in embarrassment. "I didn't know you'd come today?" he asked, which made you purse your lips, not knowing what do say. It wasn't the first time he was talking to you, not at all. You had known him since your freshman year and instantly set your eyes on him. You were simply not prepared to look at him right now. Not after Ao'nung had figured out you liked Rotxo and 'accidentally' dropped it in the group chat.

Oh how much you'd give to just disappear, even more as all of a sudden a wonderful, pretty girl just dropped down next to him with a wide, confident smile. Unlike you, she was well dressed in a tight dress which left nothing to the imagination. You could tell she had spent hours getting ready, smelling her strong perfume from across the leather couch. Rotxos face twisted immediately.

"Hey gorgeous, you don't mind if I sit here, do you?" she asked loudly, getting really touchy really fast.

"Actually I'm talking-" Rotxo couldn't nearly finish before her high pitched voice interfered. "Your friend Ao'nung told me that you're single so I thought we could get to know each other? I'm Iliya!"

Iliya. Eywa, you already hated her. But you had to admit, she probably didn't even need that full face of makeup to look that good. You could only clench your teeth, averting your gaze in jealousy as soon as she placed a hand on his shoulder, the other resting on his thigh. Rotxo leaned back to look past her, shooting an annoyed and fed up gaze at his best friend.

"Ao'nung says a lot, especially when there's alcohol involved." Rotxo simply stated, then he reached out to his virgin strawberry colada that stood on the glass table in front of the couch. Not like he was thirsty- he actually just wanted to get her hands away. But as soon as he sat back up again, her hands landed on his body once more.

He wasn't really experienced in talking to women. Most females he knew drooled over Ao'nung. Why not after all? He was tall, had gorgeous long hair, was built like a god, his charm was unmatched. On top of that, he had a lot of money and influence, thanks to his father mostly. But still, Ao'nung was everything Rotxo wasn't. It was hard for him to believe that anyone would ever see him as long as he'd stand in Ao'nungs shadow. If anyone ever was interested in being close to him it was for his best friend mostly. But as Ao'nung had sent this one message into the group chat, he nearly bursted oit of excitement. He liked you too.

"Hey, why don't we play a game, huh? If you guess my age correctly I'll give you a free kiss! And if you like it, i don't know... We could go somewhere more private?"

This fucking Iliya-bitch.

She made your blood boil so easily.

You had seen enough. Without a word you stormed outside to the nearby balcony, unable to watch this girl hitting on the boy you liked any longer. It was frustrating, really. If only Rotxo would notice you and see you as more than just the sister of his best friend's boyfriend.

Yet you doubted that he'd ever take you seriously again after that group chat situation. You remembered the message just too well, word for word.

'I don't understand why y/n doesn't talk to Rotxo if she' s crushing on him lmao'

Apparently that message was meant for Neteyam only. Neteyam only my ass, you thought. Ao'nung knew exactly what he was doing.

The breeze in your face immediately cooled your hot head. Fuck, why did you even come here?

"Great, what a fucking night..." you groaned, gripping into your messy hair.

"Can i join you here?" A gentle voice asked from behind, making you turn instantly. There he stood, Rotxo. Alone.

You only hummed in response, uncertain if you wanted to be alone or not.

He stretched his arm out to you, holding his drink into your direction.

He wanted to share his drink with you? Not that you would mind, but the thought of an indirect kiss did make your heart flutter somehow.

"Thanks..." you mumbled before Taking a quick sip from his straw. The taste of cold cream and strawberry melted on the lightly numb tongue of yours which the alcohol had caused. You quickly swallowed giving Rotxo a tight lipped smile afterwards.

Rotxo watched the lights of the city in the distance. It was a pretty sight to him, but by far not as pretty as the sea. Or as you.

"What was that..." the metkayina shook his head in disbelief.

"You mean... that girl?"

"Yeah" he huffed, eyes combing through the horizon.

You frowned. "Sounded like she was very interested in you..."

He didn't fail to miss the sound of disappointment in your voice and hope sparked in him. Maybe Ao'nung was right about what he had said in the group chat? Soon his phone started buzzing, so he decided to take a look.

new message from: Ao

'why did you send her away man? Not your taste? ;)'

two new messages from: unknown

'hiii'

'that big metkayina hottie gave me your number. Wanna meet me at the bar in 5?'

"Seriously?" Rotxo cursed, deleting the message from the unknown number after blocking them.

reply to: Ao

'dude, stop it please. It's not funny. you know I like y/n...'

He waited for a few seconds after that and he instantly got a reply.

new message from: Ao

'just tryna make her jealous and confess since you ain't doing it bro'

Rotxo furrowed his brows reading his message. 'Because that's the way to do it...' he thought. He decided to turn his phone off instead. Ao'nung could be such a pain in the ass sometimes. Soon Rotxo put the phone back into his pocket, taking a sip from his drink.

His eyes mustered you up and down, yet not in a judging way at all.

It surely didn't go unnoticed by you, so you quickly spoke up before he could say anything first.

"Don't ask, okay? I didn't know we'd go here."

His eyes lit up as you excused yourself for how you looked.

"N-no, I wasn't gonna say anything against it. Actually... I think you look good in this. It may not be suited for this location but it's way better than these girls in their dresses that really show off everything."

You instantly felt your cheeks heating up at his compliment.

"You think so?"

"Of course! You look quite adorable." he admitted, tugging gently on your oversized hoodie. It made you giggle, heart exploding from this small gesture. As much as you wanted to enjoy this moment, it felt weird since he had probably read the messages in the group chat concerning you. He hadn't said anything but he had been online ever since. Well, it was now or never to find out.

You cleared your throat as quetly as possible."I'm glad you're not like Ao'nung. He can be happy to have such a good friend like you."

A friend. Was that the way he saw you too?

"Thanks, huh..." he mumbled. Your eyes met for a second and your heart skipped a beat. For some time, both of you only stood in silence.

"So..." he finally broke the silence again, "you're not looking for some summer fling or something like that, right?" You quickly shook your head, huffing shyly. "No. That's nothing for me..."

"Good, me neither." Wow, that answer came quicker than he wanted to. He blinked a few times, wishing he'd be able to keep himself more calm. Your phone kept buzzing in your pockets so you decided to take a look.

new message from: fish lips

'justmake the fucck out'

You shot a daring gaze over Rotxos shoulder, seeing a tipsy Ao'nung watching the two of you from the other side of the glass door. He pointed at you and Rotxo with a wide grin, making the most unholy and obscene gestures. How the fuck did he even bag your brother, seriously?

Ao'nung paused for a moment to send you another message.

'isyou gettin layed tonight??"

Rotxo turned to see his best friend continuing to mimic to him and you. Your teeth bit down onto your lower lip. Yeah, there was no way you could have a serious conversation with Rotxo like that. Fuck, it made you uncomfortable. The floor beneath your feet would do you the greatest favour by opening up and devouring you completely.

"I think I'm actually gonna call an uber..." you mumbled, tipping around on your phone screen.

"You're going home?" There was indeed a touch of disappointment in Rotxos voice but he could understand your choice just too well. This was getting ridiculous.

"Then I'll drive you home."

In no time your eyes met again.

Oh, how much he lost himself in yours.

"No need, really. I'm calling Kiri or dad to pick me up or something."

"I didn't drink, y/n. It's no big deal, I'll gladly do it if that means you're getting home safely."

His reassuring words left you considering.

"You have a car? I didn't even know?"

Rotxo grabbed into his pockets, revealing a matte black Benz key.

"It's Ao'nungs car, not mine. But I take it all the time, I'm sure he doesn't mind."

You hesitated for a moment. This would only work like oil to the fire of the rumors concerning the two of you, but in the end you gave in. Mentally preparing yourself for the stupid looks, you made your way back in with slow footsteps. Rotxo followed, keeping an eye on anyone that might bump into you.

By now, Ao'nung and Neteyam sat on the couch again. The metkayina had pulled your brother onto his lap, spreading a few sloppy kisses along his neck.

You cringed and pursed your lips awaiting the bad jokes as their eyes lifted up and fell upon the two of you.

"I'll be back in a bit, I'll just drive y/n home." Rotxo explained, keeping you close to him. Ao'nung nodded with a proud grin, but his best friend only waved it off.

"I'll drink to that! Finally losing your v-card!" Ao'nung slurred, Neteyam shook his head. You pulled your sleeves over your hands and turned away slightly, unable to look at anyone after that comment. Neteyam turned to his boyfriend and gave him a scolding look. Rotxo was a good guy who wouldn't even think about anything like that. But instead of starting another argument, Rotxo decided to ignore his best friend's comment.

"Imma take your car, just so you know. I trust you're in safe hands with Neteyam?"

"I trust y/n is in safe hands with you?" his best friend countered, his drunk smirk only widening. "If you need anything, there's condoms, lube and some other stuff in the glove compartment! But don't get my seats messy!" Rotxo only facepalmed, his visage twisted in disgust.

"I'm not interested, Ao'nung. You should know that. I'll turn my phone back on. If there's anything, Neteyam can text me." He growled as the two of you got ready to leave. Rotxo ensured that he'd be back in a bit after bringing you home safely, then come back to play the designated driver for Ao'nung, Neteyam, Lo'ak and Tsireya as soon as they were done having their fun.

Once he had guided you out of the club, he led you towards his best friend's car. He just wanted to get away from here. This entire evening, apart from talking to you, was nothing but a torture to both of you. Rotxo would've preferred anything with you. A movie night, cooking together or even studying with you. Anything that would not include anyone mocking him or you for your feelings. Just him and you. That sounded a lot more enjoyable.

You thanked him as he opened the passenger door for you, letting you hop inside and closing the door carefully. Before he got in, one of your hands slipped under the hook of the glove department. Curiosity killed the cat they say, but Ao'nung didn't lie. You instantly regretted looking as you quickly shut the door again, hoping Rotxo hadn't seen. Again you wondered how the hell your brother had found interest in him, but with that new information engraved into your brain, you didn't actually want to think about that anymore.

"You need the address?" you asked once he got in, gripping the steering wheel tightly. He leaned his head against it with a loud exhale, relieved he had gotten out of the club alive. He had sworn he'd die as Ao'nung had told him that you were coming too.

"I've dropped your brothers off some times already, I know the way. Listen y/n, uhm... I don't know what to say exactly, but I'm sorry. I didn't want you to be uncomfortable with that whole situation tonight..."

Your breath hitched at his sudden words. For a moment there was only silence, though you could hear your heart pounding loud and clearly.

Then you decided to speak up about it.

"It's not your fault, you don't have to apologize-"

"Yes I do. I should've talked to you about this earlier. I, uh..."

How fucking embarrassing that he brought this up now, but he had to talk this through once.

He managed to overcome himself, finally.

"I... I like you."

Did he really just say that?

Just like that?

You felt your heart pounding in your chest. Your lungs burned from holding your breath in shock. But the surprise was most pleasant. Luckily it was already late at night so he couldn't see how madly you blushed and vice versa. His face felt as if it was on fire, up to his ears. His grip around the steering wheel tightened, yet his words made you more confident.

There was no point in hiding your wide smile as you searched for his eyes, gently placing a hand on his knee. At first he jumped, unsure if that touch was intended, but how could it not be? His eyes landed on yours before one of his hands layed to rest on yours. "I like you too, Rotxo."

It wasn't a huge surprise to him, but it still felt wonderful to hear it from you personally.

He smiled brightly, taking your hand from his thigh only to lift it up to his face, placing the most lovely, soft kiss you could ever imagine onto your knuckles.

A warm feeling was spreading throughout your entire stomach as his lips gently pressed against your hand.

A loud growl from your stomach came up all of a sudden. You hadn't eaten anything all evening. With pursed lips you turned your head away, embarrassed by the noises your empty belly gave off.

Rotxo huffed silently before his lips kissed your knuckles once again.

"Let's get some food before I'll get you home, okay? Let's let the others wait."

As hungry as you were you contemplated. "You know if we take only a minute longer than needed there will be even more rumors..."

Rotxo shook his head, he didn't care about that. "Doesn't matter to me as long as it doesn't matter to you."

You too shook your head quickly and he placed your hand back on his thigh. "It doesn't. Food sounds great." Then he inserted the keys and started the car with a bright smile.

"So, burgers or pizza? You choose."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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#rotxo x you #rotxo x y/n #rotxo x reader #atwow rotxo #rotxo #avatar rotxo #rotxo imagine #Rotxo headcanons #Avatar au #avatar modern au #avatar x reader #avatar x y/n #avatar x you #avatar x female reader #Rotxo x sully reader #avatar fanfiction #Avatar 2022 #ao'nung x neteyam #lo'ak x tsireya

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tinydreamerphilosopher · 1 year

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spnfic85 · 4 months

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First Comes Love... (Ch. 6)

WARNINGS: 18+ -Minors DNI ‼️- Fluff, Protective Uncle Peter, Protective Thor

Word Count: 1.85k

Author’s Note: Thank you again @slytherinqueen4life for reminding me how much I love this story! I know this chapter is a bit short, but I hope you enjoy!

Summary: Little trips can bring big announcements

Masterlist

Chapter 6

Your phone pinged almost immediately as Tony simply texted your name. You bit your lip and kissed Thor on the cheek before the pair of you decided to duck out of the bookstore and retreat to the parked car left in front of the café. Thor chuckled a bit at you as you ducked your head, hiding away your face as a photographer asked for your name. Although your partner was used to the attention, it made your face flush to be bombarded with questions as you slipped into the shadow and safety of the passenger seat while Thor gently closed your door with a wink.

He smiled politely at the few who were eager to get information and murmured an apology and need to get somewhere before slipping into the driver’s seat and starting the engine. Your phone buzzed again, and you looked at your screen to see a tabloid link in the team’s group chat.

Shellhead: Thor. Y/N. Do I need to be worried? Nat: Are you guys ok?? Shellhead: I thought you were taking her to lunch Thor, not notifying the world you were expecting children. Jolly Green: Bringing anything back? Nat: They’re allowed to, Tony. Petah: Bring leftovers!!! I’ve been here training with Mr. Stark all day Dx Y/N: We are okay… Leaving out now. Nat: They’re a lot huh? I hated going out for a long time because of the photos. Jolly Green: I thought you stayed out of sight out of habit… Once a spy, always a spy. Nat: Shaddup Bruce. Petah: 007 connections... Shellhead: What?

You snorted and put your phone away. The conversations were going to just repeat themselves once you got back to Stark Tower. You looked over to Thor and smiled softly as he glanced over a moment, noticing you.

“Are you okay with this?” He asked gently, his fingers finding yours and lacing together with a soft squeeze. You nodded and smiled, your stomach flipping a bit thinking about now having to formally make some kind of post on your Instagram or something. Thor had one as well, but never could figure it out.

“I think this is good… You can’t just have a secret family forever.” You teased and he squeezed your hand again. He chuckled and agreed smiling at you lovingly before keeping his eyes on the road as the car merged on the highway and headed home. You watched the scenery breeze past you and tried to imagine having two small children in the tower this time next year…

The fact that this time next year, your whole life is going to be so different…

Getting back into Stark Tower was slightly a mess. There were a good number of paparazzi huddled around the front of the building, but only a few knew of the obscured entrance to the garage a block away.

Thor groaned softly when he pulled up to the opening of the garage and saw three persistent men holding cameras and ready to ask questions the moment the vehicle slowed. The security system to the entrance refused to open due to the man who came up to your side window and started knocking persistently, attempting to convince you to roll your window down.

“Thor! Are you really going to be a father? Who’s the mystery woman??” They pressed and tried to record your face as you ducked down and thanked god the windows had dark tint. Thor growled low in his throat and revved the engine a bit, inching closer to the entrance and triggered the door to open this time, before quickly and carefully zipping into the garage. Unfortunately, neither of you noticed the small figure that was able to roll under the closing door and hide in the shadows of another vehicle.

“I’m sorry petal, I don’t know what’s gotten into me…” He murmured and cleared his throat. You felt your heart flutter a bit realizing that he was being overprotective with the person at your window. “I don’t like them swarming you. This is not the life you chose.”

“It’s not yours either.” You murmured softly and kissed his cheek. “I chose you. My heart chose you. Whatever else comes, I’ll put up with it.” You smiled at the big blonde lug. He continually forgot that this wasn’t the life he wanted either, being so far away from home, losing his home completely… If he could adjust, CLEARLY you could too.

You tried to slip from your seat and Thor rushed out the car to catch your door before stopping and staring down at you in the quiet space. “I love you Y/N… Thank you for finding me…” he murmured softly and kissed you deeply, hands pulling you close and gripping your hips.

It amazed you. After all the time you have been with this man, kissing him still made your head go fuzzy and your stomach flutter when he looked at you. Those pure bright blue eyes looked at you like you were the most precious thing in the world. You bit your lip before kissing him again and hugging into his chest, just enjoying a moment together.

“Hey!” You both jumped as a voice echoed loudly from the door to the tower. Peter stood in the doorway excited, “Sorry- did you guys need help? Oh! And did you get leftovers??” He asked excitedly as he started heading to you both, parked just a few cars from the door.

“We could use your help.” You teased, “But don’t worry- we got leftovers. So many leftovers…” You opened the back door to the big white bags filled with takeout boxes.

Peter grinned and started to help grabbing bags and shopping things. He was about to turn back in the tower while he asked how your trip went and froze.

“Hold on… Something isn’t right…” He murmured, his head turning towards the dark corner of the garage. Peter’s Spidey senses still wigged you out a bit to see in person, but your heart raced more for the fact that you had no idea what Peter heard.

He carefully and quietly put down the bags in front of you and turned to the corner completely, crouching as he neared the older car stored in the corner closest to the entrance. Before you knew it, Peter moved fast, scuffling with someone before a heavy thud was heard as someone hit the side of the car. Thor ran over and helped, and as fast as the whole altercation started, it was over. Thor pulled a very dusty reporter from the corner, hand gripping the collar of his coat.

“He was taking pictures,” Peter said huffing and picking up a camera, “You want me to delete them?

“H-hey! You guys don’t have to do that- I-I’m sorry!” The guy apologized, squinting as if he expected to be hit for speaking up. Peter looked up at him and you saw the tick in his jaw that only showed when he was angry.

“They didn’t consent and you’re trespassing.” Peter said coolly, “The photos you have are of a private moment. Just because she’s with him doesn’t mean they lose that.”

Your heart thudded in your chest as Peter waited for the reporter to relent. You hadn’t realized you were holding your breath until the man nodded and Peter deleted the images before reaching to hand the camera back to its owner. Just as the camera was about to grace the fingers of the reporter, the man murmured something cruel under his breath to himself. You barely caught the tail end of something pertaining your size as Thor’s head snapped to lock in on the reporter’s eyes. There was an energy that radiated from Peter that you had never seen in person. The same muscle ticked on his jaw as he ground his teeth and took a deep breath. The man panicked as his eyes flit between the two men’s cold stares while Peter stepped closer to him.

Peter never broke eye contact as he held his hand out for the man to take his camera before the crack of the expensive lens echoed across the dark garage. The man flinched as the silent teen reached his hand out and dropped the now crushed equipment in the reporter’s hand. He leaned in and you held your breath praying no one lashed out, “If you’d like that to not extend to other parts of your career, never show your face around Stark Tower again.” He spoke softly, his eyes cold and promising nothing kind.

A wave of protectiveness radiated from both men that made your eyes water as Thor gruffly directed the shaken gentleman to the foot entry access on the other side of the garage. Peter turned to you and immediately his face softened into one of concern as you hiccupped and allowed the tears that were battling to fall.

“Y/N! What’s wrong??” He worried and checked over your face panicked as Thor hurried back over to the pair of you once the intruder was successfully locked out. You shook your head and offered them both a watery smile.

“I’m okay, you just- thank you.” You broke down and hugged Peter tightly, “Thank you for defending me.” He seemed too lax under your grip and hugged you back tightly.

“Of course! We’re family, no one gets to speak to you that way.” He said sternly and Thor chuckled.

“You are quite the protective little brother Spider Lad.” Thor clapped Peter on the shoulder and all three of you redirected your attention to carrying in your loot from earlier. As you wiped your tears from your now puffy cheeks, both men refused to let you pick up more than your small bag of books before being ushered back into the private access hall.

Within a few minutes, Peter was doing a happy wiggle, arms laden with white bags, as the three of you rode the elevator up to the commons shared with the team. Thor shifted his bags and took your hand before walking you to the shining kitchen to look over your baby loot once again. Natasha fawned over the small onesies before comparing a small sock to her own finger.

“We are going to need a nursery around here soon…” She murmured, “Any ideas you guys have come up with?” she inquired curiously while arching a brow. You hadn’t even considered preparing for the twins at the tower- or anywhere else for that matter. You chewed your lip worried a bit,

“I honestly hadn’t considered that yet… Eeek- We have to babyproof Tony and Bruce’s labs…” you worried quietly, Thor stopped chuckling at Peter’s excitement over the layout of foods and froze., “I wonder if Tony has anything in the works yet, I’m sure he does.” You continued.

“No- no we have not considered that.” He murmured, turning to look for Tony, “Where is Stark???” He inquired before heading to the small lab in the commons.

Natasha quietly picked up a piece of a cinnamon roll before sheepishly murmuring, “Oops,” and popping the bite in her mouth.

#plus sized reader #fluff #thor #thor x plus size reader #thor x reader #marvel #pregnant reader #x reader #reader insert #thor love and thunder #Peter Parker #peter parker fluff #Protective Peter Parker #Protective thor

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