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tsarisfanfiction · 3 years

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Escape: Chapter 1

Fandom: Thunderbirds Rating: Teen Genre: Hurt/Comfort Characters: Gordon, Scott

An island vacation turns into a nightmare, and it’s going to take Gordon everything he’s got, and then some, to get himself and his injured brother to safety.

I am, tentatively, calling this a oneshot, but there is definitely scope for a full fic here if my muses line up properly. It turns out they didn’t want to go a whole week without Scott&Gordon and whump, so here we go - a little something to keep them happy.

EDIT: Officially no longer a oneshot. Thank you, muses.

“Leave me.”

Blue eyes locked with his, bright with pain but determined nonetheless. Gordon expected nothing less from his eldest brother. Still, Scott was asking – demanding – the impossible, and no matter that it was an order from a superior, the part of Gordon that was little brother rather than operative only had one answer to that.

“Not a chance.”

“Gordon-”

“I am not leaving you behind,” he hissed.

Scott was injured, and it was bad. The guys had got the drop on them, their tumble over a thankfully shallow cliff hadn’t ended well for Scott, no thanks to Gordon landing on top of him, thereby cushioning his own fall, and now they were on the run.

Well. Gordon was on the run. Scott was another matter entirely, and there was a sick logic to Scott’s demand.

Gordon was uninjured, barring a few scrapes. By himself, he’d have no trouble getting to safety, somewhere where he could turn the situation around and get back to their boat and off the island where they’d decided to take a day’s vacation. With his broken leg, and Gordon suspected some busted ribs and a wrist injury on top, Scott couldn’t even walk by himself. He was slowing Gordon down, and they both knew it.

“You have to,” Scott insisted. “If they catch you-”

“And what about if they catch you?” Gordon cut him off. They didn’t know what the guys’ goal was, but he was willing to bet it wasn’t for a friendly chat over a cup of tea. “Come on.”

He’d managed to swim them across an inlet, towing Scott like a helpless rescuee – which he might as well be, at this point – but they needed to get into the treeline, out of sight and somewhere where they could hatch a strategy to get out of there.

Both of them out of there.

No matter what Scott said, leaving him behind to their pursuers’ mercy was not an option.

“I,” Scott started. His face was chalk white, emphasising just how blue his eyes were, and he was trembling ever so slightly. “I can handle it.”

The words were supposed to be reassuring, but they fell flat and empty. They didn’t even know what the guys wanted; if this was just some sick hunting game to them, it didn’t matter how well Scott could handle captivity – he’d still be dead.

Gordon couldn’t hear immediate pursuit; the inlet seemed to have at least temporarily done the trick, although he knew it was only a matter of time before they were back on their trail.

“Scott,” he bit out, frustration born of worry sharpening his tongue more than he’d intended. Those bright blue eyes met his, and he could see the fear his big brother was failing to hide. There was love, of course, and determination, but it was the fear that called out to Gordon. He crouched down in front of him, getting down to Scott’s current level of struggling to sit upright. “I am not leaving you behind.”

“You have to!” The desperation was well-hidden, but Gordon knew his brother.

He grasped his forearms, taking Scott’s weight as his brother lurched forward, unable to keep himself upright. The skin was cool and slightly clammy to the touch. Combined with the trembles wracking his body, and Gordon knew what he was dealing with.

“Scott,” he repeated, using the grip on his arms to hold him in place, draw him a little closer. “Listen to me.” He tightened his hold marginally. “You’re going into shock and you’re not thinking clearly.” Another concern to add to the pile he already had. “Listen to me.”

“Gordon-”

“Listen to me,” he repeated, leaning forwards and carefully releasing one of Scott’s arms so that hand could gently wind around until it was on the nape of his neck. “Scott, do you trust me?”

In some situations, that question would be answered with an eyeroll and a smart remark about prankster squids. In situations like this, it was answered by a reflexive swallow and a word floating out on a breath. “Always.”

Gordon drew him in, pressing forehead to forehead and trying to ignore the clammy skin as he looked point blank into Scott’s eyes. “I’m getting you out of here,” he promised. “I’m getting us out of here,” because Scott would never be pacified by promises of his own well-being if it came at the expense of a brother’s. That should have been enough, was enough, but there were more words on his tongue and he let them fall. “They won’t hurt you again. I won’t let them.”

Pain made Scott look younger, more like the young man he really was than the middle-aged commander he tried to emulate. If someone had told him he was actually looking into Alan’s eyes then, Gordon might even have believed them. Almost. There was still a steel there that Alan didn’t quite have. Not yet.

Scott was still struggling to keep command, still trying to present himself as the leader and in control of the situation, but Gordon knew it was, well, maybe not an act, but more for Scott’s benefit than his own. And he knew Scott knew he knew that.

Still, there were no more futile protests, and he held him close for a moment longer before pulling back.

“Let’s go,” he murmured, conscious that they’d stayed in one place for too long. “Come on.”

Scott didn’t fight him this time, although there was next to no assistance, either. That came as no surprise to Gordon, even if he hated the reminder that Scott wasn’t well, was badly injured and going into shock as a result.

There was no way Scott could walk on that leg. Up until their swim across the inlet, he’d been leaning heavily on Gordon’s shoulder, hopping along at a painfully slow pace, but they couldn’t keep that up if they wanted to stay far enough ahead to get out of there.

He crouched down and pulled Scott forwards, cautiously slinging him over his shoulder. It wouldn’t be easy – Scott was tall and heavy, and Gordon knew he didn’t have the strength to carry him for too long – but he could keep it up long enough. He hoped.

“Gordon,” Scott croaked as he staggered to his feet. Hands balled in the back of his shirt. “Your back-”

“I’m getting us out of here,” he repeated, one arm wrapping around his brother’s waist where it bent over his shoulder, and the other clinging to his legs tightly, both for additional security and to immobilise the break as best he could. “I’ll be fine.”

It wasn’t a bad day, thank goodness. Gordon had never yet been put in a position where he’d have to choose between potentially re-destroying his back or saving a life, and if there was one piece of luck shining down on them, it was that he didn’t have to make that choice today, either.

He staggered forwards, one step and then another, falling into an ungainly rhythm as he pushed on, towards the treeline that promised cover.

Grunts and gasps of pain from behind him betrayed the way Scott’s leg was jostled by the movement despite his best efforts. Gordon hoped he’d positioned him so that his ribs weren’t worsening, too, but he hadn’t had much of a choice on that matter.

Hold on, Scott, he thought, not wasting his breath by vocalising it. He didn’t have the breath to spare, and Scott wouldn’t appreciate acknowledgement of his agony. All Gordon could do was cling on tightly and forge forwards.

He still couldn’t hear pursuit, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t any. They wouldn’t be safe until they were clear of the area, off the coast and hopefully far into the sea.

Gordon knew there was a cove nearby. On a good day, he could swim from there to the neighbouring, larger, island. On a day like today, where the waves weren’t quite flat calm and his brother could do nothing more than float along, it was bordering on the impossible.

If there were no boats there to hijack, it would be their only option.

Clearly, Lady Luck had determined that Gordon’s back being fit enough to carry Scott the distance, even if his brother was gasping with every staggering step he ran, filled his entire quota for the day. He was beyond grateful to have had that, but the sight of an empty cove when he broke free of the treeline made his heart sink.

“How are you holding up?” he asked Scott, stumbling to a halt on the shoreline and staring out at the expanse of blue-green ocean. In the distance, the flat horizon line was broken by another landmass – the other island, and their only chance of escape.

Not for the first time since they’d been attacked, he cursed the fact that neither of their comms were working. Disabled by some jamming bubble, no doubt.

“Holding,” Scott gasped, a word that was more lie than truth in the same way as Gordon’s conviction that he could swim the distance with his injured brother in tow. It wasn’t true, but it had to be, because they had no choice.

“Okay,” Gordon acknowledged, his kneeling more a controlled crash to the ground than anything else. “We’re getting out of here, Scott.” He lowered his brother to the shingle, laid him on his back and looked at skin so white it might as well be translucent. Scott was getting worse, trembles more noticeable as they passed through his body, and Gordon prayed he could hold on until they got to the next island, where they could shelter and he could treat the onsetting shock.

If they survived the swim.

His chest heaved, shoulders taking advantage of no longer having his brother slung over to rise and take in large lungsful of air.

Blue eyes spotted it, because Scott might be injured and well onto his way into shock but he was still Scott and he’d always notice a younger brother in difficulty.

“Gordon,” he rasped, a last-ditch attempt to change his mind. “Go.”

“Not without you,” Gordon swore. “Come on, Scotty. One last little swim and we’ll be out of here.”

He didn’t give him a chance to protest, wriggling his arms underneath his brother and ignoring the way the shingle scraped at his skin. Scott let out a reluctant groan at the movement, but Gordon couldn’t address that right then. Not until they were off the island.

It was a lunge to his feet more than anything else, arms clutched tightly around Scott as his forwards momentum dragged them across the shingle, almost tangling his feet together and face-planting them both back on the ground. Water sloshed around his ankles, the ocean cool. She wasn’t inviting, but she wasn’t openly hostile either, so Gordon pushed on.

Water around his ankles became water kissing his knees, creeping up his thighs until it encircled his hips. He waded deeper, until it was up to his waist and caressing his forearms. Touching Scott’s back.

He made eye contact with Scott as he came to a stop, disbelief and fear warring for prominence over the usual love and faith in those familiar blue eyes, and his brother opened his mouth to croak out his name again. Gordon gave him a tight smile, lowering him until he was floating on the waves. Strands of his hair had escaped the rigorous gelling they’d been subjected to that morning and splayed out like a miniature halo as ripples of water teased them.

“We’re getting out of here,” he promised again, the words tangling up in his throat and coming out all twisted and hoarse.

Letting the water take his weight was as familiar as breathing. Looping his arm around Scott, he kicked off from the seabed and, eyes on the distant island, began to swim.

It was a long way, Olympic speed training useless to him. He needed the endurance swimming from WASP, kilometres of open water with a casualty in tow. It was reckless, stupid, even.

It was their only chance.

Chapter 2>>>

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds are go fanfiction #tsari writes fanfiction #gordon tracy #scott tracy #thunderwhump #escape

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cullen-collective · 3 years

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(teamjacobthot) fic prompt: it’s quil and embry’s turn to cook sunday dinner for the pack and they still don’t know what to make

Thanks for this @teamjacobthot! It was a fun one! <3

They were ready. Side by side in the borrowed car, they broke nearly every traffic law as they hurtled toward their destination. Their mission was of the utmost importance, and it required that they stay focused, alert, and above all, fast. The car skidded to a stop, tires squealing on the pavement, and Embry turned to Quil, hands shaking on the wheel.

“Are you ready?” he asked, swallowing hard.

Quil nodded, looking a little pale. “As I’ll ever be.”

They thrust the doors open, and Embry got caught on the seatbelt as he tried to exit the vehicle, nearly falling out onto the asphalt, which caused Quil to burst out into hysterics. He hastily undid the buckle and stormed out of the car, flipping Quil the bird as he marched toward the Safeway.

“It’s not going to be nearly as funny when the guys tear us limb from limb for coming home empty-handed,” he said when Quil caught up to him. The other boy’s leftover giggles went silent. Time to focus on the mission: dinner.

The pack got together, rain, shine, or other, every Sunday night for dinner. Emily and Sam used to host every week, until Jared and Kim moved in together and wanted to do it occasionally. And then Paul had gotten his own place, and then Embry and Quil got their tiny apartment, and then Collin and his boyfriend, and Seth and Jacob shared a house with Leah, and everyone had scattered all over the rez. So they rotated, and tonight’s meal was up to Embry and Quil.

Usually they were much more prepared for this, what with Quil being the culinary genius he was, and Embry limping along beside him with his high school level hospitality class. But Quil had spent all week in Arizona on Tribal Council business, and hadn’t prepared anything; and Embry pretty much relied on him to know how many calories and food groups and whatever else they all needed. Embry was mostly good at appetizers.

They wandered through the grocery store, with Embry occasionally pointing to random ingredients and Quil waving him off.

“No, we don’t have enough time for me to make lasagna,” he said, sighing deeply.

Embry shrugged. “The frozen one only takes forty minutes.”

Quil looked like he’d been slapped across the face with a white glove. “The fact that you could suggest that to me at all is rank, dude.”

Embry held up his hands in surrender. “I’m just saying, if we needed more time, we should have come earlier.”

“Yeah, well, you needed a swift kick in the ass and Mortal Kombat wasn’t going to play itself.”

“But I won most rounds,” Embry pointed out.

“Irrelevant,” Quil said, still strolling through the aisles.

They meandered around, growing more and more panicked as the time everyone was supposed to arrive loomed closer and closer, and the frozen lasagna started looking incredibly appealing. It came to a point where Embry was putting things in the cart and Quil was removing them. They got into a shouting match in the vegetable aisle, Embry insisting that no one wanted to eat a cauliflower pizza, and Quil gathering bunches of the stuff anyway. A store employee had to come and tell them to be quiet.

“Dude, we have to find something. They’re coming in like, an hour.”

“I know! You don’t think I know?”

“You’ve rejected any viable option and tried to feed a bunch of hungry wolves cauliflower as an entrée.”

“I just haven’t seen the right thing. It’ll come to me.”

Embry seriously doubted that.

Until they came upon the seafood counter. Quil walked up to it reverently. “Embry, Embry, Embry, come here. Do you see that?”

He was pointing at a little sign on the glass.

Crab Legs, 2 for 1!

“Do you know what this means?” Quil asked, his voice filled with joy.

Embry’s brows knitted. “Bad shellfish?”

Quil punched him in the arm, which made Embry growl and tenderly run the sore spot.

“It means we’re having a freaking boil, dude.”

Half an hour, forty bucks, and several missed stop signs later, Quil unlocked the door to their apartment and immediately began bustling around the kitchen, demanding that Embry bring him things from the grocery bags and directing him to make crudite that people could dip in the sauce. Embry, to his credit, just got busy doing as he was asked, instead of calling Quil a crazy Gordon Ramsey wannabe, like he wanted to.

There was oil, lemon, thyme, parsley, paprika, cumin, allspice, cayenne, salt, onion, garlic, and dismembered shellfish everywhere. It was an absolute nightmare in the cramped kitchen, as Embry scooted behind Quil to put the toast points (his own personal addition) in the oven to toast. The crudite was all cut and lightly brushed with olive oil, and he decided to start cleaning up the mess Quil was making as he cooked.

There was a knock on the door as he threw away the last of the shrimp shells and veins.

“Hey, man,” Seth said, not waiting for an invite in when Embry opened the door, opting instead to head straight for the living room. “It smells great in here.”

Jake and Leah trailed in behind him, Jake bearing the traditional two-buck chuck, and Leah with a tequila bottle. Oh, so it was going to be one of those nights.

“What’s cooking?” she asked, setting the bottle on the table and leaning onto the kitchen counter.

“A cajun seafood boil with crab legs, scallops, shrimp, potatoes, sausage, and corn on the cob.” Quil didn’t even look up from where he was stirring as he spoke. He took a spoon and dipped it in the sauce, coating the back of it. He took a quick taste, and then started adjusting spices.

Jacob’s eyes raised. “How does he always make the best stuff?” he asked.

Embry thought back to their panicked run through the store, the potential cauliflower disaster, and the heavily discounted crab legs.

“Divine intervention.”

#wolf pack #embry call #Quil Ateara #jacob black #leah clearwater #seth clearwater #sunday dinner hell yeah they're gonna be a FAMILY #asks #answered #prompts #teamjacobthot #the dish was fully inspired by A. the pnw probably having good seafood and B. my obsession with the boiling crab in dt ontario

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charliejrogers · 4 years

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The Trial of the Chicago 7 (Or, Sorkin’s attempt to show you how nothing has changed in 52 years)

If you know anything about Aaron Sorkin, the much-acclaimed writer/creator of television shows like The West Wing, The Newsroom, you know that subtlety is not his strong suit. So, I was rather hesitant going into his newest film, The Trial of the Chicago 7, the infamous trial of eight gentlemen accused of conspiracy to incite violence/rioting in Chicago during the notorious 1968 DNC riots. Without diving too deep into the history, August 1968 was not Chicago’s finest hour. When the protesters chanted as a warning to the police, “The Whole World Is Watching!”, they weren’t wrong. Years ahead of the 24-hour news cycle, people all across America (and across the world) were glued to the TV watching the Chicago police beat the ever-living snot out of young folks protesting the Democratic Party’s decision to support the ever-controversial war in Vietnam. The film’s subject matter is sure to draw parallels to and resonate strongly with both the protests and civil unrest that took place this past summer following the death of George Floyd and countless other Black folk at the hands of police. So despite it’s appropriate timeliness, I was hesitant to watch this movie because I really wasn’t interested in watching Aaron Sorkin (who not only wrote but directed this film) try to mansplain to me that the trial of the Chicago 7 was all about injustice! Without knowing anything else about the trial beforehand (and I really didn’t), I already knew it’s a famous case of injustice. I wanted to watch the movie to learn about the people, the humans involved, and the nuance of the situation.

The film gets off to a rough start in the nuance department. After an effective montage introducing us to six of the eight members of the Chicago 7 (we’ll get to why there’s that numerical discrepancy), we meet the character who will be the lead prosecutor of the case: a straight-laced, clean-cut lawyer played by Joseph Gordon-Levitt. In an attempt to plant the seed early on that the eponymous trial is a sham, the first real scene of the film sees Gordon-Levitt meeting with Nixon’s newly appointment Attorney General John Mitchell who is pissed off that the prior AG didn’t resign from the office until an hour before Mitchell was confirmed. As retaliation, and in line with history’s understanding of Nixon’s pathologic paranoia, Mitchell decides to re-open the case exploring whether there was any conspiracy to incite riots in Chicago 1968. As JGL explains, this was something which Johnson’s AG as well as prior FBI investigations already decided did was not a viable case. The conversation that ensues is a little too on-the-nose. JGL shares his concerns that he doesn’t believe that the Chicago 7 are actually guilty, but Mitchell tells JGL, “then imagine how impressed I’ll be when you get a conviction.”

Of course, this conversation is largely a Sorkin invention, as is the weird decision to try to humanize the prosecutor played by Gordon-Levitt. I say "weird" because the film doesn’t do anything with it. We don’t get a real sense beyond that initial scene that JGL feels guilt or remorse for being a cog in the Nixon machine. The beginning of the film sets him up to be a similar character to David Schwimmer’s fascinating turn as Robert Kardashian in The People vs. O.J. Simpson. But in the end, it’s clear that Sorkin uses him just as a way in the beginning of the film to provide the thesis statement for the film, as if he were writing this script as a college term paper. This bothers me so much because it makes a late-film surprise appearance by Michael Keaton as Johnson’s AG lose a good deal of its impact. It would have been so much better if we as the audience came to the same revelation about the political origin of the trial at the same time that the defense lawyers did.

Sorkin’s lack of subtlety reared its ugly head in a few key moments that caused me to audibly groan while watching this film. Towards the end of the film, one of the more dramatic defendants, the merry prankster hippie Abbie Hoffman (played very well by Sacha Baron Cohen), is on the stand and is asked a particularly difficult question by the prosecution. He pauses. The prosecution asks what’s taking so long. Hoffman responds in a serious tone that runs opposite of his usual character, “Sorry, I’ve never been on trial for my thoughts before.” The film then slowly fades to black. I half-expected to hear the famous Law & Order “chun-chunn” sound next. That’s how cheesy and self-righteous the scene was.

The film’s ending too, where the defendants read off a list of all the fallen soldiers from Vietnam prior to their sentencing, felt a little too Hollywood to be believable… and indeed it didn’t happen that way. Elsewhere in the film, one of the more “prim and proper” defendants, the young head of the Students for a Democratic Society Thomas Hayden played by Eddie Redmayne, reflexively stands in honor of the judge’s exit as is court custom, forgetting that he and the rest of the defendants agreed not to stand. That’s not the bad part. The bad part comes later when Redmayne’s character travels to someone’s home and the Black maid who answers the door says to him, “I heard you were the only one to stand for the judge,” and then the camera just sorta lingers on her disappointment. We get it! The judge is a bad dude! Let’s move on!

Seriously, let’s move on. For all my griping, this is a very good movie. Those instances where Sorkin’s moral heavy-handedness is plain to see are so glaring because for the most part, the movie does a fantastic job of addressing the film’s (sadly still) politically controversial themes (police brutality, the culpability of protesters in starting riots, systemic racism, etc.) with a good deal of nuance. This mostly happens when Sorkin just sticks to the facts of the case, like when dealing with the whole saga of Bobby Seale, the eighth and only Black man of the Chicago 7. The day before the trial begins, Seale's lawyer required emergent surgery. Seale’s motion to have the trial postponed till he receive proper counsel is denied, as is his request to represent himself. Therefore, on trial without counsel, he frequently interrupts the court arguing about the unconstitutional nature of his trial, until the judge, played to chilling perfection by Frank Langella, becomes fed up with the interruptions and orders that Seale be bound, gagged, and chained to his chair. It’s a crazy powerful and uncomfortable scene, among the most haunting images I’ve seen in cinema. Finally, Seale’s case is determined to be a mistrial, changing the number of defendants from eight to seven. Hence, the Chicago 7.

But, the most inspired sequence of the film comes late in the movie when the defense gets wind of the prosecution’s plan to play a recording from the night of the riots where the prim and proper Tom Hayden can be (arguably) heard urging hundreds of listeners to “let blood flow all over the city.” Tom still believes that he would do well on the witness stand, but his defense lawyer (Mark Rylance as William Kuntsler) insists on showing him why this would be a bad idea. The ensuing scene sees Rylance role play the part of the prosecution cross-examining Hayden while the film intercuts scenes of a flashback of the actual events. the “truth” of that night, significantly muddies the water for this case. It by no means proves that the Chicago 7 are guilty of a conspiracy, but it certainly highlights the more human aspect of their situation. How is one expected to keep their calm when their best friend is beaten? And to what degree are people to be held responsible for decisions made in the heat of the moment?

The movie also has also interesting commentary on who should be the “face” or progressive politics, even today: the well-to-do and respectable Hayden or the in-your-face hippie comedian Hoffman? It’s an interesting question that never seems fully explored or resolved. Sorkin seems to land in the camp that Hayden’s respectability merely maintains status quo whereas Hoffman’s flagrant anti-establishment views is required for real change. But I don’t know how much of that is me just loving Cohen’s performance as Hoffman and finding Redmayne’s Hayden to be (appropriately) insufferably pretentious. Sorkin certainly gives Cohen the better lines.

Overall, this is a movie held up by its two primary strengths: its cast and its film structure. Aside from general inconsistencies of the script’s tone and the notable weakness I mentioned previously about overplaying the political motivation for the trial in the film's first 5 minutes, the film is nearly perfectly structured. We are sort of dropped in medias res into the trial and only get the facts of those few days shown to us in carefully placed flashbacks that help to flesh out the drama of the trial. It helps maintain pacing in what could have been a drag of a legal drama.

But really, it’s the cast and their performances that sell this movie. Sacha Baron Cohen is the star in my mind, so perfectly cast as Abbie Hoffman, but Frank Langella as the septuagenarian, prejudiced judge of the case is equally powerful. Yahya Abdul-Manteen II as the Black Panther Bobby Seale lends an air of desperate seriousness to the film, Eddie Redmayne shines as that white liberal dude who takes himself way too seriously, and Mark Rylance is wonderful as the courageous lead defense attorney, particularly in scenes dealing with Bobby Seale. While the whole trial weighs on him heavily as the film progresses, his genuine concern for Seale is palpable.

I spent much of this review telling you the things that were odd about this film, and I stand by that. But as I said, those things stand out because this is such a slick production that the cracks become that much more obvious. It largely avoids Sorkin’s penchant for blunt lack of nuance and offers a story that helps to greatly contextualize the very world we live in. It’s interesting that a story that sees ten men (including their lawyers) fail to win a fight against The Man still feels like an inspiring underdog tale. It resonated well with this viewer, especially as the ending makes clear that justice is eventually served. Yet, I recognize this may be a dangerous tale to tell these days, and why I think the movie is so successful is that it gives plenty of sobering evidence to suggest that justice (both then and now) is by no means guaranteed.

***/ (Three and a half out of four stars)

#trial of the chicago 7 #aaron sorkin #sacha baron cohen

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bepp-ers · 4 years

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A tale of red of blue | S. Todoroki X Reader X K. Bakugo [Pt 4]

Fantasy AU! Part 4:

guess who forgot to add ‘reader’ in the last fantasy au thing? yea i made it gay by accident wHOOPSIES but at least it’s fixed now lol

Scrambling around with the long boots, you were satisfied with the look and headed down to the courtyard, near the castle’s stables.

You’d met up briefly with your mother for breakfast, and she asked you how you were finding things.

“Oh, pretty good. I made a few friends here, so that’s neat.”

The words were true, you were having fun in your first few days and had indeed made a few new friends.

“Wow, took you long enough.” The ash-blond huffed, watching you sprint across the grass. It hadn’t occurred to you that maybe you should hurry up a bit...

“Well, she’s here now so it doesn’t matter. Good morning, [Name].” You grinned, huffing a little. “Mornin’ peppermint, Bakugo.”

“Peppermint?” “You remind me of a peppermint. I can give you a different nickname if you’d like.” The cold boy eyed you for a moment, wondering why you’d give him of all people a nickname.

“No, it’s fine.” He decided, watching you stand up straight once again. Was it him, or did you suit trousers better than most Princes he knew?

“So, Bakugo, you said something about horses?” He grinned and you two followed him through the dark ebony gates.

“Yep, Pocchari, half n’ half, meet the dragon kingdom’s horses.”

Your mouth fell open in shock, looking at the large impressive beasts.

They were a lot taller than regular horses, ranging from black to sandy-white. Thick braided manes and tails, shiny shoe-clad hooves and impressive polished saddle equipment.

“Wow.” You watched as Bakugo strode over to one, giving it a friendly pat. “[Name] you’re riding this one. You take this one.” He walked past Todoroki, being sure to give him a small shove as he did.

The saddle and tacks matched the riding gear Bakugo was wearing, black and golden. He suited it well, though you kinda missed his cape.

You approached the horse, holding out your hand and running your fingers over it’s velvety nose. It sniffed, and butted your hand almost like a cat would.

“Well don’t just stand there petting it, get on.” You glanced over to where Bakugo had already jumped up onto his horse, staring impatiently at you.

You squared your shoulders and clambered onto the tall animal, struggling a little as the horses here were several hands taller than at home.

You patted the horse, seizing the reigns in your dominant hand. “Right, if you two aren’t total idiots then I trust you can follow me.”

For an angry hedgehog, Bakugo did seem to be a fairly good leader. Your horse (which you had dubbed Gordon) fell into step besides Todoroki, and he glanced over to you.

“Are you alright? You look a little wobbly.” You shrugged. “Eh, I’m cool. I haven’t been riding in a little while though, so I guess I’m just rusty. You?”

“I’m a nonpareil rider, I have confidence I can keep up with Bakugo.” You snorted. “Wow, confidence is key huh? We’ll see how good you really are.”

Bakugo lead the two of you through a pasture, then out of a large ebony gate. You looked around as you passed trees, arriving in an empty field with a large barn in the corner.

You lead your horse in a few circles, grinning like an idiot as you approached the other two.

“This field is a pretty remote spot, so we won’t have damn servants bothering us all the fuckin’ time.” It was then that you looked at his horse, and almost fell off once you realised how... fitting it seemed, for someone like Bakugo.

It was a little taller than your horse, and a dark chestnut brown. But it seemed almost bull-like, eyes darting around as though it was challenging your horse.

“Fancy a race?” The words slipped from your mouth before you could even acknowledge them, and you watched a cocky look emerge on Bakugo’s face.

“Really? You think you can win?” You shrugged, turning around to Todoroki. “It seems Bakugo doesn’t wanna race me, how about you?”

You stifled a laugh as Bakugo angrily spluttered at you. “You- I never said I wouldn’t, mizetto!” “Alrighty then, how about from here to that barn? First one wins?”

He grinned. “You’ll never win, but I’d be glad. Don’t cry when you get your asses handed to you though!”

Todoroki sighed. “You two are really going to race?”

“You’re not?” You asked. He shook his head, stepping away. “Count us out. It’s not exactly in my interests.”

“But I thought you were nonpareil, elite, you know?” He glanced sideways at you, before bringing his horse besides the two of you.

“Fine. You’re awfully persistent, [Name].” You simply smiled. “I don’t know what you mean. First to that barn wins. Ready...? Set...”

You took the reigns with both hands, hunching forwards.

“GO!!”

Earth flew in all directions as the three of you charged towards the old brick building, mostly neck and neck. You watched as the two princes were neck and neck, both keeping up with each other.

Nothing could have prepared you for what happened next, as the only thing you saw was a couple movements from some bushes nearby, then a flurry of ginger foxes dashed in front of you.

Being the one in the back, your horse rearing up at the sudden flurry of animals among its hooves, and all you could do was try and cling on as it bolted.

Your attempts were in vain as you yelped for the horse to stop. It ignored you and continued sprinting, straight past the others.

“[Name], what the fu-” “Bakugo, it’s bolting! [Name] hold on!” Bakugo looked in shock as the horse cleared the fence, your frame clinging on for dear life as to not be thrown off and killed.

They charged after you, but the fence was so high that the two horses halted immediately, nearly throwing the two off.

“Dammit! Fucking- DAMMIT!!” Bakugo yelled, and his horse gave him an annoyed glare. “Bakugo, calm down. We need to go collect [Name] and quickly, she might be thrown off a cliff.”

Bakugo gripped the reigns tightly and glared at him. “Shut it, half n’ half! I’m going to get [Name] and that damned horse, you can do whatever you want!”

He urged the horse over the shorter fence and Todoroki watched in annoyance as Bakugo recklessly followed you. He patted his horse, and jumped the fence himself, listening for whatever direction you had gone.

He could faintly hear frantic hoof-beats maybe 320 yard East? It certainly was Eastwards, so he curved around the forest, intending to catch up to you from the side.

As much as he didn’t really understand it, he cared about your well-being, and was concerned that you might be seriously injured.

Also, he didn’t want Bakugo swooping in and being the knight-in-shining-armour for some reason. The feeling of him tenderly rescuing you just didn’t sit right with him, especially since he seemed so cold towards Todoroki.

He supposed that was a good enough reason, and urged the horse to go quicker so that he could reach you faster. He knew the horse wouldn’t buck you off, but the question was, would you have let go?

He sure hoped not, as that would probably break something. ‘[Name], hang in there.’

[To be continued… ☆]

#bnha #bnha x reader #todoroki x reader #bakugo x reader #bnha fantasy au #part four #your-lover-academia

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theyearoftheking · 3 years

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Book Seventy-Five: Sleeping Beauties

“According to the Blackfeet Indians, brown moths bring sleep and dreams.”

Well hello, Constant Readers! There’s nothing like an entire day of travel, and being stuck on an airplane without Wifi to keep you focused, and force you to finish reading a book you’re not really interested in. I’m back from vacation: my family, and my friend from college’s family went to Florida for a long weekend.

Y’all...

Florida is like the Wild West. Unless you’re in a Walmart, no one is seen wearing a mask. We walked into a restaurant Friday night, and the entire place stopped to stare at us in our masks. It was the most uncomfortable thing I’ve ever experienced. The hostess even pretended she couldn’t understand me with my mask on. Girl, please.

After that encounter, we pretty much stuck to our house and the beach. Oh, and Waffle House. Because the good people of Waffle House enforce mask wearing, distancing, and the consumption of tasty pecan waffles. Don’t at me... I know it’s not fine dining. But as a northerner, Waffle House is a total novelty. I’m at my happiest with some cheesy eggs, hash browns with jalapenos, and a pecan waffle. Oh, and a Diet Coke. Because, calorie counting is real.

I forgot to type that last line my sarcasm font.

So, back from vacation, and I finished Sleeping Beauties. If you love the epic narrative of The Stand, and the social interactions of Under the Dome, and reading books that go on about two hundred pages too long: than Sleeping Beauties is for you. It’s Steve and Owen’s attempt at a feminist narrative (they drop the Nevertheless She Persisted quote, as well as a dedication to Sandra Bland), and I admire the effort, but it just seemed ham-handed to me. And I’m not someone who claims that men can’t write feminist fiction... I just think Steve loses himself when he tries to send a feminist/social justice message (we’ll get into it more in Elevation).

But where Steve (and Owen. Sorry, Owen) really score, is when it comes to predicting the future. There are so many parallels to 2020/2021, it’s almost hilarious. Sleeping Beauties was published in 2017 and tells the story of a plague (if I never hear that word again, it will be too soon) that only affects women, and as soon as they fall asleep, a cocoon is wrapped around them. If you try to wake the women, or tear at their cocoon, they will come at you in a murderous rage.

Relatable AF.

The small town of Dooling, and the Dooling Correctional Facility seem to be the center of the plague, and a woman known only as Eve Black seems to be responsible both for creating the plague, as well as the new world women venture into once they’re asleep. It’s a feminist utopia known only as Our Place. Women fall asleep in our world, enter Our Place, but if they’re burned alive in our world (a thing that happens), they vanish from Our Place. Additionally, if someone tries to move their bodies in our world, they feel the vertigo in Our Place.

So, a group of town vigilantes try to storm the correctional facility where Eve Black is being held, and they want to take her to the CDC in Atlanta to poke and prod at her, and find out why she’s not affected by the plague. The prison employees don’t want this to happen, they think Eve is the key to reversing the plague, and waking the women back up again. So, the town of Dooling erupts in a civil war of sorts.

So, here’s where it gets real 2020. Are you ready for these parallels?

Remember when “The Former Guy” (thanks President Biden, that will now be how I refer to him) started calling Covid “The China Virus? Well, the sleeping virus took a same turn. It was initially called The Australian Sleeping Sickness and then turned into Female Sleeping Flu, and finally Aurora Flu (after Princess Aurora from Sleeping Beauty).

Angry citizens decided to raid the White House, looking for answers about the virus. They were pissed their government wasn’t prepared for a global pandemic that affected only women. So, there was looting, violence, even an interview with a woman who got tear-gassed. I wonder if they checked her purse for an onion...

There was hoarding of toilet paper!

There was fake news that the respiration exhaled from sleeping women caused the plague to spread. So, they decided to burn the women’s bodies. Kinda like that time The Former Guy told people to drink bleach? Remember that one?

But the most compelling parallel... the one that Steve and Owen got right... A few weeks ago at dinner, we were talking about what women would do in a world without men. My daughter and I agreed we’d take a walk at night to look at stars, we’d walk along the lakefront together with our dogs. We’d take a nap under a shady tree. The list was LONG. My husband didn’t understand. But I don’t expect him to. He doesn’t live in a reality where he could be sexually assaulted, or killed because he’s viewed as an easy target. For women? It’s a different story. In Our Place, one of the women watches a little girl walking down the street at night and reflects that there are no predators or pedophiles out to get her. Now that’s a utopia, folks.

All and all, it was an interesting concept, and there were some fun characters; but the book just went on too long for my taste.

Total Wisconsin Mentions: 46

Total Dark Tower References: 68

Book Grade: B-

Rebecca’s Definitive Ranking of Stephen King Books

Doctor Sleep: A+

The Talisman: A+

Wizard and Glass: A+

11/22/63: A+

Mr. Mercedes: A+

End of Watch: A+

Under the Dome: A+

Needful Things: A+

On Writing: A+

The Green Mile: A+

Hearts in Atlantis: A+

Full Dark, No Stars: A+

The Bazaar of Bad Dreams: A+

Just After Sunset: A+

Rose Madder: A+

Misery: A+

Different Seasons: A+

It: A+

Four Past Midnight: A+

Stephen King Goes to the Movies: A+

The Shining: A-

The Stand: A-

Finders Keepers: A-

Bag of Bones: A-

Duma Key: A-

Black House: A-

The Wastelands: A-

The Drawing of the Three: A-

The Dark Tower: A-

Dolores Claiborne: A-

Blaze: B+

Hard Listening: B+

Revival: B+

Nightmares in the Sky: B+

The Dark Half: B+

Joyland: B+

Skeleton Crew: B+

The Dead Zone: B+

Nightmares & Dreamscapes: B+

Wolves of the Calla: B+

‘Salem’s Lot: B+

Song of Susannah: B+

Carrie: B+

Creepshow: B+

From a Buick 8: B

The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon: B

Sleeping Beauties: B-

The Colorado Kid: B-

Storm of the Century: B-

Everything’s Eventual: B-

Cycle of the Werewolf: B-

The Wind Through the Keyhole: B-

Danse Macabre: B-

The Running Man: C+

Cell: C+

Thinner: C+

Dark Visions: C+

The Eyes of the Dragon: C+

The Long Walk: C+

The Gunslinger: C+

Pet Sematary: C+

Firestarter: C+

Rage: C

Desperation: C-

Insomnia: C-

Cujo: C-

Nightshift: C-

Faithful: D

Gerald’s Game: D

Roadwork: D

Lisey’s Story: D

Christine: D

Dreamcatcher: D

The Regulators: D

The Tommyknockers D

Next up SHOULD be The Outsider, but I grabbed the wrong book when I was packing. So we’re going to jump ahead briefly, and discuss The Institute before returning to our regularly scheduled timeline.

Until next time, Long Days & Pleasant Nights, Rebecca

#sleeping beauties #stephen king #owen king #constant readers #nevertheless she persisted #waffle house #florida #the stand #under the dome

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lastsonlost · 4 years

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This is what it looks like when you can't see past your own bias.

Aka: what happens when your lived experience is inconvenient to the narrative.

By Andrea Thompson

Watching the movie “Brian Banks” is...awkward. To some extent, it's a classic sports underdog movie, but the struggles Brian Banks had to overcome are anything but conventional. As the movie continually points out, he's exceptional. And he is, in more ways that this movie is aware of.

Based on a true story, which the movie is quick to point out with dramatic music (uh oh), the title character, played by Aldis Hodge, muses on his great love for football, which he was on track to play professionally until he was stopped in his tracks at 16 years old. It's how he was stopped that would make anyone pause; Banks was falsely accused of rape by a classmate.

After some bad legal advice leads to jail time and some years struggling to navigate the conditions of his parole (and having to register as a sex offender), Banks struggles to simply find a job while simultaneously fighting to clear his name and reclaim his life. He also repeatedly writes the Innocence Project and asks them to take his case. Refusing to give up even after they reject him, Banks goes to meet with the lawyers on the project in person, first convincing them to give him advice, then take him on, and finally, actively fight for him.

It's impossible not to get invested in just how much Banks had to overcome, from his poverty-stricken childhood and the various legal road blocks that threaten to end his fight before it even begins. Banks wasn't imprisoned, so he was not a priority for the Innocence Project, and since he took a plea rather than going to trial, he needs completely new evidence rather than simply using what was already discovered. He also has to stay sane in jail, especially when he's put in solitary. Banks even took the initiative and managed to record his accuser recanting her confession.

Except. Except. Well, there was going to be misgivings about this film being released during the #MeToo Era, wasn't there? That the film would fully embrace Brian's perspective and his struggles is natural, even admirable. However, this type of story demands more, and what the movie doesn't say is far more noteworthy than what it does. It doesn't mention that the percentage of false rape accusations are not only incredibly low, the conviction rate for them is even lower. It limits its empathy for what many women have gone through to one scene, where Banks's love interest Karina (Melanie Liburd) reveals she was raped in college, and how devastating the aftermath was for her.

Even if there's little to no doubt of Brian's innocence, it's hard not to wince as his accuser is subjected to the kinds of questions which are used to discredit actual victims, as the men questioning her ask just what she expected to happen when she went off alone with Brian, why she didn't shout, etc. It also doesn't help that Brian and the people assisting him are all easily identifiable as various levels of middle class while his accuser and his family are...not so much, let's just say.

Yes, Brian Banks suffered a terrible injustice, and he proved himself to be exceptional not just for his athletic prowess, but the strength of character it took to fight for the truth over a period of years. The performances are also incredible, and help to elevate this movie above the simplistic melodrama it would otherwise be, although it also depicts faith and how it can be a bedrock for those in pain more respectfully than most mainstream films are typically capable of. It's all in service of someone who deserves to be vindicated, but it shouldn't have to come at the expense of so many other victims.

Rating: C-

Fortunately I wasn't the only one who took issue with this "review".

Cassandra3

This is a disgusting review of a great film. I can not believe that I read what I just read. And also why did you put "(duh duh)" after saying it was a true story. You give Feminism a bad name and I am embarrassed to even have someone like you even pretend to fight for women's rights. SMH

Andree4

This is a wretched review, that quite possibly reveals deep-seated implicit biases, on your part. You didn't review the movie, you made a political statement, rooted in radical feminist, and male-hating rhetoric. This man, along with other men of similar misfortunes, is the victim-not the woman who accused him. He is a human being, that has every right to have his story told, unmolested by contrived issues that would shift the focus off of him, onto a non-victim. And so what if his economic status is above his false accusers status: does it then justify her lies against this man, that resulted in his imprisonment? Nice attempt at a fake out, but I'm sorry-you miserably failed. At the core it appears as if you feel more sorry for false accusers of men, than the men who are falsely accused by these liars. It appears that way, in light of you inserting that jab. This pitiful analysis betrays your binary agenda: all women are truthful and good, in spite of potential liars and deceivers amongst them, whereas all men are just BAD-because they're men. And God help the men if they are assertive, confident and forthright, for then they'll be accused of having TOXIC MASCULINITY, whereas a woman with those same qualities will be labeled a BOSS. Look at the woman in the mirror...

Crystal4

This is a horrible review of the movie. It doesn’t even review the movie. It more about your perspective in the Brian Banks case. I have never seen so much bias. You make it sound like the movie forces you to see Brian Banks as a victim. When in all reality he IS the victim. He was accused of raping his girlfriend and it was completely false. It was prisoned and register as a sex offender. His whole life changed on a lie from a girl who’s family wanted money. What other victims did it come at the cost of ? He just telling his story. SHOULD HE LIE OR WATER IT DOWN, BECAUSE IT HURTS YOUR SENSITIVE IDEALS ? Should he not get justice? Please explain to me what you are trying to say.

Jesse4

Even in the face of a story that proves there are two sides to this extremely challenging issue, you demonstrate that you have no regard for men who can see their lives completely destroyed when false allegations happen. This review is equivalent to me watching The Accused then writing about how it was important to shine a light on violent gang rape, but not if the movie didn’t properly explore situations where men were jailed over false allegations. I also love how you threw in the problem with WHITE MEN when the movie is about a BLACK WOMAN FALSELY ACCUSING A BLACK MAN OF RAPE. Your ideology clouds your vision to where the hierarchy of victimhood drives all understanding of right/wrong and how any narrative should be interpreted. It’s transparent to 90% of us, but your kind lives in an echo chamber. You aren’t more educated...you’re more indoctrinated and I’m looking forward to the cultural shift that sees your viewpoints thrown in the dustpan of history.

Gordon Shumway4

At no point in this cinematic review did you review the movie on its story-telling, 'watchability', acting, or general movie presentation. You took your biased, personal opinion about the story, and decided that it does not fit your false narrative that the female is always the victim.

#brian banks #the Brian Banks movie

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letterboxd · 3 years

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Best of the Fests 2020.

From 17th-century werewolves to WWII gremlins to present-day nomads, the stripped-back, mostly virtual 2020 fall festivals still managed to bring the goods. Our team rounds up the very best titles we saw at TIFF, NYFF, the BFI London Film Festival and beyond.

LISTEN: Gemma Gracewood and Ella Kemp chew over their festival favorites in the latest episode of The Letterboxd Show.

Kudos to the teams at the Toronto, New York and BFI London Film Festivals for pulling excellent hybrid festivals together in extremely weird, not-at-all-ideal circumstances. From the always-excellent conversations (and Cameron Bailey’s always-excellent suits) to the hybrid options for viewing, we left feeling hope for our favorite art form.

We have been keeping track, over on our Twitter account, of the many film festivals going online, and it’s safe to say that virtual film festivals—and the wider accessibility they offer—have been a silver lining to this mostly awful year. Indeed, the 58th NYFF was one of Film at Lincoln Center’s most-attended festivals, with 70,000+ attendees in all 50 states and beyond. (We participated in a NYFF Industry Talk, along with MUBI and Rotten Tomatoes, about the future of online film conversation, moderated by Indiewire’s David Ehrlich.)

Attempting to replicate the extreme fatigue of the real thing, our festival team (Ella Kemp, Aaron Yap, Kambole Campbell, Jack Moulton and Gemma Gracewood and—helping us bridge the geo-locked divide—Canadian TIFF regular Jonathan White) disregarded international date lines and dove right in. We saw many films to love, but by consensus (and a poke around your Letterboxd reactions) these are the ones we’re still thinking about.

Lovers Rock Directed by Steve McQueen, written by McQueen and Courttia Newland. The ‘Small Axe’ anthology will be released on a weekly rollout on Amazon Prime Video beginning November 20 with ‘Mangrove’, then ‘Lovers Rock’, ‘Red, White and Blue’, ‘Alex Wheatle’ and finally ‘Education’. Seen at: NYFF, BFI London Film Festival.

Lovers Rock, the first part of Steve McQueen’s ambitious, multi-part film project Small Axe, feels like a massive stylistic departure for the filmmaker, in a manner that completely transfixes and astounds. It’s no wonder that this one turned heads at multiple festivals, as it’s immediately warmer, more freewheeling and sensual than any other McQueen work. It’s defined by a hypnotic focus on sound and touch, represented in its earliest scenes with a tactile close-up of a heated comb working its way through hair, and later with its focus on hands wrapped around shoulders, moving across shirts and dresses, people joining together and/or colliding through song and dance. Despite being made for television, it’s astounding how little Lover’s Rock feels that way. Often impressionistic and unbound to the kind of urgency or efficiency that naturally comes with having to adhere to a time-slot, it simply rests in the moment. With the seismic protests being undertaken by Black people this year, Lovers Rock feels like more than welcome respite from a hateful populace—visually rich, gorgeously soundtracked Black joy and love. Also, man, those shirts are incredible. —KC

Nomadland Written and directed by Chloé Zhao. In US theaters December 4. Seen at: TIFF, NYFF, BFI London Film Festival.

“I am already convinced that Chloé Zhao deserves the whole world,” writes Jaime of Nomadland, the TIFF People’s Choice winner. Personal security is something we don’t think about on a daily basis. We have shelter, we can buy food, anything else is bonus. But what if those two basic tenets vanish? While the global financial crisis affected all in 2008, it affected retirees more. Supposedly secure retirement investments vanished; security no more. What do you do? Survive. Zhao’s adaptation of Jessica Bruder’s 2017 non-fiction masterpiece Nomadland: Surviving America in the Twenty-First Century is a beacon of human spirit and survival. It may not be pretty, but it’s real. It’s not something to be embarrassed about, it’s something to be proud of. Those that let this happen to good, honest working people should be the ones embarrassed. —JW

Minari Written and directed by Lee Isaac Chung. No release date announced. Seen at: Middleburg Film Festival.

Minari is the medicine for these tough times. It’s a wonderful, wonderful, deeply personal, utterly serene and metaphysical portrait of America—freedom, faith, superstition, forces of nature, and ambition collide with the costs of intoxicating capitalist dreams, but not without a whole lot of heart. This is elegantly crafted, at once organic in its approach and always sweepingly cinematic. The film’s gentle sense of humor ensures that it never takes itself too seriously and allows the weight of its poetic images and juxtapositions to guide the narrative. The brilliant ensemble should grow to join Steven Yeun as household names (well, cinephile households). Youn Yuh-jung and Alan Kim are bright sparks as the latest classic duo of sassy grandma and precocious grandchild, but it’s Han Ye-ri—taking on the surrogate role of director Lee Isaac Chung’s mother—who provides an overlooked and tender sounding board for familial bonds in fraction. Minari is truly one of 2020’s most invaluable and essential pieces of art, living up to the hype built since Sundance. Korea came to the USA for the Oscars earlier this year, and if 2021 shows similar mercy, there’s a chance you’ll see this home-grown Asian-American picture mounting that stage in future. —JM

Wolfwalkers Directed by Tomm Moore and Ross Stewart, written by Will Collins with Moore and Stewart. Recently released in UK theaters; coming to Apple TV+ December 11. Seen at: TIFF, BFI London Film Festival.

The much-anticipated Cartoon Saloon adventure Wolfwalkers was met with only joy around here. A fable about what happens when a colonizing force tries to tame a wild forest, set during Oliver Cromwell’s Siege of Kilkenny, Wolfwalkers builds to “one of the most sensational animated third acts I’ve seen in years,” according to Animatedantic. The film’s themes are embedded in every hand-drawn line and stroke. “It’s not sleek and seamless and modern,” writes Cow Shea. “This is transparently a true work of art where all the work of that art is part of the finished product.” Mebh and Robyn are animated action heroes for the ages, and you’ll hear a lot about ‘Wolfvision’ in the weeks to come—for very good reason. Werewolf films have, for years, tried different ways to put us inside the beast’s mind, but Tomm Moore and Ross Stewart followed their noses and it’s as thrilling as things get. —GG

David Byrne’s American Utopia Directed by Spike Lee. On HBO and HBO Max now. Seen at: TIFF, NYFF, BFI London Film Festival.

David Byrne’s American Utopia is well on track to join Jonathan Demme’s film of another Byrne stage outing, Stop Making Sense (1984), as one of the highest-rated anythings on Letterboxd. We’re still deciding whether this film is sublime because the stage show itself is sublime, or because Spike Lee has sublimely captured the whole joyous thing for us to inject into our eyeballs, time and again, for far less than the price of a Broadway ticket. Let’s be honest: it’s due to both, and more besides. It’s a blessing upon 2020, of that we are certain. As Clint writes, “The phrase ‘this is the film we need right now’ is such a creaky cliché, but there’s an ineffable feeling that, if David Byrne and Spike Lee can’t heal the world with grey suits, bare feet, and some of the most all-encompassing works of music ever written, no one can.” As my colleague says, “will rewatch to death”. —GG

Shiva Baby Written and directed by Emma Seligman. On the festival circuit. Seen at: TIFF, LFF.

A girl walks into a shiva and bumps into her sugar daddy. What sounds like a joke sets up 77 minutes of note-perfect comedy horror in Emma Seligman’s Shiva Baby, her feature debut adapted from her dissertation short of the same name. It’s funny, horrifying, excruciating and so painfully, accurately Jewish. Isaac Feldberg calls it “cruelly hilarious about everything smothering and inevitably miserable about Jewish family gatherings”, but Seligman’s sharp eye for comedy, her affection for her teen hero Danielle (Rachel Sennott, a bona fide star) just figuring her career out and owning her sexuality (Molly Gordon playing Danielle’s overachieving ex-girlfriend Maya is a highlight) cuts straight to the core, however you relate. Matt Neglia points out how Shiva Baby “captures the behaviors of its characters with the same level of dry wit and detail as the Coen Brothers would”. What a thrill for a young, smart, Jewish, bisexual woman to be setting the pace now. Keep an eye on Seligman’s bright, bright future. —EK

Tove Directed by Zaida Bergroth, written by Eeva Putro. Released in Finland; on the festival circuit elsewhere. Seen at: TIFF.

If there was a film swoony enough to fill the Portrait of a Lady on Fire-sized hole in your heart this year, it’s Zaida Bergroth’s Tove, a bewitching biopic of Finnish author and illustrator Tove Jansson, creator of the beloved Moomin cartoon characters. Set in Helsinki during and post-World War II, the film orbits around her boho world, flitting between her creative struggles as a painter and deep sexual awakening with married theater director Vivica Bandler (Krista Kosonen). As Lillian says, “Lesbians and Moomins is such a huge fucking mood I never wanted it to end.” Alma Pöysti shines effortlessly in the lead role. “The film happens on her fantastic face,” writes Hannu. Seth agrees: “a captivating first-class drama about a world-renowned talent in search of her own identity, love and freedom.” A cozy fall-season perfection. —AY

Shadow in the Cloud Co-written and directed by Roseanne Liang. Slated for a summer 2021 release. Seen at: TIFF, AFI Fest.

A proud addition to the “she did that!” canon, the single downside of Roseanne Liang’s genre-perfect, “deliciously fearless” Midnight Madness winner Shadow in the Cloud is that there was no Midnight Madness to experience it at—but thanks to a juicy sale out of TIFF, we can look forward to a premiere next summer. Chloë Grace Moretz is Maude Garrett, a WWII pilot assigned to transport a highly classified package over the Pacific. The all-male crew of the B-17 Flying Fortress banishes her to the lower ball turret, where they harass, gaslight and leer over her—and that is nowhere near the worst part of this bonkers, non-stop hell flight, which Moretz carries like the future action hero she must now become, if the movie goddesses are listening. —GG

Pieces of a Woman Directed by Kornél Mundruczó, written by Kata Wéber. Coming soon to Netflix. Seen at: TIFF, NYFF.

You will be hearing a lot about Vanessa Kirby in the months to come. Pieces of a Woman is an arresting, often taxing watch, but few actors have delivered a performance as utterly overwhelming as Kirby portraying Martha, a grieving mother processing the loss of her baby. The filmmaking team (Mundruczo and Weber share a “film by” credit) zoom in on deep, jagged pain, and tease out some of the most affecting moments put to screen this year. Jack calls the film “an intensely intimate depiction of mental and marital deterioration caused by tragedy” and nods to master Howard Shore’s “subtle yet potent” score. It’s poetry in motion, with stunning turns from Shia LaBeouf, Ellen Burstyn, Sarah Snook and Benny Safdie also. But proceed with caution: “this film will destroy you”, Alisha Tabilin warns. —EK

Underplayed Directed by Stacey Lee. On the festival circuit. Seen at: TIFF. (Also recommended in our music movies round-up.)

Women-in-the-workplace movies aren’t usually this banging. Stacey Lee’s documentary Underplayed focuses on one corner of the still wildly sexist music industry—the dance-music scene—and lays out both the facts and feelings regarding why women still, always, deserve better. A number of key names guide the story—Rezz, Alison Wonderland, Nervo, TokiMonsta—giving the viewer a taste of what we’re missing out on while booking the same old men, over and over. And it’s not just because of the stats or the injustices that this is a must-watch: in times of limited social interaction and when the feeling of an adrenaline-fuelled crowd feels like a foggy memory, Lee captures some truly electric moments of these women thriving, captivating thousands of music lovers at once. “Buy yourself good speakers and turn them up because this movie is fun and it deserves it,” writes Matt Brown, and he’s absolutely correct. Underplayed is essential and exciting. The most entertaining education of the year. —EK

Another Round Directed by Thomas Vinterburg, written by Vinterburg and Tobias Lindholm. Awaiting new UK date due to lockdown. In US cinemas soon. Seen at: TIFF, LFF.

Another Round reunites filmmaker Thomas Vinterberg with his muse Mads Mikkelsen, in a lads-on-tour buddy movie, except the lads are four middle-aged high-school teachers, and the tour features a very casual, very constant level of intoxication each man commits to in the name of a social experiment. What could possibly go wrong, you ask? Plenty, naturally—but Vinterberg marries the slapstick moments of bumbling drunks falling over themselves with more mature, poignant scenes that question just how far you can or should go to feel that little bit more alive. There’s a lot to love here, but if we’re being very precise, it’s “rock-solid proof that Mads Mikkelsen is one of our greatest actors,” says Karen Han. Come for the wise, contemplative study of youth and spontaneity, stay for rock-solid proof that Mads Mikkelsen is also, somehow, one of our greatest contemporary dancers. —EK

One Night in Miami Directed by Regina King, adapted by Kemp Powers from his own stage play. In select US theaters December 25, coming to Amazon Prime Video January 15, 2021. Seen at: TIFF, NYFF.

Ladies and gentleman, Regina King has arrived. The actor wastes nothing in her feature directorial debut, bringing to the screen Kemp Powers’ vivid stage play of the same name with a heavyweight cast of greats. Kingsley Ben-Adir, Eli Goree, Aldis Hodge and Leslie Odom Jr. are Malcolm X, Cassius Clay (before he took the name Muhammad Ali), Jim Brown and Sam Cooke respectively, as the four men celebrate Clay’s victory over Sonny Liston in February 1964, during One Night in Miami. Rachel Wagner notes how “they all feel like friends and have chemistry, but each with a unique perspective”. This chemistry comes from King’s perfect alchemy of mood, design and structure; she lets her men speak, but her voice is never lost. “Queen King never wavers on her vision until every bit of flesh is torn off each man,” Ben notes, admiring a film that shines for all its famous faces, but stands the test of time for its rich, piercing empathy for every other one waiting in the shadows. —EK

Supernova Written and directed by Harry Macqueen. Awaiting UK and Ireland release due to lockdown; in select US theaters January 29, 2021. Seen at: BFI London Film Festival.

Colin Firth at his very best, Stanley Tucci losing his grip on himself, the luscious Lake District and endless cozy, delicious, warm knitwear. Supernova is every bit as beautiful as it sounds, but also packs a major punch when it comes to mapping a lifelong love story, and the cost of loyalty and pride when you’re fighting against pain nobody can control. As Sam and Tusker, devoted to one another for decades, come to terms with Tusker’s diagnosis of early on-set dementia, there is as much care and sadness as is to be expected, but it still feels brand new and cuts deep. Every good love story is its own. Director Harry Macqueen and his two shining stars understand this better than anyone. —EK

French Exit Directed by Azazel Jacobs, written by Patrick DeWitt. Scheduled for US release January 21, 2021. Seen at NYFF.

Armed with acerbic wit and sharpened claws, Michelle Pfeiffer delivers a vulnerable close-to-career-best performance in French Exit as a mother free-falling from wealth and reconciling with her son, an expertly cold Lucas Hedges. What appears to be formal and dry (“rich white-people stuff”, blegh) is actually wonderfully weird and surprisingly spiritual. There’s a divisive scene at the half-way point that instantly unroots the movie from any grounding we assumed it had established. In any other film, it would open up an entire world of possibilities, but French Exit decidedly treats it as matter-of-fact in order to focus on the emotional journey. It’s the decisive moment—you’re on its wavelength, or you’re overboard—and the rewards for staying aboard are plentiful. Patrick DeWitt’s adaptation of his own novel is in good hands with director Azazel Jacobs. —JM

Still Processing Directed by Sophy Romvari. On the festival circuit. Seen at: TIFF.

A final, honorable mention for Sophy Romvari’s Still Processing, the highest-rated short film out of TIFF, and an excavation of grief like no other. “You’ve got to watch this one twice,” writes Martyn. “First viewing to just weep every two to three minutes. Second viewing to really appreciate how great it is.”

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tracybirds · 4 years

Text

For @ak47stylegirl who asked for Scott being over protective of Alan!

Hope this suffices :D Also spot the Finding Nemo reference that immediately flashed into my head when I read that request lol

Be well!!

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Scott and Gordon were chatting idly in the kitchen when the call came through.

Gordon flicked on the comm, hopping up on their Dad’s desk as he did so with an easy grin.

“Tracy Two, coming in for landing.” Alan’s voice wavered as he spoke and Scott frowned to hear it. Alan and Kayo had flown out to the mainland together that morning and there had been no word of any problems. No word that would give Alan a reason to be in the pilot’s seat.

He could hear Kayo murmuring indistinctly in the background, her tone reassuring.

“Uh sorry Tracy Island,” said Alan. “I mean we are approaching from the southwest. Are we cleared for landing?”

Scott could definitely hear the anxiety in Alan’s voice now, and he could feel the worry that lived in the pit of his stomach begin to chew its way out of its carefully controlled prison.

“Are you alright?” he demanded.

“What?” asked Alan, sounding startled. “Scott? I, uh, aren’t you on a mission?”

“Alan, focus,” said Kayo sharply.

“It was aborted,” said Scott. Abruptly, he stood up and made his way over to the desk, glancing at Gordon as he did so. His brother didn’t seem half as worried as he should have been to hear their baby brother’s voice at the helm of the family jet. “Alan, why are you piloting? Is Kayo hurt?”

“Scott, am I clear to make a landing approach or not?” His brother’s voice was high, the nerves he must be feeling finally displaying themselves.

Gordon hit the comm button. “Alan, you’re clear. We’ll see you in ten minutes.”

He hopped off the desk and shrugged in response to Scott’s scowl.

“Look, they needed to land,” he said indifferently. “You can hash it out on the ground, couldn’t you hear he was feeling stressed?”

“Why was he piloting?” asked Scott, his mind running over all the updates he had received from an excitable Alan over the day. “What happened?”

Gordon looked determinedly past Scott, his eyes fixed on the dot that hovered over the horizon.

Scott narrowed his eyes.

“You know.”

“Look, let’s just go and meet them,” said Gordon, uncomfortably.

“And get this over with,” he muttered under his breath as he turned away.

***

“Kayo, what’s going on?” Scott demanded, striding into the hangar with Gordon trailing unhappily behind him. Virgil looked up from his workstation in the corner, startled at the intrusion.

“Why was Alan piloting? What aren’t you telling me?”

Kayo’s eyes flashed as she glanced over at him, helping Alan out of the cockpit.

“I took Alan for his first flying lesson. Since it didn’t seem like you were going to.”

And that stung. It really did, because Scott knew she was right. Scott had seen all the hints Alan had been dropping since his fourteenth birthday but he had forced himself to ignore them all, intent on making sure Alan passed Algebra II and didn’t get absorbed into the TV realm that he spent so much time watching. He had more important responsibilities to fulfil towards his brother.

Even so, the thought of missing it hurt just as much. The thought that he wouldn’t get to see Alan’s eye light up as he took to the sky under his own power for the first time. That he’d missed the little whoop of exhilaration that Alan always made on rollercoasters, but this time yelled 35,000 feet in the air. That he wouldn’t get to look over at his youngest brother with a thrill in his heart that sung out as they flew together.

His Dad was missing it, and now he couldn’t even witness it for him in his stead.

His hands curled into fists at his side, and hurt and anger and envy balled up uncomfortably in his chest. He couldn’t breathe as he looked into Kayo’s cool eyes, waiting to hear what he had to say.

“You had no right!”

The words that burst from his lips were a surprise to him, and eve Kayo took a step back at the radiating fury.

“How dare you take him up there, especially without my permission!”

“Scott, you’re not his guardian, I asked Grandma and– ”

“I don’t care,” he said, cutting her off. “I don’t care that you asked Grandma, when was the last time she flew? You should have talked to me, you should have told me what you were doing.”

“You wouldn’t have listened.”

“You don’t know that!”

It didn’t matter that Kayo was right, it didn’t matter that Scott knew it. All he could feel was the betrayal that they hadn’t trusted him. That all day, his brother could have been hurt or killed and he would have been none the wiser.

“Scott,” murmured Virgil, moving forwards and placing a hand on his shoulder.

Scott shrugged him off and rounded on Alan.

“And you. You think you can do these things, but you just can’t, Alan! You’re too young!”

Silence rang throughout the hangar.

Scott breathed heavily as he looked at Alan. His face was white, lips pressed together in thinly suppressed rage.

“How old were you, Scott?’ asked Alan in a low voice.

“I’m sorry?” asked Scott, trying to shoot an exasperated look at Virgil. His brother had been his second, his rock, his guiding force since their father had disappeared in a cloud of smoke and unburnt fuel. His brother was avoiding his gaze. The hot hammer of truth struck him as he looked at Virgil.

They’d all known this was happening.

“How old?” repeated the icy voice. “When did Dad first take you up Scott?”

Scott remembered it like yesterday, the moment he had fallen head over heels with flying, a place where he could feel free and in control and like no one in the world could take this away from him. He’d held on tightly to the past up until that moment, clinging to his memories of an unbroken family. For the first time, it had felt like change could bring good.

“I was fourteen,” he said quietly.

“And how old am I?”

Scott didn’t want to answer that. Alan had shot up over the last three months, his limbs gangly and gawky as he moved, trying to adjust to a newly grown body. He looked up to Scott, but Scott could begin to see the tendrils of frustration and rebellion that would soon change that, even if he never quite matched him in height. He’d always thought his role as the eldest brother would make it easy for him to be cool, slipping into the casual attitude of sharing beers and swapping stories.

Alan was different.

Alan had been nine when his father vanished. Answering his question meant admitting it had been five long years that stretched back in his mind. Answering his question meant admitting that Alan was growing up without his parents. Answering his question meant admitting that he had to leave his casual big brother persona in an old life.

“I’ve been waiting for months, Scott! I’ll be fifteen soon,” cried Alan, “learning to drive. You all learnt to fly before you could drive, why can’t I?”

At the end of the day, it boiled down to one thing.

“It’s not fair.”

Scott deflated.

“I’m sorry, Alan,” he said quietly. “I guess I don’t want to admit you’re growing up.”

“We all are, Scott,” said Gordon. “None of us are kids anymore.”

“You’re still a minor.”

“Yeah, but I’ll be a major in a month,” he replied with a grin, his smile only growing wider amidst the groaning that filled the hangar.

Scott nudged Alan.

“Want me to take you up there next time?”

Alan beamed, bright and hopeful as he stared up at Scott with shining eyes.

“I’ve been waiting to hear you ask me that!”

He hugged Alan tightly, unsurprised when Gordon jumped in as well.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Kayo slinking away. He left his brothers, the older two exclaiming appropriately as Alan shared his tales of heroics in the air, and followed her.

“Kayo,” he called out after her.

She turned around, arms folded tightly across her chest, and waited as he jogged over to her.

“Kayo, I’m sorry.”

“Yeah Scott?” she said coldly. “You should be. What was that?”

Scott floundered for a moment and she saved him from answering with a pitying shake of the head.

“You can’t keep him young forever,” she said quietly. “And you’re not his Dad. I don’t regret it for a second, you understand me?”

Scott nodded.

“I know,” he said quietly. “But he feels so much younger than fourteen. I just wanted him to be ready.”

“Fourteen is young,” she said. “But it doesn’t always feel like that when you are fourteen. You’ve got to give him some room to grow, or he’ll resent you forever.”

She gave him a hard stare.

“Have you begun to think about when you’ll let him join you out there?” she asked.

“Out… you mean on rescues?”

“Yes.”

Scott blinked and took a step back.

“He’s too young for that, surely.”

“Right now he is,” she agreed. “But not forever, and not for long. You know Alan as well as I do, he won’t sit back quietly forever. And if you don’t train him, he’ll find his own way.”

Visions of Alan sneaking on board Thunderbird One and firing her up with the hodgepodge training of an operative who was barely allowed to glance at the training manual filled Scott’s mind.

“You don’t have to decide now,” she said, flicking her hair back impatiently. “But decide soon. And tell me when you do. It’s safer for him if we prepare him together.”

Scott nodded.

“FAB, Kayo.”

#scott tracy #alan tracy #kayo kyrano #thunderbirds #thunderbirds are go #sometimes i fic #shout out to my dad for Gordon's joke that I shamelessly stole from him #shout out as well to the 2004 movie for being the appropriate amount of pre IR Alan inspiration #and shout out to you who reads this!#and thank YOU bc this was exactly what I needed to get back into it :DD

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destiel-love-forever · 4 years

Text

Day 1: First Date

Combined two prompts from two anons for day one on 14 Days of Destiel Valentine’s!! - "For the Valentines' prompts... First date?" && " This high class restaurant I’ve always wanted to eat at is doing a Valentines day dinner special that’s like half the price of a normal meal there and my ass is broke so will you pretend to be my date and come out to eat with me?"

Read Below or on AO3: HERE

“So,” Dean begins as he leans on the checkout counter to look at Castiel. “Any Valentine’s Day plans this weekend?”

As usual when his most frequent customer talks to him, Castiel ducks his head to hide his blush and tries his best not to sound flustered. “Ummm, no. Nothing special planned.”

“Any regular plans?”

“Nope.” Castiel laughs awkwardly, his hands shaking as he rings up Dean’s coffee and donut. It’s the same every night. 3 a.m., Dean in his police uniform, wrapping up another patrol shift, stopping at the gas station by his house – the one Castiel happens to work at – buying coffee and donuts. Castiel teases him relentlessly about the whole ‘cop with a coffee and donut’ cliché. It never fails to make Dean smile.

Castiel really likes making Dean smile.

It’s been two years of Castiel working this shift and Dean working his, the two of them seeing each other at least three or four times a week. At first it was Castiel fumbling and stuttering as he tried to ring up the officer with the gorgeous smile and witty remarks, but thankfully Dean’s insistence on small talk has loosened Castiel up.

A bit.

As loose as you can be when you’re head over heels in love with a man ten times out of your league that likes to flirt with anyone that moves.

“Do you have any plans?” Castiel asks politely as he waits for Dean to fish out his money.

“I don’t.” Dean leans further over the counter and Castiel finally looks up at him. He realizes that Dean isn’t trying to get his money. In fact, he doesn’t seem at all concerned about his coffee and donut at the moment. His eyes are locked on Castiel. “You don’t work?”

“Surprisingly I do not.”

“Great. Neither do I.” Dean grins. “Listen, this is gonna sound crazy but I promise I’m not trying to be a creep and come onto you, okay?”

Castiel laughs nervously, his heart in his throat. “O-okay.”

“This high class restaurant I’ve always wanted to eat at is doing a Valentine’s Day dinner special that’s like half the price of a normal meal there and my ass is broke so will you pretend to be my date and come out to eat with me?” It all comes out in a rush and for the first time, Dean is the one blushing instead of Castiel.

Well, that’s not entirely accurate. Castiel is still blushing, but Dean is at least joining him now.

“H-how expensive are we talking?” Castiel asks, doing a mental calculation of his current bank account balance.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll cover your half. I just can’t go alone. They’re only letting couples go.” Dean beams at him as if Castiel already agreed. “So, will you come with me?”

Castiel doesn’t even have to consider it.

“Yes.”

----

Dean has never seen Castiel outside of his gas station attendant uniform. Don't get Dean wrong, the little blue vest and name tag are adorable, but Castiel cleans up well. He's gorgeous, standing outside the restaurant in dark jeans and a button up with the top two buttons undone. The blue of his shirt makes the blue of his eyes pop even though it's dark outside.

He's breathtaking.

Dean has officially been launched from yeah that college kid is cute and I have a major crush on him to fuck, I might be in love with him...

"Hey," Castiel says softly, looking slightly uncomfortable. Dean can't exactly blame him. He's been staring at the kid like an idiot.

Dean clears his throat and pastes on a smile. "Hey. You look great."

"Thanks. You too." Castiel tugs at his collar. "I, um… I don't own a tie. Do you think this'll be okay?"

"It'll be perfect. You ready?"

When Castiel nods, Dean takes his hand and starts to lead him into the restaurant. He's only holding Castiel's hand because of the whole couple ruse, of course.

At least, that’s his excuse if Castiel questions it.

The host seats them at a small table in the back corner of the restaurant. The scene screams romance. From the twinkle lights strung along the ceiling and the live piano music to the rose petal covered table and the bouquet of flowers in a vase as the centerpiece. Once they've taken their seats and have been handed the special Valentine’s Day menu, the host leaves.

Castiel's first words are, "This place is gorgeous."

Dean swallows the flirty, "You're gorgeous," and just agrees with Castiel instead.

"So why this place?” Castiel asks. “I mean, yeah it's nice and the food is probably amazing, but why'd you want to come here so bad?"

"It's new. Small town like ours, you don't get that much. Especially like this. All we end up with are crappy diners or chain restaurants, but this chef used to work at a 4-star restaurant which is amazing. I've been wanting to eat here since it opened last summer."

Castiel leans forward and it's clear he's not faking interest. The fact makes Dean's stomach flip. "You must really like food then, hey?"

"Absolutely. It was actually my dream to be a chef, but it doesn't pay the bills, at least not starting out."

"I get that. I can barely afford to live and go to school full-time, even with my financial aid. Hence the shitty gas station job."

Dean straightens in concern. "You're going to school full-time? I figured you were only half or online or something."

"Nope. I go to school during the day. It's not so bad this semester, actually. Last semester I had a practicum, so I had to do all my coursework for my classes but then on top of that do 15 hours in a classroom every week. It was brutal." Castiel laughs to himself. "I survived on coffee and hatred.'

"Coulda fooled me. You're always so happy."

"You're the bright spot in it all." Castiel's smile falls. Panic makes his breath hitch in his chest, the shudder visible from where Dean is sitting. "I-"

"So, you're an education major then?" Dean asks, saving Castiel from the embarrassment. Or maybe just saving himself from sharing his own embarrassing confession that Castiel is his bright spot too.

Castiel bounces back quickly, relief relaxing his shoulders and allowing his smile to return. "Yeah, elementary ed. I'd love to work with 2nd grade but anything under 4th will be fine. Once kids hit 4th grade they turn into little assholes."

This catches Dean by surprise, pulling a laugh from him. Castiel was always so shy and soft spoken at the gas station. Now that he's opening up, his personality is really getting a chance to shine.

Dean is on a very slippery slope here.

It only gets slipperier when Castiel says with enthusiasm, "You know, you should really try out for one of those shows. Like MasterChef! I'm sure you could get some sort of leave of absence from work. There's no way all of those people just quit their jobs, you know?"

"I've actually thought about that…" Dean darts his eyes away, feeling the same as always when his dreams come up. "Michael told me not to waste the money flying out for the whole interview process or whatever, though. Said I'm housewife good, not actually good."

"Umm, who the fuck is Michael?"

Dean looks back at Castiel before answering. He startles when he sees the rage on the young man's face. "My ex."

"Well fuck him. Seriously? It's not up to him. It's up to Gordon Ramsay - or whoever else tests your food. I don't know how the process works exactly but it's not up to him. And he sounds like an asshole anyway. If it's your dream then you need to do it, Dean! Isn't the chance worth it?" Castiel shakes his head in amazement before laughing once under his breath. "And I bet you're really fucking good, too. He sounds like an asshole that didn't deserve you. You should go on that show and kick some ass and then do a little shout out video with a huge I told you so."

Dean needs to blink a few times as he tries to process the mini-rant Castiel just spewed at him. As the words sink in, his lips spread into a wide smile that borders on painful. "You've never even tasted my food. How the hell are you so passionate about this?"

"Because I care about you." Castiel's eyes soften for half a second, something deeper passing between them. Then they light back up with humor. "And if I can't make an informed decision without eating your food, I guess you'll just have to cook for me some time."

"Yes. I suppose I will. But then you'll owe me a meal."

"Oooh, no. No, no, no. Trust me. You don't want that."

Dean chuckles. "Can't cook?"

"I held my own for a while. I made a mean hot pocket. And toast. I'm like an expert at getting the toast just the right amount of crunchy where it's not too soft and it's not burnt either." He makes a chef’s kiss with his fingers, the sound loud in the air between them. "Then, sadly, my toaster became out of commission. So, it's mostly just cereal and pb&js for me. Unless my microwave decides to work, which is extremely rare."

"What happened to your toaster?"

Castiel looks up at him with both amusement and shame. "I may have gotten a piece of frozen waffle stuck in there and I can't figure out how to get it out, so every time I start to cook something it sets on fire…"

"On fire?" Dean's eyebrows shoot up as he laughs. "Jesus. Yeah, okay. I'll be the one cooking then."

"Perfect." Castiel picks up his menu and waves it. "We should probably actually figure out what we're going to order hey?"

Dean's immediate instinct is to say no. To ask Castiel if they can just spend the night talking. Who cares about the food?

It's a terrifying thought.

It's also exhilarating.

"I can get a bottle of wine for us to share," Dean offers. "Would you like red or white?"

The blush that warms Castiel's face is so familiar, setting Dean at ease. "I'm actually not of age. Only 20."

"Oh." Dean puts the wine menu down and laughs. "Well, then. Never mind."

"You can get some though! It won't bother me."

"I actually hate wine to be honest. Much more of a beer guy."

"Yeah, I can handle maybe two wine coolers before I'm a mess anyway. Total lightweight." Castiel's chin snaps up and his eyes bulge. "Shit! I mean - not that I'd ever drink, because like that's illegal - and I'd - well-"

Dean bursts out laughing. "Calm down, Cas. You think I never drank underage? Long as I'm not in uniform we don't have a problem."

"Okay. Good." Castiel takes a drink of his water, his hand shaking. It nearly spills when he tries to put the glass back down. "If it makes you feel any better, that's pretty much the sum of all illegal activity in my life. Unless you're counting the time I stole a chap stick because all my friends were stealing stuff, but since I felt so guilty about it that I went back 2 hours later and put it on the shelf again without ever opening it, I don't think it counts. So, I'm officially arrest free, officer."

Dean laughs. "Why does it not surprise me that you would do something like that?"

"Nerdy… I know."

"I was going to say adorable." Castiel flushes at his words, ducking his head. It's so goddamn endearing that Dean finds himself admitting something for the first time since it happened. "I was arrested once. When I was 15."

"Really?"

"Yup. Sent to a boy’s home and everything."

Castiel looks confused. Dean expects him to ask how he could be a cop then, in which Dean would explain the whole juvenile records being sealed thing. Instead, he surprises Dean by asking, "What did you do?"

"I stole some bread and peanut butter. Or, well, I tried to." Dean shrugs like it's no big deal.

Castiel doesn't brush it off so easily. He reaches a hand out and places it on top of Dean's where it rests beside his water glass. Dean stares at their hands pressed together as Castiel says softly, "You must have been really hungry. I'm sorry."

"It's uh... it's-," Dean needs to stop and clear his throat, suddenly overwhelmed.

"It's okay." Castiel squeezes his hand gently. Like a reassurance. Like a promise that he's there. Still there. Not going anywhere. "Is that why you love food so much? Because it was such a luxury growing up?"

Tears threaten Dean's eyes. Castiel isn't pitying Dean or looking down on him. There's no judgement.

Castiel understands.

"Yes," Dean whispers in relief. "Yes."

Before they can discuss things further, the waitress comes to take their order. Since neither of them have really managed to look at the menu, they’re both caught a bit in the headlights. Thankfully their choices are limited on the special menu for the night, making it easier to rush through picking things out. They stumble through an agreement on pan seared scallops for an appetizer before Dean orders a medium rare filet mignon with a side of three cheese risotto and Castiel requests the same.

Dean worries that things will be awkward now that the conversation was halted but it’s not. The moment the waitress is gone to place their orders, it picks right back up.

“Hmmm.” Castiel glances around the restaurant, the wheels in his mind clearly turning. “On a scale of one to our asses getting kicked out, what do you think the rules are in me taking out my phone at a fancy place like this?”

“They’ll probably just think our date’s going bad and feel bad for us.”

The little scoffing sound Castiel makes is endearing as he pulls out his phone.

Castiel starts scrolling through his phone as Dean is left to just stare at him. He laughs awkwardly after a minute. “Ummm, are we having a bad date?”

“What?” Castiel looks up at him in confusion before shaking his head adamantly. “Absolutely not. This date is the best I’ve ever had. Which is kind of pathetic… since, you know, it’s not real or whatever.”

“Feels real,” Dean admits.

Castiel blushes. “It does, doesn’t it?”

Unsure of what he should say, Dean redirects the conversation. “Well, if it’s not that, then what the hell are you doing on your phone?”

Instead of directly answering, Castiel says, “MasterChef auditions for the next seasons starts in October. Locations are L.A, Boston, Atlanta, Houston, New York City, and Chicago.”

Dean’s heart skips. “You’re looking into MasterChef auditions?”

“Yes.” Castiel looks up from his phone. “Didn’t you mention a while ago that your brother goes to Stanford? You mentioned you were going to visit him - I swear I’m not a creep, you mentioned it when-”

“It’s fine, Cas. Yes, he goes to Stanford.”

“Well then, there you go. L.A. in October and you can stop by and visit your brother while you’re at it.” Castiel beams at him. “That gives us nine months of preparation.”

Us.

“O-okay.”

“Okay. It’s a plan.”

A plan.

Dean decides to go out on a limb, wanting to check to see if Castiel means what he thinks he means. “So, you’re going to help me?”

“Help you? Psssh.” Castiel puts his phone away and winks. “I’m going to be your official taste tester.”

“Oh, you think so?”

“Yup.”

“And what exactly do I get out of this situation?”

“Other than my excellent taste testing skills?” Castiel’s smile freezes before dropping a notch or two. "My company?"

The way he says it, like he's suddenly very unsure of himself, breaks Dean's heart.

He reaches over for Castiel's hand now that it's free again, pulling it towards him so their intertwined hands can rest in the center of the table. "I'd say that's more than enough."

"Yeah?"

"Yes." Dean takes a deep breath to steady himself. "And Cas?"

"Yeah?"

"I was wondering if maybe you'd-" Dean pauses, looking away from that gorgeous face and bright blue eyes in case he's rejected. "I was wondering if maybe you'd consider going on a real date with me sometime? Like… ya know.. for real."

The pause that follows is so long that Dean is sure Castiel is going to say no but when he takes a chance and looks at Castiel again, Castiel is grinning. He nods enthusiastically as their eyes meet. "I'd love that. Can we count this as our first date though? Because I am terrible when it comes to first dates and this is already going so well."

Dean laughs in relief. "Sure.”

“Perfect.” Castiel pauses, raising an eyebrow at him. “You’re not just dating me for the discount on coffee and donuts, are you?”

The question is clearly teasing but there’s the slightest undertone of panic beneath it, as if Castiel can’t understand why Dean would genuinely like him.

That will be something Dean fixes. He doesn’t care how long it takes.

“No, Cas. I don’t give a shit about the coffee and donuts.” He leans forward and looks Castiel directly in the eyes. “Considering it’s 3 a.m., do you really think I’m coming to the station for coffee and donuts anymore? I usually eat half the donut, wash it down with a sip of the coffee – which is decaf, in case you were wondering – and then crash into bed thinking about the cute boy at the gas station.”

Castiel seems to puff up. “Really?”

“Really.”

“All this time?”

“Mhhm.” Dean’s smile fades as he turns serious. “The first time I came to the station was after a homicide. A man killed his wife. I’d been to their house twice before because of neighbors calling in the domestic abuse but the woman… no matter what we tried, she never pressed charges against him. Always took him back. Walking into that house that night and seeing her – shit, seeing her on the floor like that. It… wrecked me. I couldn’t get myself to go home after that. Just kept driving around. When I saw the station, I decided to stop on a whim. But then there you were, humming along to the song on the overhead radio as you arranged the candy display, and I was hooked.”

With a shake of his head, Castiel mutters, “That’s not true. That – you’re not serious.”

“It was a Tuesday. Winter. One of those nights where the air is crisp but warm so every inhale is relieved, not pained. I had to go to the station to change out of my uniform and into civilian clothes because I had blood on my shirt and it became part of evidence. I was in jeans and a ratty old flannel. It was the worst night of my career to this day, and one of the worst nights of my life.” Dean closes his eyes, letting his smile grow as he pictures the scene before him. “It was a Taylor Swift song and you were into it. Like, humming under your breath, shaking your ass, bobbing your head, into it. You had no idea I was even there. It was so… happy. You were just radiating this joy even thought it was the middle of the night and I doubted you were enjoying the fact that you were awake and working at a gas station. There was just something so freeing about you. I only used the bathroom because you were distracted and I didn’t want to pull you out of it, but the next night I came back in my uniform right when my shift ended and bought my first ever coffee and donut from you. And you-”

“Laughed and said, ‘a cop buying coffee and a donut?’ Is it your life mission to become a cliché?’” Castiel finishes, his voice taking on the same tone as it did two years ago. He smiles at Dean in wonder. “I was very proud of myself for that, by the way. I was so flustered because you were gorgeous, and I just knew I was going to say something stupid. When that came out instead, I was stoked.”

“Don’t worry, I figured out pretty quick it was a fluke.”

Castiel’s jaw drops. “Hey, now!”

“I’m just speaking the truth! You’re a god damn mess. Always dropping shit and stuttering and blushing.” Dean takes Castiel’s hand in his and smiles fondly. “It’s okay, though. I love that.”

After staring at Dean for a few seconds, Castiel shakes his head. “I can’t believe it. All this time…”

“Yeah, Cas.” Dean pushes forward, leaning across the table so his lips ghost against Castiel’s. “All this time.”

#14 days of destiel valentines #valentines day #destiel #fluff #cute #first date #prompt fill #better late than never #day 1 #cop dean #gas station worker cas #mutual pining

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redhoodieone · 5 years

Text

But I’m Your Kid!

A/N: Here we go again! Okay, so this is the 4th part of the, “But I’m…” series, and I’m so excited that the series has been well received. I don’t know if this will be the last one or not, because there was another idea (I’d only write this one if people want to read it), for a 5th story to the series, where Y/N is the adopted daughter of Superman and he meets Jason, Y/N’s fiancé for the first time, and the Batfamily is dreading that Superman to be a part of the family. I don’t know it could be called, “But I’m Your Father!” …but I guess we’ll see lol.

If anyone’s interested, this song helped me write this fic: Shinedown “I’ll Follow You”

OH! And since the whole Tom King drama (give me a round of applause, please), there’s MAJOR family fluff in here because I say so!

Couples: Jason x Y/N, Bruce x Selina, Dick x Barbara.

Warnings: Mentions of sex, language, and adorable family moments.

Introduction

It’s true the Todd family is beyond adorable. People who know them (or are complete strangers to them) can see Jason and Y/N that they’re clearly meant to be together. With Jason’s rough and tough exterior (but with teddy bear hugs behind closed doors) and Y/N’s kind and beautiful soul, the two balance and fit each other like ideal pieces in a thousand puzzles pieces game. While Jason has always been an angry, rash, and secretly sensitive guy, Y/N has been able to help him overcome his fears, insecurities, and make him feel like he belonged in the world after everything that’s happened to him.

And he loved her for that.

Because who knew the Damned Prince of Gotham and his Damned Princess of Gotham could be a match?

And after only five years of marriage and a six-year-old son, Jason and I were very happy and finally at peace with their small family.

It’s just an average Saturday afternoon when Jason brings us to the Manor to relax and spend time with the Batfamily. Alfred is in the kitchen with Tim as they’re preparing drinks and snacks for the family. Dick and Barbara are sitting beside Bruce and Selina on one couch while Jason and I hog the love seat. My husband pulls me onto his lap with an evil smirk on his handsome face.

“I got the best seat in the house,” Jason laughs.

“Behave!” I warn him. Barbara giggles at us.

“Yes, please. None of us want to see that,” Bruce pleads.

“Maybe some of us do,” Selina jokes. Bruce sighs and shakes his head at her.

Even though Jason and I were practically all over each other, I couldn’t help but feel the heat rush to my pussy. I mean, it has been a few days since we’ve been intimate with each other. J.J, our young rebel has been behaving more needier than usual, and with him in between us in bed, it’s kind of difficult to show my husband how much I want him.

And need him.

It’s as if my Jay read my mind. One hand remains on my waist, as the other rubs up and down my thigh; almost pushing up my short black skirt I decided to wear to finally show off my curvy body after working out and taking better care of myself after giving birth to J.J. Jason eyes my button up white blouse that’s unbuttoned on the third button, which gives him a good view of my breasts being pushed up in my pushup bra.

“I can guarantee you that I’m going to fucking wreck your pussy tonight,” Jason whispers in my ear, and kisses underneath my jaw. He grips me tighter, and groans heavily. “Maybe we can…you know? Try for another one?”

“Another what?” I ask, confused.

“A baby, doll,” he answers, as if I should have known. He raises his eyebrows, and his crystal blue eyes shine with the happiness he has fought for a very long time and cherishes every moment with J.J and me. “I…this isn’t how I wanted to tell you, but Y/N…I really want a little girl.”

“A girl?” I repeat, shifting in his lap which makes him groan when my ass rubs against his already hard on.

“Even though Jason just has to be gross about it…I agree,” Dick supports his brother.

Bruce wraps a loving arm around Selina. I suddenly feel as if everyone here is thinking the same thing. Is that why we’re here?

Is Jason’s family trying to help him convince me to give him a daughter?

Alfred comes into the living room with Tim trailing behind him. He sets down lemonade and freshly backed chocolate chip cookies. “I agree with everyone here, Lady Y/N. I would absolutely love to have a little girl running around here and brighten this dark mansion,” Alfred reveals.

“Dark mansion?” Bruce asks. He cannot believe Alfred. “When has this home ever been dark, Alfred?”

“I’m merely speaking about how this home has always been grim and filled with sadness before. But if I may so Master Bruce, you and the boys have lived here with your tragedies, and a beautiful little girl laughing can make this home bright and loving,” Alfred explains.

“I have to agree with him,” Barbara mentions.

“Maybe if you smile more and give off a more positive and upbeat vibe!” Dick suggests.

“I swear to-”

“Master Bruce! Language! Master J.J will hear you!” Alfred scolds him.

“Too late, Pennyworth,” Damian says, entering the living room with my son behind him. Damian covers his entire body with Bruce’s cowl and cape, while J.J is wearing his new and improved Robin costume. I feel my heart beat faster because J.J is the spitting image of Jason; and my heart is filled with so much love at the sight of him. “J.J and I have heard everything.”

“Everything?” I ask slowly. This can’t be happening.

“Of course, Todd. J.J is smart enough to know everything adults speak of considering I have informed him and taught him well enough these last few months. I have even taken the liberty to teach him sexual intercourse just an hour ago, so you wouldn’t have to. I imagine speaking to children about sexual ideas and facts can be scarring for parents,” Damian confesses normally.

Jason clears his throat. He is as shocked as I am. “What…did you say you did?” he asks quietly, with poison in his voice.

“Oh please, Todd. Just a week ago, you, Grayson, Drake, and I were speaking about women and your mannerisms in bed at our Friday night poker game. Like how Gordon hasn’t been putting out for Grayson, and how Y/N has been distant and not ‘touching you enough’ Todd. Drake doesn’t have a sex life at the moment, so he remained alone and silent. J.J even heard the sexual discussions that night, and since you are an obvious and annoying loudmouth, you didn’t know he was behind you. He asked me questions, and I answered them truthfully,” Damian answers.

“Damian!” Dick snaps.

“This is why we don’t invite you to play sometimes!” Tim shouts.

I glare at Jason who just gives me a guilty smile. Fuck I love that man so much…even when I want to shoot his kneecaps for talking about our sex life with his brothers and son behind him.

It’s silent between all of us. Just the thought of J.J (already a smart ass and smart kid in general) knowing sex at this age frightens me so much. Since my husband and J.J’s father, Jason Peter Todd has a high sex drive and is constantly thinking about sex, I fear J.J will turn out to be exactly like him!

I can just picture young J.J telling the other kids about hand jobs, blowjobs, and tea bagging for fuck’s sake!

“Mom...Dad...I have a question,” J.J asks, his voice soft and anxious which immediately gathers mine and Jason’s attentions. His bright blue eyes are full of innocence and curiosity. He runs a hand through his messy dark hair like Jason; like father like son. He moves closer to us and stops in front of me. He frowns. “I need answers. I need the truth.”

“What’s your question?” I ask slowly. Even when I feel my body tense and I already fear the worst; I rub his back to ease his nerves. “You can ask us anything.”

“Of course, kid. Ask away,” Jason encourages their son, even though he’s clearly anxious, too.

J.J’s blue eyes sparkle with all the interest and wonder in the world. His frown turns into a smile. “I have to know. It’s been bugging me lately...where did I come from? How was I really created?” he asks.

I instantly feel myself stunned by his question. He’s only six-years-old and how could he be wondering about this right now?! Didn’t Damian tell him about sex already?!

Jason freezes with his eyes open wide and mouth hanging open at our son. Everyone around us is quiet and wondering how this will all play out. I gently shake him to awaken him from his daze and he forces himself to look at J.J.

“Y-you want to know h-how you were created?” Jason asks slowly.

“Yes,” J.J replies.

“You want to know where you came from?” Jason asks seriously.

“Yes,” J.J says.

“You want to know how you were created? And you want to know where you came from?” Jason repeats.

“Yes! How was I created?!” J.J cries out hysterically. He’s dying to know!

Jason begins to sweat and tremble. He always did promise to shield and protect J.J no matter what. “Well...uh...you see J.J, when a man and a woman, well in your case, me and your mom love each other very much, they-” Jason begins nervously until I interrupt him.

“Honey,” I say, hoping I can find the courage to answer his questions. I must be strong. I must be his strong mother. “If Damian already talked to you about sex, then why are you asking us about it?”

“Uncle Damian did tell me about sex, but he couldn’t answer some questions,” J.J explains hastily.

I take a deep breath. “Okay, ask us.” I say gently.

“Where was I created? How did you and dad create me?” J.J asks casually, even when his eyes are clearly begging for information. His question basically covers the, ‘where did I come from’ question.

“If you already know sex, then are you asking where your dad and I…created you?” I ask slowly. I can feel my stomach hurt.

“Yeah Mom,” J.J says nodding his head.

Bruce gives me a look; the look that tells me to tell the truth, or otherwise J.J will get the wrong idea about his life. I nod my head and lick my lips as well. I settle more into Jason’s lap, and he glances at me to see what I’ll say.

“You mean location?” I ask, making sure I understand the question.

“Yeah,” J.J confirms.

“I believe…you were created at Uncle Dick’s birthday party,” I answer honestly. Because if my memory serves me right, Jason and I were drunk that night. After too many shots of Fireball and Patron, we ended up having sex a few times, and I knew we weren’t using protection. “Your dad and I had too much fun, and we thought about starting a family right then and there!”

“Really? At Uncle Dick’s birthday party?” J.J asks, seemingly surprised and thankful about it.

Okay, because I don’t think J.J is old enough to know we were so drunk and careless. If I must be honest about sex, I will be.

“Yeah, exactly! We-we wanted a boy and that’s the place where we decided to make you, kid!” Jason adds with support for me.

“Seriously?” Dick whispers to us. While I remain focused on J.J, I can feel Jason flipping him off behind my back.

“Okay,” J.J begins before looking at Jason and I. “How was I created?”

“From sex,” Jason answers quickly.

“Exactly how Uncle Damian taught you a while ago,” I say.

J.J shakes his head at us. “No, no I mean…” J.J trails off before he finally gives us his undivided attention. “Were you on top of Mom? Was Mom on top of you, Dad? Did you do it sideways or upside down? Or did you hump Mom’s butt like a dog, Dad? Uncle Damian says you’re a real dog is that’s true.”

Jason’s eyes widen. I cover my face as everyone else bursts into laughter, including Alfred. J.J suddenly blushes in embarrassment, and then I realize his curiosity is not to be laughed at or ignored. I end up removing myself from Jason, and I pull J.J to me so I can hold him.

“Don’t be embarrassed, J.J. It’s perfectly normal to ask questions, even if they’re…scary or embarrassing. But your Dad and I promise to try to answer all your questions the best we can,” I tell him. I caress his cheeks, and I decide to answer since I’m sure everyone else is just as curious as this little boy. And even though it was a drunken night, the bruises on my ass and hips proved we did in fact do…doggy style. “If you must know, your Dad and I did the last sexual pose you said, and he didn’t do it in my butt; he did it in my vagina.”

“But why?” J.J asks seriously. “Why did you choose that pose to make me?”

“Maybe we should stop this conversation,” Jason suggests. His body tenses and his eyes say he’s too afraid to keep talking.

“Why should we? I want to know,” J.J replies anxiously.

“You really shouldn’t know,” Jason tries to reason with him.

“BUT I’M YOUR KID! AND I WANT TO KNOW RIGHT NOW!” J.J yells angrily.

“BECAUSE IT FEELS SO FUCKING GOOD, KID! IT’S OUR FAVORITE POSITION! Trust me, when you do it one day you’ll see why,” Jason admits, lowering his voice after his outburst to answer J.J.

“Oh my God!” Dick bursts into laughter as he and Tim fall to the floor, holding their stomachs and crying with real tears of joy. “I-I can’t believe you said that!”

“Shut up Dick!” Barbara hisses at him.

��At least Master J.J can rest his curious mind,” Alfred sighs.

“Imbeciles…” Damian mutters under his breath.

“I think you did a great job,” Bruce praises me. He and Selina stand up and hug Jason, J.J and I. “You too, Jason.”

“Even if Y/N did most of the work,” Selina lightly teases Jason.

Jason finally snaps out of his frozen state and smiles down at me and J.J. He picks up J.J, and uses his other arm to wrap around me. “You’re the best, you know that right, doll?”

“I’m the best too!” J.J whines.

Jason chuckles and tickles J.J. I kiss Jason’s cheek, and I finally decide to give in. “Maybe we should have another baby,” I whisper to him.

“Yeah? Really?” Jason asks, raising his eyebrows with a silly grin on his face.

“Yeah,” I confirm my decision. “I really think we should. I mean, I feel like we’re ready.”

Jason kisses me and hugs our son in between us. “I believe we are ready, too,” Jason agrees.

“Then let’s make our family bigger,” I say strongly.

J.J smiles and hugs us both. The idea of him being a big brother must be something he wants as well. And just when Jason and I are about to seal the deal with a kiss, J.J clears his throat to get our attention, and the rest of the families as well.

“Yeah, kid?” Jason asks, as we look at J.J.

“I just have one more question: if you didn’t do it in Mom’s butt, then where did you put your thingy? Her vagina is up front, right?” J.J asks, his wondering mind is at it again.

Jason and I sigh because tonight is going to be a long night of the never-ending sex talk.

And to think Jason and I are going to make a girl next.

Lord help us.

#dc comics #batfamily #jason todd #jason todd x reader #jason todd x y/n #bruce wayne #selina kyle #dick grayson #tim drake #damian wayne #barbara gordon

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gumnut-logic · 4 years

Text

The Hero (Part Four)

Title: The Hero

Sequel/companion piece to The Joker

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four

Author: Gumnut

12 - 18 Nov 2019

Fandom: Thunderbirds Are Go 2015/ Thunderbirds TOS

Rating: Teen

Summary: Thunderbird Two, with Virgil and Gordon aboard, is hijacked and stolen. With Virgil injured, it is up to Gordon to save his brother and his ‘bird. Sequel/companion piece to ‘The Joker’. Gordon is far more than he seems.

Word count: 5158

Spoilers & warnings: Violence, WASP!Gordon, Military!Scott, whump, language.

Timeline: Sequel/companion piece to ‘The Joker’.

Author’s note: For @corbyinoz because she has written some magnificent Virgil and Gordon fics and is a great inspiration. Thank you for all your wonderful words.

Well, this chapter took forever and is much longer than the other three. So much plot to manipulate. I hope you enjoy it :D

It started with ‘The Joker’. I got interested in WASP!Gordon and decided to explore his side of the story. Then PLOT happened. Now I have no idea what is going on.

Many thanks to @vegetacide and @scribbles97 for putting up with my crazy.

Disclaimer: Mine? You’ve got to be kidding. Money? Don’t have any, don’t bother.

-o-o-o-

“We have to get it out of him.” Gordon’s voice bounced about unheard.

The hospital was in an uproar, doctors and security arguing, IR temporarily shoved to one side as the ‘authorities’ determined what to do with the bomb in their midst.

“And who exactly are you asking to risk their lives to do that?” The question came from their chief of security, a brawny man, head shaved with a permanent frown carved into his forehead.

Scott straightened up to his full height, those couple of inches and his stony expression amply compensating for any extra muscle in the room. “Show me what to do, and I’ll do it myself.”

“And what training do you have?”

Blue eyes snapped to the Chief of Medicine. “All IR personnel are trained paramedics, Doctor.”

Gordon’s heart was pounding hard enough to jump out of his chest. Paramedics, yes, but this was surgery...on Virgil.

“What the hell is going on in here?!” A whir of machinery and a blur of white coat and dark hair and Virgil’s principle doctor shot into the room. “Commander Robertson, what are you doing with my patient and why are all these people in his room?”

The Chief of Medicine held up his hands defensively. “Dr Harris, we have a situation.”

“I bloody well think you do. Get all these people the hell out of this room. Mr Tracy does not need...what do you think you’re doing?! You are not moving him!”

“Doctor! The man has a bomb inside him that could destroy this entire hospital.”

“I don’t care if he has a bloody nuke inside him. He is my patient and moving him like that could damn well kill him.” She shot over to the nervous orderly and shoved him out of the way, revealing an IV knotted in the bed frame and pulling on not only Virgil’s venous catheter, but also dislodging his oxygen supply.

Scott was moving. Gordon frowned and grabbed his arm. Wait a moment.

The furious doctor untangled the medical equipment and checked Virgil was comfortable, her fingers deftly checking his responses.

Virgil didn’t respond at all.

“Get out.” Her voice was sharp.

“Doctor Harris-“

“Need I remind you why you called me in, Commander?”

“Doctor Harris!”

She straightened as much as she could in her hoverchair, her eyes steely, her lips thin.

“He must be evacuated to a safe location.”

“He will be.” And Gordon’s sister stalked in through the door. The aquanaut stared as every man present stepped back to make room for her. Tin’s expression was like a battering ram. “Commander Robertson, a moment please.”

The Chief of Medicine approached her warily. Gordon didn’t quite hear what his sister said to the man, but the shock on his face was followed by a command that dismissed everyone.

The room emptied for all except Scott, Gordon, Kayo, Doctor Harris, Robertson, and, of course, his unconscious brother.

It still felt cramped.

“Commander, time is short. My brother needs help. Can you provide it?” Kayo’s eyes were fiery.

“I cannot ask any of my staff to risk their lives-“

“For god’s sake, Ray, do you have any idea who these people are? How many lives they have saved?”

The man spun on the spot and glared at the doctor. “I will not risk this hospital and all the people in it for one man. We save as many lives as they do.”

Beside Gordon, Scott stiffened even more. “Tell us what needs to be done!”

Pale blue eyes set in even paler skin turned to Scott and targeted him. “Mr Tracy.” She glanced back at Virgil a moment before moving around the end of the bed. A flick of controls and the hoverchair lifted her a little higher in order to come face to face with the IR Commander. “Virgil needs an upper endoscopy. A camera and micro tools will need to be passed down his oesophagus. There is a possibility part of his oesophageal lining will need to be cut and sutured in order to remove the device.” Her eyes flashed and Gordon was ever so glad he wasn’t the one they were aimed at. “Do you think your skills reach that far?”

“Do I have a choice, Doctor?” Scott was a picture of tension. “And the longer we sit here talking about it the higher the chance I lose my brother.”

“You can’t operate in this hospital.”

Robertson jumped as Kayo turned to face him again. “We can evacuate to Thunderbird Two and fly to a remote area to perform the operation, or to...” Her voice drifted off into a silent room, her eyes catching her brothers’.

Gordon’s heart stopped and he glanced at his wan co-pilot. “Screw this, we need to get moving. Scott, are we go?”

His big brother was as pale as the sheets his brother was wrapped in. Voice firm but parched. “We are go.”

“Not on my watch, you’re not.” Doctor Harris glared at both of them. “He’s my patient.” A glance up and down at Scott. “You can be my nurse.” She turned to the other doctor in the room. “Ray, I need your endoscopy equipment.”

“Em, you are not a gastroenterologist and you are not operating in this hospital!”

“God, Ray, you can shove your bloody hospital where the sun doesn’t shine. It’s not like I want to come back here after this fiasco. And no, I’m not a specialist, but I do have enough emergency surgery experience to have shoved just enough instruments in just enough orifices to know what the hell I am doing. Apparently, I’m all these poor blokes have since you’re showing your true colours. Give me the damned equipment and I will help this man on a plane in the middle of nowhere if I have to.”

“Em, this is your life!”

“And it is worth less than his! Move your ass!”

Robertson looked about ready to explode, but a shift in stance by Kayo had him glance over at the Tracys before skittering out of the room.

He left silence behind him.

Until a whir of hoverjets and Doctor Harris turned back to Scott so abruptly, her thin and limp legs shook in their harness. “If we are going to do this, we will need to be fast.”

Scott shifted his feet. “We can do fast.”

-o-o-o-

The night grew late and Gordon found himself slouching into the couch. Virgil had been the principle injured brother in the incident, but Gordon had his fair share of bruises and the aftermath had been a major strain. Not to mention the alcohol he had consumed.

It was catching up.

“Mister Gordon, you should listen to your body.” Kyrano sat calmly on the couch beside him, far too upright and calm for Gordon’s liking.

“K, I’m fine.” But a pair of blue eyes had targeted him and he knew he was going to be nagged to bed at any moment. “And drop the ‘mister’, it makes you sound like a servant or something.”

“A simple sign of respect, Mister Gordon.”

Gordon groaned. “Yes, Mister Kyrano.”

“‘Master’ would be more applicable in that instance.”

The aquanaut stared at him. Kyrano’s expression was completely serious...except for the tiniest of curve of his lips.

“God, you’re still an ass.”

“Respect, Mister Gordon, goes a long way. You should remember that.”

It had been a long time since the first ‘mister’. Hell, Gordon couldn’t have been more than six years old the first time the security specialist had addressed him that way. As a kid, it was ego-chuffing. As an adult it was a little uncomfortable. The Tracys might be billionaires, but no one was beneath them. Except perhaps the Hood. He was beneath everyone.

Gordon blinked.

“He’s your brother.” It came out without thought. The news of Kayo’s relationship to their nemesis was a couple of years old now, but they hadn’t encountered Kyrano during that time.

His former teacher did not react other than a brief flicker in those green eyes. “Half-brother.”

“What’s the story?”

“Gordon-“ Scott was cut off as Kyrano held up his hand.

“Bela Gaat, was born of my mother, against her will, during a time she and our family prefer not to discuss. Suffice to say, he is my older half-brother whose heritage differs considerably from my own.”

“Bela Gaat.” The name fell from Scott’s lips like a gasped curse. “You’ve known who he is all this time.” It wasn’t a question, but it was.

Green eyes met blue, unflinching. “And what power has his name? Can it stop him from hunting your family?”

Internally, Gordon sighed as Scott visibly flared. “Any information would have helped, Kyrano.”

“If it had, I would have given it to you.”

“What else do you know?”

“Not enough.”

“K, please.” All chances of sleep now gone, Gordon struggled to find the energy this discussion suddenly needed.

Green eyes turned to him and for the first time in his life, Gordon saw vulnerability beyond the steel.

Shit.

“I was not aware of his existence until shortly after Tanusha was born. He came to us, needing assistance. For some time, he dwelt with our family as a brother and an uncle. It was a pleasant for a while.” Those eyes darted between the two Tracys. “I regret my kindness more than you will ever know.”

“What happened?” It was like watching a car crash. He couldn’t look away.

“Tanusha lost her mother, her grandfather and, to a certain extent, her father.” Lips thinned. “Jeff Tracy was her saviour. And ultimately, Bela took him, too.”

A silence followed that statement. Gordon simply staring, his brain tumbling with permutations. Beside him Scott was stiff as a board.

“The man is a curse to all he touches. You will always be Mister Gordon and Mister Tracy as I owe you more than you will ever know.”

-o-o-o-

Only the man unconscious in his ‘bird’s medbay could have landed Thunderbird Two more gently than Scott did in the middle of the Simpson Desert. Outside the temperatures soared, but Two’s life support denied it any impact on the atmosphere inside the great green ‘bird.

Gordon felt her landing struts touch sand and rock from within the medbay. He had been conscripted as a nurse, Doctor Harris giving sharp and clear instructions during the short flight across half the Australian continent. Gordon had no doubt Penny had had to talk fast to get them access to the nearest vacant space, IR emergency codes likely stretched to the limit. John had sworn over comms at least once as the Australian authorities were not happy accepting an unknown incendiary device onto their turf.

John and Penny made it happen. They could smooth ruffled feathers later.

He just hoped they were fast enough.

The doctor had an array of equipment deployed around his brother. She was remarkably fast. He had never seen a hoverchair so deftly manipulated at such speed.

“Gordon, please secure your brother’s restraints. We can’t risk anaesthesia with what is already in his system. He’s out cold, but I can’t guarantee he will stay that way.”

The aquanaut stared at her for a second before shaking himself and doing as she bade. Virgil was propped on his side in preparation for the operation, not the optimal position for restraint, but they had to make do.

His brother’s hands were cold in his as he immobilised them. Straps across his arms, around his chest, legs and ankles, each strap tightening Gordon’s throat further. He prayed Virgil would sleep through it all. The thought of his brother waking up in the middle of the operation...

God, please no. Please don’t hurt him any further.

“Are you okay?” Pale eyes were assessing him.

“I’m fine.”

“You were injured during the incident.”

“Superficial.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

“Focus on Virgil. He needs you more than I do.”

Those eyes fixed on him a moment longer and he got the distinct impression he had been added to the list of ‘her patients’. The thought was mildly alarming.

Scott barrelled into the room, Kayo a step behind him. “We’re down and secured. Are we ready?”

Doctor Harris straightened. “We’re ready.”

The words were said and it all just happened. Masks were donned, hands were sterilised and surgically gloved, gowns were shoved over baldric-less uniforms and Gordon found himself handing instruments to a focussed Doctor Harris. He watched as the endoscope was fed down his brother’s throat and he shut down his emotional responses, letting calm settle as he distanced himself from what was happening before him.

Scott’s steely expression as he sat at Virgil’s head, monitoring his breathing, reflected the pain ignored in Gordon’s gut.

Above his prone brother, the endoscope display scrolled along Virgil’s oesophageal lining.

“I’m getting signal interference.” The doctor frowned.

“John.” Scott said his brother’s name and the response was immediate, the display clearing abruptly. “Thank you, Thunderbird Five.”

And there it was. The tiny bomb flickered once on the display. “Ask your Eye in the Sky for a reading on the capsule stability.” Harris’ voice was calm and sharp.

“Thunderbird Five, take instruction from Doctor Harris. Loop into the scanner.” A pause. “Deploy Eos, if necessary.”

“FAB.” John’s voice was its usual clear and calm balm. “Doctor Harris, capsule stability is poor.” A pause as John flickered numbers above the table, his holographic form blinking in beside them. “I don’t think forceps are an option.”

“Then we’ll have to cut it out.”

Gordon swallowed in sympathy.

“Doctor, you are going to have to prevent it from travelling further into his digestive system.”

“I am well aware of that, Thunderbird Five.”

It was odd hearing that callsign uttered by someone other than a member of International Rescue.

Gordon stared at the display. A flicker of medical shielding and a microlaser shot out, slicing into his brother. A glance down at Virgil, his skin was still pale, his mouth held open by a surgical guard, a cap covering his hair, Scott’s hand resting gently on his head.

It suddenly occurred to Gordon that these minutes could quite well be their last. One wrong move and that pill inside his brother would take them all. He should be alarmed, fearful, but he wasn’t. He stared at his eldest brother’s fingers laying gently on Virgil’s head and he knew he was exactly where he needed to be. There would regrets. For the doctor, for his sister, his brothers and those left behind. But not for himself. He would die doing what he was meant to do.

And then he’d hunt down the bastards who did this to his brother and haunt their asses to death.

Or insanity. Have them jumping at shadows and drooling on the carpet. That might be more satisfying.

The laser cauterised as it cut, the medical shielding inching over the gap to prevent gastric leakage.

“Get your lockbox ready.”

Kayo moved from the other side of the room, a containment capsule in hand. Inside was a specimen dish. Harris retracted the endoscopic tool, a tiny part of his brother held in its clawed tip. The bomb sat cushioned in flesh. The doctor placed it ever so carefully in the dish and Kayo closed the capsule.

The capsule wouldn’t contain the explosion if it was triggered, but it did prevent jostling of its contents.

Kayo was out the door. Scott caught Gordon’s eyes as he rose to his feet, his hand still gentle on Virgil’s head. And his big brother was moving. “I’ll launch as smoothly as I can, but it won’t be perfect.”

“You worry about flying, I’ll worry about my patient, Commander.” The doctor didn’t even look up, her eyes focussed on the micro-sutures she was stitching.

Scott’s fingers touched Virgil’s head one more time, ever so gently, and he, too, left the room.

“We need to move fast. With that bomb went whatever drug was keeping your brother under. I do not want him waking up in this situation.”

They were fast enough.

Kayo got the bomb out of Thunderbird Two and onto the desert sands where she left it. Scott got them off the ground before it could explode. Harris finished her suturing and got the endoscope out of his brother before he could stir.

The Australian authorities got bomb disposal out to the Simpson Desert and contained the fallout.

Penny got to have afternoon tea with the Prime Minister.

Thunderbird Two returned to Wellington, however Doctor Harris demanded they attend Wellington Hospital rather than returning to the military complex. Her scorn of Ray Robertson was rather extensive and Gordon had suspicions that there was more to that equation than she was letting on.

But he didn’t care. He got to sit beside Virgil and watch a pair of dopey brown eyes finally open and focus on him.

“Hey, Virgil.”

“G’don.” A slow blink. “He c’n’t have you, n’t gonna let him.” And those eyes slipped closed again.

Gordon slumped in his seat before reaching out and touching his brother’s hair. Dark strands slipped through his fingers.

Quietly. “No, Virg, I know you won’t.”

-o-o-o-

Scott was called off on Tracy Industries business the next morning...the last few days of neglect due to Virgil’s injuries now needing to be compensated for. So, it was Gordon and John who spent the next day running through Tracy Island’s security with Kyrano. Brains was called in when necessary, but he was clearly uncomfortable with the specialist and made himself scarce as soon as possible.

Kyrano ignored him.

“What’s the sensor rotational period?”

Gordon raised an eyebrow. “You know that. We argued over it extensively and you won.”

“Refresh my memory.”

“One fiftieth of a second.”

“Increase it.”

“What?”

“You have a window enough to slip a missile through.” The Malay’s expression was solemn.

“There is no missile that can breach that period.”

“That you know of.”

Gordon stared at him. “The energy expenditure will double.”

“Better than losing half an island.”

Gordon continued to stare. “Okay, I’ll speak to Brains and Kayo.” Tin’s absence spoke volumes. It was likely she was performing her own assessments, but he could almost guarantee she was listening in. There was no way she was going to compromise the Island’s security because of a tiff with her father. She’d listen in and make her own decisions.

“Her name is Tanusha.”

“Her name is whatever she wants it to be.” Gordon sighed. “C’mon, K, what are we going to do about these Null people? They hurt Virg bad.”

Green eyes fastened on him. “How is he? I have yet to see him.”

“Sleeping. He has a lot of recovery to get through.”

“I hope to see him later today. He might have some intel on those who captured you.”

Gordon held up a hand. “K, no, don’t.”

“Mister Gordon, we need every bit of information we can gather.”

“We have enough. Virgil doesn’t remember much at all.”

“Yet you chose to hide what he does remember from me.”

“For personal reasons! Nothing of a security nature.”

“Everything is important.”

“No, K, just no! Leave Virgil alone.” His brother had gone through enough. “Anything you need to know can come from me. I was conscious the entire time.”

Kyrano eyed him. “Why do you feel the need to protect Mister Virgil from me? I mean him no harm. And our relationship has been well tended over the years. We correspond regularly.”

Gordon stared. “You do?”

“Most certainly, Mister Virgil has been in contact for many years.” An arched eyebrow. “Unlike some.”

“I didn’t know that.” Really? Virgil had never mentioned any regular contact with Gordon’s mentor. What had they spoken about?

“Perhaps if you put more effort into communication in general, you would know.”

The stare turned into a narrow-eyed glare. “Communication takes two, K. I haven’t heard a thing from you. So, apparently, you’ll speak to my brother, but not me. Got an answer for that?”

Those green eyes held him for a moment before looking away. “Life is far from perfect, Mister Gordon.”

“Hah! Philosophical wank, K, is not an answer.” Okay, so it did hurt. Of all his brothers, Gordon thought he had connected the most with their security specialist. At least until he disappeared on them.

“Sometimes there is no answer.” It was said somewhat wistfully and for a moment sadness passed over the man’s face only to be quickly pushed aside.

Gordon frowned. “K?”

His mentor straightened, his posture ramrod. “Sensor density?”

Lips thinned, Gordon’s eyes caught Kyrano’s challenging him. But as always, the older man was dominant and a flicker of an eyebrow had his protege turning back to the instrumentation. “Five per thousand metres, but overlap is considerable.”

Kyrano sighed. “ More, Mister Gordon, you cannot afford to compromise.”

A sigh. “How did I know you were going to say that?”

-o-o-o-

“C’mon, Virgil, I know you’re in there. Time to wake up.”

His brother had slept and slept. Doctor Harris said it was normal. Hell, Virgil slept like the dead when perfectly healthy, but it had been over a day and both Gordon and Scott needed the reassurance that their brother was with them.

Best way to do that was the same way he did it when the man crashed on the couch at home.

“Viiiiiiiirgiiiiiiiil.”

The man’s eyes shot open and glared at him. “What?!”

Wow. Poke the bear and you get snarled at. “Ooh, welcome back to the land of the living. Nice entrance.”

“Gordon, what the hell? Let me sleep.”

“Nope.”

He watched as Virgil drifted and, for a moment, he thought he had lost him again. But those eyes opened and stared at the world around him with an awareness that Gordon hadn’t seen in days.

God, it was a relief.

“Why am I in hospital?”

He saw the dots connect and he was reaching out as Virgil shot up yelling about a trap. Scott, sitting on the other side of the bed caught their brother the same time Gordon did. The engineer wobbled where he sat and they lowered him back down to the bed.

“Take it easy, Virgil, you’ve been through quite a bit.” The moment Scott spoke, Virgil’s attention narrowed on their eldest brother. Gordon could have been offended, but really, that was just the way things were. They all looked to Scott for guidance, but none more so than Virgil.

“What happened?”

“What do you remember?”

Virgil spouted off the basics and then, thank god, he ran out of specifics. “A fight. I lost?”

Scott hesitated a second, Virgil didn’t appear to notice. “We think so. You have quite a lot of bruising, a couple of cracked ribs and two head injuries.”

Gordon frowned and Scott shot him a look that clearly said ‘shut up’.

“Two?”

“Yeah, and you also had a bloodstream full of some nasty chemicals. They drugged you pretty bad. Took the doctors some time to identify with exactly what. You’ve been mostly out of it for a couple of days.”

“Days?!”

“You were unconscious for most of it.”

Brown eyes darted back and forth between the two brothers and frowned. “Most of it?”

“Yeah.”

That gaze narrowed once again on Scott. His brother glanced at Gordon again, before looking at his watch.

Virgil caught the shift in gaze and frowned even more. “What did I do?”

“Nothing of importance.” Scott finally made eye contact with Virgil.

“Like what?” Their brother had a history of bad reactions to medications and there was a familiar worry in those eyes. Scott’s omission of certain details became clear. He was distracting Virgil by planting the suspicion that he had done something outlandish while out of it.

Well, he had, really, but there was no way Gordon was going to make fun of his brother’s faith in him. Not on pain of death.

“There was some delirium. Look, Virgil, you were ill. Don’t worry about it.”

Virgil was obviously suspicious and no doubt they would have to come up with something in the short term. At least until Virgil was ready to hear the truth. A truth Scott had obviously decided to keep to himself for the moment.

“How did we get out?”

Scott shifted Virgil’s attention in his direction. “Gordon got you out.”

And those brown eyes latched onto Gordon with that same faith he’d seen in that hangar. It should be funny. It should be something he could rib his brother about. But no.

It chilled him.

So, he threw it away with humour, ducking out of the questions with flippancy and misdirection. So much misdirection that Virgil, even in his half-awake state realised something was wrong and peppered him with questions about his health.

The faith turned to worry and the world righted itself. His big brother taking his place once again and checking up on him.

“He’s fine, Virgil. Stop worrying.” Scott’s exasperation was obvious, emphasised by a glare shot in Gordon’s direction. “He’s just being Gordon...and if he doesn’t stop, I’m going to kick his ass.”

Gordon froze.

Those brown eyes flicked back to him and the faith appeared again. “You got us out of there.”

“That I did.”

“Thank you.”

“Anytime, bro.” He forced a grin under that admiring gaze. I’m the goofball brother, remember? “Anytime.”

The soft smile that appeared on Virgil’s face almost broke him. But those brown eyes were closing again.

“Go back to sleep, Virgil.” Despite himself, he reached out and rested his hand on his brother’s arm.

“Knew you could do it.” It was whispered and his brother’s eyes did not open again.

Well, shit.

Virgil’s breathing shifted into the soft regularity of sleep, but Gordon just sat there and stared.

-o-o-o-

“What I want to know, Colonel Casey, is why International Rescue was not informed that we could expect an attack on one of our vessels.”

Colonel Casey’s hologram could not have been standing straighter, but that was nothing unusual. “And I, Commander, would like to know how you discovered that information.”

Brown eyes met blue and Gordon swore there was a flash in the air where their energies fought each other. Scott stood next to him equally ramrod straight, fury in his stance. “I think that is rather redundant now, Colonel, since I have two operatives injured due to a neglect in communications.”

“Scott, you need to rein in Thunderbird Five. The damage your brother did to the GDF network is not something I can cover up.”

“I’m not asking you to cover up anything, Colonel. John did nothing to your network. We have our sources. We don’t need to hack your systems to discover a truth we should have been told long before it put a Tracy in the hospital.”

Okay, technically Scott wasn’t lying. Eos hacked the GDF, Eos found the information and she could be considered a source...technically.

Scott and Gordon were alone in the comms room. Virgil still hadn’t left his suite. Gordon had checked on his earlier and found him still fast asleep. He wasn’t going to disturb that sleep. Alan had taken Grandma to the mainland for a supply run...otherwise known as a distraction enough to keep their matriarch out of the kitchen and come back with plenty of edibles. That left Brains in his lab and Kayo and Kyrano prowling around each other in the security offices.

Gordon chose to keep well out of that and the moment Scott finished his conference call with Tracy Industries, he joined him in what was looking to be the confrontation of the century between the GDF and IR.

“Do you expect me to believe that, Commander?” Casey’s voice had lost all the godmother and had an edge of steel.

“I expect to be reliably informed of any danger to my operatives, Colonel.”

The ranks being tossed around had Gordon wanting to dig up his lieutenant bars in self-defence.

“Commander, we had our reasons for withholding the information. Our relationship has a certain amount of trust in it. I had hoped you would consider that before questioning.”

“Virgil nearly died. He had a bomb in his throat that didn’t explode simply through pure chance!”

That did it. The colonel’s expression flickered for a moment, like a broken holosignal, and their horrified godmother peeked through.

But only for a moment.

“Commander, the decision was made for a valid reason.”

“And what reason is that?”

“That International Rescue has been compromised.”

Gordon froze. “What?”

Those brown eyes flickered to him, their gaze scanning the bruises on his face, no doubt. Aunt Val’s shoulders settled a little. “The group call themselves ‘Null’, they claim their aim is to end the war between the Chaos Crew and International Rescue.”

“We know that.” Scott’s voice gave no ground.

“A source advised us that an attack was planned, but we had very little detail. It was our hope that we would be able to respond quickly enough with that intel.”

“You didn’t.” So, so cold. “And despite our team’s sacrifices, you failed to capture a single perpetrator. In fact, if it wasn’t for a civilian doctor in a military hospital that refused to assist us, Virgil would be dead.”

Why Gordon was feeling so distant from events that had so intimately involved him, he didn’t know. Scott’s fury was a volcanic presence beside him, threatening to take out everything in its path. In contrast, Gordon felt cold, more like a glacier than a lava flow. Cold, still, but ultimately inevitable.

“How are we compromised?” Gordon’s voice sounded inadequate against the gravity of the question.

Again, that brown gaze caught his. “A known associate of International Rescue has been identified as a major player in the Null group. It was decided that it was unsafe to notify you of our knowledge in case the information was leaked to that person.”

A shift of his feet. “Leaked to who?”

-o-o-o-

Virgil woke in pain.

But that was nothing unusual. His ribs ached and there was the nastiness deep in his throat. Swallowing hurt.

At least his head had stopped aching. All he had to contend with there was the fog, which, no doubt, would double once his brothers worked out he was awake and delivered his pain medication.

Ugh.

It sucked to be him.

He rolled over and his whole body complained. Maybe drugs would be a good idea. He reached for his comms.

There was a knock at the door.

Speak of the devil? “Come in?” His voice came out dry and parched and it set him coughing, something he shouldn’t be doing.

The moment blurred as his body shook. A hand landed in his hair and he leant into it until he could get his breathing under control.

His eyes were teary and he had to blink to clear them, looking up expecting to see Scott frowning down at him.

It wasn’t Scott.

“Kyrano?”

“Hello, Mister Virgil.”

-o-o-o-

End Part Four

Part Five

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds #thunderbirds fanfiction #Gordon Tracy #Scott Tracy #John Tracy #Virgil Tracy #em harris #the joker and the hero

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tsarisfanfiction · 4 years

Text

Nothing

Fandom: Thunderbirds Rating: Teen Genre: Hurt/Comfort/Angst Characters: Scott Tracy

Hello, new challenge! (not that I’m done with irrelief; I am still determined to reach 20 fics on that one.) For @gumnut-logic‘s SensorySunday: See. I was going to be mean and leave it at this but I decided that that was maybe a little too cruel so there is more on the way. Little bit of Scott!whump, just because I can. There will be more.

Was space supposed to be this black?

The silence was probably not a good thing. Nor was the ever-encompassing black all around him-

Oh, his eyes were closed. That explained that. He sent a sharp command to his eyelids to open, but they refused to do any more than twitch. He ordered them again, clenching his jaw, and with a spike of pain lancing through his head in furious complaint, they obeyed.

It was still black. That was odd. He forced his protesting eyelids to close and re-open in a painfully slow blink. Still black.

Panic gnawed at him, settling in his bones and suffocating his lungs. Black, all black. Blind the voice in his head wailed, hysterics already trying to set in as his chest heaved, trying to find air that just wasn’t there.

That prompted another thought, a memory that slammed the panic back into its box at the back of his mind.

Of course there wasn’t air. He wasn’t blind. He was in space. A mission with a giant freighter in distress and crew in need of evac.

He was in space and it was silent. Well, that made sense. Sound didn’t travel in space. He forced another blink and this time a dark blue fuzz invaded his periphery. His helmet.

His helmet was on. That was a good thing.

So why was it so silent?

“Thunderbird Three?” he croaked. “Alan?”

Nothing. His own voice bounced around the confines of his helmet, but there was no click to indicate a connection from his comms. No static to inform him the unit had taken some damage. Nothing.

He was floating, weightless and helpless. No communications. No way to stop his movement, and nothing except that endless void of black.

Where were the stars? Where was Earth? The Moon? The Sun?

Oh, he’d closed his eyes again. With a groan, he forced them open again.

It wasn’t black anymore. Chunks of rock surrounded him, some no bigger than his palm, some bigger than Tracy Island. Asteroid belt that little voice whispered, and the panic burst back out of its little box, straining against his attempts to reign it in.

The freighter hadn’t been anywhere near the asteroid belt.

Asteroid belt has a buckle, Uncle Lee’s voice told him, but Uncle Lee wasn’t here and he didn’t know where one went about finding it. That was John’s job. Or Alan’s.

Not Scott’s.

All right, let’s take it from the top. Logic was John’s thing, but panic was breaking through every defence he was raising against it and John would be telling him to start from the top, just like all those times he’d helped him with his physics after little brothers were gone to bed. Their little secret. They had a few secrets, actually. Big brothers united against little.

His thoughts were drifting. Back on task, Scooter. Scooter. He didn’t hear that much anymore. Scotty, when one or more of his devilish brothers wanted something, but Scooter had been used by Dad just as much as his brothers. They’d all stopped using it after the Zero-X. Whether that had been a conscious change or not, he didn’t know.

Maybe he should ask.

You’re drifting again. He was, and vaguely he realised that that was a bad thing. Take it from the top.

Freighter in distress. Somewhere midway between the moon and Mars. Something-something fuel tank, risk of explosion, “we’re on our way, John.” Thunderbird Three left on standby, Alan complaining it was too dangerous to jetpack across. Grappling across.

Boom.

No sound; no sound in space. But light, bright, searing light that burnt his eyes. Light that blurred everything out, the black of space, the white of stars, the grey of the freighter. No blue and green marble.

No red.

Alan? Thunderbird Three?

What had happened next? He didn’t remember. There was bright and then there was black, and nothing in between.

Now, there was light again. Dark grey rocks, with hint of brown and shining crystals of ice and all the things that made up an asteroid whirling around in front of him. A flash, light catching on metal. Torn metal, the bland grey of a freighter. Twisted, snarled all around itself like a work of art.

A memorial to the dead.

He still couldn’t hear anything. His back slammed into something, hard.

That was probably bad. The voice in his head said something about did the suit tear? That was important. Why was it important?

Oh yes. Air. Did he still have air?

Red caught his attention in front of him, an unclear fuzz. Scott blinked, his eyes staying closed for several moments before remembering that a blink required the eyes to open again.

The red was still a fuzz. It was right in front of his nose, reminding him of Gordon shoving something too close to his face and his vision going funny as he tried to focus on it even as it got too close. Alan did that too, sometimes, when he was excited.

Alan. Red. Thunderbird Three.

Was that Thunderbird Three? Why would Thunderbird Three be right in front of his nose? Thunderbird Three was too big to make him go cross-eyed.

He closed his eyes again, letting them rest for a moment before demanding that they open again, and stop being so fuzzy. It wasn’t funny. He needed to see Alan coming. Needed to know Alan was alright.

Twisted grey flashed by him again and fear clutched at his heart. What if it was so close because it wasn’t all of Thunderbird Three?

ALAN!

He felt heavy. Funny. He was in space. He didn’t weigh anything. He shouldn’t feel heavy.

The red in front of his face halved in size suddenly, abruptly. Then it expanded, blurring out his vision until all he saw was a red mist. He couldn’t breathe, his lungs tried hard, tried so, so hard, but nothing entered.

The red mist distorted, dispersing and being strangled by the black. No, Scott didn’t want the black. He wanted the red. He wanted Alan and Thunderbird Three and-

Nothing.

Part II

#sensorysunday #sensorysunday2020 #thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds are go fanfiction #tsari writes fanfiction #scott tracy #nothing

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robertfsmith · 5 years

Text

Robert F. Smith Commencement Address to Morehouse College on May 19, 2019

youtube

President Thomas, board of Trustees. Faculty, staff, and Morehouse alumni.

The extraordinary Angela Bassett, and the distinguished Professor Doctor Edmund Gordon.

Parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, brothers, sisters, family, and friends.

And most of all, Morehouse College Class of 2019: Congratulations!

Earning a college degree is one of the greatest and most impressive of life’s accomplishments.

But success has many parents -- and as hard as each of you has worked to achieve what you all have achieved today, you’ve had a lot of help along the way. We are the products of a community, a village, a team. And many of those who have made contributions for you to arrive at this very moment are here with you today.

So, first and foremost, graduates of the class of 2019, please stand and join me in recognizing the love and commitment of those who have been with you on this long and hard journey!

Graduates, standing here before you is one of the great honors of my life. And I am so proud to share it with my mother, Dr. Sylvia Smith, a lifelong educator and the greatest role model of my life, who is here today.

This is the first of three graduations in my family this week. One of my daughters graduates from NYU, another graduates from high school and is headed off to Barnard in the fall, and my niece is graduating from my alma mater, Cornell, next weekend. So I want to thank the Morehouse administration for perfectly timing today’s festivities in advance of them so that I could be here.

Morehouse was built to demand excellence and spur the advancement and development of African American men. I have always been drawn to its rich history, and I am optimistic for its bright future.

The brothers from Morehouse I’ve met -- or revered at a distance -- understand the power of this education and the responsibility that comes with it. Willie Woods, Morehouse’s Chairman of the Board, is one such man. Thank you, Chairman Woods.

In our shared history -- as a people, and as a country -- the Morehouse campus is a special place. The path you walked along Brown Street this morning to reach this commencement site was paved by men of intellect, character, and determination.

These men understood that when Dr. King said that the arc of the moral universe bends toward justice, he wasn’t saying it bends on its own accord. It bends because we choose to put our shoulders into it together and push.

The degree you earn today is one of the most elite credentials that America has to offer. But I don’t want you to think of it as a document that hangs on a wall and reflects what you’ve accomplished up till now.

No.

That degree is a contract -- a social contract -- that calls on you to devote your talents and energies to honoring those legends on whose shoulders you and I stand.

Lord knows you are graduating into a complex world. Think about what we have faced in just the years you spent as Morehouse students:

We have seen the rise of Black Lives Matter, lending voice to critical issues that have been ignored by too many for too long.

We’ve seen the Me Too movement, shining a spotlight on how far we still have to go to achieve real gender equality.

We’ve also seen the unapologetic public airing of hate doctrines by various groups.

We’ve seen the implications of climate change become impossible to ignore and become ever more severe.

Our connected world has grappled with new questions about security, privacy, and the role of intelligent machines in our work and lives.

And we’ve witnessed the very foundation of our political system shaken by the blurring of the sacred line between fact and fiction… right and wrong.

Yes, this is an uncertain hour for our democracy and our fragile world order. But uncertainty is nothing new for our community.

Like many of yours, my family has been in the United States for 8 or 9 generations. We have nourished this soil with our blood. Sown this land with our sweat. Protected this country with our bodies. And contributed to the physical, cultural, and intellectual fabric of this country with our minds and our talent. And yet, I am the first generation of my family to have secured all my rights as an American.

Think about it:

1865 was the first time that most African American families had a hint of access to the first and until now, greatest wealth-generating platform of America -- land.

The Freedmen’s Bureau was supposed to deliver 850,000 acres of land to the formerly enslaved, a program that was then canceled and replaced with a Freedman’s Savings Bank…which was then looted.

Essentially that recompense was reneged upon. We didn’t have broad access to the Homestead Act nor Southern Homestead Act where 10% of the land in the U.S. was distributed for no more than a filing fee.

It wasn’t until 1868, after the passing the Civil Rights Act of 1866 and the 14th amendment, that my family actually had a birthright to be American Citizens.

Then, when America decided to create a social safety net for its citizens in 1935, they created a Social Security program.

Yet that program excluded two categories of workers: maids and farmworkers, which effectively denied benefits to two-thirds of African Americans, and 80% of Southern African Americans.

It wasn’t until 1954 that my family had a right to equal education under protection of the law -- guaranteed by Brown v. Board of Education.

And while the 15th Amendment gave my family the right to vote -- the men, at least -- starting in 1890, those rights were rolled back in the South and remained suppressed until the passage of the Voting Rights Act of 1965.

Even today, more than a half-century after that, the struggle to ensure true integrity at the ballot box is still very much alive.

All of these landmark extensions of our rights -- and subsequent retrenchments -- set the stage for a new policy of forced desegregation utilizing school bussing that went into effect when I reached the first grade in my hometown of Denver, Colorado.

Our family lived in North East Denver, and back then, Denver, like most other American cities, remained extremely divided by race, both politically and geographically.

In my community, my neighbors were mostly educated, proud, hard-working, and ambitious. They were dentists, teachers, politicians, lawyers, Pullman porters, contractors, small business owners and pharmacists.

They were focused on serving the African-American community and providing a safe and nurturing environment for the kids in our neighborhood.

They were on the front lines of the Civil Rights movement. They were sacrificing their sons to the Vietnam War. They mourned the death of a King, two Kennedys and an X.

Despite all they gave, they had yet to achieve the fullness of the American Dream. But they continued to believe it was only a matter of time -- if not for them, then surely for their children.

I was among a small number of the kids from my neighborhood who were bussed across town to a high-performing, predominantly white elementary school in South East Denver. Every morning we were loaded up on bus number 13 -- I’ll never forget it --and taken across town to Carson Elementary.

That policy of bussing only lasted through my fifth-grade year, when intense protests and political pressure brought an end to forced bussing. But those five years drastically changed the trajectory of my life.

The teachers at Carson were extraordinary. They embraced me and challenged me to think critically and start to move toward my full potential. I, in turn, came to realize at a young age that the white kids and the black kids, the Jewish kids and the one Asian kid were all pretty much the same.

And it wasn’t just the school itself -- it was my community back home that embraced and supported our opportunity. Since most of the parents in my neighborhood worked, a whole bunch of us walked to Mrs. Brown’s house after school and stayed there until our parents returned home from work.

Mrs. Brown was incredible. She kept us safe, made sure we did our homework the right way, gave us nutritious after school snacks, and taught us about responsibility. And because her house was filled with children of all ages, I suddenly had older kids as role models who were studying hard and who believed in themselves. Mrs. Brown also happened to be married to the first black Lt. Governor of our state, so we saw the possibilities first hand.

Amazingly, almost every single student on that number 13 bus went on to become a professional. I am still in touch with many as they make up the bedrock of their communities today. They are elected officials, doctors, lawyers, engineers, teachers, professors, community organizers, and business leaders.

An incredible concentration of successful black men and women from the same working-class neighborhood. Yet when I look at my other folks from the extended neighborhood -- those who didn’t get a spot-on bus number 13 -- their success rate was far lower -- and the connection is inescapable.

Everything about my life changed because of those few short years. But the window closed for others just as fast as it had opened for me.

That’s part of the story of the black experience in America: getting a fleeting glimpse of opportunity and success just before the window is slammed shut.

The cycle of resistance to oppression, followed by favorable legislation, followed by the weakening of those laws, followed by more oppression, and more resistance, has affected and afflicted every generation.

And even as we’ve seen some major barriers come crashing down in recent years, we would be doing ourselves a disservice if we didn’t acknowledge just how many injustices persist.

Where you live shouldn’t determine whether you get educated. Where you go to school shouldn’t determine whether you get textbooks. The opportunity you access should be determined by the fierceness of your intellect, the courage of your creativity, and the grit that allows you to overcome expectations that weren’t set high enough.

We’ve seen remarkable breakthroughs in medical research, yet race-based disparities in health outcomes still persist. You are 41% more likely to die of breast cancer if you are an African-American woman in America today than if you are white.

You are 2.3 times more likely to die of prostate cancer if you are an African-American man than if you are white.

If you are African-American, you are more likely to be stopped by the police, more likely to be issued a ticket after being stopped, and more likely to be threatened with the use of force than if you are white.

This is our reality. This is the world you are inheriting.

Now, I am not telling you these things because I am bitter or because I want you to be bitter.

I don’t call upon you to be bitter, I call upon you to make things better. Because the great lesson of my life is that despite the challenges we face, America is an extraordinary country. Our world is getting smaller by the day. And you are equipped with every tool to make it your own.

Today, for the first time in human history, success requires no prerequisite of wealth or capital -- no ownership of land, or natural resources, or people.

Today, success can be created solely through the power of one’s mind, ideas, and courage. Intellectual capital can be cultivated, monetized, and instantaneously distributed across the globe.

Intellectual capital has become the new currency of business and finance -- and the promise of brainpower to move people from poverty to prosperity has never been more possible.

Technology is creating a whole new set of on ramps to the 21st century economy, and together we will help assure that African Americans will acquire the tech skills and be the beneficiaries in sectors that are being automated.

Black men understand that securing the bag is just the beginning -- that success is only real if our community is protected, if our potential is realized and if our most valuable assets -- our people -- find strength in owning the businesses that provide economic stability in our community.

This is your moment, graduates. Between doubt and destiny is action. Between our community and the American Dream is leadership. Your leadership. Your destiny.

This doesn’t mean ignoring injustice, it means using your strength to restore order.

And when you are confronted with racism, listen to the words of Guy Johnson, the son of Maya Angelou, who once said that, “Racism is like gravity, you got to keep pushing against it without spending too much time thinking about it.”

So…how do you seize your American Dream? Let me get specific. Let me give you five rules that I live by.

The first rule you need to know is that nothing replaces actually doing the work.

Whenever a young person tells me they aspire to be an entrepreneur, I ask them why. For many, they think of it as a great way to get rich quick. Invent an app, sell a company, make a few million before you’re 25.

Look, that can happen, but it’s awfully rare. The usual scenario is that successful entrepreneurs spend endless hours, days, and years toiling away for little pay and zero glamor.

And in all honesty, that is where the joy of success actually resides. Before I ever got into private equity, I was a chemical engineer, and I spent pretty much every waking hour in windowless labs doing the work that helped me become an expert in my field.

It was only after I put in the time to develop this expertise and the discipline of the scientific process that I was able to apply my knowledge beyond the lab.

Greatness is born out of the grind. Embrace the grind. A thoughtful and intentional approach to “the grind” will help you to become an expert in your craft. When I meet a black man or woman who is at the top of their industry, I see the highest form of execution. That’s no accident. There’s a good chance it took that black leader a whole lot more grinding to get to where they are.

I look at the current and former black CEOs of Fortune 500 companies whom I admire, and they blow me away every time I met with them. Bernard Tyson, Ken Frazier, Ken Chenault, Dick Parsons, Ursula Burns, the late Barry Rand. They may not have attended Morehouse, but they have the Morehouse attitude.

They knew that being the best means grinding every day. It means putting in the ten thousand-plus hours necessary to become a master of your craft.

Muhammad Ali once said, “I hated every minute of training, But I thought to myself, suffer now and live the rest of your life as a champion.”

Grind it out -- and live your life as a champion.

My second rule to live by is to take thoughtful risks.

My Granddad took a particular interest in my career, and he couldn’t have been prouder of my stable engineering job at Kraft-General Foods. For him, to have that kind of job security at my age was a dream come true.

When I told him I was thinking of leaving for graduate school, he was beyond worried. Then, you can imagine how he worried some years later when I told him I was going to leave Goldman Sachs, where I had achieved a good level of success, to start my own private equity firm focused on enterprise software.

I respected my Granddad and his wisdom, his thoughtfulness, and his protectiveness over me. But I had also done my homework. I calculated my odds of success, and importantly, I knew that one of the fundamental design points of achieving the American Dream was to be a business owner.

So I decided with confidence that I was willing to make a big bet on the one asset I had the most knowledge of: myself.

There are always reasons to be risk-averse. Graduating from Morehouse can make you risk-averse, because the path you’re on, if you stick to the more conservative choices, is still pretty darn good.

That doesn’t mean you should gamble with your career or careen from job to job just because the grass appears to be greener. But it does mean that you should evaluate options for taking business and career risks…do the analysis, and trust your instincts.

When you bet on yourself -- that’s likely to be a pretty good bet!

My third rule is to be intentional about the words you choose.

I know Morehouse has taught you that you what you say carries with it enormous power.

Be intentional about the words you speak.

How you define yourself.

What you call each other.

The people you spend time with.

And the love you create.

All of this matters immensely. It will define you.

My fourth rule -- which is my favorite -- is to always know that you are enough.

I mentioned that before going into investment banking at Goldman Sachs, I worked in applied engineering for Kraft General Foods. And I loved it!

Until one day I was at a meeting with a number of department heads in my division and as we went around the conference table discussing the divisions most important strategic initiatives, I realized that of the top six, I was leading five of them.

I was half the age of everyone, yet I knew I was making just a third as much as anyone else in the room. And I said to myself, I’m either doing something very right or very wrong. Truthfully it was a bit of both. So, it became a lesson in realizing my worth and self-worth.

It isn’t just about salary, though that always matters. It’s also about demanding respect from others -- and from yourself. A realization and respect for all of the skills and talents you bring to the table.

When you have confidence in your own worth, you’ll become the one to raise your hand for the hard assignment that may mean putting in time on nights and weekends, but also means you’ll be gaining incremental skills and experiences to enhance your craftsmanship.

Earn your respect through your body of work. Let the quality of your work product speak of your capabilities.

Know that you are only bound by the limits of your own conviction.

You are Morehouse Men. There is no room on this earth you can’t enter with your head held high. You will likely encounter people in your life, as I have, who want to make you feel like you don’t belong... but when you respect your own body of work, that is all the respect you need.

In the words of the great Quincy Jones and Ray Charles, “Not one drop of my self worth depends on your acceptance of me.”

You are enough.

The fifth lesson and final lesson for today is as follows:

We all have the responsibility to liberate others so that they can become their best selves -- in human rights, the arts, business, and in life.

The fact is, as the next generation of African-American leaders, you won’t just be on the bus, you must own it, drive it, and pick up as many as you can carry along the way.

More than the money we make, the awards, or recognition, or titles we earn, each of us will be measured by how much we contribute to the success of the people around us.

How many people will you get onto your bus number 13?

We need you to become the elected officials who step up and fix the laws that engender discrimination and who set a tone of respect in our public discourse.

We need you to become the c-suite executives who change corporate culture, build sustainable business models, and make diversity and inclusion a core and unshakeable value.

We need you to become the entrepreneurs who will innovate inclusively, expand wages for all Americans, and lower the unemployment rate in our communities.

We need you to be the educators who set the highest standards and demand the resources needed to deliver on them and inspire the next generation.

We need you to invest in the real estate and businesses in our communities and create value for all in that community.

No matter what profession you choose, each of you must be a community builder. No matter how far you travel, you can’t ever forget where you came from.

You are responsible for building strong, safe places where our young brothers and sisters can grow with confidence… watch and learn from positive role models, and believe that, they too, are entitled to the American Dream.

You Men of Morehouse are already doing this. Your own Student Government, in fact, sends students on a bus to underserved communities around the country to empower young black men and women to seize their own narrative and find power in their voices.

This is exactly the kind of leadership I’m talking about.

Remember that building community doesn’t always have to be about sweeping change. But it does have to be intentional.

You can’t just be a role model sometimes. I’m cognizant of the fact that whenever I’m out in public, people are observing my actions. The same goes for you.

Building community can’t be insular.

The world has never been smaller, so we need to help our communities think bigger.

I’ve invested particularly in internship programs, because I’ve observed the power of exposing young minds to the opportunity out there that they don’t see in their own neighborhoods.

Help those around you see the beauty of the vast world out there, and help them believe that they, too, can capture that dream.

And remember that community can be anywhere.

Back in the 1960s and ‘70s, community was a few blocks around where I grew up. Today, we, you can create communities of people anywhere in the world. Merging the physical and digital communities will be one of the great opportunities you have and you will have have in the years going forward.

Finally, don’t forget that community thrives in the smallest of gestures. Be the first to congratulate a friend on a new job, buy their new product first, and post on social media about how great it is, and also be the first to console them when they face adversity.

Treat all people with dignity, even if you can’t see how they can be of help to you.

And most important of all, whatever it takes, never, ever forget to call your mother. And I do mean call – don’t text, a text doesn’t count!

Speaking of mothers, allow me a point of personal privilege to end with a story that speaks volumes about mine.

In the summer of 1963, when I was just nine months old, my mother hauled my brother and me 1,700 miles from Denver to Washington, DC so that we could be there for a Morehouse Man’s historic speech.

My mother knew that her boys would be too young to remember that speech, but she believed that the history we witnessed that day on the National Mall would always be a part of the men we would one day become.

And Mom was right, as usual. I still feel that day in my bones, and it echoes all around us here at Morehouse.

Decades after that cross-country trip, I had the privilege to take my granddad with me to the opposite side of the National Mall to celebrate the inauguration of the first African-American president.

As we sat in the audience on that cold morning, he pointed to a window just behind the flag, in the Capitol Building and he said, “You know, grandson, when I was a teenager I used to work in that room right there, in the Senate Lounge, I used to serve coffee and tea and take hats and coats for the senators.” He said, “I recall looking out that window during Franklin Roosevelt’s inauguration.”

He said, “Son, I did not see one black face in the crowd that day – so here we are, you and I, watching this.”

He said, “Grandson, you can see how America can change when people have the will to make change.”

The beautiful symmetry of our return to the Nation’s Capital under such different circumstances was not lost on us -- the poetry of time and soul that Lincoln called the “mystic chords of memory" resonated in both of our hearts.

You cannot have witnessed the history I have, or walked the halls of Morehouse for four years as you have, without profound respect for the unsung everyday heroes who, generation after generation, little by little, nudged, shoved, and ultimately bent that “arc of the moral universe” a little closer to justice.

This is the history and heritage you inherit today. This is the responsibility that now lies upon your broad shoulders.

True wealth comes from contributing to the liberation of people. The liberation of the communities we come from depends on the grit and greatness inside you.

Use your skills, your knowledge, your instincts to serve -- to change the world in the way that only you can.

You great Morehouse Men are bound only by the limits of your conviction and creativity. You have the power within you to be great, be you. Be unstoppable, be undeniable, and accomplish the things no one ever thought you could.

You are well on your way. I’m counting on you to load up your bus and share that journey.

Let’s never forget what Dr. King said in the final moments of his famous sermon at Ebenezer Baptist, “I want to be on your right side or your left side, in love and in justice and in truth and in commitment to others, so that we can make of this old world…a new world.”

Graduates, look to your right side and your left. Actually, take a moment. Stand up, give each other a hug. I am going to wait.

Men of Morehouse, you are surrounded by a community of people who have helped you arrive at this sacred place on this sacred day.

On behalf of the eight generations of my family who have been in this country, we are going to put a little fuel in your bus.

Now, we’ve got the alumni over there. This is a challenge for you.

This is my class -- 2019. And my family is making a grant to eliminate their student loans. Now, I know my class will make sure they pay this forward. And I want my class to look at these alumni, these beautiful Morehouse brothers -- and let’s make sure every class has the same opportunity moving forward -- because we are enough to take care of our own community.

We are enough to ensure we have all the opportunities of the American Dream. And we will show it to each other through our actions, through our words, and through our deeds.

So, class of 2019:

May the sun always shine upon you.

May the wind always be at your back.

And may God always hold you in the cradle of Her hands.

Now go forth and make this old world new.

Congratulations!

#Morehouse College #Morehouse #Commencement #Commencement speech #Robert F. Smith #MorehouseGrad2019

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celticnoise · 5 years

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LISBON LION Bertie Auld celebrated his 81st birthday yesterday by sharing his memories of his first day at Celtic and meeting the wonderful Jimmy McGrory, who was manager at the time.

Today, in another EXCLUSIVE for CQN, the Hoops legend reveals all about the time when he realised he would have to leave the club he loved.

The former midfield maestro told all in his book, ‘A Bhoy Called Bertie’, co-authored by Alex Gordon.

THIS immaculately-dressed individual in a beautifully-tailored camel-hair coat stood in front of me in the Tynecastle dressing room. He was about six foot two inches tall, sporting an expertly-trimmed moustache, and he fixed me firmly in his gaze. He said, ‘I want you to join my club. I’ll be talking to Celtic about you. Expect a call tomorrow.’

Honestly, I didn’t recognise the dapper gentleman who had taken such a shine to me. More than just a little bit bewildered, I made my way home that evening. Who was this mysterious stranger?

The following day I turned up for training as usual. Obviously the mood in the camp was one of deep despondency. Celtic had been massive favourites to beat Dunfermline in the Scottish Cup Final replay the night before. They had failed spectacularly against a club that wasn’t long out of the Second Division. A 2-0 defeat wasn’t in the script that April evening in 1961.

Obviously, I couldn’t have realised it at the time, but my one and only appearance in the national tournament that year would be my last first team outing for Celtic this time around. I was in my usual berth at outside-left when we beat Falkirk 3-1 in the first round on 28 January. Actually, I had played in the three previous league matches, a 3-1 victory over Aberdeen, a 4-0 triumph over Airdrie and a 2-1 defeat from St.Mirren.

I didn’t play in every match, but it would be fair to say I was something of a fixture in the first team squad. I had absolutely no thoughts about leaving the club; none whatsoever. Someone at Celtic had other ideas, though.

I was awaiting the call that the manager wanted to see me. In his normal forthright manner, Jimmy McGrory told me an English First Division club wanted to buy me. They had offered £15,000 and the directors were willing to accept the bid. To be honest, it was a shattering blow to discover Celtic were quite content to allow me to leave. I felt sick in my stomach.

I was then informed the club who wanted to sign me were Birmingham City. The suave gent from the night before had been none other than their manager Gil Merrick, the former England international goalkeeper. I should have recognised him, but he looked completely different without his football clobber on. He certainly scrubbed up well.

I found myself in a quandary. What should I do? I didn’t want to go, but something within me told me I didn’t want to hang around some place where I wasn’t wanted. What went wrong? Why was I being moved on? My old Parkhead chum Paddy Crerand had a theory that might not be too far off the mark. He insisted, ‘Those in power at the club at that time wanted rid of Bertie. He was a typical Glaswegian and wasn’t afraid of answering back. That was to be his downfall at Celtic. Bob Kelly didn’t like his style.’

Yes, I admit I wasn’t slow to give my opinion. If I didn’t agree with someone I was hardly going to sit there and nod my approval. I’m not a particular fan of yes men. If you are in a dressing room and someone is spouting something you think is not quite right I don’t see much wrong in throwing in your tuppence worth.

Footballers aren’t robots, you know. You can’t programme them, wind up the key and send them out to play. We are human beings and, as such, I always thought I could contribute something extra to the thought process if or when it was possible. That wasn’t welcome at Celtic at the time. There was an almost puritanical streak at the club. The directors would frown when they saw an individual fly into a tackle. It didn’t matter that it was perfectly fair and all above board. Their idea was to play football in an almost Corinthian fashion. ‘Play up and play the game.’ All that sort of nonsense.

The directors would take their usual seats in the stand and witness their own players being kicked black and blue by their opponents. Yet you knew if you went in hard and someone from the other club was hurt then there was every chance you wouldn’t be playing the following week as a punishment. It was so naive of our directors.

They had a vision of how the game should be played, but you can’t do much if you don’t have the ball. Unless your opponents are in a very benevolent mood and give you the ball constantly, you’ve got to go and win it. Simple? You would have thought so, but others, who really didn’t know too much about the game, had different ideas and I didn’t always agree with them. The easy option was to remain silent as a lot of others did. Ironically, Paddy was similarly minded and that’s probably why Celtic allowed him to go, too! Mind you, he went on to to do great things at a team called Manchester United.

Although things weren’t quite right at the club, I still loved Celtic. They were my team, but there were some puzzling aspects of being a Celtic player back then. Who, for instance, picked the team? Obviously, it should have been the manager, but no-one was quite sure. Mr.McGrory would put up a team sheet on a Thursday night after the weekly board meeting and it would be a changed line-up by Friday afternoon.

You didn’t require Sherlock Holmes-like qualities to detect the chairman, Bob Kelly – later to become Sir Robert – had the final say. Here’s an interesting wee story. The players used to gather in a room on matchday at Celtic Park about one-thirty in the afternoon if it was a three o’clock kick-off. We would play snooker and so on. I would make some sort of excuse about going to the loo or something and duck out. I would go to the home dressing room to see if my boots had been looked out and were in the No.11 position.

I would be happy when I saw them there. I would nick in half-an-hour later just to make sure they were still in place. Somehow they would have found their way to the No.7 position. At least, I was still playing. Then the team would be read out and there was no Bertie Auld in it. After all that, I wasn’t playing. Thankfully, things changed rather dramatically when Big Jock arrived in March 1965. There was only going to be one person picking the team after that and we all knew exactly where we stood. It’s was Jock’s way or no way and the board got the message. There was to be no more meddling in team affairs. About time, too. It’s my belief that most directors’ knowledge of football could be written on a fly’s backside and there would still be room for some more!

“CELTIC ON TOUR…this is the Celtic team that beat Derry City 7-0 in Ireland on May 17, 1958. That’s me in the front row extreme right. The line up is, back row (left to right): Dunky Mackay, Neilly Mochan, Frank Haffey, Eric Smith and Billy McNeill. Front row: Matt McVittie, Jim Conway, Bertie Peacock, Mike Jackson, Sammy Wilson and yours truly.”

Bob Kelly’s influence on team selection was emphasised one afternoon on 1 October, 1960, as our team bus was wending its merry way to Broomfield, the quaint home of Airdrie Football Club. The chairman recognised one of the Celtic supporters, bedecked in a huge woolly green-and-white scarf, walking towards the same destination. ‘That’s one of our reserve goalies, isn’t it?’ asked Kelly. It was, indeed, an individual called Willie Goldie, and Kelly ordered the bus to be stopped.

Goldie was invited on board and he didn’t only get a lift to Broomfield, he also played! Kelly was so impressed with his commitment to Celtic that Goldie suddenly found himself in goal. John Fallon, who had been in position for the previous four league games, was dropped. Just like that. Celtic duly lost 2-0. By the way, Goldie got plenty of opportunities after that to support the club from the terracings – he never played in the first team again! Actually, I owe him a big thank-you for helping restore me to the first team. I missed the game against Airdrie with Alec Byrne playing outside-left, but I returned for the next match and scored two goals in a 4-2 victory over St.Mirren.

Yet, even in the midst of these bizarre team selections and other odd goings-on, I still wanted to remain a Celtic player. I knew Bob Kelly had tried to get rid of me earlier when Bobby Collins was about to join Everton. Our chairman tried to persuade the Goodison Park side to make it a double deal and throw me in, as well. I was having none of it.

For a start, I was in love! I had met this fantastic girl called Liz at the Locarno Ballroom in Sauchiehall Street, Glasgow, one Saturday night and it was love at first sight. She is now Mrs. Auld and we married on 28 January, 1963 at St.Andrews Church in the shadow of Birmingham City’s ground. At that time, though, we had just started going out with each other and I realised a transfer to Merseyside would mean the end of our all-too-brief relationship. That wasn’t going to happen and no-one was going to force me into leaving Celtic or Glasgow.

‘BIRMINGHAM BERTIE? Doesn’t sound right, does it?”

When Birmingham City came on the scene it was a different proposition. Liz and I were an item, as they say, so a shift across the border wasn’t out of the question if we both agreed it was the right thing to do.

After talking to Jimmy McGrory, I decided the very least I could do was to speak to the Bimingham City manager. I was sad in my heart, but I thought it was only polite to meet again with Gil Merrick. At least, this time I knew his name. I was immediately impressed by the man. He gave me the notion he only wanted me; no-one else. He knew exactly what he wanted me to do for his club and he was exceptionally persuasive.

I found myself thinking maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea if I looked into this a bit more carefully. He was offering me the opportunity to go to England and play against the likes of Spurs, Manchester United, Chelsea, West Ham and so on. There were so many personalities down there at the time. There was my old mate Denis Law at United, Dave Mackay had joined Spurs and West Ham had youngsters such as Bobby Moore, Martin Peters and Geoff Hurst beginning to emerge. Of course, that trio would win the World Cup with England some five years later.

After a quick word with Liz, I decided to move to Birmingham City. Genuinely, I thought it was the way ahead for me. Exciting times were around the corner, but my career at the St.Andrews outfit almost didn’t even get off the ground. But for a chance happening, I would have been on the train back to Glasgow only hours after meeting the board of directors.

Honestly, they couldn’t have been more welcoming. The men who owned the club and the directors couldn’t have been more accommodating. Gil Merrick, too, was there as the red carpet was rolled out. Actually, Birmingham City reminded me so much of Celtic in a sense. It was like one big family and I was impressed by the mere fact they actually cared about me.

I had travelled down by train on my own, utterly convinced I was doing the right thing. Liz had packed my holdall, two pairs of socks and two pairs of underpants. She must have listened to my mum who continually insisted, ‘Always have fresh underpants – you never know when you might get hit by a bus!’

Gil Merrick and one of his coaching staff, a chap called Don Dorman, accompanied me from the football ground at St.Andrews to the Midlands Hotel which was situated near the railway station. Gil, as ever, was kindness personified. ‘If there’s anything you need, Bertie, just let me know.’ Nothing was too much trouble and I really appreciated that.

Once they departed, I thought I would go out and have a walk around the city where I would be plying my trade to a whole new set of supporters. But it almost didn’t happen. I was walking up Corporation Street and caught sight of myself in my reflection in the window of a giant store called Racham’s, which looked like Bimingham’s version of Glasgow’s Fraser’s.

I stopped and looked at myself. Suddenly, I thought, ‘Ach, what am I doing here?’ And with that, I turned on my heel and headed back to the hotel where I had every intention of picking up my holdall and getting on the first train back to Glasgow. Then fate stepped in.

As I was preparing to leave my room, someone knocked on the door. I answered and there was Don Dorman standing in the hallway. He said,’Do you mind me in your company?’ I was more than just a tad bewildered. He admitted things weren’t quite right at home and he and his wife were going through a rough patch. I invited him in. What on earth was I going to do? Don had no inkling that I was about to quit his club and get back up the road as swiftly as possible.

We went for a coffee and then a bite to eat. If Don had been even five minutes late in coming to that door, I would have been off and my career would have been in jeopardy. That’s if I still had a career. Birmingham City had just paid £15,000 for me and they held my registration. I don’t think they would have been too pleased with my disappearing act and they could have put me out of the game altogether. Who could have blamed them?

Thankfully, that rather awkward situation did not develop. Don sidetracked me and I stayed the night in the Midlands Hotel before reporting for training the next morning. Remarkably, I made my debut for Birmingham in the Inter-Cities’ Fairs Cup Final against Italian side AS Roma a week or so afterwards. I couldn’t have asked for a more glamorous occasion in which to perform at St.Andrews for the first time.

Before the game, Gil Merrick and his coaches, one was Spanish, I seem to recall, were talking to the players in the dressing room. They were meticulously going through our team and what they expected of each individual. They were talking tactics and suchlike and I was mesmerised. This sort of thing did not happen at Celtic, believe me. At Parkhead, I would be given the No.11 shorts and told to beat the full-back, get down the wing and hurl in crosses for the main strikers. If I chipped in a goal or two myself, all well and good, but my priority was to serve the frontmen with a steady stream of balls into the penalty box.

Now I was sitting in a different dressing room and it might as well have been a different world. Our manager was talking about set-pieces, systems and so on. I was transfixed. He would take time out to point to an individual and tell the rest of the team how they should treat him. ‘Get the ball to Bertie,’ he would say. ‘He’ll bring a new dimension to our play. You will all like what you see from this player.’

I sat there, drinking all this in and I couldn’t wait to get started. There was one problem, though – the Birmingham City shirt was BLUE! Bertie Auld in Rangers’ colours? What a shocker! I made sure I put on a vest under that blue top. Only joking!

My first game, watched by a reasonable crowd of 21,000 at St.Andrews, finished in a 2-2 draw in the first leg and we lost 2-0 the return in Rome where 60,000 fanatical Italian supporters turned out to create a magnificent atmosphere. I had desperately wanted to repay everyone at my new club for their faith in me, but it wasn’t to be. However, I would have better luck against another Italian team in a European Final six years later, of course.

“Undoubtedly, playing in England with Birmingham City had a great influence on how I performed when I returned to Celtic in 1965.”

I became a better player for my experience in English football, I am convinced of that. I was mixing with so many good players and learning from them. Birmingham City fans were passionate about their team although not on a scale of anything I ever experienced at Celtic with their supporters. Mind you, you would have to travel far and wide to find a set of fans like the Celtic crowd. I really mean that. My dad was absolutely right when he said they were the most knowledgeable in the game. I thought that the day I signed first time around and I still believe it to be true today.

At Birmingham, I was encouraged to come inside a bit more often. Gil Merrick left before I returned to Celtic and a guy called Joe Mallett took over. He was the first manager to encourage me to come in from the touchline. At Celtic, as I said earlier, my job was to get down that wing and thump over as many crossballs as I could in ninety minutes.

But the support in England were a bit different in their outlook to the game. Instead of haring down the touchline all day, they would applaud you if you hit an accurate long-range pass across the pitch to switch play. I found myself venturing inside a bit more often than in my days in Glasgow. I enjoyed it, too. It was adding a new dimension to my play and I was getting a bigger and clearer picture of what was developing all around me. It was an education and I thrived on my new responsibilities.

I’ll tell you this, though, and I wouldn’t blame you one bit if you didn’t believe me, the day I left Celtic I instinctively knew I would return. And so, of course, it proved.

‘LAUGHING BHOY…and is it any wonder I can smile after the career I had at Celtic?”

* TOMORROW: Don’t miss Bertie’s thrilling Old Firm memories – only in your champion CQN.

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everlarkficexchange · 6 years

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DESTINY UNDER CONSTRUCTION

Written by: @litlifelover

Prompt 38: Katniss and Peeta are destined for each other. But when destiny is tired of the countess fail attempts, she makes one last attempt for them to get their happily ever after. Does it work this time? [submitted by @animekpopxx]

This needs to be said first: I loved that prompt from the start. When I read through the list before deciding if I could make it possible to even join the exchange, it was this prompt I always came back to. Read it, had an idea, was lucky enough to snatch it. So: Thank you for that! :)

But as it is with me, the idea got away with me, turned somehow into kind of a soulmate!AU with fictional characters and all these shenaningans, so this is only the first chapter of my newest WIP. I’m working hard on the next parts, I promise. It won’t be a 50 chapter saga, just something small with 4 to 5 chapters? Let’s see how it’ll work out. ggg

My absolute biggest thanks go to @xerxia31, for hand holding and brain storming and beta reading. And for being the amazing, supportive friend she is.

Last but not least, a very important information: I have a potty mouth, so this story is full of f-bombs and swearing. I mean it! If you don’t like that, you definitely should skip this one. Speaking of Gordon Ramsey being proud of me kinda swearing here. ;)

And now, hope you have fun with my sorry attempt at getting my first soulmate-fic out there.

Ta-ta!

DESTINY UNDER CONSTRUCTION

Chapter 1 - Rogue, the Shithead

At the beginning of the universe-

No, wait. That’s reaching too far back. I don’t need to start with the beginning of everything. Actually, I just have to start with Saturday two weeks ago. Everything else will simply be too far fetched. I’m sorry, that stuff tends to get away from me.

So, let’s start again.

Saturday, two weeks ago I found myself and my brother sitting at the counter of a bar somewhere in the middle of nowhere, Connecticut. We sometimes do that, choose some random town, search for a bar and play our game If we’d interfere there.

Now you’re probably asking yourself what the fuck I’m talking about. Who the fuck we actually are.

Well, my name’s Destiny. In other regions of the world I’m called Destinée, Schicksal, Destino, Ventura, Ming, Sina, Los and so on. Although I look like a twenty-something, I’m actually much older than any human brain could ever comprehend. When everything started, I was already there, together with my brother Rogue and my parents, Faith and Time. There are some uncles, aunts and cousins as well, but you know how it is with family. You talk once in a while and only meet when someone marries or dies.

While we had a lot of business during the Ancient Times and the Middle Ages, nowadays we hardly interfere with mankind. They’re pretty self-sustaining. But now and then, we have some fun with the smaller stuff, like weather forecasts. Rogue, for example, loves to mess with big sporting events.

Ever asked yourself why suddenly an outsider won Olympic Gold? Well, now you have the answer. It’s because my brother has no self control most of the time.

Back to the story. So, Rogue and I were sitting at the counter at the bar. It sounds like the start of a bad joke, but it’s actually a monthly occurrence.

“So, anything new happening?” he asked while eating the peanuts from the bowl in front of us. I’m not sure he’s aware what they say about peanuts and their hygienic state when it comes to bars.

“You’re trying to deflect,” I simply ignored his nonchalance. “Don’t think I don’t know what you did with the Super Bowl.”

Rogue just shrugged and took another handful of the snack, but his smirk said enough.

“Why exactly do you constantly mess with this stuff?”

“Hey!” he exclaimed, somehow offended although I was laughing. “At least I use my gift once in a while. When was the last time you ’bestowed someone with their fate’? You’re getting rusty, sis.”

“Not fair!” I shouted; a couple of heads turned in our direction. “I try to let people decide their own destiny, you know that. I only interfere when they stray too far.”

“Like the two over there?”

His mental leap gave me whiplash, but I couldn’t help turning in the direction my brother pointed. As soon as my eyes rested on the group of people, the different colors invaded my sight.

At this point I should probably explain a little how this fate-business works.

So, imagine a huge field filled with people - all different ages, sizes, characters, skins - and every single one of them has his own color. There are blues and reds and greens, mixed with yellows and pinks. Violets and browns, occasionally even a grey or black. The colors swirl around them like dust against the sunlight. Or mist rising at dawn. Sometimes, they show how the person is feeling at the moment, if they’re ready for a change, or stuck in a situation. Similar colors mean a better understanding between people.

We call them soul-colors.

Sometimes, you can even tell if they met the soul they’re supposed to meet. The colors of the two people start to draw them to each other, then. Like someone pulling you on a string in the right direction.

And sometimes - very seldomly - you actually get people with no color. A kind of white light surrounds them. In the rare cases that this happens, the soul is waiting for their destined companion, and once together, they erupt into the same color.

If you ever wanted an explanation for soulmates, I guess that’s is the closest thing there is.

Well, that’s the basics, more or less. We don’t have to go into the details now to understand how it works. Back to that Saturday evening …

At first I had no idea what my brother was talking about.

I saw a couple a little to the back, both wrapped in a similar strawberry red. He was tall, dark and handsome, and his hands were buried in the blonde hair of the girl while she held onto his waist as they kissed. But it wasn’t the strawberry red couple my focus was on, but the two people standing near them, one on either side, backs to each other.

The young woman vibrated in a dark forest green. It was intense, showing she’s very down to earth, knows her place in the world. Her dark hair was in a braid over her shoulder and her silver eyes flashed with mirth. She was on the petite side, but had strong shoulders and toned arms and legs. I supposed she did some kind of endurance sport.

The guy she was talking to flashed in the prettiest gold I’d ever seen, it made his bronze hair shine like a crown and his green eyes shimmer like the ocean. An amused laugh escaped him, and the smirk that adorned his features afterwards brought out the dimples in his cheeks.

Seriously, even my cousin Beau (short for Beauty, which he hates and is a constant source of amusement within the family) isn’t this ridiculously beautiful. But back to the story.

Facing away from them, a little distance away, stood a guy. He was talking to a busty blonde and her boyfriend, their different shades of turquoise intermingling. The guy himself was surrounded in a swirl of sunset orange, making his blond hair look like a burning flame. His sapphire blue eyes though beamed, unaffected by his soul-color. He wasn’t especially tall, but his shoulders were broad, his torso forming a delicious V.

And then something fascinating happened. Forest green-girl turned slightly to grab her drink at the same time sunset orange-guy turned to order another beer from the bartender. As they briefly glanced at each other their colors started to fade.

I gasped, looking wide-eyed at my brother. “Did you see that, too?”

“Yup,” he shrugged, making the P pop, and took another sip from his whiskey. When he put the glass down, I punched him in the arm. Hard.

“Fuck!” Rogue yowled, immediately rubbing the spot where I hit him. “What’s wrong with you?!”

“Fucking fading colors! That’s what’s wrong!” Even to my own ears I sounded slightly hysteric.

For explanation: fading colors isn’t an everyday occurrence. Quite the opposite. In all my time walking this realm not once had I encountered this before. There were rumors. Legends. Fairy Tales. People with missed opportunities mysteriously meeting again, abandoning their own colors. Creating something special: Multi-colors.

“I need to get to the bottom of this.” Surely my face showed my determination, because my brother didn’t even try to stop me from walking over for the End Titles. That’s how we refer to one of my gifts. When I allow it and somehow touch a person, I’m able to see all the fate-altering encounters they’ve had so far, just like credits after a movie.

Pretending to walk over to the old fashioned jukebox to switch songs, I concentrated and allowed my fingers to brush the hair at the end of forest green-girl’s braid.

Time slowed to a standstill. I turned and the current location changed to another scene.

A church. At the front, surrounding the organ, gathered a bunch of people. All of them held a sheet of paper in their hand. In the center front stood a little girl. She was maybe five or six. She wore a red dress, and her dark hair was in two braids instead of one.

Forest green-girl. But at this point in her life she didn’t have her forest green color yet. She was surrounded by white light. Interesting.

“Katniss,” the man at the organ turned to her. “As soon as the choir stops after the first verse, it’s your turn to sing the chorus, all right?” The little girl nodded enthusiastically, making her braids bounce up and down.

The organist started to play, the choir set in. Then they finished the first verse.

Katniss, as I know now, took a deep breath, opened her mouth and started to sing. Her white light flashed once, and I turned from watching her to observe my surroundings. At the hall’s entrance stood a little boy. His blonde hair was an inch too long, constantly falling into his eyes, which were fixated on the singing child.

No soul-color for him either. Huh.

“Peeta!” a harsh whisper interrupted his staring, his eyes immediately averting towards his toes. “I told you to keep close. Why do you never listen?!” A woman appeared beside him, grabbing his upper arm and pulling him away.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” he apologized in a whisper, before my surroundings blurred and I found myself in the next memory.

A graveyard. A bunch of people, all wearing black clothing, surrounded an open grave. A priest was reciting some verse from the bible. Katniss stood together with a smaller girl and a woman who, I assume, was her mother. They were directly in front of the casket, their heads bowed. She was still colorless.

When her light flickered again, I discover Peeta on the other side of the graveyard, a bouquet of flowers in his hands. I blinked once and watched as he put the flowers in a vase beside a gravestone inscribed with Gregory Mellark. By the birth date shown on it, I assumed it must be his grandfather. The boy looked up and I saw his light flicker when his eyes turn to the procession at the open grave, which by now was slowly trickling away. The only one who remained was Katniss, still standing there staring down. On instinct Peeta grabbed one of the flowers from the bouquet and started walking in her direction.

I blinked and was standing again behind Katniss. The provisional cross at the grave read Caleb Everdeen. With a deep sigh, Katniss turned and stepped away from the casket, brushing away a single tear from her cheek.

After a couple of steps she turned back, by instinct maybe, just in time to see a blond boy placing a sunflower at the food of the cross.

My surroundings blurred again.

This time, I found myself in a hospital. Doctors and nurses rushed around, everyone was busy. I discovered Peeta walking with a slightly older version of himself who was hobbling on crutches towards the exit. An older, blonde man walked on the other side. Peeta was not yet an adult, but definitely in his teens. The baby fat had melted into a slim waist, strong shoulders and defined arms. Again, no soul-color.

“How was physical therapy today, Rye?” the older man asked the teen on the crutches. The boy answered, but I wasn’t interested in his reply, because Peeta’s light flickered when he turned his head just slightly. His eyes skimmed over a young, dark haired woman frantically calling for a doctor. Her arm was wrapped around the shoulders of a blonde girl with tears in her eyes, clutching her arm protectively. A few dark strands of hair had escaped the braid falling over her shoulder.

Peeta stepped through the sliding doors with his family and the scene disappeared.

Next I was in the middle of a frat party. Beside me, a shirtless douche, wearing a loincloth, played tonsil hockey with a slutty nurse. Ah, it’s Halloween. Fucking great, I hate that stupid holiday.

It took a little while to find Katniss in the costumed throng. She was dressed in a long, white robe, a golden holster filled with arrows strapped to the back, together with a golden bow. Her feet were in gladiator sandals.

Well, at least she got that right about cousin Artemis.

She was with a friend, who I recognized as the strawberry-red girl from the bar. Strawberry-red guy was just making his way over to them. Figures they met on Halloween. Katniss smirked when she saw him approach, and excused herself, muttering something about needing another drink. She turned and headed in the direction of the kitchen.

It’s the same as every time before: Her light flickered and instinctively she turned her head. Her eyes fell on a guy, and it actually made her stop. He wore a military green jumpsuit with sewn-on badges and aviator sunglasses.

Peeta must have sensed her eyes on him because he turned in her direction as well. For a split second their eyes met, their white light becoming distinctly brighter. But then a blonde Victoria’s Secret’s Angel wrapped her arms around his neck and pushed her tongue down his throat, which he reciprocated wholeheartedly.

Katniss didn’t even blink, and continued in the direction of the kitchen.

I couldn’t hold back my frustrated sigh. We were four near interactions in, and they hadn’t even exchanged a single word yet. It was one of the longest searches I had encountered so far.

And then we were at it again. Blur, new scene. This gets me fucking dizzy.

Lecture hall. Rule of thumb estimate about 200 people were sitting and listening to a pudgy man talk about the economy or something. This went on for some minutes in which I had time to find Katniss and Peeta in the crowd. They were sitting surprisingly far apart.

The professor upfront announced for the second semester all of them would be paired up for a project they would have to present before finals and which would make half of their grade.

For the first time since I started End Titles I felt giddy, because I knew this is when they were supposed to meet. I knew, because I’m Destiny and stuff like that is my business. They’ll get paired up and everything will be fine.

Only a second later I realized the mistake in my thinking: If they really met that day, why didn’t they know each other in the present?

Movement behind the professor caught my eye, and my eyebrows knit together. On top of the huge chalkboard, feet dangling and smirking mischievously, sat none other than my idiot brother.

“Are you fucking serious?!” I grumbled under my breath, and saw the disaster unfold in front of me.

“Katniss Everdeen,” the professor called out and she straightened, her white light flickering like mad. From the corner of my eye I recognized Peeta’s light doing the same. The professor reached into the bowl to draw another name and the moment he grabbed for the piece of paper, Rogue flicked his wrist.

“Thresh Montgomery.”

Nearly bursting into tears I had to watch how the white lights flashed once more and then went out. A moment later, Katniss started to shimmer a soft green and Peeta’s aura turned into the first hues of sunset orange.

That was it. There were no more encounters planned for them. Their opportunities missed, their souls no longer waiting for each other, they gained their own individual soul-colors.

And still, somehow they ended up in the same bar, at the same time. Maybe not all hope was lost yet.

Once again, my surroundings became indistinct and the blink of an eye later I was back in the bar, reaching for the jukebox.

For the human brain, my brushing by happened in a split second.

I chose a random song before making my way back to my brother, silently vibrating from my anger.

“Rogue!” I barked when I was within hearing distance, throwing mental daggers at him. “This is your fault, asshole!”

“Moi?” he pretend gasped, looking bored and taking another sip. He can be such a fucking dumbass. I snapped my fingers and sent him the memory.

“You intervened and they didn’t meet when they were supposed to!” My teeth were grinding and I was seconds away from jumping at him and scratching his eyes out. Was he for real?

Rogue let the memory play out in his mind, nodding along in agreement. Then he turned to me with a single eyebrow raised. “Hello?! You wanted me to risk not messing with the Southeastern Conference?”

“What?!”

“Southeastern Conference. College Football? If Thresh Montgomery had failed Heavenbee’s course, he would’ve been benched and Vanderbilt wouldn’t have beaten Missouri. What would’ve been the fun in that? Kitty-Kat there had been the best in that course, Thresh needed the grade. D'oh!” He had the nerve to roll his eyes, which was the last straw. I felt myself growing, again time came to a standstill. The lights around us dimmed and I knew my whole body was illuminated in a dangerous flaring aura. Rogue likes to call it my Special Effects.

He’s fucking petrified of me whenever I explode because he’s gone too far. Sometimes he forgets I’m the older and much more powerful sibling.

“Sis …” he raised his arms in a placating manner, and avoided looking directly at me. Last time I was in that mood, he spent a decade with blistering burns all over his body.

(Ever heard of Troy, the Greek city state? Well, guess who had his fun there …)

“I know you have that thing for soulmates and all that shit, but seriously. It’s just one pair-”

“Rogue!” I growled, and he knew that’s even worse than me screaming my head off. “Listen now, shithead! You messed this up and once again it comes to me to fix it. And you will help, are we clear?”

“Des-”

“I asked if we’re clear?!”

“Crystal,” he replied without hesitation, nodding eagerly. I growled once more to ensure he understood I meant business, before I returned to my regular 5'2” and stopped the flaring of my aura. Special Effects indeed.

Dad calls it dramatics.

Semantics.

With a satisfied nod and a half-formed plan in mind I turned around - ready to fulfill my name and all that shit - only to discover that Katniss was no longer standing beside the strawberry-red couple.

Her Shimmering Goldie date was gone, too.

Fuck.

Frantically searching the place, I spotted them making their way over to the exit.

Double fuck!

I had to stop them. I had no idea how, but I had to think of something. Quickly. Katniss’ green was already showing some flecks of golden sparkles. My brain was frantically searching for a solution when I spotted a young woman at the bar, auburn hair softly curling around her head, green eyes shining warm, smiling softly. Her aura shone silvery.

Okay, close enough. Better than the not-destined gold/green combo for sure.

“Intervene! Now!” I hissed at my brother, pointing at the leaving couple and silver-pixie.

Rogue is a lot of trouble, but leave it to him, he’s a quick thinker and has exceptionally fast reactions. The blink of an eye later, Silver’s drink spilled all down Katniss’ front. In the hustle that followed, neither Katniss nor Goldie were thinking about leaving.

I patted myself on the shoulder. At least I had stopped the immediate danger of Katniss ending up with the wrong guy. Next step: Getting Goldie and silver-pixie to talk and realize that they’re way better suited anyway. Then I would make Katniss and Peeta finally cross paths.

Ha, when the evening’s done I would once again have proved that I very much live up to my name, thank you very much.

To ensure that the first part of the plan went accordingly I sent Rogue over to have a couple more mishaps happen. Because I was in a forgiving mood, I even let him decide what he wanted to come up with.

With traces of amusement I watched silver-pixie try to assist Katniss in the clean-up, only to somehow mysteriously slip on a piece of lime. Which resulted in her ending in Goldie’s arms. And all of them sprawled together on the floor.

By now, strawberry-red couple had stopped their smooching and joined their friend to assist. The golden sparkles from Katniss’ color had already started to vanish.

Okay, Rogue had everything under control over there, it was time for phase two.

With a broad grin, I turned around to start the next step and somehow get Peeta and Katniss to finally meet for real.

But my grin froze on my face. When I looked at where I’d last seen them, turquoise couple was gone. And Peeta with them.

Well, fuck.

To Be Continued

#Springtime Edition 2018 #litlifelover #animekpopxx #prompt 38 #submission

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