#steel band hire
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good lird they did not make a gimmick blog about a real life murder
#someone fucking DIED but whatever who gives a shit it's funny i guess
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🥚 eggvidenced Follow
honestly with how suspicious and confusing everything on the dl-6 case was i wouldn't be surprised if it came out that it was that prosecutor guy tbh
🌟 rockliker270 Follow
date posted: june 23, 2010
1,834,853 notes
⚖️ courtofpublicopinions Follow
🌟 rockliker270 Follow
ok hear me out. what abt winston payne though
🧊 just--ice Follow
okay now they're just making lawyers up
#also didn't mvk die or something?
28,932 notes
🔥 triedbyfire Follow
why the fuck are you people still posting about the gavinners as if theyre not copaganda. didn't the guitarist get convicted of murder
🎸 guiltiest-lovers837 Follow
so fucking tired of this "um um didn't daryan get convicted of murder" YEAH AND HE'S LITERALLY NOT IN THE FUCKING BAND ANYMORE. dipshit
🔥 triedbyfire Follow
are you gonna address the copaganda thing or
1,092 notes
🌻 attorneybout Follow
he's so. 😳
📂 trialanderror Follow
why is he defending
📂 trialanderror Follow
OP WHY IS HE DEFENDING???
24,374 notes
🦈 giantlakemonsters Follow
i just wanna hear about another gourdy sighting thats all
🥜 liberdeez Follow
op. i'm so sorry op. gourdy isn't real you have to let her go. they had a whole trial about it.
🔐 wrightorwrong Follow
hi!! so this isn't actually the case as while gourdy was briefly mentioned in a trial, said trial had nothing to do with whether or not gourdy was "real" per se as much as. well. murder, actually. while gourdy WAS found out to be an inflatable steel samurai this was not brought up in the case at all as the veracity of gourdy wasn't really as relevant as the fact that the witness was looking for gourdy rather than at the murder she claimed to have seen. plus this was also a relatively small part of a MUCH larger trial which for those interested not only solved the dl-6 case but ALSO marked the end of prosecutor von karma's ~40 year long record and the court records are really a fascinating read through!!
🦀 mad_libz_87 Follow
net 0 information post
#thanks again lawblr
94,834 notes
🍒 cherriescoola Follow
btw i was at the park the other day and klavier gavin (of gavinners fame) was there and obv there was a huge crowd but this guy was there with him and at some point he (the other guy) waved to the crowd and someone still screamed like it was klavier??? who was that guy ive never seen him before in my life
2,284 notes
🩸 has-dl6-been-solved-yet Follow
December 28, 2016
YES!!!
702,947 notes
🪙 tellerlikeitis Follow
guys help i'm a bank teller and this guy just introduced himself as robin banks what do i do
🔪 violencekilling Follow
you gotta let him rob you that's the law
302,948 notes
👻 ghostesswiththemostest Follow
look if i ever get convicted of murder im just hiring the lawyer with the coolest sounding name
💼 courtofwaw Follow
bestie if you already got convicted it is Too Late
62,193 notes
📋 lawandwhoreder Follow
guys i know it's real fun to think people just can predict whatever but if you look at the earliest reblogs of that post that "guessed" the true killer in the dl-6 case it was actually a post about how they didn't want to go to the store. clearly edited
#stg nobody bothers to factcheck anything anymore
7,293 notes
🐺 lawnewolf Follow
i am NOT homophobic or whatever the fuck you guys are saying now i just think its weird to write fanfiction about realass people?? go touch grass ffs
🌈 lawsbian Follow
the fun police (this guy) putting me in yaoi court but the lawyers (phoenix witrght and miles edgeworth) just keep trying to make out (real court is like this too btw)
🐺 lawnewolf Follow
YOU HAVE SOMETHING WRONG WITH YOU.
#look idc what your enemies to lovers fic bullshit says #they're straight. and more importantly REAL PEOPLE. #there's TENSION because they are in COURT and there are LIVES on the LINE. #not because they wanna fuck. god.
12,293 notes
🔮 inhighspirits Follow
why dont they just ask the spirit mediums to ask the victims who killed them this law shit is easy
837,495 notes
💞 lawveyourself Follow
seriously i cant believe they gave this guy a law degree
💞 lawveyourself Follow
what do you mean evidence fraud
503,893 notes
🎧 instrumentalillness Follow
fuck you *unguilties your love*
384,568 notes
🎀 copiicat Follow
perjury isnt illegal btw in fact if youre one of tge witnesses youre legally required to lie on the stand. thats why everyone does it. trust me
#ace attorney#ace attorney spoilers#dashboard simulator#dash simulator#dashboard sim#dash sim#unreality#fake dashboard#fake dash#post simulator#long post#average day on lawblr i think#'op what is the timeframe for this' not applicable people reblog 10 year old posts on here all the time /lh#but sometime after turnabout serenade.#'isn't one of these urls a real blog' yeah she wanted to be included /lh
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Mr and Mrs Smith AU: When Jane met John
Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader
Word count: 9k
Summary: Joining a spy agency? Check ✓ Hired in said agency? Check ✓ Getting a new fancy house? Check ✓ An entire armoury of weapons at your disposal? Check ✓ A new Husband? Check ✓ wait, what?
Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, no specific physical description of the reader (except for her clothing), Hobie and R call each other by fake names (ie: John, Jane, Smith etc), spy AU, CW suggestive, CW food mentions, TW blood, CW violence, CW vomit mention, TW death.
A/N: Happy 1k! Happy reading!!!❤️
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Buy me a ☕?
The waiting room seems like it's designed to make you extra anxious. From the bright fluorescent lights that whir above, to the carpet that smells like a very harsh citrus soap. Add the metallic chairs that's incredibly cold under your slacks— It all makes you bounce your leg from the bundle of nerves inside your stomach. The people waiting around you don't help either, they all look like they came out of magazine covers. Hair all tied up in a perfect bun, pencil skirts that cinch their waist perfectly. Button ups that are ironed until there's no crease in sight.
You bite your lip, eyes glued on the steel door, to where your last resort is, to where your entire future depends on. Looking around the room full of models, it doesn't seem like you're applying for a security job.
Maybe you should've worn that pencil skirt that's gathering dust in your closet.
Even though you technically don't know what kind of job it is, you really need to get this one, or else. Your savings could only get you so far. An old ‘friend’ of yours recommended this ‘company’. It operates at the highest security, the risk is just as high, but the pay is higher. More than what you've ever earned in the five years you've worked anyway.
Flicking your eyes above the door, the light finally turns green from red, and a chiming sound can be heard as the door clicks open on its own. You still wonder where the applicant goes after their interview since you never saw them exit out the same door. A morbid thought passes by your mind: a gun plus a bullet to the head. The image makes you grab the rubber band on your wrist to slap it against your skin. It leaves the stinging pain for only a moment, but it's enough to throw away the vision from your brain.
An applicant enters and you look down at the piece of paper in your hand— you're next.
The number, 2715 is written in Times New Roman. You can recognize that font anywhere, for it's the same font used on newer gravestones, the same font on his— you slap the rubber band against your wrist again. This time harder than the last. The stinging stays for a minute more. Your heels tap against the carpet, the clock ticks, the fluorescent whirs, someone coughs and you want to punch them in the face— you slap the rubber band against your skin again.
Your ears perk up at the familiar chime like you've been Pavlov’d by the sound after waiting for three hours on that uncomfortable metal chair that has tiny holes that you've gotten your pinky finger stuck in on hour two.
With a deep breath, you saunter your way towards the creaking door, trying to summon all the confidence in your body. They may be watching so you do your best to not look as nervous as you feel like.
As you enter the room, the large screen in the center raises a curious brow. The light from the monitor shines a spotlight on the singular office chair right in front of it. The room is dim, save for the single light. The screen reminds you of one of those mall touch screens that shows you the map of the building. There's another door on the opposite wall, now you know where all the other candidates exit, and it's definitely not from a bullet judging from the clean floors.
With a tentative step, you cross the distance. Sitting down, the chair is a comfortable welcome from the last one you sat on.
“Am I supposed to push a button?” You roam your eyes over the circular shape up top. You surmise that it's the camera.
The calming sky blue screen flashes words,
> Hihi, welcome
“Hi?”
> Insert nail clippings
A box slides out below the screen, prompting you to take the ziplock with your nail clippings from your bag. It slides back in with a mechanic hiss once you place the plastic on the drawer, and the screen blinks to a couple of questions that you answer honestly.
> What's your ethnicity?
You don't falter. Answering it truthfully.
> Height?
You clear your throat, the lump is either from the nerves or how your voice faltered when you answered.
> Are you willing to relocate?
You wring your hands together on your lap. “Yes, absolutely. Nothing's holding me back.” Then the dreaded question pops up on the bright screen.
> Tell me about yourself
“Uh, I graduated top of my class.” You scratch the back of your neck. “MI6 agent for three–no, uh four years.” Chuckling shakily, you continue. “I got high merits…w-well until the thing— but I was on the road to promotion b-before it happened.” God, you hate interviews.
> Words that people would describe you with?
You blink, sucking in a breath. “Truthfully?” Joking, the screen doesn't appreciate your humour.
> Yes
“Oh, p-people would describe me as a… someone who has initiative. Cunning…” unfeeling— you slap the band on your wrist again. Sitting up right, you gaze at the camera like your eyes could see the person typing behind it. You guess it's a person at least. “Passed all my training with flying colours, infiltration, marksmanship, hand to hand, you name it. You tell me the job and I'll do it with no questions asked.”
> Are you okay with high risk?
“More than okay.” You answer quickly.
> With a team or alone?
“I'm alright with either, but I prefer alone.”
> Why did you get fired?
“You know why.” You say intensely, eyes boring holes into the screen. For a second you thought you flubbed it but the screen continues to flash a new question.
> Have you killed anyone?
> And why?
The question turns into what you're more accustomed to. “Yes, approximately…” you inhale sharply. “Forty three. Two unintentionally, the rest with various…weapons.” You mindlessly play with the loose thread of your blazer to get rid of the flashing images in your head. “As for why, that's confidential information.”
The robot or the person behind the screen seems to accept your vague answers for it moves on with the interview.
> Favourite food?
Your eyebrows knit at the sudden turn of question. “Uh, I have a sweet tooth, ice cream. I think. But I can't resist good popcorn.” Your tone wavers at the end.
> Have you been in love?
You laugh, but the question still flashes on screen, unchanged and unamused. Clamping up, you feel for the rubber on your wrist.
“I-I'm sorry but what is this part for?”
The screen remains the same.
“—No,” you remember that they've probably already known everything about you even before you applied. So you decide to answer vaguely, that seems to work out before. “Once, just once.”
> When was the last time you said ‘I love you?’
“A long time ago.”
> To whom?
“You know who.”
—
You're surprised that you got the job even after the disastrous interview. The suitcase is light in your tightly clasped hand. The belongings you've tossed inside are sparse, only packing the ones you only need.
The large wooden door looms in front of you, the street behind you is bustling and right across your new home is an expansive park. A park that looks like you need to pay just to get inside. The neighborhood that you're situated in can be described as exclusive, rich and very suburban. The kind of setting where parents would do anything to raise their kids in. Something you've never thought in your dangerous life to live in, more so even step foot in.
With an exhale, you unlock the door. It clicks open surprisingly, you doubted the company for a second when you pushed it in. Maybe they gave you the wrong address? Maybe something went wrong in their system and your name popped up instead of someone more worthy? Someone who's a better shot, someone who isn't as bat shit insane as you.
The long hallway greets you, the low warm light brings comfort to your rattling bones. Its carpet runner is soft beneath your sneakers, red and blue threads weaved around the thick cloth. Framed art is posted on the walls, the artist's name you recognize from some pretentious reality tv about selling mansions that you once drunkenly watched alone on a friday night.
You leave your baggage in the hallway. Opting to explore the cinnamon scented home. Its rich walls remind you of chocolate that you once got for your birthday. The furniture doesn't look like it came from Ikea, the oak is sturdy under your palm, no rough surface, no protruding nails that slashes your flesh.
You snap the rubber band on your wrist for the umpteenth time today.
There's an ornate door sitting on your right, robins and roses are carved on the wood. The biometric scanner is placed right next to the door, it’s a stark contrast to the traditional home. Flipping the cover open, you place your thumb on the smooth surface of the scanner. After a half second, the door clicks open, revealing a steel elevator. The bright light above it almost blinds you.
Your curiosity makes you enter the steel cage, roaming your eyes, you spot the buttons.
“Might as well.” You say to the emptiness of the house.
As the elevator door closes, the front door opens.
There's a lack of elevator music, perhaps that's the best since you always hated the cheery chiming of it. The second the door opens, you take a peek inside. The weird smell combination of chlorine and butter hits your nose.
“Holy shit,” you mumble in disbelief at the indoor pool and theatre. “A fucking pool under the house? And a fucking theatre screen in front? Which rich fuck decided that?” Your voice echoes, bouncing off the tiled walls of the pool.
Roaming the large room, eyes wide and strides small, you marvel at the high ceilings with the same warm tone lights hidden in the coves to soften the lights. You crouch down, letting the warm water lap at your hand.
There's a handful of sun loungers on the side, tables in between them for drinks and whatever rich people put on it. A projector hangs above the pool, an electrical hazard, you thought and an image of an entire pool party getting electrocuted lingers in your mind. You snap the rubber band against your wrist.
The popcorn machine helps distract you from the intrusive thought. Opening the machine, the popped kernels are still warm against your skin. You quickly scoop up a handful of it in your palm, the butter slicking your hand and your mouth as you eat it like how a baby deer eats grass.
You've had enough of the overly decorated basement, getting back on the elevator, you finish off your popcorn with one big bite. Still chewing, you wipe your hands on your trousers to press the shiny buttons on the elevator. The doors close as you chew loudly, eyes up on the screen showing the floors of the house, you don't notice the stranger standing outside of the opened doors.
Butter on your lips, you almost smack him on his pretty face.
“Christ!” You yelp, almost choking on a kernel.
“Close, but no.” He smirks, eyes flicking at the sheen on your lips.
Your husband, the title echoes in your popcorn filled head. His smile captures your attention, a ten megawatt grin that could power the entire posh neighborhood. His piercings glimmer in the warm light, and your eyes are glued to the ones on his eyebrows. Hazel eyes, the left one seems to be lighter than the other, watercolour eyes stare back at you, scanning your features. If you stare long enough you swear you can see patches of green and gray in those expressive eyes.
“John Smith.” He introduces himself, your husband, your partner. John doesn't raise his ringed hand for you to shake, instead he nods at you, waiting patiently for you to say your name. As if he doesn't know.
Clearing your kernel filled throat, you quickly run your tongue across your teeth (with your mouth closed of course) because you don't want to embarrass yourself further by having popcorn stuck in your teeth.
“Jane, Jane Smith.” You reach towards him to shake his hand, he raises a brow at you in turn.
“I don't do that, love, sorry.”
“Shake hands?”
“Yeah,” he looks to the left of your face, his eyebrow twitches slightly— a tell.
“Are you a germaphobe?” You ask before you could stop yourself.
“Not really, I've got issues…with intimacy.” John shrugs, the metals on his leather jacket clinks together. You think he'd rather be a model or a rock star instead of a spy with how he dresses and carries himself with confidence.
You smile knowingly, “We all do, but you don't have that issue. It's our first day of marriage and you decide to lie to your wife?” You click your tongue, eyebrow raised. “Not a very good first impression, John.”
He'll never get used to being called that basic name. ‘John’ takes your hand, it's warm, searing hot under your slippery hand. You'd thought his warmth would cook your flesh, you guess the butter on your palm would work wonders. You're starting to regret snacking. The calluses on his palm matches your own, a large scar across his palm tells you a story untold. Silver rings decorate his long fingers. There's a more simple silver bracelet on his wrist, a stark contrast to the ornate rings he sports on both hands.
He's handsome, you think, rightfully so. With his chiseled jaw that rivals any greek statue and eyes that could be mistaken for stars; he's tall too, so that's a plus. You lucked out on the fake husband department. Well, there's worse men to fake marry out there. Just judging from first impressions, you're glad he's the one you have on your side,
“How'd you know?” He asks, eyes narrowed.
“I'm very perceptive.”
“Trained?”
“Nope,” you hide your bundle of nerves with your casual tone. His hand is still clasped on your own, you don't notice it. “Just very good at reading people.”
“Did you have a stint at the BAU too?”
Too? You ignore it for now. “No,” chuckling, you finally notice the heat on your palm so you let him go. “Just…natural talent, I guess.”
“What’s under the house?” John asks, stepping aside so you could exit the elevator.
“A beating heart.” You curse yourself, fingers already reaching for the rubber band on your wrist.
To your surprise, John laughs. The sound is genuine, eyes crinkling in the corners. “I got the reference.”
“I figured.”
“I saw a black box in the office, you wanna check it out?” He points behind him with his thumb.
“Why? Do you think there's a beating heart in there too?”
“Maybe.” He plays along, walking beside you. “You never know with the company, for all we know there's a head in there.”
“Morbid.” You joke as he opens the door for you.
“Says you?” John keeps reminding himself of his real name whilst he memorizes the side of your face. He already wants to tell you his real name, not the one assigned to him by the suits behind the faceless screen he has grown familiar with. He says his name in his mind again, if he accidentally blurted it out, well, c'est la vie.
“Says me,” you shrug casually, trying to keep up with his wit and charm. You already think you're losing. You scrunch your face at the painting above the mantle. It's an art of two lovers doing the tango, if tango excludes clothes and includes intense snogging.
He chuckles right next to you, an airy laugh that has you smiling too. “A very brave choice. Not my taste, but whatever floats the company's boat. What's inside is a bit better though.” Your ‘husband’ reaches towards the frame of the painting, gently pressing down, it releases a metallic click as it reveals a secret compartment full of weapons.
You hide a snort behind your hand. The cabinet reminds you of your own. Unimpressed, you flick your eyes down at the office table, the large black box sitting on top of it is just begging to be opened.
Without a second thought, you open it. Taking out the bottle of expensive looking wine, you read the card that is tied in a neat ribbon around the neck.
“‘Good luck on your first day of marriage’” you look at the man beside you. He's incredibly close to you, his elbow grazing yours, lips slightly parted whilst he takes a peek at the wine. He smells of burgundy and leather, it calms your senses for some odd reason. “I prefer coke.” You practically shove the bottle in his hands. The glass clinks against his metal rings.
“The snorting variation or the fizzy one?” He asks, placing the bottle down on the narra table with an almost silent thud.
“The fizzy one.” You take his question at face value. He doesn't question why you don't prefer alcohol. Sitting down on the plush office chair, you open the laptop in front of you. It dings, needing a password to open it. “It needs a—”
Before you could even finish the question, he gives you a scrap of paper from the numerous envelopes inside the box. The password is printed on it with the same font as the one from the piece of paper you held a couple of weeks ago.
You type it whilst he rifles through the box. The home screen pops up, nothing too fancy or out of the ordinary. Except for the single application in the corner that's only labeled as ‘S’
Clicking it, a chat box appears.
> Hihi, follow man
John snakes up next to you, the harsh light from the laptop shines on his pensive face. You return your attention towards ‘your boss’. A picture of a young blond man pops up in the chat, there's a mole near his left eye, he sports dark eyebrows. And a look that says ‘daddy paid for my college!’
> 40.748817, -73.985428
“That's downtown I think.” John pipes up next to you, and you look at him like he just said the sky is green and the grass is blue.
> Take keys, take car. Bring car here
> 51.505554, -0.075278.
“A car?” You rhetorically ask.
“Must be a very expensive car, or an important one.” John answers back as he leans further down to take a better look at the monitor. His hand is on the back of your chair, his necklaces dangle on his neck like a pretty chandelier.
You both wait for more instructions but it doesn't come.
“Hihi isn't very talkative, huh?” Your voice echoes in the awkward silence.
“‘Hihi?’”
“Yeah, I thought I'd give it a nickname.” You think he's weirded out but with an amused laugh he pats your shoulder nonchalantly.
“Cute.” You don't know if he's referring to you, or to the nickname you dubbed your electronic boss. “I've separated our papers.” John says as you still contemplate his last comment. “Here's yours.”
“Thanks.” You scan the pile in your hands. Your own face greets you as you flip through it all.
“It has everything we need. Credit card, ID's, carry permit and a passport.”
“What's that one?” You point at the larger envelope next to John's pile. A smaller black leather envelope sits atop it.
He opens the large envelope, giving you the contents of it. “Marriage certificate. And this one…” shaking the leather envelope, whatever is inside of it clinks. Taking it out, he shows you the gold bands. “...our wedding rings.” Heat rises in your cheeks unavoidably once he says it softly. “May I?” Open palm reaching out, he beckons.
You try to remember which hand wears it. With a split second decision, you place your left hand atop his own. Carefully sliding the cold ring in your marriage finger, you stay locked in on his eyes that's concentrating like he's disarming a bomb.
John pats your hand and then inserts his own ring in his finger, mirroring yours.
“Guess we're married.” You shrug casually like your heart doesn't beat against your ribcage, like it's trying to escape its confines. “It feels kind of weird?”
“We are,” he flashes you his signature smirk. “And we'll get used to it, hm, wife?”
“Yeah, I'll adapt.” You say just barely above a whisper, hands suddenly clammy.
“That's my girl.” Throwing you a wink, he walks away from a flustered you.
Yeah, you got lucky.
—
Morning comes and you had the best sleep you've had in years. Even if you slept on an empty stomach last night, you still slept like a baby on the eight hundred thread count Egyptian cotton blanket. You stare blankly at the beige ceiling, hands roaming around the soft bed sheet like you're making a snow angel. Sleep ridden eyes roam around the expansive master bedroom to which your new husband has graciously let you take.
Speaking of ‘John’, his bedroom is just across your own. Surprisingly enough, he hasn't woken up yet based on the silence in the hallway outside, you hadn't pegged him as a late riser.
Breakfast calls for you when your stomach rumbles loudly, but you're too comfortable to even move from your spot. Something taps from your window that's facing the foot of your bed. A soft tippy tap of something hitting the glass that has you sitting up. Eyes blinking rapidly, you stare off a pigeon perched outside. Its iridescent feathers shine in the early morning sun, its beak tapping rhythmically at the window.
Sliding your hand behind you, blindly grasping at a pillow, you fling it across the room to scare off the bird. The pillow hits your mark and out flies away the annoying pigeon. With a sigh, you get off your ass to get ready for the day ahead. You don't want to be late to your first day out in the field, no use in rotting in your luxurious bed if you can't keep it after you get fired for being late.
You dress for the day and for the cool weather. Spring has come but the freezing temperature has decided to stay for a little while. With a cozy turtleneck and comfy slacks, you forgo the torturous device called ‘heels’ for a pair of trainers. Staring at yourself in the mirror, you shrug with a huff. And you snap the rubber against your skin once again.
Taking the chair off the doorknob and then unlocking the door, you exit your sanctuary. Closing your door softly, you find yourself in front of John's room. Judging from the soft snores, you notice that he’s still sleeping. You might be his fake wife but it's not your job to wake him up. So you continue down the hallway and into the kitchen to fix yourself a bowl of cereal.
Bowl in hand, you chew as you walk up to the rooftop. Unlocking it, the sun greets you with a comfortable heat, and you frown at it. You keep eating whilst you explore the space. There's a bountiful garden in the corner, raised garden beds full of fresh vegetables and fruit that is ripe for the taking. An outside dining area sits in the middle, you recognize the long table from a catalog you once read to pass the time at the dentist. You remember that it doubles as a grill and leg warmer in the winter.
“Fancy,” you murmur with your mouth full of grainy goodness. Sipping the leftover milk in the bowl, you place it on the expensive table to crouch down next to a bushel of strawberries to sniff. “Almost ripe,” you figure from the softness of the fruit.
A bird flies above you, it's shadow casting over you. With the sound of fluttering wings, the bird perches on the table, black orbs staring at you, head tilting like it's observing your presence.
“Are you the same fucking bird?” You question the pigeon. It coos at you, and then pecks at the ceramic of your discarded bowl. “Motherfucker—” standing up, you have the look of someone ready to square up with the feathered creature.
“Why are you fighting an innocent bird?” John appears with a mug of tea in his hand. You forgot to make tea.
“I wasn't fighting with it.”
“He,” your partner crosses the distance, the bird doesn't fly away from the close proximity. You raise an eyebrow at that. “might be hungry.” He gestures towards the strawberries behind you with his chin. “Think you can grab us one, lovie?” You're gonna need some time to get used to that term.
“It's not ripe.”
“I don't think he's picky.”
“It's too sour, it might upset his stomach.”
“He's a pigeon, he's used to eating shit off the pavement. I think that's fine, love.”
With an awkward nod, you pick the one that's redder than the rest. Throwing it towards John, he catches it with a practiced hand. He sits down before laying the fruit in front of the bird. You watch it unfold, the pigeon hops on the table, beak pecking at the seeds. You're intrigued at their interaction.
John sips at his drink, still in his sleep clothes. Toned arms in full display from the loose tank top he sports. Pajama pants hanging low on his hips, silk bonnet on his head. He only has one sock on his feet, you tilt your head.
“What happened to your sock?” You point at his bare foot curiously.
“Hmm?” He looks down, and he chuckles like he just realized the missing article of clothing. “Don't know, probably kicked it off while I was sleepin’”
“Oh,” you blink, “you should get ready, we might miss our target.”
He fakes salutes at you, drinking casually from his mug as you leave the rooftop. He doesn't miss how you didn't take your dish with you. Sighing, he watches the pigeon eat his fill.
—
You and John arrive at a pub. It's dim inside with only a few miserable patrons sitting sparsely at different corners of the musty establishment. They all look miserable, all having expressions from different points of the human emotion. But there's only one face you're observing— your target.
He sits alone on the bar stool, back hunched, eyes red and nursing a half filled pint of beer. Holding his face in his hand, blond hair raked in between his fingers, bomber jacket hanging loosely on his form, bags under his sagging eyes. He's the picture of someone who's on the bottom of the barrel.
John guides you with his hand hovering on your back. Not touching, at the same time still close, you are supposed to be a couple after all. You slide into a booth that has the perfect view of the target, but still out of his sight and out of earshot. The leather seat is worn down, tiny bits of it are ripped, at least it's not sticky. He orders for you, and you observe how he slyly roams his eyes towards the man, looking out for the keys.
He comes back with a plate of chips and dip. “Thought it would be weird not to order anythin’”
“Good call,” you take a chip whilst your eyes only briefly leave the target's back. “Thought you'd buy me a pint.”
“Did you want a pint? This early? Do you want to talk about it?” He half jokes as he takes a smaller chip.
“No,” you scoff, “and no. I just thought you'd order it instead of this.”
“You're not the only perceptive one in this relationship.” John looks over his shoulder to quickly do a once over at the forlorn man.
“Did you see where he's keeping it?”
“Inside his jacket, right side.”
You nod, “Is he carrying?”
“Not that I can tell.” He shrugs, licking the salt off his finger. “So, why'd you join?”
“Really? We're doing that?” You watch as the man gulps down his remaining drink and then orders a new one immediately.
“Yes, we're doin' that. Won't that make us work better together? To get to know each other a bit more?”
“Fine,” you silently huff. “No one else would take me, this is a last resort, I guess?”
“Bullshit, love, I think anyone would be happy to have you in their…agency?”
“Flattery won't get you anywhere, birdman.” A small smile appears on your lips, he beams at you. “Besides, who else is hiring for someone with the specific skill set that I have?”
He hums, while turning subtly to take a peek at the target. Returning his attention to you after seeing the blonde man still hunched in his stool, John takes another chip. “True, did you get kicked out from the last one?”
“Not really,” you stare at the crack on the wooden table. “You?”
“Not really,” he shrugs and you roll your eyes.
“You MI6?” He asks casually. “This your first time in London?”
“I'm not answering either of those questions.”
“C’mon,” he wiggles his left hand, the wedding band shines in the pub light. “Husband, remember? ‘sides, I won't tell anyone.”
You place your elbows on the table, smiling sarcastically at him. After a beat for his anticipation, you grin wider. “No.”
His shoulders fall, a chortle escaping his lips. “Cheeky.” Pointing an accusing finger at you, he quickly looks behind him, only to find the target sluggishly exiting the pub. “He's on the move.”
You both follow the drunk man like gravity is pulling you towards him. Walking the streets of busy downtown London, stranger's faces whizz past you. John has his hands casually in his pockets, yet he stays close to you, eyes flicking in the corners to check on you.
“Why don't you ask me a question? Y’know tit for tat?” He waits patiently for you to answer back, hell he'll even take a grunt at this point.
“Okay,” you surprisingly start the conversation on his behalf. “Have you killed anyone?” The passing pedestrians don't seem to notice you and the morbid subject.
Your partner snorts, nose scrunched up, eyes glued on the staggering target. “Nah. Have you?”
“I call bullshit,” you dodge a distracted woman scrolling on her phone. “Anyway, I have. I'm not exactly proud of it or flaunting it if you're thinking that I'm doing that.”
“Good, once you start flaunting it like a bloody trophy, you've lost it.”
You hum in agreement, the sound of a deep rumble in your chest as you two turn a corner. “Why do you think hihi needs us to nick the car?”
“Hihi” he chuckles, you turn to him with a serious face. “There's probably a stash of confidential information in the trunk or somethin’”
“Maybe a stash of weapons?” The man in front of you stumbles. “I don't see him as the type to harbor secret documents.”
John nods, “a highly infectious disease then?”
“Christ, we better drive carefully once we get a hold of it.” You turn to him briefly. “Maybe it's a really expensive sports car and he's all sad and mopey because he's gone broke after buying it?”
“Got a whole story now, huh?” He pushes you lightly with his leather clad shoulder, and you smile softly. “You good at pickpocketing him?” Your partner gestures with his chin, said target is walking into traffic. He seems unbothered by the oncoming vehicles. John curses under his breath.
“We should do that now before he kills himself.” You speed walk across the crossing, grabbing the drunk man before a car hits him.
Arms enveloping around his bomber jacket, swiping him away and quickly carrying him to the footpath, you save him before an suv hits you both. The car honks loudly and angrily as your target groans in your arms like he's about to hurl the contents of his stomach.
John punches the hood of the car, pointing at the driver accusingly. A distraction for you to take the keys hidden in the man's jacket.
“You almost hit my fuckin' wife, you wanker!” Your partner yells, covering the sound of jingling keys in your expert hand. He plays the part well.
Surprisingly, the target straightens up in your hold, a split second after you pocketed the car keys inside your own coat.
“Y-you,” he slurs, feet struggling to keep himself upright. “Dickhead!” Slamming his fists on the hood with a loud *thunk, he joins John who gives you a look and a shrug. The drunken yelling gets louder and the driver now exits his car with an equally angry look.
John takes this opportunity to come back to your side, hand holding your elbow, he leads you away from the screaming match as more and more people try to intervene.
“Got it?” He whispers closely to the shell of your ear, sending goosebumps to rise in your arms.
“‘course I did.” You jingle the keys inside your pocket. “I'm not an amateur.”
Playing along, he laughs, hand still holding your elbow softly. “Good job, missus.”
With an awkward chuckle, you lean away from him. “Just so you know, I'm not in this for…the romance.” You bite the inside of your cheek. “I'm not looking to date my co-worker.”
John raises his hands in mock surrender. “Fine by me. if the situation calls for us to actually act as a couple—”
“We'll act as a couple, I won't fuss if that's what you're saying.”
“Good, now let's get this bloody car.”
—
“A fucking ‘99 toyota corolla?” You stare in disbelief at the rusting metal. “At least it's one of the good models.” Kicking the wheel, you expect it to tumble over like in an old timey cartoon.
John is crouched way down to check the bottom of the car. “It's clear.” He stands up fully, cleaning his hands on his jeans. You wince at his movements. “What?”
“Nothing.” You open the driver's side, the smell of alcohol and something musty hits your nose. “Nasty.” Coughing, you air it out by opening another door.
“You know your cars?”
“A little bit.” You say with your nose pinched. Sparing him a look, he stands in the parking lot like he's still waiting for the rest of the story. “What?”
“Throw me a bone here, love.” You roll your eyes. “Why do you know so much about cars?”
“I said I know a little bit.” You place your hands on your hips like an exasperated mother whose son keeps asking weird questions about dinosaurs. “I dated a mechanic.” You say flatly.
“Really? Did you date a pickpocket too? Or do you date people so you could absorb their skills like kirby?”
“Are you jealous?” You tease him with a comment you didn't have the foresight that it would backfire.
“We are married.” He says matter-of-fact with a killer smirk and eyes glinting with mischief. “And this is technically our honeymoon so—”
“Get in the fucking car, birdman.”
—
The wheel is sticky under your hands, you have an intense urge to wash your hands or to at least grab a sanitizer. Apparently your disgust shows on your face, for John chortles next to you.
“What?” You say through gritted teeth.
“Nothin’, you just look like someone shat in your tea.”
“The wheel is sticky.”
“I have a handkerchief with me, d’you want me to?” Taking out the dark green cloth from his jean pockets, he's already twisting in his seat to wipe it clean.
“Please,” you ask softly, hands sliding down to make space for him.
Your hand never left the wheel while he cleans it for you. John's seatbelt is unclasped so he could have more movement, his face is close to your vision, warmth blanketing over you. He's so close that you can smell his cologne, it's a different one from yesterday, it's more flowery with a hint of mint. You spot a hidden mole under his ear. A tiny dot that is just begging to be poked.
Without thinking, you press softly with the pad of your finger. He yelps, flinching away instinctively. Looking at you with wide eyes and mouth agape, you're ready to be called a nasty nickname, or be cussed out with a loud voice. Instead of what you're anticipating, a laugh bellows out, a rumbly laugh that makes you smile and let out an almost silent chortle.
“I think you found my mole.” John holds the side of his neck with a grin. “You let your urges get to you, love.”
“Sorry,” you keep your eyes on the road to hide your embarrassment.
“It's fine, your hand was just cold. Ask me next time, I have a few more cute moles on me.”
“Nevermind, you ruined it.” With a roll of your eyes and a smile, you park at the coordinates. “Nice acting back there, I see an Emmy nomination for you in the future.”
“Thanks, I barely remember what I said. You sure this is the place?” John peeks at the map pulled up on your phone. “Shit, we're here.”
The entire street is suburban, large colonial houses lining the sides, tall pine trees decorate the sidewalks. There's not a lot of people walking by, save for a couple pedestrians walking their dogs, the place is devoid of people.
“What now?” You unclasp your seatbelt to twist around in your seat so you could observe the neighborhood.
“Hihi told us to bring it here, so maybe we should—?” John lets out a high pitched scream that also has you yelling in surprise, not from whatever made him shriek but from the sound that escaped him. “What the fuck!”
Leaning slightly to look at what had his knickers in a bunch, you stare blankly at a bespectacled man in a bespoke suit. The man gives you and your partner an apologetic look, he points for John to open the window.
He turns towards you with an eyebrow raised. “Should I?”
“Yeah, I think you should.”
“What if he's got a gun?” He whispers.
“We also have guns, John. I'll cover you, don't worry. Maybe this is what hihi asked us to do.”
“Easy for you to say, you're not the one opening it.” He gives you a glare before rolling the window down an inch. “Hi, mate. What can we do for you?”
“The car,” the stranger points a lengthy finger at the wheel. His voice is crackly and gravelly, like he just smoked a pack of cigarettes before he went up to the car. “You're late, but that doesn't matter. How much do I owe you, folks?”
“Uh, the usual.” You say with fake confidence.
“Good,” the lean man straightens up, “mind gettin’ out of the car then?”
“Right, sorry, bruv.” John, gives you one look before exiting the car. He's nervous and so are you.
As the doors shut, the man flexes his open palms expectantly for the keys, to which you hand off immediately. He gives you bad vibes, maybe your intuition tells you to run for the hills.
“Thank you, sweetheart. I'll wire the money to the usual account.” The nickname sends shivers down your spine.
He closes the door and starts up the car. With a splutter of the exhaust, he slowly drives away. You and John watch, standing side by side in the middle of the street in confusion.
“He was weird, right? Not to mention it was too easy.” You turn your head to look at him. “Maybe they're trying to ease us in?”
“It was all weird, not just him—” A blast coming from the car interrupts him, the sheer force of it sends you two down on the rough pavement.
Your cheeks are incredibly warm from the searing heat of the bomb. The light from it blinds the two of you.
Palms skinned, trousers slashed at the knees, your ears ring loudly like an annoying buzz from a broken microphone. Coughing loudly, smoke fills your lungs, debris is scattered around the once pristine neighborhood. There's blood on the concrete, you can't hear John calling for you, your vision is blurred by the cloud of smoke. His hand reaches for you, and your instincts tell you to run.
“Fuck!” He yells, running beside you at full speed. “What the fuck!”
“Keep running!” You yell as he turns around to check on a woozy you. “I'm fine!”
Someone behind you screams for you to stop so you and your partner run faster. Knees aching, thighs burning, you don't stick around to look who's running after you. The unmistakable click of a gun’s safety is loud in your eardrums, even if your lungs threaten to give out, you sprint right next to John as he turns a corner and into a carwash.
The smell of soap and heavy pine scented car freshener hits your bloody nose. He tugs you towards the plastic curtains and inside what you presume as the employee lounge, someone yells after you but it falls on deaf ears as you and John continue your escape.
Exiting the establishment, the metal doors open to a messy alleyway. Boxes upon boxes of trash and god knows what are littered all around. The pungent smell makes you want to hurl, or maybe that's the adrenaline having a weird effect on your stomach.
You two find reprieve for a second, huffing, trying to get oxygen back in. Hands on your aching thighs, the concrete below you slowly turns crimson as your mysterious injury drips precious blood on the messy ground.
“You're bleedin’” He says in between inhales. There's rustling of fabric next to you, and you feel the warm cloth placed on your forehead.
“No shit, Sherlock.” Waving the drenched cloth away, you scoff lightly. “Don't.”
“What am I supposed to do? Let you bleed?”
You stand up straight, blood coating your lashes as you stare at him. “I've got a better idea.” Placing your palms on the source of the pain, you let your blood coat it.
“What—?” You roughly smudge the warm ichor all over his face and shirt, the plain white of his t-shirt turns a dark pink shade with your touch. Leaning away, he gives you a slow nod of understanding. “Ease us in, huh?”
“I'm rarely wrong and this is one of the rare instances.”
“Let's hope you're right about this one.”
—
You kick the backdoor open with ferocity. It bangs loud against the wall, getting the restaurant staff's attention.
“Help please! My husband!” John's limp arm is around your shoulders, your hand gripping on to his waist to add that one detail that would convince them of your innocence. “There was a bomb!” You don't let the bystanders touch you or John whilst you quickly lumber through their dinghy bathroom. There's murmurs and chairs scraping on the tiled floors as you lock the door behind you.
The bathroom is small, tiles yellowed from the years, the stench of bleach itching your nose. The lightbulb above you whirs like it's about to burst out. He leaves your side to take off his bloodied jacket, tossing it outside from the window— his exit, you presume.
“Your phone.” He holds his empty hand out to you, when you only raise an eyebrow at him, he sighs, eyes turning soft, adrenaline melting out of his system. “Please, c’mon, love, you got me sayin’ please and shit.”
“What for?” You try desperately to wipe the blood off your face.
“To contact you, just in case you need help.”
“I can handle it.”
“I know you can, how else did you get the job then? Just let me,” his voice wavers a bit but he corrects himself with a timed clear of his smoke filled throat. “Please, Jane.”
After pausing, you take your phone out from your pocket to give it to him. He enters his number after seeing your home screen of a basic mountain range.
“There.” Giving the phone back, you expected him to give his too, but he doesn't as he's already halfway out of the window. “I'll see you at home?”
You let out a chuckle, “yeah, I'll see you at home.” He gives you one last smile as he exits the small bathroom and into the streets where numerous sirens go off from ambulances and fire trucks.
—
It was a blur the entire trip home, you bought a loose hoodie from a thrift store and then promptly discarded your blood soaked coat in the bottom of a dumpster. It was a shame though, you liked that coat, it had real wool in the lining. The uber drive was thankfully uneventful, if the driver noticed the remnants of dried blood on your skin he didn't mention it. You gave him five stars for it.
An empty house greets you, John's shoes are nowhere to be seen in the hallway, nor his jacket. You worry for a second, mind rushing through possibilities. The rubber band burns as you pull it back and release it with a harsh thwack against your skin.
The water is cool as you shower, your blood mixing in and pooling around your feet and into the drain like a macabre whirlpool. You don't let your mind wonder about the man that you turned into a street pancake. Instead, you focus on yourself in the mirror.
You stare at the gash near your hairline, the skin around it is angry, leaving a throbbing sensation. There's also a few scratches on your face, especially around your chin. Your main concern is the large gash. It doesn't look like it needs to be stitched together though, which is a good thing since you don't have the energy to even tend to the tiny scratches on your palms. Cleaning and bandaging the wound, you put on clean pajamas and head to bed.
You stop in your tracks when you see John lying face down on your bed. Still in his iron soaked clothes, save for the jacket. You glare at his boot, it's off the bed but you still grit your teeth at the thought of it grazing your bedsheets.
He senses your presence, and he lifts his head up, chin helping prop himself up. “Your bed is better than mine.” His multi coloured eyes are laced with exhaustion, dull yet there's still a spark when he looks at your annoyed gaze.
“Who are you? Goldilocks?”
“Yeah, I ate your porridge too.”
“Damn, not my porridge.” Too tired to fight him, you slither into bed next to him, an arm's length away from his equally tired body. Staring at the ceiling, you feel his eyes on you. “What's up with your eyes?”
“It's called heterochromia—”
“I know what it is, I'm asking why you're staring at me like you're about to devour me.”
“I could devour you if you want.” He says nonchalantly but with the charisma of a man who knows what he's talking about.
“Maybe next time.” You blindly pat his shoulder which ended up with you patting his cheek. He hums at your touch, a deep rumble that you felt through the mattress. “Not bad for our first day huh?” Lifting your hand away, he twists on the bed to mirror your position. Now you're both gazing at the beige ceiling like it owes you money.
You're tired but for some reason you're fighting off the sandman from sprinkling sand in your heavy eyes.
“I lied back there, I've killed before.” His voice is merely above a whisper but you heard it as loud as a trumpet blaring in your ears.
“I know, you wouldn't be here if you haven't.” You answer with empathy. “If it makes you feel better, I've been to London before. Twice, on a family trip and a decade later…on vacation.”
“Glad to know.” He taps the inside of your elbow as a thank you for trusting him. “You CIA?” He blurts out above the comfortable silence.
“God no.” You truthfully say.
“And here I thought you're an alumni of the culinary institute of America.”
For the first time in years, you let out the loudest laugh you could muster. Snort and all.
Your ‘husband’ joins in with his own rambunctious laughter, the bed shakes at the loud guffaws. The happy sound fills the room, and your heart feels like it isn't as heavy as before. It's still there, the heaviness, but it isn't as cumbersome. You now realize that you've only snapped the rubber band on your wrist a couple times today.
An annoying tapping sound interrupts you both. Simultaneously sitting up by the elbows, you two tilt your head at the intruder.
“It's that pigeon again.” You actually smile at the thought of the same bird coming back to your house like a white strand of hair that keeps growing even after you've pulled it out. “I think we should name him. Something like Terry or Flanders.” You chuckle softly.
“Jeff.”
You shake your head. “Nope, doesn't suit him, what if it's a she?”
“His name is Jeff.” John turns to look at you, eyes full of certainty.
You turn to him, blinking rapidly in realization. “He's yours. He's your bird, isn't he?”
“You are insightful.” He smiles, a soft one that fills you with endearment that you haven't felt in years. “Met him a few months ago, fed him once and now he wouldn't leave me alone. I guess he followed me here too.”
“Y’know, pigeons are really smart, kinda like crows. He probably thinks you're his daddy.”
“Does that make you Jeff's mummy?”
“I don't want to be Jeff's mom.” Said bird taps on your window again, like he senses that you're currently talking about him.
“Too bad,” he raises his marriage finger, showing you the gold band. “He's our kid, love.”
You smile, hiding it with a huff and by laying back down with a gentle thump.
“Can I tell you somethin’?” His face pops up in your vision, you nod in place. “My real name is—”
“Let me stop you right there.” You sit back up, almost hitting his head with your own at how fast you sat. “There's a reason why they gave us fake names. Whether we like it or not, It's John,” You point at him. “And Jane Smith.” You point at yourself. “Until they dismiss us, that's our names. Not whatever you were about to tell me.”
“But you know it's not our names, right?”
“Of course I do. You don't look like a John, John.”
“And you don't look like a Jane. I just…” He sighs. “Just want someone to know my real name. We almost died back there, what if we stayed a minute longer inside that car? What then? I don't want to die with someone else's name written on my grave.” His words are genuine, but it sounds like he has said these words before.
Still, you sympathize with him. You've gone undercover before, taken someone’s name instead of yours for months. Those missions were so long and tiring that you almost forgot your own name. But it was…survivable because he was with you. John has no one, and this time you have no one. No one that calls your real name, no one that can identify your body if you suddenly croak in the middle of a mission.
No one else but John and Jane Smith.
So with bated breath, you give him the go ahead. “Okay, tell me. But I can't promise that I'll call you by that name.”
“Don't want to get in trouble with hihi?”
“No,” you scoff. “I don't give a shit what that robot says. I just don't want to die with a stranger's name. So fuck it, tell me yours and I'll mine.”
He smiles the same smile that he gave you before he went out of that dinky bathroom window. The smile that reassures you, a smile that tells you everything will be alright.
“It's Hobie,” Hobie finally says. “Hobie Brown.”
“It suits you better. Thought it was Jeff.” You whisper, and you give him your real name. The same name you were born with, not the fabricated ones your former agency has given you, not the ones your new company has given you.
He whispers back your name, tongue rolling off it like honey. Then, Hobie smiles again, nodding and those heterochromatic eyes bore into you comfortably like the sun's rays kissing your skin in the summer.
“You look like one. Definitely suits you better than Jane.” You smile shyly as you lose the fight against sandman.
In Hobie's mind, he hopes that knowing your real name is enough, enough to keep you alive, enough of an incentive for him to keep you safe, since you're not just a typical Jane anymore that the company randomly selected for him, no, you're Y/N L/N, and he'll do anything to protect you better. Because maybe, just maybe, knowing your real name this early would work, and you'll outlive all the Janes that he himself has outlived.
As you fall asleep next to him, he stares at Jeff the third. In that luxurious house, within those bulletproof walls, and in your room lies a deep anger in him. An anger that keeps him sane in all those years trying to pay his debt. He needs to end the cycle, not just for him but for all the agents that are in the same shoes as him. For now he lets you sleep soundly, for now, he plots the demise of the people behind the screen.
The laptop flashes a new message from the company.
> Mission complete: 3 fails remaining
> Good job, next mission?
Support banner by @cafekitsune ❤️
A/N: thank you for reading!!! Please consider reblogging if you liked it ❤️❤️❤️
#1k special#hobie brown x reader#spider punk x reader#the kr8tor's creations#atsv fanfiction#atsv fanfic#atsv x reader#atsv hobie#hobie brown x fem!reader#hobie brown x you#hobie x reader#hobie fluff#spy au#mr and mrs smith au#spy! hobie au#spy! hobie#spy! hobie x reader#cw food mention#tw blood#cw violence mention#tw death#cw vomit mention
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Hobie Brown Headcanons
long post ahead. will put as much as i can under the cut but i will have a.... loose table of contents.
and im not feeding you everything. i need more content to drip feed you later.
the inspo is driving me crazy but the hands are refusing to write.
the table:
backstory
food
british
animals
lmk if ppl want this to be split up into individual posts per category. cuz its l o n g
BACKSTORY:
Not based on the comics. purely my own attempt at writing his backstory and his particular villains.
Hobie's Doc Oc was a university professor pressured by Osborn's regime to produce weapons. Hobie had met the guy while crashing a university class, but nothing more than that. Octavius snapped and took the revolution to the extreme. he built a WMD and planned to use it on the city. Hobie talked octavius down and disarmed the weapon.
Hobie's lizard was his close friend and bandmate who got jealous over their lead singer's affections towards hobie. they were close friends until hobie started drifting away. curtis was bitter and never really forgave him. the final straw was when hobie returned in full, having just abandoned his spider suit. the band is back together but curtis still has hard feelings. he knew vaguely about hobie's connection with spiderman but thought that it was some kind of special deal or friendship which was just another nail in the coffin. he turns himself into the lizard and attacks hobie, demanding answers and refusing to listen.
the above is just an excuse to hurt hobie really bad >:3 i love my angst and my beating my muses up. i wanted to break his ribs.
electro was a civilian who just happened to get struck by lightning. he is the sole reason hobie has insulated all of his gear and one of the reasons all of his spikes can shoot excess electricity like one of those funky little electrode balls. hobie took one look at this guy and immediately got to work.
Kraven was a bounty hunter hired and possibly engineered by osborn and fisk to hunt down hobie. classic kraven activities. he tried to drown hobie in the thames. hobie managed to escape but couldn't breathe or eat properly for a week after the attack
hobie's ship was hauled from the local junkyard. It was originally just used as a figure head to lead the charge from the government locked dam blocking off water. it somehow survived so he uses it as his hq.
hobie is immune to his scorpion's venom after being stung so many times and stealing samples of it to build up an immunity. yes it hurt. yes it sucked. but it worked. (loosely inspired by a fanfic)
the above are not in chronological order. mostly.
FOOD:
Hobie's world doesn't have a lot of spices. it's a closed state unless importing 'important' materials like lumber, steel and other sciency stuff, food is a lower priority or just a restricted luxury. the spice trade has regressed to something like the 1600s where foreign spices are held by those in power purely as a status symbol. the common man might have access to salt, sugar and cream, but anything else- especially anything spicy- is a luxury item.
hobie would love spicy food. i just dont think he's gotten much exposure to it. day one out of e-138 he opened a bag of spicy chips in the cafeteria, touched one and exploded.
exotic/foreign fruits fall under this same category but for more legit reasons of travel and lack of safe storage. so for example: mangoes, oranges/citrus, kiwi, pomegranates.
boba would freak him the fuck out. he has no idea what those little jiggly things are and its only made worse when one of the kids inevitably shows him the hamster 'is it worth it' meme. he becomes scarred for life.
if you take too long to take a bite out of whatever you're holding and hobie is hungry, he will just lean over and take a bite out of it. sandwich? bitten. spaghetti? stolen off the fork. chocolate bar? wrapper and bar, gone.
his favorite flavor of cake is chocolate or caramel. sue me im projecting onto him
BRITISH
he holds out his pinky when holding cups. it's just an unconscious thing that turns conscious once someone calls it out. in which case he sticks it out even further
flips the police and the royal family off regularly with the one fingered or the two fingered version. will only respect the french for inventing the creative two fingered fuck you, but nothing else.
has a winter fit that is just like a pile of whatever sweaters he has and two scarves. and long socks that make the space in his tight boots even more tight. sometimes cuts off circulation to his feet.
loves going to pubs and just chatting with people. also loves picking fights with the drunk people. Particularly the irish. he thinks their accents are funny and has long arguments with them while they're both speaking absolute gibberish.
knows french but only the insults. has an arsenal of french insults he will just whip out of his back pocket and drop on someone's head.
not really a british thing but i bet he doesn't know how to ride a bike. he was a) too tall and b) not willing to get his entire skeleton rattled by riding over the cobbled streets of london.
wimpy's fan. (its like the british version of mcdonalds but less popular and less famous. according to my research).
ANIMALS
Hobie keeps pigeons. he built a little house when he was bored and was surprised to find three pigeons hiding from the rain underneath it the next day. he didn't really intend to keep them but they nested and he kept bringing them food and water. he did name the brown one hobie jr.
hobie has a cat. again, not really 'has' but rather 'it broke into his boat and wont leave'. he didn't name her because he can't think of a good one. for the longest time he had no idea she was living in his floorboards but later discovered a hole in the side of his boat and found a crawlspace just large enough for a kitten.
he is freaked out by snakes. not as in a fear of snakes. but rather in utter disbelief that they can be the size of a human person. he's read about and probably seen the average snake, about the size of an arm. but anything larger than that will make his jaw drop right off of his face
he did have a symbiote dog for a short time. the dog was badly hurt and the passive symbiote had merged with its body to try and help it. he offered it a place to stay and rest and it happily agreed. it followed him around for the short while they had together and one day went off on its own.
he still sees that dog around (affectionately named 'spider-mutt') and offers it head scratches or belly rubs but they always part ways sooner than later.
loves opossums. thinks they look funny.
part two? maybe....
might add more to this as my brain keeps turning.
#atsv#hobie brown#hobie brown headcanons#this has been accumulating for#since the movie came out#i lost my mind#still losing it actually
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𝒆𝒗'𝒓𝒚 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 𝒘𝒆 𝒔𝒂𝒚 𝒈𝒐𝒐𝒅𝒃𝒚𝒆— diluc x f!reader. 560. drabble.
speakeasy owner!diluc and singer!reader. he has a crush.
The lights are hot. The stainless steel of the microphone is hot beneath your hand. There’s dashes of red lipstick upon the reflective metal that you don’t bother wiping away. Sweat perspiration against your brow, and you bask in the washes of applause that come with the end of your set– With the end of the night.
You run a gloved hand over your chest, the softness of your decolletage that’s pressed up and the diamonds that rest upon it. Another round of applause alights amongst the crowd. Like a cat in sunlight, you could bask under the spotlight and the adoration for hours.
Alas, you don’t have hours.
“I’m afraid that’s all folks,” You respond to their cheers. Pausing, momentarily, to take a sip of the water that had been set aside for you in a scotch glass. Back to your spotlight. “Don’t want to overstay our welcome.”
Your gaze flashes over to the bar, where the same man who hired you for the night stands behind the bar.
“Why don’t we give it up one more time for the band?” You suggest, and are rewarded with cheers galore. “And another time for the handsome young man behind the bar who’s responsible for gettin’ me up here.”
You send a not-unnoticed wink towards the man in question. The crowd heralds Diluc with their appreciation. You take another well-deserved sip of water during the time.
“Maybe,” You croon, “If we tip well enough he’ll let me sing you home. With the promise you’ll come see me next week.”
Glancing back at the band, you give them a grin. “We’ll let the band pick. Somethin’ for the nighttime, somethin’ like a goodbye.”
Your pianist gives a few dips of notes. You smile warmly at him, then turn back. “See you next week,” You say, before the lyrics leave your lips in time with the notes. The crowd filters, as do the words to the song, and soon it’s only gentle piano filling the dim warmth of the speakeasy.
Standing against the counter in the emptiness, only you and Diluc remain. You’ve pulled your jacket on, covering the luxury of your gown. He stands with the till open, counting out bills to give you.
“You were really good tonight,” Diluc says, glancing up with the bills in hands. He carefully places them in your hand. “The crowd loves you.”
“I love the crowd,” You reply, counting the bills before placing them in your purse. “Same time next week?”
“Please,” Diluc says, the plea slipping from his lips.
You smile, “I would be honored.”
Diluc nods. “You have a ride home?”
“I just live down the street,” You reply.
Diluc’s jaw clenches for just a mere moment before he relaxes. “Still set on walking home by yourself?”
“What’s the alternative?” You inquire, tilting your head to the side.
“I have two legs and can walk down a street just as well as you can,” Diluc says, the till shutting with a clink. “That is, if you’ll let me.”
You sigh, making a show of your thoughts while you rest your chin on your hand. “Alright, Mr. Diluc. Walk me home. It’s nothin’ big, is it?”
Diluc shakes his head, despite the way his heart hammers. He rounds the corner of the bar, pulling on his own jacket as he does so. He even offers his arm to you. After all. It’s nothin’ big.
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The Cobbler
Cordelia wasn't supposed to be a pirate. Most pirates weren't, of course, but she imagined that they'd started out as sailors or thieves and transitioned in one direction or the other. For her part, she'd only been a cobbler, a mender of old boots: she'd never stolen nor sailed at all, let alone served as a buccaneering captain. But this ship had needed a crew, and so she'd cobbled one together.
It was all in aid of the mission, or so the prophets had explained. The Caterian Empire had hung for too long like a shadow across their coastline, lurking just across the water from the town where Cordelia had been born, raised, and hoped to one day retire, if they survived this voyage of the damned. Their island was small, and couldn't muster much of an army to slow the Empire's ravenous advance, which had already consumed so many of their peers.
But it could muster her - and she'd pulled together the rest.
"Why have you come to me?" she'd protested at the time, when the prophets appeared at her door. Cordelia had understood their warnings of imminent doom, the threat of conquest, the need for a chosen one to defeat the evil once and for all - she just hadn't understood why that meant her. "I'm not a soldier. I'm a shoemaker, for crying out loud. I'm not the sort of person who wins battles."
"Well, that's sort of the point," one of the prophets had replied, knocking one of a pair of boots off the shelf behind him. "Are you familiar with the concept of langrage?"
"Not unless that's you struggling to speak ours."
"It's a nautical term," he continued, ignoring her. "When a ship runs out of conventional shot, it loads its guns with whatever lies handy: nuts and bolts, cutlery and clockwork, anything that might tear an opposing sail to shreds. Even shoes, in a pinch. Sometimes they even do it by choice, a cannonade of loose ephemera over your traditional balls of steel."
"That still doesn't answer my question," Cordelia stood firm, demonstrating some of the latter. "Why are you in my home? What do you want from me?"
"We've studied the histories," another said, and from the lines around his eyes she believed him. "Any sufficiently potent evil, your archetypical dark lord or dragon, is always defeated by a motley band of unlikely heroes. Always and only. The soldiers on their own can't make it all the way. We don't know why, but something about having a mixture of backgrounds and skillsets works out better."
"Many organisations have found they benefit from diverse hiring practices," the first prophet said. "Why not an army?"
The other shoe dropped, and Cordelia leant against a wall, momentarily deflated. "You want to build an army... of people like me?"
"Well, sort of."
"A load of old cobblers?"
"We thought so too, but it checks out." The prophet paused to stack the boots back up. "But the point is to find people who aren't like you. A real assortment of profiles, you know? Think about all the tools you use in your craft, the rasp and last and awl and all of that. Each serves a different function. That's the sort of effect we're going for."
"But who, specifically?" she asked, still wondering why they'd chosen her. Perhaps they hadn't, and just knocked on a random door. "How will you decide upon this perfect, random mix?"
"Well," they said. "We were rather hoping that you would."
Cordelia tried her best to follow their approach. If she was planning this endeavour of her own accord - perhaps after some trauma to the head - she knew that there were certain people she'd look to recruit for her crew, and others who she wouldn't trust to scrub the decks. But if the prophets had chosen her house at random, she would have to do the same.
Her list of customers was a solidly mixed assortment of potential allies, and she thought about drawing names from a hat, before realising that she already had them in order: she had a schedule of commissions, and figured she'd just press-gang those who'd come to her. It would mean acting out a reverse Cinderella: choosing anyone who had a shoe that didn't fit.
She had to start somewhere, so she started with those who already owed her for repairs, including Aldous, the actor whose boots had been shelved by the door. A career of treading the boards had worn them down. She wondered how he'd feel about walking the plank.
"I've got your boots," she said, once he opened the door. There was no time for pleasantries. They'd have plenty of chance to catch up on the open seas.
"Ah, wonderful." He beamed for his audience of one. "You know, costumes come and go, but you absolutely cannot beat a comfy pair of shoes. One does so much of one's work on one's feet, and people really do underestimate-"
"Speaking of which," she interrupted, wishing to be spared the soliloquy. "Are you in the market for a new role?"
"Well, one would never rule oneself out at first blush, so to say, at least without-"
"Excellent. It's yours."
"Mine? I mean, one's? But what is it?"
"First mate."
"A nautical tale?"
"A pirate adventure."
"Oh, how marvellous! Yes, one always fancied oneself as a swashbuckler, but of course such roles are rare nowadays. When do we start rehearsals?"
"The ship is being readied as we speak. We leave at dawn, two days for now." Then, because it was important to maintain a sense of fun. "Please bring your own costume."
It hadn't been how she'd pictured it, until the prophets had explained. The Caterian Empire was a fortress, their borders well-defended, and even a small band of adventurers would struggle to sneak all the way into the palace at its heart. But sea was a different matter, and every now and again the Emperor found the need to travel to one vassal isle or the next, placing himself uniquely vulnerable to attack.
"If you challenge them under the flags of this island, there will be reprisals here first," they'd said. "But under a black flag, you can operate in the shadows. Befriend the others who live there, if you can. Form a pirate fleet, guerrillas of the sea, chipping away at the Empire's naval strength. If they can't leave the mainland, their armies are irrelevant. That is how you'll win."
"By starting at a disadvantage."
"The heroes always do. They're never under an official flag, the admiral of their own armada. They're rogues, rascals, underdogs against overwhelming odds. The less likely your victory, the more inevitable it will be."
Cordelia's next recruit came to her, which was convenient, although she wouldn't have chosen her in a million years. Janina worked in the citrus orchards, and was famously all fingers and thumbs with anything smaller than a clementine, but she just about managed to knock on the door with a pair of shoes in her other hand.
"I'm sorry to bother you with this," he said, handing one over with some gratitude. "But I'm afraid I've done something awful to the laces. They'd unravelled when I came to put them on this morning, and I seem to have made more of a mess trying to rethread them. Sorry, I know it's a difficult one."
"Mhm." Cordelia held her tongue, and inspected the eyelets around it. She didn't know much about sailing, but she suspected a pirate's life involved some quantity of ropes and knots. If she was choosing a crew from her customers, she might choose those who tied the neatest bows. But the prophets had stressed the hodgepodge nature of successful groups, thrown together by fate. She would have to trust in the randomness of shoe entropy.
"Oh, thank you so much," Janina said, once the first aglet was successfully laced back through. "I don't know what I'd do without your help. Is there anything I can do to make it worth your while?"
"Funny you should say that," Cordelia said. "I'm looking for a quartermaster, and a bulk order of oranges. have some concerns about scurvy."
So it was that she formed her makeshift crew. Aldous and Janina were followed by Leonore, a smith whose steel toecaps had come loose, and Florian, a draper who had simply lost his sole. As the prophets had insisted, they were a diverse mix of characters as well as trades. Leonore was a pillar of the community, as straight-laced as they came, whereas Florian had been a misfit his whole life - although Cordelia had given him some insoles to help with that.
"Have you ever made a sail before?" she asked, making her own stitches where the rubber had come away.
"I have many customers," he said, taken aback.
"No - I mean for a ship. I'm looking to commission one. I'll need help with the installation, too."
"Oh, well. Yes, I could certainly help with that."
She felt a bit of a heel, fixing his shoe for so great a cost, weaving him into her multicoloured tapestry. None of these people knew how to fight, or sail; life at sea would be hard for them, even without the dangers of rebellion . But she was in the same boat, and supposedly that was the point. They were bystanders turned to weapons: collateral damage that went the other way, a human sword instead of a shield. That was what the prophets said would work.
So it was they assembled two days later, arrayed across the deck like cards of different suits. The prophets had arranged the ship, and dubbed it in her honour: the Shoemaker’s Levy, for the rabble she'd been able to rouse. Not the island's most seaworthy individuals, nor the most skilled, but those who'd had the most trouble walking on land.
Those who hadn't already been assigned were quickly shoehorned into roles, but it would take a while before they could be called a crew. Even Cordelia would struggle to adjust to life as their captain: she'd always been a sole practitioner, only used to working with winklepickers and brothelcreepers, not actors and blacksmiths and the rest. She wasn't supposed to be a pirate, let alone their leader. But they would have to learn the ropes together, just as she'd once learnt about shoes. One foot after the other. One step at a time.
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Do you happen to have any thoughts, shenanigans, or ideas about Usagi and Leo from the apocalypse timeline? 👀
Any… hare-y conflicts hAHA… I’ll see myself out. /lh
Oh, anon. This. This is lovely!
(And it was supposed to be a one-shot but I'm splitting it into two, why do I keep doing this?!)
---
In another time, Miyamoto Usagi isn't attacked by a band of hired muscle sent from Japan by Lord Hijiki. No blue-masked turtle with a daring grin and flashing blades comes flipping into the vacant alley of the Hidden City bazaar to change Usagi's life forever with a quip on his silver tongue and wink to the baffled samurai he'd come to rescue like a damsel.
In another time, the Krang rip open the sky and run the humans underground, mixing with mutant and yokai kind for the first time in centuries for safety and security.
In another time, Usagi's sensei, Katsuichi—his father—is torn to pieces by a horde of infected Yokai before him and his little sister, Hana, roaring at them to run and leave him behind.
“Protect your sister! Live, Miyamoto Usagi!”
In another time, The United Council are formed--a (very) tentative alliance between the Council of Heads and the remaining human leaders of the United States to establish order and a semblance of peace as the world caves in, forcing everyone further underground.
It doesn't last longer than a year. Society finally crumbles, splitting into colonies across the country.
In another time, the survivors of the fabled Hamato Clan rise from the ashes of their own tragedy to take the lead of the Liberty Colony. Not all are on board with this, least of all the remnants of the crumbling Earth Protection Force, most notably their leader, Bishop.
In another time, Usagi joins the ranks to fight alongside the honourable (if unconventional) ninja clan, fulfilling his master's final order and honouring his own late ancestors to fight for those who cannot.
(The blue-masked turtle jokingly calls him “carrot cake” once, and Usagi decides he hates him.
It spurs a rivalry between them, which has half the base rolling their eyes, caught between exhaustion and fondness as they bicker like children every chance they get.
The other half starts a betting poll on how long it'll be before they finally kiss, for god's sake.)
In another time, the Krang break through their first base, and Usagi falls, injured. The blue-masked turtle—Leonardo—saves him from the jaws of a Krang hound, all grace, muscle and deadly steel dipped in searing rage. Usagi, speechless for once, lets Leonardo carry him to safety and passes out in his arms.
(Later, waking up in the makeshift infirmary, his sister cuddled under his left arm, Leonardo dozing fitfully on his right, Usagi stares at the turtle's pinched, restless face and decides he owes him his life.
A friendship blooms like a tentative rose among the thorns of a crumbling world, scathing jeers morphing into teasing jabs and scrappy spars in the vacant training hall. Their friends and family watch on with tolerant grins and, in the case of Donatello, mild jealousy but begrudging acceptance.
Soon, the jabs turn into hip bumps in the hallways, mirroring grins during training, brushing shoulders during war meetings, twinging hands during blackouts and lockdowns, sharing beds on colder nights and whispering secrets after screaming nightmares.
The rosebud blooms full and bright weeks later with Leonardo's awkward smile, sweaty palms and a stammered question that Usagi, hopelessly fond, answers with a kiss.
Donatello wins everyone's money.)
In another time, Usagi fails. A recon mission goes awry, and in her second-ever mission, Hana gets infected.
On his knees, he watches in frozen horror as his little sister, barely ten years old, writhes and screams in terror and agony as the Krang infection takes over. She begs her big brother through tears to kill her, spare her from turning, from hurting him.
It feels like hours, years, an eternity, infinity. In reality, it's only seconds as he slices Willow Branch through her chest.
Leonardo is there in the aftermath, stopping Usagi from taking his blind grief and rage out on the corpse of the Krang that killed his sister, yanking him away and holding him until his roars and struggles ebb, until they're on their knees in the abandoned office complex, Usagi sobbing his heart out in Leonardo's chest.
The days pass in a blur, but Leonardo is there, unfailing, patient, kind, loyal and true, and Usagi decides he loves him.
(A year later, standing among the gore and gravel of a rare but hard-earned victory against a legion of Krang, Usagi seeks Leonardo out. A fair distance away atop a fallen Mech suit, he stands tall and strong despite his exhaustion, covered in blood that's not his own, glowing in the spotlights of Donatello's searching drones. In that moment, he is beautiful, and Usagi doesn't—can't, won't—wait a second longer.
“Leonardo!” he calls.
Immediately, his boyfriend turns to find him, meeting his eyes across the way. “Yeah?”
“Will you marry me?!”
“WHA—?!” he hears Donatello squawk through the comms. Around him, their squad starts laughing and whooping and swearing in shock. April is screaming, shaking or slapping the nearest person—judging by the cries of pain, it's probably Donnie.
Leonardo's eyes are comically huge, his jaw gaping. Heart hammering, Usagi doesn't take his eyes off him, and he's glad for it when the slider's shock turns into a gleaming, helplessly delighted grin.
“You asshole!” he cries through gasping laughter, tears leaving scars down his bloodied face. “You couldn't—are you for real right now?!”
“Is that a yes?!” Usagi asks.
“IT BETTER F%&CKING BE!” Michelangelo hollers from—somewhere on the battlefield; honestly, Usagi had lost track of him in the chaos. “I AIN'T LOSING NO MORE BETS!”
“Language!” Raph barks on comms.
“I'M TWENTY-ON YEARS OLD, YOU BITCHASS SNAPPER! I CAN SWEAR IF I WANT TO!”
Leonardo throws his head back with a cackle, a trembling hand over his streaming eyes as his family devolves into an argument. Usagi climbs and leaps the distance between them just as the turtle drops his hand and faces him, golden eyes brighter than they've been in years.
“You idiot,” he chokes, reaching for Usagi's hand and holding it tight enough to hurt. “Yes.”
April screams in delight with the rest of their squad. Donatello hollers as his sister shakes him senseless, Raphael sobs, and Michelangelo lets loose a stream of mystic fireworks right as Leonardo sweeps Usagi into a spinning hug. Breathless and giddy, Usagi wraps his arms around his boyfriend's—fiance, husband—broad shoulders and kisses him. Leonardo holds him closer and kisses him back.
I won't waste this life. I won't waste our time together, however long that may be. I won't let you go, Hamato Leonardo.
When they part, Leonardo makes a face even as he presses their foreheads together. “Couldn't wait 'till I had a shower?” he chuckles. “I'm literally covered in Krang blood.”
Usagi nuzzles his nose against his own. “Apologies. I couldn't help myself,” he says, running a hand down Leonardo's plastron with a grin. “You looked very sexy just now. In a ravaged, war-torn hero kind of way.”
“Oho,” Leonardo raises a brow, his new grin downright devilish in a way that sends a shiver down Usagi's spine. “Ravaged, eh? That's a funny word to use outside the—”
“I swear to god, Nardo, if the next word out of your mouth is 'bedroom', I am going to be physically ill ALL OVER YOUR FACE!” Donatello shouts through comms.
That does it as Usagi collapses to his knees in laughter. He doesn't collect himself in time to avoid being whisked into a bridal carry by his fiance when the commotion (and mystic fireworks, Mikey) attracts more Krang in the distance. But he doesn't complain one bit.)
In another time, Leonardo and Usagi are twenty-two and married without a ceremony.
In another time, Hamato Usagi is happy even at the end of the world.
---
Stay tuned for part two <3
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6.133.421 - A One-Man Wedding Band
but the comments from people living in a pre-this-page world were REALLY funny
Dr. Steele: Lucky for me, because they make a great team! I suppose that’s the risk of hiring partners.
Opal: Part...ners...?
(She finally notices their wedding rings.)
Opal: (internally) They’re married?!
Steven: Oh! Opal!
Opal: Ah... Ste— Dr. Collins.
#the stars shine bright comic#fancomic#pokemon fancomic#pokemon#pmd#purrloin#scientist#mawile#little lab of horrors!
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*tw for cannibalism, mass starvation*
So if you've ever wondered, "who has saved the most human lives in the history of ever?"
There are a few people who vie for the spot
But the one you don't expect
is Herbert Fucking Hoover
You know.... One of those old timey U.S. presidents who doesn't seem like he did a fuck of a lot? For whom things like Hoovervilles™ are named?
But Herbert Fucking Hoover
Organized the biggest relief mission in history to that point (maybe ever?)
Saved at least 10 million people
And probably accidentally propped up the Bolsheviks and whoopsies, allowed the USSR to become one of the worst slave states in human history
All before he ever became President
So early Soviet Russia was a giant fucking shit show.
In 1917 you have the people topple the tsarist government, pull Russia out of World War I under some pretty fucking atrocious terms, and basically immediately descend into civil war
(which is a "civil war" in name only, because literally dozens of countries sent troops to fight on one side or another, and is in and of itself an entirely confusing and fucked up time frame I don't understand completely)
And while those two wars are finally over by the end of 1920, the Soviet economy is in shambles
Basically all the grain being grown by peasants was being conscripted by the larger government, in part to feed troops, in part to feed "important people" in the government, in part because that's not your grain, it's the people's grain, and by the people the government generally means "whoever we need favors from at the moment"
There are entire train graveyards because of all the trains that have been blown up or sabotaged across 6+ years of war
Rural people are basically wearing rags, living in shacks, and are Poor As Dirt, except they can't get to the dirt for most of the year because of all the fucking snow
The people producing the food are the people who are already underfed
And then in 1920... The fucking wheat harvest fails
Drought and blight basically fuck an entire seasons harvest all across Russia
And you IMMEDIATELY have a humanitarian crisis on your hands
Hard winter + living in rags + already underfed + crop failure = LOTS of people dying
As in, 10,000 to 100,000 people dying each and every week from starvation
If you look at photos, especially of orphanages, it will make you want to fucking cry, because these kids are walking skeletons
By March 1921 you have tens of thousands of cases of cannibalism, mostly unreported
At least 10 butchers shops have to be closed for selling human meat
Kids are literally afraid to go out alone because bands of roving cannibals are especially prizing the meat of children
And all the while, Herbert Hoover has been sitting on the sidelines practically BEGGING Lenin to let foreign relief in, as long as he can make sure the food is actually being distributed equally among the communities
And in March 1921 Lenin finally cracks and gives the go ahead
Now Hoover was the founder and head of the American Relief Administration, which was a US government relief agency
Keep in mind, 1920 is kind of at the height of the first Red Scare
The pinnacle of pre-McCarthy / pre-Cold-War anticommunist thought
There are leftist strikes all over the place. Coal strikes, steel strikes, even the Boston police go on strike around this time
Conservative/wealthy/powerful Americans are shit scared of the left, especially of socialists
And a good number of people just want to let the communists starve
And even though Hoover is staunchly anticommunist himself, he says fuck that noise, people are dying , and talks Congress into giving a whopping $20M in aid ($307 billion fucking dollars in 2023 money), plus $8M from the US military, along with tons of private donations. Altogether Hoover raises over $78M ($1.2 trillion in 2023) and immediately Gets The Fuck to Work.
And he sends in an absolutely staggering amount of support.
200 American ARA leaders hire 125-150,000 Russians on the ground
Commandeers (basically) over 200 ships
Sends over 912,000 tons of food
Sends over 7,500 tons of medical equipment and supplies
At one point has to convince Russia to unfuck its own railroad system and pay their workers so the grain can actually get anywhere
But it works
They set up twenty thousand kitchens
They start feeding 6 million kids and 4 million adults a day
The supplies help 16,000 hospitals and treat a million patients a day
Ten million fucking people don't starve who absolutely would have without aid
Now. We have to acknowledge that this isn't Hoover alone. Obviously it takes a fucking village to save a nation.
But he was the one who fought for it. He spearheaded it, and organized it.
He was also the one that insisted that along with edible food (mostly corn), the aid package include the wheat seeds to plant for next year's harvest, so this wouldn't be a Permanent Problem.
And lo and fucking behold, by autumn 1922, Russia starts to stabilize its food supply
And the famine begins to end
The wild part of this is that if Hoover, an ardent anticommunist, hadn't spearheaded this, the Bolshevik government probably would have fallen
But he cared more about feeding people than he did toppling a government he hated.
If you combine the 10M people he fed in Russia
The 3.1M children he fed in postwar Finland, Latvia, Poland, Estonia, etc
Sources
Herbert Fucking Hoover may have been (arguably) the person most responsible for saving the most lives in history.
Then afuckinggain
When he oversaw the federal response to the stock market crash of 29 and the start of the Great Depression (as President)
He basically thought that poverty relief would keep people from seeking work?
And thought that monetary and housing relief efforts were the responsibilities of the states, not the federal government?
And so basically his response to "help the banking and economic system is collapsing" was to make sure there were plenty of farm plans available and to try to stabilize businesses, not people? And ignored the fact that the people in charge of those loans were conservative dickheads?
So like. Not Perfect. None of them are.
But 13,000,000 people probably care less about that than about the fact that they lived.
https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Russian_famine_of_1921
https://www.pbs.org/wgbh/americanexperience/films/famine/
(Note: Herbert Hoover is not the same guy, nor AFAIK even related to, J Edgar Hoover.
That guy was a massive piece of shit.
But that's a story for another day.)
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I cant believe they announced next years met gala theme its the first national band and you have to come dressed in a way that embodies the essence of red rhodes pedal steel guitar playing otherwise you get hit with a company hired bus on the way to the gala
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WIP Intro: Steel Horses and Hot Irons
As requested by @tea-and-mercury, i am writing up a wip intro for the big ‘un. 32k words deep as of writing this. Sooo:
Genre: Action
Setting: South USA, Arizona-Texas-Nevada area. The Mojave, pretty much.
Tropes: Bigass guns, physics that doesn’t really get addressed, a whole bunch of mental illness (poor Becca), romantic sideplot, big plot twist, secondary antagonist scarier than the primary.
Tag (so i can see it): #STHI (it’s gonna work a bit like a signature for me)
Imma just put the prologue and the character work i did in because it’s just that much easier.
Prologue
5 years ago, 2035, the atom bombs were dropped. First at the USA, then Afghanistan, Russia, China, most of the EU, France shone like a strobe light before the nuclear power stations finished exploding. They all fell in the face of nuclear armageddon. All that was left were craters, rubble and uranium. A few survived and began reclaiming the barren, toxic wasteland. In Utah, there was a lot of this. The Krugers, based in Arizona, were dangerous and silent assassins that disappeared into the night when they left. The Mob, the surviving criminals from the surviving prisons. The lowest of the low and barely organised. The Survivors, who can walk off just about anything and were mostly left alone by everyone else. Wandering bands of close friends also formed, finding work as hired guns.
The Motliest Crew were renowned the best. A group of 5; 3 men, 2 women, all balls-to-the-wall insane. They had no known names, only specialties. The Marksman, Rebecca Johansson “Pew.” A sniper who allegedly never missed a shot, but was very shy, anxious and probably depressed. This is to be confirmed as there are no therapists left in Arizona, or in Alberta, Canada. The Scout, aka, Sorren Clark. “Keep up, $#§/stain.” A speedster with a mouth and a shotgun, one get’s him into trouble, the other get’s him out. Not the most useful combo in Australia, but out in the wastes, invaluable. The Brawler, aka, Claudia Vander. “I’m gonna punch him.” A large frame packed with muscle and grit hailing from South Korea and California. Her fighting skills are near unmatched.
The Demolitionist, aka, Callum Henderson. “I had a dog and his name was… Bingo!” A drunk, black, tartan-clad Scotsman with a grenade launcher and a rocket launcher. And a claymore, he has a sword too. The Gunman, aka, Rasputin Romanov. “Shoot first, ask question while reloading. Spetsnaz 101.” A man of few words and a Spetsnaz soldier from Russia, with a really heavy accent and a really heavy gun.
Each of these wandering guns-for-hire wore a face mask or helmet to both obscure their identities and filter the noxious cocktail of chemicals in the air in some places. They were all armoured to various degrees with assorted run-down military kit that had been scavenged. The Gunman was clad in hulking Juggernaut military gear, the Demolitionist in assorted pads and plates, the Scout in Moto leathers and a bulletproof vest, the Brawler wore similar kit to the Scout and the Marksman was in ill-fitting, minimalist spec-ops kit. Minimalist because only a third of what they found came close to fitting her. Each suit was tailor-made (except the Marksman) by it’s wearer, each adding their own personal flourishes and decorative elements, like sketchily-woven tartan, tally marks, oil crayon, the works.
Now, the character work i did (and added):
Rasputin and Becca:
Callum, Sorren and Claudia split up to go and have fun, leaving Becca with Rasputin. They sat in the hotel room, looking at each other quizzically. Becca had curled herself up in a blanket nest across the room from Rasputin’s massive frame that was posted on a bed, leaning into the wall, staring blankly into the space between air molecules. He looked around, registered Becca’s comfort ball, cracked his back and shifted his posture to something more relaxed.
“So.”
“Mm?” Becca mumbled from her nest, poking an anxious head out into the dim light.
“Why are you hiding?”
Becca paused in thought, eyes darting from Rasputin to the floor, to the roof before finally talking, her own indecision caving to his patience.
“I’m worried.” She whispered into her blankets, “I’m worried about them.”
“Hmm. In Spetsnaz, we had a good cure for worries. We would sit and talk about worry. You want to try?”
“Mhm” she slowly heaved her miniature frame out of the blanket nest and towards Rasputin, who lay down on the bed fully, shuffling along to make space, further dwarfing Becca. She curled up next to him, heart rate going from cardio to moving. Listening to his huge heart slowed down hers, his relaxed body position relaxing hers. There was a security in being so close to something so large, like swimming with a whale.
“So. Why are you worrying, Becca?”
“I- I’m worried for Callum and Sorren and Claudia. I don’t know what might happen to them. Even if I was there with them, I would just slow them down, but I like knowing where they are so that I know they can protect me if they have to.” Rasputin’s huge bald head turned around
“I will tell you this, Becca: I have protected all of them before. I can protect you.”
“There are monsters out there than can hurt them?”
“But none them can hurt me. I am Russian. I am Spetsnaz. Nothing hurt me.” Rasputin’s gravelly, broken English was somehow comforting.
“Really?”
“Da.”
Callum:
Another cold, dark night came as the red sun plummeted below the horizon. In the town, there was a bar. A man sat alone, at the end of the bar, drinking from a flagon of foamy beer and people-watching and checking his watch, waiting. For something or someone to spur him into action. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
An hour passed and he finished his beer, ordering another from the barkeep. The night crept on fruitlessly for the man. The stream of people coming in and out slowed to a trickle as he waited in the dark bar, wooden flagon in hand, beer getting colder, patience wearing thinner. Finally, one man entered who caught his attention. A tall, burly figure with a tartan kilt and sash over his impressive armour and helmet. The man held himself proud and tall, confident in himself and his abilities, but not arrogant. He walked with a muted swagger as he progressed to the bar and made his order, shifting the claymore on his back to avoid the seat. Some whiskey or other on the rocks. He had an enormously Scottish accent and as he removed his helmet to drink, it was revealed that he wore an eyepatch and had a nasty burn scar plastered on the left side of his face, sprawling under the eyepatch and barely visible in the shadow.
The man stalked forwards silently, sitting beside the Scotsman without making a single quiet sound.
“So, is it really you?” The hooded man had a smooth, melodious voice, with a noticeable Mexican accent.
“Who’s really who?” Callum replied, unflapped by a stranger randomly appearing beside him. In the better light, the man saw belts of grenades wrapped around the scot’s waist and bulges from beneath his sash.
“You. Are you really the famous Callum Henderson? Legendary demolition man for the Motliest Crew?” The stranger’s voice somewhere between admiration and mockery.
“So tha’s what they’re callin’ us. ‘The Motliest Crew.’ ‘Bit demeaning, no?”
“Not at all. I’m a huge fan of yours. I’ve been watching your antics for a while now and i was wondering if I could get an autograph?” The strange man spoke from beneath a hood, eyes glinting red in the gloom, a crocodile grin on his face as he reached i to his poncho and coat,
“Aye, sure. Tell me where tae sign.” Callum turned to get a pen from his pocket and when he turned back around, a tattered, sun-bleached “wanted: dead or alive” poster of him was placed on the dark wooden bar. The wind whistled as the man tapped the ‘dead’ part, “Just here, please.”
“Yer a bounty hunter, eh?”
“I am. One of the best, too. The Wolf of District 13.”
“So, wolf, is this the best yeh have? Vague, indiscernible threats and uncanny looks?” Callum replied, showing no fear of the man beside him, as he downed his scotch, putting a 5€$ bill beneath the glass. The Wolf chuckled for a second, before going dangerously calm, retreating into the dimly lit bar and drawing himself up to his full, enormous height.
Cybernetics whirred to life from beneath the wolf’s poncho and hood, as his eyes glowed red and a hiss of steam whistled from his elbows. Callum stood, grabbing his sword, “So this is how yeh wannae do this?”
“Yes.” Hissed the wolf, as his mechanical legs grew a third joint, making them look like the legs of a wolf, lean and strong and good for chasing. Callum stood, taking the poster to inspect it. He looked for a while, put it on the bar, signed it, pocketed his pen and walked out of the bar. The Wolf lowered his guard in disbelief, hunching back over to examine the wanted poster. He had circled “Dead” and signed it at the bottom. The wolf finished his beer and sulked off into the night, after paying his tab.
Claudia:
The Wolf of District Seven stalked down the back alleys of the Last City, following the cheering to a dingy looking warehouse with lights and shouts coming from within. Loud, aggressive music blasted from huge speakers, the bass shaking the walls. The Wolf entered the building by walking through the front door guarded by bouncers without being noticed at all. In the centre of the building, a ring had been made, inside of which, there were two fighters. One was a large man with massive arms and cybernetic reinforcements on his elbows and shoulders and he wore brass knuckles on his ham-fists and a metal plate on his jaw. The other fighter -the Brawler- was a smaller woman with broad shoulders and strong, lean arms. Claudia was still tall, but this other fighter was massive, yet her confident stance, and side-guard indicated extreme proficiency in her trade. The large man wore brass knuckles, she wore steel boxing gloves haphazardly manufactured from scrap sheet-metal and cast-iron.
The man brought a standard boxing guard up and his opponent steadied herself before bouncing on her toes. The large man angled himself to his opponent and swung a huge haymaker which was caught by the woman, pinned to her side and she started slamming him with crushing blows to the liver and ribs. Each blow made a cracking and a clanging as steel smashed bone. With one final powerful uppercut, she released the mans arm and slammed him in the chin, knocking him unconscious before he hit the cold stone floor.
The Wolf came through the crowd without detection or suspicion of a tall, hunched figure in a black poncho and hood hiding the figure’s face. She called into the crowd, “Who’s next? C’mon, dude! It said fight ring on the poster, not warm-up gym!” The Wolf took his chance and approached Claudia, weaving through the crowd, “I will fight you, if nobody else wants to, that is.” The Brawler looked at her new opponent, weighing up the fighting skills of this strange hooded figure, “Bring it, big dude!” she tapped her chin with her glove, taunting the Wolf. “You know, I’m a big fan of you and your crew, Brawler. Before we start, can I please get an autograph?” The Wolf asked, crocodile grin spreading beneath his hood, red eyes catching the light as he withdrew a pen and wanted poster from the folds of his poncho. His metal limbs glinted in the spotlight, clawed steel fingers on full display. He handed her the pen, “Just here please.” He tapped under ‘DEAD’ in ‘Dead or alive.’
Claudia signed the poster in pen before she realised what it was, stepping back as she realised, “Trying to bring in the reward money?”
“Have to make a living somehow. It’s not personal.” The Wolf removed his black poncho to reveal a body made mostly of metal and machine parts. Steam hissed in the shining pistons operating the Wolf’s arms and legs. Guards were raised and it began.
The Wolf dropped low, correctly anticipating a jab to the face, claws grating on the cold stone floor. “Slow.” He cackled with glee, swerving past a knee aimed to the gut and sweeping the supporting leg from below her. “Sloppy.” He taunted from behind Claudia as she got up and readied herself to fight properly. He took the next punch that came for him, a misdirect left hook into an elbow to the chin and a slam to the ribs. Both massive blows made a sickening clunk as metal was slammed together violently. “Weak.” Growled the Wolf, as steam hissed. Before she could process it, the Wolf’s metal fist was an inch before her face, and promptly slamming hard into said face, pushing her backwards. The next blow came before she was done staggering. A monstrously powerful ridgehand to the lower back, snapping the Brawler back up, only to take a huge uppercut to the liver and a sweeping kick to the back of the knee, bringing her down into a spinning back kick. She was out before she hit the floor. The Wolf drew his clawed hand into a stabbing blade, winding up to deliver the killing blow, before the referee stepped in, stopping the fight. “That’s enough. You’ve beaten her, prize ‘s in the pot.”
“Fine. I’ll take your bribe, but that doesn’t pull her bounty off the board.” The Wolf growled, cursing under his breath as he left the dingy arena.
and finally, Sorren:
The Wolf of District 13 sat at the end of another bar with another mug of beer. The MotoGP was on the TV, engines roaring through the abused speakers. One man sat watching, he had a beer in his gloved hand and a confidence in his demeanour. “I know you’re there, mate. I’ll get to you when Ducati finish this lap in first.” The Scout waved a hand in the Wolf’s direction, before retreating it and sipping on a gin. The Wolf stared in awe and bitterness at the scout’s arrogance, he had never been dismissed by a target before. Ignored once or twice, acknowledged every time, but never dismissed. This was not going to fly. The Wolf advanced silently towards his quarry, making no sound, red eyes glowing with malice. The Scout waved his hand again, tutting. “No, I said I’ll get to you in a bit. I keep my word. Sit back down, finish your drink, and put the knife away.”
“And if I don’t?” The Wolf muttered under his breath.
“Them you’ll go down in history as the most boring assassin ever. If you want to kill me, you’ll do it on my schedule.”
“Idiot.”
“No, you idiot, I’m reckless. The difference being one is being thick as bricks and the other is having no regard for your own safety.”
The Wolf was a very patient killer, he would wait for days for his quarry to show themself, but after 5 minutes with this intolerable little man he had very much lost it. He went in with his knife and went straight for Sorren’s spine. He missed the spinal cord because of the Scout’s impossible reaction speed, but instead his blade was buried in his lumbar.
“Ouch. Welp, I’m off to die somewhere pretty. See you in hell.” Sorren groaned as he got up from his stool, blade still stuck in his back, and walked out of the bar bleeding everywhere, hopped on his motorbike, and caned it back to the Hotel California deep within the sprawling city.
-end-
Btw i got more wips to do more intros on, since you’re so desicated and insist on reading to the end of these :3
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ELOISE PROFILE - HPHM
IDENTITY
Name: Eloise Yaxley
Nicknames: Lou (If you call her Eloise, you get punched)
Pronouns: She/her
Birth Date: August 20, 1973
Species: Human
Blood Status: Pureblood
Sexuality: Lesbian
Ethnicity: Caucasian
Nationality: British
Residence: Yaxley Manor, Kent, England
Languages: English, Latin
APPEARANCE
Faceclaim: Hannah Kleit (Teen/Adult), Carrie-Anne Moss (Older Adult)
Height: 5’9”
Physique: Average, Fit
Eye Color: Sea foam green
Hair Color: Dyed Black (Platinum blonde naturally)
Hair style: Short, cut to her chin
Scars: Acid scars on hand from a spill as a child, later she has a bigger acid scar on her forearm to erase the Dark Mark
Clothing: Ripped jeans, t-shirts, open blazer jackets with no shirt, dress pants, high heels, boxing gloves, sweatpants, sports bra. A mix of skater/80s rock band as a teen, athletic boxer style, and then formal office dress wear as an adult. She also wears a gold rose necklace from her mother.
Tattoos: Dark Mark on her forearm, Rose on her sternum
HOGWARTS
House: Slytherin
Wand: Ebony, Phoenix Feather, 11”
“Ebony is the happiest in the hand of those with the courage to be themselves. Frequently non-conformist, highly individual or comfortable with the status of outsider, Ebony wand owners have been found both among the ranks of the Order of the Phoenix and among the Death Eaters. In my experience the Ebony wand’s perfect match is one who will hold fast for their beliefs, no matter what the external pressure, and will not be swayed lightly from their purpose.”
Best Classes: Potions, DADA
Worst Classes: Herbology, COMC, Divination
Misc Magical Abilities: Animagus
Boggart Form: Being beside her father and doing exactly what he wants her to. She has platinum hair.
Amortentia: Roses, her mother’s perfume, dust, boxing chalk, potion ingredients, blood
Patronus: Hooded Pitohui (bird)
Animagus: Tarantula
Patronus Memory: Having an impromptu picnic with her mother in a field of roses one afternoon on a road trip as a child
Dementor worst memory: The night her mother was attacked and ended up in a coma
Mirror of Erised: Smiling with her mother next to her, proud of her
CAREER
11-18: Hogwarts Student
18-23: Unspeakable (Assassin) for the Ministry of Magic
24: Unspeakable and Spy in the Ministry for the Order and the Phoenix Resistance during the war (See the PR fic!)
25+: Hit Wizard partner of Azariah Steele
RELATIONSHIPS
Parents: Antoinette Avery & Corban Yaxley
Grandmother: Gia Yaxley @endlessly-cursed
Cousin: Camille Yaxley
Father Figure: Graham McClarnon (Her mother’s Doctor, looks after Lou) @thatravenpuffwitch
Love Interest: TBD
Best Friends: Azariah “Rye” Steele @cursebreakerfarrier
Friends: Kaari Arcano, Devon Marlowe, Henry McClarnon, the PR crew
PERSONALITY
Child: As a kid, she was oblivious to her father’s subtle molding. She didn’t spend much time with him, however, as her mother would always protect her and keep them as distant as possible. Once she was in her coma, her father started to lord over her. He told her how to behave and how to look. He was strict that she be intelligent, so he hired many tutors. She wasn’t happy and felt like her life wasn’t hers. She started to realize she was just a tool for her father to raise himself up. Especially when Tom Riddle came around.
Teenage: The second Lou got on the train to go to Hogwarts at 11, she dyed and cut her hair. It was an act of rebellion to her father who was now too far away to have much say in it. She started to act out and get into trouble to piss him off. She also did anything she could to get away from him, whether that be joining a rock band with Rye, or sneaking out of the house to attend boxing lessons or visit her mother in the hospital. The second she graduated Hogwarts, she left her father in the dust.
Adulthood: Lou knew war was looming before the majority of everyone else. She decided to make a calculated move and she returned to her father, pleading for his forgiveness. This of course was just a play so she could set herself up as a spy. It worked and she was right back under the foot of her father. Something she hated more than anything. After the war, she finally made sure he faced justice. She decided she was sick of killing people for other people and decided to join Rye as a Hit Wizard. This time she was using non-lethal means.
ATTITUDE
Most at Ease When: Talking to Rye. Brewing potions and poisons. Lying.
Stressed When: Dealing with her father. Making small talk and polite conversation.
Priorities: Herself. Living the life she wants.
Strength: Master manipulator and silver tongued liar, brave, intelligent, perceptive and insightful to people’s thoughts and emotions
Weakness: Doesn’t get close to people, hardly ever is honest and heartfelt with someone, can be a dick
FAVORITES
Color: Green, red, black
Food: Steak and chips
Drink: Strong alcohol
Weather: Rain
Book: Handbook of Poisons
Hobbies: Quidditch, boxing, dueling, brewing poisons
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OK, I have a couple hours for Baldur's Gate stuff so here we go back into Hector's story. (As always, the tag to block is "#bjk plays baldur's gate 3", should you wish to.)
We left off having just completed the arduous task of convincing a grown woman not to torture a little girl with a snake, followed by some conversations with our companions that revealed they have Secrets. Hector is feeling sadly ill at ease with his accumulated companions right now, as all of them seem to be hiding something with the POSSIBLE exception of Wyll.
But they're what he's got and it's much better than dealing with all this madness on his own. So on we press.
Our two main plans at the moment seem to be: convince Kagha (the aforementioned woman with the snake) to not send the tiefling refugees packing into the wilderness, and find Halsin, the druids' actual leader, who is apparently a considerably nicer person and also might be able to help us with the tadpole problem.
Lae'zel also wants to talk with one of the tieflings about the possible location of a nearby githyanki creche, but Hector's irritated with her at the moment so we'll come back to that.
I guess we'll talk to Kagha again, see how that goes, and then go looking for Halsin.
"Go on, say it. You think I'm a monster."
I'm not sure Hector would have put it in quite those words, but he's sure unimpressed with how she dealt with the tiefling girl. He speaks equivocally, however, not being interested in making a direct enemy of this woman just yet.
[MONK] "Your iron will is impressive - if a touch inflexible."
She scowls. "You speak in paradox. I care not for steel, but I know if it bends - it breaks." She clenches one fist fiercely. "I will not allow this grove to be broken." Shaking her head, she looks away from him, back at the other druid standing behind her watching the exchange. "I took back the idol of Silvanus and the rite has resumed. We will seal the grove - free from harm, free of *intruders*."
Hector sighs. He honestly respects her dedication to the protection of that with which she is entrusted - he doesn't blame her for that. But the lack of compassion, of charity...he can't support it.
"Zevlor believes his people will perish on the road," he points out.
"And mine perish if he stays," she snaps back. A pause, and then her expression shifts, and she musters a smile that seems as if it might be an attempt at being ingratiating.
"You showed great mettle at the gate - the mettle of a skilled sword for hire," she says, more smoothly. "I want you to provide your services to Zevlor. Offer to guide the outlanders out of the grove. I'm sure they'll reward you well. They're to be gone before final prayer. If they are not..." The flint edge flashes back into her eyes. "The viper must strike."
A skilled sword for hire? Before the nautiloid, Hector would never have even considered the need for fighting to kill, let alone to do so for money. But she is right about one thing - their little desperate band has enough skills between them to potentially be of help to the refugees, if this hard-edged, unbending woman will not stoop to support them.
"Then it seems I'd best speak to Zevlor," he says wearily. He is still holding out hope that they might find this Halsin and bring him back to resolve the issue, before such an escort would be necessary. But giving the refugees some hope is a good choice regardless.
"You will do more than speak," she sneers coldly, turning away. "This tale ends but one way - with the outlander rot cleansed and the grove forever shrouded."
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housekeeping
you can call me Trexel! i use xe/they pronouns with a slight preference for xe
i do my best to tag both triggers and spoilers fairly extensively, but do let me know if i miss something
#trexel chatters for my original posts
#ye receive for my asks
fandom tags are as follows:
podcasts:
#tma for The Magnus Archives
#ttp for The Two Princes
#tbs for The Bright Sessions
#kaleidotrope for Kaleidotrope
#hfthw for Hello from the Hallowoods
#wtnv for Welcome to Night Vale
#dndads for Dungeons and Daddies (Not a BDSM Podcast)
#px11 for Perfect Times Eleven
#tpp for The Penumbra Podcast
--#junoverse for the Juno Steel universe
#tap for The Amelia Project
#red for Re: Dracula
#bna for Be Not Afraid
bands/musicals artists:
#forgetmenauts for the Forgetmenauts
#mechs for the Mechanisms
--i do tag specific albums, but i'm not as careful about it as i am about the umbrella tag
#elliotly for elliotly
#bit for Bears In Trees
musicals:
#taopp for The Art of Pleasing Princes
#purely coincidental for Purely Coincidental
#adamandi for Adamandi
books:
#acd canon for Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes
shows:
#granada holmes for Sherlock Holmes (1984)
multi-media/miscellaneous:
#wwfh for Whirlwind For Hire
#gomens for Good Omens (i don't differentiate in tags between the book and the show)
#lotr for Lord of the Rings and that general universe
#tpb for The Princess Bride
#star trek for anything to do with Star Trek
#dnd for D&D and other TTRPGS
#dotw for day of the week/holiday posts (e.g. Fuck You And Fuck Your Train Friday, anniversary of the moon landing)
spoilers are always tagged as "[my fandom tag] spoilers" and (if applicable) "[my fandom tag] s[season number] spoilers". if i know the relevant episode off the top of my head, i will tag with "[my fandom tag] s[season number] ep[episode number] spoilers"
as an example, #dndads spoilers, #dndads s2 spoilers, and #dndads s2 ep3 spoilers.
the exception is TMA, which i tag as "mag [episode number] spoilers" as well as the general season spoiler tags.
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Discography Tag
Rules: pick an artist or a band and share your favorite song from each of their albums, then tag some mutuals!
Okay, @onepintobean you asked for it!
YES, I AM DOING RUSH. Obviously.
me, whenever I’m about to do something like this that’s music related: Rush isn’t even my favorite anymore! It’s just the discography I’m most familiar with!
me, after doing something like this and listening to a bunch of Rush as a result: God, I love Rush so much. They’re the best. Unparalleled in all of history. A+ 👏
Rush (1974): Finding My Way. This one was hard, but only because I don’t like any of the songs much. I mean, no Neil? Come on!
Fly By Night (1975): Beneath, Between, Behind. Also hard, also because I’m not crazy about any of it. They had just hired Neil and just realized he’d be more willing to write lyrics than they were, and they just hadn’t found themselves yet.
Caress of Steel (1975): The Fountain of Lamneth. NOW they’re finding themselves! I love this song so much.
2112 (1976): 2112. Classic. I talk about it a little more when I talk about Vapor Trails.
A Farewell to Kings (1977): Cygnus X-1, Book I. I actually always forget which song the Cygnus X-1s are until I start listening to them, especially the first one. But as soon as I start playing them I’m like---Hell yeah.
Hemispheres (1978): Cygnus X-1, Book II---Hell yeah.
Permanent Waves (1980): Natural Science. I think it’s sort of interesting how their more conceptual songs (the extra long ones with several movements etc.) become VERY MUCH not the standard ‘70s prog rock concept song/album like as soon as they crossed into the ‘80s. This song is over 9 minutes long, but it’s nothing like the long ones which pervade the previous albums and tended to tell a literal story which is also a metaphor or exploration of something else (more like operas), whereas this is more of a journey through ideas and feelings (more like a traditional rock song)(although still overtly a metaphor). This is one of my favorite Rush songs, and, when pressed, usually the one I’ll say IS my favorite, though my favorite often changes, and is often whichever one I’m listening to at the moment.
Moving Pictures (1981): Vitals Signs. I’ve just always really loved this song. It’s essentially about change being basically the only thing that life CAN do, to stop changing is to stop living, which seems like one of those things where I’m usually like… well duh, but for some reason it’s very meaningful for me in this song. “A tired mind becomes a shapeshifter” has been one of those lyrics that has really stuck in my head since the very first time I heard it, although I’ve never been entirely sure why.
Signals (1982): The Weapon. I think maybe Neil Peart is just especially good at saying pretty obvious things in a way that really resonates with me.
Grace Under Pressure (1984): Distant Early Warning. When I’m singing songs to my kids I’m like, “can I sing this one?” and they’re like, “it’s not sad, is it?” and I say “it’s about the potential of nuclear war between the US and Russia, from the perspective of someone in Canada, which is right between the two countries…” and they say “okay, that’s fine.” And I’m like… who am I raising?
Power Windows (1985): Grand Designs. Good shit. “Against the run of the mill, static as it seems, we break the surface tension with our wild, kinetic dreams.”
Hold Your Fire (1987): Prime Mover. This album is the first one since Caress of Steel with songs that I actively do not like. I do love this song though.
Presto (1989): Chain Lightning. Okay, sometimes I say this is my favorite Rush song.
Roll the Bones (1991): Bravado. This was pretty hard for me. This album came out the same year I was born, and Roll the Bones was a CD I remember seeing around the house for my entire childhood, and it was the extent of my Rush exposure up until my dad made his torrented Rush road trip mix CD that sent me down the Rush rabbit hole from which I never escaped. So, anyway, even the songs that I’m like… I don’t know if this song is good… I’m still like, it’s my jam, though! I can only speak to it as a person thoroughly brainwashed to love the album, but the whole thing is thoroughly listenable to me.
Counterparts (1993): Leave That Thing Alone. Oddly enough, this album is like the anti-Roll the Bones for me, even though it directly follows it. It was the last of the Rush studio albums I bought (besides the ones that hadn’t come out yet), and I just didn’t really like it. I think there’s a level of cringe/’that didn’t age… great’-ness (and not the nerdy type of cringe, because, arguably there’s a decent amount of cringe in all of Rush), that starts to show up in Hold Your Fire and goes through to Test for Echo, but it really peaks for me in this one. Not that it aged badly, it just is different enough to how we think about things now that it’s kinda like… eh. And I’m 100% talking about the lyrics, I actually really like most of the music (though it sounds... weirdly mixed? to me? or something?). Leave That Thing Alone is the instrumental song on the album and it FUCKING SLAPS! (Counterparts is, btw, often a fan favorite, but Rush fans are often white, cis-het, gen-x men, so…)
Test for Echo (1996): Limbo. Also an instrumental track, although this album is infinitely more listenable to me than Counterparts is. The cringe is all goofier, which I think helps.
Vapor Trails (2002): Secret Touch. This was the most recent album that had come out when I was 13 and discovering Rush, and it’s usually the album that I’ll say is my favorite, when pressed. This one was by far the hardest to choose a favorite from. I changed it several times. My dad’s mixed tape of mostly ‘80s/’90s Rush was what piqued my interest, but when I followed up listening to the first song on 2112 (2112, which is over 20 min long, btw) with listening to One Little Victory from Vapor Trails (even just the first like… three seconds of the song), I was absolutely hooked! I bought 2112 and Vapor Trails because they were the only Rush albums at Best Buy that weren’t compilations, and---boy! Am I glad that was the case! This crazy, weird, almost orchestral, but only three people playing, amazing, ‘70s sci-fi journey that was 2112, then this intense drum solo and heavy rock song, which both sounded so different from each other, but even more different from everything my dad had played of Rush, which would have been created between those two albums. I was absolutely obsessed.
Snakes & Arrows (2007): Hope. This one’s one of the three instrumental songs (which are all amazing), but this time not because I don’t like the lyrics of the rest of the album, just because it’s great. It’s actually just Alex playing the guitar, which is very strange for them, but it’s beautiful. Snake’s and Arrows was my first real ‘A band I love and have made a part of my identity is coming out with a new album!’ experience, and it was so much fun. I had two teachers at the time, who were also fans, to bond over it with, and my dad was also super psyched. Rush was the first concert I ever went to (R40 in 2004), and I went to two more on the Snakes and Arrows tour, and two more on the tour after that (Time Machine, 2010-2011). Besides that I’ve only ever been to one Panic! At the Disco concert for my sister’s Birthday (2008?), which was really more like just a really bad party… like all of the worst parts of a school dance and a house party (it was at a weirdly small “ballroom”), and the band wasn’t even playing well---it sucked. and a U2 concert (2018). That concert was actually so good, though. People can say whatever they want about U2, but that was a fucking amazing show. (10/10, would recommend, would go again at any and all opportunities.) (But there will never be another Rush OR U2 concert with all of the members there again, because ALL OF MY DRUMMERS ARE BREAKING!) (Larry’s not dead, he just has drummer related health issues.) (I was all alone contracting in Maine when Neil Peart died. Like, I didn’t have anyone I knew to talk to in person about anything, let alone this thing that was very sad for me, but was a relatively niche interest.)
Clockwork Angels (2012) BU2B. The music started slipping for me a tiny bit with Snakes and Arrows, or maybe… the music and vocals together? I think mostly the music… But it’s even more extreme in this album. I think it’s just like A LOT for me. And I’m a Rush fan, so… The book that was written based on this story was fun, and I respect what they were trying to do with the album, but I almost never just go and listen to this album or any of the songs. Except sometimes BU2B, I actually do think that’s a pretty good song---I think the name just bothers me.
I have no idea who would bother to read all that, but it was fun to do! I made a playlist of these songs, and a playlist of my least favorite song from each album, and it was really interesting.
My cat died yesterday morning, and I had to just keep going; I had to go to work, do all the normal stuff, but I was really sad. She’s been around for way more of my life than not, especially the parts of my life I can remember, and she lived twice as long as her breed’s expectancy. Which is a cold comfort, considering how much more of me she carried with her because of all that extra time. She was there when I started high school, there for every break up I’ve ever had, my parents divorce, that time my husband and I lived in a three bedroom house with nine other people, a couple other cats, and a dog. When I joined the Navy, when my kids were born... And she was so very her up to the very end.
Anyway, this was a welcome distraction as I kept trying not to openly weep (and give myself a migraine) (which I did) all night at work.
I haven’t actually checked Tumblr, so I don’t know who else has done this:
@raenestee @cutestkilla @captain-aralias @ivelovedhimthroughworse @fatalfangirl
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Nick & Russell of Pulp look at the model in 1996 and the reality in 1999.
Pictures revive memories of Sheffield's National Centre for Popular Music 20 years on – did you go?
Twenty years ago, the National Centre for Popular Music closed to visitors for the last time having been open for less than 18 months.
By Richard Blackledge (1st May 2020) The Star
The £15 million lottery-funded project officially launched in March 1999 and was envisaged as a celebration of contemporary music and culture, with exhibits including instruments and outfits from the careers of legendary acts.
But the place on Paternoster Row struggled to attract enough visitors, becoming a high-profile failure – after its closure as a museum in July 2000 it was used as a venue for hire before the distinctive building, formed of stainless steel-coated ‘drums’, was turned into Sheffield Hallam University’s students’ union.
Enjoy a virtual trip to the long-gone museum by taking a look at these pictures.
Russell spoke to ITN in 1996. "...I haven't a clue what on earth this interaction is gonna involve, it might, you know, be trying to recreate the experience of being in a band, which would be quite nightmarish. But, you know, we'll reserve judgement on that. And yeah, it's a weird looking buiding, and I'm all for weird looking buildings."
and a month later he left the band.
#sheffield#weird buildings#pulp band#russell senior#pulp#interview#printed article#filmed interview#90s#britpop
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Sanctuary
For this episode as the quest Sanctuary only lasts until you speak to Nazir I decided to include the follow up quests Kill Beitild, Kill Enodius Papius and Kill Narfi alongside it.
Firstly I should mention that upon leveling up and exiting the homestead with this episodes gear I was approached by the courier with two letters
Starting the quests Guest for Dinner and Hendraheim respectively.
I chose to finish on the set up of the farm first by hiring Argrenor Once-Honored as a farm hand (alongside one selected by Faendal) as well as buying livestock. This travelling meant enough time had passed that another harvest was available. This of course meant we leveled up again. During this the quest as Farmers Life for Me was completed
I also chose to quickly stop at the College to read Soran's journal in order to start Creature of Legend to get a mount for travelling (I also picked up the spell tome telekinesis arrows while there). Once I had the contracts from Nazir they went quite easily as was to be expected.
I started with Beitild in Dawnstar where I was first approached by Durak and having the Darwnguard quest start. Before confronting Beitild I had a quick poke around the hidden Dawnstar chest and got some new gear and items to disenchant. I chose to talk to her in order to get her to become hostile so that killing her wouldn't get me a bounty. During this encounter I wore the Shrouded cowl, Shrouded armour, Thieves guild gloves and Thieves guild boots
Next up was Enodius Papius at Anga's Mill, I chose to wait until the man was sleeping before sneak attacking him. For this contract I wore the Thieves guild hood, Thieves guild armour, Shrouded gloves and Shrouded boots.
Finally there was Narfi at Ivarstead (not gonna lie I forgot I had discovered it and that was why I got the unicorn as I thought I would have to travel by foot, well hoof, here). Narfi was dealt with the same as Enodius. Wait for him to sleep then sneak attack. And for this final contract I wore the Shrouded cowl maskless, Thieves guild armour, Thieves guild gloves and Shrouded boots.
I then returned to Nazir to claim the reward, a total of 1200 gold, and finished the quests.
Also of note is that I took the unusual gem from Astrid's bedchamber starting No Stone Unturned.
Quests:
quest lines active: Before the Storm (main), Dampened Spirits (thieves guild), Hitting the Books (college of winterhold), Mourning Never Comes (dark brotherhood)
quests started: The Grey Cowl of Nocturnal, A Soul Divided, The Rising Dead, Forbidden Legend, Guest for Dinner, Hendraheim, No Stone Unturned, Dawnguard
mic quests: learn more about the thieves guild from Delvin and Vex, return the queen bee statue to Delvin, join the Imperial legion, join the Stomcloaks, Talk to the companion leaders for work, speak to the Jarl of Falkreath, speak to Constance Michel about adoption
Places Discovered:
Dawnstar
Anga's Mill
Enchantment's learned:
Fortify heavy armour
Fortify alteration and magicka regeneration
Fortify pickpocket
Spells learned:
Telekinesis arrows
Shouts learned:
Kill, Marked for death
Apparel:
Head: Silver helmet, Thieves guild hood (prices are 10%better), Shrouded cowl (with and without mask) (bows do 20% more damage), Stormcloak helmet, Fine hat, Shrouded hood (sneaking is 25% better)
Body: Steel armour of restoration (restoration spells cost 15% less to cast), Banded Iron armor, Thieves guild armor (carrying capacity increased by 20 points), Shrouded armor (Increases Poison Resistance by 50%), Scaled armour, Fine clothes, Shrouded robes (destruction costs 15% less to cast)
Hands: Steel Soldier gauntlets, Thieves guild gloves (lockpicking is 15% easier), Shrouded gloves (backstab does double damage), Scaled bracers, Gloves, Shrouded hand wraps (Double sneak attack damage with one-handed weapons)
Feet: Steel soldier boots, Thieves guild boots (pickpocket success is 15% better), Shrouded boots (Wearer is muffled and moves silently) , Scaled boots, Boots, Shrouded shoes (Wearer is muffled and moves silently)
Shields: Steel, Hide
Jewellery: Amulet of Arkay (Increases health by 10 points), Saarthal amulet (Spells cost 3% less to cast), Gauldur amulet fragment (Increases magicka by 30 points), enchanted ring (Increases health by 20 points)
Weapons:
Ancient Nord bow
Steel battleaxe
Dwarven greatsword
Elven warhammer
Steel war axe
Orcish mace of winnowing (absorb 20 points of magicka)
Steel sword
Steel dagger
Staffs:
Staff of Jyrik Gauldurson(Target takes 25 points of damage, and twice as much Magicka damage)
Staff of Magelight(Ball of light that lasts 60 seconds and sticks where it strikes)
Goblin totem staff (Lightning bolt that does 40 points of shock damage to healt and half to magicka, then leaps to a new target)
Scrolls:
Scroll of Firestorm (A 75 point fiery explosion centered on the caster. Does more damage to closer targets)
Scroll of Blizzard (Targets take 20 points of frost damage for 10 seconds, plus Stamina damage)
When polling please be aware two handed weapons will be included in the right hand poll while magic, staffs and shields are in the left.
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