“You could slowly start to resume normal physical activity.”
“Hey. Hey, Danny. You awake?”
Head nestled into his pillow, Danny is much too snoozy and satisfied to answer. He’s just drifting off when familiar hands land on his back, fingers poking in a quest for attention. With a grunt, he gives in and blinks his eyes open. “What, babe? What, what?”
Steve looks delicious, all rumpled, his hair a mess and a goofy smile on his face. “I’m really grateful that you asked.”
The wheel has turned halfway though its cycle. Halloween is only six months away now.
Tonight is Walpurgisnacht, the Witches Night. Hexennact, Hex Night. In the old traditions, witches gather and spirits roam tonight. Odin leads the Wild Hunt in the darkest hours of the night, seeking lost souls and mortals about to die. It is a time for bonfires and pranks.
So it seems that Halloween does, in fact, come more than once a year.
Well met we are this Hexennacht, my spooky friends.
I have been asked many a time by people I know in real life and on here if I am serious when I say baseball bats are my weapon of choice.
Fuck yes they are. I would, in full confidence bring a baseball bat to a gun fight. Moving targets are hard to hit, I was a sprinter in high school, and moving targets that are bashing your skull in are even harder to hit. Sure I have stellar aim with a gun, but I fully support gun control laws, and many of them would not let a bipolar, anxious, panic-prone individual like me own a gun. But a baseball bat? No fucking problem.
Hell, you can pick up a metal one that makes a nice ping when you smack it. You can buy those wooden ones too and jack them up. Go to town on it with a box cutter so the mother fucker you’re whacking walks away with huge ass sprinters. Drive nails through that thing for special occasions. Wrap that fucker in barbed wire. Heck, I’ve had a buddy sand his down and soak it in gasoline for a week and then go into a fight and light it on fire. Risky to you, yes, but damn near guaranteed to get anyone threatening you running? FUCK yes.
I will never understand why society abandoned clubs as a weapon for hand to hand combat. You can run me through with a sword and sure, I’ll probably die eventually. But a baseball bat, something infinitely cheaper, can be deadly with a single blow.
Now I’m not encouraging violence by any means. But, I will say this. Don’t punch a nazi. Don’t punch a pedophile. Don’t punch a rapist. Take a pimped up baseball bat straight to their cranium.
ya i care too much abt follower count and the su fandom is so hard to figure out so i jus made that a sideblog and this will be dnp ,,, but i still wont be active until summer ! (also pls pls pls reblog this so ppl know omg i feel so bad pls kill me)
…newlywed Fitzsimmons finally moving into their apartment and talking about babies? No? Well here it is anyway, with bonus discussion of Fitz’s craptastic father!
Written as a follow-up to this fic, but it’s not necessary to have read that one first. Takes place roughly a month after everyone escapes from the Framework. Enjoy!
“Well, that’s the last box,” Mack announced, setting the
cardboard box down with a grunt. Though he’d carried it with relative ease, the
muted thud it made as it settled onto the hardwood floor revealed its
“Thank you for getting the heavier ones,” Jemma said
gratefully, patting Mack’s arm as she passed him, fluttering about the
apartment to make sure all of the boxes had been placed in the rooms that
matched their carefully written labels.
Mack shrugged off the praise as he slid his hands into the
pockets of his jeans. “No problem. Hey, I’ve got to head back to the base to
finish up those repairs for Coulson. Congratulations again, you two.”
“Thanks Mack,” Fitz said with a smile and nod. “See you
a final wave, Mack headed out the door and out of the apartment building, where
Elena was no doubt waiting impatiently for him. The only one left lingering
after being wrangled into helping them move the last of their things from the
Playground to their new apartment was Daisy. As Jemma roped Fitz into finally beginning
the long process of unpacking, Daisy meandered through the apartment, studying
the various paint samples Jemma had taped up whenever she’d found a spare
moment throughout the past week.
Jemma happened upon her while she was speculatively eyeing
the spare bedroom, which was empty of both boxes and paint samples – she and
Fitz weren’t quite decided on what to do with it yet. As Jemma came to stand
beside her, Daisy threw a wry smirk at her and said mischievously, “Well,
you’ve got a ring, you’ve got a cozy little apartment – I think I know what