palm cops

dtk15  asked:

58 please H2OVanoss please!💛🖤💛

58. “This is by far the most stupid plan you’ve ever created. Of course I’m in.” 

(This is such a cute prompt-also I may or may not have been watching Ghost Adventures before writing this >.>) 

Jon is a smart man, (despite what his friends might think-more specifically Luke, who tends to treat him like the exasperated older brother) so obviously all of his ideas are equally just as genius, obviously.

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I grew up in houses with
pictures of other people’s
families, and I was allowed
to play with their kids till
I turned 9, apparently that
is when my hands were big
enough to scrub their baths.
The word childhood is nothing
but a sigh in my mind.

School bells ring, and people
seem to always know where to
go. There is such self-confidence
and beauty in their tones, I am
huddled against the door as
biting remarks of attire and
accents strike against my throat
“Speak!“ they demand. "I-I-I
d-don't kn-n-now," a mantra
in my head,  a fear that never
goes away, a lesson overtold: 
play dumb they will hate you less. 

Somewhere between employees
following me across food lanes,
having nails marks across my
palms every time a cop car 
passed by, and the smirk of
a white woman as I cleaned
her dog’s crap; I became 
anger, waiting for the day
I could slaughter every word
they had ever said. 

But, instead I am now one
of the saved. Laws changed,
and people were able to remain.
There is a boastful tone, I am
never going to forget. The officer
leaned over and shook my hand,
"you are free and legal now,
Welcome to the United States.”
As if freedom is anyone’s to
give or take, but then again this
country did illegally take the
land they now claim as theirs,
and whose foundation is the 
enslavement of those they hate.
I hid my green card, 
and cried for three days. 

Do not get me wrong, I 
do not hate this country, for
its language is the one I use,
its literature I hope one day
to produce, and whose culture
has seduced my soul. But,
I will always be illegal in this 
surrogate home, and I will
always be illegal in my
ancestor’s home - my brain
has become a mixture
of languages, my mouth
revolting at anthems, my
fingertips are cut by the edges
of histories both told yet
unknown to my blood, my
customs are all intertwined 
and defiled, there is no 
mass of land to who
I can cry to. And my future
is bound by two pasts, 
two lives, in which I never
know who to trust - 
What was done to me,
what was done to us
was, well, illegal.

—  Being an Illegal never goes away by Wendy Perez
as if we were in love~


Tikki was no fool. She had worked with Marinette Dupain-Cheng, or Ladybug, since they had graduated from the academy, and had known her even longer than that. She knew by now when the girl was hiding something from her, and Tikki was determined to find out what it was. It shouldn’t be too hard, anyway. Marinette, save for the Ladybug secret, was a terrible liar.

She had first noticed things getting strange a couple months ago. Marinette was grumpier on the job, with visible bags under her eyes and a snappy word for anyone that wasn’t Tikki. Coffee seemed to help, but she still wasn’t herself. It was odd, seeing the usually perky girl grumble and growl as she worked. Tikki would have shrugged it off to hormones, but Marinette was more of a crier than anything else in those situations. So it had to be something else.

Eventually, her attitude changed, the bags under her eyes slowly diminishing, and Tikki had been ready to chalk it up to nothing but insomnia. Marinette would smile as much as she had been, she apologized for her attitude during the past few weeks, and she even brought in cupcakes to make up for her words. Everything was back to normal.

Then they got the Chat Noir case, and everything changed.

The minute the file was handed to them, the criminal’s name plastered in thick letters across the manila folder, Marinette’s expression shifted from peaceful happiness to first shock, then wide-eyed fear. Her skin had gone pale and her hand shook as it held the folder.

Tikki couldn’t understand it. What was it about Chat Noir that had Marinette on such an edge? Surely she didn’t fear the thief. She and Tikki had been up against the murderers and psychopaths and worse; Chat Noir was a boy who wanted to make a name for himself in all the wrong ways. He just stole. There was nothing to fear from him.

So if not fear for her life, what was it about the Chat Noir case that had scared Tikki’s partner so much that she had stayed in the bathroom for the rest of the day, claiming to feel sick all of a sudden? Tikki wasn’t one for confrontations, but if it came down to it, she might be forced to demand answers from Marinette. She hadn’t thought it was getting to such a drastic point, but something was definitely up.

That night was proof enough that things might be worse than she could have ever imagined.

It had started out normal enough. Ladybug and Tikki had been patrolling the streets of Paris, chatting amiably and just about to call it a night, when the window from a building across the street shattered and two men in black hopped out, holding burlap sacks and dashing straight for the cops. Marinette’s heart just about stopped when she saw the cat ears on top of one man’s hood, and Tikki’s eyes narrowed on the bright green bowtie around the other man’s neck. Acting on instinct, Tikki pulled her gun out of her holster and cocked it, aimed straight at Chat Noir’s partner. Marinette reluctantly followed suit, shakily aiming her gun at Chat Noir’s heart. She had never felt so sick.

Tikki waited until the men were in range, then called out. “Hands up! Drop your weapons!”

Marinette watched as two pairs of green eyes looked up, wide as they saw the girls standing on the street with guns pointed at their chests. Immediately they skidded to a stop, passing a glance between each other. Chat Noir had a pistol at his hip, she knew, and she could see the flash of a knife in Chat’s partner’s hand, no sign of a gun. She didn’t think Chat would put up much of a fight, even in this situation – “I’m a lover, not a fighter, princess” – and while she wasn’t sure about the man beside him, she figured he wouldn’t be too much of a struggle once the knife was out of his hand.

A lump formed in her throat as she realized that this was it. This marked the end of Chat’s visits. This marked the end of Chat’s thievery. This marked the end of the case. Normally she would be ecstatic, eager to finish up and go home, letting justice win once more. Normally, though, she wouldn’t be face to face with fearful green eyes that could look at her like she was the world. For weeks Marinette told herself it wasn’t true, that he didn’t mean a word he said, but she couldn’t help but wonder if it was. If he found out it was her all along, that his princess was the one who would arrest him… what would he say?

Her stomach twisted painfully, and she chanced a glance at Tikki, who didn’t return the look. Her bright blue eyes had locked, in a pointed glare, at Chat’s partner, as if she knew the man and couldn’t stand him (which Marinette could believe; even Tikki had a past she didn’t share).

Chat’s voice broke the silence. “My Lady, to what do I owe the pleasure?” He plastered a crooked grin onto his face and started to move his hands to his hips until Marinette cocked her gun, making them shoot back up and show his palms to the cops as if he were innocent. He was talking to Ladybug of course, having often playfully called her his Lady while discussing her with Marinette – “Not that that means anything, my princess. You’re the only girl for me, after all” – and for a moment, she was worried he had known all along who she was. But no, he wouldn’t know. He wouldn’t have come back if he did.

“You were told to drop your weapons,” she snapped, hoping he didn’t hear the tremble in her voice. “Now. Tell your partner.”

Chat’s grin dropped, and with a glance to the guns, he nodded at his partner. “Plagg, you heard the lady.”

Plagg sneered and stooped to set down the knife. Marinette tucked her gun back into her holster, reaching for her handcuffs. “Chat Noir and… Plagg, was it? You two are under arrest-”

Everything happened at once. Plagg jerked up, the knife still in his hand, and charged, hissing under his breath, “I’m not going down without a fight.” Marinette saw the flash of metal barreling towards her, a cruel grin and bright emerald eyes that were too dark and too old, and the panic that flashed through her partner’s and Chat’s eyes. She could have sworn she heard Plagg mutter “Good riddance, princess,” under his breath, but the scream ripping from Tikki’s throat drowned out any certainty. She heard a gun fire with a loud bang, the sound ringing in her ears and making her head swim; she smelled gunpowder, but the scent was soon overpowered by cigarette smoke hanging off of Plagg’s jacket. Warm, sticky blood trickled over her hands as her sight suddenly went dark, cigarette smoke suddenly giving way to fresh pine and a cologne she knew too well, a cologne that clung to her couch cushions and pillow and helped her sleep on the nights he didn’t visit. She clung to Chat, waiting for the pain to hit her, willing herself to stay conscious when it did, but it never came.

With a jerk, Marinette pulled back to see Plagg staring at his knife, covered in not her blood, but Chat’s. Her hand held the thief’s side, crimson liquid trickling between her fingers. Plagg dropped his knife, jaw working as he tried to say something to his partner. His face was pale and the sneer on his lips had disappeared as his expression shifted to shock and guilt. Without a word he bolted, disappearing into the night.

Tikki covered her mouth, her gaze, wide and filled with tears, flickering between her partner and Chat Noir. “I… I missed…”

Marinette stared at Chat, who merely gave her his signature grin and backed off, arms dropping from where he had them protectively wrapped around her and moving to grasp at his side. “Well, my Lady, i-it’s been fun, but I really must be going…”

“You… you’re hurt…” she choked, unable to believe it even when the words hung in the air. Chat, for as long as she had known him, had seemed incapable of feeling pain, and now he was there, bleeding and hunched over, yet still grinning as if to soothe her worries. Guilt churned in her chest and twisted her stomach painfully; without thinking she reached out to stop him, to look him over, just to make sure he would be okay.

He waved her off and started to hobble off after his partner, clutching his side. “It’s just a scratch.” With a wink and a grin that was more of a grimace than anything else, he added, “I’ll see you around, my Lady. Take care of yourself.”

Marinette began to stumble after him, still shaky from shock, but Tikki held her back, shaking her head. Biting her lip, Marinette settled for focusing on breathing steadily as her mind finally caught up to her.

“He saved me…” she whispered, staring at Plagg’s knife. “…why?”

Marinette couldn’t fall asleep that night, too busy pacing in her living room and worrying over the thief with gash in his side. Where would he go? Would he be alright? What if it was serious? What if he died? She would never know, she didn’t even know his name, and he could be dying and it was her fault. She should have been more careful, never should have put her gun away, should have… should have…

A rap at her window tore her attention away from her pacing. Heart racing in her chest, Marinette scrambled over to the window and shoved it open, relief seeping through her veins when she saw Chat Noir standing there, grinning just as brightly as ever.

“Well hello, princess, were you waiting-“

“Get in.” Marinette grabbed his hand and tugged him inside, shutting the window behind him. Chat could only stare, surprise replacing his smugness for a moment. Frowning, he cupped her cheek, observing her red cheeks and tear filled eyes.

“What’s happened, Marinette?” he murmured, his thumb brushing a stray tear off her cheek. “Are you hurt?”

She choked on a sob, leading him over to the sofa and gently pressing him down. “I-I… heard on the news… you got stabbed…”

It was a lie, but it was the best she could do to explain her worry and tears and fear when she shouldn’t know a thing. She could only hope he didn’t have easy access to a TV. Realization flashed in his eyes, and she could tell he was holding back his teasing – “Worried about me, princess? I didn’t know you cared” – since she was so upset. Instead, Chat wordlessly tugged off his hoodie and lifted his shirt so she could see the gash. The bleeding had stopped, luckily, and Marinette quickly grabbed her first aid kit to help him. It was the least she could do.

“T-This’ll sting..” she murmured as she cleaned out the wound. Chat was a surprisingly good patient, sitting still save for the occasional flinch or twitch, keeping quiet as he watched her work. He did hiss and look away when she sewed the skin back together, but other than that he was silent. Marinette was thankful that she at least knew what she was doing (adventures with Nino; him and his bright ideas); it wasn’t long before she was finished. Chat didn’t speak until the bandage was wrapped around his torso and she was putting away the first aid kit, his hand resting on Marinette’s shoulder.

“It’s only a scratch, Marinette. Don’t worry about me.” He cracked a smile. “I’m the bad guy, remember?”

She frowned, placing her hand over his as her eyes locked with his. “…Tonight you were a hero.”

Marinette could have sworn he blushed at that, pulling his hand away to rub the back of his neck. When the first aid kit was put away, she sat at the other end of the couch, hiding a smile as he poked her playfully with his feet. Without warning, he sat up and twisted around carefully, then laid his head on her lap. Unfamiliar heat climbed up her neck as Marinette ran her fingers through his hair, murmuring softly until his breathing evened out.

“Maybe… you’re not such a bad guy, Chat Noir.”

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Covered the funeral of slain Metro Officer Igor Soldo at Palm Mortuary which attracted hundreds of officers, family and supporters from all over the valley and beyond. Not the pool shooter I was restricted to outside of the grounds on the other side of the fence but feel I covered it quite well from my vantage point. One of those days that helps to put your life in perspective, I woke up today happy and healthy and that’s pretty darn good considering :D

Inspired by this post, consider if the Fake AH have been indulging in a little superhero movie marathon, and somewhere between the fourth movie and the fortieth drink, Geoff gets an idea.

He spares no expense in bringing this idea to life, but keeps the entire affair top secret, acting sketchy enough that the rest of the crew is thoroughly on edge by the time Geoff announces a new heist.

It seems like a run of the mill job, but nobody knows what Geoff’s role will be, all he’ll tell them is that he’ll meet them at the bank, and that everything will make sense there.

So the job’s going well, but there’s no sign of Geoff.  Just when the others are thinking that Geoff fucked off on his own heist, the crackle of a speaker echoes through the building, and they all look around quickly to try and find the source of the sudden blaring classic rock.

Jack spots him first (”Oh god no.  No, I am not paid enough to deal with this.”)

As the music rises to a crescendo of screeching guitars, Geoff rounds the corner in what certainly appears to be a full Iron Man suit.  The rest of the heist goes about as well as you’d expect.

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Cop #2 threw his palm over Cop #1’s mouth to shut him up as he started to tell residents more about the shooting of the young lady

anonymous asked:

I will be moving to Florida from Georgia in the next year. Is there anything I need to know in order to survive the hell I am about to drop myself in?

Georgia isn’t too different from Florida tbh besides the extra water and palm trees, and our cops on the roads are not as assholey. We have less people with southern drawls and more tourists & foreigners I would imagine than GA. Plus it depends on where in Florida you’re moving to from what part of GA but yep that’s a rough summary
Pack your mace and your sunscreen