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likecastle · 4 years ago

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In which Jaskier cuts Geralt’s hair

Well, folks, I was inspired by Geralt’s slightly wavier wig in the new S2 promo photos to write a story in which Geralt finally gets some proper haircare and it brings out his natural curl pattern. This somehow turned into 7,000 words of Geralt musing about his own terrible self-image and Jaskier tenderly negotiating a haircut.

Credit for Geralt’s 3-in-1 shower products goes to @exrayspex, with my thanks for their enthusiasm about this exceedingly soft concept!

I’d like to put this up on AO3 at some point, but the title has me stumped, so if anyone has a suggestion, please let me know.

“When are you going to let me cut your hair?”

Geralt snorts, incredulous. “I’m not.”

Jaskier fixes Geralt with a pleading look. The streaks of peacock blue Jaskier recently added to his hair really bring out the color of his eyes—all the better to beguile him with. “Come on, Geralt, don’t you trust me?”

“No,” Geralt says, trying without much luck to keep his attention on the TV screen. Suddenly he has to fight the urge to tuck a stray strand of his hair behind his ear.

“It would look so nice if you just took proper care of it,” Jaskier wheedles.

“It doesn’t need to look nice.” Geralt can feel his shoulders creeping up towards his ears, and he wishes Jaskier would look at something else besides him. “It’s just hair.”

“But—”

Geralt jabs the remote in the direction of the TV. “Are you going to let me watch this or do you want to go home?”

“Fine, you grouch,” Jaskier says, returning his attention to the screen.

It must not hold Jaskier’s interest, though, because he can feel Jaskier’s gaze returning to him periodically throughout the rest of the film—which in itself isn’t all that unusual, since Jaskier watches even movies he really likes with one eye on his phone. Except that when Geralt meets his gaze, Jaskier’s looking at him with a wistful, almost sad expression. Geralt doesn’t let himself wonder what might be on his mind.

Later, Jaskier yawns wide and says he’d better be going if he doesn’t want to fall asleep at the wheel on the way home. It’s just a dramatic excuse not to help clean up, Geralt knows, but he can’t help smiling at the way Jaskier rubs at his eyes, smudging the faded remnants of his eyeliner. Geralt walks him to the door, and for a moment Jaskier just stands there on the porch, looking at Geralt thoughtfully.

When his hand reaches up, Geralt freezes. He thinks for a moment that Jaskier’s about to cup his cheek and drawn him down—but he just takes a strand of frizzy hair that’s come loose from Geralt’s ponytail and twists it around a finger.

“I thought so,” Jaskier says, with a private little smile.

Geralt’s sure Jaskier must be able to hear the way his breath’s gotten jammed up in his chest. “Thought—?”

“Nothing.” Jaskier digs his hands into the pockets of his jacket and starts down the front steps. “G’night, Geralt.”

As Geralt tidies away their takeout containers and empty beer bottles, his mind keeps wandering back to Jaskier’s offer. He knows Jaskier’s just trying to be nice—or trying to fix him, the way he tried to “liven up” Geralt’s wardrobe early in their friendship and tried to set him up on dates after he split up with Yen last year. But the options he tries to push on Geralt—the overpriced bomber jacket Jaskier bought him that’s still sitting at the back of his closet, the gorgeous chestnut-haired nurse Jaskier introduced him to—always seem to reflect more about Jaskier’s idea of Geralt than they do about Geralt himself.

Because the thing is, he’s not brash and stylish like Jaskier, who’s all eccentric colors combinations and flashing rings that accentuate his expressive hands. Jaskier knows how to construct an outfit that tells the world exactly who he is at any given moment, from his ever-evolving hairstyles to his painstakingly-sourced vintage clothes. Geralt, on the other hand, is just—nothing, an absence of style. His idea of a good outfit is one he can forget he’s wearing, one that will make everyone else forget him when he’s wearing it. His relationship to his appearance is as estranged as his relationship to his ex-wife. Being in his body, making use of it when he’s lifting weights or hammering a nail or swinging Ciri up in his arms—that makes sense to him. But thinking about his body is the opposite of that. He doesn’t like being looked at, even by himself. He avoids the mirror on his medicine cabinet as much as he can and starts feeling close and queasy if he so much as looks at himself in a dressing room mirror.

Before he goes to bed that night, he shakes his hair out from his ponytail and makes himself take a long, hard look in the mirror. All he sees is the sallow, tired-eyed face of a man who can hardly remember how to smile anymore, a face scarred from carelessness and creased from years of worry. His dull white hair, which Jaskier had twisted so carefully around his finger, is somehow greasy and dried out at the same time, limp around his face but bristly at the ends. He can’t find any sign of the potential Jaskier seems to think is there. He suspects it was never there in the first place—a mirage visible only to well-intentioned flatterers like Jaskier—and he feels foolish for looking.

No, Geralt decides, he’s not going to let Jaskier cut his hair, or do anything else to him. Better not to bother at all.

The next time the topic of Geralt’s hair comes up, he’s brought Ciri into Jaskier’s salon for an emergency haircut. Ordinarily, Yennefer handles things like haircuts and clothes shopping, but Saturday night, Ciri emerged from the bathroom with the front her hair lopped off somewhere around her eyebrows and a dawning expression of anxious regret on her face. Geralt had reassured her that everything would be OK, while texting Jaskier frantically for help and silently panicking about what Yen was going to say when she came to pick Ciri up on Sunday night. Thankfully, Jaskier was able to squeeze Ciri into his schedule this afternoon, and he promised to fix Ciri up.

So now Geralt is sitting awkwardly in the waiting area, hunched on a squeaky vinyl-upholstered chair. He’s been to Jaskier’s salon plenty of times—to meet him for lunch or a post-shift drink, to drop off something he left at the house or to give him a ride home—but he rarely does more than stand uneasily just inside the door. The relentless pop music and the echoing acoustics never fail to overwhelm him, as does the muddle of scents—clouds of different hair products and the pervasive smell of something sharp like ammonia. The abundance of mirrors unnerves him, too. Nobody can possibly need to see so many views of their own reflection, can they? Between the curious patrons peering at him in the mirrors and passersby staring in through the plate glass storefront, Geralt feels like he’s on display. And to make matters worse, he keeps catching glimpses of his reflection, his own hunted expression looking back at him from unexpected angles.

Ciri, at least, is having a great time, chatting happily with Jaskier as he snips away at her hair. The last time Geralt took Ciri for a haircut, it was at one of those children’s salons where the chairs looked like toy cars, and now here she is, sitting beside grown women almost like she’s one of them. It scares him, sometimes, to think of her growing up—more than sometimes. There are so many ways the world can fail her, and he can only do so much to protect her. There’s going to come a time when she’s going to get into some kind of trouble he won’t be able to bail her out of, and he’s not sure what he’s going to do with himself when that day comes. But for now, at least he can pay Jaskier to fix her disastrous home-brew haircut.

“What d’you think, Dad?” Ciri calls, and he looks up to see Jaskier removing her cape with a flourish. When he turns Ciri’s chair around to face him, Geralt’s heart catches in his throat. How grown up she looks, he thinks, but what really makes his chest ache is how much she’s coming into herself—becoming someone with her own unique taste in clothes and books and music, who won’t compromise about the bullshit dress codes at school and is brave enough to try something new even if the results are atrocious. He doesn’t know where she gets it.

“You like it?” he asks, not trusting himself to say something that won’t embarrass her.

“Yeah, I guess,” she says with a shrug, and hops down from the chair.

“We could do yours next, Geralt,” Jaskier offers, sweeping up the little blonde fragments of Ciri’s hair from the floor around his station.

“Ooh, yeah!” Ciri grins up at him. “I bet Jaskier would give you a really cool haircut.”

“I’m sure he would,” Geralt says mildly. He doesn’t want to quash Ciri’s enthusiasm or impart his own discomfort to her. It’s one of the things that keeps him up at night, the fear that he’ll pass down all his insecurities. He tries so hard to keep that shit buttoned up, to shield her from his own shortcomings—and he knows it’s inevitable that he’s just going to mess her up in other ways, but he wants to do better for her, has to do better. “Maybe some other time.”

“So you’ll consider it!” Jaskier says triumphantly, coming over to tell the receptionist the total for Ciri’s cut.

Geralt notices Ciri looking at herself in the big mirror behind the front desk, fussing self-consciously with her new fringe. Jaskier must notice, too, because he gives Ciri a big hug and says, “You look great, kiddo. Right, Geralt?”

“Definitely,” Geralt says, surrendering his credit card to the receptionist to pay a frankly staggering amount. He tips a hundred percent.

“You should take him up on it,” Yennefer says that evening when Geralt concludes the story of Ciri’s haircut by telling her about Jaskier’s offer to cut Geralt’s hair.

Geralt blinks in surprise. “Really?”

She glances back to where Ciri is waiting for her in the car. “Jaskier did a good job. She and I are going to have a serious conversation later about when to ask for permission and when to ask for forgiveness, but I have to admit it suits her.”

“It does,” Geralt agrees. He realizes he doesn’t know what it would be like, to feel his appearance suited him. He’s never tried, really, to make his exterior reflect his interior, wouldn’t even know where to begin.

“Besides,” Yennefer says, gesturing to his haphazard ponytail, “you really do need to start taking better care of yourself, now that I’m not around to make sure you’re presentable anymore.”

Geralt’s eyebrows shoot up, a smile twitching his lips. “Is that what you were doing? Looking after me?”

Yennefer lifts one hand to tug a lock of his hair, the gesture so similar to Jaskier’s that it makes him shiver, for some reason. “No, but somebody ought to.”

He ducks his head, hoping to hide the ache that washes through him—a longing for something they both wanted but never quite managed to find together. “If you keep Ciri waiting much longer, she’s gonna make a break for it.”

“She would, too,” Yennefer says affectionately. “Take care of yourself, Geralt.” She surprises him by brushing a kiss against his cheek, then turns to go.

Geralt waits until Yennefer’s car is out of sight before he goes inside. As he loads the dinner dishes into the dishwasher, he thinks again about Jaskier’s offer. He’s never been good at asking for things, let alone holding on them once he has them, but it’s been especially hard since he and Yennefer split—even the littlest things feel like they require an effort it’s not worth making. It’s so easy to tell himself he doesn’t need anything—a fancy haircut, a new jacket, a reassuring glance, a gentle touch. But sometimes, maybe, it’s enough to want them.

Wiping soapy water off his hands, Geralt pulls his phone from his pocket and texts Jaskier. Does your offer to cut my hair still stand? Only if you’ve got time.

OMG YES!!! comes the immediate reply. I can be there in 20. Then, a moment later, Jaskier amends, Shit wait make that 40 need to run to get some supplies

Geralt huffs out a laugh. Have to get up early tomorrow. This weekend?

All booked up this weekend but I’m off on Tues so I can come over to your place in the pm if that works for you

He’d hoped to give himself a few days to cancel, just in case he changes his mind, and in this respect Tuesday’s almost no better than forty minutes from now. But he does like the idea of doing this at home, instead of in the salon. He types out OK and hits send before he can think better of it.

Don’t chicken out before then

No promises, Geralt answers.

Jaskier responds with a string of emoji that Geralt finds completely inscrutable, but which make him smile nonetheless.

Jaskier arrives on Tuesday evening with a six-pack of cold beer and bag crammed full of supplies.

“I thought you were going to cut my hair, not outlast a siege,” Geralt says, trying to ignore the way his stomach twists with nerves over this impending ordeal. He should have cancelled. He should never have said yes to this ridiculous idea.

“Oh, none of this would be remotely useful in warfare,” Jaskier replies. Then, contemplatively, he says, “Well, maybe some of it. But first, I thought we could have a drink.”

“So you can cut my hair drunk?” Geralt asks.

Jaskier rolls his eyes and brushes past Geralt into the kitchen, dumping his bag into an empty chair at the table. “So you can relax a little for once. And so we can talk.”

Geralt feels the knot of anxiety in his stomach tighten even further. “What is there to talk about? It’s just a haircut.”

Jaskier lets out a long-suffering sigh as he rummages around in Geralt’s cutlery drawer in search of a bottle opener. “Geralt, have you not listened to a single word I’ve said about my job?” He pops off the caps of two bottles of beer and hands one to Geralt. “No, don’t answer that, I know you haven’t.”

Geralt takes a sullen sip of his beer, but he doesn’t dispute the accusation.

With a nod of his head, Jaskier gestures for Geralt to follow him into the living room, and flops down on what Geralt has come to think of as his side of the couch. Geralt sits at the other end, turned to face him. “You need to know what you want going into this, or you won’t get good results.” Jaskier fixes him with a gaze that makes Geralt take another swallow of his beer. “Have you ever given any thought to what you like, or don’t like, about your hair?”

“Not . . . really,” Geralt mumbles, wondering how angry Jaskier would be if he called this whole thing off now.

“Well,” Jaskier says patiently, “why do you keep your hair long? I always assumed it was because you liked how it looked, but I’m realizing now I’ve never asked about it.”

Geralt takes another sip of his beer and tries to think of answer that’s not Because I do. He’s worn it long since high school, when it was primarily something to hide behind. It felt like a kind of fuck-you, an off-putting choice to keep people from looking too closely at him—and to help him forget about other people, too. “It’s easier,” he says finally. “Don’t have to get it cut every few weeks, and I can keep it out of my face.”

“OK, that’s good to know.” The calm, encouraging tone Jaskier’s taking should feel condescending, but Geralt finds he doesn’t mind—or maybe it’s just the beer starting to relax him a little.

“You don’t always tie it back, though, do you?” Jaskier goes on.

Geralt shakes his head. “When I’m working, yeah, but the rest of the time . . .” He shrugs. It depends—on who he’s around, how comfortable he feels with them, hell, how hard the wind is blowing. Sometimes he can’t stand the feeling of it in face, and sometimes the pressure of the hair elastic at the base of his skull is enough to make him want to rip it out.

“Can I . . . ?” Jaskier gestures to Geralt’s hair, and Geralt inclines his head. It’s inevitable that Jaskier will have to touch him if they’re going to go through with this, so there’s no point in being shy about it. Jaskier scoots forward on the couch, and Geralt holds very still, letting him reach back and undo the tie holding his hair back. A sheet of frizzy white strands spills around his bowed head, almost obscuring Jaskier from view.

He can feel Jaskier, though, running his fingers through his hair. The touch makes Geralt’s scalp tingle and a shiver runs through him that he tries and fails to suppress.

“OK?” Jaskier asks, and Geralt nods.

“You’ve never told me when you went grey.” Jaskier’s voice is hushed, almost as if he’s afraid of startling him. He continues to card his hand through Geralt’s hair—with professional curiosity, Geralt realizes, but the touch is so gentle it also feels like a reassurance. Geralt closes his eyes, grateful to be shielded from Jaskier’s view.

“Started in high school,” he says. It’s been a long time since he thought about how, when those first thick streaks of white were coming into his dark hair, kids at school would call him skunk and Cruella de Vil, shit he knew better than to respond to but that just made him even more self-conscious. It occurs to him now that most of his memories of being looked at—really noticed—are colored by other people’s derision for things he can’t help. “It was all like this by the time I was twenty-one, twenty-two. Someone told me once it’s genetic, but . . .” He shrugs again. He’s got no one to ask about a family history of premature graying, no photos of distant relatives to compare himself to.

Gentle fingers tuck his hair back behind one ear, and Geralt looks up to see Jaskier smiling at him. “I would pay good money to see pictures of you in high school. I bet you were so surly.”

“You wouldn’t have liked me,” Geralt says “I was insufferable.” Miserable and ungrateful and roiling with self-righteous anger all the time, hardly able to string a civil sentence together.

Jaskier rewards him with a snort of disbelieving laughter. “You’re insufferable now and I like you just fine.”

This is true, Geralt thinks. His anger has banked down somewhat since those days, but he’s no less difficult to be around, and Jaskier’s never seemed to mind his rough edges. If he’s being honest, he wouldn’t have been able to appreciate Jaskier in those day. His constant talking and absurd jokes would have grated on Geralt’s nerves, back then. They did when he first met Jaskier, in fact. He tried, for a long time, to keep his distance, sure that there was nothing he and Jaskier could possibly have to say to each other. But Jaskier kept turning up, kept surprising him, kept being kind to him for no damn reason. Geralt’s glad he did.

“So,” Jaskier says, pushing the conversation back in his desired direction, as he always does, “what I’m hearing is, you like wearing your hair long?”

Geralt considers, taking another swallow of his beer. Liking doesn’t figure into his thinking much, but it’s not just out of habit that he keeps it this way. “Yeah.”

Jaskier’s nod is solemn. “Anything you don’t like about it?”

Again, Geralt has to give this serious thought. “There are, uh . . .” He gestures to the wiry flyaways that tend to form around his head by the end of the day. They tend to tickle his face unpleasantly as he works, which is irritating when he doesn’t hand a hand free to brush them away.

“Yeah, it’s a little dry,” Jaskier says. “But we can fix that up.” Geralt knows exactly how soft Jaskier’s hair is, and he can’t imagine his own ragged hair could ever come close. “Anything else?”

Geralt shrugs.

“OK,” Jaskier says, “enough with the interrogation. I think I’ve got everything I need.”

Jaskier gets up and retrieves another beer—not for himself, but for Geralt. Jaskier’s fingers brush his as he hands over the bottle, and it gives him the same little shiver that he felt when Jaskier was combing through his hair. “D’you want me to tell you what I’m thinking, or just surprise you?”

Geralt’s gut instinct is to make Jaskier tell him what he’s got in mind, so that he has the option to veto it and put this whole thing to a stop. But he thinks of Jaskier’s teasing question the first time they talked about this—Don’t you trust me?—and how he’d said no when the answer is really yes. So he takes a deep pull of his beer and says, “Surprise me.”

The look of glee on Jaskier’s face is worth the knot of dread that immediately forms in Geralt’s stomach. He takes another drinks and reminds himself that it’s just hair. It’ll grow back.

“You’re not gonna regret it, I promise,” Jaskier says, and then his warm hands are urging Geralt up and off the couch.

It takes them a while to get everything situated to Jaskier’s liking—the bathroom is too cramped to accommodate a chair, so Jaskier has Geralt drag one into the kitchen, covering the floor in newspapers to catch the stray clippings. Then Jaskier sends Geralt to wash his hair while he sets up the rest of his supplies. When Geralt comes back downstairs, his hair soaking into his t-shirt, there is a truly staggering array of equipment spread out on the counter, Jaskier’s own little traveling apothecary kit, with everything from dangerously sharp scissors to brightly-colored bottles of product to some kind of instrument that looks like a bowl full of dull spikes, which Jaskier says attaches to his hair dryer.

“Rule number one,” Jaskier says, grabbing the towel out of Geralt’s hands. “No more regular towels on your hair. Your hair deserves to be treated with care.” Geralt snorts, but the towel he hands Geralt is pleasantly soft, with finer knap that’s soft as fleece in his hands. “And don’t rub at it,” Jaskier scolds. He steps closer, wrapping his hands around Geralt’s to guide him, his hand moving in a gentle squeezing motion. “That’s good,” he says, and Geralt feels his cheeks flush.

Once Geralt’s hair is toweled dry, Jaskier maneuvers him into the chair, and combs out his hair with a wide-toothed comb. Jaskier is exceedingly careful not to yank on the knots, but even so the gentle tug sets his skin tangling. Geralt knows his scalp is sensitive—he can remember fighting back tears while Vesemir struggled to brush out his unruly hair as a kid—but it’s never felt like this before. Of course, that might have something to do with the fact that ordinarily, when he finally breaks down and subjects himself to a trim, he just asks Eskel do come over and cut it with the kitchen scissors. Even with someone he trusts as profoundly as he does Eskel, it’s still an uncomfortable ordeal that makes him unaccountably tense. But this isn’t painful, or unnerving at all. It’s . . . nice, embarrassingly so. He can’t help wondering what it would feel like if Jaskier were to drag his nails along his scalp—and then he has to force himself not to think about it, because even the thought of the sensation sends a shudder through him.

Thankfully, Jaskier is busy fiddling with his phone, and a moment later he puts on a playlist he likes to call Geralt’s Sad Dad Rock mix. Geralt appreciates the background noise—familiar songs he can tune out if he wants to, quiet enough that the music’s not intrusive.

“OK,” Jaskier says, snapping a cape around Geralt’s throat. His hand comes to rest on Geralt’s shoulder and he leans in to speak almost directly into Geralt’s ear. “Ready?”

Geralt suppresses another chill and says, “As I’ll ever be.”

Jaskier gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze and gets to work. Geralt’s grateful for the lack of mirrors, because it means he doesn’t have to see what Jaskier’s doing, but at the same time it leaves him without much to go on—just the touch of the comb, Jaskier’s hands carefully repositioning his head, his fingers pulling this or that lock of hair taut to snip at them with the scissors. Eventually, Geralt closes his eyes and lets Jaskier’s voice wash over him. Jaskier often accuses Geralt of not listening to him when he talks, but in truth it’s easy to get lost in the lilting cadence of his speech, like hearing a song but not its lyrics.

“. . . and the thing is,” Jaskier’s saying, though Geralt lost the thread of his rambling long ago, “the more you do it, the better your results will be. You just have to help them along . . .”

He can see why Jaskier’s clients like him so much, how nice it is to fall into the pattern of someone else’s words, especially when that someone has as nice a voice as Jaskier. He’s often grateful for Jaskier’s conversation, which fills silences Geralt didn’t even realize were empty until he came along.

When Jaskier says, “OK, you’re all done,” Geralt is surprised by how quickly the time has passed. “We can just leave it at that and just let it air dry, or . . .” Even though he can’t see Jaskier, he can picture the hopeful expression on his face.

“What?” Geralt asks, twisting around in the chair to look Jaskier in the eye.

Jaskier bites his bottom lip, looking almost nervous. “Or I could show you how to style it. If you wanted. Nothing over the top, I promise.”

Geralt thinks it over. On the one hand, there’s no way he’ll ever bother repeating anything Jaskier shows him how to do, but on the other hand, he wouldn’t mind having Jaskier’s hands on him a little longer. “All right.”

“Really?” Jaskier’s eyes go wide. “Nope, never mind, I’m not gonna second-guess this. No take-backs! You’re committed now.”

Which is how Geralt finds himself being hustled back upstairs and into the bathroom. Jaskier pulls back the shower curtain and is about to start issuing instructions when he lets out a squawk and staggers backward.

Geralt looks around in alarm, expecting to see a giant spider in the tub. It’s only belatedly that he realizes he’s thrown an arm out in front of Jaskier, as if that will protect him from whatever nonexistent threat he was reacting to. “What?”

“Geralt, for shame!” Jaskier exclaims, pointing to the bottle of 3-in-1 shampoo/conditioner/body wash on the edge of the tub. “Is that yours?” He says it with all the breathless horror of someone discovering a murder weapon.

“Uh . . .” Geralt has the distinct feeling he should try to deny it, but there’s no point in trying to pretend. “Yes?”

And then Jaskier is laughing, but it’s warm with delight, not mocking or cruel. In fact, he looks up at Geralt with such fondness that Geralt almost can’t bear it. “Oh, you poor man,” Jaskier says between gusts of laughter. “No wonder your hair is so dry!”

“. . . It’s efficient,” Geralt mutters in a half-hearted attempt to defend himself.

“It’s like washing your hair with dish soap. But don’t worry,” he adds, pressing a hand to Geralt’s chest, “I’ll get you sorted out and then your hair will be so soft it’ll be completely irresistible.”

“Hmm,” Geralt says dubiously, but Jaskier just grins at him.

“OK, this next part is going to be a little awkward. Ordinarily you’d do it by yourself in the shower, but I’m gonna take a wild guess and say you’d rather not jump in the shower with me right now.”

Geralt very much does not acknowledge the wave of heat that rolls through him at the thought. “Probably wouldn’t fit, anyway.”

“Eh, I’ve made it work in smaller spaces than this,” Jaskier says, with such casual confidence that Geralt’s mouth goes dry. “But luckily, you’ve got one of those detachable showerheads, so we should be just fine. Might be easier, though, if you, uh, take off your shirt off.”

Geralt’s already come this far, and, besides, it’s not like Jaskier hasn’t seen him without his shirt on before. As Geralt strips off his shirt, Jaskier puts a towel down on the floor and beckons him to kneel down at the edge the tub. He’s careful to get the water to a comfortable temperature before he puts a warm hand on Geralt’s bare back, guiding him to lean over, his head bowed.

The routine Jaskier directs him through is more complicated than Geralt could ever have anticipated. There’s a thick, dark purple shampoo that Jaskier instructs him to use only once a week—he has another shampoo he’ll give Geralt to use at other times, but really, Jaskier insists, he should only be washing his hair a couple of times a week, anyway. Jaskier shows him how to rub the shampoo into his scalp only and let the water draw it down through the rest of his hair. The pressure of the spray on his scalp makes his skin tingle, as does the press of Jaskier’s body against his side. When Geralt doesn’t apply the conditioner to Jaskier’s liking, he adjusts Geralt’s hands with his own, smoothing their joined fingers through Geralt’s slippery hair. And when it comes time to rinse the conditioner out, he shows Geralt how to cup the water in his palms and press it into the wet mass of his hair.

“You’re doing great,” Jaskier tells him, and Geralt is grateful his face is hidden behind ropes of his wet hair.

Finally, Jaskier pronounces himself satisfied and turns off the water. Now that they’re done the task of washing his hair, Geralt’s awkwardly aware of his chest dripping with water in the cool air of the bathroom—and of Jaskier standing less than an arm’s length away from him.

Jaskier, on the other hand, is nothing but professional, rubbing a series of products into his hands and then smoothing them over Geralt’s hair. After each application, he gathers Geralt’s hair in his hands and presses it up toward Geralt’s scalp, just like they did with the water. It’s a bizarre motion, like nothing Geralt’s ever seen before, but it seems to be having the desired effect, because the strands of hair hanging down in front of his face are slowly forming into thick coils, and Jaskier keeps making little satisfied humming sounds with each new application. Jaskier finishes by wrapping Geralt’s hair up in another one of those extra soft towels.

“And now we wait,” he says, hopping up onto the sink.

Geralt pulls his shirt on again, careful not to disturb the towel on his head, and he might be wrong but he thinks that he catches a little disappointed frown cross Jaskier’s face, but it’s gone before he can be sure.

“Thanks for indulging me,” Jaskier says. “I know you don’t really like this kind of stuff, but I’m having a great time.”

“It’s not as bad as I thought it would be,” Geralt replies. But that sounds worse than it did in his head, and he hastens to add, “I mean—it’s nice—when it’s you.”

Jaskier’s smile is something Geralt can’t quite get to the bottom of—fond and wry and maybe a little sad, too. “Well, I’ve been dying to do this pretty much since the moment I met you, so, you know, thanks for that.”

It’s strange to think Jaskier has been harboring private aspirations where Geralt is concerned. But then Jaskier’s always been full of surprises when it comes to him—immune to his ill temper, amused by his rudeness, tenacious enough to bully his way past his silences. He’s never understood what Jaskier sees in him, and he often feels he offers a poor reward for the hard work Jaskier puts in to being his friend. Because it’s not easy, Geralt knows. Plenty of people have decided Geralt was too difficult to get to know, or too prickly to stick with. Even Yennefer, who’s loved him better than he could possibly deserve, struggled to make inroads against Geralt’s defenses. It never seemed to matter how much he loved Yennefer, he could never bring himself to relax around her. He was always on tenterhooks, waiting for the other shoe to drop—until, in time, it did, a sort of self-fulfilling prophecy. He can’t blame Yennefer ending things. She wants things he doesn’t know how to give. He couldn’t figure out how to change himself into the sort of person she deserved.

“D’you want another beer?” Jaskier asks, nudging Geralt’s knee with his bare foot.

He wouldn’t mind another drink, but he’s loathe to puncture the peaceful little moment that’s grown up between them. “Let’s just stay here.”

Jaskier nods, and a moment later Fleetwood Mac comes on over Jaskier’s phone speakers—one of the only bands they can agree on—and Jaskier treats him to an inspired rendition of “Dreams,” his voice turned otherworldly by the chill acoustics of the bathroom tiles. Geralt watches Jaskier dance on his perch on the edge of the sink and wonders, with an ache in his chest, what it would be like to be so uninhibited, so comfortable in his own skin. He can’t imagine it, but sometimes he feels like he’s maybe just a half-step closer to knowing when he’s around Jaskier.

When the song fades out, Jaskier hops down from the counter and says, “OK, time for the last step.”

Jaskier sticks that torture device attachment onto his hair dryer and lets Geralt’s hair down from the towel. Jaskier lets him stay seated, and starts drying his hair. He doesn’t pull Geralt’s hair taut with a brush, as Geralt has seen Yennefer do when styling her own hair. Instead, he gathers it up a section of hair in that little torture device accessory and holds the dryer still, letting the air work around the strands. Geralt closes his eyes against the noise and sensation of the air against his scalp. It lasts a long time, Geralt bracing his arms on his thighs as Jaskier moves the hair dryer around his head. The noise of the dryer makes conversation difficult, and Geralt feels strangely distant from Jaskier all of a sudden, even though he’s standing so close Geralt could press his face to the soft flesh of his stomach if he wanted to. He knots his hands together between his knees to keep himself from just reaching out and pulling Jaskier close.

When Jaskier finally switches off the hair dryer, the silence it leaves feels big. It’s probably just the heat from the hair dyer, but Geralt feels flushed and a little rubbed raw.

“All right,” Jaskier says, fixing him with a considering look. “Let me just . . .” He reaches out and grips Geralt’s hair in both hands. He doesn’t so much tug as gently crush the strands, but the pressure is enough to make Geralt’s mouth fall open, and he doesn’t exactly make a noise but something happens in his chest like his lungs kickstarting. Jaskier glances down at him with an inquisitive smile. “Sorry, too hard?”

It’s all Geralt can do to shake his head.

“All done,” Jaskier says. When he lets go, Geralt immediately misses the touch. “Wanna take a look?”

Geralt stands up and turns to regard himself in the mirror. To say he doesn’t recognize himself would be an overstatement, but the sight of his reflection is a surprise. The cut doesn’t seem all that different in terms of length, but the ragged edges are gone. The dingy white of his hair has turned a gleaming silver, and it hangs around his face not in its usual lank tangle, but in softly curling waves. It’s almost . . . pretty, a word he’s never associated with himself in his entire life. The new brightness of his hair makes his face seem clearer, more open somehow, and the gentle curls offset the hard lines of his face in a way that make his features look almost delicate, or in any case less roughly hewn than usual. He reaches up to touch it, and to his amazement, it’s just as soft as Jaskier promised it would be. Maybe not as soft as Jaskier’s own hair, but much nicer than he can remember it ever feeling before.

“You like it?” Jaskier asks, and in the mirror, Geralt can see he’s looking at him with a hopeful expression. It makes something twist in his stomach—longing, and at the same time a rejection of what he wants, the certainty that he can’t possibly hang onto anything nice for long enough to enjoy it.

“You know I’ll never go to all this trouble,” he says, gruffly, and immediately regrets it when he sees Jaskier’s smile slip from his face.

“No, I know,” Jaskier says, and starts packing up his supplies. “I just wanted to try it. I’ll still leave you all the products, just in case you change your mind, or—”

“Jaskier.” Geralt swallows hard, and puts a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder. “I—”

Jaskier looks at him with such a searching expression that Geralt hardly knows how to look at him. He’s never known someone who’s so much all the time, expansive and loud and demanding and generous and so goddamn bright.

“What I should have said,” Geralt says, against the tension threatening to stop his throat, “is that I wouldn’t have tried this if it weren’t for you. It’s . . .” He’s not sure how to answer Jaskier’s question. Does he like it? He looks so unlike himself that he honestly doesn’t know what to make of it. He can’t tell if it suits him or not, because he still isn’t sure what that would mean. But he likes the idea that Jaskier’s uncovered this version of him, that this might be how Jaskier sees him in his mind’s eye. “I’m glad we tried it. Thank you.”

“I am, too,” Jaskier says, quietly. “Even if you never do it again, I’m glad you trusted me enough to try. And for the record?” The twist of his lips is almost pained, but it’s a smile all the same. “You look fucking gorgeous.”

Geralt ducks his head, his shoulders inching up. “Jaskier . . .”

“No, I’m serious, Geralt.” Jaskier sounds annoyed, almost angry, all of a sudden. “I know you don’t care about superficial stuff—”

“That’s not—”

“—but take it from someone who spends a lot of time looking at people and doing my best to make them look as good as I possibly can: you’re objectively really fucking good-looking.” Jaskier lets out a harsh, reckless laugh. “And if you don’t care about my professional opinion, I also happen to think you’re the most attractive person I’ve ever met in my entire life, so there’s that.”

“I—”

Now that Jaskier’s started talking, he can’t seem to stop. “You’re the most incredible person I know, Geralt,” he says, in a breathless rush, “and I’m not talking just about your looks—although you are genuinely so ridiculously handsome that it’s really not fair. You’re kind for no reason and incredibly devoted and, OK, sort of a dick sometimes, but also so goddamn careful with other people and so fucking hard on yourself, and I just—I wish you could see yourself the way I do. I wish I could show you, even for just a second, because—”

“You did,” Geralt says. Jaskier stares at him, stunned into silence, and Geralt takes the opportunity to continue. “You do. Not just tonight.” He’s breathing hard, and he tries not to think about how dangerous this feels, like standing up on the top of a tall ladder or walking the line of a roof that might collapse under him at any moment. “When I’m with you, I feel like I could be that person you see in me, maybe. I just . . . don’t know how.”

Jaskier laughs again—softer this time. “You dummy,” he says, “you already are. You’ve just got to believe it.”

“Oh, is that all,” Geralt says.

“Yeah, no big deal,” Jaskier says, waving one hand dismissively. “You’ve got me to convince you, after all.”

“Oh, yeah?” Geralt can’t help the smile spreading across his face, despite the shivery feeling still simmering under his skin. “How’re you gonna do that?”

“Well . . .” Jaskier takes a step towards him, and then another, settling his hands lightly on Geralt’s hips. “I’d probably start a little like this . . .”

The first touch of Jaskier’s lips on his is like a breath of clean air after a storm, and Geralt can feel something that’s been knotted tight inside him for a long time unfurling itself. It doesn’t feel dangerous anymore, that buzz under his skin transmuting into a golden glow. He knows it’s not as simple as it feels—he can’t expect Jaskier to change him with a single kiss—but for the first time in a long while, something feels purely, unequivocally good, and he wants more of it.

In time, Jaskier’s hands creep up Geralt’s sides to his back, even as Geralt’s own hands drift down past Jaskier’s waist. When Jaskier’s hands slip into his hair, Geralt wrenches himself free with a shiver. “You’re going to undo all your hard work,” he says, teasingly.

“D’you really care?” Jaskier asks, and scratches his nails along Geralt’s scalp, wringing a whine from deep in Geralt’s chest that should be embarrassing but isn’t.

“Not really,” Geralt gasps, his whole body pressing closer against Jaskier’s. “You can always do it again.”

Jaskier’s smile is wide as he bends to kiss him again. “That’s what I thought.”

#the witcher #witcher modern au #geralt #geralt of rivia #jaskier #yennefer of vengerberg #cirilla of cintra #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geralt/jaskier #gerlion #some background yennalt here #i've got 99 problems and aus are all of them #hairdresser!jaskier #i can't believe i wrote modern au witcher fic and still wound up writing a bath fic #the witcher fandom loves baths apparently #somebody please help me title this thing #i need a title that isn't when the rain washes you clean you'll know

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shikantazaart · 4 years ago

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Shikantaza Creativity Interview III - SPARTALIEN

At Shikantaza we are not content to just create art. We want to understand art. We want to understand the people who make art. Into the act of creation. Who are the people behind the art work? What motivates them? Where do they find their inspiration?

No two people think and act alike, so it is even less likely to find two artists who think and act alike. Yet, there will be crossovers, shared thoughts and shared experiences. Where do we adjoin and where do we diverge?

Our series of interviews with artists and creators aims to answer these questions.

In interview number three we speak to multimedia experimenter SPARTALIEN. You can find his creations here https://spartalien.com/visual as well as a collection of his work in the Shikantaza gallery.

1 - Starting with the most important question - Who is Memoria?

Memoria is Latin and means, when translated, memory / remembrance.

I named the merchandise for the album "2358" Memoria instead of Memory, because the main track titles are also translated into Latin.

I see my merchandise as small memories/artefacts. Not only because they are very rare, but because I can never go back to that time.

“Memory is the treasury and guardian of all things” - Cicero

2 - You work across different mediums. Do you have any preference for a specific form? When did you first find the format that was “you”?

I became really infected with the digital virus around in the late 90s when I built my first computer. A year or two later I started taking photos and manipulating them digitally. I also had a few printed, which allowed me to bring the digital into the real world. Then I discovered IRC and started learning a little bit of TCL. Since I had fun coding, I decided to learn the basics of web development because I needed a website to show my pictures to other people. In general, I was fascinated by the flow of information on the Internet. That distance is no longer a real hurdle when it comes to data transmission.

I've always loved music as a listener and small collector. I was then and still am one of those people who never go out of the house for long periods of time without a Walkman. Music production came into play when a couple of friends set up a small studio where they produced Techno/Psy. When I was there for the first time, I knew immediately that I wanted to try it too. A few old tracks from back then are still available on my website.

From then on, many of my projects have developed in the direction of music. The input for a program was often music metadata or it was a website that was about music in some way or another. But since I was still at the very beginning of my learning process, I kept discarding practically everything in order to improve it or to learn new things. Around 2001, I started a web radio with friends, which was online for several years. The music was mainly Downtempo, Trip-Hop, IDM and Ambient. Promos from unknown artists from around the world were also broadcasted.

The atmosphere, the feeling I got from this time - how the music finds me and not the other way around, how it can change people's thoughts - has never left me since then.

3 - Do you feel that each medium allows you to express yourself differently from the others? How do you choose which medium you work in any given moment?

Yes. But I think you can convey the same feelings with any medium. The question is how direct it is. For example, pain can be expressed with fire but also with a chair in an empty room. At the end of the day, in my opinion, it's not about the artist's intention but about the perception of the viewer and his or her subsequent thoughts and actions. For example, imagine you make a dark ambient track that you experience as sad and heavy, but someone else tells you that it helped to relax and develop thoughts.

In addition to all of this, each medium also has advantages and disadvantages when it comes to technical implementation. So, sometimes the choice can also purely depend on skill or resources.

We all have ideas and often out ambitions outweigh our resources. Sometimes we need more resources, but more often than not we need to chip away at our ideas until our ambitions and resources align.

4 - Do you seek different sources of inspiration for your music than you would for your visual creations?

It's everything in the world around me that inspires me. Everything I perceive and feel, so to speak. Most of the time I don't have a melody or a picture in my head. It is more of a feeling and then I look for the right tone or shape for it, so to speak.

5 - How closely are your creations connected to each other?

Very close one could say - through my thoughts that I have wrapped in it. I always had a bit of a problem putting my thoughts into words. I tend to stray through various topics when I talk about something. With music and visuals, it feels lighter and more natural to get to the point. The "message" doesn't always get through, but being able to do so is liberating and invaluable to me.

6 - If you were to direct people to a specific piece of work that you feel really nails what you are aiming for with your creations, which would it be?

This is a hard question. Maybe I would ask you to sit down and listen to the album "FLOATING HIGH" in one sitting. Since it felt like coming home to me while making it. The music is less intrusive and not as precise in its message as the previous releases. Like its cover art, where the clouds could be seen as opening or closing. I wanted to create tracks that leave more room for thought while still telling a story.

7 - You have “X minutes of peace” on your site. Why is this needed? Was this made for you or for others?

For others but also for myself. For me it is self-reflection that allows me to understand myself better. But since I have problems with "just switching off my head", the moments in which I just sit quietly and let the recording device do its work are very valuable. In moments like these I can really switch off and think about something very carefully. Asking questions even though I feel like I don't have an answer. Or simply enjoying the precious fresh air and sounds of nature.

Unfortunately, too many people don't have time for that kind of peace. Too much pressure is on them. They either get this or that, or they can't survive. It's so sad how the system works. I simply think that if everyone would have more inner-peace, the world would be a better place. But then again, what do I know living under a rock between mountains?

The videos should allow us to find peace for a few minutes, no matter where we are. So that new and hopefully useful thoughts can develop.

The series Let It All Go is actually the same thing, just with music.

For the really dark hours there is BRAIN I/O. From time to time I prefer to embrace the pressure. Difficult to describe. The concept is basically: don't think, just feel and record it. It's about things that I personally want to leave behind or at least want to learn to accept (not necessarily being okay with) them if I can't change them.

Peace is an issue for me. When I briefly find it only points the way to the next act. This is fantastic but self defeating. Why can’t we just stay in peace?

8 - When inspiration has left the building where do you look to find it?

I'm not really actively looking for inspiration. Somehow it doesn't work that way for me. So variety is important to me. That is why I usually have several side projects going on in the areas that I do not much publicize. Much of it never leaves my hard drive and is mainly intended to free my mind and get on to new ideas in the process. Coding, graphics, drawing, etc. But the music production is and remains the main focus.

9 - These are the questions I am asking all the interviewees. Why do you create? What is it that pushes you to keep creating?

The inner child is just too strong. I've been living for a while and I know exactly nothing. It kind of feels like that. So many things that you can create with the computer alone. I'm stuck in that loop where you just love to create things and learn - and use the new knowledge to create new things. Things!

10 - What would most assist you to create more works? Is there an ultimate goal for your creations?

More time and resources for sure. but most important to me is the feeling that my loved ones are safe. When I have to worry about their future because the system is going the way it is, it feels like a pile of stones in my head.

The creative / social goal of my art is relatively simple and based on my own experience. Art has helped me tremendously when I felt lost - or when I was just "bored". Taking time to really listen to or look at something can be very liberating.

My short-term financial goal is to generate a more or less regular income through art. But since I never released anything commercially before 2016, this world is still new to me.

My dream goal is to hear my music in film and games and to generate an income that supports my family.

Nonetheless, I think goals are here to create an initial path, not necessarily motivation.

I do not know of a single soul who has not been lost. Some never find their way back. Some don’t need to find their way back, they are happier in the place they found.

11 - If you were to offer a creator any advice what would it be?

Based on my own experience in no particular order:

Stay curious and open minded for different viewpoints.

Tutorials can limit your creativity. Sure, learn the basics, but explore as much as you can on your own and never be afraid to fail. It's a process, not a game.

On projects that take longer than a day to complete, set yourself a deadline when you want to have it completed. Not important if it takes longer, but in general that helps to stay more focused.

Very few things are easy when you start.

Limitations are not necessarily bad.

Don't wait for motivation to create. It will kick in usually a few minutes after you've started. Therefore keep your tools ready and organized so you can start creating at any time.

You can always turn off the internet.

Be open for constructive criticism.

Especially for the digital crowd, backup your stuff!

(All images and works by SPARTALIEN)

#shikantaza #art #music #video #visual #creation #peace

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hippychick006 · 5 years ago

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15.12 - Galaxy Brain

Episode Review/Recap

This is not pretty. Not the worst episode ever, but definitely somewhere in the bottom 10. It mainly suffers from having the focus on “fan favourites” I stopped caring about seasons ago, and contempt for Sam and Dean and their fans coming through loud and clear in the writing.

Everything under a cut because some people can’t handle the truth!

Official episode summary to get us excited and want to watch live: Sam and Dean respond to a frantic call and together along with Castiel, Jack, and Jody Mills (guest star Kim Rhodes), assist in an extraordinary and heartbreaking rescue. Billie (guest star Lisa Berry) surprises everyone with a visit to the bunker.

My reaction:

“Heartbreaking rescue” 😂

Kaia is shown in the recap and since I know from the promo that Jody is also in this episode, it’s yet another Wayward af episode being forced onto an audience who were very clear they didn’t want it 🙄. The recap is sending me to sleep and my bitter Sam girl is rising since he’s barely in it. Checks who wrote it and rolls eyes: Teleplay by Bobo the 🤡. Dean likely isn’t going to be much better off, prepares self for Destiel pandering and Dean being used as a side character to prop up the actual side characters. Awesome. Roll on Walker where I hope I won’t be subjected to this shit.

The radio shed scene is boring. Done with “fan favourite” Chuck and have been for several seasons now. Chuck’s droning on about Sam and Dean, yet it’s Dean and waste of space who are being shown sitting down together, with Sam barely in the background. Awesome. I just. Why? This is like when someone says something about J2 but we get a gif that includes M. Why are we incapable of getting just J2 or Sam and Dean?

Moving quickly on, we transition from one character I used to love but now don’t care about, to another character I used to love, but now don’t care about. “Fan favourite” Jody is examining a dead cow. “Fan favourite” Alex calls her, she must have been busy doing something else as she doesn’t appear in the episode. Side note, Berens put the line in about vegan lasagne because the girl playing Alex is a vegan. Oh… so we’re putting in shout outs to the side characters now? Maybe that’s why the writing is so bad. #justsaying 🤷‍♀️

Jody gets whacked on the head and is it wrong to hope she’s dead? 😔 I know she’s not dead, I know this episode is going to be TFW 2.0 rescuing her (though I predict they will end up being the ones needing to be rescued because Wayward af). It’s too much to expect some real cases, some real urban legends to investigate in the final season. Show went too big when it should have gone home.

Almost 7 minutes in and we finally have Sam and Dean. Yay! Berens has finally remembered they are still characters on the show, but I guess he hasn’t focused on them as they aren’t “fan favourites”. And of course “fan favourite” waste of space is in the scene because Chuck fucking forbid we get the brothers without their waste of space hanging around because he somehow has nothing else to do the last 4 seasons.

We’re pandering to “my three dad’s” fan fiction crowd in this scene, though sharing 1 braincell Destihellers for sure will be tweeting about “dads” Dean and waste of space and cheerleader Uncle Sam. They’re talking about “fan favourite” Jack and him eating hearts. Sam doesn’t want to trust “fan favourite” Billie (good call imo). Dean seems disconnected from this scene. Same Jensen, Same tbh. Jared, bless him, is trying his best with this shit, even bringing out the big gun puppy eyes of doom, but I’m feeling nothing but anger.

We move from them to Jack wandering around the bunker. We see him looking at “fan favourite” Mary’s initials carved into the table… and thank you show for reminding me of that fuck up that I’d wiped from my memory. 😡🤬. We learn during this scene that Jack has been trying to contact Billie, but she’s busy so sent him a reaper.

Back with my three dad’s and Jensen can barely keep the contempt out of his expression to deliver this script. 😂

We learn in this scene that Jack trusts Death so waste of space trusts Jack (me plaintively, why???), This appears to be the part in the season that waste of space is being set up to be the tool, which they’ll forgive him for yet again. 🙄 and also 😴 and 😡, a lot of 😡

Ooh, Sam just asked the obvious question, “If Jack kills god, what about Amara.” Nobody really answers it though.

Jared side-eyeing Misha at the end of this “brother” scene. Wtf are you doing in this scene? Your contribution was what exactly? Did I get any time off during any of this for you to stand in this scene doing nothing, other than pandering to Destiel stans that could give a fuck about me, than as a cheerleader for their non ship? He flounces out. I wish I could leave as easily Jared, but you sucked me into this show the first time you popped your cute mop of emo hair around the door and asked, “Do I have to?” I’m here to the bitter, bitter end my friend.

Back with Jack and “fan favourite” random reaper we’ve never seen before. No offence to the lady, but it might have been nice to see “fan favourite” Tessa back. I don’t think she bit the dust, did she? Anyway 😴 through this scene.

Parent!Sam goes to find Jack and hears him talking to someone. Immediately concerned, he knocks on the door, and enters. The reaper has disappeared. Sam asks who Jack was talking to, Jack says no one, Sam knows that’s not the case but doesn’t push it. Sam says they’re glad to have Jack back and asks if he knows that and that Jack could have come to them first, they would have helped him. So… we’re just ignoring the whole box thing and the end of last season? Awesome, said no fan of good writing or continuity anywhere.

By the way Jack, that was your cue to be honest with Sam about the reaper.

Ah, yet another pandering moment!! How would we have endured the last few seasons without one or two or twenty of these crow barred into every episode. Screams from the rooftops “waste of space is a god damn angel, he doesn’t eat or drink, why the fuck are you trying to humanise him you twats.”

Anyway 😴 through that scene and I swear, I would pay to have a version of this show with waste of space completely removed from the last few seasons. Zero purpose to this, other than setting him up to be wrong again, and taking Dean along with him, because if Jack’s anything other than a red herring, I’ll be very 😡

As an aside, I don’t know who that is in this scene but it’s not Dean. It’s not my Dean that I fell in love with. I hate how much this show lost its way and dragged everything down to pandering and soap opera drama.

As another aside, this scene is like an outtake with seeing who can have the deepest voice, their vocal chords are going to be permanently screwed.

However, what amuses me as always with any Dean and waste of space scene, they don’t actually talk, except about Sam or Jack and this scene is no different.

Dean’s phone rings. It’s Jody. I started watching this epsiode, then took a break for a couple of days and had somehow completely forgotten she was in the episode. That’s how efficient my mind is at removing the trash. 😂. Anyway she’s in trouble and tells Dean where she is and that he has to come, otherwise she dies.

Dean and Sam drive to the location given by Jody and I’m incredibly surprised that waste of space isn’t cadging a ride in the back seat. Seems this is a random time they can deal with things on their own without requiring the assistance of several others. Just like the good old days. Shame they’re saving one of the Wayward failures rather than a brand new case that would have been infinitely more interesting.

Sam and Dean get to pretend they remember how to hunt in this episode, Dean covering Sam’s back while Sam helps untie Jody who is tied to a chair in the middle of a barn is the best scene in the episode so far. Jody has plenty of time while Sam’s untying her to warn them to watch out for “fan favourite” Dark!Kaia but no, and that’s how bad this is. She barely gets a gasp and a “look out” before Sam gets whaled on. And of course they are both going to get their asses handed to them because “Wayward af” 🙄. Fucking hate Wayward, not content with ruining 4 episodes of season 13, they’ve come back uninvited to waste another in season 15.

What the fuck did I just see? No seriously, what the actual everloving fuck did I just see? (My swearing goes up exponentially the worse the writing is, I make no apology for that). Samsel-in-distress is writhing on the floor, while Dean is being choked by whiny dark!kaia complaining about her spear, so of course Jody has to be the one to rescue the Winchesters by whacking her on the back with her chair 🙄. To add insult to injury, we don’t even get a padabooty shot to make up for this atrocity we’ve had to endure. And believe me, I could see Jared desperately trying to give us that shot. I’m 😡

Now that Jody’s been shown to be more competent than the Winchesters because “girl power rules”, Sam’s able to stand up again and both he and Dean get their guns trained on dark!kaia.

Long boring scene later – mainly between Jody and Kaia because why write for the two guys you’re paying a quarter of a million dollars per episode for, when you can write for the cheap side characters and have Sam and Dean just stand in the scene doing practically nothing. Are you chuck damn insane with this nonsense? Oh sorry, upshot is Kaia is alive and Dark!Kaia can see her world ending and needs to open the portal to rescue her so she lured Sam and Dean to get to Jack (for him to open the portal like he did before). 😴

Jack and waste of space are playing connect 4. Jack wins. 😴

Sam and Jody arrive back at the bunker. We get a waste of screen time between Jody and waste of space who meet for the first time, with Sam once again being very expensive, but beautiful background. Dean comes in a little later so he can have a dramatic entrance with dun dun dun, dark!kaia. 😴

I love how the Scooby gang are all off to the side, having a conversation but Dark!kaia is clearly within listening distance so it just makes them look like dumbasses.

Jack’s off limits in helping Kaia (Parent!Dean said no), but Sam says they’re going to look for another way. Ummm… wasn’t that what the entirety of Season 13 was about and you needed the grace of an archangel for? You’re just going to “check the lore” and miraculously find in half an episode what you couldn’t find in the entirety of a season? This is bad. Waste of space is going to call plot device “fan favourite” Sergei. How they never stumbled across Sergei before, I have no idea as he seems to be the oracle as far as Drabbernatural is concerned.

Dark!Kaia is so whiny. They are terrible at writing teenage girls, it’s actually insulting at this point.

Oh, I thought Jack had found the right spell in research, but turns out the monster needed for the spell is now extinct as they read about it in dad’s journal. Wow, I don’t remember the journal being mentioned in a long time, surprised they remember it even existed, let alone used to be the holy grail of hunting and pretty much what the show centred around in the early seasons (*whispers*, when the show was good).

Wow, they even managed to make the 30 second broment boring. This is a new low. 😴

Jody and waste of space scene because yes, out of all the scenes I could have wished to see in the final season, this was on the list. 🙄. They talk about “fan favourite” Hunter!Barbie Claire (who couldn’t be in this episode because she’s all that and a kit kat now - Supernatural who? I don’t know her.). We find out Claire loved Kaia. I mean yeah, it’s totally normal to fall in love within 15 minutes of knowing someone. Fucking hell, someone take this pandering hack’s laptop away and save us from this trite aimed only at people who share 1 braincell who only wanted the relationship as it’s a “parallel” to Destiel. But since Dean dancing with a lamp a couple of episodes ago was a parallel for Destiel, why are we pandering to them. (*whispers* the writers are all narcassists and put stoking their ego before good writing).

This is bad. Did I mention this was bad? No, but it’s really, really bad.

Jack was listening in so he’s going to do something stupid so Claire gets her “love” back. Of course he is. 🙄

He goes to speak to Dark!Kaia. She’s still whiny, we’ll fast forward this garbage to the point Jack looks inside Dark!Kaia’s head to see what she sees, which is Kaia struggling in lizard world. 😴

Jack goes to Sam and Dean and says he’s helping Kaia because he owes her. Parent!Winchesters are funny, neither are happy with what Jack wants to do but they support their mother killing son.

Reaper is back to stop Jack doing something that is “Winchester dumb” and Jesus fuck, how much contempt does this hack writer have for the lead characters and the 99% of the audience who love them?

Anyway the next few minutes are how stupid the Winchesters are that they can’t even fix the warding on the bunker, and I hate this writer is getting paid actual money for handing this crap in. Unfortunately, he’s got his fellow writers and a couple of hundred sycophants telling him how absolutely amaze balls he is with the rest of the c list cast tweeting around each other at how good they all were.

This is my favourite bit of the episode – not really – but it amuses me the Hellers are making mountains out of “I need to borrow your angel” (😔 pandering) and completely ignoring that no-one bats an eye or puts up a token protest that the reaper needs to use waste of space to feed the wards to keep them running as long as they need for the spell to work. No one asks what harm that might do to him, waste of space is yet again, nothing more than... well, a waste of space really. Never change Hellers, never change. 😂. I’d like to point out that if Sam has been needed to charge it, the reaction from Dean would have been entirely different. 😂

Dean makes the spell, Sam reads the words, while 2 of the 3 side characters just stand there with no purpose. The warding going up throughout the bunker is the coolest part of this episode though. Special effects used their $2.50 dollar store budget wisely this week. 👍

10 second broment where Sam asks Dean how Sam’s feeling about what they’re doing.

Sam: honestly? It feels like we’re taking a big, probably stupid risk… it feels good. Disobeying cosmic entities, doing the dumb right thing, it feels like we’re back.

Note to Berens, I think you could have fit a few more dumb synonyms into that speech to let us know how you really feel). 🙄

I like how Sam checks Dean’s backpack in this scene though. I’m wondering if that was J2 rather than writing or direction.

Yet another scene between Jody and waste of space. 😴. Jody thanks him for staying behind to look after the reaper. Waste of space says he wants Jody to stay behind too.

Jody (out of absolutely nowhere): What is that? Some bs male chivalry thing?

Fuck off with your sjw feminist bullshit to please the single braincellers. With shitty lines like this, it’s absolutely no surprise Wayward didn’t get green lighted.

Waste of space talks about how he’ll never be able to make what’s right, what he “took from Claire”. Oh, you’ve remembered you possessed a child, incapable of consenting to being possessed, in order to blackmail her father to agree to being possessed again against his will. A father and husband you got killed because you provoked Lucifer by shouting “Hey assbutt” at him and getting Jimmy blown to smithereens? And you still wander round wearing his face and clothes? No, waste of space, you can’t ever make up for that.

Anyway, the reason he doesn’t want Jody going is that if Claire loses her on top of what she’s already lost (including Kaia), then it would kill her. Jody agrees. I meanwhile have to stop watching while I try to find my eyes which have rolled right out of my head at this point of the episode. 🙄

Found them, we’re back!

The reaper and Castiel put their hands on a stone tablet, not sure if we’ve seen it before or it’s just a random object the reaper has handy. 🤷‍♀️. The wards are supercharged (hiding the use of Jack’s powers from Chuck so he doesn’t alert Chuck that he’s back). Jack opens the portal and Dark!Kaia, Sam and Dean step through to lizard world.

It’s raining heavily, but not on Sam’s hair bizarrely. Denied wet!Sam so here’s a gif from a good episode.

And because I'm here for both my boys, here’s wet Dean as a bonus

They start walking to find Kaia and are set upon by those creatures from the first Star Wars movies – the ones that sell the droids and this bit is exciting, finally we get what I’m here for. Sam and Dean are going to kick as…. Or not, because why write Sam and Dean doing what they should be doing. The creatures don’t want to fight, they are scared of the world ending and run away. Totally anti-climactic. 😔

They find Kaia and in the most bizarre writing so far in a season chock full of bizarre writing, Kaia rushes to the guy who pulled a gun on her and forced her to do something she didn’t want to do, resulting in her getting stranded on that shitty lizard world alone, and instead of stabbing him, she… hugs him.

In fairness, it was ooc writing by I think Berens that had Dean pulling the gun on Kaia in the first place so this is just a really weak attempt at fixing the original bad writing, which only ends up compounding the problem.

Sam “the writers never bother to write in a hug for me” Winchester just stands back and smiles at Kaia. In fairness, Sam never getting hugged goes way back and I headcanon that Sam has “back off” vibes to protect himself. Common in younger siblings that experience a lot of loss early in their lives.

Kaia notices dark!kaia and looks about to kill her but Sam says that she helped them find Kaia. They go to leave but dark!kaia wants to stay because she doesn’t belong in their world. Sam says she’ll die and she seems to accept that, being left behind as Sam, Dean and Kaia run for the portal.

We see Dark!Kaia’s world pretty much ending, with her embracing it, just as Sam, Dean and Kaia step back through the portal.

Jody and Kaia hug and I think we’re supposed to feel 🥰 at that, but I care for neither of them (and Kaia was the one I originally liked in season 13, but Wayward af and the trite with Claire, plus dark!kaia episodes ruined it).

Kaia and Jack scene and Kaia looks really well put together considering the entire time we saw her in the AU, she was clearly having mental issues, but like a magic wand has been waved, she’s completely normal and healthy and no worse for 2 earth years in complete isolation in a world you have to fight to survive in every day. Miraculous, but that’s a Wayward af cardboard cutout character for you.

Jody comes in and offers Kaia a home at Jody’s home for cardboard cut out girl!power hunters. Kaia asks if Claire will be there and Jody says soon.

Sam, Dean and waste of space are crammed into a frame and we wouldn’t have this overcrowding in a scene if they didn’t insist on crowbarring him in. There would be more space in the scene if he wasn’t wasting it. I’m guessing it’s to frame Jack in the front with his “three dad’s” behind 🤮. It just looks bad.

After Kaia and Jody leave, they go back to speak to the reaper. They’ve remembered they have two stars in this framing, Sam and Dean are together in the front of the shot, Jack and waste of space are behind.

Sam asks the reaper if the warnings worked. She snidely answers that the fact they are all still alive says it worked. She’s killed milliseconds later by… Billie. Oh “fan favourite” reaper, so sad to see you go. Maybe you’ll be resurrected in a later episode. We can always hope.

“Hello boys”. Wait, isn’t that Crowley’s line (and before that Ellen?).

Oh my chucking lord, why the dramatical looks at Death and everyone being scared. This is bad. This is like that Clint Eastwood movie where they all look at each other.

It’s bad. Who directed this? Lol, I think it might have been Richard. He’s been hit or miss for me. And this one’s a miss.

Sam and Dean step aside to allow Billie to get to Jack and can I just say, no parent would ever do that. I don’t believe Sam and Dean would do that, but they do, do that (sniggers childishly at do do). They just step aside without saying a word, but who cares about them and what their characters would do. Certainly not the writer of this episode.

Death tells them they risked everything for one girl and for what, because all the worlds are dying.

Waste of space says it’s Chuck and glares impotently at Death (I think that’s what he’s doing, he might just need the bathroom again, who knows anymore tbh), while she agrees with him, saying Chuck has been wiping out galaxies for the end.

Sam asks what her end game is. He asks how Jack is going to kill god, what the plan is.

Long, boring monologue later, God has a book in Death’s library, meaning he can die. Billy: Everything dies” 😂

We flashback to original death in the pizza place with Dean and I wish they hadn’t. The difference between that scene and anything in the last season is glaring. But I was right from something we were talking about a few weeks ago, because we get this quote from Death to remind us;

Death: In the end, I reap him too

Original!Dean: God? You’ll reap god

Death: oh yes

Waste of space, “And why would god write the blueprint to his own death?” (that would have been a good line for Sam or Dean who have barely had anything to say or do this episode as it is, and they’re in the scenes just standing there getting paid a quarter of a million dollars to watch someone who hung up his acting shoes before season 7, give this line, and I can’t with this).

Anyway, god didn’t write the book, the books write themselves.

Another boring monologue, the upshot of which is Chuck had to write himself into the framework, hence he has to have a book, but it’s not explained very well and I’m fake coughing bullshit on this plot device as it doesn’t make any sense but I throw my hands up in the air. If the writers don’t care about even trying to make it make sense, then why the fuck should I put any effort in to explain it away. 😴

God hasn’t read his book and can’t unless Billie lets him. Sam asks if Jack is in god’s book. She says yes and “so are you. I told you Dean, you and your brother have work to do, this is your destiny. You are the messengers of god’s destruction.”

Oh great... they’re messenger boys now? Awesome.

Back with Chuck, he’s still in Radio Shed, watching a number of televisions and all of them show worlds being destroyed.

Chuck gets up to leave, the “fan favourite” Radio Shed employee asks if he’ll be saved. Oh you sweet summer child!

Chuck says he’ll be fine, but as he leaves we see a meteor hit the store (and show, if you think that was a surprise twist ending, it was flashing neon lights from the very beginning).

The episode seemed to be double the length of normal, but nothing really happened and it was boring af.

Somebody get this show a defibrillator. Stat! Oh wait, on second thoughts, slaps “Do not resuscitate” sign onto show. Let it die in peace.

#spn spoilers #15.12 #galaxy brain #spn critical #very critical

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searchingwardrobes · 5 years ago

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Self-Promo Sunday: Labyrinth

As I’m weeding out my obnoxious amount of fics on Ao3, the first ones I’m deleting are ones like this that were originally speculation fics that canon has now blown out of the water. Even though I knew this spec fic would never actually happen since it closely follows the plot of a Smallville episode by the same name. This was also written before we knew Colin would be playing Wish!Hook. I loved making the creepy pic set for this, which ended up being pretty perfect for Halloween week. I also was struck by how much Andrew J West and Colin look alike. This is a Captain Cobra fic all the way with adult Henry, so that realization gave me massive feels.

Many are a little sad that I’m deleting some of my fics on Ao3, but just remember that they will now be here on tumblr as well! This just means that new readers finding my fics on Ao3 won’t be so overwhelmed and my very best ones will be easier to find.

Summary: One moment, a curse is bearing down on him, and the next Killian Jones wakes up in a mental hospital. They say every thing he has ever known to be true is a fantasy. But surely that's part of the curse . . . right? Inspired by the Smallville episode of the same name. No need to have watched Smallville to get this story. However, there are some fun easter eggs for Smallville fans.

Rating: G

Also on Ao3 until 11 / 3 / 2019

Tagging the usuals:@snowbellewells @kmomof4@jennjenn615 @kday426 @let-it-raines @teamhook@kmomof4 @bethacaciakay @profdanglaisstuff @resident-of-storybrooke @thislassishooked @tiganasummertree@whimsicallyenchantedrose @snidgetsafan @delirious-latenight-laughs @winterbaby89 @distant-rose@shireness-says @xhookswenchx @optomisticgirl @spartanguard @branlovestowrite @welllpthisishappening @stahlop

Killian Jones smiled as he brought his cup of coffee to his lips, gazing out of the bay windows to the view of the sea. He could hear Emma’s footsteps above him as she padded across the nursery on the second floor. Through the baby monitor on the coffee table, he could hear her coo a good morning to the baby. His smile widened when little Chloe babbled a response. The voices of the two lasses he loved most in this world quieted on the monitor as the rocking chair began to squeak. In his mind’s eyes, he could see Emma holding Chloe to her breast as she nursed her, rocking slowly back and forth. She would smile down at their wee one, touching a finger lightly against the baby’s soft cheek.

The family’s golden retriever bounded down the stairs, its claws click-clacking on the hard wood floor. The dog nuzzled against Killian’s hook, giving the cool steel a lick.

“Morning, Shelby,” Killian chuckled, giving the dog a pat of greeting.

The dog sat on her haunches, contently waiting by Killian’s side for him to finish his morning coffee. She waited there patiently, and then Killian would rinse out his mug and fill her bowl with kibble. It was their daily routine.

But suddenly Shelby whimpered, turning her head towards the front door. She rose onto all fours, fur bristling as she stalked forward. She stopped directly in front of the door and let out a low, deep growl. Killian arched a brow.

“What is it, girl? You hear something I don’t?”

Killian set his mug on the coffee table and went to the dog who was now scratching at the door, whimpering once again. Killian opened it, and Shelby bounded on to the front porch, barking wildly. Killian stepped out cautiously, hook raised. He had a bad feeling about this. He strode to the top of the porch steps, his eyes widening as he saw what was barreling down the street straight for the house. He turned and raced back inside.

“Emma!” he screamed.

His wife was at the top of the steps, clutching the baby in her arms. Chloe was wailing, her cries different than any Killian had heard before. Cries of fear.

“Killian! Behind you!” Emma screamed.

He turned as the billow of crackling smoke poured through the front door. This curse was different than all the rest, pounding against him like a physical force. With the names of his wife and daughter on his lips, Killian fell backwards, his head smashing against the floor.

*************************************************************

Still on his back, Killian’s eyes fluttered open. He blinked at the harsh fluorescent light swinging overhead. Two men he didn’t recognize were leaning over him. One had a round face, soft with fat and sprinkled with red facial hair. The other had a long, thin face and large ears. Both had dull, unfocused eyes and laughed maniacally.

“Did the curse get you?” chuckled the chubby one.

“Yeah,” the other one said, giving a high-pitched giggle, “which realm did you wake up in?”

Killian sat up, utterly confused, to find himself on a cold, linoleum floor surrounded by a group dressed in white. They were seated in folding chairs in a circle around him. Killian scrambled to his feet, taking in the room. This made no sense. It was a large, colorless room. Industrial, with bars on the windows. Everyone was dressed in plain white pants and shirts. Kilian looked down. Including him.

“Where am I?” he muttered. “Where are Emma and Chloe?”

“Gentleman please sit,” a cultured voice asked gently, and the two men shuffled to chairs and dutifully sat. Killian refused.

“What the bloody hell is going on?”

“I don’t know, Captain Hook,” the man with the red beard chuckled, “but this ain’t the Jolly Roger!”

The man’s words rose in hysterical volume as he spoke, and the others in the circle joined in his laughter.

“What realm am I in?” Killian roared, “What did this curse do?”

“Which curse,” giggled the thin one, “the one that the Queen of Hearts protected you from? Or the one you cast when you were a dark one?” The man used air quotes around the final title.

“Oh, oh, I know,” the chubby one squealed, clapping his hands, “it was the one that separated him from his true love.”

Killian’s anger rose as a hand rested on his shoulder. He turned to a man with a white beard, dressed in a tweed suit. “Killian,” he said softly, “why don’t you sit back down.”

Killian stumbled away from him, “What happened to me? Who are you?”

The man raised his hands in supplication as if Killian were a wild colt who might kick him in the head. “I’m Dr. Hudson. You were just telling us about your dog barking and the smoke coming. Then you blacked out for a minute.”

Killian noted the man giving an almost imperceptible nod over Killian’s left shoulder. He whirled instinctively as two muscular orderlies stepped forward. “I don’t want to hurt anyone,” he warned, lifting his hook aloft. Then he started. There was no hook at the end of his left arm. Just a stump of flesh. Not even the end of his brace. Just a scared, mutilated stump. Fairly fresh, like the days and weeks right after Milah’s demise.

“No,” he gasped in a shuddered breath.

When the orderlies grasped him by the arms, he fought, or tried to. Tried to think of Emma and Chloe and the fact that he needed to find them before something horrible happened. But in his haze of confusion, his reflexes just weren’t what they should have been. And soon he was being dragged down a sterile hallway and thrown into a padded cell.

*******************************************************

Killian was pacing his cell when a face appeared in the tiny barred window in the center of his door. He commanded that Killian step back. Killian obeyed, but planted his feet in readiness. When the orderly stepped through, Killian charged. The man easily tossed him across the floor, and Killian groaned. His body felt so sluggish. As if he had been asleep for a century. Dr. Hudson strode through the room shaking his head. He gestured to two more orderlies, and before Killian knew what was happening, they had him in a strait jacket and seated in a chair. Dr. Hudson paced in front of him.

“Killian,” the doctor sighed as he wiped his glasses on a handkerchief from his pocket, “you really must stop all this fighting. Let me help you.”

Killian jerked against his bonds, “Where is my family?”

The doctor sighed, then in resignation set a manila folder on the table before Killian. He took out a photograph and help it up for Killian to see. Killian’s vision blurred with tears to see the smiling faces of his wife and daughter. But then he shook his head. The photo was one of those cheesy ones taken in a studio at a department store, with the three of them seated together with Killian’s hand resting awkwardly on Emma’s shoulder. The kind Emma always made jokes about. The photos in their home were all candid shots. He narrowed his eyes as he looked closer – and that was his left hand.

“That picture is fake.”

“No,” the doctor said softly, “it isn’t.”

He pulled another item from the file – a newspaper clipping. The headline read, “Young Mother and Infant Die in Fatal Crash.” Killian leaned over it, confusion marring his brow. There was a picture of a car wrapped around a tree and a smaller photograph of a laughing Emma blowing a kiss onto Chloe’s cheek.

“No,” Killian argued, shaking his head, “that never happened. It was morning. We were all just waking up, and the curse came –“

“Killian,” the doctor interrupted, splaying his hands across the top of the table, “you must pull yourself out of this fantasy world you’ve created. Your wife and daughter were killed, and you lost your hand. Ever since, you’ve been in this mental hospital, thinking you’re Captain Hook and everyone you know and love are story book characters.”

“I’m not crazy!” Killian cried out, wincing when he realized his voice sounded exactly that.

The doctor stood and strode to the sink in the corner of the room. He picked something up as he spoke, “Your wife wasn’t Emma Swan, the daughter of Snow White and Prince Charming.”

He turned and in his hand was a bottle of hand soap – “Swan Soap” it said on the bottle. He walked across the room and set the bottle on the table. Killian blinked as he stared at it, his mind flipping over.

Dr. Hudson resumed his seat across from Killian. “Her name was Emma Nolan, before she married you, and her parents were two ordinary people named David and Mary Margaret Nolan.”

“What about Henry?”

The doctor smiled. “You mean Henry Mills? Our janitor?”

The doctor gazed at Killian intently with hazel eyes that seemed to swirl with multiple colors. The room seemed to spin and Killian felt suddenly dizzy. Then there was a knock at the door, and Killian jerked as if suddenly awakened from a dream. A nurse bustled in with a clipboard in her hand. The doctor scribbled something, and the nurse glanced hesitantly at Killian with the same look he had seen on the face of all the orderlies. A look of fear and disgust. Killian blinked when he saw the nurse’s nametag – Regina.

“You see, Killian,” the doctor continued, standing to his feet as the nurse left, “you’ve taken bits and pieces of the things around you to create this fantasy of yours. But it isn’t real. Your wife and child are not out there waiting to be rescued. They’re dead.” Dr. Hudson reached under Killian’s mattress, pulling out a well-worn book. “The sooner you accept that, the sooner you can get well.”

He tossed the slender volume onto the table before Killian and left. It was a copy of J.M. Barrie’s Peter Pan.

*******************************************************

Killian shuffled forward in the medication line, feeling a hopelessness he hadn’t felt since the days of seeking revenge against the Crocodile. If those days were even real. Killian wasn’t sure any more. At least now he was out of the strait jacket. He had decided to at least play nice.

“Don’t take the medicine they give you,” hissed a voice behind him.

Killian ignored it. If he wasn’t crazy, everyone else here was. Best to keep a low profile and ignore the other patients.

“You’re not crazy – Hook,” the person continued.

There was something about the voice that sounded clearer, more steady than the voices of the other patients. He turned tentatively to see a young man in his twenties with brown hair and eyes smiling at him. Something about the face seemed familiar to him. He narrowed his eyes to study the man more closely.

“Henry?” he said tentatively.

The young man’s eyes lit up, “Yeah, it’s me. I’m here to rescue you.”

Killian shook his head to clear it, trying to process this latest development. He had looked in the mirror since waking up in this place, and he could clearly see he hadn’t aged at all. How was Henry . . .

Before he could complete that thought, two orderlies came up behind Henry and grabbed him. “Believe in yourself!” Henry shouted before the men jabbed a syringe into his neck. They then dragged him through a heavy, locked door. It all happened so fast, Killian was rooted in place for a moment.

Then suddenly, Henry’s words surged through him. Believe in yourself! He wasn’t crazy, and he wasn’t weak. He was pirate Captain Killian “Hook” Jones, and his family needed him. He scanned the room as he stepped out of the medicine line. He saw a janitor unlocking the supply closet with a huge ring of keys. He grinned to himself in delight as he remembered all the times he had watched Star Wars with Henry. He couldn’t do the Wookie prisoner gag alone, but he could at least pose as a Stormtrooper . . .

**************************************************

Killian stumbled across the snow with Henry leaning heavily against his shoulder. Not only had they heavily drugged the lad, but they had also beat him pretty severely. Henry had a gash across his forehead that was currently trickling blood down the sleeve of the janitor’s uniform Killian was wearing. And based on the way he kept wincing and holding his side, Killian was pretty sure Henry also had a few cracked ribs.

Shouts sounded behind them, and Killian knew the hospital guards were gaining fast. He didn’t know why his body was so weak, but it was, and the added weight of his boy didn’t help. Killian prayed to whatever gods would listen for intervention. They needed a miracle.

Suddenly, a sedan spun to a stop in front of them, tires squealing. The back door opened, and a dark-haired little girl leaned out. “Hurry! Get in!” she cried.

“Lucy,” Henry groaned, his voice laced with affection. Whoever this little girl was, apparently, they could trust her. And, Killian hoped, whoever was driving.

Killian shoved Henry into the backseat as gently as he could under the circumstances, then slid in himself. The driver turned to face him, her familiar penciled eyebrows arched and a half smile on her lips.

“Good to see you again, pirate.”

“Regina?”

“Um, can everyone catch up later?” the little girl interrupted. “Cause those guys have guns.”

She didn’t have to tell Regina twice. The queen put the petal to the metal just as shots rang out. She flew through the gates of Dreamshade Mental Hospital – Killian rolled his eyes at the irony – and turned on two wheels onto a residential street. Then she sighed and visibly deflated. For the first time, Killian noticed the head of gray hair in the front passenger seat. He groaned when the passenger himself turned to glare at him.

“I believe a thank you is in order for rescuing you, Captain.”

“Thanks, Crocodile,” Killian bit out through clenched teeth.

“Calm down, Captain Guyliner,” Regina grumbled, “at least you didn’t wake up thinking you were married to him.”

Killian couldn’t help the grimace that crossed his face, and an awkward silence descended. The little girl – Lucy - wrapped her arm around his left bicep and leaned into him. He started a bit at the sudden affection.

“Grandpa!” she enthused. “It’s so nice to finally meet you!”

“Grandpa?” Killian’s eyes shifted to Henry in surprise.

“Yes,” Henry chuckled, then winced at the pain in his ribs, “she’s my daughter. Let’s just say I was up to more in the Enchanted Forest than just looking for a way to break this current curse. Good things happened to.”

Killian noted the obvious affection in Henry’s voice and the tenderness in his gaze. Killian looked down at Lucy, who still clutched his arm and beamed up at him. How could you love someone so much whom you just met? The thought immediately took his mind to his own daughter. He swallowed thickly as he regarded Lucy.

“How old are you?”

“Ten.”

Killian closed his eyes, immediate pain washing over him. “I missed it,” he choked out. “My baby girl. I missed everything.”

“No, you didn’t, Killian,” Regina assured him. The words were a balm to his wounded heart. Regina only used his name when she was completely sincere.

Henry struggled to sit up as he addressed Killian, “Don’t worry, Dad. Mom and my little sister are exactly as they were when you last saw them.”

“Where are they?” Killian asked, his nerves sparking in agitation to do something.

“A place that isn’t easy to get to,” Rumpelstiltskin explained with vehemence in his voice, “but believe me, we will get back those we love. No matter the cost.”

Lucy picked up a duffel bag from the floor and handed it to Killian with a huge grin on her face. “I thought you might be missing this.”

He opened it to find his brace and his hook. He turned to Lucy and smiled, placing a kiss to her temple. “Thank you, lass.”

“Killian, do you remember all those times you whined about your true love kisses never working?” Regina quipped as she pressed harder on the gas. “Well, pucker up, pirate. Because your lips are our only hope.”

#cs ff #self promo sunday #labyrinth #cs spec fic #season 7 spec fic #smallville references

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deanie1987 · 5 years ago

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Mostly positive thoughts about Shameless 10x11 Location, Location, Location

This wasn’t my favorite episode of the season, but I really enjoyed it. As always, I wish we could have gotten a little bit more in the way of emotional scenes/real in depth dialogue, but clearly this is not the show for that anymore. But I’m going to be positive and there was a lot to like in this episode:

The general nonchalance and irritation with which both Ian and Mickey registered the fact that Terry was outside of the house screaming his head off. Then the fact that Mickey told him that he was irritating everyone LOL.

This episode was full of great line readings and one of my favorites was the way that Mickey said “I DEFINITELY love one.”

I thought Terry’s line “it does if it falls on a dick” was kind of funny. I’m not proud of myself.

I loved how Ian was trying to get Lip to talk about the move to Milwaukee and then trying to get Lip to talk to Tami about it as well. He mentioned it a couple of times and was trying to be supportive of the move. Either the self-help books he read in prison really helped or that boy has been in therapy and didn’t tell anyone about it.

Along those lines, I appreciated that Ian seemed a bit concerned about Lip and the move. He was clearly thinking about it and distractedly playing with his ring right after Lip left. It reminded me of when he was in prison and worried about Lip, Tami and the baby and the way he looked last week when Lip made his announcement. I don’t know if Cam does this on purpose, but it seems like he has different mannerisms or facial expressions for different characters. The way he smiles at Mickey or the softness of tone he uses for Mickey, for example, was different than the softness he used for Monica.

I loved seeing Mickey at home in the Gallagher kitchen and interacting with the various Gallaghers. It has been one of the things that I’ve wanted most this season and I’m trying hard (and pretty much failing) not to be bitter that it took until the second to the last episode of the season. The promo for next week and the thought of season 11 helps though.

Another great line reading with Ian’s “what is happening?” and literally every single facial expression that he had during all of the wedding vendor scenes. From the eye-rolls to the stunned expression to the warning glances to various shop clerks and finally trying to limp after Mickey on the way to the caterers and his increasingly exasperated YESes as Mickey barked out questions about the infamous chairs.

I liked Sandy in this episode. I liked her being on Mickey’s side and I like her offense at Ian’s seeming indifference and incompetence. She and Noel play off each other well. I loved the line readings of “I can see why you called me” and Mickey’s sincere “thank you.” My favorite thing, however, is the disdain that she and Ian seem to have for one another. When Mickey asked about Ian’s ring, the way that Ian kept glancing guiltily at Sandy as he answered made me laugh. He’s like, “not only do I have to deal with Mickey but now this judgmental bitch too.” LMAO!

As much as the groomzilla stuff was played for laughs, I loved that Mickey took all of it extremely seriously. He has opinions about stuff, he’s clearly done his research and he wants the best for his big day. It wouldn’t surprise me at all if he has thought about his wedding day with Ian before. He knows what song he wants, he can envision how it looks and I love that he is focusing on the “atmospheric” stuff like candles, music, flowers, etc., rather than the more practical stuff like food and drinks. Mickey is an artist after all.

I wasn’t sure how to feel about Mickey as Groomzilla when we first saw the preview but I totally get it now, and as per usual, Noel played every between the lines note perfectly. Mickey seemed unbothered by Terry after their altercation but his increasing stress level and emotion was palpable. After everything it took to get himself and Ian to this point, obstacles keep getting thrown in his way and by the time they’re sitting at the Alibi he is overwhelmed and anxious. Noel conveyed both the humor of the situation (I cracked up everytime Mickey threw down his pen in annoyance and every time that he shot Ian an exasperated look). But he also conveyed the anguish that Mickey must have felt as he tried to do something meaningful and joyous and NORMAL. People in love plan wedding everyday, why can’t Mickey? Why does everything have to suck?

And I appreciate the patience that Ian had with him and the way that it slowly dawned on him that Mickey really did care about all of the wedding stuff AND that he was more affected by his dad than he was willing to admit. And I liked that he was willing to indulge Mickey on his plans but also gently remind him of why they were there. Because they’re Mickey and Ian.

I will admit that I am not a Bon Jovi fan and I often run my car off the road trying to turn the radio station should Living on a Prayer or Dead or Alive come on. I also don’t reeealllly believe that of all of the hair band power ballads that Mickey could choose from he would pick a Bon Jovi song. BUT I will admit that the lyrics do fit and the scene itself was sweet. The singer was terrible but that somehow made it better. As cute as Ian’s gesture was, I was still a little underwhelmed. Maybe it’s just that seeing Ian so much more expressive toward Mickey is still new to me and I notice it more, but I sort of felt that Noel underplayed this scene just like the proposal. Or at least the version that made it air. I wanted to feel more from this scene than I did. Is it just me? I think it might just be me. And it makes me a little nervous for next week because I really want tears and heartfelt vows and not misdirected emotion and 100% shenanigans.

As for everyone else, Liam was better this week. I’m so glad that the show remembered that he is only a ten year old kid, who misses his siblings and his father. I don’t know if the actors who played Debbie and Carl were better at that age or if it was the writing or a combination of both, but I still don’t feel for Liam the way that I felt for them for whatever reason and I wish I did.

I didn’t mind that Lip, Ian and Mickey let him ride the L to find Frank on his own because Debbie was running a daycare at that age, Ian was 4 years away from having sex with his boss and god knows the kind of stuff that Lip and Fiona were dealing with at that age. They shield him and encourage him where they can but he’s one of Frank Gallagher’s kids and in their view, he should be able to ride the L by himself to the nice side of Chicago without holding anybody’s hand. The fact that Lip told him to check in once he got there is probably more than any of the other kids got at that age.

Lip getting cold feet makes perfect sense to me as did all of the reasons he gave Tami. Lip doesn’t ever want to leave the Southside of Chicago. That has been hammered into our brains since season 1. He says he does and I think a part of him WANTS to want to leave, but he doesn’t really. He has always liked being a big fish in a little pond and he has always liked succeeding without having to make an effort. That’s who he is and his story with Tami could really be interesting, because for the first time, he has a real reason to try to work things out with a woman who is “forcing” him to better himself. And he has a reason beyond himself to want to do it. It is an organic and interesting dynamic and I hope it goes into season 11. I also see Tami’s side as well. I like her and I like her with Lip and I think that the actress is good enough to go toe to toe with JAW. All of this makes me very happy.

Frank’s screen time continues to be ridiculous. How many times did we need to see Frank walking nervously down the hallway looking for a ghost. I didn’t even hate his scenes this episode but there were soooo many of them in a time when that time could be spent elsewhere.

I’m glad Carl is trying to do good, but I don’t care. Debbie looks good in that tux, but again, I don’t care. Kev’s line reading of “do you even lift, bro” was funny. Vee looked incredible doing her plank on the keg. But...you guessed it...I don’t care.

The promo for next week looks INCREDIBLE. I have a tiny bit of hope that outside of Lip, the majority of the storyline will be the Gallaghers trying to white trash the shit out of this wedding and I hope that everyone will be involved. There is a lot of plot to move on that score and there are some things that I really, really want to see happen in the next episode (which I will probably post about later), so I’m trying to keep my expectations low.

#Shameless 10x11

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chaniters · 5 years ago

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BELOW THE RUINS

_________________________________ Next part of @kruk-art‘s Awan Cormak’s fanfic I’m writing!

Awan takes on Psycopathor by himself! (Or tries to)

Enjoy. Also, spoilers!

__________________________________

“Shitshitshitshit” you go on as you dodge Psycopathor’s powered fist

“Stay still you little fucker! I promise It won’t hurt at all!” he says sending his full weight into another killer punch aimed at your skull.

You can’t play the dodging game with him forever, he’s also a telepath and he’s going to catch up on your game. You need to take the offensive.

Sidestepping to the side, you entangle your arm on his, turning, bending over and going for a throw.

The whole thing takes about a split second, but you feel like time itself stopped as you realize how impossibly heavy his powered armor is.

It’s no use.

You’re going to get crushed under him.

What were you even thinki…

But the endless hours your trainers spent teaching you this move pay off. His own momentum plays against him, turning him weightless. You’re re just the catalyst for his downfall.

The crowd goes silent as Psycopathor’s feet get off the ground, their jaws open as he balances over you and then they gasp as he falls flat on his back with a loud splat.

Is that it? Did you win?

The collective horror of the cultists as their champion lies motionless is deafening. You can’t help but raise your shields immediately as their gazes slowly move on from him to you. There’s no way you can take a whole crowd focusing on you without losing it.

And then you feel Psycopathor’s reaction. He noticed you doing it.

Crap. He now knows you’re a telepath too.

He slowly starts standing up, cackling.

“Well, that’s a very creative thing you just did Sidestep… But I wonder what are you going to do now that I know your secret”

“I’m never going down at the likes of you. Come at me as many times as you want” you threaten. “You’ll just, end up eating dirt again. You haven’t seen everything I can do”

“I haven’t huh? Well, why don’t we give everyone a show then” he says mockingly. “Metal boys, get him!”

“What.. no! Fight me one-on-one you coward!”

“The more I think about it, the more that seems like the stupid way to do it,” he says. Four guards wearing the familiar powered suits -whom he apparently calls metal boys- surround you.

You try. You really do. Take one out, then another. The third almost gets but you manage to quickdraw and shoot him before he sees it coming. Then four more enter the fight, and you manage to hold them off for quite longer than you expect, but when one of them got hold of your arm, it’s over. All of them beat you to the ground, and Psycopathor simply steps forward sending a fist at your face, putting your lights out.

(...)

(...loud noise.)

“...know It’s over Elyise!” Psycopathor’s voice booms into your head as you open your eyes groggily.

It takes a few seconds to realize what’s going on. You can’t really move, something large is holding you in place, and on your feet.

If you have to believe your eyes at this time, it’d seem to be Psycopathor’s powered arm, holding you as a human shield in Elyise’s direction. She’s pointing your own energy gun at him and there’s a couple of guards on the ground around her, along with some other injured ones nearby. Some injured by you, but probably the others by her.

“Let go of the gun or I'll crush his skull here and now”

This is definitely not the highest point of your career as a hero. Sidekick, vigilante, hero, but this is your first as the hostage-boy. You’re treading into unfamiliar territory today.

Elyise reluctantly drops your gun. Well, that’s no good.

“Good. Bring her” Psycopathor commands the guards who seize her by both arms and drag her to the stage, as he does the same with you.

“Oh, you’re awake huh?” He says without looking. Of course, he can sense you’re awake. “Ditched Charge already? I knew you two wouldn’t last. Too much competition. I like your new girlfriend. She’s going to steal your spotlight at this rate though. Has some wicked powers too… but I’m more interested in her mother” he says amused. You struggle to test his grip and the response is overwhelming pressure on your ribs. “You and I are going to have some fun after the show’s over. Maybe I'll break some bones. Or all of them. I wonder if the Rangers would like videos of that. Being a cripple will be a terrific new story-arc for your promos I bet.”

He makes you kneel in front of Mother, who’s sitting like a queen as her transformation goes over.

“Hero-Drug administered successfully… Atropos scanner reports increased Thanatos readings” one of her assistants said while manipulating a console.

“Lachesis device report is critical” the other one answered worriedly.

“Have faith my sisters, our precognitive prophets have foreseen that my thread won’t cut, today. Activate the Clotho intervention”

The machine buzzes noisily as tubes go into Mother’s back before lighting up in bright light, energy surging into her body. She too starts shinning in bright golden light.

“I can feel it!! I can feel the greatness… the ascension...” It’s not just in her head. You can see her body changing. She’s definitely gaining in size under her armor, which is concerning enough.

She sounds ecstatic, her objective complete. The two female assistants observe as in trance, completely absorbed in the process.

Some red lights begin flashing in their control… If there was any truth to Void’s words then this won’t take long to go down in flames.

“Control! I can control the boost!” she says extending her hands which start surging with electrical sparks. The crowd cheers and chants her name.

“Holy mother, master of our divine drugs, bring us the truth and…” one of the assistants goes on until he notices the screen she should have been looking at this whole time. “Wait!! Something’s wrong!! Critical Error! The system’s failing!” She screams

“What?!” Mother asks befuddled

“It’s not transferring any more energy from the subjects!” she goes.

“Impossible! Restart the system!”

“It’s not responding!”

The tubes go dark as the transfer ends. Mother begins convulsing uncontrollably on her chair as the golden aura dies out and her sparkling hands go dark. “No! The process isn’t complete… I can’t… I’m not complete!” She lets out before shrieking in pain, her body still changing.

“We have to repair the system right now!” the assistant to the left states standing up…

But that’s when the lights went out.

………………………………………………..

You stumble to your feet as narrowly avoiding being stepped on by terrified cultists running in the dark.

Activating the night-vision system, what’s going on becomes quite clear.

The rangers are here, fighting the guards along with the LAPD. Charge is commanding officers in clearing out PSycopathor’s guards to rescue the hostages. Steel and Anathema are giving Psycopathor hell, while Elyise is making her way to Mother, who’s still screaming uncontrollably as her body continues to mutate under the hero-drugs without any aid from her device.

It’s not hard to find where you’re the most useful.

“You’re late,” you tell Charge as you help him unstrap one of the patients.

“I can still leave f you prefer” he grunts unstrapping the hostage from the slab.

You hurry the patient out, sending him to the officers with a strong mental boost to his self-preservation instincts. Hopefully, that’ll help.

“I think I’ll let it slide this time,” you say as the both of you move towards the next hostage.

“How kind of you,” he says hurrying to free the next one before looking at Elyise as she tries to talk to Mother. “Who is she?”

“New hero. Elyise, telekinetic”

“Another one?” he squints as he manages to open up the bindings and free the hostage’s arms. “What’s her deal?”

“That one over the chair? She’s Mother Superior. Elyise came to stop her. She’s her actual daughter if you can believe that” you say as the both of you switch slabs again, the officers taking care of the freed woman.

“WHAT?!” he asks incredulously.

Mother roared with a distinctively inhuman new voice, breaking free of her device, her body has increased in size exponentially.

“Mother, please! You need to surrender, so they can help you!”

“HELP?! NOW YOU OFFER HELP??! THIS IS YOuR FAULT!!” she says taking a swipe at Elyise. She dodges, but Mother’s enlarged claws ripped part of the machinery to shreds. Hero drugs are acting fast, as he suit begins fusing with her flesh in a way you’ve never seen before “YOU BETRAaYED ME!!” she charges once more, but Elyise repels her with her powers. Mother manages to keep standing, slowly overcoming the kinetic wave and slowly advancing towards her daughter.

“You left me no choice!”

“YOU MADE ME INCOMPLETE! I NEeD TO COMPLeETE MY ASCENSION!!”

Mother tips of the tables containing the hero drugs, taking a syringe in each of her four hands.

“IT’S BEEN FOREeTOLD! I WiILL BE AN ANGEL! I CAN NOT DIE TODAY!”

“Mother no!!”

But she doesn’t listen, removing the central piece of her armor and injecting all four at once onto herself.

“What the heck is she doing?!” Charge asks.

“She’s lost it. She thinks hero drugs can’t kill her!.” you say as Mother leaps at her daughter. Elyise dodges her narrowly this time. Her claws break through the stage like butter. “No one can survive that much. I don’t think she’s got too long”

“She doesn’t seem to be weakening”

“It could take a while. Go help Elyise. I’ve got this” you tell him. His enhancements make him faster than you and far better at dealing with armored villains.

He nods, heading onwards with a static buzz, as you lead the police officers into freeing the remaining hostages before heading back into the fight.

Most of the cultists have escaped by the time you finish, and Psycopathor and his “Metal boys” seems to be cornered, while Charge, Elyise, and Mother are still going at it on the other end of the room, Elyise still trying to reason with her between the punches and slashes. Charge seems to be trying to keep off the range of her claws while hitting her fast and dirty with electrical discharges which seem to be infuriating her even further.

“Give it up already,” Anathema says facing Psycopathor. His suit is sprinkled with extensive corroded areas were the acid got to him, his gaze going over all of you like a wounded beast, weakened but still dangerous. “It’s over, creep, I can do this all night.” Anathema goes

“Maybe you win this one rangers” he says pulling his left arm horizontally revealing a small panel on the wrist.

“Watch out! He’s going to…” you start as you can sense the thought in his mind before it happens.

Too late. He activates a short squence. “I’ll see you in hell rangers!!” he laughs

“What are yo…” Anathema can’t finish the sentence as explosions shake the ground beneath you.

You manage to stay on your feet, but that’s only because you saw this coming. Nobody else does, except Psycopathor and some of his men.

“Take the equipment! We flee right now!! This place’s going to be dust in minutes!”

As if answering to his words, the high ceiling starts cracking above you, pieces falling over, as the ground too, starts giving out.

“We have to get out of here!” you say pulling Anathema to his feet. He takes it, standing up with effort.

“Did that jerk just set us up the bomb?!” he says

“Out!” you usher, while helping others and heading to the exit. Steel is doing the same on the other side. Psycopathor and his people are taking Mother’s machinery and the hoard of hero-drugs to escape through some hidden exit.

“NO! YOU CAN’T TAKE MY RESeEARCH!!!” Mother says leaping at him like a feral animal, sticking her claws into his armor before he can react.

“I had high hopes for our partnership Mother” Psycopthor says while pulling her off him with both hands “But I’m afraid we’re going to have to re-evaluate things. Don’t call us, we’ll call you” he says finally dislodging the left claw as he tosses her with all his powered strength into the opposite wall. The old bricks give out, and the ceiling collapses, burying her in the rubble.

“NO!” Elyise cries out trying to get to her, but Steel drags her towards the exit with you.

Getting out is a nightmare, Steel and Charge have to team up to open way as the corridors keep collapsing in front of you, and Elyise even had to hold the ground together as you made the final stretch.

The collapsing building is producing aftershocks all trough Sunken Town. Luckily a few LAPD helicopters are taking everyone to safety. You end up sitting next to Charge who’s making calls trough his intercom as it takes off.

The view underneath is complete desolation, as three other buildings fall to pieces around the ruin of Mother’s lab.

His hand on your shoulder startles you. He looks a bit concerned.

“Are you ok?” he asks “I wish we could’ve gotten there sooner but we lost the signal. Good job on putting down the jammer device”

“Just did my job. And I’m fine. Psycopathor only got one punch at me. Here” you say motioning to the left side of your forehead. “That’s nothing!”

“With that power-armor? We need to get you to a hospital… you could have a concussion!”

“Like hell! No hospital” you grunt. “You’re the one who needs one,” you say pointing at a rather ugly slash on his left side.

“She got me a few times. Hard to dodge something with four arms. But unlike you, I AM going to a hospital as soon as I get off this, like a normal person.” he grins.

“Normal is overrated” you grumble.

He offers you a grin. “I know, that’s why I hang out with you”

“Because I’m not normal?”

“Because you’re really, really awesome man!” he grins at you.

Not being able to read his mind always ends up like this. You sort of expected another jab at you so the compliment and the contact take you off-guard. You look away to hide the sudden blush and not make a fool of yourself.

“That was actually a terrific job Sidestep. I mean it” he goes on, making it worse.

“You have a weird definition of a terrific job,” you say pointing down at all the damage.

“Well, that’s just another regular day in Sunken Town. Those things would have given away in time” He shrugs “What matters is we’ve got all the hostages. And nobody died. Except mother but she kind of brought it on herself”

“No shit she did,” you say smiling weakly. “Really? Nobody died in that?”

“There’s a few injured but nope… with those madmen working together it’s a miracle everyone came out in one piece. Many of the cultists are in custody, some escaped into the rest of Sunken Town but all in all, we’ve got enough of them. And we got a lot of Psycopathor’s Metal boys too. Did you see THe Void tough?”

“Was here earlier, but he’s long gone” you sigh.

“We’ll get him next time,” he reassures you. “I promise” Why is he being so nice?!

“Of course we’ll get him!” you struggle for him to hear you under the sound of the rotor blades.

“How did you even find this place?” he asks

“I didn’t. She did” you say pointing at Elyise on the other side of the seating. She seems out of it. “She’s working with REaper”

“Oh. I heard he was helping a new hero out. She really knows how to fight.”

“Yeah, she’s pretty awesome too”. Did you just acknowledge he said that earlier?

“So Uhm... she just lost her mother?”

“I think she’s been dreading this moment half her life-time. She said Mother experimented on her. She was the one who made her boosted. Elyise’s been hunting her for a very long time now.”

“Woah… that’s really fucked up!”

“I know!”

“I think I should talk to her”

“You should. I’m not even sure what to say” You never knew much about having a mother after all. “I bet she could use some words after this mess,” You say taking your gaze off the rubble below and onto Los Diablos’ familiar skyline. At least that’ll get him off your back. Your stomach gets weird when he is nice to you and you don’t want a weird stomach onboard a helicopter.

________________________________

My fanfics: https://chaniters.tumblr.com/post/181692759294/my-fanfiction-for-fallen-hero

DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fan fiction using characters and the setting of the Fallen Hero: Rebirth and upcoming Fallen Hero: Retribution games written by Malin Riden. I do not claim ownership of any characters from the Fallen Hero wold. These stories are a work of my imagination, and I do not ascribe them to the official story canon. These works are intended for entertainment outside the official storyline owned by the author. I am not profiting financially from the creation of these stories, and thank the author for her wonderful game/s, without which these works would not exist.

#fallen hero: rebirth #Awan Cormac #Spoilers #Chargestep #Fanfiction

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fandom-collective-writers · 6 years ago

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A Competition for Your Hand

@yumekiseki (Why won’t it let me @ you??)

Lancelot, Sirius, and Harr “compete” to ask MC out to dance.

Title: A Competition for Your Hand

Fandom: Ikemen Revolution

Character: Lancelot Kingsley, Sirius Oswald, Harr Silver

Genre: Romance, comedy, fluff

Warnings: None

Intended Gender Audience: Female Audience

Word Count: 2123 words

Shameless self promo: My dA (main platform, has a lot of things)!

Other comments: Enjoy! Sorry it’s being posted late~

» » » » » » » » » » » » » » » » ♡ « « « « « « « « « « « « « « « «

After living in Cradle for two weeks, you came to the conclusion that you wanted to stay and help the Black and Red Army come to a peaceful agreement. If anything, the armies and the neutrals needed someone to mediate their discussions, and since you had the ability to counteract magic, that made you the perfect candidate. Although you wanted to return home, you had also grown attached to all of your friends in Cradle. Imagining a world where they might hurt each other… pained you too much to leave them.

Every day you had been trying to convince everyone to set aside their pride and try to work to an agreement. Lancelot would not let it go that the Black Army was responsible for the death of his father., Sirius, who was representing Ray, was trying to keep his cool, and Harr looked like he wanted to hide under the table.

“Enough!” you cry, standing up and slamming your hands on the table. “This has gone long enough. If the three of you want peace, you have to try. I think it would do the good for the citizens of Cradle to see some attempt at harmony. I suggest a ball or dance of sorts to boost moral around everyone.”

The three of them are rather surprised by your words, but then nod in agreement.

“And where would we host this ball?”

“Here,” you explain. “In neutral territory. And everyone is invited, no matter their social class, whether they’re part of the Alack Army or Red Army, or anything else. And the three of you will announce that you will be hosting the party together as to show everyone your efforts to be friends again.”

No one could come up with a reason against your suggestion, so the next day, you worked with the seven from the Black Army, the seven from the Red Army, and the neutrals to coordinate everything so that the ball could be hosted in a week.

You loved see everyone working together – Luka and Seth paired with Jonah (despite the Clemence brothers’ constant quarreling) to work on the decorations and layout of the ball. Fenrir, Zero, and Loki brainstorm security plans and the best way to accommodate so many people. Kyle and Edgar reluctantly helped Oliver decide on a menu (that will likely contain only sweets and alcoholic options). Lastly, you helped Ray with invitations while Sirius, Lancelot, and Harr scrambled around trying to help other groups.

None of them wanted to sit down and do work together, so you glared at them and told them to clear the ball room with the help of the armies.

Once in the grand room, Siris tried to diffuse the situation by striking up conversation. “Do you think this dance will do much to help Cradle?”

Harr continued to sweep, not really paying much attention to Sirius’ words. Lancelot, on the other hand, scoffed and shook his head. “Alice may think that childish games like this will help, but the source of the disunity stretches back too far. She is naive really…”

“Don’t say that about Alice!” Harr protests. “She’s trying, which is better than what can be said about you.”

“What is that supposed to mean..?” Lancelot demands, his eyes flickering with red light.

“Enough both of you,” Sirius calls, his deep voice ringing through the room. “(Y/n) wants us to work together. Why you insist on not trying is beyond me, and I also do not understand why you call her Alice. She has a name, and you should address her as such.”

A silence falls over the three of them until Sirius huffs. “I was thinking about asking her to accompany me to the dance. As a sign of good faith and appreciation for everything she’s done.”

“Because she would want to go with <i>you</i>?”

“When you say it like that, it just sounds like you wanted to ask her for the same reason,” Harr comments as he counts the number of candles they would need for the chandeliers. Lancelot turns away from both of them and tries to leave, but Sirius presses the matter. “Come now, we used to be friends and tell each other everything. Surely elaborating wouldn’t be too much to ask of the Red King, wouldn’t it Lancelot?”

If he could, Lancelot would be blowing steam out of his ears at the moment, so he whips around and glares at Sirius and Harr. “Alice would much rather dance with me. And to prove it, I’ll ask her first.”

“What if you’re both wrong… maybe she would prefer to go with me. Both of you can be overwhelming at times,” Harr blurts out in a soft voice.

Sirius laughs, enjoying the irony of the moment. “It seems like we’ve all been taken with (Y/n)’s beauty and determination. Who will be the one to catch her attention?”

Harr’s Attempt

You’re trying a tart for the desserts when Harr wanders into the kitchen.

“Harr! Would you care to try this? It’s very tasty and I think that the portion is enough to satisfy guests without worrying about having to throw leftovers away.” You offer him your fork so that he may have a bite of the mini pie.

He steps forward and eyes you. “Are you sure you don’t want me to get another fork?”

“As long as you’re fine with it, I don’t mind. I’m not sick or anything,” you giggle in response. “It’s an apricot tart, but it’s the perfect balance of sweet and sour!”

With your hand cupping under the edge of the tart, you raise the fork to his mouth urging him to try it. Harr can feel the tips of his ears turning red as he bites the piece of tart off the fork – an indirect kiss with you and now his heart is pounding in his chest.

“What do you think?”

“It’s really good,” he admits, taking a step back.

“I’ll have to let Jonah know so that we can order these by tonight. The ball is the day after tomorrow and these need to be made the day of.” Harr has frozen in place, so you press a hand to his shoulder. “Are you alright there?”

He immediately jumps at your warm touch, and then shakes his head bashfully. “Do you think you’ll be going to the dance with someone?”

“Me? I don’t know really… I’ve been too busy planning everything to consider it. Why do you ask?”

Harr tries to swallow his embarrassment, but instead becomes overwhelmed by your presence. Because he’s standing so close to you, he can admire the smallest details that make you beautiful. Your soft skin is flawless, and you smell like a forest of wildflowers. Why would you want to dance with Harr of all people?

“No reason. And I think I hear Lancelot calling for me. See you later!” he says in a rush before running out the door.

Sirius’ Attempt

“Little lady, do you think you could remind me what time we have to be here tonight? I was planning on helping Ray with his formal attire, and I wanted to plan ahead so that we wouldn’t be late.” He bats his long eyelashes at you as he waits for an answer.

“Perhaps an hour before we open the gates? Just to make sure that everything is in place.” You mess with one of the bows on a nearby chair before stretching. “I can’t believe that the ball is tomorrow… how time flies.”

Sirius runs a hand through his hair. “You’ve been working the hardest, (Y/n). Have you been remembering to take care of yourself?”

Waving your hand you brush his words off. “Yes yes, I’m alright. Don’t worry about me really.”

But Sirius does not accept your answer. “When was the last time you slept properly?” His amethyst eyes cloud with worry, making you feel appreciated. “If this ball is the reason you become ill, I will be very upset, little lady.”

“Sirius! Your job is to worry about the party. It’s surely more important than me. I’m fine, I promise.”

He catches your hand and pulls you close, so that there is barely a foot of space between the two of you. “I could ask someone to relieve me just to ensure that you are alright. You are very important to the future of Cradle, but also to me. Do not underestimate your value, (Y/n).”

You flush immediately and try to take a step back. “You’re too kind. But I promise,” you repeat, crossing your head with your index finger, “I’m good.”

Sirius bows his head. Asking you to the dance now would be too much. He notes this and gives you a small smile. “I will take my leave and see to some other last minute preparations. Until tomorrow, little lady.”

Lancelot’s Attempt

You’re running around making sure that everything is in place before you retire to your room to prepare for the ball. Because of your chaotic morning, you forgot to eat breakfast, and as you dash through the hallways to the other side of the castle, you lose your footing on the carpet and trip. You’re expecting your nose to land into the purple velvet of the ground, but someone catches you before you do.

“This is not how the representative of peace should be completing her work. Do you do everything so haphazardly?” Lancelot asks, pulling you up from your semi-suspended state. He makes sure that you’re on both feet before letting go of your wrist.

“Sorry,” you mutter, flattening out the creases in your skirt. “My head is spinning, and to be honest… I’m feeling a bit faint.”

Lancelot raises an eyebrow at you. “Are you sure someone else can’t take your duties. Sirius or Harr...?”

“No! Everyone is far too busy at this point.”

He scowls and pulls the ripple in the carpet backwards with his shoe, making it flat as it should have been. “Perhaps the cause of your accident is due to your inability to watch where you are going… Then again, you should listen to Sirius when he reminds you to eat. The man says it enough times in a day that I get a headache from it.”

This makes you giggle, but you curtsy and thank him. “I have two left feet to be honest. I don’t know how I’m going to dance properly tonight,” you admit with a grin.

“I’d offer to help you, but there isn’t nearly enough time until then.” Immediately after the words leave his mouth, Lancelot scolds himself for not taking the chance to invite you to be his date. “Speaking of, you should probably tend to your duties. At a slower pace though…”

“Thank you again, Lancelot. See you in a few hours!”

Sirius waves at Harr and Lancelot before striding across the ballroom to meet them. “This is a very successful event. I’ve seen many dance couples that are from different sides, meaning our hopes of integrating the populations is working.”

Lancelot huffs, the air blowing his blonde bangs away from his eyes for a moment. “But I don’t see Alice at either of your sides, so I wonder if the so called ‘competition’ still is in effect…”

Harr raises his hand to point ahead. His jaw has fallen open, and he cannot find his words.

You’re on the other side of the room, speaking with Ray, and you are absolutely stunning in your gown. The fabric ripples across your skin and makes you radiate with beauty. The three of them gawk as you turn and smile.

It only takes a few moments for them to scramble to your side.

Sirius is the first to compliment you: “Little lady… you are the most gorgeous person here. I must confess that I did not expect you to take my breath away as you have…”

His words make you blush, so you cover your mouth with a hand and bow your head in thanks.

Lancelot takes a step forward. “For someone with two left feet… I have to agree with Sirius. You look like an angel in your dress.”

Harr wants to chime in, but he’s still looking for words to describe you.

And then, before anyone can ask anything, you clap your hands together. “Would the three of you care to dance with me? You’ve been working so diligently and your efforts are truly amazing. I couldn’t possibly only dance with one of you though… I’d embarrass you with how awful of a dancer I am!”

The four of you burst into friendly laughter, leading Sirius, Lancelot, and Harr to forget about their competition.

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enygmass · 6 years ago

Text

Title: The Visiting Room

Characters: Jonathan Crane, Bruce Wayne

Synopsis: An early morning visit leads to Jonathan receiving a very odd opportunity.

Ao3 link can be found here if you don’t want to read 2800+ words on Tumblr

[Shameless self promo of Ko-Fi ]

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“The Visiting Room” was to Jonathan as sleep was to an insomniac; a foreign concept that, although observed numerous times in passing, was never in reach of his outstretched hand. The other inmates had all been introduced to “The Visiting Room” at least once. Mr. Dent often left to consult with lawyers, Mr. Nygma to consult with the media, and Mr. Fries to consult with inquisitive scientists. From what Jonathan had gathered via word of mouth, “The Visiting Room” was a derelict space, approximately 10x15, with aqua coloured walls that were gradually chipping away to reveal the grey concrete underneath. The air conditioning never worked, so it was constantly boiling in the summer, but to balance it out the heat never worked either, so it was constantly cold in the winter. Mr. Tetch had mentioned in passing once that there was a metal table with two chairs bolted to the floor and that, in his words, sitting on the chair was equivalent to sitting on a horse barebacked; uncomfortable, and leaving you with an aching body once you were done. No, Jonathan had never had the privilege of going into “The Visiting Room”, which was why he was surprised when the guard came to his cell saying that there was someone here to meet him.

Jonathan had experienced his “Eureka” moment a few months ago. It was a moment that many scientists or entrepreneurs hoped to accomplish in their lives. It was the moment when all the puzzle pieces clicked just right, and suddenly you were met with a beautiful image that made the laborious process to accomplish it very worthwhile. Yes, he had experienced his “Eureka” moment, in a sense that he realized in order to exit from Arkham and to be granted the opportunities he needed, he had to play by the rules. Arkham’s rules were the very ones that he had set up long ago, when he had been in control of the Asylum, with every inmate and doctor available at his beck-and-call. The rules were very simple: show improvement, be polite, keep your head down, and walk forwards. Walking backwards was sure to lead you right into the arms of the nearest security guard, or your next ten years in a cell. He supposed, given that he had been playing so well, it was due time that someone would finally want to meet him.

The walk to “The Visiting Room” was nothing exciting. There was no flashing lights, no butterflies in his gut, absolutely nothing at all. Instead, he was shuffled down the hall by a guard who smelled like nicotine and stale coffee and looked as though he hadn’t seen sleep since the cold war, all the while having his arm gripped in a vice that was sure to leave bruises in the morning. Guards were always rough-and-tumble in this field; playing nice had been killed and buried when Joker had walked through the doors.

“I ‘aven’t taken you here before, ‘ave I?” The guard spoke with a gruff tone in an accent that was indiscernible to Jonathan, coming off as more aggressive than Jonathan supposed he meant.

“No.” A short, clipped response was all he offered. He wasn’t in too talkative of a mood at the presiding moment. Part of it was due to the fact it was still so early. Despite Arkham’s protocol to have all inmates up and in the showers by 6 am, Jonathan still found it hard to become aware of everything before the hour of 10. The other part of it was due to the fact he was too preoccupied trying to hypothesize who would come to see him so early. Chances were it was his lawyer, who had been ghosting him since he was put in here, but it could possibly be a curious student as well. It wasn’t uncommon for Gotham University grads and undergrads to come to Arkham to get interviews for thesis projects; Jonathan would be flattered if that was the case. Despite being an inmate, he was still more respected than the other staff in the university.

“Well, suppose they say there’s a first time for everythin’.” The guard let out a hoarse chuckle as he fumbled with his key card, much to the bemusement of Jonathan, before finally scanning it through the slot and unlocking the door. Then, without so much as another word, he tugged Jonathan through.

“The Visiting Room” was exactly how it had been described, right down to the fact that it was frigidly cold. The only details that had been missed were the fact that the room was illuminated by blinding fluorescent lights above, one of which flickered intermittently in the corner. Within the first few steps, Jonathan already knew that the next time he performed any toxin experiments, he’d be doing them here- the room looked like it was taken straight from the set of a Saw film.

“Jus’ sit and be quiet, yeah? We’ll be back in a few.” The guard guided – no, shoved – Jonathan towards one of the bolted chairs, then without so much as a second glance he exited the room, leaving Jonathan to stand alone. Which was perplexing. Often, the guards would attach the cuffs to the metal chain that, too, was bolted to the table to ensure that the inmate wouldn’t try to kill the visitor or something. Perhaps the guards were so fed up with everything that they were beginning to neglect essential components of their job, a thought that Jonathan only fuelled as he sat down in the chair.

Ah, Jervis had been right. Jonathan was not the meatiest inmate in Arkham, and the metal of the chair only served to emphasize the fact that this was the case. His boney stature combined with the hard surface brought immediate discomfort and made him only wish harder that this visitation was finished quickly.

That, however, did not seem to be the case. Time passed slowly when you were aware you were waiting, and time passed even slower when there was no clock to tell you how long it had been. He found himself inspecting the wall, inspecting the table, staring into the camera in hopes of unnerving any observers, and eventually picking at his nails as he waited. Then, after what seemed like a lifetime had passed, the telltale buzz of a card being registered sounded from the door, and Jonathan looked up to greet his visitor for the first time. Or at least, he would have, had confusion not rendered him silent first.

The man in the door was no student, nor was he the slimeball individual that Jonathan had the pleasure of calling his lawyer. This man was tall, impressively so, wearing a well-tailored suit and a red tie. His dark hair was cut in a neat style, and his dark blue eyes made Jonathan uncomfortable in the sense that nothing felt secret to them. The man could have been a lawyer, yes, or a politician, but the Wayne Enterprises pin on his suit told Jonathan exactly who it was. The two of them retained eye contact for a period, before the visitor offered a warm smile.

“Dr. Crane! It’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person.” Had he not spoken, Jonathan would have been convinced that this was a hallucination brought on by some mix up in his medications. Despite this, his words and the decision to use the title “Dr. Crane” rather than the usual “Patient 406224” or “Scarecrow” did little to convince Jonathan otherwise. But, it was rude to say nothing back, so Jonathan cleared his throat and tried to speak in a firm tone, which was hopeless as he was acutely aware his voice was now a pitch higher.

“Mr. Wayne, what an odd surprise.” Odd, yes, and he wasn’t sure it was welcomed either. “What brings you here?”

Mr. Wayne, or Bruce – Jonathan wasn’t sure what title to use – said nothing as he settled himself into the chair across the way. The guard looked between the two for a moment before exiting the room, closing the door firmly behind him. Jonathan had no doubt that he and the others would be turning on the audio of the room in order to hear what this exchange would be.

“I actually came here to speak with Jeremiah about the accounting for the institution. The year-end review is coming up, and he called me in for some suggestions.” Bruce adjusted his suit jacket as he spoke before finally settling in and resting his hands on his knees, taking a moment to look over Jonathan. Jonathan was becoming acutely aware that his dull russet hair and exhausted appearance looked rather sad compared to Wayne’s immaculate uptake. “Then, while we were talking, he mentioned your progress. I have to say, it’s good to see that something in Arkham is finally improving.”

There was a pause between them before Jonathan let out the snort that he had been holding in. “It’s about time, isn’t it? I don’t suppose that Dr. Arkham mentioned the deplorable inmate lounge while you two were talking? If anything needs improvement, it’s the paint job in there.” Bruce let out a laugh at that, which eased Jonathan if only a little bit. This was much preferable to being grilled by a lawyer.

“He did mention that, in fact! Although I think it’s got a bit of charm to it. Something about the 60’s pop-deco polka dots combined with the striped wallpaper really sets a vibe, or it just makes everything worse. Who knows?”

There was something odd about a psychiatric patient and a billionaire playboy poking fun at Asylum design choices. Jonathan felt like it was the beginning of some poor joke – A lunatic and a playboy sit in a room – and the thought sobered him up a bit. Bruce must’ve noticed the change in mood, as his smile faded just a bit. Bruce Wayne didn’t come to visit just anyone – especially Jonathan.

“You still haven’t told me why you’re here, Mr. Wayne. Should you not be getting ready for your next charity event, rather than wasting time in a room with a criminal? It might look bad for your publicity if anyone catches wind of this.” Jonathan paused for a beat before continuing. “Unless this is to improve publicity. I guess it would look excellent on your record to be visiting the poor, and the suffering, children of Arkham.” He had never referred to himself as a child of Arkham, but it felt fitting to jump on the term that the media liked to throw around so often. At this, Bruce seemed to sober up as well, shifting in his seat before resting his hands on the table instead.

“Well, for starters, the event isn’t until next week, so I think I have a bit of time to kill. Secondly, this doesn’t concern publicity. Are you aware that you’re on the fast track to receiving a bill of release soon?” Bruce fixated Jonathan with a stern stare, and he felt himself growing uncomfortable under those blue eyes again. Something about the look, about the colour, drew forth memories of encounters with a certain bat that Jonathan thought best to keep under wraps. He looked away. “There is no support system for released patients in Gotham City. Essentially, when they get out, it’s entirely up to their own devices to ensure housing, transportation, and a means of income, as well as keeping in touch with doctors to ensure treatment retention.”

“I’m aware, Mr. Wayne. I was the director of this Asylum as well. I saw more than my fair share of patients leave and then come back more destitute than before.” Jonathan had been one of the few to appeal to the council in Gotham to set up a plan for released patients. All his appeals, of course, had fallen to deaf ears and he had been left to pick up the pieces of released patients lives when the eventually returned home, no support provided.

“I don’t want to see that. You, amongst others, have skills and potentials that could greatly improve this city. It isn’t fair to see them go to waste because of a past record. I personally believe that every person deserves a second chance – something that the mayoral office seems to ignore.” Now Jonathan was looking back at him, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. This was leading up to something, he knew it. He had experienced numerous encounters with men who were using the same tone Wayne was using now, and he knew they always, always, wanted something.

“What’s your card here, Wayne?”

“I’m glad you asked!” There was a warmer tone in Bruce’s voice now and his expression seemed to soften at Jonathan’s inquiry. He hated it – Bruce looked so pathetically likeable with that look and Jonathan wanted nothing to do with it. “Dr. Crane, you won’t be accepted back into any hospitals or universities, you and I both know this.”

Well, obviously.

“But I’d like to give you an opportunity to use your skills to your full advantage. Wayne Industries is currently working on a government-funded project to produce an effective treatment for post-traumatic stress disorder in adolescents and adults. Given your knowledge both in psychology and the effects of trauma on the human mind, as well as your experimental background, I’d like to know if you would be willing to work with us on this project once you’re released. You’d be given an apartment under Wayne Enterprises listing, as well as means of transportation and income. We want to do this more for reformed patients in Arkham, and we’d like to start with you.”

There was a beat of silence. It drew out for a long period of time, held steady by the expression on Jonathan’s face as he looked at the man across from him. He was searching, digging, trying to find the lie in Bruce’s eyes because good opportunities like this, opportunities for a second chance, did not come to men like Jonathan Crane. He was waiting for the ‘just kidding!’ that was sure to follow next, but after another few moments, he realized with horror that the man was being dead serious.

“Are you kidding? Mr. Wayne, are you aware the backlash you will receive upon employing me to work for your company? I mean, have you, have you looked up from your blissfully naïve world to see what I have done? I will take two steps into Wayne Enterprises and be tackled to the ground by every security guard you have under your employment within a moments notice, not to mention I highly doubt the government would like to work with me. Have you thought this through at all?” Jonathan’s voice was raising pitch again, but Bruce seemed unfazed by it all.

“Oh, I have, Dr. Crane, and I’m not expecting you to accept anything right this moment. Rest assured, I am more than familiar with what you have done. In fact, you could almost say it has impacted me directly. But I recognize the potential this could have with you working on it, given that you’re more qualified than anyone else that’s applied, and I have no doubt that others will see that as well. If I’m willing to give you a chance, so will they.” Bruce tapped the table twice with his hands, then waved to the camera in the corner. “I’m just asking you to think on it, that’s all. If you agree, you can leave the public to me.”

With these words, a familiar buzz sounded out and “The Visiting Room” door slid open, revealing the guard that had brought Jonathan here before. At this, Bruce stood up and extended his hand to Jonathan. Jonathan stared at it for a moment, as though it were a cobra poised to bite, before cautiously taking it into his own. Bruce’s hand was surprisingly warm, despite the frigid room, and his grip was firm.

“Think on it hard, Dr. Crane. It’d be an honour to work with you.” Then, after two shakes, Bruce relinquished his grip and exited the room, leaving Jonathan with more confusion and uncertainty than what he had walked in with. The guard gave him a look and gestured to stand, an action that Jonathan did automatically with no thought at all. It was only when the guard took on his vice grip of Jonathan’s arm once more was he shaken back into reality.

He supposed that this first trip to “The Visiting Room” was a worthwhile one, and as they stepped back into the hall and the door closed in their wake, Jonathan had an uncomfortable feeling that he’d be returning again very soon. Playing by the rules had not exactly gone as planned.

#jonathan crane #bruce wayne #amy talks #amys fanfiction #dcfanfiction #batmanfanfiction #k im done i did my work lads #me?? writing a non angsty fic w bruce just bein bruce??#nice

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porkchop-ao3 · 6 years ago

Text

Unpicking

Here is another character study type fic that nobody asked for, this time mostly focusing on Tailor Rick. This one delves into his back story, his marriage to be precise. It’s a little angsty... But I.C makes an appearance towards the end for some fluff :)

Some fics that I reference in this include this masterpiece by @hoodoo12, and this one by myself that is NSFW (this one was mentioned real subtly but what’s the harm in some self promo, huh?).

5.5k words. Enjoy!

Tailor and I had been going non stop all weekend. He'd been nominated for an award at a men's fashion event, and it'd been non stop dinners, networking events, talks, presentations, cat walks, interviews… all sorts. He wasn't doing well, I could tell that much. Despite his fame, Tailor really didn't 'do’ people. He liked to keep to himself, being surrounded only by people he trusted and could tolerate; but this weekend he'd been hassled by hundreds of people he didn't know from Adam and I'd watched him get more and more agitated as the event went on.

He didn't even seem to cheer up after he'd been announced as the winner. He was brought up in front of a crowd, expected to give a speech. When the time came, he walked up to the microphone and said;

“I'm not one for long speeches, and I know none of you really want to sit here and listen to me thanking a bunch of people who I supposedly wouldn't be here without…” He'd started wistfully, everyone in the crowd was rapt, hanging on every word as he stared at the etched glass plaque in his hands. We were all expecting a 'but’, followed by an inspirational outpouring, someone so articulate such as Tailor would surely leave a lasting impression!

“So, thank you for the award.”

Then he just gave a nod, and walked off stage.

There was an awkward stretch of silence. I began to clap, and as social cues were hard to ignore, so did everyone else.

And now we were in an almost empty bar, far from the event (not even on the same planet), and Tailor was necking glass after glass of whiskey. I was still on my first glass of wine, unable to keep up with him even if I tried. I'd attempted to make conversation, but he was responding in grunts and nods, clearly exhausted. If not physically, mentally. So now I was quiet, enjoying the music playing in the background. It wasn't like music from earth, it was more tinkly sounding and didn't have any lyrics; just this constant, calming burring sound that changed in pitch with the beat.

Tailor made me jump, slamming his hand down on the table to push himself up. I noticed him swaying on his feet, but he managed to get himself over to the bar to order another glass. I frowned. What was with him? He'd won an award, had been showered in praise and congratulations all weekend. Surely he was at least a little bit happy? Instead he was looking like he was drowning his sorrows.

When he came back and slumped down into his chair, he leaned his head in his hands, staring down into his glass boredly. I leaned forwards on my elbows and looked at him for a while before deciding to speak.

“Hey.” I said quietly. He didn't even react. “Everything okay?” I asked.

“Everything is perfect.” He told me.

“Then why've you got a face like a slapped arse?”

That got his attention. His gaze snapped up to me, a frown creasing his brow.

“I'm just having a quiet evening, okay? Leave me be.” He grumbled, his voice a little slurred but still stern as usual.

“You don't look happy.”

“I'm not particularly happy.” He admitted.

“Why's that? Aren't you pleased about your award? The prize money alone must be good.” I asked tentatively, keeping my tone careful; I didn't want to set him off.

“Money is inconsequential.”

“Oh.” Was my pathetic response. What was I to say to that?

“Sure, I'm pleased I won. Though it was a no-brainer. I'd have been offended if any of the others had won over me. It'd be an insult.” He murmured, though it sounded like he was talking mostly to himself. “I'm just sick of being pestered. I never started this to acquire fame. I d-don't particularly want it.”

“I get that.” I nodded sympathetically and he narrowed his eyes.

“Do you, now?” He hissed in annoyance. I thought about it for a moment, and shook my head.

“Well, no, but I understand why it would bother you.” I corrected myself. Despite being by Rick's side for most of the event, nobody had batted an eye at me. I couldn't comprehend being actually famous, the center of attention, the object of a whole crowd of people's undivided admiration.

He grunted an unaffected, wordless response and swallowed down half of his drink.

“Why don't we go back soon, hmm? Just get in bed and sleep it all off. It's done now and we're going home tomorrow.” I suggested.

“You wanna go? I c- I can portal you back, no problem.” He replied, his expression never shifting from a combination of boredom and irritation.

“No, it's okay.” I sighed, if he was going to drink himself stupid, I thought it best I be here to help him get back. Not that I had a clue how to work his portal gun.

We fell into silence again for a long time, and I finished off my wine. Tailor seemed to be taking this glass of whiskey a little slower, for which I was grateful. I picked up a coaster from the table; it looked incredibly familiar in that it was cardboard and reminding me of the kind we had back at home in the pubs. Stained and dog eared and advertising alcohol; though there wasn't a Fosters logo in sight. This was all in a foreign language I couldn't understand. Still, it reminded me of home, and I wondered if that's why Tailor picked this place of all pubs in the universe.

“They asked me about my marriage.” Tailor broke the silence and I was startled into looking at him. “At- at that interview this afternoon, the one you weren't allowed in for.”

“Your marriage?” I repeated.

“Yes. Y-you are aware I was married, aren't you? Six years.”

“Yes, I know. You've never really said a lot about it, though.” I nodded slowly, my attention completely grasped by the topic. I had always wondered about his marriage, but never dared ask.

“Hmm. Well in that interview I- I-” He stopped and sighed. “It was the first time I simply didn't know what to say.” He admitted.

“That's okay. You don't owe anyone answers about your private life.” I said leaning my cheek on my fist as I watched him twist the ring on his middle finger.

“While that may be true it- it caught me off guard. I told them I wouldn't be answering anything like that and they moved on, but it completely cocked up the rest of the interview. I couldn't answer anything properly, I-I-I just sounded like a blithering idiot, stumbling through my words.” He heaved a sigh and slumped back in his chair roughly, his body going lax in a way I'd never seen before. He looked startlingly like any other Rick I'd ever seen, no longer holding himself with his particular brand of poise.

“I'm sure it wasn't like that; we tend to remember things being much worse than they actually were.” I tried to reassure him but he flicked his hand at me, waving away my response.

“That isn't my point, dear.”

“Oh. What did I miss?”

“Nothing. I suppose I am just surprised and irritated by how much it affected me. It was such a small thing, a thoughtless question that I was under no obligation to answer. And yet I…” he was spinning his ring again.

“I don't know anything about your marriage, but whatever happened, it's understandable that being asked about it at such an unexpected time would be jarring. Don't beat yourself up. Your marriage… it’s personal.”

He looked at me for a while, his brow arching in mild worry; he very rarely showed any emotion on his face other than annoyance, and it was weird. His bottom lip twitched once, twice, then he cleared his throat and picked up his glass, finishing off its contents.

“My marriage. You wanna hear about my marriage? P-put it this way.” He lifted his hand, the back of it facing me. The gold band around his middle finger caught my eye. “I s-still wear the ring as a reminder to never, ever do it again.”

My face must've betrayed my surprise, and I continued to stare at the ring even when he lowered his hand.

“But not on your ring finger.” I observed.

“Absolutely fucking not.” He seethed, narrowing his eyes. I could feel his bitterness permeating the atmosphere, and I couldn't help but pity him despite knowing the last thing he wanted was my pity.

“I think we should go back to the hotel.” I said. I was expecting him to lash out, but instead he nodded his head. He searched around in his inside suit pocket to retrieve his portal gun, then hauled himself to his feet unsteadily. The man was hammered, I'd seen him tipsy before but never like this.

He fired the portal gun at the nearest wall and slowly made his way through it; I followed close behind, poised to act if he stumbled. It was pretty sad, actually, seeing him in such a state. Tailor always carried himself with so much dignity and class, he never appeared anything but perfectly composed, it was difficult to swallow watching him stagger across the floor of our shared hotel room to collapse face first on his bed.

“Christ, I am fucked.” I heard him mutter into his pillow.

“Yeah, don't puke in here cause I'll use your credit card to book out a room at the Ritz for myself.” I warned, deadly serious. He grunted in response. “Take your shoes off. And your tie, I don't want you strangling yourself in your sleep.” I added, slipping my own shoes off and leaving them by the door.

He sighed heavily and pushed himself up just enough to wriggle out of his suit jacket. He let it drop to the floor, soon followed by his tie. I picked them up for him, knowing he'd freak out if he found them like that in the morning; that was if he wasn't too hungover to notice. I hung them up in the wardrobe for him, then turned to watch him attempting to remove his shoes. He was on his back, and when he lifted his leg up, his hands missed his foot once or twice before he managed to get ahold of it. Eventually he managed, throwing both shoes over the end of the bed. I sighed defeatedly and made my way over to my own bed.

There were two single beds in the room, placed a couple feet apart. Tailor'd been pissed about that when we arrived, complaining that we might as well be sharing, but he didn't seem to care anymore. I took a seat on my bed, leaning up against the headboard with my legs stretched out in front of me. I looked down at my toes, wiggling them back and forth to try and stretch out the arch of my foot; we'd been on our feet practically all weekend and they were aching terribly.

“I wanna dirty kebab.” Came from beside me, startling me a little. I thought he'd fallen asleep.

“A dirty kebab.” I repeated incredulously. Copious amounts of shredded, reformed lamb drizzled in thick garlic mayonnaise, perhaps with a little salad and wrapped up in a pitta bread, served in a yellow polystyrene tray… was not exactly the type of meal I pictured Tailor ever going near. But then, everyone had to treat themselves once in a while…

“I could see if they're still doing room service?” I suggested, searching around for the menu they'd given us amongst the pile of papers on the bedside table; all itineraries and leaflets we'd collected over the weekend.

“Th-they won't be. But I want a kebab, I-I-I'm craving doner meat.” He slurred, rolling onto his side to face me. His hair was messed up, his shirt ruffled and unbuttoned down to his chest… my stomach seemed to drop at the sight. I'd never seen him look anything like that and I was ashamed to realise that I felt a seed of something frighteningly close to arousal blossom in my gut.

So, sue me. Blame it on the fact that with the messy hair he looked just a little more like my boyfriend; I.C.

“What do you want me to do about it?” I asked, quirking a brow.

“Call them. C-call down to reception and tell them to bring us one- two. I'm not eating alone.” He instructed, regaining just a smidgen of his composure and let's face it; his authority over me.

“Will they even do that?” I questioned.

“Sure they will. They'll have some useless gorm go out and fetch it, tell them to charge whatever they want for it a-and the delivery.” He murmured, sitting up and mimicking my position, leaning against the headboard.

With a sigh I picked up the phone. I suppose it was far better to just do it myself than insist he do it if he wanted it so much… I dreaded to think what he'd be like speaking to hotel staff drunk. He was rude enough sober.

To my surprise the hotel staff were extremely accommodating, and had no trouble agreeing to the odd request. Though I did wonder what figure would come up on the bill. While we waited we put the TV on and sat staring numbly at it, mostly in silence until, surprisingly, Tailor broke it.

“S-so how're things with Mr. Whippy?” He murmured. He didn't really seem interested in my answer, but he rarely seemed interested in anything and I now just chalked it up to his mannerisms.

“I.C? He doesn't know what that nickname means, by the way. He's always so confused…” I mused. Bless him, the adorable man. “But things are fantastic. They always are, he's a sweetheart.”

“You mean you haven't told him what it means?” He questioned, then rather uncouthly snorted. “Good, don't. He looks cute when he's confused.”

“Oi.” I warned, turning to narrow my eyes at him.

“What? I-I-I can't compliment your boyfriend? Don't worry, my dear, I'm not interested in stealing him from you. H-he's too nice for my taste. Bit of a doormat, I presume.” He explained monotonously, rolling his eyes at me. “But I do see what you see in him. That little bow tie is just darling.”

“Damn right it is. He's the cutest thing ever.” I said, twisting my fingers in the bed sheets below me with this weird sense of frustration… maybe it was because he wasn't here and I wanted him to be.

“Besides I think you two are good together. As much as I can't stand to be around you two when you're acting like you do… perhaps I'm just a little happy for you. You seem to have found happiness in each other and not many people manage that. Well done.” He told me dryly, like he wasn't even taking notice of the words coming from his mouth.

“Oh, I don't know. I'd say it's pretty common. Lots of people are in relationships.”

“Relationships don't equal happiness. You'd be naive to think everyone in love is as happy as you are.” He retorted a little scathingly. “You're one of the lucky ones, don't forget that.”

I looked down at my feet and pressed my lips together, uncomfortable and not sure how to respond. I didn't bring this up, Tailor did. I heard a sigh coming from beside me, then a rustling sound as he rolled over to face me.

“H-hey. Don-don't listen to me. I didn't mean to make you feel bad just for being happy, okay? Ignore me. I'm just a bitter old bastard who didn't have it so good.” He slurred. I glanced over at him, taking in his forlorn expression, the down turned edges of his mouth and his furrowed brow.

“Do you want to talk about something? I know you- you've mentioned some stuff before and I get the impression you're kind of dripping all this information because you…” I paused, taking a breath and considering the best approach. “Because maybe you want someone to listen.”

“No. It's fine. I'm fine, forget about it.” He grumbled, rolling onto his back.

A knock at the door signified the arrival of our food, and I got up to answer it since it didn't look like Tailor was going to. The smell of doner meat hit me as soon as I opened it, and my mouth began to water. We hadn't eaten much all day, just snacks since breakfast, so I was ready to demolish anything. After a short exchange with the hotel staff, I closed the door and handed Tailor his box of cholesterol. I would've sat at the little dining table in the corner, but when I saw Tailor was happy to eat in bed, I just shrugged and joined him. He was one of those people who somehow managed to pick up the whole thing inside the pitta bread and eat it like a sort of sandwich. I always had to use a knife and fork, my hands were too small and I'd end up wearing more than I ate otherwise.

Our earlier conversation hung in the air, and I wasn't exactly sure how to shift the mood. If Tailor didn't want to talk about it then that was up to him, but I couldn't help but feel a little sad; I knew just from looking at him that he wasn't happy. All this stuff bottled up from his marriage clearly had him hurting, and as his friend I felt powerless to cheer him up when I didn't actually know what the problem was.

I'd managed to get garlic mayo down the side of my hand, and was licking it off when Tailor spoke.

“Alright. I suppose I can trust you with this information. Lord knows I know enough about your relationship, you flaunt it enough.” He rambled, staring straight ahead at the TV.

My mouth was full and so I simply waited for him to continue. It took him a while, but he did.

“My marriage dissolved a long time ago now, before my business really took off. At the time I was working out of an old laundrette; bit of a shit heap, really. But that's besides the point. Di- My wife. She… wow, she was something.”

A small smile formed on my face as I watched his expression change at the thought of her. It was softer than it usually was.

“She had me wrapped around her talon.” He snorted, that softness gone in an instant, replaced with resentment. “Fucking bitch, sh- she- God, I loved that woman like nothing else. Would've had my knob chopped off if it meant she'd smile; hell, she probably would've. She'd have been doing the chopping.”

The room went quiet, save for a thud in his tray when a piece of doner meat dropped from the pitta bread he was holding, but not eating.

“Six years we were married. We had the wedding when she was pregnant; everyone at the ceremony knew that was why it was happening. But I was over the moon. Maybe I knew she'd never marry me otherwise, I thought I was lucky, that the universe was being kind to me by having her fall pregnant.” He sighed, dropping his kebab back into the box and leaning back, deciding to just pick at the meat instead. “I don't know, maybe that was selfish of me, being happy about the fact she was trapped between me and our kid. I should've seen it coming really.” He muttered.

He didn't continue for a long time; so long that eventually I felt the need to prompt him.

“Seen what coming?”

“Isn't it obvious?” He questioned dryly, glancing over at me. My blank expression gave him his answer. “I came home to her bouncing around on top of some sweaty fat bastard in our bed. Stupid, dumb whore.” The poison in his voice was palpable, and I recoiled. I had to remind myself that he was well within his rights of insulting her in such a way.

“Rick.” I said softly. I didn't know where I was going with it, but I didn't need to go anywhere cause he spoke again.

“Then it turned out she'd been doing it from the start. Fucking other men left and right, before we even had Beth. Sh-sh-she was so fucking honest about it too, like she had no shame. It was people I knew, half the time. Fuck!” He slammed his head back into the (luckily) cushioned headboard. “I'm surprised I n-never fell into that gaping hole of a cunt of hers.”

I felt a little sick, suddenly losing all interest in food.

“An-and for a while, I didn't even know if Beth was mine.”

“What?” I hissed. Somehow, that was the most shocking thing I'd heard.

“She wouldn't let me have a paternity test, wouldn't tell me if she knew. That nearly- shit, I've never said this out loud before, b-but that nearly killed me. To this day, I don't have any physical evidence. The only reason I believe she's mine is because I found other Ricks. Y-you know most of them have Beths, right? Your boyfriend does, doesn't he?”

I nodded my head.

“So unless all Dianes are cheating slags, well… well Beth's gotta be mine.”

“I'm sure she is. Either way, though, you're the man who brought her up. She's your daughter no matter what.” I said softly. He didn't respond verbally, he just sighed and plopped another chunk of meat in his mouth. “Where is she now?” I asked.

“Fuck knows. Last I heard she'd moved to Spain with her new fella.” He told me boredly. “Even Beth hasn't seen her for years. I'm glad about that; at least she hasn't managed to turn her into a poisonous clone of herself. My Beth's a princess.” He mused quietly.

“Does she take after you?” I asked, a little smile forming on my face as I tried to steer the conversation more positively.

“Thankfully, yes. She's got a good head on her shoulders, she's a vet, you know?” He explained, and I nodded. Just like I.C's daughter. “For a while I wished I'd never met Diane but then I wouldn't have Beth. It might've screwed me up royally, but at least some good came of it all.”

“How did you meet her, if you don't mind me asking?” I questioned and he glanced over at me. He looked at me silently for a while before deciding it was safe to answer.

“Sh-she was a client of mine. She was a bridesmaid at a wedding and they all came to me for the dresses. I thought as soon as I saw her that she was the prettiest thing I'd ever laid eyes on. I should've known. Nobody's that attractive without being a total cunt.”

I winced again at his language.

“Is this why you told me you don't date clients?” I asked, remembering when I had my dress fitting with him, right after we first met. Tailor snorted.

“I told you that because I had to tell you something, and – I’m completely terrified of women – just didn't seem to cut it.” He admitted dryly.

“Is that true?” My eyes widened. Tailor terrified of anything just didn't seem to compute in my mind. He sighed.

“What do you think? Did you ever see me responding to the countless come-ons from women this weekend?”

“Well, no. I thought you thought you were better than them.” I replied, causing him to scoff in mild offence. “I never thought it was cause you were scared of them.”

“I'm not scared of women in the sense I'd run away from them, screaming at the top of my lungs. I just don't trust them. Quite frankly I think the majority of them are evil. My mother included. Present company…” he gave me a suspicious look. “Possibly included. I haven't decided yet.”

“Huh. Well I guess that makes sense that you'd feel that way. And for the record I hope you don't decide I'm evil and toss me out of your life.”

“Why's that? So you can slowly destroy me from the inside out?” He cocked a brow. I couldn't tell if he was joking or not.

“No. Cause I've grown to like you, and I consider you a friend.” I told him seriously. He gave me a brief dirty look, then turned to his kebab.

“Well I suppose I can divulge that my estimated odds of you being a soul sucking she-demon are only at around twenty percent.”

“I love you too.” I smirked. We fell into silence again and each of us finished off our kebabs. I took his trash from him and binned them both. He was laying with his eyes closed, his head tilted back and up towards the ceiling. “Are you going to sleep? Shouldn't you brush your teeth and get changed first?”

“One night won't kill me. I'm fucked.” He murmured.

“Alright.” I shrugged. I wasn't his mother.

I peeled my socks off and tossed them onto the floor and shimmied out of my jeans. Tailor had seen me in my underwear multiple times during dress fittings and such, so changing into my jammies in front of him didn't bother me in the least.

“Rick?” I said, before he could fall asleep. He hummed in acknowledgement. “Thank you for telling me.”

“Telling you what?” He tiredly mumbled.

“About your marriage. It's nice that you opened up to me, even if I couldn't exactly say or do anything to make it better.” I explained. He hummed again.

“Well, I'm drunk and sad and I overshare when I g-get like this.”

“It's okay. I won't bring it up when you're sober.” I promised, pulling on the oversized t-shirt I wore to bed.

“Much appreciated.” He opened his eyes and sat up a little. “Next time we drink together, I'm getting you totally rat-arsed.”

I snorted. “Yeah, I'd like to see you try. When's your next sesh?” I asked.

“I’m planning on heading back to that bar I dragged your whining ass to before. The one with the bar-lady who quite clearly wanted a slice of your boyfriend.”

My eyes narrowed at the thought and I hmphed in response.

“But I'm not extending the invitation to you. It's quite the Rick hotspot and I need to get myself laid. It's been a while.” He admitted to my surprise.

“Wow. We're real open tonight.” I observed.

“Well it's like you said. You won't bring it up when I'm sober.” He said – no – warned. “Shut up and turn everything off, will you?” He grumbled, rolling onto his side and flipping the duvet over himself.

“Fine.” I sighed, turning the TV off, then the light. I fumbled my way towards the bathroom to brush my teeth. “Night, Rick. See you in the morning.” I called behind me.

I was used to his non-verbal responses, and smiled when I saw him waft his arm dismissively in the dark, letting loose an irritated grunt.

…

It was good to be home. The journey back Tailor was acting his usual self; nothing of the night before had been mentioned. I knew that would be the case, so it didn't come as a surprise and I certainly wasn't about to be the one to bring it up. Tailor had put his trust in me; opened up and told me his pain and that took a lot. So quietly I felt closer to him; and despite his silence on the subject I could feel a slight change in him. He appeared a little more relaxed around me, and it was nice to see.

He'd dropped me off at my home and left with a simple nod as his goodbye, and I told him to drive safely. A statement he always rolled his eyes at like I was an overbearing mother. Thankfully his sarcastic responses had died down over time.

When I entered my house I.C was already there; I'd been expecting him, but it still set my heart racing when I laid eyes on him. I wordlessly crossed the living room carpet and climbed onto his lap, sitting sideways and wrapping my arms around him, burying my face in his neck.

“Tell me about Diane.” I whispered to him. His ex wife was someone who had come up in a number of conversations since we'd been together; it was to be expected, she was the mother of his daughter. Still, I didn't know an awful lot about their relationship, and I was curious now more than ever.

“Diane? Wh-why'd you want to talk about her?” He asked, completely befuddled.

“I wanna make sure she treated you right.” I explained, leaning back so I could look him in the eye. He chuckled softly at my reasoning.

“She did. She's a nice lady, perhaps one of the nicest I've met.” He admitted, looking down at an invisible spot on my chin. “But she wasn't my forever. And I wasn't hers.” His shoulders lifted and gently dropped.

“So your divorce wasn't a bitter one?” I asked, tilting my head as I played with the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Oh, not at all. W-we parted mutually when we realised that being together was only holding each other back from what we wanted to do. I wanted to travel a lot for my business, she wanted to stay put, she hated that I was all over the place. Never wanted to come with me or anything, so towards the end we barely spent any time together.” He trailed off, looking back up to my eyes. “So we realised we were incompatible and simply moved on as friends.”

“Do you still talk sometimes?”

“Occasionally, but we both have our own lives now, really the only thing we have in common now is Beth. When we see each other, it's when doing something for her or the grandkids.” He explained. “She's still dear to me, of course. She always will be, but like I said. She wasn't my forever.”

“What is your forever, your business?” I questioned. He laughed at some silent punchline.

“Baby, I hope you're joking.” He smiled.

“No, why? Your business is everything to you, you've put so much into it-”

“I'm hoping that it's you, truth be told.” He interrupted. “I'm no spring chicken, I'm getting to the point where I just want to enjoy the rest of my life with my favourite person, and that's you. So, as far as I'm concerned, you're my everything. For as long as you'll keep me.”

I blinked at him. Rick and I's relationship had blossomed rather suddenly, and falling for each other had taken no time at all. Things just flowed between us, it all fell into place. So in a way, I wasn't surprised by what he was saying. Conversely and somehow at the same time, I was completely and utterly surprised. He just came out and said it so easily, didn't stutter once. Sometimes it astounded me just how open and honest he was, never scared to share his feelings. I thought about it for a moment and realised that was a big part of why I loved him.

“I'm not planning on tossing you out anytime soon. I think I kinda like you.” I mumbled in response, feeling my face heat up as I struggled to deal with his words. He smirked in amusement, then pressed a kiss to my cheek.

“I’m glad.” He whispered. “God, it's good to have you back. I'm starting to resent that guy for keeping you away from me.”

“Don't go too hard on him.” I giggled.

“I th-think we need to work out a schedule between us; for how many hours he gets versus me. I'll have more, of course. I have boyfriend priority.” He told me and I snorted, shaking my head. He grinned and leaned in to kiss my neck, his goatee tickling me like it always did.

“Or maybe I need to get a second job being your assistant.”

“Hmm are you sure that's a g-good idea? Remember last time?” He pulled back to give me a meaningful look. My thoughts immediately turned to the time I tried making an ice cream cone in his truck, and promptly blushed.

“Good point.” I nodded. He licked his lips, his expression turning just a little flirtatious.

“We'd never get any work done but it sure would be fun.” He said, his tone low and rumbling in my ears so wonderfully. I shuddered.

“I should probably stick to juggling rolls of fabric for Tailor.” I chuckled.

“Maybe it's for the best.” He agreed. “As long as you can put up with me turning up as soon as you clock off every day.”

“Hmm, I'm sure I can deal with that.” I nodded, leaning in for a kiss before my huge smile had a chance to fade.

#rick and morty #rick sanchez #rick sanchez x reader #my ocs #ice cream rick #tailor rick #oc ricks #fanfiction

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seventhstar · 6 years ago

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spy zine promo, part 1

anyways i’ve had this fucking burn notice au lying about half-written for eighty years, so here, enjoy. this a promo fic for @yoispyzine. we are on sale now here!

update: part two here

“My name is Katsuki Yuuri. I used to be a spy, until…”

When you’re burned, Yuuri thinks, you have nothing. No cash, no credit, no job history. You’re stuck in whatever city they decide to dump you in. You’re stuck living wherever you can find an unscrupulous landlord who’ll rent you a place without a lease or a background check.

Even if that means living directly over a swinger’s club.

Yuuri has slept in the desert during artillery fire. Yuuri has slept on a college campus during dubstep night. Yuuri has even slept through Minako snoring. But nothing could have prepared him for Viktor Nikiforov’s string of passive aggressive one night stands, all of which seem to end with him and his hapless victim rutting against Yuuri’s front door.

Once might have been an accident; twice might have been coincidence. Seven times is a pattern. A petty, awful, sexy pattern. He’s not even sure what Viktor’s endgame is--if he’s being punished because Viktor is still mad about Yuuri breaking up with him by fleeing the country, or if this is Viktor’s way of seducing him. Both of those are terrible options, because it’s not like Yuuri has gotten over Viktor, and it’s definitely not like he’s not spending his nights hard and aching and longing with the knowledge that Viktor is only ten feet away.

Either way. It has to stop. And not just because Viktor sounds like he’s enjoying himself thoroughly every evening, and Yuuri knows that if he was weak enough to open his front door and interrupt, Viktor would let Yuuri have him. Even a saint’s self control would be tested by Viktor shamelessly begging to be fucked ten feet from Yuuri’s bed.

“Tell me you found something.”

Phichit sighs. Chris sighs even louder. They probably practiced this instead of doing any work. Yuuri counts five empty beer bottles on the kitchen counter, and notes the open Photoshop window on Phichit’s laptop. He’s been sitting outside a noodle shop for six hours, waiting for his old handler to pass by, and so far has had no luck. Eventually, Celestino will have to come by the only place in Hasetsu where decent Italian food is sold. But that still leaves Yuuri unsuccessful, tired, sweaty, out of cold beer, and trapped in a loft apartment situated over an illegal sex club.

An illegal sex club his so-called friends refuse to help him put out of business.

“You know, Yuuri, just because you aren’t getting laid doesn’t mean you have to be bitter,” Chris says. He waggles his eyebrows. “It’s really a nice club. Very comfortable.”

“No,” Yuuri says. He cannot imagine being comfortable anywhere where people are having sex, in pubic, repeatedly. The whole place is probably like a public locker room, but with more semen. It probably smells like sweaty ass. It’s probably profoundly unsexy, like used toilet paper, or puppies, or Yuuri when he’s not pretending to be someone else.

“Just fuck him already,” Phichit says.

Yuuri hates it when he does that. Is he secretly a mind-reader? Can’t he let Yuuri repress in peace?

“I told you. He’s tactical support.”

“Is ‘tactical support’ Japanese for ‘guy I wanna bang’?”

“Phichit!”

“What?”

“Are you going to help me get rid of the club?”

“Who’s getting rid of the club?” Viktor asks. Yuuri turns; he didn’t even hear Viktor come in. “And why?”

Viktor sidles up behind him; his fingers brush across the back of Yuuri’s shoulder. Yuuri doesn’t shiver, but it’s a near thing. He waits for Viktor to move away, but he doesn’t. His breath is hot against Yuuri’s ear.

“Yuuri,” he says.

“Viktor.”

“I brought you breakfast.”

“It’s two pm.”

“There are hash browns.”

Yuuri glares at the floor. Viktor knows he’s weak for fried potatoes. He accepts the bag Viktor is proffering and opens it. The hash browns smell amazing, and they’re still warm.

“I thought Carlito’s didn’t serve breakfast after eleven,” Chris says.

“Oh, Raul made an exception for me.”

“Is he the one you’re fucking?”

Viktor hums in thought. “…yes?”

“Anyways,” Yuuri says. He shoves a hash brown in his mouth — it’s fluffy inside, crispy outside, dusted with salt — and groans with pleasure. He is supposed to be on a diet. First Viktor ruined sex and now he’s ruining food, too. “There’s no way this club isn’t committing a crime.”

“…about that,” Chris says. He sounds entirely innocent.

Yuuri is suspicious as hell. “What?”

“If you really want to investigate the club, I have an in,” he says. “But you have to promise you’ll take the job.”

“Is this about your bootleg sex toys?”

“They’re not my bootlegs! And it’s a legitimate public health issue!”

“It’ll get me into the club?”

“It’ll let you find out everything you could possibly want to know.”

Yuuri squints at Chris, who grins. Phichit grins, too. Yuuri can’t see Viktor, but he’s probably smiling, too.

Yuuri is so fucked.

“Fine.”

“…you own the club downstairs.”

“That’s right. I’m Shanice.”

“And you want me to help you keep the place open.”

“Look, I’m trying to create a safe space for people to explore their desires without being shamed. I started this place after I moved here with my husband and he then ran off in the middle of the night with all the money. It’s all I have. Hideki and his crew want to turn this place into one of their brothels. Which would you rather live above?”

Yuuri stares at her. If he lived above a brothel, Viktor couldn’t get laid there. On the other hand, Hideki is a human trafficking piece of shit. If Yuuri was a better person, this would be no choice at all.

As it is, he can’t stop himself from regretting having moral standards, just for a moment.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he says. “On one condition.”

“I can’t believe you had me banned,” Viktor says. He’s sitting in Yuuri’s favorite chair, bare feet propped up on the coffee table, ankles crossed. He’s wearing jeans and a plain tshirt, and glittery highlighter. The highlighter is tacky. He looks deeply irritated.

Yuuri keeps looking at him, torn: one hand, this is hilarious, and on the other hand, Viktor has a point, Yuuri is being petty as hell. Whatever. Viktor should have expected this. He knows how much Yuuri loves sleep.

“You deserve it.”

“You realize I can get laid elsewhere?”

“I don’t care about you getting laid, I want to sleep for eight hours uninterrupted.”

“You once slept through a volcano erupting.”

“The volcano was in another state and I was drugged.” Yuuri sighs. “Never mind. The job.”

“Mm.” Viktor picks up one of the files sitting on the desk. Phichit and Chris came by earlier with the results of their recon, and now they’re off dealing with one of Phichit’s internet people’s minor blackmail problem. They’d promised to be back in the evening to get the details ironed out.

Which leaves Yuuri with Viktor to figure out the approach. Hideki and his goons generally come by once a week to do their ‘give us your club or we’ll ruin your business’ song and dance, but Hideki himself comes by even more often to enjoy the club’s services. According to Shanice, he’s driving off customers with his bad manners and the way he treats his subs.

“Some of these subs are are probably bodyguards in disguise,” Viktor muses. “He never comes with one?”

“Shanice says he always has a naked woman on a leash with him. And he rents the back room for business meetings, and he provides them with subs, and sometimes they mysteriously wash up on the beach with stab wounds in the groin.”

“A two man job, then. You need someone to play sub for you.”

“I guess.”

“Unless you want to be stabbed in the dick.”

“You in?” Yuuri asks.

Viktor snorts.

“Okay, I’ll just ask Chri—”

“Fine, I’ll do it.” Viktor leans back in his chair, ankles crossed, and taps his lip with his index finger, the way he does when he’s thinking. “Just like old times,” he murmurs, smiling to himself, and Yuuri shivers. That’s the whole problem, he thinks, but he nods.

Taking his ex-boyfriend, who used to actually let Yuuri sexually dominate him, on this mission is a terrible, terrible idea. Either Phichit or Chris would be safer options. Yuuri shouldn’t.

Viktor traces the floor plan of the club, and says, “Tonight?”

“We can plant the bug, yeah. Phichit and Chris can put together my cover.”

“And mine?”

“If anyone asks you anything, play dumb.”

“Tch.” Viktor rolls his eyes, but Yuuri ignores him. Viktor is exceptional at playing dumb. Despite being almost six feet and made mostly of muscle, he always manages to give the impression that he’s soft, harmless, and stupid. Even though he destroyed Yuuri completely within the first minute of their first meeting.

“I’ll meet you here at nine,” Yuuri says. He gets up. “Wait, are you just doing this to get unbanned from the club?”

“You’ve caught me,” Viktor says, laughing, and he’s still chuckling behind his hand as Yuuri slips out of the apartment, the door closing behind him.

Yuuri picks up his dry cleaning so he’ll have clothes for the club tonight, buys some ugly sunglasses as part of his disguise because he doesn’t want his good Armani ones associated with this shitty cover, and scouts out the workplace of a potential government contact for his burn notice for three hours. Then, before he can think better of it, he stops at a pet store and buys a plain black collar and a leash.

#yoi #yuri on ice #yoi spy zine #fanfiction #victuuri #promo fic

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castawxayaway · 7 years ago

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in front of the shadows

it has been a while, and this is a very late request! sorry for the week long delay, it’s been a lot busier (and tiring) than I had anticipated. if you have no idea what I’m on about check out my instagram (@idiosyncraticcatherine) to see (yes, self promo).

also I want to say thank you for the support (which I say all the time), but you are all so wonderful and full of kind words along with brilliant ideas- such as this one. I hope you enjoy reading it, despite it being overdue

prompt list / collection of my writing / requests open *nudge nudge*

Unable to hide the frustration I throw the decorative cushions off of our bed followed by the blanket, and then lastly the duvet. As I stand by it my glare could set it alight, the anger that is pulsing through my veins as the argument remains around us. That’s the issue with arguing, it becomes quickly out of hand. From a small disagreement on dinner it sparks into hate about the little things, about appearance, how we do things around the flat. Quickly the knife is dug deeper into each of us, twisting until it hits the right point, the part that will sting the most.

Now we stand on either side of the bed, neither wanting to glance at each other in risk of giving the wrong look or response which would resume the argument that is not yet rested. I lie down first, sticking to my side and not interfering with his, one thing he complained about, only sometimes. Turning away from him I suck it up, swallow the growing lump of sorrow and shut my eyes. He mumbles something under his breath, yet there is still rage hidden under the sweet goodnight.

I can tell he is asleep, he is loose, the tension that was building in his shoulders has relaxed leaving him in a soft state. Lying flat on my back I ponder over asking him, yet I fear if I don’t now, will I ever? Trying to not cross my boundary I tap his shoulder, whispering his name only to have a mumble or groan in response. “What’s wrong?” His voice has a hint of annoyance, much less than an hour ago to say the least.

Licking my lips I move to sit more upright, prepare myself for his answer, the actual and honest truth. “Do, do you love me?” The question is left hanging. After a slight pause he sits upright, turns the lamp on next to him and simply stares at me.

“What?” A response no one wants to hear, it isn’t a remark due to him not hearing me. Instead, it is a response from someone who is unsure if they feel the same. Lowering my head I can’t help but feel disheartened, but the rage is forcing my head back up and my tears to evaporate from my eyes.

“You heard me, do you love me?” This time it feels as if the words burn my mouth, I no longer want to know the answer, part of me feels pathetic for trying. I wish I could turn the lamp off, hope he sleeps again and think this was just a simple dream.

Again, he couldn’t, wouldn’t immediately answer me. In his eyes though dark I could see the light pushing through the depths of the ocean, a small diver coming up for air. “Of course I love you.” It didn’t sound sincere, it sounds too forced.

Shaking my head I throw the duvet off of myself, the warmth that I was encased in now gone. The comfort of those three words no longer protecting me. “Wow, thanks.” Picking up a few cushions from the floor and the blanket I begin to walk off, I can hear him confusingly mumbling my name, but I ignore it.

He now shouts my name, not in anger, but in concern. “Please, come back to bed. We can talk about this in the morning.” Rolling my eyes I hover at the top of the staircase, my options becoming outweighed.

“What is there to talk about? How it is clear that you don’t love me like I love you?” I can’t disguise my scoff at the end as he sits, simply dumbfounded. “Just, let me have some time.” Before he can respond I heavily walk down the stairs, careful not to cause too much visible damage on the way, since the damage inside is hidden.

As I lie on the slightly lumpy sofa I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to be truly loved, how would that feel? Closing my eyes I can feel a single tear cross my nose and drip onto my silk cushion, leaving a reminder to not open myself up that easily again.

Opening my eyes I can already feel the discomfort settle in my back, reaching out for my phone my body shifts and I hit the carpet with a thud. “Shit.” I mumble as I finally wake up and look around. Still here, and no sign of him.

As I compose myself I wander through to the kitchen as I stretch my back out, hearing the clicks of adjustment with ease. “Dan, you home?” I call out, yet after a minute of silence no one follows through. Sighing I walk back to the lounge and pick up my phone, no messages, no missed calls. Nothing. True silent treatment. “So much for talking about it in the morning.” Talking aloud I put my phone down as I proceed to make myself something to eat, meal for one, again.

Sitting still I stare at the hand painted mug, the careful swirls of lavender that glided across the rim of the white china whilst the possibilities play out in my head. Perhaps he is rehearsing? Recording? Doing nothing? Immediately I can’t help but let my mind think the worst, what if he is talking to the guys, telling them he can’t keep this up, keep us up.

Having only drunk half of the tea I allow it to go cold in my grasp as the thought of him being so lost and set on ending us hurts, it goes past the dull burn of the heat from this mug, it outstretches the ache in my heart of his delayed response last night. Any pain I have unlocked will all be worthless in my heart if he comes home tonight and tells me it is over, that he couldn’t answer straight away as it is not true. Maybe I just have to prepare myself for the worst.

A message interrupts my deep thoughts and I snap out of it, and glance down to my phone. It’s an address, from Woody. Raising an eyebrow to it I ignore it, but then it makes another noise. This time is is a time, Will instead. Sighing I pick my phone up and phone Kyle, knowing I might as well since this order is slowly going to lead to him.

“What is going on?” My voice remains firm despite the shakes that build in my throat, I stare blankly at the empty chair opposite me, perhaps I should get used to this view.

I can hear him moving, a door opening and closing forcefully. “Look just do as the messages said, and don’t turn up like it is Tuesday binge night.” He whispers to me and I smile to myself, he always comments on my attire on binge night. No matter whose house it is at, I will wear pajamas. No shame, either.

Hours had passed me by as I got ready, unsure what it was I was getting ready for, except binge night. Walking towards the front door I held my keys in my hand, seeing how they shake in my grip. I glance at my reflection, the smile I’ve practised now perfected, if this is it I want to leave with some dignity, a smile is needed to show that it isn’t too painful on the surface.

As I drive to the location and park I walk round to the front, it’s an old theatre. I remember this growing up, how they had to close it leaving all of the old accents here. We would always walk by, talk about the past and if we lived then, how we would have come here to see a show, he’d of stolen my first kiss. Looking at it now it feels as it looks, empty, old, forgotten.

Lightly touching the door it creaks open, I hesitate as I watch it. A slither of light shines through, and taking a deep breath I walk inside letting it close behind me. My mouth drops open at the interior. Unlike what my mind had imagined, something along the lines of the west wing in Beauty and the Beast this was beautiful, still perfectly put together and intact without the shadows.

Each footstep didn’t create a new wave of dust, instead it just allowed the clicking of my heels to echo. “Hello?” My voice echoed curiosity as I stood in the open area, glancing around to see why here of all places.

A single note sounded through inside the theatre, my ears perked and heart began to race a little bit faster. I began to take slower steps, the shaking returning as I pushed the heavy velvet doors open to reveal a dark space. Moving slowly I could hear a gentle melody play on a piano and my mind began to put everything into place, where I knew that melody.

Standing still I could feel a smile forming on my face, the first thing he played for me as I wanted to hear something few knew of. He sat me down, told me to wait as he would be rusty on the notes and lyrics. Yet, the second he started it was second nature, he knew it perfectly and clearly, still does.

“Foe,” His voice so gentle it reaches me from here, a spotlight appears before me and I take the three steps until I am contained inside of it. The blinding light moves me closer to the piano and his voice, until it dims and I am left back in the dark. “without knowing you’re around.” I remain still, silent as I take it in, every lyric as he rises with confidence in the shadows.

The spotlight hovers in front of me, only a slither of me clearly illuminated. No one would get, not really. It was something for us, the memories we could of had here, the ideas we fathomed about this place, the song, the meaning of it for us, the setting. He knows what he is doing, it’s his gesture, it’s a complete and utter Dan thing that he has always told me he wants to do in the early hours of the morning after a long show, but has never had the guts to try.

After the chorus a small light shines on the stage, on the grand setting and there he is. There is Dan, sat behind a piano, wearing his black jeans and matching top, truly comfortable in himself without the need for a facade. I wish I could clearly see the power in his words, see the emotion thick across those eyes. Suddenly, the spotlight is gone from me and lights up the rest of the stage, one by one the band are revealed playing, followed by a small orchestra to make his performance one to remember.

I can tell the song is coming to a close based off of their looks, each of them has a collective expression besides him. His eyes are closed, shut tight as he lets the music do all the rest. “There’s a fear,” Everyone stops playing, leaving him to finish, extend the piano. “ride on into,” Holding a long note of the piano I can see his eyes open and look out to the empty venue, trying to find me. “the night.”

My hands automatically connect to clap, I can’t stop myself as he stands up and moves away from the stage. As I hear him moving the band and the others return to the shadows, now I’m left in complete darkness as we try to find each other. I keep my arms outstretched, hoping to braise past his arm, or hope that it is him. The sound of my name on his lips causes goosebumps to rise, a feeling I know all too well as he’d wake me up with a trail of kisses across my neck.

A faint light shines to my left, yet no one is there. I slowly step towards it, taking my heels off to be truly silent and move closer to it. Yet once I reach it I see another pair of feet, ones wearing socks with noticeable holes in them. Lifting my head I see him, I see the deep emotion in his eyes, not lost in the tides. “I love you.” He speaks with clarity, with truth. “I always will, I just need you to know that through every argument, every late night, every tour, every country that is between us and lies ahead I will, and will continue to love you.” Hearing the words I’d longed for I reach my hand out into his, intertwining them.

The orchestra began to play a sweet tune, one to which Dan released my hand and bowed before asking me to dance. “This is very unlike you.” I whisper to him as we get into our stance.

He whispers into my ear, “That’s the idea, a grand gesture to just show you what our lives hold.” With a single sweep I’m close to the ground, his head above mine with a raised brow. Unable to hide my heavy breathing and racing heart I laughed to him as his head moved closer to mine, one last hushed comment that no one else could hear besides us in the fading spotlight.

One that I replied with a single word, one he had longed to hear. “Yes.”

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crapyouknowme · 7 years ago

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Prompt: Alec’s POV from episode 2.16 + a Malec scene that I wish was included and alludes to the dinner date in the 2.17 promo.

“Downworld cabinet has been holding secret meetings at the Seelie court.” Alec stated, tore his gaze away from Clary to set a watchful eye on Jace- who, besides holding himself up in the stout composure he was privy to, wore a thin glower as he shifted beside Clary.

He hadn’t spoken to Magnus since the night before. Chaos erupting in the institute would have been an understatement of the century. By the Angel, he’d imagined for a chyron to be plastered over the institute dictating how repentance would be a sentiment too minimal compared to the fuckery that had just transpired.

Alec only wondered what was happening amongst the others. The wolves, vampires, warlocks, seelies-all of them. There was not much to have been said in an effort to assuage their concerns because shadowhunters were unable to safely transfer Valentine to Idris. The very people who were sworn to protect and defend were unable to do so-if there were any who were dubious of their capabilites, they would surely be confident in their choice of which side to take in the brewing conflict. If there were those who were never gave credence to the shadowhunters, their convictions would be validated. If there were any left to yet have faith in them all-

Well.

Shit.

Alec curled his hands into a fist, the other firmly gripping onto the frame of the slab of table. He lowered his gaze, hovering his hand over the projection.

The projection of the layout was pixelated from his angle and yet, he could still discern the roads as if they had been ingrained into his mind. The musty asphalt on the corner of sixth. The nascent tinge of budding flowers at the nursery a block away. The glaring neon lights up above on the holster with red blotted words to this day, he has a hard time-or rather, indifference concealed as curiosity- as he tried to discern whether the words were strung together in arbitrariness or whether there was a purpose to it, afterall.

The jury was still out on that one.

“Well that’s not good.” Jace maintained somewhat of a fortitude as he sternly said, undeniably self-evident of making the most obvious statement to Alec’s disclosure.

Clary glanced leisurely at Jace. “You think anything good happens at the Seelie Court?” It was rhetorical. Alec noticed the way Jace avoided her gaze as he leveled his eyes in Izzy’s direction-almost to the point where Alec made a mental note to ask him later what exactly happened when they were down there-which at the looks of it, seemed like a pertinent question.

“The clave isn’t going to let this go unpunished.” Alec bristled silently under his breath, took a sharp restrained breath as he continued. “The inquisitor sent an envoy to assess the situation-chances are they will be the one replacing me as the head of the institute.” Which seemed like the inevitable route of actions. Alec had reigned authority of the institute, keen on upholding every single task and responsibility to the best of his ability.

He snorted under his breath. Being unable to successfully aid in the transport of Valentine-that should be a swell representation on how much of a good leader he was.

After that colossal blunder, Alec mentally prepared himself for the repercussions. Whether it would be as minimal as removing him as the head of the institute or somehow escalating to a deruning in retribution for his inability to handle the task at hand-although severe and had him swallow an aching choke at the thought of it-nothing was exactly unlikely.

The Clave needed someone to take responsibility.

Alec was well aware of the pragmatism in the assessment that they were to make if he had to be the one to deal with the consequences of his sheer ineptitude.

“Not if we can recapture Valentine.” Isabelle insisted, a glint of optimism she wore so resolutely, Alec almost smiled. If it only were that easy. Having spent years not knowing the possibility of his existence to then knowing that he lurked in some abyss, practicing his unruly prudish methods against anyone and everyone he deemed impure to only, finally apprehend him, to then lose him. Yeah-no.

Alec rubbed his temple in an effort to dull the ache in his forehead.

“Sebastian and all available personnel are searching. They already know Duncan managed to hijack the portal.”

Jace nodded, unwaveringly. “If he was the accomplice, he could have been orchestrating the secret transfer all along.” Which at this point, would be the most logical, if not, the most sensible rationale after what had transpired. They haven’t seen Duncan since-and to Alec’s dismay, having known the guy for the brief period of time that he had, he wondered whether his unabashed judgement towards him had been a miscalculation after all.

Seemed reputable, cordial, selfless and had the potential of being one of the best shadowhunters-

Alec stiffened up. The shallow pit that lurched in his stomach only exacerbated at the very thought of his misjudgment.

How could he have not known?

“Listen-“ Alec cut in, well aware of what the two were trying to do. Appreciative but his pragmatism kicked in high gear at their very intentions. “I appreciate the effort, but Valentine escaped on my watch. I deserve to take the heat for it.”

Isabelle whipped around to face Alec, her eyes wavering all over him. “This isn’t your fault, it’s mine.” She emphasized. “I was in charge of the transfer team.”

Jace shook his head, waving his hands dismissively in the air. “We both were-Look Alec you are a good leader. You can’t just let Imogen fire you over something you didn’t do.”

Alec stifled the urge to snort. When Jace put it like that, Alec briefly pondered how he would just let Imogen fire him. Let, as if he had any choice in the course of action. As if he had tactics to employ and cards to shuffle. As if he was privy to his own discretion.

Let.

Jace had a way with words, most of the time they were appealing in the sense that only Jace could get away with spewing what he had just said. But upon reinspection, one day his words would swallow him whole and Alec hoped that by the Angel, he would be there to see what would become of him.

“Alec will do as he’s ordered.”

Alec turned his head, eyes falling upon his father, observing him keenly.

He was clean-shaven, a weariness settled on his shoulders that enveloped his entire face, if not his demeanor. The black hue of his clothes looked that much more ominous than ethereal. As if his colors reflected his innate sullenness. As if black was not just a routine-workday garb but a sheer representation of his misery.

Alec grinded down on his teeth.

Misery always needed company.

Guess that’s all you need to cheat.

“Dad?” Izzy spurted, her voice perforated with astonishment.

“What are you doing here?” Alec mustered enough vigor to ask. Because-shit.

“I’m the Clave’s envoy.” He responded, as if it was the most obvious answer. He briefly held his gaze on the others before they fell on Alec. His face congealed as he muttered. “We need to talk.”

Alec slipped his hands behind his back, kneading his fingers together. He gave a firm nod to Jace before he walked in the direction of the foundry, languidly taking rather large steps as he picked up his pace. He doesn’t wait to see if his father followed, instead turning around the corner and twisting the knob of the door in succession.

Alec glanced at the chair behind the desk, then inspected the one beside the wall. The one that spoke volumes of deference and mutual reverence. The one that would have imparted amicable discourse. The one he had yet to use.

So, Alec padded across the wooden floor to sit behind the desk. He dropped his phone on the slab, swiping his thumb across the screen. It brightened up immensely, causing Alec to flicker slightly as he adjusted his focus.

Izzy had told him how to depress the light but if he were being honest, he could have paid more attention when she had told him.

His eyes immediately gravitated to the green box, pursing his lips thinly when he noticed no red bubble hovering over it.

Alec implanted his elbow onto the desk, wrapping his cool fingers around his wrist to abate the throbbing ache underneath his flesh.

Nothing ever good happens at the Seelie court.

His father was at first, halting at the frame of the door, leaning against the fringe in what seemed like hesitance. It was a look so brief, Alec would have missed it in the blink of an eye if he weren’t focusing keenly on him.

“I never expected it to be you.”

His dad wiped his hands on his pants, sighing distinctly.

“You’re my son.” Which, to give him credit where credit was due, was a sobering truth. Because he was his son, Alec’s dismay only exacerbated. Considering the circumstances, he wondered if he had thought when he was younger, there would have been a day where he would have been disappointed in his own father. To his discontent, there was.

“I felt it was my responsibility to deliver your orders personally.” His voice so monotone, Alec pursed his lips together, biting down on his tongue in an effort to allay his temper.

He glanced down as the screen brightened up, frowning when no bar appeared across his screen. As if it was his phone’s ill-attempt at diverting his attention for no reason other than employing a cheap tactic to get him flustered. As if to be only reminded that he was waiting for a message- that he had been waiting for hours.

Not that he was taking notice of that.

“Allowing Valentine’s escape was a lapse in leadership-“ Alec tore his gaze away, pressing his nimble fingers into his flesh simultaneously, “-but our top priority is tracking him down. We believe he may still be in New York. And I convinced Imogen you know the city better than anyone in Idris.”

Alec lifted his head up, briskly catching his eye.

“You will remain head of the institute,” his father reminded him, as if that was Alec wanted to hear. And maybe he did, yet as those words were said to him, they fell on deaf ears. Alec wavered his eyes across the room, his breath abated.

Alec glanced at the walls, observed their sturdiness.

He wondered just how loud his voice would have ricocheted off of the walls if he were to shout in the confines of the room.

The door was open, sure. But, the room was further from the main op floor than any other. Maybe one or two would have overheard the commotion but those were risks he was willing to take.

Yet risks were uncanny to him as well as incongruous with his usual course of action. He never did find it to be conducive because in the larger scheme of things, being the loudest one in the room meant nothing if he had nothing to back him up.

It was as futile as engaging in a discourse with someone who hid behind an inaudible wall.

“That’s it?” He questioned, well-aware of it being the most obvious rebuttal but considered it futile to wait for his father to say anything else.

“For now, but Imogen is keeping you on a tight leash. Don’t give her an excuse to give Aldertree his old job back.” He continued, as if to only validate Alec’s unsurprisingly precise thoughts.

That’s all you have to say?

You can’t even justify your actions?

Which would have been excuses nevertheless. But if he were to even do that, at least he was making the effort to atone for his indiscretions.

Are you even sorry?

Does it even matter that you might be sorry?

Were you thinking of us when you did this?

Huh.

Did you!

“I appreciate the help.” He ended up saying, swallowing any spontaneous outburst in an effort to salvage whatever composure he could muster and sustain. “Don’t think this makes up what you did to mom.” He added, unaware of them spewing out of his mouth until they do. But he doesn’t regret them.

“Alec.” The trite voice caused Alec to shut his eyes closed, grit his jaw for what was to come. “Your mother and I have always had a complicated relationship-“

“-It’s not complicated. You cheated on her.” Like, there. You. Cheated. On. Her. There was no way to circumspect around it. “There’s a reason she returned to Idris as soon as you got here.” As it had just clicked why his mother was quick to offer goodbyes earlier that day, packaging nothing but minimal baggage as she departed. She said something about the Clave wanting to discuss institute code of conduct and then needing to engage in formalities with other dignitaries.

Alec snorted quietly under his breath as he diverted his gaze.

It was to avoid him.

There was much to be said of his father’s imprudence. It was one thing to have utmost reverence towards his father but to have that shadowed by distrust and disappointment had him furl in rage.

He had always wondered whether he was under the illusion that he was being trained the hardest, rarely forgiven for even the slightest indiscretion and upheld to the most stringent expectations, growing up- inspite of it all, he committed with unwavering deference as he exceeded all their tacit expectations, he was sure of it. He made sure of it.

Yet-it meant nothing when the person employing those expectations was nothing more than a callous and untrustworthy person.

“I made a mistake.” Which only had Alec bristle, “I never meant to hurt you. But I fell in love.”

Alec glanced up at him once again.

The words seamlessly slipped past his mouth, as if he had practiced this. As if he wanted to convey his emotions in the most articulate way possible. As if were trying to be careful without being unabashedly indifferent to Alec’s innate dismay.

“You of all people should know what that’s like-“

Yet, despite however much deliberateness was taken into consideration, it was a slip Alec could not ignore.

“Magnus isn’t an affair!” He found himself yelling, curling his hand into a fist to soften his voice. That assumption had his nerve endings light up. Conflating the two seemed like the most bogus and misleading connection to make.

His chest ached with precision as he absorbed the words. His breath got caught in his throat as he prickled the sole of his palm with the nails of his fingers.

What he had with Magnus was anything but.

Sometimes Alec found himself shoved into a corner and for the first time in ever, he had found a hand reaching out to him, pulling him back. Sometimes Alec would find himself drowning and at the very instance of Magnus’ voice, he was grounded by commiseration.

There were days where Alec had nothing more to look forward to than scurrying to sit on the brown-leathered couch and waiting as Magnus finished with his work. He would avoid overtly paying attention as to not disturb him but Alec was keen on just knowing what Magnus did when it came to work.

He would watch unabashedly as Magnus flicked his finger, a blue, red, sometimes green flare appearing on the frisk of his hand, hovering over his fingers for the faintest or longest of times before disappearing.

Alec found himself contemplating just how to get Chairman Meow to stop frisking past him as if there was nothing Alec could offer him. He’d taken the extra initiative to buy yarn, obscure food that he was told would satiate any feline-he had failed and yet he looked forward to failing yet again. Magnus had told him that Chairman was one of his oldest, that he had been a dependable confidant through it all and Alec wanted that cat to know that he had appreciated that.

That someone was there for Magnus when it mattered. Sometimes he wondered whether he had flurried into a world of insanity as he tried to glean the trust from a cat and yet, he somehow found a way to convince himself that it didn’t matter.

So he’d return with catnips and lints from the floor-something Chariman had shown prior interest in.

To have those occasions be falsely equated to a rendezvous had Alec shifting around his seat, as if the very bottom of the chair had burned his bottom in ablaze.

“I shouldn’t have said anything. We can argue all about family drama once we find Valentine but until then, I have an institute to run.” He dismissed, resuming a sense of decorum in his voice as to indicate to his father that whether that had been a freudian slip or an essence of his true intentions, those words would not taut him in anyway. If anything, he wanted to avoid saying something that would could not be taken back.

“Alec-“

“You can go.” Alec said tightly.

From his periphery, he took notice of how his father hesitated as he shifted around in his spot. His face glowered as he wiped his hands on his pants, stagnated in his position. He looked down at his feet for the briefest of seconds before moving in the direction of the door. He paused momentarily as he twist the knob but gave the slightest of a languid nod as he disappeared around the corner of the hallway.

Alec settled against the seat, throwing his head back. He pressed his hand into his temple, squeezing his eyes shut. He drew out a sharp exhale as he swiped his hands across his eyes.

As he stretched his legs out in front of him, he tilted his head as the buzzing of his phone caught his attention.

He hovered over the screen, noticed Magnus’ name appear in a tinted black hue.

Alec swiped his thumb across the screen as he pressed the cell to his ear.

“Alexander.” Magnus emoted, drawing a short chuckle.

It was amazing, how Magnus was capable of just easing his nerves that swiftly.

Alec settled into his posture as he sighed. “Magnus.” He repeated, with the same mutual fondness. He hoped it was conveyed and he settles for it when Magnus hummed a ‘yes’ in response.

I miss you.

I want to see you later.

I miss you.

“How are you?” He settled for, curling his free hand around his neck to itch just above his collarbone.

“Well-“ his voice sounded distant, “anyone and everyone here is distressed by the course of events.” Magnus leveled his tone, pausing as the sounds of shuffling and scuffles had him muttering a quick ‘pardon me’ here and there before the racket died down.

“I’m sorry if I’m bothering you.”

Magnus laughed, Alec picturing the grin that enveloped his mouth as he did.

“Alexander, I called you.”

Oh.

Right.

Alec whisked his lips in a loose smirk.

“I know.” He said, flustered. “Still.”

He was met with absolute silence, a quietness that doesn’t feel forced nor uncomfortable. It was easy and brisk, causing Alec to settle into the reticence. He held his breath as he listened closely to Magnus’ abated breath, the low inhales with the sparse exhales.

“Alexander.” Magnus tried, as if he too was taking keen interest in Alec’s breathing yet was unable to pick it up. “You still there?”

Alec gripped his cell. “Yeah.” He croaked. “I’m here.”

Even though he couldn’t see him, Alec could imagine Magnus nodding languidly. He could imagine the crease that formed in his forehead, in curiosity if not weariness.

“I think I’m going to have to stick around here for a couple of days, until things die down.” Alec said, quickly trying to think of ways to mitigate the situation so things could be expedited and days would not be formed into anything longer than a week because that’s way too long. “So.”

Magnus hummed in response.

“Would you be able to find some time to get dinner with me?”

Alec picked up on footsteps outside of the room. He leaned forward, his wandering eyes taking notice of Jace’s boots as he padded into the room, settling against the wall.

Alec rolled his eyes, turning his back to Jace.

“Yeah.” He couldn’t think of anything better to look forward to. “I have to go.” Yet he made no effort to end the call. Alec tapped his fingers in verbatim on the rail of the seat, swiping his hand over a chip of bark that peeled at the edge of the hook.

“Okay.” Magnus responded with, his voice meager and low.

“Okay.” Alec repeated.

Alec felt the flush of warmth that seeped into his cheeks, his chest aching as the air in his throat coagulated, the tremors in his hand picking up in prickles that only had him heaving quietly under his breath when he felt a pang push against his ribcage.

“I’m going to hang up.” He stated, gripping even harder onto the phone.

Magnus chuckled. “Okay.” Like, do it-hang up.

Shit.

His ears perked when the floor creaked beside his desk, Alec being swift as he pressed the side button before slipping his cell into the crevice inside of his jacket. He was languid as he picked his head up, opting to move around some things on the desk in an attempt to resume the rudimentary color back into his face.

Jace lurked beside Alec, crossing his hands begrudgingly across his chest.

Alec glared at Jace in response.

“You forgot how to knock on the door?”

Jace snorted. “Knock?” As if that was an absurd thing for Alec to ask of him to do. “Right.”

Alec lifted himself up, holding onto the railing of the seat as he nudged Jace with the heel of foot. Jace feigned pain as he muttered a barking ‘what’ at him, void of any malice but perforated with annoyance.

“So what exactly happened at the Seelie Court?”

#malec #magnus bane #alexander lightwood #Alec Lightwood #shadowhunters #shadowhuntersfreeform #Clary Fray #clary fairchild #Isabelle Lightwood #Jace Wayland #jace herondale #2.16 internal dialogue #SH minor spoilers #Alec's POV #hint at 2.17 dinner date #PROMPT FIC

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losille2000 · 7 years ago

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A Saving Grace, Chapter 1

TITLE: A Saving Grace CHAPTER NUMBER: 1/? + Prologue AUTHOR: Losille2000 WHICH Henry/CHARACTER: Actor!Henry GENRE: Drama/Romance FIC SUMMARY: All press is good press, right? Not if you ask Henry Cavill. After recordings from a disastrous interview go viral, Henry’s life begins to crumble around him. He has no idea how to stop it from happening. Fortunately, he has a new assistant who could be his saving Grace. RATING: M (sex, language) WARNINGS: Um, nothing yet. Maybe there’s more language in this than I usually use. And I think Henry will be a little dominant. But other than that... none. AUTHORS NOTES: Enjoy!

Previous Chapter. Also on AO3!

A Saving Grace Chapter 1

Grace slammed her fist on the desk, rattling the computer monitor and other office supplies sitting on it. She pushed away from her computer and leaned back in her chair, groaning at the ceiling. That was the sixth boyfriend in two years who sent a breakup email instead of having the decency to say it to her face. And that didn’t even include the endless parade of first dates that never turned into seconds, or some that didn’t even last past the first hellos.

She was done with Internet dating. And Tinder. And all the other horrible websites out there claiming they were going to find her the perfect husband with their scientifically tested matching algorithms and stupidly sweet commercials. None of this shit worked for women who weren’t the idealized version of the feminine form.

“What’s your problem?” asked the voice beside her.

Grace turned to the thin man sitting at the desk beside her in the open floorplan office. He pulled off his large headphones and set them on his neck as she frowned. “Do I look like a cave troll, Eli?”

Eli pursed his pillowy lips and tossed back the dark hair that had fallen in his amber colored eyes. He tried looking like a tortured hipster with frayed skinny jeans, plaid button downs with rolled up sleeves, and that ridiculous floppy hair, but there was no hiding that he was just another pretty boy underneath it all. “Only when Aunt Flo visits, baby.”

“Ugh!” She kicked the leg of the table harder than she intended, crunching her toes in her bargain brand heels. “I’m so fucking done with this bullshit. Why’s it so hard to find a man in this godforsaken town?”

Eli looked at her and shook his head. Of course, he didn’t need to answer. She already knew why. That’s what happens to people who live in the most vapid and self-centered place in the world.

He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and lifted it so she could see, pointing a finger at the screen. “Do I need to call Ty and tell him we’re taking our wifey out drinking tonight?”

“No,” Grace said. “I’m just going to hang out with Ben and Jerry tonight.”

“Don’t do that, Graciela!” he cried. “We’ve been doing so good on the food plan!”

Grace huffed. Yeah, well, she started the blasted food plan because her now ex-boyfriend suggested she do it. She didn’t even know why she agreed; she should have known he wasn’t worth it. All her life she’d been rounder, but she’d never really cared about it, even enjoyed having the extra shapeliness. Until him. Until she began realizing all the men she had any interest in wanted an extremely specific body type in their women. Now, however, she knew it was simply due to her choice in men and nothing to do with her. So that meant she either had to lower her expectations in men or live the rest of her life content with vibrators and fantasies.

At least Eli and his husband had agreed to do the diet with her, though neither of them had any weight to lose and simply wanted to sculpt their muscles further. And of course, they’d been spectacularly successful, because they were men. Why did they always get it so easy?

“I’m done with this shit,” she said. “I’m eating all the elotes and frijoles I want, starting this weekend at my mom’s birthday.”

“Now don’t be drastic,” Eli urged, wheeling closer to her. “You’ve put in so much work.”

She suffered the disgusting green smoothies and tasteless boiled chicken breasts for months only to lose two pounds. Grace shook her head. “Nope. I like enjoying food more, thank you very much.”

They were disturbed by Eli’s office phone extension ringing. Grace looked back at her computer screen and the constantly updating Twitter stream scrolling across it. She should get back to work monitoring her accounts, but she just couldn’t make herself do it. Not today. Fuck all these people trying to be something they most certainly were not to impress others. Why had she ever gotten into public relations, anyway?

She groaned and wheeled forward with another grumble under her breath, reaching for the computer mouse, but froze when she heard, “Navarro! Get in my office!”

“Now doesn’t that make my fucking day,” she muttered under her breath. Being called to the boss’s office in that tone of voice did not bode well for her, even though she always made sure her work was impeccable. What was he planning to yell at her for now?

Her boss, Dave, always found reasons to pick at her work or created traps to trip her up. In the beginning, she ignored it because public relations was hard in Hollywood—one of the most difficult fields in the entertainment industry. Emotions ran high and everyone was expected to be on their A-game every single minute of every single hour they were on the clock… and honestly, even when they were off the clock. Their clients’ careers depended on it, after all. She understood his picking in the beginning. As time marched on, though, with men promoted before her and hired after with less education and skill, plus the shit always seeming to land on her head when something went south, she was at a breaking point. And that didn’t even include the number of times he sent her on coffee runs or asked her to make copies when his male assistant was perfectly capable. Dave was nothing more than a sexist pig.

Grace stood up from her desk and smoothed the sheer blouse over her stomach, making sure it was still tucked into the waist of her pencil skirt. She bent to look in the little mirror she and Eli kept between them and breathed in a sigh. At least she wasn’t crying after the email, or it would have destroyed her makeup. She refused to give Dave the pleasure of seeing evidence of her emotions smeared all over her face.

She quickly moved across the office floor and stopped in front of Dave’s door, knocking lightly and letting herself inside the room. Dave sat at the round meeting table inside with another man who was probably in his late forties, good looking with graying hair. She’d never seen him before. He smiled brightly and stood up to greet her.

“Fred Wellington, Grace Navarro,” Dave introduced with a curt nod between them. “Sit down, Navarro.”

She shot him a pointed frown and pulled a seat out. “What’s wrong?”

Dave sat forward and folded his hands over a thick file. “Fred is Henry Cavill’s agent, here on behalf of Henry’s manager, Dany Garcia.”

“Ooookay,” Grace said, dragging out the word.

She knew about Henry Cavill. Everyone knew about Henry Cavill and what had happened to the once Golden Boy of the DC movies universe. He had an appalling interview with an unscrupulous journalist who published audio for a very large pay day. The things that were said in the interview were career and character suicide, whether the audio was heavily edited or not, and whether the journalist purposely backed Cavill into a corner to get the incriminating answers she wanted. In PR terms, he was dead in the water and needed resuscitation.

His previous PR agency dropped him, which led them to her company, Elite Solutions PR, in the hope of recovering his image. Being such a high-profile person, Dave placed the account with his senior staff, not with her, a lowly social media specialist. She hadn’t heard much about the plans to bring his career back to life after the initial intake.

“Ms. Navarro, nice to meet you.” Fred smiled kindly and stretched his hand out to shake hers. At least Fred seemed like a decent guy.

Dave blustered and patted his tie down a slightly protruding beer gut.

Grace smiled back. “You, too.”

“Fred and I have been talking about the targeted campaign we’ve put together for his client’s reintroduction to the public,” Dave explained. “Since Warner Brothers decided to keep him on as Superman, they want to use the Justice League promo tour to help springboard a new image.”

She nodded, trying not to hope this was Dave offering her a promotion. As much as she could use the boost in pay and an office of her own—with windows—she didn’t want this one because Dave would micromanage the shit out of her. “Why don’t you just send him to rehab like everyone else who needs an image reboot? People love comeback stories.”

Fred sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “We’ve floated that to him, but he refuses.”

“It worked with Affleck—”

“Right, but it works in Ben’s favor because he plays Bruce Wayne. Superman is a golden hearted country boy and a stint in rehab doesn’t suit the image, which WB then agreed with. And his business manager didn’t like it either. It’s why we’re here and signing with Elite. Our previous PR fired him because he wouldn’t accept that media plan.”

So on top of being a chauvinistic idiot stuck in the 50s, he’s stubborn as fuck. Great.

“I’m not understanding why you need me, Dave. I’m just a social media specialist,” Grace said.

Dave cleared his throat. “We’re getting there, Navarro.”

She flattened her lips into a line. Double great, she thought. From his tone of voice alone, she knew she wasn’t going to like what he had to say.

“Henry has, however, agreed to play the long game. To be better in interviews and follow the guidance of his PR assistant in future interactions with the public,” Fred explained.

“We’re planning to get him in at several charity functions along the publicity tour to bolster the positive side of his image,” Dave explained. “That’s in addition to a few puff pieces we’ve hand selected to give him the best coverage. When it comes to film-specific interactions, we will yield to WB’s publicist, but our firm will always be represented.”

Grace understood. “So you’re sending him a babysitter.”

Dave’s beady shit brown eyes narrowed. “Precisely, Navarro. And you’re the babysitter.”

“Excuse me?” she asked.

Fred gave her a tight smile. “He doesn’t have a personal assistant at the moment, either, so I thought whoever Dave selected for the position might take on a few of those tasks for the promo tour to cut cost. It’ll keep him out of trouble—away from clubs, women and alcohol. At least until this all blows over.”

Grace puffed up her cheeks and blew out a long stream of air. “With all due respect, the man practically lives in a club. How do you think you’re going to keep him out of one?”

“That’s your job,” Dave said.

“And I am also a woman,” she replied. And I fucking love tequila.

Dave glanced over at her, his eyes slithering down her body and back up to her face. He made his point without having to say anything, just like Miranda Priestly did to Andi Sachs in The Devil Wears Prada. She needed a scalding shower to clean off the slime now on her skin.

“If I refuse?” Grace asked.

“I’ll expect your resignation on my desk in the morning, then,” Dave replied.

She rolled her eyes. What choice did she have anyway? It was fucking impossible to get your foot in the door at an agency like this anywhere in Los Angeles. She didn’t have the funds to move elsewhere in the world to a location with a high demand for publicists, and she certainly needed the funds she did have to pay her bills here. And then there was the matter of starting all over again, from the ground up, with no family or friends to help in a distant location. She sure as hell wasn’t about to do that with another boss who could be worse than Dave.

Grace sank back into her seat and glanced across the table at Fred, who still looked apologetic about Dave’s behavior. At least there was someone with a little heart in this industry.

“What about my other accounts?” she asked. She had no other suitable objections to the work but those.

“We’ll split them between Elijah and Lachlan,” Dave said. “Your soul responsibility for the next two months is Cavill—make sure he stays on the straight and narrow and don’t let other people goad him into spouting off again.”

She locked her jaw and gave him a swift, curt nod. She could do it; what could possibly be so hard about shepherding a wayward movie star? She just wished that someone else had been assigned the task. PR assistant was one thing, but they also wanted her to be part personal assistant. Knowing that Dave thought so little of her contribution to the office that he was willing to assign her a task rife with picking up dry cleaning and grocery shopping set her teeth on edge. Or maybe he had the greatest amount of trust in her that she’d do the job so well, that he felt comfortable giving her the responsibility?

Grace looked at the balding man again. No, he didn’t trust her. Couldn’t possibly. She didn’t have the necessary appendage. But she was a woman, so he must have figured she’d be good at getting coffee and cleaning up after an arrogant actor.

“When do I start?” she asked.

Fred smiled. “Tomorrow morning. Say… ten? You can dress casually, though. No need for business attire…”

…when you’re running around doing errands.

Yeah, she knew what he meant.

“Great,” she replied and turned to Dave. “If you’ll excuse me, I have some work to finish off if I’m handing my accounts over before I leave.”

Dave waved her off without another thought. She nodded at Fred and beat a hasty retreat out of his office. She went directly for Eli’s desk and held her hand out, wiggling her fingers. “I need a cigarette.”

“Okay, I’m definitely not letting you have one of those,” he said, looking up at her. “You told me never to let you have another one when you quit last year.”

“But I need one,” she groaned. “My life has just turned to shit in a half hour and I need something. Anything.”

Eli squinted. “That bad, huh?”

Grace groaned and raked a hand through her long black-brown hair. Her fingers snagged on a tangle deep in the voluminous tresses. She winced. “Please.”

He reluctantly pulled out his latest pack and stuck one in her hand with the rainbow-colored lighter. Eli was never one for subtlety. “Don’t come crying to me because you’re hooked again.”

She rolled her eyes and darted through the office for the exit leading to the outdoor smoking area. Even before she flicked the wheel on the butane lighter, she felt the tingle and burn of smoke filling her lungs, the eventual long pull relaxing her frayed nerves. God, she needed one of these.

Grace sucked in another mouthful, resting her back against the brick façade of their first-floor office. The heat of the sun had baked the red bricks throughout the day, which in turn heated her back and scratched against her body like a five-hundred-dollar hot stone massage, which she definitely didn’t have the money for, so it was nice to lean there and enjoy the sensation. Small pleasures and all that.

She turned her face up to the clear blue sky and hot sun. Sometimes living in SoCal had a lot of negatives like superficiality and traffic, but warmth in October was definitely a positive. It wouldn’t be this warm in the other places she would be traveling in the coming months; she figured it was worth it now to soak it all up. Why she even considered leaving LA a few minutes ago confused her. Between the sunny days and her family, she couldn’t imagine living any other place in the world.

A clearing throat made her turn her head. She blinked away the sun, allowing her pupils time to adjust to the shadow on her left. Fred was standing just outside the door, his hands in his pockets. He was taller than her, not by much, but he still gave her a feeling that he was powerful. Except he was also soft spoken and one of those men who didn’t need to raise his voice to be heard.

“I’m sorry for intruding,” he said. “I wanted to talk with you a little more.”

“About?” she asked, raising a brow at him. Her objective with their mutual client was simple: mollycoddle the hell out of him and don’t let him talk to anyone.

He smiled. “About your new charge.”

Grace dropped her shoulders and pushed away from the wall. She snuffed out her cigarette in the ashtray to her right and stepped into the shade. Dark skin or not, she wasn’t in the mood to deal with skin cancer.

“He’s a decent guy. I know what you must have heard about the story and it doesn’t paint that type of picture,” Fred said, “but I’ve never known him to be like that—with me or with women. Sometimes, though, he has word vomit. He’s almost… socially awkward, you know?”

She nodded. Even though she’d worked in this business for five years and met a lot of famous people who always seemed to have it all, there was always something that they were desperate to overcome or hide. It’s why they hired publicists—to hide or minimize their brokenness or their problems. The public wanted perfection. They wanted to live their lives in dream worlds and fantasies based on these people who supposedly had it all. Unfortunately, the public usually didn’t get to see just how fucked up their idols’ lives were because of people like her.

“He’s been my client for ten years now. He’s good people and I want to see him succeed, not just because he’s my star right now,” Fred said.

She heard his earnestness. Fred was a good guy, whether he was a cutthroat in the industry or not. “I understand.”

He coughed into his hand and stepped forward. “And I want to make sure that you’ll do your best. Dave can be—”

“Yeah, I know,” she said. “But he’s the best fixer in this industry.”

“Definitely.”

Grace sighed. “Mr. Wellington—”

“Fred,” he corrected.

“Fred.” She really did like him. He didn’t give off the air of sleaziness that so many in this town did. “I plan to do my job to the best of my abilities. Believe me.”

And it was the truth. Even though she despised the reason for being placed in this role, she never shirked her responsibilities. She worked hard and took pleasure in hard work. Life was hard, too, but it could have been harder if she didn’t have such a strong ethic. Sometimes, though, it was a lot to handle all at once. By tomorrow morning, after having some time to cool down and re-center herself, she had little doubt she would perform admirably.

Fred smiled again, looking her over, from feet to head, but it wasn’t in the smarmy way Dave had done in the office. This appraisal was one of measurement—measuring everything about her that wasn’t physical, if he could do such a thing by judging her exterior. “Have you had a chance to meet Dany Garcia, yet? She’s Henry’s business manager.”

“Unfortunately, no,” she said.

“But you have heard of her before today?”

“Oh, yeah,” Grace replied with a nod. Dany was Dwayne Johnson’s ex and his wildly successful business partner with her own powerful management firm. “Who hasn’t? She’s created an empire.”

“That she has,” Fred said. “You remind me of her. You have the same chutzpah. I think when you meet her and the team, you’ll hit it off. She didn’t come today because she can’t stand Dave, so she asked me to do the dirty work.”

Grace laughed at his explanation. “I’m sorry you had to deal with it, too.”

The man shrugged and stepped closer to her as though they were conspiring on some great plot. “Play your cards right, and I’ll make sure Dany finds a position for you on her team after the tour.”

“Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack.” He grinned and reached into his suit coat for a business card. Then he offered it to her. “If you need anything at all, please call my direct line. They have the dossier and all your information inside, but someone from Dany’s office will meet you at Henry’s tomorrow morning.”

Grace looked at the card and ran her finger over the raised lettering and expensive linen cardstock. She looked up and offered her hand again. “Thank you, Fred.”

“No problem, Grace,” he said and stepped away from her, toward the sidewalk that would lead him to the parking lot. “Remember, I’ll be watching you.”

She saluted him as he strode away. He drove off in a shiny Mercedes. Finally, she sighed and looked at the watch on her wrist. “I guess break’s over.”

At least, she thought as she opened the door into her office, the afternoon wasn’t a total waste. It was enough to get her back to her computer to close shop for the foreseeable future. The only problem left was breaking it to Eli that she wasn’t going to be around as much.

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