#“my old pals” while he's holding onto the dog tags

[minban]

Happy Birthday, Lighter | Drinking Alone Under the Moon

"A cheap party hat, tacky ribbons, and a cake with unevenly spread frosting." / "I can't help but laugh whenever I think about that year's birthday party" / "You guys really should come and taste what the most amazing birthday special in the Outer Ring is like." / "My old pals..."

[tllgrrl]

SarahBucky Fleur De Louve Month 2023 - Day 6 Prompt: “There’s no place like home.” | SFW

Sarah Wilson/Bucky Barnes, and Special Guest Cameos: Cass & AJ Wilson and Alpine the Cat

* * * * * * * * * *

He sees the front porch, and another piece of what he called “the Thunder-whatever thing” falls off of him.

Stepping out of the van, he grabbed his backpack and duffle, and nodded to the driver.

“Thanks, pal.”

“My pleasure, Sarge!”

The vehicle pulled away, and before Bucky mounted the steps, he looked around the yard, doing a casual perimeter check.

Some old habits can’t die.

Especially not now, when everything he holds dear is on the other side of that door.

He closed his eyes and heard the boys and Sarah inside:

“Luke! You can nevah defeat me!”

“I am stronger with the Force, Vader!”

“Nuh-uh!”

“Uh-huh!”

“Cass! AJ! Are you done with your homework?”

And he smelled food cooking.

Meatloaf, greens, macaroni and cheese.

His mouth watered coming off of 3 ½ weeks of meals from fast food stores and greasy diners, none of it properly seasoned as far as he was concerned.

A small white cat stepped onto the porch, sat, and waited.

“Hi there,” he said softly, scratching behind her ear with his right hand. She jumped up into his arms, and climbed up to his left shoulder.

“I missed you too,” he cooed. “You been good, Alpine?”

‘Mrow,” she answered, rubbed her face on his ear, purring.

Before putting the key into the lock, he placed his hand on the door jamb.

“Sikelela le ndawo,” he whispered.

Opening the door, he sees a lightsaber duel in full swing in the living room, accompanied, of course, by John Williams’ iconic music coming from the TV.

“Hey fellas!”

“Uncle Bucky!” the boys chime together, dropping their plastic weapons, running to hug him and tussle over his duffle and backpack.

Alpine jumps down heading straight for the kitchen as he knelt so they could all get their arms around each other.

“Guys? Did you hear me?” Sarah calls, walking into the dining room as he stands and closes the door. “Time to get ready for—“

Her face lights up, but her “Mama’s Not Playing” voice is what the boys hear:

“Are you guys lightsabering in this house again? You know better. Go put Bucky’s bags in the mudroom, pick up your stuff out of here, wash your hands and set the table. You can play space battle outside after dinner.”

“Okay, mama!” They snickered hauling the bags into the kitchen because they knew what was going to happen next: The Kissin’ Stuff, which they didn’t mind too much because it made their mama all smiley. Mama and Uncle Bucky.

“Hey Sarah.”

“James. Come’ere, you.”

She opens her arms and he walks into her embrace.

He removed his dog tags and placed them around her neck before he kissed her, and as he did, Alpine continued to purr as she wound her way around their legs and the boys carried on with their Luke vs Vader debate while putting plates and silverware on the dining room table.

This was where he wanted to be, and where Sarah wanted him: in kid’s hijinx, in cat chaos, and in her arms.

He meant it from the bottom of his heart when he looked into her eyes and said:

“There’s no place like home.”

* * * * * * * * * *

Posted HERE on the AO3 .

Thanks for reading!

[doomednarrative]

Hehe @landlordevil tagged me to talk about my Tav/Durge so now yall are gonna hear about my boy :3

and thanks for the tag Aella ~

Name: Kallos ! Last name doesnt exist anymore he does not remember it

Nickname: Kal (by Karlach), Cub (by Jaheira)

Gender: Agender/doesn't give a fuck. Goes by he/him out of sheer convenience/never really knowing anything different but that doesn't make him A Dude.

Star sign: Scorpio. I don't know much but I know enough that that's what fits him

Height: 6'1" (186 cm)

Orientation: Bi but preference for men

Race: Mephistopheles Tiefling, or at least that's what he comes off as to most. To other tieflings tho theres something Off about him

Romancing: Astarion (and he's Very loyal to him)

Fave fruit: Black raspberries

Fave season: Fall, he likes the colors and the chill

Fave flower: Lungwort ~ old medicinal flower that has pretty spotted leaves and comes in blues/pinks/purples

Fave scent: Pomagranates

Coffee, tea, or hot chocolate: Coffee 100%

Average sleep hours: He's lucky if he gets a solid 5 with all the headaches and nightmares and he's learned to live with that

Dogs or cats: Cats, dogs are too high maintenance for him

Dream trip: He hasn't really thought about it tbh, he's content to be wherever Astarion is after everything they've been through

Amount of blankets: 2. Despite being a tiefling he's shit at thermoregulating so he runs cold a lot

Random fact(s):

(Personal headcanon territory but) The "Stillmaker" knife, aka the one you find underneath the Open Hand Temple while investigating the murders, was Kallos' personal knife from his time leading the Bhaal temple. After Orin fucked him up and left him at Moonrise it got separated from him and passed around between other temple members until it finally made his way back to him during the murder investigation. Even after Kallos rejects Bhaal he still keeps the knife, whether out of misplaced sentimentality or just wanting to hold onto something that was His, who can say ~

He actually hates wearing the color red and refused to wear it even when he led the temple, preferring greens and greys instead

Despite being a war domain cleric whos adept with Radiant magic, his favorite spells are all Necrotic ones, particularly Inflict Wounds which is his go to.

Thanks to what Orin did to his brain, he's almost fully blind out of his left eye. The damage isn't super noticable outside of the facial scarring, but if you look close its slightly discolored from his right one.

I as the playet give theme songs to all of my ocs to help me characterize them. Kallos actually has two of them, that being "Pathological Facade" by Ghost and Pals along with "The Rifle's Spiral" by The Shins ~

Lets see, I am gonna tag @angel-trapped @piddgeon @fiendpact and @darlinghowl if yall wanna talk about your Tav/Durge ~ obviously no obligation to do so if you don't want to

[thebuckblogimo]

The day the Polish music died for 2 minutes and 58 seconds.

March 26, 2024

When I was a kid back in the '50s, my friends and I experienced a lot of "unsupervised play," something I don't think children get enough of these days. I'd like to tell you a story that illustrates the concept and what it may have meant for us later in life. First, let me set the stage...

It was the summer of 1956. I was nine years old and had just completed the third grade. My Dad, in his late 30s, was active in the Vincent J. Bieneik VFW Post in Detroit, as were most of his buddies who had returned home from World War II.

In those days the VFW held an annual picnic "out in the country" at the now defunct New Liberty Park, which, as best as I can recall, was somewhere south of Detroit Metroplitan Airport.

New Liberty Park was set up for summer time fun. Like several other outdoor venues of that era, it had an open-air pavilion, including a huge dance floor and stage for live music; separate open-air buildings for the sale of beer, soft drinks, hot dogs, potato chips and ice cream; and acres of parking in a wooded area that afforded an early version of tailgating.

My two sisters and I always looked forward to the VFW picnic. My mother would fill a wooden picnic basket with sandwiches and cookies, and pack Vernors ginger ale and Faygo pop. We couldn't wait to get there and compete in the water balloon toss, three-legged races and other games. One year the three of us swept the foot races for our respective age groups and caused a stir as parents complained about "that family that wins everything." Another year I was thrilled to hold a winning ticket for one of the VFW raffle prizes--an electric can opener.

My Dad was always involved with the picnic's planning committee. He and his VFW pals would smear grease paint on their faces, dress up as clowns and rent a trailer to haul a polka band through the Polish neighborhoods of Detroit to publicize the picnic. Also, he had been a childhood friend of Johnny Sadrack, who became a popular Polish band leader during the '50s and '60s, and my Dad recruited the group to play at the picnic.

There were outdoor speakers affixed to poles and buildings on the grounds at New Liberty. My Dad would bring a box of 78 rpm records from his collection--polkas and obereks--and play them on a turntable, rigged up to the speakers around the park, before the band began to play and in between its sets.

My brother Mark was born in February of 1956, and when it came time for the picnic that year he was only a few months old. So my Mom and sisters stayed behind--although I think my sisters came out later that afternoon with my Uncle Chester and Auntie Connie--while my Dad let me tag along in the morning when he drove to the park to set up for the carloads of people that were expected to line the gate on a picture-perfect day.

His plan was to turn me loose at New Liberty, load me up with enough money to buy tickets for pop, ice cream and potato chips, and let me roam the park while he did his thing.

I had a plan, too.

By 1956, artists such as Elvis Presley, Chuck Berry, Little Richard and Buddy Holly had burst onto the scene and helped to revolutionize the popular culture with a new genre of music called rock 'n' roll. During the winter of that year the first "kid group" recorded "Why Do Fools Fall In Love?" by the Teenagers, featuring 13-year-old Frankie Lymon. I was hooked instantly by their sound. I bought the 45 at the neighborhood record shop and played it incessantly on my parents' "hi-fi." I soon started hanging out at the store--unsupervised--flipping through the record bins every week, and in the spring I was elated to discover that the Teenagers had released their follow-up recording, "I Want You To Be My Girl."

The record shop was sold out of the 45 version when I was ready to buy. However, they had a bunch on the 78 format. Feeling desperate to own the record and play it any time I wanted, I purchased the platter.

On the morning of the picnic my Dad gathered up his things, including his collection of polka records, and off we went to the park. I packed some things too--a rubber ball, a couple comic books and my prized possession, "I Want You To Be My Girl," and stashed them in the trunk of my Dad's classic, tri-color (pink, black and white) '56 Chrysler New Yorker St. Regis.

When we arrived at New Liberty, my Dad fired down a quick shot and a beer with his pals and went to work on getting things set up. Sure enough, he immediately hooked up the turntable to the speaker system and loaded it with a "stack of shellac." I went off on my own, exploring the woods, where I could clearly hear the music from the pavilion, while VFW members packed the coolers with beer and dry ice.

In the early afternoon, the band started playing Polish music at the pavilion. By now there were picnickers everywhere in the park, shuffling back and forth from their cars to the dance floor. From a wooden bench along the walls in the pavilion I sat alone and watched the dancers put down their moves.

I also watched for my opportunity.

Sure enough, after the band concluded its first set and the dancers went outside to take a break, my dad put on a stack of Polish records and the music again played throughout the park. I waited, watched and listened as the first group of tunes finished playing. Then someone put on another stack and the music continued.

I prepared to make my move.

I slid over to the turntable just inside the pavilion, carefully raised the stack of records from the spindle, pulled my 78 out from under my t-shirt, slipped it into the pile of records, put them back on the spindle, and returned to my seat on the bench.

A few minutes later I could hear, loud and clear, the distinctive bass voice of 17-year-old Sherman Garnes on the song's intro, blasting all over New Liberty Park: "Bay, bay, bay, bay bom, doo bee, do wop..." Then the Teenagers' three back-up singers fell in: "Bom dee doo wop bom doo bee doo wop bom dee doo..." And, finally, out poured the silky smooth boy soprano of Frankie Lymon: "Oh, oh, oh, oh...oh, oh, oh, oh...I love you baby and I want you to be my girl...Well, c'mon baby let's go down town..."

I recall watching the faces of people clogging the real estate between the pavilion and beer hut as the Teenagers sang. Truthfully, few people seemed to react to what was playing over the speaker system. Mostly they kept doing what they were doing--eating, drinking, talking, laughing, sweating. Did they like the song? Or not? Did they notice that something other than Polish music was playing? Or not? Someone surely noticed, I thought, and so I sat there feeling proud that I had introduced my music to the old people at the picnic.

I wasn't thinking about whether I had done anything wrong that day. I didn't feel as though I had played a prank. I was simply on a child's mission to share with my parents' generation how the music made me feel inside. If I had asked for permission to do it, I'm sure I would have been told no. So I just did it.

That's the sort of attitude most of my friends and I grew up with. We were learning right from wrong every day at home, to be sure. At school, we considered the discipline imposed by the nuns as over the top. So we were always trying to outsmart them. It was like a game we played every day.

Meanwhile, no one held our hands as we walked to school. Rarely were we driven to school. There were no school busses. There were only busses operated by the DSR (Departement of Street Railways). Our parents never seemed particularly concerened when we rode one--unchaperoned--to Briggs Stadium for a Tigers game. Nor did they seem to worry much when we rode our bikes 15 miles or so to Belle Isle.

As I said, we experienced a helluva lot of childhood independence in those days. Which sometimes resulted in consequeneces for our actions, while encouraging responsibility.

If you threw a buddy's gym shoes through an open garage window on the way home from basketball practice, well, the next day you had knock on the homeowner's door and ask for permission to retrieve them.

And if you fell through a plaster ceiling while playing in the attic of a "new house," you had to make some quick decisions. Hide? Run? Or face the music? Big decisions for a kid.

It makes me feel uncomfortable that nine- and ten-year-olds today are rarely allowed to walk a couple blocks to the store to buy candy. It bothers me when I hear about kids who aren't allowed to go to the park alone until they're 13 or 14.

I admit that there's lots of bad stuff going on in our world these days. But with the bombardment of 24-hour news that we endure every day on our computers, phones, TVs, radios, etc., I think the bad stuff often gets overly publicized. I don't think that things are nearly as bad on some of the the streets of our cities, suburbs and towns as they are depicted to be.

Practically every kid in my class, as well as those in the classes ahead and behind me, turned out to be darn resilient people. Many of them worked to pay their own way through college during the '60s. Others, as 18- and 19-year-olds, faced up to the draft with amazing courage during the Vietnam War years. In the '70s, we rocked it hard and faced the consequences of drug and alcohol abuse.

But I think we were prepped well to handle the issues we would face because we were brought up with a reasonable blend of supervision and autonomy. And in the end, but for a few, life worked out pretty well.

Allowing for a degree of common sense and reasonableness, it seems to me that it would do children good today to occassionally experience unsupervised play and less programming. I just don't think that every hour of a kid's summer day has to be filled with music lessons, travel ball, play practice and foreign language drills. The time that kids spend on internet-connected devices is what should be heavily monitored.

Kids need time to be kids. So they can experience the lessons that come with things like sneaking music into their parents' playlist or falling through a plaster ceiling.

[buckys-other-punk]

Honey, Bee Careful

Bucky x Reader

Summary: Bucky plans a road trip with his son and it gets a bit hectic.

Warnings: fluff, bees?(idk if thats a warning but yeah…) and like one cuss word

Word Count: 1,757

A/N: I back! Hello! Sorry I haven’t written in a while. I have major writer’s lock for my jealous series. So this is a little one-shot to help me start writing again. This one-shot is inspired by a story someone told me. 

Tags: @caplansteverogers @hollycornish @carabarnes13@ohmyjack @sebtheromanianprince@flirtswithdanger @aquabrie @amour-quinn @incoherent-smiles-deactivated @rocketqueeens@anbrax5553 @lloeppky @shayla-markele @pdy93 @chrys-1029@lostinthoughtsandfeelings @dani-si @httpmcrvel @101killer @sarahp879 @who-the-hell-is-sebastianstan @princess76179@kaleidoscopez96

tags with this means they didn’t work sorry :( 

===============================================

Y/N’s POV

So today, little Lucas and Bucky are going on a boy’s trip to the woods. Bucky said he wanted to do some father son bonding time and what better way to do that then go camping. He also said it would be a good way for me to relax and enjoy myself a bit before this new baby comes into in a couple months. While I prepare some snacks for my boys I feel a pair of hands on my slightly swollen belly.

“You need any help?” Bucky asks me with his head on my shoulder.

I shake my head no and reply, “I think I got all the snacks ready. Did you double check everything?”

“Yes and stop worrying! I got everything!” he replied with a smile. As I turn I put my arms on his shoulders, placed my forehead up to his and kissed his lips. He smiled, kissed back and right when he was about to deepen the kiss, tiny footsteps was heard coming from behind Bucky. We pulled away and looked at Lucas who was wearing a bright orange vest with a dark green shirt inside and jeans. He was carrying his cute bear backpack that was bigger than he was smiling at us.

“Are we going now daddy?” he asked innocently. I looked at Bucky with a smile and he returned it with a chuckle.

“Yeah pal we’re gonna go right now. Did you get all your stuff?” he asked the 4 year old. Lucas nodded happily and headed to the front door. He sat on the floor putting on his tiny strap on shoes. Bucky gave me a peck on the cheek as he got all of their stuff heading to the door and placing the bags in the car. I put the rest of the snacks and drinks in the cooler and walked over to Lucas who was struggling on putting his shoes on. As i looked down at my son I noted he put his shoes on the opposite foot. I giggled and helped him with his shoes. I carried him to the car on my left with the cooler resting on my right shoulder. I placed Lucas in his car seat strapping him in and placed the small cooler in the passenger seat. After that I went behind to the trunk of the car to check up on Bucky. He finished putting the last bag in and closed the trunk. He turned to me and gave me one last kiss.

“You better drive carefully or I swear Barnes I will hurt you.” you warned him with a serious face.

He smiled and said, “Of course I’ll drive carefully. Like I said earlier don’t worry about us. You take care of yourself Mrs. Barnes.” I sighed and hugged him. I walked to where Lucas was and gave him a kiss on his forehead.

“You have fun with daddy ok Lucas.” you said to your baby boy. He nodded and smiled. You closed his door and Bucky pulled the car out of the driveway rolling the windows down so Lucas can see you. Bucky honked the horn and Lucas waved bye to you and they were off. You waved them goodbye and smile to yourself as you walked towards the house. “I’m gonna order some pizza.” you said to yourself while entering your house.

Bucky’s POV

As Bucky was driving down the highway he looked in the rearview mirror checking up on Lucas. The toddler was looking out the window pointing at all the cows they were passing. The windows were still down and the wind was blowing Lucas’ hair all over the boy’s face. Out of nowhere Lucas starts screaming and Bucky was shocked for a bit.

“What’s wrong bud?” he asked concerned looking quickly back at his son.

“There’s a bee in the car!” Lucas screamed with a few tears in his eyes. Bucky’s eyes widened a bit, but remained calm for the sake of his son. You see Lucas was screaming at the bee because he knew he was allergic. Bucky had brought Lucas’ epipen with him, but unfortunately it was in the very back of the car. He couldn’t pull over due to the shoulder of the highway being closed. So being the fearless dad he was Bucky caught the bee with his right hand while his left had was still on the steering wheel. Lucas was still scream crying in his car seat.

“Hey, buddy its ok see I got the bee it won’t hurt you.” Bucky said calmly with his eyes focused on the road.

Lucas was still crying and said, “But what if it stings me.”

Bucky smiled at his innocence and opened his hand to release the bee. Lucas again screamed as the bee flew out the window. “It’s ok Lucas. The bee won’t sting you because it already stung me.” Bucky said calmly quickly glancing at the boy. Lucas looked at his dad as he wiped his tears with a sniffle. Bucky pulled up to a diner, got out of the car and walked over to where his son was seated. He unstrapped his son from the car seat and carried him to the diner locking the car at the same time. “You want a milkshake to help you calm down a bit?” he asked his son, who replied with a small nod. Bucky smiled and the two were placed in a booth and ordered a chocolate milkshake and some fires. As they were finished up their milkshakes Lucas looked over at his dad.

“Can we go home?” the toddler asked his dad. Bucky sighed looking down at the boy.

“Are you sure you want to go home Lucas? We haven’t even made it to the camping site.” he asked the boy. Lucas nodded yes in reply with the most adorable puppy dog eyes, which eventually got to Bucky and agreed with the boy. “Well I guess we can go camping with mommy next time.” he said with a smile. Bucky took Lucas out of the booth and the pair walked to the register. As Bucky was paying Lucas looked at all the postcards that were on a rack and picked one up.

He carried it over to his dad and asked “Can we get this for mommy?” Bucky looked at the postcard chuckling a bit. 

“There isn’t another one you want to give your mom?” he asked the boy which he replied with a no. Bucky sighed knowing he was going to get hell for this and bought the card. The two went back to the car and headed back home.

Y/N’s POV

You were sitting on the couch eating the final piece of pizza (a/n: thats right. You ate an entire box a pizza lol youre pregnant of course you gotta eat. You are feeding yourself and a baby lol. ok.. sorry, back to the story) as you watched some tv. You heard the doorbell ring and four knocks on the door. “I wonder who that could be?” you said aloud walking towards the door. You unlocked and opened the door. Suddenly you were attacked by tiny arms wrapping around your legs. You were a bit drawn back as you saw Bucky standing in front of you with a small smile. Looking down you saw you son hugging your legs and looking up at you. You smiled and picked up your son to carry him and kiss his cheeks.

“What are you guys doing back to soon?” you ask the two as you all entered the house.

“There was a bee in car!” Lucas yelled at you and your eyes went wide. You put your son down and checked him to make sure he was ok.

“It’s fine he wasn’t stung. I made sure of it.” Bucky said sending a wink to the little boy who smiles at him.

“I’m fine mommy, daddy saved me from the bee.” Lucas said innocently. You signed and gave you son a hug.

“Don’t scare me like that ok Lucas. You could have gotten stung.” you said calmly to your child holding onto him like you life depended on it and kissing all over his face.

“Hey! I’m the one who got stung here. I should be getting those hugs and kisses.” Bucky said pouting looking at the two of you. You sighed knowing that he did let the bee sting him and not your child so you walked over to him and pecked his lips. Bucky smiled and said “That’s all I get?”

“Yes because your son deserves all the attention right now. You know he’s allergic to bees Bucky. What if he could have gotten stung.” you said to your husband as you put Lucas on the couch to watch tv.

Bucky sighed, “I did bring his Epipen, but it was in the trunk. I didn’t want the bee to near him because he was freaking out. So, I caught the bee in my hand and it stung me.” You looked at him and got both of his hands in yours and kissed them both.

“I’m glad you’re both ok.” you said sweetly looking at Bucky. He smiled and kissed your forehead. “But I swear next time if this happens again I’m making you sleep outside.” you warned your husband.

“What? I saved our son’s life!” he said to you smiling.

“Honey, didn’t I tell you to BEE careful?” you said with a smile and you pushed away from his walking over to the couch with your son.

“Shut up.” Bucky replied and looked over to the two who were asleep on the cough. He sighed and walked over to them kissing their foreheads and put a blanket over the two.

You woke up on the couch and noticed Lucas wasn’t with you. You got up and noticed him and Bucky were at the table setting breakfast. Bucky looked over at you and said “Lucas, mommy’s awake.” The boy ran to you and gave you a kiss and dragged you to the table. You all sat down and started eating the pancakes Bucky made.

“WAIT! Daddy and I got this for you.” Lucas yelled and ran over to his backpack and got the card they got from the diner. He handed it to you and you looked at it.

“Isn’t this ironic.” you said sarcastically looking at Bucky who was smiling.

“He’s the one that got it.” he replied with a smirk. 

Lucas looked at you both with the biggest smile ever.

A/N: That’s it! I hoped you guys liked this fluffy (hopefully) drabble! I usually suck at writing fluff but, I actually enjoyed writing this lol and I’m hoping this inspired me to write again. Life has been crazy, so I haven’t been writing as much, but I’m back! If you have any requests let me know because that will actually help me to get out of my writers block. But yeah, Like always let me know if you wanna be tagged and feedback is very much appreciated. 

[winsister91]

Breaking A Promise

Part Seven - Your Best Shot

Summary: Not the reunion Y/N had in mind

Characters: Dean x reader, Demon!Dean, Crowley, Sam

Warnings: Language, canon-typical violence, slight dubcon, angst, themes of addiction

Word Count: 1912

A/N: My poor babies! Why am I doing this to myself? Quick thanks to you for the amazing support and notes on this series! It’s encouraged me to keep going as I was so close to abandoning this series at one point! I love you all! @sofreddie gets super special thanks for being wonderful and my rock <3

Series Masterlist Full Masterlist

~ Series and forever tags are open! ~

(italics are flashbacks)

“Hey there Sweetheart!” Dean cheered upon entering the bunker.

You leapt up from your seat, turning with wide eyes as Dean winked at you from up on the balcony.

“Been looking for me?” he smiled.

“Son of a bitch! Get your ass down here Winchester!” you demanded with threatening narrowed eyes.

He jauntily sauntered down to you, that cocky smile never leaving his face. No sooner had his feet left the bottom step you were on him. A full blown tackle hug. You scrunched his jacket in your hands and held on tight. A wash of relief waved through you as you inhaled his familiar scent of leather and gun smoke.

“Miss me?” he teased, his arms around your waist gripping you just as tight.

“Why!” you thumped his chest in time with your words, “Didn’t! You! Call!?”

“Sorry,” he said sheepishly, he was aware he had been away for hours with no word, “My phone got bust up. Damn touch screen won’t work.” He brought out his phone and showed it to you. Sure enough, the screen was smashed to hell and didn’t respond to any friction. I looked like a stronger impact than a simple drop. More like something had collided with it, hit it.

“How did that happen?” you questioned, taking a closer look at the device in his palm. You noticed Dean’s hand was cut up, bruised and bloody around the knuckles, “What the hell Dean? What happened?”

“It’s nothing,” he shrugged dismissively, slipping the bloodied hand into his jacket pocket, “Don’t worry about it.”

“You went looking for Metatron again didn’t you?” you shoved him back, “Alone? Dean, you gotta let me and Sammy help you with this.”

“It’s fine, I got this,” he argued, trying to come off reassuring, “I’ll always come back to you.”

“I don’t doubt that…” you sighed, brushing your hand down his cheek, “Doesn’t stop me worrying though.”

“Come here,” Dean commanded, pulling you back into his arms, “You don’t ever have to worry about me. Like I said, I’ll always come back you. That’s a promise, hell, a guarantee!”

“Fine,” you narrowed your eyes but couldn’t hold back your smile, “I’m holding you to that.”

Dean winked, his smile returning before he leaned down to kiss you.

°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。

“Hey there Sweetheart,” Dean chuckled, his green eyes flitting to black, “Been looking for me?”

“N-no,” you stutter, the black eyes filling you with a new level of panic you’d never felt before, “Get out of him you son of a bitch!!”

“I’m afraid it’s all me baby,” he raised his arms up in a victorious display, “Got myself an upgrade!”

“What?” you gasp, mortified, “H-how?” “The mark can do wonderful things,” came a new voice. Crowley’s. He stepped out of the shadows and leered down at you.

“Should’ve known,” you chuckle and shake your head, “When the shit’s going down, expect your dumb fucking face to be in the picture somewhere.”

“That’s rich,” The King of Hell scoffs, “If it wasn’t for my intervention, your precious Dean here would be stone cold dead.”

“I’d take that over him being one of you sick sons of bitches!” you spit.

“See,” Dean intervenes, folding his arms and pointing a finger at you, “That’s what’s interesting here. From what I understand, I’m not the only one in this room that’s gone darkside in recent months.”

Crowley throws something in front of you. Your backpack, full of Harper’s vials.

“Shit…” you mumble, “D-Dean just listen to me. I can explain.”

“No need,” he sneers, crouching down in front of you so he can look at you face to face, “I had a pretty crazy ass dream that told me all I needed to know, it reeked of you and your fucking disgusting junkie habit.”

“Y-you saw my dream?”

“And then! My good pal Crowley here picks up on an old demon blood tracking spell that broke through his seals. That’s some powerful shit Y/N.”

“I did it for you Dean,” you clench your eyes tight, holding back the tears threatening to seep through, “I needed to find you.”

“You couldn’t just let shit be!” Dean barks in your face, “Just like that damned son of a bitch brother of mine! You think I don’t know he’s been driving around, sticking his nose in where it isn’t wanted? You both make me sick.”

His words cut into you like a hot knife directly into your heart. This can’t be real. This isn’t Dean. Not my Dean...

“I told you a long time ago Dean,” you hiss, anger bubbling in your guts, “You really don’t wanna mess with me.”

“Cute,” he laughs, opening his arms out again, “Give it your best shot.”

You grimace as you try with all your might to will your binds to break, but nothing was happening. You were too weak, every ounce of energy in you drained.

“Of course,” Dean sings with a patronising back note, “You lost a lot of blood in that crash back there. I thought it was pretty lame set up to be honest.”

“Fuck you,” you growl, your eyes flashing purple but quickly fizzling away like a bulb going out.

“Naaw, you outta juice?” Dean coos, patting you on the head like a sick dog.

You struggle, pulling again at the ropes holding down. A primal red hot rage taking over your senses. You wanted to kill him. This wasn’t Dean, you couldn’t tolerate this vile version of him to be wandering around and tarnishing all the good he had done for the world. Your stomach churned just looking at that cocky smile now. The smile you once adored, the smile that used to make your heart flutter.

“Crowley,” Dean turns to his apparent new best friend, “Would you do me the honours?”

Crowley smiles, stepping towards your backpack. You scowl at him, trying with all your might to just make the bastard crumble to dust before you. Hopeless of course. You needed more blood. Just a drop to give you that rush of power. Make you strong again. The King of Hell makes sure to flash a toothy condescending smile at you, before clicking his fingers, and your bag of hope bursting into a plume of flames.

“No!!” you scream desperately, the ropes holding you tight in place and preventing you from lashing out.

“Just a sad little junkie,” Dean shakes his head, stepping back towards you and clutching at your chin tightly, “It’s quite sad really, maybe I should have given you a fair chance to fight back… or I could just kill you have done with it.”

“Then just fucking do it,” you whisper, spitting in his face.

“You were always feisty,” he smiles, wiping your saliva off his cheek, “One more taste of those fine lips...for old times sake.”

He forces his lips onto yours. Every fibre of your being resisting and more rage clouding your brain. He still had that old faithful taste of whiskey about him, it almost felt nostalgic. While he forced his tongue into your mouth, something struck you. A sense. You could practically hear the blood pumping through his veins. Raw demon blood wasn’t as strong, but it could be just enough.

“Fucking son of a bitch!!” Dean bellows as you bite hard into his lip, the irony taste of his blood soaking into your palate.

He shoves you back, the chair falling backwards and crashing you into the ground. You gasp, unable to feel any sense of pain from the fall. Your pupils dilate as you swallow the blood and it slips down your throat. This was different. Harper’s blood potion always felt hot. The first taste comparable to molten lava, mellowing down to comfortable inviting warmth after numerous sips. This was the opposite. Like drinking dry ice. It shot a sharp pain straight to your temple like chronic brain freeze. You wanted to get it out and it wanted out. Your limbs involuntarily quivering as power courses through you.

Is this the mark?

The world around you was in slow motion. Looking up, you could see a snarling Dean marching towards you, the First Blade gripped tightly in his fist. His eyes black as the night’s sky as he honed in to end you. You weren’t letting that happen. A simple thought and the ropes tying you down fizzled to nothing. A force lifted you up gracefully as you hovered a couple of inches off the ground.

“I did warn you,” you chirp, your voice carrying an almost ungodly echo as Dean momentarily stopped and hesitated in his tracks.

“Well,” Crowley raises his brow as he watches the scene unfold, “I’m out.”

You titter to yourself as the King of Hell snaps his fingers and vanishes. Then you turn back to Dean.

“Some friend you got there,” you joke, making him snarl like a rabid animal, “C’mon Dean, give it your best shot.”

The corner of Dean’s lips twitch slightly, like he enjoyed the challenge. He raises his hand and throws the first blade at you, aiming for your torso. You laugh at the pitiful attempt, casually waving your hand up and the blade stopping an inch or so in front of it. With a swish of your wrist you send the blade flying back towards him. It slices into his shoulder, the momentum carrying him back and he collides into the wall behind. Before he could react, you were there, hand clasped tightly around his throat while you laugh.

“Thought you said you had an upgrade?” you taunt, “Pretty pathetic if you ask me.”

Dean chuckles, almost childishly. You narrow your eyes, his reaction igniting more rage within you. He doesn’t say a word, rapidly grabbing the blade lodged in his shoulder and ramming it into your side. You wail in pain, letting him go and dropping to the floor as you watch your own blood spill to the ground.

“You’ll have to try harder than that Sweetheart,” he said joyfully.

“Dean!” came a new voice, “Stop this.”

Your sight becomes foggy as you look in the direction of the voice. Sam. He has a gun pointed at his brother and the demon blade in his other free hand.

“Both of you,” the younger Winchester continues, “stop this.”

“Get out of here Sammy boy,” Dean warns, “Or I’m killing one extra person today.”

“No Dean,” Sam stands his ground stubbornly, “Come back with me, I can help you. You too Y/N. You did what you set out to do, you found him, we can end all this now.”

“Sam…” you gasped, rolling onto your back as the pain intensified. You could feel something rumbling within you. More power. Too much power. The wound from the First Blade had set off some kind of reaction, and you were terrified of it.

“Dean...” you whined breathlessly, “Get out... please.”

The brothers narrowed their eyes at you in bewilderment, neither of them so much as taking a step.

“LEAVE!!” you scream. Your voice was shrill and sharp like the scream of a banshee. Your eyes burst with purple light as you feel control escaping you, “NOW!!”

You have no idea if they comply. A piercing ring filled your mind, and all you could see was that purple light. You couldn’t hear yourself screaming from the imaginable pain that overwhelms you. Then suddenly there was relief. Release. All the pressure of the pain and power exploding out. Then darkness.

Tags! Forever Posse: @sofreddie @chelsea072498 @ria132love @untitled39887 @chicagolove88 @akshi8278 @sis-tafics @younoeatcheeseyounobefat @mandilion76 @teamfreewill92 @supernaturalmagicfolk @emoryhemsworth @musicistobeheard-blog @pheonyxstorm @mrswhozeewhatsis @turnttover @itspronouncedsatanbitch @the--real-wombat @xagateophobiax @samisimportant @jensen-gal @castiel11235 @waiting-to-find-myshadows

Breaking A Promise Squad: @arikas5744 @lessons-of-red @spnaddict11283 @lemonchapstick

Crossed out means Tumblr won’t let me tag you :(

[kaorei-endgame]

Game of the Year 2017 #2: Divinity Original Sin 2

The first Original Sin had one of those video game “issues” that’s only really an issue if you let it be. About six hours in, you’d figured out there were about a thousand ways to crowd controlling your enemies: stuns, knockdowns, charms, fears. With the availability, and reliability, of these attacks, battles often broke down to your mages/archers CCing everything on the battlefield while your warrior dismantled them one by one. This felt exceptionally mean--sadism in video game form--and somewhat abusive of the game mechanics, but combat was so often weighed so directly against you that “cheating” by charming half an enemy squad and letting them rough each other up, or depleting half a gigantic orc boss’s health before combat even starts by teleporting a poison barrel directly onto his face, was really more about evening the odds. Original Sin is one of those games, like Final Fantasy Tactics, maybe, where there’s a billion ways to break it. Unlike Final Fantasy Tactics, you don’t feel bad about it because, from behind a still-growing pile of saves and reloads, you know the game is happy to return your cheesy, scummy tactics in kind.

This is a co-op RPG I’ve been playing with Graz for 120+ hours, according to steam, and we still haven’t finished. It is, among Dark Souls, and Keep Talking and Nobody Explodes (Fast Karate GOTY, 2015), and Resident Evil 5, one of the best co-op experiences of my life.

You can play a skeleton, who has to walk around in disguise to stop everyone from murdering them, and has no need for lock picks because they can simply use, and I quote, their “bony fingers.” The elves are not only cannibals, but they’re cannibals that absorb the memories of their meals, which is sometimes used to learn new skills and sometimes used to solve murder mysteries. Maybe forty hours into the game, I realized this “being forced to experience a living creature’s final moments every time you eat meat” was probably created as an explanation of generic fantasy elves’ earth-mother veganism.

Near the beginning of the game a black cat starts following you around. If you have the Pet Pal talent you can talk to him and he just seems like... drunk? He doesn’t really have anything to say, but he doesn’t go away. If you walk through poison he’ll follow you and get poisoned too and he only has like 50 health so you’re always frantically trying to heal him because the friendly cat who does nothing except meow at me can never die. If you keep him alive throughout the whole opening zone, which also involves keeping him away from fires and superstitious guards who will shoot him on sight, his head clears and he joins your party as a summon.

Also the whole time he’s following you around, there’s this dog who won’t talk to you since he hates cats. But the cat follows you in real time, so if you go to a distant part of the zone and then teleport back to the central hub, the cat is briefly separated from you while it paths around the map to your location, and you can get the dog’s quest to find his missing girlfriend.

There is borderline erotica at one point where, if it’s not explicitly described, the game at least puts the mind worm of “lizard man cunnilingus” in your head. And like... well...............

Also there’s another dog later who’s like an evil pet of an eviler grave robber and he refers to himself as Artax: Death Incarnate or something and after you kill him you can use your recently acquired Spirit Vision power to talk to/throw shade at his ghost, being like “...death incarnate, eh...? :) :) :) :) :)” But it’s kind of wasted because even as a ghost (dog (way of the samurai)) he still thinks he’s pretty hot shit.

There are premade characters who have different dialogue tags, most of which seem to amount to jack shit, like almost any RPG with dialogue trees, but the one I picked, Lohse, is some sort of psychic medium who spirits would just hang out in, which was fun until a really bad demon got into her. Sometimes the really bad demon makes her do things that are completely out of her control, like try to murder an elf who’s trying to help you exorcise him, and isn’t it your favorite thing when games present you with a bunch of false dialogue options?

You start Divinity 2 a political prisoner. Unlike Skyrim, where you’re bound for the chopping block and then five minutes later someone’s telling you you’re a god, Divinity sits you on its prison island for something to the tune of 30 hours (then it tells you, more or less, that you’re a god). Because you have a collar on that restricts your scary magic powers, your overconfident jailers basically let you have the run of the place. You are hemmed in just enough to feel your yoke, and much of the early doings is learning where you may and may not go, and which places, just outside of your captor’s line of sight, are okay to seek out dirty business (i.e.: steal a few valuable paintings from). 

So you poke at all the nooks and crannies of this just-right sized zone, retrieving gloves of teleportation from the stomachs of hungry lizards, helping that dog find his girlfriend, and making painstaking progress on your escape. This is a tight, interesting area, far better than any of those in the first Original Sin, where there’s not even all that much combat. You bum around with a bunch of prisoners, some of whom certain party members have vendettas against/want to murder, but most of whom are like... chill old ladies that sell you water spells and will give you a free scroll if you give them a shoulder to cry on. Eventually, you kill the mob boss (but don’t let me see you laying a finger on Butter). If you’re a really good person, you kill all the magisters--who are basically the cops of the magic world--on the way out the door.

Boy oh boy, the jump in writing/world texture/everything from the last game. The move from “aggressively generic fairy tale stuff” to “moderately generic CRPG world” doesn’t put the writing in Witcher territory or nothing, but it’s much easier to appreciate the quirks of the setting, which holds strange sidequests where you help a bunch of thousand-year-old wizards who have been cursed to for all eternity to be both 1) pigs 2) pigs who are on fire, when you aren’t dealing voice acting that seems to be literally on purpose trying to kill you.

I’m of two minds about the changes to combat. Now characters have magical/physical “armor” that acts as a Halo-style rechargeable shield, protecting character’s vitality and also making them immune to status effects. Since most enemies have as much armor as they do health, that means they’re half dead by the time they’re vulnerable to being sleeped/charmed/whatever, and so crowd control has substantially depleted in value. Which mutes some of the “controlled chaos” feel of the first game--kind of a let down--but does tacitly nudge you into trying out the rest of the game’s broad spreadsheet of abilities, such as a teleport jump for fighters that sprays fire all over the landing zone, or a summoner’s ability to conjure an Inner Demon which both terrifies her opponents AND punches enemies that come into melee range with gigantic purple mind fists (essentially, we have been given Star Platinums of our very own).

And the uncontrolled chaos, where you laugh at the idiot NPC wasting its turn casting Rain until the next NPC sprays the area with lightning bolts and stuns half your crew, where you forget that the whole room is one big oil surface before you do your flaming teleport jump and now everyone in the room is on fire, or a giant Dune worm erupts out of the ground right in the middle of your boss fight and your enemies start attacking it instead and you’re like “.....so are we friends now?” and it’s like haha, nope, they still fuckin’ hate your guts and this battle just got even stupider and twice as long, so I hope you brought healing potions.

If anything, these changes have the unique effect of making me seriously consider playing this 100+ hour monster game that requires 100% of your attention and thought processes at all time (okay so sometimes I checked in on Fire Emblem on my phone during Graz’s turns, but that’s a given) sometime before the next decade. I suspect higher difficulties return a lot of weight to crowd control abilities.

Even though I know Baldur’s Gate has co-op, I didn’t think they could make a game like this. A gigantic, fully featured co-op CRPG where the other player doesn’t have to tolerate being a henchman at best. Where you can both run around talking to whomever you want and progressing quests however you feel like, and then come back together twenty minutes later to compare notes. Where you spend 3+ hours over two days on a single battle, reviewing plays and planning out turns like a pair of football coaches, micro-managing which of you is going to “waste” their turns conscientiously teleporting a friendly, but foolhardy, NPC out of harm’s way (or turning him into a chicken) so he’ll stop trying to impale himself on the NECRO-TENTACLE FIRE that you discovered, in this very battle, spurts out of every oily blob from the void beyond space after their death. And what’s that, four turns in the fire blobs start spawning?

Moreover, though every part of Divinity seems stupid, ramshackle, and tied together with twine, it’s often one step ahead of you. Regular attacks are governed only by cooldowns, but the most powerful spells are restricted by an MP-stand-in called “source” (still, charmingly, pronounced close enough to “sauce”). A difficult resource to replenish, we rarely used source abilities early in the game. But a couple hours after it came to a head, and I started saying “you know, I’m getting a little sick of teleporting back to the giant Source juice box in the hidden basement of this lady’s house every time I want to use Black Shroud,” and was decrying how if they replenished your Source after every fight, making it a per-battle resource, the game would be much more interesting they... give you an ability that functionally does that, and combat becomes much more interesting, on the exact right timeline for me to understand what I’ve gained with this power, having been frustrated for so long by its absence.

I gave up on trying to describe this game concisely. I’m not sure there’s a way to do so, when its whole ethos is jury-rigging systems onto systems and throwing weird events at you constantly and the whole thing chugs along like it was meant to be--damn, it never even crashed until I tried to install a mod. At the strange intersection between narrative and mechanics this game presents, if you think about it, you can almost always do it. You can skip an entire hedge maze by teleporting through its portcullises. If it’d take too long to loot a chest in plain sight of its owner, you can use your Polymorph abilities to turn invisible, pick it up, and send it to the inventory of your lockpicker, waiting outside. You can go upstairs at a bordello. When you wake up, predictably, you’re naked and being robbed. Only, oops, the robbers didn’t reckon your friends would have a magical teleportation pyramid locked onto your signal. 

In the same town, this maid crying about losing her owner’s purse robs you, and if you’re sympathetic about it and give her a hug when she asks, she picks your pocket, and the only way you’d know about it is if you check your gold total after the conversation because, let’s be real, she was acting super sketch. I mean damn, the game somehow makes scrolls, the categorical worst item class in all western RPGs, worthwhile. Who wants a one-use item when you can just learn the spell forever? Until the first time you come to truly understand that a short 3-turn cooldown in “Divinity Time” could be the better part of an hour, and therefore a hundred and twenty seven gold for an Armor of Frost scroll is a small price to pay for peace of mind when The Red Prince needs an extra dose of magical armor like right now. 

And for all the ways you can bring ruin upon your enemies, all the stupid tricks and techniques that really shouldn’t work but somehow always do, the thing that actually breaks the game? The item that made us look at each other and go “we should probably never use this item again if we want to keep having fun.”

Green Tea.

Conservatively, 200+ hours of my life has gone to these games, and when this one is over, I’ll still feel like it wasn’t enough.

[allthevmff]

No Love like Your Love

by TheLastGoodGoldfish

Come back to me.

Veronica wakes with the words running through her head. Part of a dream, most likely, if she was sleeping deeply enough to dream. Something about Logan. It’s entirely possible; she checks the clock on the wall and sees that an hour has passed since she drifted off for an impromptu afternoon nap atop (a still out-cold) Logan.

Come back to me—her drowsy mind repeats, turns it over once, twice, then dismisses it as nothing. Logan’s right there, couldn’t possibly be any more back with her, except that he’s asleep.

Veronica stretches her neck to work out the kinks. Logan Echolls is, by and large, a first class mattress, but he’s a little bulky. Most importantly though, he’s a gracious mattress: he barely bitched about it at all, when she abandoned the other couch to curl up on top of him like a cat in a patch of sunlight, interrupting his reading before promptly passing out. Dubliners sits spine up on the living room floor beside them, and Logan’s breathing is deep and rhythmic beneath her.

They’re on vacation sort of. One of Logan’s friends from high school owns this place—a beautiful lake house at South Tahoe—but it’s understood that Logan can use the house whenever he likes. Veronica’s been up here half a dozen times in the three years since they got together. This weekend’s the first time this season, though: it’s January now, and snow’s been light, but there’s a nice dusting of powder, and Veronica has but to turn her head to watch the delicate white flakes drift down onto the deck. If she got up and crossed the room, she could see the icy water and a shoreline of frosted evergreens, almost too picturesque to process. She’ll say this for Dick Casablancas: he can pick a house.

Snow is still something of a novelty to Veronica.

She grew up in deserts: Tucson, Tulsa, Phoenix, Vegas... There was a summer in Ann Arbor and a few months in Minneapolis, but her mother (and her mother’s slew of unimpressive boyfriends) seemed to gravitate to the heat. Then college in sunny Neptune, grad school at Stanford, and a career that kept her moving in some of the world’s hottest climates, excepting that year in New York and the winter spent covering demonstrations in Moscow.

It’s the third in a five day excursion, just her and Logan in this vast, well-appointed house. There’s a fully stocked kitchen, TV, fireplace, and plenty of room for the dogs to wander. So far, it’s been two and a half days of bliss: they work and fuck and cook good food; take the dogs out and watch movies in the evenings. Logan will want to snowboard tomorrow.

Maybe their workaholic inclinations make it impossible for either of them to “disconnect” entirely, but slogging through a scientific journal on the newest super-virus for background is a lot more tolerable when there’s a view of the lake and a half-dressed ex-Naval aviator making lasagna within reaching distance.

Veronica shifts again. Pokes her chin into Logan’s chest, fidgets with the collar on his thick wool sweater, and waits to see if he’ll stir. He doesn’t.

Last winter when they were here, he asked her to marry him.

No, okay, not exactly that.

He asked her if she wanted to get married. He didn’t have a ring or get down on one knee or anything. He just asked her if she wanted that, like he might ask her if she wanted tacos for dinner.

Except no, he’d been more serious and earnest than that, asking. In the bedroom they always use here, after a really outstanding round of morning sex, with snowflakes on the window and coffee brewing in the next room.

“Would you want to get married?” Quiet and sweet, like he can be with her. His voice gets low, tender; it makes her ache. A husband, a dozen boyfriends, a roster of romances and flings who promised her the moon—no one’s ever loved her like Logan.

She was genuinely surprised, when he asked. “You want to get married?”

“I don’t know,” with a shrug of his bare shoulders. “Yes?”

“Why?”

He’d laughed; didn’t even take offense, which was almost enough to make her change her mind on the spot.

But they’d both been married before: marriages that ended as ignominious flops. Worse in her case—she understands that Logan and Lindsay parted on reasonably amicable terms—but all the same. She couldn’t picture going through all that again. She already did the big fairytale Church wedding with the puffy white dress and the tiara-veil (Jack’s family was very traditional). She’d felt silly dressing up like a virginal princess at the age of thirty-two; she’d feel downright comical doing it a decade later. Calling up her gal-pals and asking them to pause hectic careers and family schedules to wear generic teal dresses and be bridesmaids? Her seventy-year-old father having to walk her down the aisle again?

“I’m not saying we rent out the MacArthur and televise it, Mars,” Logan said, like he could read her mind, “But putting it on paper could make some things easier.”

“Well when you put it that way.” She traced a finger down his chest, trying to conceive of something tactful to say. She gave that up pretty quickly, though: “I don’t want to get married again, Logan.” She hadn’t been able to look at him when she said it, but she felt him go still beside her. Only for a moment, and then he resumed the slow, steady circles his thumb drew on the small of her back.

“Okay.”

And when she shifted to look up at him, he was relaxed and sincere. Okay. He pulled a face at her and it made her ache again, but happy.

“Still love me?” she’d teased.

He kissed the tip of her nose. Shrugged, beleaguered: “I guess,” and laughed when she bit him.

  She extricates herself from the couch and the slumbering Logan. Veronica has no recollection of pulling the soft plush throw-blanket over them—that must’ve been his handiwork. She arranges it back around him, then yawns, stretches, and wanders down to the basement level first floor to check on the dogs. Maggie and Goat are resting peaceably in their beds in the den, enjoying a vacation of their own. When the snow stops, Veronica will take them out.

The house is still, silent, as she heads back up to the kitchen. Puts on coffee and collects her tablet to work at the table.

She skims e-mails but is mostly unproductive. She holds a mug of hot coffee between her hands, habitually clinking her ring against the china as her attention drifts across the room to the giant window and the falling snow outside.

  Never again, she vowed the day she finally signed the divorce papers. Like swearing off alcohol during a hangover: never a-goddamn-gain. 

No more chasing picket fence fantasies. Normalcy, stability? Overrated, and mostly fake anyway.

She’d held pretty true to the promise, too. Took a nice freelance contributor gig in Spain and had two fleeting but lovely romances there. Then there was a year in London when she thought she might try photography-sans-journalism (till the boredom nearly killed her) and then back at the Los Angeles desk to be closer to her dad in Neptune. During that period, there’d been Jackson, Dan, and Mike in succession—each relationship ending when they started expecting serious progression. Mike got so far as to ask her to move in, and she had almost considered it. He would have made a good partner, but there was something painfully familiar about the relationship: nice at the beginning, comfortable. They had compatibility, a solid repartee. And yet after months and months, Veronica had never been able to engage with him on any level other than surface. They could banter, sure, but Mike never seemed to realize that was all they could do.

So they split and, a few months later, Logan happened. Just waltzed on into her life like he belonged there.

On their fourth date, she told him about the week she spent alone in a motel room in Vegas while her mom went on a bender. A month after that, he was tagging along for a four-day work trip to Paris. It hadn’t felt fast or serious. It just was. Abruptly, there was someone they each wanted to do everything with, and that was it.

  “I got married on the rebound,” Logan had told her, very early. It was always easy for him to talk about Lindsay. “Surprisingly? Not the best idea.”

“Yeah, I’m shocked that didn’t work out for you.” They were on a date, Dim Sum on North Broadway. Logan gestured a lot with the chopsticks.

“My ex and I had just had this long, exhausting break up. We had a lot of problems—both of us... there were substance abuse issues, and—we both worked too much...” (Carrie was unfaithful and a drug addict, but real conversations about Carrie—and Lilly—wouldn’t come till much later) “...so when I met Lindsay, she was the exact opposite. She taught yoga and fell asleep after half a glass of Chardonnay. I figured since there weren’t any of the problems I’d had with my ex, we’d be perfect. So we kind of rushed into everything.”

“Didn’t work, huh.”

“We had nothing in common.”

“I mean—half a glass of Chardonnay? You probably should’ve seen that coming.”

“Lasted less than three years, and I was deployed for about a third of that.”

  Tap, tap, tap goes the ring on the coffee mug. It’s almost four, and the snow has stopped. She’ll let Logan rest a little longer before she starts pestering him. They haven’t decided on dinner yet.

  There was no puffy white dress, no tulle, tiara, roses, or DJ, when she went ahead and married Logan. As predicted, it was mostly a matter of paperwork, but they did it at the Neptune courthouse, and her dad was there.

Logan never tried to talk her into it or anything. He didn’t even raise the marriage subject again. In fact when, last summer, Veronica had decisively stated, “Logan, I think we should get married,” he’d just rolled his eyes and carried on with his business, brushing his teeth. “What? I do.”

He spit into the sink and asked, “Is this about that stupid article?”

“No,” she said, defensive. She folded her arms and leaned against their bathroom doorframe, pleased with neither Logan’s accusation nor the overall lack of enthusiasm in his response. She had never proposed to anyone before and had expected to be taken a little more seriously.

Logan threw her a skeptical look, then resumed brushing.

“It’s not about the stupid article,” she insisted. “I don’t care about the stupid article.”

“So that wasn’t a heated e-mail I saw you writing to Bob Severino earlier?”

Robert Severino of Vanity Fair had written a profile on Veronica. It wasn’t anything groundbreaking, primarily focusing on her work following a recent senatorial campaign, except at one point, for no discernable reason, Severino included the line: “Mars, who was married to former CNN anchor Jack Roan between 2019 and 2023...”

“I don’t care about the stupid article,” she said again, and it was true. Kind of. She cared in the sense that it was an idiotic line—sexist, too, what did her ex have to do with the photos she took on Senator Gracio’s campaign?—but she didn’t truly care that they brought up her marriage. Her initial reaction had even been amusement: they might just as well have mentioned that Derek Keener took her to senior prom.

But then after a few days, the phrase started to grate on her. Jack’s name didn’t belong there. It was only there because of some piece of paper that said they’d been married, and the paper wasn’t even valid anymore. Frankly, Veronica was of the opinion that there didn’t need to be any other name included in an analysis of her damn career, but as long as there was going to be one...

Then the more she’d thought about it, the more she’d started to realize that there were all kinds of ways her and Logan weren’t linked. If he were to die tomorrow, would she even get a mention in the obit? And yes that sounded crazy and self-absorbed, but—what would they call her? Girlfriend? Partner? Dog co-parent? Their names were both on the lease, so they were at least legally bound roommates.

Logan finished brushing his teeth, rinsed, and dropped the toothbrush into the cup with a flick of his fingers. Then he grabbed the floss, all the while watching Veronica’s reflection in the bathroom mirror as he waited for elaboration.

Veronica wished she could elaborate. She wanted to explain that she didn’t care about a piece of paper—a piece of paper wouldn’t dictate how she felt or what she wanted—but other people cared, and that made it difficult to ignore.

“Mars?” he asked, after another long moment of silence. When she still hadn’t found the words, he tossed the dental floss container up in the air, caught it, and walked over to her. “It’s okay, y’know.”

“I know,” she said, annoyed with herself more than anything. “I just...” just what? Just wished that she could articulate the fact that in her entire life, four decades on this planet, she’d never been the first person to say I love you in a relationship before, and even though she maintained that he’d coerced it out of her by cooking Greek food shirtless, it still felt like a big deal for her. But the outside world refused to believe that it was a big deal until she put it in writing. “It’s just—hard to explain.”

“Yeah.” He reached her, brushed stray hairs back behind her ears. “It’s not like I’m going anywhere, Veronica. You’re it.” Fuck. Her chest felt strung tight. How was he so much better at this? “So if you figure out how to explain it, let me know.”

Veronica leaned in, pressed her forehead against his collarbone. “Sounds good.” She inhaled deeply, breathed him in, and when she trusted her voice, said, “I can’t believe you rolled your eyes at my proposal.”

“You proposed while I was brushing my teeth.”

“I thought you hopeless romantics appreciated spontaneity.”

“You must have me mixed up with someone else.”

  Anyway, they went to the courthouse about a month after that.

   Veronica is finishing her coffee when she hears Logan coming awake in the next room: his groaning and mumbling, then the creaking of the couch as he rouses himself. He ambles into the kitchen, wincing and stretching.

“I fucked up my back on that couch,” he gripes over a yawn, as he makes his way over to the counter.

“Did you check the cushions for peas, Your Highness?”

He throws her a look and starts rummaging through the cabinets. “Want some?”

“Hmm?”

“Coffee?”

“Oh. No, I just had a cup.”

Out of the side of her eye, she watches him fix his drink. He’s wearing grey sweat pants and a dark-red Henley t-shirt under his woolly green cable-knit. Vacation Logan, Veronica thinks and it makes her smile.

She wonders sometimes, what it would have been like if they’d been together when he was still in the Navy, still facing regular deployments. He consults now, works remotely as often as not, so there’s a certain freedom to their schedules. She wonders how she would’ve coped with months and months of absences, Skype as their only link, the steady dread of imminent danger.

She wonders what would’ve happened if she got to know him ten years ago, when she was married to Jack. Especially towards the end, when things were visibly falling apart—

It’s a grim and depressing speculative route, so she detours away.

Imagines instead meeting him when they were in their twenties. Imagines meeting Logan when he was an impulsive hotshot pilot, and she was a reckless aspiring photojournalist, eager to prove herself. She’s seen pictures, and—though an older and wiser Veronica appreciates the soft lines just beginning to appear on him, the warmth and calm in the version of Logan that grins up at her from her tablet lock-screen—she understands herself well enough to know that the twenty-five-year-old Veronica would have been all over the prior model. They would have driven each other crazy, undoubtedly, but would they have managed to stick with it? If they’d come together earlier, would they have tried their hands at the picket-fence fantasies too? Maybe some Logan-and-Veronica fucked up version of it, anyway—

Or, she wonders, if they’d met as teenagers... if her dad and mom hadn’t split up when Veronica was little, and she’d grown up in Neptune, like Logan did. Completely possible. Would he have liked the smart-mouthed middle school version of her? Would she have fallen for the round-cheeked, tanned and highlighted pretty boy she remembers seeing on magazine covers since childhood?

She imagines the years and years of each other that they never knew. But then again, she likes to tell him stories, and she likes to hear his. Maybe it all worked out as intended in the end.

  Logan has his coffee now and he sits down at the kitchen table, kitty-corner from her. “I don’t feel like dishes,” he says, “Let’s go out to dinner.”

“Okay.”

“The pizza place or the nice place?”

“Mmm,” she considers it. “Pizza.”

“Okay.”

He turns and looks out the window at the winter wonderland view provided to them. Veronica thinks snow is still a bit of a novelty for Logan, too.

“How’s your back?” she asks, and he smiles softly.

“Sore. You fucked it up.”

He smirks at her, and Veronica tries to muster up a little remorse. “Sorry. You made a comfortable mattress.”

“Mmm.”

She tilts her head in a way she knows he finds frustratingly irresistible. “Still love me?”

He rolls his eyes. “Always.”

via AO3 works tagged 'Veronica Mars (Movie 2014)' https://ift.tt/2EKIWsk March 20, 2019 at 11:36PM

[spnsisimagines]

Your Puppy

Warnings: Death, feels, minor language Characters: Sam & Dean Winchester, Sister!Winchester Reader Summary: You grow up with a dog but it all comes crashing to an end (terrible summary because I don’t wanna spoil anythin) Readers Age: Any Word Count: 2185 (heh whoops)

Y/N/N: Your Nickname

A/N: AYE. I wrote this awhile back and bam here it is now. I wanted to write something with feels so this was born. And I just decided to specify the dog (as in the name, breed, gender) because it would just get annoying if I kept doing “Y/D/N, he/she” and it’d just take you out of the moment. I also always wanted this type of dog and name it that name soooo yeah. Long note but oh whale. Enjoy!

Growing up a hunter was never easy. Ever since you were little and found out about what goes bump in the night, you were constantly terrified something would get you. Sleeping with your dad and brothers always made you feel safe, but when they were out on a hunt, you had no one. Every time, you’d cry yourself to sleep in fear of a monster coming to get you. When your family would return from a hunt, they’d find you under the covers, bawling your eyes out.

When it was your brothers who had actually found you first, they decided to do something about it.

One day, when you were alone, your family came home early. You were able to fall asleep and didn’t hear them come in. The floorboards squeaked, making you conscious and you heard someone hiss something that sounded like “Idiot!”

You rolled over and saw your family standing around your bed, but Dean was holding a very special surprise. A small, adorable, Rottweiler puppy. Dean set the puppy down on the bed and you jumped up to pet it.

“A puppy!” you squealed, rubbing its belly when it rolled over to you.

“Yeah, Y/N/N. Not just any puppy though, your puppy.” Sam sat next to you and smiled when he saw your eyes light up at the very thought of having your own doggy.

“Jus’ for me?” you asked, peering up at your family.

Your dad nodded, “Yep. He’s gonna protect you when we’re not here. But you gotta take care of him, and train him.” Obviously, your brothers would help until you’re old enough to do it yourself.

“Reawy?” you replied, still not believing it. “But… I tought you says no dogs in da car?” Your happiness quickly vanished as you thought of not being able to take your puppy with you.

“Well,” John looked at your brothers, “I guess that rule will have to change.” Your smile came back as you leaped into Sam’s arms, then into Dean’s, and then your dad’s.

“Tank you!” You said in an adorable, high pitched voice.

“Anything for you baby girl,” John replied.

Ever since that day you’ve been training your dog, whom you named Chop, to protect you, and on occasion, to protect your brothers. When Sam left, Chop was there, when your dad died, Chop was there. Through thick and thin, Chop was always there for you. He grew up to be a protective, kind, and smart dog. He was bonded to you, and nothing could ever break that bond.

You taught him about monsters. Though it seems impossible, you trained Chop to be able to smell when a monster’s nearby.

You were laying on your bed as you typed away on your laptop. Chop laid, snuggled up in your feet, fast asleep. You smiled as the familiar sounds of him snoring reached your ears.

You heard a small knock and no matter how deep in sleep Chop was, he would always wake up. You said a quick “Come in!” and watched the door open.

“Hey Dean,” you greeted.

“Hey,” Dean walked over and patted Chop on the head. “We got a case, you in?”

You thought for a moment before answering, “Sure. Why not?” You closed your laptop and moved your legs so Dean could sit. “What kind of case?”

“Demons. Which means he’s gotta come along,” Dean nodded towards Chop who had moved his head onto Dean’s lap.

“Alright. I’ll get ready,” you said. Dean nodded before walking out, closing the door behind him.

Once you got ready, you checked Chops collar. You’d put a tag on it that had an anti-possession sigil; you never know what kind of things demons could posses.

You and Chop walked through the bunker and to the War Room where your brothers were waiting.

“Ready?” Sam asked. You nodded and everyone piled into the Impala.

Once you arrived, you all got out and went to the trunk. Chop could sense that there were demons nearby, so he stayed extra quiet. You and your brothers grabbed the knives, salt, and holy water. You also grabbed some spray paint, just in case you needed to make some devil traps.

You and Chop went around back of the abandoned house, while Sam took the front and Dean went through a side window. You slowly opened the creaky door and Chop bolted in first. He sniffed the room before looking at you, which meant there aren’t any demons in that room.

You moved to the next room. It all seemed to be going smoothly until you heard Chop’s deep barks and everything went black.

You woke up, your brain pounding against your skull. You could hear Chop’s deep and low growl and your brothers talking to an unfamiliar voice. You opened your eyes and saw your brothers tied up.

You tried moving your arm to your head, but quickly realized you couldn’t. You were tied down too. You were at the end of the room, Sam was by the wall to your left, Dean was at the other end of the room, and Chop was tied up by the wall to your right.

These demons were smart. They tied you up and put handcuffs on you. There was no way you were getting out alive. Chop was so wrapped up in rope that you were afraid he couldn’t even breathe.

“Well, looky here! Princess is awake!” the demon smirked in a sickeningly humorous tone. “Now the real fun can begin.”

You looked around the room and noticed two demons by each of you. One to your right and one to your left, same as your brothers and Chop. They weren’t messing around.

“If you touch a hair on her head I will rip your guts out!” Dean yelled in a worried and threatening voice.

“Oh, you’re mistaken. Y'see Iwon’t be hurting her… You will. That is, of course, if you choose to. If not, then I guess we’ll see what happens,” the demon smiled and walked over to Dean. You could see Dean pull against his restraints, grinding his teeth in seething anger.

You noticed Dean was tied down differently than you and Sam. You had your hands behind your back, but Dean had his on arm rests.

“Now, shall we get started?” The demon pulled out a gun. Once he did that the demons by you, Sam, and Chop left the room. “This is what you’re gonna do. You’re gonna choose. You either shoot your sister, or the dog. Because lemme tell you, that dog has been a huge pain in my ass.”

Your heart sank. You knew you could take a bullet, but Chop taking one might kill him. You knew Dean wasn’t going to shoot his little sister over a dog.

“Why not shoot me?” Sam chimed in, trying to stall for as long as he could.

“Well, Sammy boy,” the demon smirked, walking over to Sam, “because Dean is much more attached to his little sister than to you. Meaning this is gonna hurt him a lot more.” His reasoning didn’t quite make sense to you - or any rational person for that matter - because Dean obviously wasn’t going to hurt you, or Sammy, so why the hell would it matter? But in his twisted head, it must’ve gotten messed up, like a game of telephone, and it just makes sense. “Right. Naturally, he’d come to that conclusion,” you sarcastically said to yourself.

“And what’s stopping me from shooting you?” Dean’s eyes drifted to the demon.

“Good question!” He walked over to Dean. “You and I both know it won’t kill me and if you do so happen to shoot me, my pals are here to kill your special little family right in front of your eyes. And guess what? We won’t kill you. So you’ll have to live with the guilt of murdering your entire family,” he explained.

Dean looked back at you, eyes full of guilt and sorrow. You knew what he was going to do and you silently begged him not to.

“Anyway! Enough chitchat! Open your hand,” the demon ordered. Dean ignored him until another demon forced his hand open and they placed the gun in it. “Choose wisely.”

The gun was pointed at you and you prayed it stayed that way. Dean shook his head slightly as his eyes and gun slowly drifted to Chop.

“Dean, No!” You screamed through your mouth restraint, but it was too late. The gun fired and you heard the sound you never wanted to hear. The agonizing sound of your baby - your puppy - dying. His pain filled whimpers filled the air as you saw blood dribbling out of the small hole.

You sat there as tears streamed down your cheeks, soaking the fabric that wound its way around your face. You screamed at the demon, screamed at Dean, at anyone and everyone, but it all came out muffled. You pulled and shook the chair you were tied down in, wanting, needing to go to him, be by his side.

Until your eyes fell on his dark fur and you fell still. You sniffled your sob. Chop tried moving but fell from how weak he was. Chop looked at right you, his eyes as big as they could get and no whites to be found.

“I’m sorry,” you cried, barely whisper. You saw Chops breaths begin to slow and his whimpers got quiet. You struggled in the chair, just to get over to him so he wouldn’t be alone. So you could be there for him.

You rocked the chair side to side and you pushed and pushed. The chair fell over and you used your feet to shuffle yourself over to your pup. Once you finally got over to him, you laid your head on his as tears rained down your face.

“I love you,” you breathed, just as Chop took his final breath.

The demons were long gone by now, satisfied. Your brothers were figuring out how to get themselves free, while you laid next to Chop’s lifeless body, staining his fur with your tears. You couldn’t bear to see him wrapped up in the ropes, held down by man’s creation. Sobs racked your body and you could still picture him, when he was just a puppy, rolling around in your lap.

Finally Dean was able to get free and he quickly helped Sam.

Sam got out and ran over to you to get you untied. Dean stayed back, a hand on his head, riddled with guilt. He knew you would blame him for this, and he knew he deserved every ounce of it.

The moment you were free, you started un-tying Chop. As you moved his lifeless legs to unwrap them, you remembered the first time he sat on command. You were ecstatic. It was only a day after you got him and you were already convinced he knew exactly what you were thinking.

You unwrapped the worn ropes from his neck, remembering the first time he protected you. You were at the park, only seven years old. Dean got distracted by a woman which gave a tall, slender man a chance to sneak up on you. Before the man got too close Chop jumped in front of him and barked with all his might, alerting Dean and scaring the freaky man away.

As you removed the ropes from around his still chest, you couldn’t help remember the first time he got hurt. You were at Bobby’s place, playing in the scrap yard. You two were running around when Chop got cut by a sharp, metal object. You screamed for anyone to help and cried for him, because there was so much blood. Your tears on that day ended when Bobby got him all patched up.

You slid the rope off his muzzle, your mind wandering to the first time he woke you up by licking your face. You were having a nightmare, a terrible one at that, and he licked your face until he saw your eyes open and felt you jolt awake. He always did that to cheer you up after a nightmare.

You got him all unwrapped and stared into his big, glassy brown eyes. You could still remember the first time you saw them. When your dad was still alive. When no one had died. When everything wasn’t as shitty. A single tear ran down your face and landed on his wound.

Sam sat next to you, feeling awful from Chop’s death, but he knew it wasn’t near as much pain as you were dealing with - being crushed by. He knew there was nothing he could say or do to make anything feel better, and it killed him.

You grew up with Chop. He was always there for you. Always. He always cheered you up. Always made bad days better.

He always protected you.

“I’m so sorry, I couldn’t protect you,” you whispered, slowly closing your puppy’s eyelids.

I hope y'all like this one! I’m open for tips on improving!

Tagging: @magicalsis11, @joanne-egberp, @16wiishes, @ledledledledled, @fanboyswhereare-you, @athenepallas, @sammyfrigginwinchester, @spnkisum, @xsecretrejectx, @pretty-odd-jenn, @jamies-supernatural-world, @oneshotsdeanshort, @jiggysupernatural, @jensen-jarpad, @capruinedmylife, @bea789

[ecotone99]

[AA] Cadillac

Cadillac

by Chuck Corson

Brick stepped through the broken glass façade of a Wawa convenience store, shotgun in hand, looking for food. Beau Castles got the nickname Brick after staring off his amateur boxing career nine and zero with nine knockouts, a career that was abruptly ended by the war. When the attacks began, Brick’s Philadelphia home was destroyed with the rest of the city. The militia was starving, Brick took this food gathering mission upon himself, not wanting to put any of the others at risk as he was the only one with enough strength left to fight.

Everything that could spoil did long ago, only canned goods and foods packaged and full of preservatives remained. Bottled water was a necessity, all fresh water was contaminated with anthrax or pathogens from the bodies. The store was burnt-out and picked over. Carefully stepping around the shards of glass and overturned shelves, Brick scanned the ground like a hawk. A three sided counter still stood in the middle of the store, a good foxhole should one be needed. Brick went behind it, where cashiers once stood, ringing up hoagies, iced tea and Tastykakes.

The racks above the counter were empty, as were the first two cabinets beneath the counter. In the third and final counter, Brick saw something that brought him more joy than he had felt since the first Human Liberation Guerilla bomb went off four years ago. One lonely carton of Newport cigarettes, still wrapped in cellophane, sat waiting to be found.

The trademark seafoam green packaging reminded Brick of the satisfaction of having a smoke. Creature comforts were an exceedingly rare commodity, and the one that Brick cherished more than any other was before him, like a Christmas gift sitting under a tree with his name on the tag.

Brick snatched the carton and squatted down, hiding himself from any passers-by. The Hu-Li-Gu’s, as the Militia took to calling them, patrolled this desolate area and they were not in the habit of taking prisoners. Brick closed his eyes, held the carton up to his lips and kissed it. He wanted to whisper sweet nothings into its ear, take it out for dinner, romance it, then bring it home and make love to it.

Snapping out of his fantasy, Brick looked about cautiously. He rose and inspected the countertop, the place where lighters were kept available for sale to unprepared smokers. Nothing. Anything that could start a fire was treasured, so Brick wasn’t surprised. He would have to wait until he got to camp before he could consume the delicious menthol flavored ecstasy.

When he started boxing, his trainer admonished him daily for his filthy habit. He would even go as far as taking Brick’s clothes from his locker and throw them out into the street, telling him that the smell of smoke was not welcome in the Joe Frazier Boxing Gym. Still, Brick could not give them up. He limited his cigarette intake as much as possible during the weeks leading up to a fight, but he could not leave them alone for good.

Two years passed since Brick had his last smoke. The Hu-Li-Gu’s destroyed tobacco products when they found them, their utopian vision didn’t include addictive substances. A bunch of fucking wet blankets as far as Brick was concerned.

Seeing no one out on the street, Brick made his way out of the store, leading with the barrel of his 12-gauge. He crept along, staying close to the storefronts that lined East Erie Avenue. The bounty recovered from the Wawa was tucked in the waist of his pants against the small of his back. Traveling during the day was dangerous, but it was impossible at night. Having lived his life in the city, Brick had never seen absolute darkness until there was no electricity. Carrying a torch outside the camp was a death sentence.

Crunch. Brick stiffened, his head went up like a sleeping dog hearing a car door slam. Crunch. Someone was near, walking slowly, deliberately. This was bad. Any noise- a scream, a whistle, the explosion of a shotgun shell, and the Hu-Li-Gu’s would be on him. Not being able to smoke at least one of the Cadillacs stuffed into his jeans would be a fate worse than death, he had to get moving fast.

Cadillacs is what Reece, his training buddy from the gym called Newports. In prison, Reece told him, they call Newports Cadillacs because they are the best of the best and commanded the highest price. Reece was a smoker too, that’s how he and Brick initially bonded. Walking home from the gym Reece would always say “Ayo Brick, lemme get a ‘Lac yo.” Brick always told him to buy his own, then would hand him one. It was as routine as their training regimen.

Moving swiftly, Brick minded his surrounds, praying he didn’t see someone. For the love of Christ, he thought. Please just let me get back to camp. Allow me this so I can smoke these damn cigarettes and I swear, if you want me dead tomorrow you can take me. Just please let me have this one thing. I’ve earned it after all the miserable shit I’ve dealt with over the last four years. Don’t you take this away from me you motherfucker, don’t you dare.

“Stop right there,” the voice said evenly. “Drop the shotgun, put your hands over your head and turn around slow or I am gonna air you the fuck out.”

Brick rolled his eyes. Well played.

“You got one second,” the voice said. Brick dropped the gun, raised his arms and turned. He wasn’t a Hu-Li-Gu. That was good, but he was holding a rifle.

“What you have?” The man asked.

“Nothing worth taking. Just the clothes I’m wearing and the gun I just put down.”

“You sure about that? You didn’t find nothin’ in that Wawa? I saw you lurkin’ around in there. What you got?”

“Does it look like I got anything? You think I was in there shoving cans of corn up my ass? I don’t have shit.”

“Bullshit. Take your shirt off.”

“This ain’t Chippendales pal.”

“Keep talking,” the stranger said. “See what I do.”

“What, you gonna shoot me? Go ahead stupid, the Terrorists will be on your ass before you cross the street.”

Brick took a step towards the stranger, keeping eye contact, still holding his hands up over his head.

“Stop walking. Stop right now or I will shoot you. They wanna come they can come. I might make it, guartunee you won’t.”

Brick stood, no more than twenty feet away from this guy. He has the typical survivor look. Dirty mismatched clothes, overgrown beard, messy rat’s nest of hair.

“Listen to me.” Brick took another step forward.

“I got no beef with you and I got nothing for you to steal. You want my shotgun? Fine, be a thief and take it, I’m not going to chase you. You got the drop on me, so I guess that’s your prerogative if you want it, but I ain’t stripping for you, because I ain’t hiding anything. And if you don’t hurry this up, someone is going to see us out here and interrupt this little Mexican Standoff with an RPG. So what do you want to do?”

The man appeared stunned. He stared, unresponsive.

“Didn’t think this through did you bud?” Brick took another step forward. “Let me help you out, I’m not your enemy. You need a place to stay? I can take you somewhere.” Another step.

“I don’t got much for you there. A little water, I can get you cleaned up, but buddy, you gotta stop pointing that gun at me.” Brick took another step forward.

“You just stop right there.” He sounded unsure of himself. “You don’t take another Goddamn step or I will shoot you. Now back up and take your fucking shirt off and show me that you ain’t got nothin’ or else I’m gonna-“

Brick stepped forward. “Shoot me?” Brick hit the stranger on the jaw with lightning speed. The stranger’s ass went back and his top half crumpled forward, toward Brick, going down on top of his gun which he pointed up trying to hold onto it while putting his hands straight out toward the ground to brace his fall, his right index finger stuck in the trigger guard, the butt of the rifle hit the ground, causing the rifle to go off with the barrel pointed under his chin, blowing his face off.

“Holy fuck!” Brick screamed, his heart literally feeling like it skipped a beat. He turned without hesitation and ran, scooped up his shotgun and took off down East Erie at a full sprint.

Motorcycles came speeding down the avenue towards the gun shot. Brick looked over his shoulder and could see them in the distance. He cut through the parking lot of the old Erie Lanes bowling alley. The wall had been blown out where the front entrance used to be. He dipped inside. Bowling balls were scattered around the floor, shook loose from their racks. Outside the reach of the sunlight coming through the missing entrance, it was pitch black.

Bikes pulled up, stopping in the street. Brick listened carefully as the Hu-Li-Gu’s surveyed the strip mall parking lot where the faceless stranger lay dead. Hopefully they didn’t see me. People off themselves all the time, maybe they will think he got tired of not finding food in bombed-out Wawas and decided to snack on a bullet.

“Where is the other one?” One of them asked.

“How do you know there is another one?” “Because you don’t scream after you’ve been shot in the head. Someone else screamed and I want him found now.”

Well shit, Brick thought. There goes that. Brick went down to his hands and knees and crawled through the bowling alley. He couldn’t see his hand in front of his face and rolling his ankle on a bowling ball guartuneed that he would be found. He could hear them getting closer to the entrance. Just as he felt the end of the rental counter to his left, he saw beams from flashlights enter the building.

He got behind the counter and took the Newports out of his pants so he could sit with his back to the wall. He focused on keeping his breath to a minimum. Two Hu-Li-Gu’s stepped inside, searching with flashlights on their assault rifles.

“Hurry up,” a voice yelled from outside.

Economy of energy, his boxing trainer Bernard always said. Economy of energy, meaning save it when you don’t need it, use it when you do. You don’t need energy before a fight- panicking wastes it, nerves waste it, so don’t worry, don’t panic, don’t even think if you don’t have to. The fight was near and it wouldn’t end in a knockout.

Brick closed his eyes. He placed the carton of cigarettes on his lap and as gently as possible he peeled away the wrapper. He fingered open the cardboard box and slid out a pack. He traced the outline of the pack with his thumbs and pulled the cellophane from the top. He opened the pack and pulled away the foil, then brushed his thumb across the top of the filters. He pinched one, pulled it out and placed it in his lips. Brick opened his eyes seeing the flashlights moving methodically in his direction.

The memory of his first cigarette, given to him by a sixteen year old girl in Love Park when he was thirteen came to mind. Brick reached up feeling a shelf under the counter. Between a metal canister and a rosin bag was an open box full of paper matchbooks. He took one and held it for a beat as the flashlight beams went across the countertop. He folded back the front flap and tore off a match. Smoke ‘em if ya got ‘em, he thought, striking the match, a wisp of sulfur stinging his nostrils. He put the flame to the cigarette hanging from his lips. The pop from lighting the match and the faint orange glow it gave off got the Hu-Li-Gu’s attention. Brick racked his shotgun as he stood, inhaling smoke deep into his lungs.

Gunfire. The cherry of the cigarette extinguished as it touched the blood pooling up on Brick’s chest. They continued shooting into Brick’s body as he lay on a pile of old bowling shoes.

Chuck Corson chuckcorson.wordpress.com IG: Chuck.corson

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