#'second plane. world trade. what else do i have to say' is better and the rhyme isn't even that much slantier than plane/say

[kaiasky]

#my sister is a 9/11 obsessive and she's also obsessed w this song #and she's SO MAD at this line #we have decided she will yell SCHNECKSVILLE PA WHAT ELSE DO I HAVE TO SAY instead #she just doesnt want it to be second plane she wants it to be second tower or something #idk she has lucy logic about it #there were 4 planes!!' 'yeah but the second plane was when it was confirmed to be a terrorist attack!'#'but the event was already happening! it should be second tower! the second tower fell first!" #but the meme lucy!" #it's not a meme it's a real historical event!" #yeah. but it's also a meme' #anyway. SCHNECKSVILLE PA WHAT ELSE DO HAVE TO SAY

[kinicheous]

home | kinich

for a person of natlan, falling in love with someone from outside of the borders might be the worst curse of all.

genres/notes: angst-ish, fluff-ish, mildly suggestive, mentions of possible death (let me know if something is missing!)

“how often do i have to tell you?”

on the other side of the door, the inn is buzzing with gleeful people. you can faintly hear them cheer and talk, glasses clinking and entertainers performing. on this side though, it’s quiet, so quiet that kinich’s voice reverberates through the silence. or perhaps it’s the proximity—his words fan your skin, that’s just how close he is as he hovers above you.

“i’m from natlan. i can get revived at any time,” he says. “you’re not.” he emphasizes his statement by squeezing your intertwined fingers, pushing your hand deeper into the sheets below you. “you can’t, y/n. one mistake and it’s over.”

you’ve seen kinich worried. he trusts you enough to easily wave you off every time you go on a journey, but at times where you return with more than just a couple of wounds, you can’t blame him for getting worried nonetheless.

today is different though. he’s never seen you this battered and patched up, and you’ve never seen him this upset. not worried, but upset, on the border to irritated. you can tell in the half-lidded eyes that bore into you, and the weight of it makes your own divert away to anything and everything else in the room.

“so, what? it’s like that for every adventurer, it’s not like i’m gonna quit being one,” you mumble, genuinely meaning your response but not able to sound as confident as you’d hoped, “besides, i came home this time too, didn’t i?”

a small gasp escapes you when his other hand finds your chin, his fingers digging into your skin just enough to make you turn to face him again.

“what about next time? what about the day you don’t come home at all?” kinich mutters, leaning even closer until his forehead rests against yours. “how often do i have to remind you?”

“kinich, i—...” you try to argue back, though words blending in with the room’s silence when you feel his breath tremble against your lips; beneath all that frustration, there’s a tinge of pain ringing in his tone; a pain that echoes into your chest as well and for a brief moment, it makes you imagine what it’d be like if the roles were reversed. you can’t imagine trading your current for anything in the world but you simply can’t blame him either.

you make another attempt. this one, however, is also shut down when the gap separating you closes without as much as a single warning—the desperation in the kiss anchors you to the plane of reality, and so does the next one, and the next one. you’re slowly given fewer and fewer opportunities to breathe in a way that isn’t through sharp inhales and yet, there’s a part of you that outweighs a need so primary human. kinich parts from you for a mere second, locking your eyes during that instant, before tilting his head to the other side, and as his hand slips from your chin to gently caress your cheek, you wish time would stop,

“kinich, i’m sorry,” you try again, barely getting the words out between dazed touches. “i can’t give up my adventures, i— you know i can’t.”

and he nods.

kinich nods, so pliantly, like he didn’t try to argue with you in the first place. he doesn’t want to, and he makes this clear as he at last parts, “i know.” he slides further down, just enough to attach his lips to the spot below your ear, slowly but surely leaving a trail of kisses down your skin. “i would never take them away from you,” he says, with a genuinity in the purest sense of the word. there’s another pause and the longer it lasts, the more certain you become that there’s a mark soon to blossom where your neck meets your shoulder.

“i just need you to take better care of yourself,” kinich declares between gritted teeth. you feel a second squeeze from his hand, the thumb of his other running across the corner of your eye, and that’s when he gives in; he detaches himself from your burning skin one last time, opting to settle into the crook of your neck.

“don’t make me remind you again… please.”

you’re not entirely sure when he let his entire weight drop on top of you, or when your legs tangled together. neither are you sure exactly when your fingers started to feel like they were about to break in the grip of his own, but that doesn’t really matter. the events in the rest of the inn have greatly increased, but you don’t care a particular lot about that either.

for the moment, there are only two people flush against each other, closer than ever as if a gap of even a centimeter would mean the end of the world—maybe it would, for you, and for him because in this very moment, nothing else matters except the fact that you both exist in it.

you move around the slightest bit, enough to nuzzle your face into the messy strands of his hair. your fingers find their way to his scalp as well, and he sighs in what sounds like relief.

“i can’t promise anything,” you answer bluntly, having no intentions whatsoever on sugarcoating anything, though follow up with a reassurance, “but i’ll try. someone has to welcome you back next time you get revived after all.”

it’s muffled, but the groan kinich lets out against your skin is loud and clear nonetheless.

“you’re such a damn menace.”

[ladywaffles]

calloused hands in soft hands + Icemav

thank you for playing! :)

calloused hands in soft hands

“Hey there, sailor, has it been a long tour?”

Six and a half months.

That’s how long it’s been since the President overturned Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.

He is finally free to marry his partner, openly and within sight of their family, friends, and former flyboys.

“It’s worth it when the sea brings me back to you, lover,” Maverick replies with a lascivious grin.

Ice rolls his eyes, even as he stands to greet Mav. “I’ve changed my mind—the tides can have you. You’re terrible at this.”

“What, after all this time?” Maverick drops his pack in the foyer and winds his arms around Ice’s waist, sliding one of his hands into Ice’s back pocket. “When I can finally do this in public?”

“You know, you’re still technically not allowed to do that, I’m still a superior officer.”

“Yeah but—”

“Don’t even say it, Mitchell,” he cuts him off. “It’ll be cheesy and bad, and I’ll be looking to trade you in for the newer model by the end of the year if you do.”

“Trade me in?” Maverick asks incredulously. “After I finally got you house trained?”

“Got me house trained?”

“Breakfast for dinner is nice, dear, but it’s the only thing you can be relied upon to not burn when I ask you to cook,” Maverick replies.

“You’re just mad because the laundry always smells nicer when I do it no matter what you try.”

“And who was the one who had to stick his arm up the backside of the dryer because someone nearly set a lint fire?”

“There wouldn’t have been a fire, if you’d cleaned it out the first time like I asked—”

“You know you can go more than a week without washing your bedsheets, it’s not the end of the world—”

“—put a sticky note on the fridge and everything, reminded you before I left for D.C.—”

“—and if we’d switched to the other towels that don’t give off all that fluff, the lint wouldn’t have built up nearly as bad anyway—”

“—I told you, it was one list of things to do, a very simple list of three chores around the house, and you didn’t listen the first time or the second time, so third time’s the charm, right—”

“—and then you kept insisting we use dryer sheets when wool balls work just as well, better even—”

They cut themselves off and smile. Ice sticks out his hand, wiggling his fingers until Maverick takes it.

“So. It’s been a while since I last saw you.”

Maverick laces their fingers together. “Yup.”

“Seven months.”

“Seven months, two weeks, and three days. But who’s counting?”

“Did you see the news?”

“I’ve heard a thing or two.”

Ice squeezes Maverick’s hand. It’s scarred and calloused from all the maintenance he does around the house, on his bikes, and on the Mustang they still haven’t made airworthy again. There’s a bump right where the stick sits between his thumb and his forefinger after hours sitting in the box, first in a Tomcat and then in a Hornet, and soon, maybe, in one of those fifth-gen stealth planes that go five times faster than Ice ever did.

His own scars from his days in the sky have long since been traded in for hardened ridges where his pen rests, reams of forms to fill out and files to read. There’s no flying for admirals, Viper had once warned him. Flying’s like riding a bike, but the memory of it starts to fade from your body faster than it does your mind.

Between the two of them, Maverick is much more the image of a pilot than Ice is, in his tailored suits and stars.

He runs his fingers over the back of Mav’s hand and presses their palms together.

“What do you think?” he asks.

“Of what?”

“Now you’re just playing coy.”

“Well, Admiral Kazansky, if you’re asking little old me,” Maverick starts, “I think it’s about damn time.”

Ice grins. “See, I’d thought something of the same myself.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out two wedding bands, made of newly minted gold.

“So, what do you think, Mitchell? Wanna get hitched?”

Maverick holds onto Ice’s hand tighter and drags him back towards the front door.

“Where are we going?”

“Where else do you think? We gotta go catch Slider before he gets too far from base and tell him to call up the boys, we’re getting married this weekend!”

send me a type of touch, a number, and a pairing!

[hasufin]

Profit on the apocalypse

Having just seen the 1st season of the Fallout TV show (pretty good, some video game logic, a few plot holes, but enjoyed) I want to talk briefly about how the US Military-Industrial Complex profits from the concept of the end of the world.

Now, for starters, actually ending the world is deeply unprofitable. They do not want that, because corporations are inherently capitalist entities: they do not want to create a situation in which the economy actually breaks down. Yes, private companies have flirted with running governments in the past (at its peak, the East India Company had I think the fourth largest military in the world) but running a government is hard and actually having citizens is a pain in the ass. So they're mostly happy with someone else doing that part where money exists and they can focus on having all of it.

So what do they do? Well... they want to keep us in a constant state of anxiety that the world could end, but without it actually ending. The more scared we - or, rather, our governments - are, the better.

Let's start with an old military adage: the most expensive army is the one that's second-best. The concept is, if you opt to save money/time/effort by not being quite as good as whoever you're fighting, and you lose, then all the time/money/effort you put in was wasted: you should have spent more in order to win, or you should have lost for cheaper. And this is sort of true.

This leads to another sorta true thing: even a small edge can be a very big deal. Having fighters which are slightly more maneuverable, tanks with slightly better armor, &c., can be what decides a war. Now, the thing is - that absolute bleeding edge of abilities and technology comes at a premium. A 5% improvement comes at a 100% increase in cost. But! That 5% can mean victory! And remember, the most expensive army is the one that's second best. If you want to be able to win, you need to pay that premium!

And for the military-industrial concept, that kind of thinking is a beautiful, beautiful stream of revenue. Suppose you're, you know, Lockheed. You're called upon to build a new military system like an air superiority fighter. You load that bird up with every piece of cool tech you can imagine. It's definitely the best fighter in the skies. It's also the most expensive bird anyone has put in the air. So you're making money on the R&D, you manage to get the government to pay for building the manufacturing facilities, you're getting money for each airframe you churn out. Oh, but that's pocket change. EVERY SINGLE PIECE of that thing is proprietary as all get-out. And it's all a Military Secret. You have your trade secrets backed by an actual bona fide military. Which you don't have to pay for.

So in addition to getting money for designing the fighter, getting money to be able to build it, getting money for building it... you're also getting paid to train people on using it, and you're getting a LOT of money on the special parts to maintain it. And because you're the only one who can make those parts, your price for those is whatever you fucking want. I mean, there's negotiation, but it's kind of a joke because there's only one vendor: you. And there's a big sunk cost because they spent millions getting the planes from you in the first place.

And this gets BETTER (worse). Because your military thing is better than everyone else's, two things happen. First, your allies see the cool toy and say WANT. And the most trusted allies get them. I'll go into that later. Second, your enemies want to say they can fight it. You build a 5th generation fighter aircraft, China and Russia each say they're building a 6th generation fighter (these terms don't exactly mean anything, but they sound cool). They say they're building something with Much Better specs. So much better.

Now, the allies. They want the cool toys too. They want to be able to compete in the world of your cool toys, in case they get attacked. But they can't actually afford to devote that kind of resources to their military. So what happens is, the US government negotiates a military aid package. Your company builds an export version of the fighter (or something similar) because the US wants to retain some edge, just in case it wants to invade Europe someday. The export craft get sent to your allies, with most of the money being paid for by the US government; that money is listed as "foreign aid" but never actually leaves US hands. And now your allies have better fighters than they could afford and you're even richer. The USA has allies with good weapons it can call on for help. But... remember, proprietary parts? Which are only available from you, the USA company? Which are as expensive as you want them to be? Oh yeah, this bleeding edge stuff takes a LOT of work to keep it flying. Not only could these allied countries not afford to buy the birds, they can't afford to keep them in the air without a lot more "foreign aid" which is actually the US government paying a US company to send parts to an airfield in another country. And this also means that if the US wants to cripple a country's warfighting ability, all it has to do is say "Y'know what? We don't think we'll send you any more spare parts." That's what happened to Iran in the 80s, when it suddenly went from having a MASSIVE advantage over Iraq, to fighting a stalemate war with human wave infantry tactics that resulted in one million casualties. Because Iran was reliant on American F-14 Tomcats that while exemplary fighters for their era were horrific to keep running even by US military standards. (Oh and there's the Iran-Contra scandal where the CIA smuggled cocaine to sell to black people in order to fund illegal weapons shipments, but that's a separate horrible thing).

Anyway. Now US allies have the coolest toys but need permission from the US to use them. Let's look at US enemies and competitors. Which this model needs. Recall, China and Russia (and Iran and a couple other countries) countered by talking about their own superfighters. Realistically, they can't actually design and build anything better. The USSR was once able to do so, but they really haven't been able to surpass US R&D since the 80s. This, however, doesn't really matter. The point is they're making a lot of noise about coming up with something better. And that makes the same paranoid people who wanted your fighter initially nervous. Now they want a 7th generation fighter to surpass China's vaporware 6th gen.

This is, for Lockheed, absolutely awesome. Because it means even as they're still cranking out the 5th gen fighters they can devote their R&D to coming up with an even cooler, more expensive toy. Even if the last toy never actually got used! There's a continuous cycle of making cooler toys, some irrelevant portion of which are vaporware, none of which is really war-tested, but that doesn't matter because you get your money. Entire generations of military hardware are built only to get polished and maintained, then either sold to allies or scrapped, because you have to keep up with whatever the other guys say they can do.

Now, the key part about this cycle is paranoia. The USA has to believe they need the absolute bestest military toys and damn the expenses. US allies have to believe they, too, need those toys. And US allies have to believe they must one-up the US abilities. This maintains a constant cycle of R&D for the next thing while building the new hotness, and still getting a solid amount of money from making parts for last year's model. And, joy of joys, it doesn't matter whether any of it gets used, because it all needs to be replaced periodically anyway.

Note, too, that the way defense contractors in the USA are structured, past a certain point it doesn't actually matter which company is given the contract to build a system. If Boeing and Lockheed both compete to build the next-generation fighter craft, they can rest easy knowing that whoever wins will contract with the loser to make important parts. It's an entire ecosystem in which engineers and managers move around based on how the wind is blowing; the specific company doesn't really matter.

Now, the one part I can't speak to from personal experience is just how they keep us on the edge of the apocalypse. I know they considered the end of the Cold War and the collapse of the USSR as a great tragedy, so it's fair to say they don't exercise quite that level of control. But there's a whole lot of "lobbying" and "advertising" going on, and there are many members of Congress who are very well paid to be quite paranoid.

Ending the world isn't profitable. But it's quite, quite profitable to get as close to doing so as possible.

[baiyunli]

would u consider posting more snippets of the retirement fic. pretty please. its so good!

for sure!! most of the fully-written scenes don't make sense without context, but i have one near the beginning, when jack still hasn't told nico what he's looking for here and nico's just angry and still hurt from everything jack had done before. no idea why i picked the wings for luke lol but here:

There were moments, after Jack was traded and before Luke signed with Detroit, where Nico would look at Luke and all he saw was Jack. 

He never thought they looked similar: Luke was a head taller and not as talkative in the half-charming, half-flippant way that Jack was, but in certain lights, during warmups or after practice or in the middle of a goal celebration, Nico reached out and saw someone else.

He knew Jack was gone, but it didn’t stop Nico from seeing him everywhere. He’d rubbed off onto Luke, his mannerisms and locker room nicknames and pregame routine, and Nico was just tired of always looking for someone who was never his, tired of coming up empty.

The first year afterwards, Nico couldn’t even look at his old locker: as if he was the only one responsible for Jack’s leaving and the guilt was close to crushing him, one of those quiet, tragic hurts he never truly knew how to share. He’d look at Luke and see the same heartbreak on his face.

Luke’s gone now, swept away in offseason free agency. Nico is happy that he’s playing well, at least. The Wings are good. Better than the Devils right now. And the Canucks, but that part speaks for itself.

“He had an awesome season,” says Nico. Second place in Norris voting. “Tell him I said congratulations.”

Jack grins. “Obviously. Thanks for taking care of him,” he says. “After I got traded. Like, I think it was the first time he actually had to learn how to cook, and shit. God knows I couldn’t have taught him myself.”

“I had to get him out of ordering takeout somehow. He was going to die otherwise.”

Late twenties and early thirties blend in Nico’s brain. Now, thirty years old is far enough in the rearview mirror that everything in the interim feels the same, a foggy lacuna from the first time they qualified for the playoffs to their first Cup win. The years when they thought nothing could hurt them, that the worst had passed long ago, young and stupid and too reckless to care about the idea that the future might not swing in their favour. And even off the ice: nighttime drives on the turnpike, the closest they could get to the end of the world. The hum of tires along the rumble strip, watching the light hug the soft planes of Jack’s face. Nico had tried so hard to stay away from Jack, those years.

“It wasn’t that bad,” Jack says in self-defense. He raises his hands. “We cooked sometimes.”

“For loose definitions of ‘cooked.’ And ‘sometimes.’”

Jack makes a face. “You make it sound a lot worse than it was. I got it together eventually. When it stopped being—okay, I guess. That I didn’t know how to be an adult. And I couldn’t get away with it anymore.” He worries at his lower lip with his teeth, folds his hands in his lap. “I wanted to—” his voice stumbles, stops. “Never mind.”

There’s a curl of hair falling into his eyes that Nico wants to brush away. Nico wants too much: he wants to ask Jack to finish the sentence, wants to say why didn’t you talk to me for five fucking years, wants to know why Jack came to his apartment if not to apologize for the last five years of silence. 

He wants to put his fist through the wall, kick something, but he’s almost forty and should know better, so really he wants to go outside for a long walk until his throat no longer itches. He wants to crawl out of his skin until he’s so far away he can’t see Jack. He wants Jack to leave and he wants to stop him from ever leaving again. He just wants to hear him say sorry.

“Sure,” says Nico, curt. “Good for you.”

Jack wavers. “What?”

He rubs his forehead. “Jack, I just. I’m glad you’re doing better, but I still don’t know how long you’re planning to be here.”

Nico hears Jack’s breath hitch. “Not that long,” he answers, and then he flashes his brightest smile, all-American and pearly white, to make up for the pause before his reply. “I’m—sorting some stuff out, that’s all. Told Quinn it was unfinished business. But I can go. If you don’t, uh. If you don’t want me.”

“It’s—no,” Nico responds. He runs a hand through his hair and does not admit that Jack Hughes is all he’s ever wanted. “You can stay.” 

Jack looks down at the table. “I’ll get it together,” he says, quieter, and it strikes Nico, for a second, the reality of it. “I promise. I’ll get my shit together soon.”

During Jack's whole first season with the Canucks, Nico dreamed about having him back in New Jersey, eating dinner with him and falling asleep on the couch before Jack could make it back to his own apartment. And now Jack’s here, eating his food, staying in his apartment, and Nico thinks that his most self-pitying dreams didn’t do shit to prepare him for it. “I didn’t. I’m not asking you to fulfill any promises,” he tells Jack. “Do whatever you have to. But the season starts soon.”

“Soon,” echoes Jack, his face shuttering. “You’re right.” He pokes at the rest of his dinner. He plays with a noodle, twirls it around his fork and drops it back in the takeout box.

“Jack,” Nico says. “Are you—is there something wrong?”

“No,” Jack says, too fast, brittle. “Not something wrong, I just, uh. I have to make some decisions. Tired of trying to be an adult, I guess.” He holds up the leftover takeout. “You want me to pop this in the fridge, or do you have a container I can put it in?”

[groovesnjams]

"We Didn't Start the Fire" by Billy Joel

DV:

Since the original WDSTF is a frequently-cited contender for the worst song of all time, the concept of doing a cover version that updates its references seems either borderline-genius (because there's nowhere to go but up) or exceptionally foolish (because the core idea is so flawed that there's no value to uncover.) It makes sense that Fall Out Boy would do this, and it makes sense that the result reveals that both things are true. Here's the thing: I come not to bury "We Didn't Start the Fire (A Fall Out Boy cover of the Billy Joel song "We Didn't Start the Fire)" but to praise it. Because it gets right one of the core things that Joel got wrong. The original "Fire" is a series of signifiers, ironically juxtaposed and strung together as disconnected events - a chronolog of nearly half a century that Joel connects into a meta-argument that "things happen" to every generation. But "H-bomb" didn't just materialize out of thin air, nor did "Belgians in the Congo" or the Vietnam war that Joel references a couple times. His is a history without subjects, and consequently without responsibility or blame. "AIDS, crack, Bernie Goetz," he sings: these are presented as merely things that happened, not deliberate choices with moral consequence.

Fall Out Boy make no such pretense. Their "Fire" is a list of events that made an impact on Pete Wentz and crew, abandoning the pseudo-objectivity of chronological order in favor of a random, stream of consciousness approach. "World Trade, second plane" is unquestionably a defining event of the past 30 years, but "Cubs go all the way again" and dual Michael Jordan references only belong on a list that comes from a band that claims Chicago as its hometown. Add Captain Planet and the overly-cute "Prince and the Queen die"? This is something that only Fall Out Boy could - or would - attempt. It's a cliffsnotes version of their specific lifetimes, and can't possibly be seen as anything else. It's dumb - so dumb, like "Trump gets impeached twice/ Polar bears got no ice" is not even the nadir - but Fall Out Boy aren't cloaking their point of view like the world's worst historian (Billy Joel.) I'll gladly take their nonsense honesty over Joel's logical elision of history.

Or rather, I won't, because while Fall Out Boy upgrade the lyrics the fundamental concept here is so useless - and the melody so grating - that it's impossible to want to listen to this godforsaken song more than once, as a curiosity. It says something fascinating about Fall Out Boy that in 2023, a decade into an afterlife that's now lasted nearly twice as long as their original run, they're following up a return-to-form album with a one-off single as wildly misconstrued as this and managing to get even one thing right. I think what it says is, "Imagine Dragons better get their shit together if they want to compete."

MG:

"We Didn't Start the Fire" is an absolutely vile song, a piece of pure capitalist crap. Whether Billy Joel's smooth, solid, original turd or the clasp of dingleberries that make up this cover, it's still flag-waving propaganda barrelling around the bend. How can you both assert your nativist perspective as the center of the universe and excuse yourself and your fellow countrymen for any responsibility in all the wars, slavery, and unfounded hatred we've wrought in our existence? You can't, but it warms my heart that some of the richest men in the last two centuries have attempted the impossible. Fall Out Boy's stab at ironic juxtaposition might be funny in an arch way if Pete Wentz weren't an actually talented lyricist capable of staking out emotional truth in his work. Instead he's wasting his time not quite rhyming "black parade" with "Y2K." And while we're here, are these supposed to be the good events, the bad events, or just the events most worthy of laminating and tacking to the bulletin board? Sandy Hook, Columbine -- brutal, horrific losses of very young life -- on one hand, Meghan Markle and Venus and Serena -- famous black women -- on the other. What's the suggestion here?

Don't bother. There's nothing at the core of this song, nothing on this song's outer rings, nothing at all. Fall Out Boy have robbed these words of the energy they possessed in their inert state, produced meaninglessness where potential once stood. Defending this song is an exercise in tragedy but typing on about something so obviously wretched and doomed isn't a much better use of time.

[ididntmean2hauntyou]

little review time bc fob released a new cover and im... yeah whatever.

fall out boys cover of the billy idol classic 'we didnt start the fire' is intended to be an 'updated' version of the song, supposed to mention more current events.

musically, its fine. its a cover. vocals are fine and so are the instruments. again, its a cover. not much special.

lyrically? could be better.

its not chronological unlike idol's (which is just a nitpick), and it contains a strange mixture of political (mentioning school shootings and racial violence) and pop cultural (meghan markle being mentioned in the same line as george floyd is....a choice). the rhymes dont exactly make sense, either, but like. whatever. even billy idol didnt like his original.

theres also no mention of big events like princess dianas death, or the whole pandemic.

also ending a verse with "World Trade, second plane/What else do I have to say?" is...interesting.

[thebreakfastgenie]

I know I talked about this when the song came out but I think reversing the use of "what else do I have to say" and "I can't take it anymore" was a weird choice and I don't understand why they did it. There's no clear reason for it so the most noticeable thing is just that they changed it which is not what you want someone to be thinking about when they listen to your song.

I also think too many of the lyrics are phrased in a slightly snarky way, like it's self-aware and trying to be funny. The original pretty much plays itself straight until "rock and roller cola wars, I can't take it anymore" which was intentional; Billy Joel wanted to end it on something trivial and stupid, and cola wars was a good choice because it was happening within his own industry so it brought the whole thing back to him, which made sense since the song covered his lifetime up to that point (it begins in 1949, the year he was born). Fall Out Boy didn't do any of that.

I know I'm a ridiculous pedant who insists there shouldn't be an updated We Didn't Start the Fire until 2029 and ideally it should be written by someone born in 1989 (Taylor Swift you are the chosen one) and that I've also expressed skepticism that a sequel can ever truly recreate the vibe of the original because of the necessary differences in process, but what's truly disappointing about Fall Out Boy's We Didn't Start the Fire is there are amateur We Didn't Start the Fire sequels and parodies on YouTube that are so much better! These guys are professional musicians with a recording studio and they just blew it! For shame.

"World Trade, second plane, what else do I have to say" is a bad lyric and it deserved the mockery it got, however "what else do I have to say" should be on the 9/11 lyric and I'd be willing to accept the slightly memetic phrasing to make the rhyme sort of work if the song were in chronological order and actually taking advantage of using that lyric on that particular event. 9/11 is probably to millennials what the Kennedy assassination was to baby boomers. Someone born in 1989 would have been 12 in 2001; Billy Joel was 14 in 1963. And some of the Fall Out Boy members are a couple of years older, so they definitely cover that early adolescence age range for experiencing a formative event. That's the nicest thing I'm ever going to say about this song.

They really failed to build the energy in the last verse. Billy Joel is practically shouting by the time he gets to "I can't take it anymore." Come on guys. Do better.

I hated this but I'm glad I did it so I could finally write a proper review an entire year or whatever it is later.

I never actually listened to the Fall Out Boy We Didn't Start the Fire because I was mad about it. Should I listen to it? For science?

[syllvane]

she’s a rainbow- natasha romanoff x reader

a/n: this was loosely requested by anon, inspired by a song of the same name

The first time you see her, she is dressed in blue.

You’re at one of Tony’s parties- and you don’t want to be there, you’d rather be anywhere else in the world in fact, but you work for Tony and more than that, you’re worried for him.

Though you both had worked closely on things regarding the Iron Man suit, he had been pulling away from you without any explanation as to why. The closest that you had gotten to an explanation was whenever he got drunk and started mumbling about a new energy source or something.

You stood in the corner of the party, nursing a drink as the lights flashed and the music played loudly, so loud that you could barely hear yourself think over the music, much less have a conversation.

You made your way outside of the house and even there, a small part of the party seemed to have spilled out of the house and you weren’t able to find the peace and quiet that you were looking for.

Someone touched your arm gently and you spun around, not knowing who to expect, though it certainly wasn’t her.

She had long, dark red hair and she was wearing a beautiful midnight blue dress to match, her hair done in curls.

You didn’t believe in love at first sight but looking at her, you thought that maybe you had been wrong.

“Oh, I’m so sorry- I thought you were someone else,” She said, smiling sheepishly. “What’s your name?”

You told her your name, momentarily losing your train of thought.

“What about you? What’s your name?”

“Natalie Rushman- I’m Ms. Pott’s personal assistant at Stark Industries,” She smiled, extending her hand out.

You extended your own, taking her hand and shaking it.

“It’s nice to meet you, Natalie- and welcome to Stark Industries.”

Were the two of you technically coworkers? If you dated each other, would you have to tell HR about it?

“So, what do you do? Famous model, actress?” She suggested and you laughed slightly.

“Now you’re just flattering me, I mean if anyone’s the model here, it’s you. I just work with Tony on the Iron Man project and things of that nature.”

Her eyes went wide as if she was more impressed by that than any of the things she mentioned before.

“Just? Don’t downplay how smart you have to be for that, humble isn’t a good look on you.”

“You’re right, I guess… just a force of habit.”

She smiled softly.

“It must be a strange work environment if he’s always this… impulsive.”

You glanced back towards the inside of the house, seeing several models on each of Tony’s arms.

He was clearly drunk.

“He wasn’t… it’s been different these past couple of months. I don’t know, if Tony’s good at one thing besides engineering, it’s bottling up his feelings.”

She nodded intently, hanging onto every word that you were saying.

“I’m sorry. That must be tough for you.”

You sighed.

“It’s harder to see him like this than it is when he ices me out.”

She opened her mouth to speak but before she could, Tony stumbled out of the doors.

“There you are, Natalie- come back in and enjoy the party!” He beckoned before being pulled back inside.

Natalie looked at you apologetically.

“I should… it was nice talking to you though, really,” She said, giving you a small smile before she entered the house once again.

As you would later learn, that was the only honest thing that she told you that entire conversation.

The crowd roared as she entered the home and she did not look back at you once.

The next time you see her, she is dressed in black.

All pretense of meekness was gone and what was left was a woman with the same red curls as before, her midnight blue dress traded in for a black jumpsuit with long sleeves.

She is sitting on Tony’s front porch step and given the way her eyes are following you as you made your way up the drive, you guessed that it was you who she wanted to talk to.

“You lied to me,” You said, almost wincing at how childish your accusation sounded- of course she had lied to you, that was her job.

She was a spy, she didn’t owe you an explanation or an apology.

“I’m sorry,” She said, her words careful. “If it was up to me, I wouldn’t have.”

You don’t believe her.

“Why are you even here, Natalie? I-”

“It’s Natasha,” She corrected and you didn’t say anything for a couple of moments.

You truly knew nothing about her and more than that, you trusted nothing about her. After all, what was stopping her from lying about being named ‘Natasha’ as well?

“As for why I’m doing this… I don’t know. I didn’t want you to think that it was all fake, I guess.”

You crossed your arms.

“So what was real then?”

Another pause.

"I really did like you,” She said softly and even though you desperately wanted to be angry at her, you couldn’t help but melt slightly. “And you are too good for him.”

“We’re not…” You took a step back from her as if she had just slapped you. “Are you just trying to manipulate me into joining SHIELD?”

She blinked, as if the thought had never even crossed her mind.

“What- no! I think you’d be a good fit for SHIELD, but I wasn’t…” She fell silent, studying you once again. “That’s all you think I am now, isn’t it? A spy.”

You shrugged helplessly, tears pricking your eyes.

“You haven’t given me much else to go on.”

“Forget it. Just… go back to someone who completely undervalues the work that you do and just forget that I exist. I’ll do the same for you.”

She stormed off without saying anything else, getting into a black unmarked car and driving off.

When you see her again, her hair is shorter and although you aren’t positive, you think you’re on a plane.

You also have the worst headache of your entire life and vague memories of the past couple of days, all of which seem to be tinted in blue.

“I liked your long hair better,” You mumbled and she rolled her eyes, though a small smile appeared on her face.

“You didn’t take my advice about forgetting me.”

“Can you blame me?” You said before you winced, your head throbbing. “What happened? I remember… a portal opened, I think. And some guy… walked out. The rest is fuzzy.”

“That guy… Loki… he mind-controlled you. A bunch of people, actually.”

“Wait,” You sat up straight, causing a wave of dizziness to rush over you. “Loki, as in Norse mythology Loki? That Loki?”

“Yes.”

You sat there for a second, thinking.

“Hm. That’s interesting.”

She blinked.

“You’re handling this surprisingly well.”

You shrugged slightly.

“I’m a scientist. It wouldn’t do me any good to ignore the evidence that’s been presented to me.”

She didn’t respond, handing you a cup with medicine in it.

“For your head,” She said and you nodded, looking at the pills before taking them with the water that was just off to the side. “I didn’t take my own advice either, you know. I didn’t forget about you.”

You stayed silent for a couple of seconds.

“Why not?”

“I already told you, didn’t I? I really did like you,” She said, not meeting your eyes.

“I liked you too. But I don’t… I don’t know if I can trust you again.”

She thought about this for a minute.

“What are you doing Thursday night?”

“If the world hasn’t ended by then? Probably going back to work.”

“Have dinner with me. I might not even make it out of this alive, but-”

“Yes.”

A small smirk appeared on her face.

“That didn’t take long.”

“Oh shut up,” You said, a small smile on your face. “Don’t you have a city to save?”

She glanced towards the door before looking back at you.

“I suppose I do. I’ll see you on the other side?”

“I hope so,” You said softly and she smiled before walking out of the room you were recovering in.

The next time you see her is on Thursday, outside of the address that she texted you.

You are nearly twenty minutes late because of all the damage that had been done during the Battle of New York, but when you arrive, she is standing there in a pale gold dress, her hair curled and styled like she just walked out of the 1920s.

You are rendered speechless by her beauty and she just looked at you and smirked.

“Something catch your attention?” She asked innocently and you rolled your eyes, though you felt heat rise to your cheeks. She offered you her hand and you took it. “I feel the same way about you, you know. You take my breath away.”

The two of you walked into the restaurant together, hand in hand and as certain as you had once been that there would be no relationship between you and Natasha, you found your own doubts about your relationship with her slowly slipping away.

And they continue to slip away.

Her dress is emerald green when she tells you about her adopted family, about Ohio and about Yelena, and it’s silver like moonlight when she stands up on her tiptoes to kiss you on the doorstep of your apartment.

It’s sky blue when she introduces you to the rest of the Avengers as her girlfriend and it’s a black, oversized hoodie when she first tells you that she loves you, laying next to you on the couch, half-asleep and fighting off a cold.

(You say it back, but she’s already fallen back asleep. You don’t worry though, because you know that you have all the time in the world to say it.)

Her dress is white when the two of you finally get married and her hair is longer, curled like it was the night you first met.

Tony is drunk again and is taking credit for your love story in his toast, but you don’t care, not as long as you’re with her.

You can face anything, you think, as long as you’re with her.

[deadpresidents]

We Remember: When 9/11 Forged a Genuinely United States of America

Today, we remember.

We remember that the weather was perfect throughout nearly the entire country on that Tuesday morning. We remember where we were when we heard about the first plane hitting the tower. We remember what we thought as the new just began to trickle in. We remember our horror as we watched the second plane hit the South tower. We remember the evacuations -- people running out of our monuments of freedom and democracy, our centers of government and finance, and spilling out on to the streets of our nation’s capital. We remember the dust and debris chasing thousands of New Yorkers through the streets of our most iconic city. We remember the smoke rising from the Pentagon. We remember that impact site in Pennsylvania -- a smoldering hole in an empty field instead of the rotunda of the U.S. Capitol building because Americans decided to fight back. We remember watching the towers fall.

We remember the fear, the chaos, the sadness, and the feeling of not knowing what was happening or when it would end. We remember a feeling that Americans were not used to experiencing up to September 11, 2001: the helpless feeling of being attacked as went about our normal lives. We no longer remember what it felt like on September 10th.

Do you remember pointing fingers? Do remember placing blame? Do you remember partisanship? I remember patriotism. Not bumper sticker and window decals. Genuine patriotism. I remember flags and candles and donating water and giving blood and having a new appreciation for first responders. I remember that, for at least one week, we weren’t Democrats or Republicans. I remember that we were Americans. I remember that we cared a little bit more about each other for at least a couple of weeks.

When Democrat Lyndon Johnson was the Senate Majority Leader and Republican Dwight Eisenhower was President of the United States, LBJ -- one of the most intense, passionate, partisan political animals in our history -- never attacked President Eisenhower. It wasn’t because LBJ agreed with Eisenhower’s policies. It wasn’t because LBJ was scared. It was because, as LBJ explained in 1953 in a comment that has an unfortunately haunting connection to 9/11, “If you’re in an airplane, and you’re flying somewhere, you don’t run up to the cockpit and attack the pilot. Mr. Eisenhower is the only President we’ve got.”

The only President we’ve got.

We all want to head in the same direction. We all want to move forward. We all want to progress and be happy and healthy and safe. But now, more than ever, our country’s prosperity is crippled by divisive partisanship. As World War I and World War II approached and the world realized that we are clearly connected on a global level, the people who seemed the most out-of-touch -- the people who were wrong -- were the isolationists. In both of those great wars, the isolationists were proven wrong. Yet, in the span of our grandparents’ lives we have regressed to the point where most Americans have become individual isolationists -- not isolationism on a national level, but on a personal level. We’ve tried to disconnect from the people in our own country -- especially if they look, love, or think differently than us. Don’t you remember how powerful it felt after 9/11 to be united? Don’t you remember how we helped each other in so many different ways?

I guess I could be cynical. I guess I could remember the look on President George W. Bush’s face when his Chief of Staff, Andrew Card, whispered news of the attacks in the President’s ear as he sat in a Florida classroom. I guess I could remember The Pet Goat, and the fact that Bush didn’t immediately get up, sprint from the room, and change out of his Clark Kent clothes into the Superman suit. I guess I could remember Air Force One zig-zagging across the country, the only plane in the air besides military escorts and combat air patrols over our major cities. I guess I could remember the surveillance videos of the well-dressed hijackers walking through airport terminals that morning before they turned our planes into weapons. I guess I could remember that the passengers of Flight 93 didn’t actually get through the cockpit door and force the plane to crash into that Pennsylvania field. I guess I could remember our government’s alphabet agencies -- the FBI, CIA, NSA, and everyone else listening in on our world -- being unable to work together and stop the attacks from happening in the first place. I guess I could choose to remember those things, but that doesn’t make me feel better. It doesn’t make 9/11 anything but a success to those who tried to frighten and frustrate and intimidate us through terrorism.

This is what I choose to remember:

I remember that the passengers of Flight 93 tried to get into that cockpit. I remember that their plane didn’t make it to Washington, D.C., and even if they never actually breached the cockpit and physically forced the plane into that meadow in Pennsylvania themselves, they certainly fought back and forced the hijackers to abort the mission that they had planned. That plane didn’t crash into the White House or the Capitol, and that’s not because the hijackers got lost.

I remember driving to the wedding rehearsal for two of my best friends on the Friday after the attacks, feeling bad for them that they were getting married in the shadow of 9/11. I remember being amazed at thousands of people in the streets of Sacramento -- neighborhood after neighborhood, thousands of miles away from any of the attack sites -- holding a candlelight vigil. I remember that it was then, as I drove through the silence of these peaceful vigils, with flags and flames and tears all around me, that I thought, “We’re going to be okay.”

I remember George W. Bush -- a President I never voted for -- who, like all of us, was a bit unsteady with his words in the hours immediately following the attacks as he processed the magnitude of what we were living through. But I remember how he found his footing and found his voice quickly and began to speak for all of us. I remember him returning to Washington, D.C. that night, against the wishes of his government and his Secret Service protection. I remember how this President -- a President I didn’t agree with, a President I never cast a supportive ballot for or whose campaign I ever donated a cent to, a President whose beliefs were diametrically opposed to almost everything that I believe in -- went to Ground Zero and met with the families of those who were dead or missing, and gave them all the time they needed with him.

I remember how that President visited the rescue workers at Ground Zero. I remember, more than anything else, how President Bush climbed on to a pile of rubble from the fallen towers of the World Trade Center, grabbed a bullhorn and began to speak, but was interrupted by the workers yelling, “We can’t hear you!”

I remember that the President -- the only President we had at the time -- shouted to these exhausted, weary, grieving, heroic rescuers, “Well, I can hear you! And the people who knocked these buildings down are gonna hear from all of us soon!” I remember that it was genuine, that there was nothing manufactured about that moment, and that, despite all of his faults and deficiencies, George W. Bush said exactly what those people -- our people -- needed to hear. As the workers chanted, “USA! USA! USA!”, I remember thinking that I didn’t vote for him and I won’t vote for him in 2004, but at that moment he was my President and I was proud of him.

As we look back, we can’t help but think about everything else that has come out of 9/11 -- the interminable war in Afghanistan, the unjust and unnecessary war in Iraq, the humiliating and annoying experience that flying in an airplane became in this country -- but I think about that stuff pretty much every day, and I feel like this should always be a day where we think differently.

So, even if it’s just for this day, I’m going to think about those flags and candles and President Bush on top of the rubble of the World Trade Center with a bullhorn. I’m going to think about being an American -- just like I was in the weeks following 9/11 -- rather than who I voted for or what team I like or any of the millions of things that divide us and can get back to tearing us apart tomorrow like they did yesterday.

I’m going to remember thinking, “That’s my President,” as President Bush spoke to the rescue workers, just as I did a few weeks later when he went to Yankee Stadium for Game 3 of the World Series, strapped on a bulky bulletproof vest under his FDNY jacket, walked to the pitcher’s mound, and with millions of Americans watching on television, with thousands of rabid New Yorkers watching in the stands, and with Derek Jeter’s words of warning (”Don’t bounce it or they’ll boo you”) rattling around in his head, threw a perfect strike.

I’ll remember thinking, “That’s my President,” about a guy I never voted for and didn’t agree with, and I’ll hope that you do that when the guy you didn’t vote for and didn’t agree with says the right words, does the right things, and throws a strike when our nation needs it -- not because you’re a Democrat or a Republican, but because you’re an American and that’s the only President we’ve got. We don’t have to disagree about everything just because we don’t agree about most things, and we don’t have to like everything about one another to understand that, sometimes, we need each other.

What do you remember?

[mandoalorian]

Today, Tomorrow, Always [Frankie Morales x F!Reader]

Summary: The nights were restless without Frankie by your side. He had left for South America a little over a month ago, promising he’d come back with more money to support your family. You didn’t want him to leave in the first place, but there was no changing his mind. You miss him. You’re worried about him. You just want him to come home. [Set after the events of Triple Frontier. Like, right after.]

Rating: PG-13

Word count: 3000>

Masterlist

Reblogs appreciated coz this isn’t showing up in tags and I’m too tired to figure out why. xx

-—-—-—♡—-—-—-

The love of your life. They say distance makes the heart grow fonder, and in that exact moment, you swore there was no statement truer. He’d been gone for a month and three days, your Frankie. You’d been shamelessly counting down until his return. No cell service in the jungles of South America, he’d warned you. He told you he’d be gone for two weeks max, and that you shouldn’t worry. He promised you he’d be fine.

But he was gone longer than two weeks, and you had no way to contact him. You were terrified, unable to help yourself from thinking the worst. Everything reminded you of him; the family photos scattered around your house, his cheap, tangy beers in the refrigerator, waiting to be drunk. Mostly though, your daughter. Maria was a newborn when he left, but now she was nearing two months. As you cradled her, your heart swelled with love. Same eyes as her father. Holding Maria only made you miss Frankie even more.

Religious or not, you would’ve prayed every night regardless. You prayed for his safety, and that he’d come home. You missed his warm hands and broad chest. You missed the way he’d tangle his fingers into your hair, and the faint smell of his musky cologne. Sometimes when you laid in bed, at night, you could still feel the ghost of his touch. Not a second went by where you weren’t dreaming about your Frankie.

This wasn’t the first time he and the guys would get involved in shady business. You wished he wouldn’t. He knew your feelings on it.

“I’m doing this for you and Maria.” he reminded you the morning he left. He took your hands and pressed soft yet chaste kisses across your knuckles. Everything he done, it was always for you and Maria.

Ever since Frankie had his piloting license revoked, things had been difficult. No job, no income. You had a job waitressing throughout your pregnancy but once you entered your third trimester, you were left with no choice but to take maternity leave. You, Frankie and Maria had been living out of your savings. And the savings were rapidly running out.

You knew better than to ask questions, but it was blatantly obvious that he’d accepted the mission in South America for a monetary reward. Or else, why would he go?

On a Thursday evening at around 7:30pm, the phone rang. You’d just put Maria to bed and you were sitting on the sofa, cradling one of your favourite fiction novels. Your eyes flicked towards the wall clock as you took a mental note of the time, wondering who could be calling you at this hour. Three more rings and you got up, padding towards the phone on the coffee table and picking it off the hook. The second you pressed it against the ear, you heard him.

Frankie.

“I didn’t get the money,” he announced over the phone, the line crackling slightly with the distance. No ‘hello’— no ‘how are you?’— just ‘I didn’t get the money.’ You were speechless. Not because of what he said, or what he didn’t say, but because he was alive. And safe, you assumed. Tears welled in your eyes as you processed the familiar sound of his voice. You hadn’t spoken to him in over a month, and so the low octave of his words were like the sweetest melody you’d ever heard. “I’m sorry.”

The guilt was eating him alive. He had to let you know in case you were expecting the money upon his return. He was so anxious, picking at his fingernails and anticipating your response. He had one job and he couldn’t even do that right.

He was broken. He’d done all of this, risked his life, just so he could earn a little cash to help support you and Maria. He’d left you for a month, and soon, he’d be returning with absolutely nothing. If you left him and took Maria with you, he wouldn’t even be surprised. He’d failed you. He’d failed Maria. He’d failed himself.

“Frankie,” you whispered, your shaky fingers curling around the plastic coated phone wire. He took a few breath, waiting for the worst to happen. “I’ve missed you so much.” you choked out, feeling your heart contract in your chest at the mere sound of his voice. What he was saying didn’t matter. No money? You couldn’t care less. Just the fact he was alive, speaking to you, was enough. All of Frankie’s nerves were immediately put to rest.

“I’ve missed you too.” Frankie confessed, his voice equally as soft as yours. As he marched through the freezing temperatures of the mountains and stormed through the humid temperatures of the jungles, he’d thought of you. When everyone else was camped out and sleeping by the fire, he couldn’t settle. He yearned to hold you, to kiss you and to love you. His month away from you only confirmed the feelings he’s been having for a long time.

“Where are you?” you sniffed, wiping away your tears and taking a deep (albeit shaky) exhale. You had to remain composed.

“Hawaii,” Frankie replied. “I’m calling from a public phone box and I think it’s gonna cut me off soon, but I’m catching a flight home first thing tomorrow,”

You smiled ecstatically, giving up and letting the warm tears free fall down you cheeks. Tomorrow? You were seeing him tomorrow? “I’m coming home, baby.” he confirmed, and you gasped out a sob over his good news.

“I love you so much,” you cried. “I love you Frankie. I— I love— I love you—“

“Don’t cry,” you heard him say. “I can’t wait to see you, sweetheart. Is Maria okay?”

“She misses her daddy so much. Frankie, we’ve missed you so much.” you revealed, your smile now aching your cheeks. But you didn’t care.

“My two girls. I love you. I love you today, tomorrow, always. Wait for me, hermosa, I’ll see you soon.” Frankie promised before the line went dead.

He muttered out a curse word and kicked the phone box in frustration. Frankie jumped slightly, feeling Santiago rest a comforting hand on Frankie’s shoulder. He’d somehow manage to shift into the phone box to be alongside Frankie, needing the privacy. “You sure about this, bud?” Santiago quizzed, presenting Frankie with a velvet ring box. Frankie took the box and slid it into his jean pocket.

He managed to hit a jewellery store just an hour ago before they had all closed. He picked out a diamond ring, just for you. It was simple but elegant (or so he hoped. Frankie didn’t have the greatest judgement when it came to jewellery and what looked good or not). He was drawn to it because it was similar to the only other engagement ring he’d ever seen. The ring that belonged to his mother. If you didn’t like it, he’d be fine with returning it until you’s could afford a better one, but the ring was more than just something to make your finger look pretty.

It was a symbol of promise.

“I’ve never been so sure about anything in my life.” Frankie sighed into admittance.

Santiago nodded, his heart blooming over the fact his best friend had finally found happiness. Frankie had been through a lot, but you’d saved him, in every sense of the word. Santiago knew that better than anyone else.

-—-—-—♡—-—-—-

Frankie called you that morning from the airport, just before he caught his plane. You barely slept a peep that night, excited to finally see him again. The love of your life. Your Frankie. You had a rough idea as to when he’d return; maybe 5 or 6ish. That’s what he’d told you. And you believed him because, well, he was a pilot. He could judge these kinds of things.

‘5 or 6ish’ gave you plenty of time to plan a little something for Frankie. It was hard, but you refrained from texting his family and calling your friends because you knew they’d all want to see him. As selfish as it sounded, you didn’t care, you at least just wanted one night alone with him where he could be all yours. No one else to fuss over him, just you. You deserved that much.

You could cook his favourite meal, pick out his favourite record, blow up some balloons, light some candles and dress in his favourite set of lingerie.

You wanted to make everything perfect.

Frankie came home at 2pm, and shamefully, you were still in your pyjamas. He’d told a little white lie about what time he’d be home because he wanted to surprise you. And you were definitely surprised. When he stepped through the front door, clean shaven with glazed eyes, it was like your feet were glued to the floor and you couldn’t move. It was strange, really. You’d always envisioned this moment where you’d run into his arms and give him a big, passionate kiss, but that’s not what happened at all.

Just a few days ago, you were thinking you might never see him again, but here he was, standing before you like the angel of your dreams. And the first thing you said...

“You shaved!” you cried out accusingly, your eyes going comically wide. Frankie chuckled and your heart clenched in your chest.

“What do you think?” he laughed, walking towards you and putting his bag on the floor. You raised your hands to cup his cheeks and feel the softness of his skin.

“Oh Frankie,” you whispered, a single tear slipping down your cheek, but Frankie was quick enough to catch it and wipe it away. “It’s really you. You’re really home.”

“Yes my love, I’m home.” he said, pulling you into a warm bear hug. His big arms squeezed your body tight. If he’d gone any harder, he might have crushed you, but you wouldn’t trade the feeling for anything else in the world.

“Being away from you for so long made me realise something. Home isn’t a place, it’s a person. It’s you. Any doubts I once had are now completely diminished and I know, for sure, I love you. I love you today, tomorrow, always. And I want to promise that to you, so, if you’ll let me...” Frankie dropped down to one knee and reached into his pocket, bringing out the velveteen ring box he’d purchased in Hawaii. “I promise to never leave your side, or Maria’s, ever again. You two are everything I could ever need. Any difficulties we encounter, I know we’ll be okay as long as we have each other, and I promise to swear my life to our little family. So, my love, would you do me the honour of being mine forever? Will you marry me?”

His brown eyes were so warm, they burned you. This was a moment you had only pictured in dreams. Without even taking a second to think about it, you already knew the answer. You’d always known the answer.

“Yes,” you nodded ecstatically. “Yes Frankie, I’ll marry you.”

And the grin that plastered his face was like nothing you’d ever seen before. He was absolutely delighted and he didn’t think he’d ever been this happy in his life, apart from, maybe when Maria was born. He was pretty damn happy that day too.

Frankie slid the diamond ring on your finger and it fit perfectly. It looked good too. Maybe Frankie had a better eye for jewellery than he’d though. “Do you like it? Because if you don’t, we can save up and get it exchanged.”

“It’s beautiful,” you gasped, eventually tearing your gaze from your fiancé so you could admire the way the diamond sparkled under the lights. “I don’t want to get it exchanged. I love it. It’s perfect.”

“You’re perfect.” he cooed, swaying backwards and forwards. When you looked back up at him, his cheeks were flushed an adorable pink.

You crashed your lips into his and wrapped your arms around his body.

“I love you so much Frankie Morales.”

“I love you too,” he replied softly, his warm breath fanning over your neck as he whispered in your ear. “Today, tomorrow, always.”

-—-—-—♡—-—-—-

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[redbeardace]

I was asleep.

Everyone remembers where they were. I was sleeping.

I was in college then. Summer quarter had ended a few weeks ago, and Fall quarter was a few weeks away, so I had nothing to do that Tuesday. I was sleeping.

My mother would get up to help get my father ready for work. He'd leave a little after 6 AM. Then she'd stay up and turn on the KTLA Morning News. We weren't in Southern California, but we'd lived there and had family connections there, so it felt like a "local" newscast, even though it was a thousand miles away. So most weekdays, I'd fade into consciousness, hearing the rhythm of the broadcast.

Carlos to Mark, Mark to Jennifer, Jennifer to Sam, Commercial, Repeat.

That morning, none of that.

I couldn't really hear what was going on, but it wasn't normal. There were no jokes, no music, no commercials, no changes. Just a steady drone.

I started to listen, to try to hear what was happening.

I heard something about the Pentagon and a bomb at the State Department.

Well. That's not good.

I roll out of bed and into the living room. It was a little after 7:30.

There's a helicopter shot of giant cloud of dust on the TV. Dust. A few buildings. here and there. But dust. Everywhere. It looked like Mt. St. Helens had moved to the city and erupted.

It wasn't the Pentagon. It wasn't the State Department. Was that New York?

"Planes hit the World Trade Center towers." My mother's voice is shaky.

Okay, then, somewhere in that dust are the towers. They build those things to survive plane strikes. It survived the bomb in '93. The Empire State Building got hit by a plane and it's still standing. She told me that they'd fallen, but I didn't believe her. I couldn't believe her. They're just hidden by the dust and the dust will clear.

The dust will clear. The towers can't just fall. You'll see.

The dust will clear.

There was nothing there.

---

We watched what was unfolding on the other side of the continent all day long. I think my father got sent home early and joined us.

Watching a day like that unfold live is an experience that's hard to describe. You look back now, and there's a clear timeline, there are clear events. But on that day, nothing was clear. The news was an unbroken stream of numbing repetition and confusion. The anchors narrating what's going on have a worse view of it than you do, because they're squinting at small monitors halfway across the studio. You can flip between CNN, ABC, NBC, CBS, and pick up little tidbits here and there, but they can't. They only have what comes through their earpiece, what ends up on their TelePrompTer, what's handed to them on paper. No one knows what's going on, not even the people telling you what's going on.

That day was full of rumors and confusion. There were attacks at the State Department and the FBI, there was a plane that had crashed in rural Pennsylvania, there was a plane that had been hijacked in Alaska. We didn't know what was real, and what was a phantom of fear. But mostly, it was just the numbing repetition. There was nothing new to add. Nothing more to say at 1 PM that hadn't been said at noon. What got repeated is what had happened, what didn't get repeated hadn't. The plane crash in Pennsylvania got repeated. The attack at the State Department didn't.

All day long, it was the same video from earlier in the day. Maybe a new angle as reporters and survivors got their footage to a TV station. But we watched it again and again. Maybe there'd be a new detail to see, something to fill in another piece of the What The Fuck Just Happened puzzle we were now living in.

In a weird way, that day didn't seem as bad as it went on and the rumors subsided and the scope became clear. My morning started with a dust cloud that covered all of Lower Manhattan and obscured what had happened. Had the towers toppled sideways and crushed dozens of buildings for blocks around? It was 9 AM on a Tuesday, a work day, those buildings were full, and the area was a major commuter hub. 10000 people in each building, maybe tens of thousands passing through, hundreds of thousands in that cloud of dust. There's no one alive down there. The initial estimates they gave were 20-30 thousand in the collapsed towers alone, to say nothing of the people suffocated by that cloud of dust and smoke. And then Washington DC is under attack and they're even hijacking planes in Alaska. What are they going to do to us next? But the death toll steadily dropped, other rumored attacks were found to be false alarms, they didn't come back for a second round. But that "good" news didn't make us feel any better. What would've made us feel better would've been word that they had been rescuing dozens of people from the rubble, stories of survivors being found days later, but that news never came.

---

Where's the President? Why haven't we seen the President? Why hasn't he said anything?

"He's safe and in an undisclosed location."

On September 10th, George W. Bush was just a bumbling dumbass who'd stolen the election from Gore. He wasn't yet a warmonger, although he'd surrounded himself with them.

On September 11th, Bush was still a bumbling dumbass, but he was our President. I was actually glad that he was invisible and hidden most of that day. We didn't know what in the hell was going on. If I knew where the President was, then the assholes who did this to us would know where he was, and no matter how much I didn't like the guy, I certainly didn't want to see a terrorist attack on Air Force One or the White House.

But I was worried that he'd send in the missiles and bombers and turn everything from Morocco to Pakistan to ash, which is what some people were calling for before we even knew who was responsible. And that's not what happened. All that happened that day was... nothing. I respected that, and I still respect that. Rushing headlong into revenge isn't what we needed that day.

---

We ended that day, not with Dan Rather or Peter Jennings or Tom Brokaw, but with Hal Fishman, legendary anchor on the KTLA News at Ten. He was a plane guy. He'd know what happened. He was comfortable to us, familiar, and we needed to know there was still something out there comfortable and familiar.

---

The next day, my mother wanted a break from it all, so we went shopping. I don't think we needed to, and Wednesday wasn't the normal shopping day, but we just had to get out, so we went to Wal-Mart.

Throughout the store, there were TVs hanging from the ceiling. Normally, they'd show ads and music videos and things. Not that day. They were all tuned to CNN. People stopped in the middle of the aisle, watching Condoleezza Rice or Donald Rumsfeld or Colin Powell or whoever giving a press conference.

There was no break from it.

---

Does everyone else know it was a Tuesday? I mean, just know. Like somehow that is an important, integral part of what happened that day. Because I know it was a Tuesday with that same fierceness as I know that the towers fell. I don't remember all the flight numbers or which tower was hit first or which one fell first or even a single word of what the President said that night, but I know it was a Tuesday. And I don't understand why.

---

I've cried over it. I just did while writing all this. It's one of the few things I have cried about. But it's never sustained weeping. One tear. Maybe two. It feels like it should be more, but then it's like the scale becomes incomprehensible and unreal and it stops. What good will my tears do? They won't fix it. They won't change it.

---

"Never Forget", they say, but twenty years on, many of you have no memory of that day, maybe even weren't born yet. You've only seen the packaged videos from the perfect camera angles. You know what happened, the full story told from beginning to end across three acts in a two hour movie. You know the death toll, you know about the box cutters, you know how Osama Bin Laden ends, you know where the undisclosed location is, you know about the plane that said "Let's Roll". We didn't know any of that, sometimes for days or weeks or years. We only knew shock and confusion and sadness and anger and numbness and a giant cloud of dust that has not cleared and will never clear and still coats everything in our lives, even if we were thousands of miles away.

For those of us who saw that day...

Never forget?

How could we?

[waveypedia]

The Family We Make

Companion piece to Leaving the Nest (can be read in any order)

Ao3

After Bradford is defeated, it takes hours for the adrenaline of the day to wear off.

Fenton calls his mother, who brings half of Duckburg’s police force over much sooner than should be humanly possible. Any questioning stares are met with amused shrugs and Gyro’s passionate declaration to never get between Officer M.A.M.A. Cabrera and her son. Spoken from experience, of course. Officer Cabrera’s officers and the superheroes present arrest FOWL’s goons. (Pepper gives May and June goodbye hugs.) 

The villains are gone, of course, having split with the help of Magica’s sorcery and a harmless raven on her shoulder. They’d left with winks and playful smiles tossed over their shoulders. Almost friendly, but not quite. Familiar. The promises of future tussles and battles left unsaid in the desert air. No one says anything outright, but the villains’ smooth departure puts a smile on everyone’s faces. It’s the promise of a next time. Of countless adventures to come. Bradford, for all his meticulous and careful planning, lost.

Goldie steals Manny away to ride into the nearest town and comes back with a cooler of snacks. Uncle Scrooge - Dad (Dad!) - and Granny level their fiercest glares at her and pointedly ask if she paid for them. Goldie giggles behind her hand and avoids the question, dropping a packaged ice cream cone in Dewey’s hands. He lights up, and Dad melts just like the ice cream under the hot desert sun.

Webby, sitting blissfully between Dad and Granny, has a perfect view of their conversation with Goldie. She keeps shooting Webby weird looks, like she isn’t quite sure what to make of her. Honestly, Webby doesn’t really blame her. Webby has always been Granny’s granddaughter through and through, and she inherited Granny’s disdain for Goldie and protectiveness of Dad. 

Webby leans against Dad, and he puts an arm around her. Steady and protective, although she can feel his heart fluttering in his chest. He’s exhausted too - he went through perhaps the most today, at least physically. They’re both too tired to speak, at least right now, but they’re content enough to be in each others’ presence. 

Dewey leads the other kids to the ice cream, and they wave her over. Gosalyn passes a cone to her, and Huey hands her a napkin. She sits sandwiched between Boyd and June, eating ice cream on the ramp of the plane. Violet is holding Lena’s cone because Lena is busy weaving friendship bracelets for May and June.

Webby glances back to where Dad and Granny have set up camp. Members of their family are filtering through, offering assistance and comfort. Donald’s leading a team to fix the plane, and Ludwig is bringing a group through FOWL’s headquarters like a tour guide, to pick up any evidence and missing mysteries. Gyro is off to the side, painstakingly fixing Boyd’s body and the Gizmosuit, with Della hovering over his shoulder and making snarky remarks he pretends to be bothered by.

Soon they’ll be in the air, and she still hasn’t talked to Dad. Really talked to him.

Fear starts to pool in Webby’s gut. He seemed to take it well enough, but that was in the middle of the fight. What if he doesn’t want to be her father? What if this changes her relationship with her other family members?

Webby squeezes her cone so hard it cracks and melted ice cream spills onto her hand.

Why should a piece of parchment, magic or not, decide her family, when she’s spent years cultivating and choosing the perfect family of her own? For better or for worse?

A familiar hand waves in front of her face, green sleeves flapping in the slight breeze, and Webby jumps, startled. Her family, no longer contentedly eating their ice cream, are all staring at her with varying degrees of worry.

“Hey, Webs?” Louie blinks at her and shoves his hands back in the pocket. “You were kinda spacing out there.”

Webby shakes herself back into the present and grins sheepishly at him. “Sorry. What’s up?”

Louie jerks a thumb inside the plane. “Mom just came by. We’re about ready to start heading back. Reinforcements just got here, and they’re going to take everyone else home.”

Webby blinks and casts a quick glance around the desert, cultivated by years of spy training and adventuring. Della is indeed a few paces away, talking to Launchpad, next to the broken plane wing looking as good as new. On the other side of the plane, Amunet and D’jinn are talking to Goldie and Storkules as they enter Gladstone’s blimp. The desert is clearing out, and those who haven’t already left are busy packing up any supplies. 

Dad and Granny amble over with the rest of the adults into the plane. Dad stops in front of them, placing his cane on the ground with a clink and folding his hands over it. He’s smiling, tired but fond. His eyes rest on Webby for a moment longer than everyone else before moving on. 

“All ready, kids?” Dad asks, his beak quirking up in a familiar cocky smirk, and something fond settles in Webby’s gut.

“Ready,” she replies firmly with the rest of them, smiling, and enters the plane, ignoring her growing nervousness. She’s with her family now. She’s safe.

--

When they’re all safe and settled in the belly of the Sunchaser once again,  after Launchpad’s little snafu with the emergency hatch release, Webby seeks Dad out.

He’s sitting in the seat closest to the cockpit, talking with Aunt Daisy. Webby’s full to bursting with nervous energy, but, as she knows, it’s all for naught. His face lights up when he sees Webby coming. Aunt Daisy, as savvy and clever as she is, gives Webby a fond, knowing smile and slips away with a pat on Dad’s knee and a ruffle of Webby’s hair.

Hesitantly, Webby jumps into Aunt Daisy’s chair and maneuvers herself to face Dad. She busies herself for a few moments by fidgeting with her friendship bracelet.

Dad rearranges himself to face Webby, too. “What can I do for you, lass?” he asks, but she can tell from his tone he already knows where this conversation is going.

“So. Um.” Webby tugs at the hem of her skirt, bunching it up in her fists and hurriedly smoothing it out again. “Dad.”

“Dad,” he repeats, his voice full of wonder and amazement. A small smile tugs at his grin, threatening to burst and split his face.

“Can we talk?” Webby asks nervously. Her voice breaks a little on the word talk, and Dad noticeably winces.

“Of course,” he replies, awkward and stilted. “Go ahead.”

“Well…” Webby stares down at her skirt, then back up at Dad with glassy eyes. “Do you love me?”

Dad jerks, shocked. It’s clear that of all her questions, he certainly wasn’t expecting that one.

“Like a daughter,” Webby clarifies. “Do you love me like a daughter?”

Dad’s face changes, softens. It’s unreadable, but not unkind. 

“Of course,” he replies softly.

Webby flinches and glances to the side, at the wall of the plane. Anywhere but Dad’s face. She tries to hide her discomfort, but it’s clear he notices.

“Do you… not want me to?” he tries.

Webby shakes her head. “Of course I do,” she replies softly.

“Then why…” he trails off. He has a million clauses he could finish the sentence with, but they all hang heavy in the air between them, unsaid.

Webby can’t look at him. “I… I don’t want you to only love me because I’m your daughter,” she replies. Her voice breaks on the word daughter. “I want you to love me because I’m me.”

“Webbigail Vanderquack.” Dad stares at her incredulously. “I paid full price for your birthday party. And it was only a front! How can you think I don’t love you?!”

A shocked giggle bursts out of Webby. After a moment, Dad joins her in his own giggling fit.

“I know you love me,” Webby replies quietly after their giggles have died down. Dad’s smile sags, and his expression turns serious and forlorn. “But it’s not the same. I- I know I’ve always been Granny’s granddaughter. It’s a little different. I love you, but I hate that we’re family because a missing mystery said so, and not because we love each other.”

Dad’s expression softens. “Oh, lassie.” He opens his arms, and Webby crawls into his embrace without a second thought.

Dad smooths her hair and tucks his chin onto her head. “Did you know,” he says, his voice muffled by the embrace, “that technically, May and June are my daughters too?”

Webby’s eyes burn. “Hmm?”

“Aye,” Dad continues. “If you were made from my DNA, and May and June were made from yours, then they’re a part of me too. Maybe they’re more like my granddaughters, but the point stands.”

Webby buries her face further into Dad’s coat and doesn’t respond. She’s not sure how too.

“Point being, May and June are my family, and I will treat them as such. I’m sure they’re marvelous young girls, and lovely sisters for you, my dear.”

Dad shifts his embrace so he can see her face. He holds her gaze with a steady and serious look.

“But they’re not my daughters. You, Webby darlin’, are. Do you know why?”

Webby shakes her head.

Dad hugs her tighter. “Because you always have been,” he replies, his voice thick, and oh. “Maybe not with that exact label, but, as Lena would say, labels are weird. You’re my family. You’re one of my kids. I know you, and I love you, Webby darlin’.”

“I… I know I didn’t make the effort to get to know you when you were young,” Dad continues. “I will be the first to admit I regret that. I’ve made a lot of mistakes when it comes to family. But I’ve had the honor of watching you grow these past years, and of being your family. And I wouldn’t trade that for the world.”

Webby nods. She knows they’re both thinking of earlier that day, when Scrooge’s declaration was put to the test, and won, but only narrowly. He doesn’t make that statement lightly.

Dad shifts, and his embrace loosens. His expression turns troubled and almost… nervous? It scares Webby by osmosis, but a part of her that she hasn’t processed yet thinks it’s comforting that he’s just as scared as she is. It’s new territory for both of them, but they’ll conquer it together.

“Webby, lass,” Dad begins, hesitantly. “Do you… not want me to be your father?”

Webby hums thoughtfully. Out of all the questions that had arisen in the wake of the Papyrus’ reveal, she hadn’t directly considered this one. It had been at the back of her mind, waiting, lingering.

Despite the lack of deliberation time, Webby knows the answer. She’s always known it, from the moment Bradford had confirmed her ancestry.

“Yes,” she says confidently, so firmly that it startles Dad. “It’s like you said. You’re my family, and that didn’t change.”

Dad’s face softens, and his shoulders slump with relief, and his grin threatens to split his face. Webby grins back, a mirror of his own.

“But,” she continues. “I… I like calling you Uncle Scrooge, too. It feels right to call myself your daughter, but it also feels right to call myself your niece. Does… is that okay? Does that make sense?”

“Of course,” Dad replies, shifting his arms. “I think I know how you feel. You are my daughter, and my niece. You’re one of my kids, and that will never change.”

He smiles wryly. “I do like having this special connection to you, though, lass. I have many heirs, but you’re the heir of Clan McDuck. That’s not something to take lightly. I’m proud of you.”

“I’ve never had a father,” she says after a minute. “Granny told me about a father, and a mother, too, but I never really knew them. But I’ve always had you.”

“Aye, Blaise,” Dad replies. “Your so-called ‘mother’ was your grandmother’s niece, if I remember correctly. Arianna. She and Blaise were sweet, if a bit airheaded, from what your grandmother’s told me. They were in a car crash shortly before you were bo- before your grandmother brought you home.”

Webby hums. “I didn’t know they were real.”

“Aye, they were very real,” Dad confirms. “As I’m sure Louie or Goldie will tell you, the best lies are closest to the truth. I’m sure they would love you, dear.”

“I don’t know them,” Webby counters softly. She tilts her head back to look Dad in the eyes. “I never will. But I know you.”

He beams at her. “Exactly, lassie.”

Webby shifts back into his embrace, and they sit together for a minute, the plane’s rumblings shaking them both slightly. 

“Does this mean Goldie is my mom now?” Webby asks suddenly, her beak quirking into a grin.

Dad startles and squawks. “Ack, no! I know Louie calls her Aunt Goldie, for all the blasted- but now. Er, I suppose, that’s up to you, lassie,” he finishes somewhat awkwardly.

Webby smiles contentedly and leans her cheek against the fabric of his coat. “That’s okay,” she replies. “It’s my family and I get to choose the members.”

Dad grins proudly, and they lapse back into silence for another few minutes. The adrenaline, both from the harrowing events of the day and the nerve-wracking yet highly anticipated conversation with dad, slips out of her veins, and the heaviness of sleep tugs at Webby’s eyes.

Dad eventually breaks the drowsy, comfortable silence. “I’m proud to call you my daughter.” he murmurs into her hair, and Webby beams. “I’m proud you’re my family, not because that blasted Papyrus says so, but because you chose me. That means more to me than all the money in my Money Bin.”

Webby snuggles deeper into his embrace, her eyelids drifting closed. “Likewise, Dad. I love you.”

He smooths her hair down. The last thing she hears before she falls asleep, blissful and safe, is: “I love you too, Webby darlin’.”

~

god i. finale came out today and anyone who’s talked to me can verify that i’ve been in constant Duck Mode all day. head full only ducks. i’ve been struggling with motivation lately (as always lmao) but it struck today in the form of my absolute favorite dynamic in the entire show.

if you were in my circles back in 2018, around when confidential casefiles aired, you might remember that i talked a lot about webby and scrooge. i remember requesting them in almost every writing prompt request i was offered. i don’t talk about them much nowaways, and i’m not sure why, because i still love them. regardless of how you feel about the twist in the finale, the pure, unconditional love that webby and scrooge show each other makes me so, so happy. I almost added a section with beakley, because she's an important part of webby's family as well and they need to have a conversation, but webby and scrooge needed their moment. i'll write it later.

this is a bit of trying to make sense of how the theme of found and chosen family fits in with webby’s new biological relation to scrooge and a bit closure. scrooge isn’t the best at having these important conversations, but webby’s pretty good at sticking up for herself when need be.

arianna and blaise are actually based on my OC versions of webby’s parents i made a long, long time ago! arianna was a shush-turned-fowl agent, and blaise was a fowl technician. my plan for them was that they were working for fowl (which was, at the time, based on darkwing duck’s fowl) and eventually, they both cut ties and became freelance villains in st. canard and duckburg. the duck family would fight them, they’d recognize webby and beakley, and the truth would come out. the arianna and blaise mentioned here aren’t my old versions of them, but i wanted to pay tribute to that little picture webby had on her board of her parents. i figured they had to be someone, especially since the woman looked a lot like beakley. my headcanon is that they really were a librarian and an artist, and that beakley raised webby in their images as a tribute to the family she’d lost. also, it didn’t come up in the fic, but blaise is nonbinary and uses they/them pronouns!

when watching and rewatching the finale and watching gifs of it, something that struck me was how awestruck and euphoric scrooge acted when he found out. i think most of us focused on webby’s reaction, and beakley’s, but man, scrooge gets so quietly emotional and it means everything to me. this is basically a love letter to that quiet joy, scrooge and webby’s relationship, webby’s beautiful relationship with family, the finale, and ducktales as a whole. i love this goddamn show, and i’m going to miss it so much. see you, space cowboy.

[spiltscribbles]

57. “Wait a second.. are you jealous?” + Poorly Timed Confession + modern au 😍 pretty please!!!

~Notes: OMFG angel!!! Thank you SO SO much for the prompt<3 You are a complete babe! I hope you like :S It’s cheese, but like also what else would I do? LMFAO XD

.-

Smash Prompt Game  |  Send Me A Prompt💜 |  A Reblog Is Like An I Love You!!

.-

“Hmmm… All right, would you rather, mmm… Smell Borris Johnson’s sweaty gym socks, or snog Professor Slughorn full on the mouth for a straight minute— oh erm, not so straight I reckon on second thought.”

Remus wrinkles his nose at him from across the bed, and clucks his tongue at the awful pun. “You’re unruly.”

“And you’re dodging,”

“Am not arse, I’m just recovering from that very terrifying scenario you’ve spewed out like the sadistic satanist you are.”

“Which scenario are you recovering from though?” Sirius leers, wiggling his eyebrows and jostling Remus’s textbook with his foot.

“I hate that you’re enjoying this so much,” Remus intones in a deadpan.

“Mary John, I’m waiting,” Sirius says with far too much glee.

Sometimes Remus is sure that he hates him. “Fine, the answer is I hate you.”

“Filthy and slanderous lies, Lupin.”

“You’re demented.”

“Five. Four. Three—“

“I won’t choose.”

“See,  all I hear is that you wanna get it on with our chemistry professor, you saucy minx, you.”

Remus sniffs. “Better than touching that prick with even a ten foot pole.”

“Mmmm, have I ever told you how hot and heavy I get hearing you talk politics at me?”

Remus throws him the bird, which makes Sirius laugh. Remus can objectively say that Sirius has the most beautiful variations of laughter in the world, and he’d know considering he’s catalogued each one. This version is definitely top three. His care free, effortless laugh when Remus takes him off guard with a snide remark or lowly muttered retort that’s not appropriate for most company— It’s really more of a experience, truly. His breaths stutter out in a lovely staccato, and his eyes glimmer like the sea, and sometimes it feels like the world’s been suspended and it’s only the two of them in that slice of eternity.

Erm, Ah, but yeah…. That only happens occasionally, and it’s only because Sirius is Remus’s greatest friend— has been since the final year of primary school after Remus had moved to the London outskirts from his small, coastal town in Wales, and on first sight, Sirius swung a snowball straight to Remus’s face, which he of course responded to by throwing two more his way, and well… The pair of them were soaking and breathless by the end of it, but their fate was sealed, they were the greatest of friends, and nothing would ever alter that unquestionable staple.

So what if sometimes Remus’s chest thuds painfully when Sirius dimples his way, or Remus only ever wants to talk to him over anyone else— even Lily or his Mam— if he’s had a bad day, or good one, or if something remarkable had happened, or , or… Or whenever really. And there’s absolutely no significance that Remus can’t help the totally delighted grin that splits his face in half whenever he gets a text or snap from Sirius.

None of that is at all relevant.

Sirius is Remus’s greatest friend, and he’d never risk ruining that by allowing some pesky little crush swallow him whole and clammer out his mouth— vulnerable and throbbing in the open space between them. It doesn’t matter if Marlene always makes kissy faces their way, or how James only ever refers to them as a couple, and so what if Peter’s got a pole running that Remus knows basically the whole school is betting on. 

They’re all wrong, Sirius would never, ever feel the same sort of way that Remus does him, that’s downright preposterous and ridiculous and just simply impossible. And Remus’s perfectly content with that very real truth… He is.

Remus is fine with it God help him. So everyone else just needs to but the fuck out of their business.

Besides, this, this right now— Him and Sirius splayed out on opposite ends of Remus’s bed, with Sirius’s feet nudging at Remus’s elbow whenever he’s got a question about there homework, with the window cracked open just so, letting in some of the chilly winter air because Sirius absolutely can not focus if he’s not cold— the fucking furnace— Where Remus can still hear the going ons of his family playing out on the floor below them… This is the most perfect place in Remus’s eyes, and he won’t ever change that, especially not to live out some boyhood fantasy that would never come into fruition in his wildest of dreams.

Remus’s content… He is… He has to be or else he’d lose one of the most vital people in his world.

.-

“You’ve got footie practice after school, right?”

“Mmhmm, you coming to watch?”

“Only if you admit i’m your good luck charm,” Remus sardonically bats his lashes at Sirius as if he was in a mascara advert, and the taller boy  blows a raspberry right back at him.

“Nice, real nice. You’re extraordinarily mature, you know that, Black?”

“And sexy, don’t forget that, oh so important descriptor Lupin.”

Remus leans against the locker besides Sirius’s, watches as he trades his current binders for the lot he’ll need for the afternoon, and tries really hard not to stare too longingly at how Sirius’s arm muscles ripple beneath their school’s  maroon, uniform jackets  in the most delicious of ways. (He hates the fact he’s been dissolved into a starry eyed mess lusting over the star striker, but thus is his fate.)

“I’d never commit such a faux pas, and I’m insulted that you’d ever think as much.”

Sirius sneers at him with a slight shake to his head. “So you coming or not?”

“I’m still contemplating my options,” he preens, but before Sirius could retort, Marlene, megawatt smile and dangerously sharp  smirk— swaggers over towards them.

“Good morning my two beautiful chums!”

“What do you want?” Sirius asks before even glancing her way, to which Marlene blinks up at him, faux owlish. “S, I just wanted to greet a couple of my closest companions this lovely December morning,” she defends herself.

“Marls, you’re never this agreeable before noon,” Remus points out hesitantly.

“ And you rarely are even afterwards,” Sirius tacks on.

“Rude,” she pouts.

“Accurate,” Remus pipes in with an apologetic grimace.

Marlene stares them both down for a solid minute before finally relaxing her shoulders, and thrusting out the legal pad in her grasp. “The student council and spirit society are selling corsages for the snowflake formal, and Dorcas has deployed me to get some orders.”

“Whipped,” Sirius teases through a counter-fit cough.

Marlene doesn’t hesitate before smashing the legal pad on his head. “And you traipsing around getting people to buy the tickets for the theatre department last semester even though Re was only playing Mercutio wasn’t you being wrapped around his littlest finger?”

Remus flushes, feeling an unnerving amount of bees stinging around his stomach, and is thankful when the conversation pauses after Sirius casts her a very heated V.  “Sod off.”

“So are you guys gonna buy or not?” Marlene huffs, weight slung to her left hip, and arms crossed against her chest.

“I’m a gay bloke, Marls, did you forget that?” Remus pins her with a one eyed squint, and she just scrunches her face up at him, exasperated.

“I’m sure there’s matching boutonnieres.”

“Fine, I just don’t have any school spirit  then.”

This time she glares. “Lily and James are Head Boy and Head Girl, isn’t there like an oath between you lot,  one for all and all for one, or some rot?”

“That’s the three musketeers,” he says.

“isn’t that basically who you guys are?” She reasons.

Before their wage of words could continue, Sirius just grabs the order form out of Marlene’s hands and fills out a sheet with the flurry of his pen. “Happy?”

“Positively delighted,” she leers, pecking them both on the cheek before strutting off, reminding them of their group study session at Alice’s tonight in her wake.

Sirius shakes his head, reluctantly amused with a grin gathering on the corners of his mouth, but for Remus everything feels like it’s frozen. “You didn’t have to do that you know? ’S not like James is much of a Head Boy anyhow, and Lily wouldn’t have really cared.”

Sirius shrugs, commences their walk to the opposite wing of the school for their shared history class. “Emmy likes that sort of romantical shite.”

Remus sees red, feels his heart lodging in his damn esophagus. “Oh, so— Erm,  you’re taking her then,” Remus wonders if his tone sounds as detached as he feels.

“Yeah,” Sirius eyes him, questioning. “She wants that title of snow queen real bad, made me promise I’d campaign with her and the whole shtick.”

“Oh,” it’s like Remus could feel it when he closes off completely, can feel his hopes squashed down and his heart contract and his every organ collapsing in on themselves, leaving him feeling hollowed out completely.

Sirius slows down marginally, eyeing him with a slight frown. “Is that all right? I know you two don’t exactly get along and we were planning to go as a group, bu—“

“It’s fine,” Remus hates how screechy his voice gets, how he feels like he’s about to scream. “You two are a shoe in, no doubt.”

Sirius tries to mirror Remus’s faux excitement with a tepid grin of his own, but Remus doesn’t let him, instead commandeering their typical table on the back row and tries focussing on the thousandth war with France while his world tilts off kilter.

.-

Emmy is beautiful, and popular and her smile alone dazzles the whole room. She’s everything that Sirius should look for in a partner, someone to match his whip lash wit, and his taste for all things exuberant that skirt on flashy, and someone who’s got just as many friends and admirers as him.

They’re perfect and Remus should just get over his petty ass hatred of her, even if he still thinks she can be down right cruel and selective and selfish. Qualities Sirius surely isn’t… But maybe it’s all in his head how she sneers at people who she finds plane, or how she literally guffaws over the misfortune of others. Maybe his perception of how she wields people in like moths to a flame just to get what she wants is all a misunderstanding, or in his head or something.

Maybe all that’s possible, even if Remus seriously doubts it.

But at the end of the day, Sirius loves her— has been basically infatuated by Emmeline Vance since she first transferred at the start of their Freshman year. Sirius loves her, and who ever Sirius loves is merely an extension of him… Right?

Remus just needs to get over it and somehow rid himself of this crush he’s been fostering for so long it’s basically a part of him at this point. Though, he thinks it’d be a lot easier if he didn’t see their faces plastered on posters everywhere the week and a half leading up to the dance— looking like actual royals that would put Will and cate to shame.

.-

“Yo cheekbones!”

Remus starts, swivels around from where he was scratching his pen to paper, finding Sirius— as glimmering and beautiful as always— swaggering up to him, insanely electric smile painted over his face.

“Would you rather eat a jumbo jar of jalapeños without a break, or eat the toenails from someone with athlete’s foot next to your dinner every night of the rest of your life?”

“I thought you were having lunch with Emmy to keep up your royalty status before this weekend?” Remus asks, tacitly side stepping from the horrific images swimming to the forefront of his mind because of his cruel question.

“Now that doesn’t sound like an answer to my ultimatum,” Sirius says in a singsong sort of voice.

“You answer me first,” Remus says airily.

“But I asked first,” Sirius argues haughtily.

“Well both your options would kill me, so I wouldn’t do either,” Remus retorts.

“That’s not how the game works!”

“You’re the one who always says that rules were made to be broken,” Remus says, lofty as all get out,, and dissolves into laughter at the completely cross look Sirius’s giving him.

“You were born to be contrary, weren’t you?”

“So lunch?”

“Got bored,” he shrugs, hopping onto the corner of the desk Remus’s working on. “What you up to instead of eating?”

“My position paper for Model UN.” Sirius smiles down at him, and Remus can’t help the flush that spreads across his cheeks in return. “Not as glamorous as running as Snow King, I know.”

“It’s precious,” Sirius contends, his soft timbre sounding like syrup and his long fingers fluttering against Remus’s skin, pushing back a lock of his ever disheveled, tawny curls in a far to gentle way, and Remus gulps before averting his gaze to break the sudden tautness that’s built between them. 

They’ve had so many of these almost moments, ones that Remus’s always treasured but he knows doesn’t mean much of anything at all to Sirius— Sirius who is effortlessly hilarious, and brims with genius and  who is so beautiful that sometimes it hurts looking at him for too long. Sirius who has a new suitor at his beck and call on a near weekly basis. But whenever they transpire now, it just hurts all the more because Remus knows in his heart of hearts that they will never lead anywhere, and Sirius is in love with Emmy and Remus can’t let himself float around in this daydream for any longer.

“Ahem,” he clears his throat, shuffles in his seat only slightly. “I’m Algeria so my Mam’s pretty excited about it. She’s been telling me all the stuff Wikipedia’s got wrong and everything.”

Sirius laughs, but it doesn’t touch his eyes. “Your mother is kinda everything, you know that?”

Remus twists his mouth up, reluctant. “Don’t tell her as much, or else she’ll go on and on how she won Miss Teen Great Britain when she was only sixteen.”

“Hmm, I was wondering where you got that pretty face.”

“You, Sirius Black, can go lick an unwashed arse.”

“You’ll never catch a suitor with that cheek of yours though. I’d work on that, Lupin.”

“I don’t think I could ever win Miss Congeniality, alas.”  Remus doesn’t quite catch Sirius’s reply, to busy responding too the text his phone just chirped with instead.

“Mary John, are you listening?”

“Uh-huh.”

Sirius’s brows hike up, flabbergasted smile stretched across his face. “So totally rude! And I came all the way here— to the place where dreamers die— just to spend time with you.”

“Sorry,” Remus gives him an abashed little half grin before setting the phone back down. “’s just Fabian.”

Sirius’s expression drops, goes inquisitive instead of his typical ebullience. “Fabian? Why’s Fabian Prewett texting you, and why is he,” Sirius crooks his head so he’s able to read the new message that popped up on Remus’s phone’s screen. “Asking about color coordination?”

Remus blushes for an entirely new reason now, one he likes much less. “Ah, he’s the sort to like it when our suits like match, but not in an abrasive fashion, you know?”

Sirius’s face goes scarily blank.

“Your suits? Suits for what?”

“The dance…” Remus says slowly, he’s confused what Sirius’s confused about.

“The dance… Right… I thought you were still going with everyone else?”

“Pff, no way,” Remus scoffs. “Lily’s  only pretending to be single, you know how red in the face she gets whenever around James. They’ll end up dancing the whole night away. And with Dorcas running the whole event and Benjy thinking any social function is a plague on society, that’d leave me stuck with Peter and Mary, . And honestly I’ve seen enough of her tongue shoved down his throat for a lifetime.” Remus is only slightly  surprised that doesn’t even elicit a chuckle from Sirius, who’s now looking a bit stormy— and he thinks he’ll never be accustomed to his mercurial moods that can change as quickly as the snap of the finger.

“Right… So you’re going with Fabian Prewett… as your date?”

“Yes… Why is that so hard to believe?”

“it’s, it’s not,” Sirius scrambles, suddenly standing up.

“Then why are you being so weird about this,” Remus argues, getting up to meet him at his level.

“Am not!”

“You’re going with Emmy,” Remus reminds him, this edge of desperate.

“I know I am, okay. But you— you—“ Sirius tappers off, eyes glassy and lips parted with words he can’t get out, and Jesus fucking Christ is it weird how for the first time ever their roles have reversed. Sirius can’t put any sentences together, and everything Remus’s been beating down—  everything thrashing inside of him— are now burning his throat and warring over who can spill out first.

“What? I’m suppose to stay behind like the pathetic, nobody friend. The guy who’s just there to moon after you while you have an actual life. The Judie garland to your Mickie Roomie!”

“What are you even talking about right now!” Sirius shouts, sounding as torn apart as Remus feels.

“As if you don’t know!” He snarls, collecting his books into his backpack— Suddenly this room feels to stifling. He can’t breathe and it’s too hot and his chest is pounding.

He’s imploding and Remus has no idea how to rectify it.

“Just stop! Remus Stop!”

“leave me the fuck alone Sirius!”

“Why are you being such a prick about this!”

And that, that makes Remus angry, angrier than he’s ever been.

Before he could even think about it for a moment longer, Remus is rounding on him, dashing so close to Sirius that he can taste his breath with how close their faces are skirting against each other.

“I’m in love with you! I’ve been in love with you for forever, and I know that you don’t feel the same way, and I know that you’re in love with Emmy and, and I just know okay.”

“Wha—“ Sirius sputters, looking like a gaping fish. “Wait a second, are you jealous? Of sodding Emmy Vance?”

“Don’t!” Remus practically growls out. "Don’t disrespect me, okay? Don’t pretend that you never knew, or that I was such a good actor. I’ve been in love with you for years and you always knew and Fine, I get it. You never felt the same way, that’s fine. But just don’t pretend as if you never had the choice, don’t make me out as the bad guy for actually, finally saying yes to a bloke who’s actually into me. I need to fucking give up on the premise of us, I need to get over you. So I’m going out with fucking Fabian Prewett and you’re going out with Emmy Vance and that’s that!”

His breaths are labored, jagged and painful, as they race out of him, but Remus can’t move. He’s staring straight into Sirius’s beautiful, gray eyes, and he sees everything he’s always seen there, and hates that this is probably the last time he’ll get to be this close to him.

Not after this.

“I didn’t,” is the first thing Sirius croaks out, broken and helpless. “i didn’t know, Remus you have to believe me— I didn’t—”

“How! How could you not know!” He shouts back, but Remus doesn’t get his answer in so many words, instead he feels it.

He feels it when Sirius clamps his hands on either end of his waste-line, feels it when Sirius smashes their lips together in a cacophony of lips, and teeth and spit. He feels it when Sirius moans in side of him, when his hand moves down, spreads across the width of the small of his back, pushing their torsos even closer. Remus feels it when everything goes into focus, when he takes Sirius into his arms, greedy and excited and disbelieving.

And Remus thinks to all the other times he’s kissed another boy— To this prior weekend swapping snogs with a beaming Fabian in the back of a theatre. He thinks of how there was never anything worth anything when he kissed any of them Because it was all Sirius, always Sirius. And he could try to love Fabian, or some other cute boy, and he tried, and he tried, and he tried, and he gave all he had…but it was never enough, could it ever be enough?

Remus knows it in his bones that it’s enough when it’s with Sirius.

When they finally pull apart it’s difficult to breathe and Remus feels lightheaded and it’s wonderful in the most marvelous of ways.

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Sirius says in a whisper. 

“Maybe next time give a guy some warning?” Remus can’t help the shit eating smirk that swipes across his mouth and is elated at the adorably cross scowl Sirius answers him with.

“Fine jackass, how’s this for a warning, I’m gonna kiss you now.”

“That’ll be sufficient, I suppose,” Remus goads, laughing against Sirius’s lips when he does just that.

~*~

Sirius ends up winning snow king, but rejects the dance with Emmy, opts to ask Remus to join him instead, as if they were in the middle of some John Hughes movie from the fucking 80s.

It’s utterly ridiculous and overdone and simply way too much— but everyone applauded and cheered and when Sirius kissed him in the middle of it, Remus felt as if his whole body sung with joy.

.-

~My Wolfstar FIC Masterlist

[ringmyheart]

Can I request Vin Jin boyfriend headcanons and some fluff? (You don't have to force yourself)

(This and the other vin jin rq were merged!)

Honestly the way I see it, it doesn’t matter if you’re a very calm person or outgoing person. No matter what this relationship is gonna end up being considerably chaotic

He ropes you into everything he does. Doesn’t matter if u r a design student or an architecture student or if ur on the opposite side of the school from him, u r practically in his class. Dating him is like signing a contract sealing away ur own life bc he makes it a point to be ALWAYS w u

In class he doesn’t gaf if the teacher has ur seat on the other end of class, he is somehow finding a way to sit next to u against ur will or not. And when the teacher moves u two away from eachother INTENTIONALLY bc of this, he is threatening whoever happened to sit next to u to trade seats w him. He will go as far as to dress up as them to make it look like they’re them to be next to u and he’s so dramatic ab it.... being away from u felt like u were star crossed lovers whom the world was fiercely against

And if UR against this cuz ur tired of getting in trouble in class, or if you reject any of his advances, he’s gonna be really, really, really offended. He will at first sputter and be kinda shy and embarrassed about it, before he goes “fine! Have fun on your own without me, the greatest thing in your fucking life!”

He move seats back and will glare at you periodically every five minutes to pavlov dog you so that every five minutes every day, even when he’s not there, you feel the burning stare of vin jin

If you’re his s/o, he’ll buy you a matching pair of sunglasses so ur the freshest looking couple around Seoul (they’re hideous and thick but he thinks u look fly)

The glasses don’t have nearly as many layers as his does for himself so u can see, and u wonder how he managed to make them just as bulky and if he did it on purpose to sabotage u. Like “did u make my glasses purposefully ugly so no one else will want me?”

U have to dodge a punch after saying anything like that ab his fashion decisions LMAOAO

He’s rlly proud of u two matching. With the glasses and anything in general. He’ll make you wear a jacket matching his, or the same shoes and he will stop people in the hall and be like “wait. Notice anything cool ab us today?? Cooler than normal??”

And when they don’t respond he boasts “that’s right!! Me and my other half r matching. Look at us and weep, losers.” He thinks u two look so good....... if ur enthusiastic ab wearing matching things too he is elated u have to pray that tomorrow he won’t show up w another “if lost return to Vin Jin” “I’m Vin Jin” pair of jackets or anything of the like bc it happens SO OFTEN

And on the topic of sharing when it’s cold he likes to share jackets and blankets w u. Ur desks r moved by eachother by vin jin himself and u two share one blanket over u and shiver bc he just likes it, sharing w u plus he’s slightly warmer. And yes if you guys had indivizual blankets you would be warmer, but u guys have to struggle together he doesn’t care what anyone says (yes even ur protests ur sharing that one blanket wether he has to wrap it around u himself and tear up the one u brought on ur own or what”

He is so blind in love that he cannot tell when u guys suck at stuff. Like if ur in the wrong he doesnt care ur RIGHT and he’s taking that to the grave. He can belittle u and call u out but if someone else says ur in the wrong it’s on sight

Will die protecting ur name even when ur the one who was genuinely wrong

He forces u to make a beat for him to rap to. He loves rapping and wants to enjoy it w u, so ur forcefed YouTube videos of how to beatbox so u can be his bgm and eventually u probably just start to enjoy it to

And u always start a beat and he starts busting out rhymes and it’s SO BAD. It doesn’t matter if ur good at beatboxing if vin Jin is on the track w u it’s gonna sound terrible he brings the quality down immensely but u two just cannot tell

Like after a two session ur like “omg... that was so good. We should go pro?” “Fuck yea we should we’re better than those posers” “we could rlly make it in the industry fr” no u absolutely could not

During the school festival, u sang with him and it was SO bad. Half the crowd is gonna have 2 be hospitalized but u two had FUN up on the stage

Like I said, he has absolute faith in u. All u do is right. If ur driving a car for the first time, he is going to be ur little hype man doesn’t matter if u suck. U hit a curb and he went “YES babe!! Ur killing it cant wait till u hit the road bby” Ur not allowed to touch a car for the next two years now bc he kept cheering u on when u we’re doing CLEARLY wrong things

On a plane u r looking for the bathroom like pensively and u see a handle and look back and r like “is this it???” And vin jin thinking u r all righteous will go “yea babe go for it” and u open it and u depressurizate the cabin immediately

Now both on like 5 no fly lists

He loves to do things with u, like I mentioned earlier, and things he wouldn’t do alone he’ll do w u. Like drawing alone?? Boring. Drawing w Y/N??!!! Who knows what could happen..... so much fun could ensue. Maybe he will draw u cutely. Maybe he will draw u so ugly u will be forced to engage in a fight.

He likes to play just dance w u and compete for the “greats/all star!” Little titles above, and it becomes like a Friday night ritual for u two to turn just dance on and just go at it. But sometimes he’ll get too intense and suddenly he’s actually fighting for the chance to beat u. Will trip u so u lose on purpose

He makes u listen to him sing and rap to u. And u try to leave and he hugs tightly and is like LISTEN IFS FOR U, DONT BE UNGRATEFUL and now u have to listen

He makes u a mixtape of songs he made himself and they are all considerably worse than “remember the times we had”. It’s uploaded on SoundCloud and all the comments r hate and u listen to it a lot bc u know he loves u sm he made u a mixtape ya ur gonna play that but everyone else hates it w a passion

Like the comments r like:

Daniel: well.... it’s definitely a song 😅 I’m glad you love (y/n) so much!

Duke: he’s not making it out the hood 😐

Zach: never let this man in a studio AGAIN

Mary: this should’ve stayed in the CD

(Y/N): love it! 😍

Zoe: kill your producer 💀

Mira: ...

He’s overprotective too

If someone looks at u for more than a second he’ll go “what?? U think she is hot, huh? I’ll kick ur ass fucking perv.... cmon babe let’s go”

Will throw his arm around u and streer u the opposite way of any potentially good looking ppl to keep ur eyes on him

Oh Daniel is coming?? What a coincidence u and vin Jin suddenly have to turn the corner to the other way of ur classroom for some reason

Eli is near?!!! Oh no u just got milk spilt in ur eye!! Oh no now he has to wipe ur eyes and u two have to leave the cafeteria whatever will he do

It’s not that he doesn’t have faith in u, he doesn’t have faith in other men. Like he thinks they r all competition, and doesn’t doubt ur loyalty rather doubts how good he can b for u

WILL beat someone up for u. If someone smokes while ur around suddenly his fists r swinging at them cuz even if u smoke or vape urself no one else can get that stuff in ur lungs but YOU or HIM!!

If ur crossing the street and a car almost hits u, it’s the cars fault and he’s kicking the license plate and cursing it out for almost touching u “stupid fucking piece of metal”

Is the type of boyfriend to call u when he knows ur in an Uber and be like “babe u got ur gun w u right?? Oh don’t forget ur BOMB and ur MACHETE!! Yeah just left the house I killed some ppl nbd haha anyways HRU what’s ur Uber driver like” so the driver of ur car won’t even think ab kidnapping u. He has got ur back even when u do not want it

He doesn’t want u to see his eyes, so he’ll tell you to look away so he can take his glasses off and look at u in full color in all ur glory but he never tells u WHY he’s telling u to look away u think it’s a weird thing of his, or he’s insecure ab his face which is partially true but really he’s taking his glasses off and just looking at u. Adoringly.....

He hates PDA. He loves PDA. Do u see his dilemma

Like he loves PDA but doesn’t want anyone seeing him vulnerable even u.... so he’ll hold ur hand and be like “EWWW WHAT R U DOING GET YR HAND OFF MINE”

If u take the lead THATS best bc he can blame it on u and it’s ur fault he HAS to lock fingers w u cuz u did it to him first and he has an excuse to touch u and v like u started this im just sending u ur own energy back 😤

The type to be just like blind, overwhelmed in love. Always thinks ab u, always wants to be w u, worries ab u a lot and frets over u without showing it.... he hates it and loves it to death. Despises it but wouldn’t give it up for anything in the world

Eats lunch w u in the cafeteria and if u sit w someone else u r the ultimate traitor and he will trash talk u to hide his hurt to Mary the entire lunchtime. Kinda possessive.... wants u to also only think about him

WOULDNT EVER fight u for real. Play fights occur VERY often, like pillow fights, tripping ur foot when u say a joke insulting him, grabbing ur collar but he would sooner die than lay a finger on u

Verbal fights happen a lot and if he ever like LOSES it he may lash out and almost hit u and follow thru. I don’t think he’d be able to catch himself that quickly, and if he ever did he’d regret it for the rest of his life. Literally until the day dies he will take it to his grave

He may not sputter out apologieswill just look at u incredulously and then at his hands because what had he done? What did he just do? To you???????? (Y/n))))?????? His (y/n)??? Light of his life?

Will apologize probably over text or through a note or call, and if u don’t respond he is consumed by regret and tries to find u instantly like runs back to ur place

If u forgive him he feels bad still, because does he deserve it? And he might just isolate himself for a bit bc he can’t face u and if it left a scar he is dead inside. It kills him, literally

I could go on w this but I’ll probably save it for another separate pair of hcs later 😭

If u guys ever break up he will fight for u again and won’t stop till ur back together like flowers in ur locker every day, chocolate give during lunch, etc. He wont ever give up hope that he can win u over again and be w u again. He would keep trying, when he wakes up his first thought is ur name in a cold panic bc he can’t rest easy till ur his again and he will try and show off and poorly serenade u and trash his price and be corny and cheesy to get u back

Will set up a performance w the school to let him rap w a mic during lunch for u and he’s saying bars like “(read in bad rapping voice w inconsistent beat) (y/n), love of my life, uh, without you I’d die, uh. Please won’t you take me back? Yuh, without you ima have a heart attack. (Wha!). (Y/n), love of my life, yeah, without you I’m in strife, yup! Please be mine again, (babe), I can never rest till then.”

If the embarrassment doesn’t make u take him back so he’ll pls stop, and when he stands up on the lunch tables to do a little performance doesn’t do it either, then the odd sincerity of his voice and pain in his look (even tho while rapping he sticks out his lower lip in a weird pout) definitely, hopefully will

U make everything worth it !! Truly the light of his life

I hope these were what u wanted, I just had fun w them and wrote stuff that came off the top of my head when I thought of VJ!! ❤️

[stargaze-sunflower]

I wrote more Dewey and Louie bonding! I hope you like it! :]

Ao3 Link     Word Count: 1184

.

Having been slightly taller than usual for a few hours, Dewey was now having a bit of trouble using his legs as he normally would. Not enough trouble to where he couldn’t walk, thankfully, but enough that it was a mild annoyance, especially with Louie snickering at him and Huey hiding a grin every few seconds. He was just a little wobbly, that was all. He was readjusting.

They hadn’t stayed at the resort for very long after returning the spring breakers to their original ages. No one had wanted to be near the pool for any longer than they had to, given what had just happened in it. It’d been nightmare fuel, for sure, along with being stuck in a pool floaty awaiting instantaneous old age. Not that Dewey had expected anything else from an adventure with his family; this was probably actually pretty tame in comparison to some of the other things they’d had to deal with.

Anyway, nightmares and trauma aside, they’d eventually decided on leaving, and Scrooge had said his goodbyes to Goldie, smiling like a sap the whole time. Yuck.

As mentioned before, Dewey’s legs were being less than cooperative, what with his brain being confused at the two sudden changes in height he’d experienced that day. He couldn’t help but be mildly surprised whenever his feet hit the ground sooner than expected as he walked, and that slight confusion caused him to stumble more than once.

It was irritating, and his brothers teased him a little, but they also caught him whenever he lost his footing, and made sure he was steady before letting go. It made him feel warm inside, even as he glared at them playfully and stuck his tongue out at a smiling Louie. They were annoying, but they were his brothers. He wouldn’t trade them for the world.

They finally all made it back to where Launchpad was waiting with the plane, and Dewey climbed aboard and sunk down into a seat with a single triumphant laugh. Webby plopped down into a seat on the opposite side of the plane and almost immediately fell asleep. From what he understood, she’d had a pretty rough day herself. She deserved the rest.

Huey went up to the front to talk to Scrooge about the aftereffects of being young and then aging rapidly, and Louie sat down next to Dewey just as the plane started to take off. Dewey swung his legs back and forth a bit as they climbed higher and higher into the sky, trying to force his mind to get re-used to his normal height.

“You know, I think part of Huey’s problem with today was that you were taller than him,” Louie said casually, giving him a little grin. “It’s always been his dream to be tall.”

Dewey glanced towards where Huey was listening to Scrooge’s rambling – earnestly taking notes in his guidebook – and huffed a laugh.

“Don’t remind me,” Dewey said, his mind quickly being overtaken by the memory of Huey with freakishly long legs. “His dream is my nightmare.”

“And today, your dream was his nightmare,” Louie pointed out, sliding down in his seat a bit as he made himself comfortable. “It drove him crazy that you insisted you were oldest.”

“Yeah, well, he takes being oldest way too seriously,” Dewey complained, not as irritated as he might’ve been, a few hours ago. “We’re triplets, it hardly matters!”

“Then why did it bother you so much?”

Dewey turned to frown at Louie, who was smirking back at him. Why did brothers have to be so annoying and perceptive? It was inconvenient, really. Dewey sighed.

“I guess I just wanted to be the big brother for once,” Dewey said, staring down at his slightly aching legs. “I thought it’d be fun.”

Louie hummed in response, yawning soon afterwards. Dewey felt the corners of his beak tug upwards; Louie was always tired after an adventure.

“And was it?” Louie asked, eyes half lidded.

“I mean, I guess,” Dewey replied, his brow furrowing. “It was more work than I was expecting, though.”

Louie shrugged. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Right,” Dewey said, finally leaning back in his seat and settling in for the ride. “And neither do I, now that I’m not the big brother anymore.”

“Maybe not the big brother,” Louie mumbled, obviously half asleep already, “but you’re still a big brother, y’know.”

Dewey blinked, taken off guard, and the warm feeling in his chest from earlier came roaring back, wrapping around his heart like a loving hug from an old friend. It almost hurt, with how pure it was.

“Oh,” Dewey said. “Oh.”

He hadn’t forgotten, exactly, that Louie was younger than him, it just didn’t cross his mind very often. He was usually too busy thinking about he was younger than Huey. He’d spent all day trying to prove himself as ‘big brother’, and he’d sort of overlooked that he’d actually been one all along.

Because Louie was independent, sure, but he also cried at TV shows, and put his hood over his head when he was upset, and held onto Dewey’s arm when he was spooked. They were triplets, yes, but Louie was still his little brother.

Dewey thought that he suddenly understood Huey a lot better.

“Louie, you— Oh.”

Whatever he’d been about to say was cut off as he looked over and saw Louie fast asleep and lightly snoring, his head unfortunately resting against the back of the seat at a pretty uncomfortable angle. Dewey found himself continually impressed by the conditions in which Louie could sleep; him and Huey had found him sleeping in a cabinet once, back when they were living on the houseboat.

Dewey laughed softly and gazed at his sleeping brother with a fond grin. His younger brother seemed to be quickly developing the habit of saving the day and then immediately going to sleep. If Louie hadn’t figured out what was really going on at that resort, who knew where they’d be.

Dewey envied that, a little bit; the fact that sleep came so easily to Louie. He himself could never fall asleep after an adventure; he was always too excited and energetic. Usually about this time, him and Webby would be enthusiastically talking about whatever had just happened, but even she was exhausted after the day she’d had. Dewey made a mental note to ask about it later; it seemed like it would be an interesting story.

Returning his attention to his brother, Dewey slowly and carefully guided Louie’s head to rest on his shoulder, attempting to at least get him into a more comfortable position. Louie sighed softly against his neck, shifting a bit, leaning his full weight onto him before dropping back into deep sleep. Dewey grinned happily, feeling like he’d done something right, like he’d done something good.

From the front of the plane, Huey caught his eye and smirked at him, something teasing but proud shining through his gaze. Dewey rolled his eyes good-naturedly – careful not to move his shoulder too much – and settled in for the long ride home.