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squirrel-moose-winchester · 4 years ago

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End of the World

Title: End of the World

Dean Winchester x Reader

Word Count: 2392

Square Filled: Nightmare

Summary: It’s “The End” as God nicely put it… and it seems like it really is the end… for everyone.

Warnings: Angst, Explicit Language, Major Character Death, TW: Suicide, Mentions of Death, Blood, and again, a lot of Angst. This whole thing is just angst. Maybe fluff if you squint?

Written for @spndeanbingo

A/N: I realized that I didn’t upload my fic for my “nightmare” square, and when I looked in my WIPs, I couldn’t find it… why? Because it was in a completely different folder... *facepalm* Anyways, I found it and so… here it is. I hope you like it and please reblog and leave some feedback! Thank you and Happy Reading! xx

Things have been dark lately. Sam has shut himself in, not coming out of his room unless he really has to, Dean had fallen in this terrifying headspace where he would say such nasty things with intent to hurt, or break out into violent tantrums, which usually ended looking like a hurricane had hit. Castiel was gone, and you… you had become jumpy, paranoid, always thinking something was going to show up and get you. It was the end of the world after all, the most terrifying thing right now was surviving, but someone had to try and save the world.

With a tray of food in your hands, you cautiously walked down the hall towards Sam’s room. He hadn’t eaten all day, nor had you seen him exit his bedroom. You were worried. “Sam?” you called out, pressing your ear against his door. You heard no rustling of what so ever. “Sam?” you called again, figuring he had fallen asleep.

Letting out a deep sigh, you balanced the tray in one hand and opened the door to Sam’s room. He always left it unlock in case someone needed him, but no one really tried to disturb him other than you, which he didn’t seem to mind.

The room was dark, and still balancing the tray in one hand, you used the other to feel against the wall in search for the light switch. Victory, you flipped it on, the room coming into view. A sharp gasp left your lips as the tray you’ve been holding clamored on the concrete flooring. Your hands came to your lips at the horrifying sight.

Blood stained the sheets and pooled on the floor. Both of Sam’s arms were slit from his wrist up to the juncture where his arms bent. His skin was ghostly white, and you could just feel the end of life that filled the room. Sam was dead. Sam had given up… Winchesters don’t give up. That’s what he told you when all of this began, but there he lay… a hypocrite to his own words. This couldn’t be right.

Desperately needing to get out, you rushed down the hall to get Dean. You hoped that maybe he could do something. As you turned into the hallway where his bedroom resided, you noticed the door wide open. Rushing in, the only light pouring in being from the hallway, you halted in your stride. Dean was just standing there in the middle of his room, and the whole thing let out an eerie vibe, one that made you uncomfortable and a little anxious.

“D-Dean?” you stuttered in fright, not knowing what to expect.

When he moved, you flinched. Deans eyes were covered by shadows and his body was ridged. “What?” He snapped, the word coming out as a growl.

“S-Sam… h-he—”

“Get on with it!” He shouted, green eyes suddenly piercing at you with something akin to wild fire, like the flames of Maleficent. Goosebumps erupted around your body in complete and utter fear. “What? Stop stuttering and fucking say what you’re trying to say!” Spit flew from his lips and you felt your blood run cold.

“Sam’s dead…” you finally managed to say softly without stuttering.

“That’s what you came here to bother me for? Sam’s fucking dead? I don’t give a flying fuck if he’s dead. Why can’t you be dead too? You’re so fucking annoying, you know that?” Dean growled, stalking towards you. “Ever since this whole end of the world bullshit started, you’ve been nothing but a pain in my hide. A constant itching slowly driving me in-fucking-sane!”

“I-I’m sorry,” you whimpered, taking a step back, only to collide into the wall.

“Sorry? You think saying you’re sorry is going to make any difference? Castiel is gone! Sam is dead! And all I’m stuck with is you! A pathetic little twig that can’t do anything but cause trouble for the rest of us! So fuck off!”

Your legs gave out and suddenly, a flutter of wings consumed the room and everything went black. When you awoke, you were in a pristine white room, brightly lit with white lights. You’ve seen this place before. You’ve been here before… Heaven?

“Hello Y/N,” a deep familiar rumbling voice was heard behind you. Twirling around at top speed, you saw Castiel standing at the corner. “Are you okay?”

“Cass!” you shouted, jumping out of a bed and running towards him, body crashing into his as you wound your arms around his neck. “We thought you were dead!” you sobbed.

“I’m sorry, but I’ve been busy up here in heaven. Everything is in turmoil, and Michael he… I’m afraid he isn’t strong enough to contain his father in the cage. It’s only a matter of time until God is free. Amara won’t help us, and without her by our side, all the angels, myself included, will not be able to keep the door shut,” he revealed, unraveling your hands from his body and keeping you at arms length.

Castiel’s reasoning for his disappearance had been answered, but it wasn’t what you were expecting. The end of the world was happening on earth with the passage to Purgatory ajar, and with Rowena’s indefinite death, leaving hell’s gates wide open. There didn’t seem to be a win in sight. Heaven was fighting a losing battle, humans were dying left and right on earth, demons, monsters, and human were at an all out war, and any sort of hope you tried to convince yourself of was now nothing but a useless dream.

Everyone that made this far was going to eventually meet their early grave. It was inevitable.

“So it’s over…” your voice cracked. “It’s all over. The angels can’t help us, Amara won’t help us, Sam is dead, Dean has gone crazy, and we’re all just going to die…”

Your legs gave out again, Castiel catching you in time before you actually hit the ground. In a blink, you were back on the bed. “I’m sorry, Y/N, but I have to go. They need me at the cage.”

Before you could say anything, he was gone, and you were alone. At that moment, you felt so entirely alone. There were no words to describe how lonely you felt. It was cold, numbing, frightening, frustrating, just overall overwhelming. You didn’t know what to think, how to feel, or how to react to anything. You were lost.

After what felt like hours had passed, you decided to wonder around. A door suddenly appeared in front of you and with little hesitation, you opened it and walked through the threshold. You entered what seemed to be the living room of a two story house, one you’ve never seen before. You could hear voices coming from the next room and followed the noise.

Rounding a corner, you peaked in to see Sam. Your eyes widened, wanting to make yourself known, but you held yourself back when you noticed that he wasn’t alone. At the dining table, waiting for Sam to join them, was his parents, Jessica, Dean, and you. You were coddled up in Dean’s arms, Mary holding John’s hand above the table, and Jessica had leaped from her seat to throw her arms around Sam.

This had to be Sam’s heaven.

You took a step back, only to find yourself hitting something… or rather, someone.

“What are you doing here?” A tone filled with danger hit your eardrums. “You shouldn’t be here,” it grumbled again.

Slowly turning, you saw Adam standing in front of you… no… it was Michael – the glowing blue eyes easily identifiable. He looked exhausted, tattered up, and seemed to be on the verge of death. “I… Cass he…” you could barely find your voice much less form a sentence.

“Castiel brought you here? Why?” the archangel asked.

“I don’t know… to save me, I guess?”

“You guess?” Michael hissed. “Well you don’t belong here, and you most definitely don’t belong meddling with the souls of heaven!” Michael lifted his hands, his thumb and middle finger meeting together. Your eyes widened and before you could make a sound, he snapped his fingers.

The room was dark, save for the light coming in from the wide open door. You scanned the room and noticed that you were back in Dean’s room. Jumping off of his bed, you rushed out of the room, not wanting to anger him again. As you stumbled into the hall, a chill vibrated through your bones, goosebumps once again plaguing your skin.

Carved on the walls were a pattern of four names… Sam, Dean, Castiel, and Y/N. Over and over, your names littered the walls, however, every name was crossed out, save for Dean’s. Was this his way of reminding himself that the three of you were dead and he was the only one left?

Following the markings, you began to hear the sound of light sobbing. As you continued to walk, it only got louder. You found your way to the library, peaking into the room to find Dean sitting at a table, arms folded and face buried in them, surrounded by books and files scattered all over the place.

“Gone. They’re all gone,” he muttered through sobs. “I’m all alone…”

Your heart shattered. Empathizing with him, your eyes began to swell, unable to even begin thinking about how you’d feel if you were completely alone. That everyone you loved was gone and you were the last one standing. It was cripplingly devastating and down right terrifying.

Stepping out from hiding, you called Dean’s name. His sobbing instantly silence and his head lifted from his arms. Slowly, his head turned towards you, and you screamed. He had no eyes, just black holes, like he had been spited by god himself.

“Y/N, you came back…” he spoke, getting out of his seat. You flinched, taking a step back.

“You’re not Dean…” you stumbled backwards. “What did you do?!” You shouted, the feeling of bile rising in your throat.

“Y/N, it’s me.”

“No,” you choked, tears already streaming down your cheeks.

“It’s me, Dean,” he tried to convince you again.

“No!” you screamed, turning to run but slamming against something.

Falling backwards, you winced at the connection. Hovering above you was Dean, but his lips were curved downwards, not seeming to happy with your attempt to run. “Did I say you could leave?” He roared, the entire bunker shaking.

He grabbed your ankle, easily dragging you to who knows where. Despite your resistance, he didn’t seem to have any problem pulling your along. “Please, stop! Don’t!” you pleaded, eyes burning.

Your screams and pleas became more and more frantic once you realized where he was taking you… the dungeon. “I beg of you, please leave me alone!” you cried, but he didn’t stop.

He tossed you in the middle of the demon trap, except it didn’t look like a demon trap… it was something else. A new symbol you’ve never seen before. “Now you’re never going to leave me,” he mumbled.

As he turned to leave, you shouted, running after him, however you couldn’t move. Casting your eyes downwards, standing at the edge of the trap, you realized you couldn’t get out. “Dean!” you called, trying to force yourself out of it. “Dean!”

You began to cry uncontrollably, calling Dean’s name. Everything felt cold and you could suddenly see your breath. Figures came into view and all around you, you saw the faces of all your friends.

Through the mass of familiar faces, Jody made her way towards the front. “He won’t let us leave,” she confessed. “He’s keeping us here,” she added.

“Y/N, you need to help us,” a voice came from behind you. Whipping around, you saw Sam standing in front of you.

“S-Sam? B-but… I—I saw you in heaven.”

Sam shook his head. “I don’t know whose heaven you saw, but it wasn’t mine. Letting all the information process through your head, you realized the heaven you saw had to have been Mary’s. She was the only person you’ve met. You’ve never known Jess or John, but you did know Mary. She even told you once, that you were part of her family. That one day, you and Dean would be more… but it never happened. You and Dean… there was just too much weight in being together. Too much to lose if you two were together. Love was impossible.

There were chatter coming from somewhere in the room and in the corner of your eye you saw movement. Moving your attention away from Sam and to the noise, you saw the crowd being shoved aside, revealing Kevin.

“He took me. He took me from my mom! God, I hate it here!” Kevin shouted, pain erupting on your right cheek. Your hand instantly cupped the hot area. When you drew your hand away, you saw blood. “Why is he doing this to us?!” Kevin howled.

He was going rabid. A restless soul. And eventually, they all will turn the same way, and you’ll be the only one in the room they can take their wrath out on… you were going to die in here. Dean was going to let you die by the hands of your dead friends.

“Dean!” You screamed, voice high and piercing. “Dean! Please! Let me out! Dean!”

Gasping for air, you shot out of bed, your sheets completely drenched. Your heart felt like it was going to jump out of your chest in any second. Seconds later, your bedroom door went flying open, revealing Dean, Sam, and Castiel.

“Y/N, are you okay?” Dean rushed forwards, sitting in front of you as he cupped your cheeks with both hands, wiping away your tears. “Hey, it was just a bad dream. I’m here. We’re here,” Dean stated, his voice instantly soothing you in your shaken state. “You’re okay, Sweetheart. You’re okay,” he looked you straight in the eyes, letting you know that this was really him, and that you were safe.

“Dean,” you croaked, his beautiful emerald eyes peering at you. With that being enough validation that he was actually him, you lunged yourself into his arms.

“Yeah, baby. I’m here.”

A/N: I’ll be honest, I don’t really know how I feel about this one. But if you like it, please ease my worries and let me know! I would really appreciate any positive feedback. Also, please reblog so that it may reach more readers! Thank you for reading! xx

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recurring-polynya · 4 years ago

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Can we get some drabbles on Renji’s time with Squad 11 especially his interactions with Kenpachi and Yachiru? Obviously shenanigans with Ikkaku and Yumichika are welcome! Also, how did you think he was promoted to Squad 6 lieutenant? It’s safe to assume he applied (I can imagine his Squad 11 gang even helping him out with this) as that’s part of his “master Get-Back-Rukia plan” but moving from 6th seat to lieutenant is a leap and I imagine that Byakuya is super picky. Imagine his job interview!

I’ll do the meta part first.

#0. For starters, Renji spent 40 years reverse-engineering how to make Squad 6 Vice-Captain. He read every Teen Vogue profile on Byakuya, he clipped Byakuya’s unreadable etiquette column in the Bulletin, he studied Kuchiki military history, he hung out at Shirogane Ginjirou’s sunglasses shop and knew exactly when the guy planned to retire and got a bunch of spilled tea on Byakuya’s pet peeves, of which there are many. Byakuya is not exactly a complicated guy, it isn’t all that hard to figure out what the right answers to his interview questions are gonna be.

#1. I think there is an exam that qualifies you to be a vice-captain, and that Renji vastly over-prepared for it and got an extremely high score. Byakuya loves big numbers.

#2. There is a standard application for Vice-Captain that’s probably about 5 pages long. Renji’s application was 15 pages long. He included a personal essay and a long paean to how much he admired the principles of Squad 6. Byakuya loves Squad 6, and he loves a guy who is really enthusiastic about Squad 6.

#3. Renji is great in an interview. I headcanon that he and Rukia did a lot of con artistry back in Rukongai. Byakuya is a mark. Primarily, Renji gave him opportunities to pontificate, which Byakuya loves. Byakuya talked through 90% of Renji’s interview, and walked out feeling great.

#4. The only thing Renji had going against him was the reference section. Byakuya hates Zaraki and would go out of his way to avoid talking to him. Aizen was still salty that Renji left his squad, and tried to reverse psych Byakuya into not hiring him. (“Oh, I think he’d be an excellent second for you, Byakuya! He’s a bit impulsive, and I’m sure your influence would overcome some of that hotheadedness! His poor kidou skills shouldn’t be a problem, I’m sure you’ve got that covered yourself…”) Unfortunately for Aizen, Byakuya was already 80% on Team Renji and he realized Aizen was trying to play him, and Byakuya hates being played.

Job offer within 24 hours. Regrets came later.

I do a lot of shenanigans with Ikkaku and Yumichika, but not usually Kenpachi and Yachiru, so let’s try that for a change!

🗡️ 💖 💪

“I have a Special Assignment for you, Abarai,” the Kenpachi grumbled.

Special Assignments could be anything, really. Running around dive bars in the upper Rukon, stapling up posters to advertise their next Recruitment Brawl. Delivering blotchy hand-written notes to Captain Unohana. Helping Zaraki set up elaborate obstacle courses that would then necessitate another Recruitment Brawl. The majority of Renji’s Special Assignments involved helping the captain get somewhere he needed to go. Zaraki was very good at getting lost, but Renji was exceptionally good at finding places. This worked out rather nicely, because there was almost always something interesting to fight in the places that Zaraki wanted to go, and the more Zaraki saw Renji fight, the more willing he was to bring him along.

“We goin’ somewhere, sir?” Renji asked hopefully.

Zaraki scratched his ass pensively. “Not today. C’mon in, I don’t wanna talk about it outside.” He let the way into what was occasionally jokingly referred to as his “office.” It was the place where Zaraki hung out and took naps during the day, in case anyone wanted to find him for fighting purposes. “Chisaka had to go to the Living World last week,” Zaraki explained, rummaging around in his kosode and pulling out a well-thumbed magazine. “She brought Yachiru back some manga she thought she would like.”

“That was nice,” Renji commented carefully. Giving gifts to Yachiru was nearly always an exercise in “no good deed goes unpunished.”

“Yeah, it went over real good,” Zaraki grumbled. “She liked it so much, she wants her hair done up like the kid in it.” He thrust the crumpled booklet at Renji. It was a girls’ manga, the kind with a lot of sparkles and girls in sailor suits. Zaraki poked a gnarled finger at a picture of a little girl with pink hair, twisted up into two little buns, with fluffy ponytails trailing down from them.

Renji rolled his eyes up towards his captain. “What the actual fuck, sir? Isn’t this more Ayasegawa’s department?” Zaraki didn’t like to be called ‘sir’ unless there was a profanity somewhere in the same sentence.

“Dammit, Abarai, I know you’ve let Ayasegawa do your hair. It takes him four fucking hours and he screams at you if you squirm. Yachiru can’t sit through that shit.”

Renji made an uncomfortable face. “Your hair always looks great, can’t you--”

“I tried! She doesn’t want me to use any gel, says it needs to be ‘fluffy’. How the hell are you supposed to do a hairstyle without gel, answer me that!”

“What makes you think I can do anything?” Renji finally whined.

“Look, I started at the top. Madarame ain’t got any hair, and Iba might as well not. You’re pretty fast, and you’re probably strong enough to hold her down, and at least you know how a ponytail holder works.” Zaraki sucked his teeth. “If you do it, I’ll fight you later.”

“Really?” Renji asked, his eyebrows shooting up. Zaraki didn’t usually feel that anyone below Ikkaku merited his time, and Renji jumped at every opportunity to convince him otherwise.

“Yeah, sure.” Zaraki flung open the door to the room where Yachiru sat, scowling, surrounded by an assortment of ribbons and barrettes. “I got help.”

“Wrong Way doesn’t know how to do hair!” Yachiru shouted.

Renji and Yachiru had an ongoing philosophical disagreement about the geography of the Seireitei. Yachiru had zero legs to stand on in this argument, but also, she was the one who came up with nicknames.

“He has a lot of hair,” Zaraki countered.

“That’s boy hair!” Yachiru returned. “It doesn’t count!”

“I… have done girl hair before,” Renji admitted, somewhat painedly. “Hair is hair!” He almost yelled “Gender is a construct!” because he had been reading some of the books Iba’s mom kept leaving in their room, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to explain what that meant. At this point, he just wanted to get this over with, preferably without getting kicked in the nose, which tended to happen a lot around Yachiru. “If you let me try, I’ll let you do my hair.”

Yachiru’s eyes went wide. “Really?”

“You can’t cut it, but sure. Whatever.”

Zaraki was looking over at him with something that might have been respect. “Do you know what you’re doing, you crazy bastard?” he mumbled.

“Absolutely not,” Renji replied.

🗡️ 💖 💪

“They’re uneven, is all I’m saying,” Yumichika sniffed.

“I love them, he put extra ribbons on!” Yachiru howled, swinging her sheathed sword at Yumichika, who deftly ducked. The ribbons swung delightfully around the sides of her head.

“I’m honestly surprised there were any ribbons left,” Iba commented dryly.

“You can shut it, fucko!” Renji yelled. His hair was styled rather similarly to his vice-captain’s, except that his was in three (rather lumpy) buns, and his ponytails trailed more majestically. The curling iron had been a terrible idea overall, but the big, loopy curls at the ends of both Renji’s and Yachiru’s hair had definitely been worth all the burns.

Ikkaku rubbed his own bald pate. “I kinda like that look on him. 100 kan says it helps him fight better.”

“You’re on,” Iba agreed.

“What’s the hold up?!” Zaraki roared.

“Here I come!” Renji bellowed.

“Ganbatte, Wrong Way!” Yachiru cheered.

There was a loud crunch.

Ikkaku handed over the 100 kan. “It was worth a try.”

#happy birthday renji!#renji abarai #squad 11 #my writing #drabbles

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jarofrebuke-transcripts · 4 years ago

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Jar of Rebuke Episode 6 Unofficial Transcript

Season 1 Episode 6: PTO

INTRO

The following audio recording is classified documentation for Case [audio distortion] with the Enclosure. Unauthorized access to this information will lead to immediate intervention. Progress further if proper clearance has been given.

JARED

Guess who got vacation? That's right, me. After days of online research and two times poking around the local school, I finally got that time off. I had to pester Todd about it for a while, but I got it. He didn't even call or email me about it, his secretary did. We'll just assume that he was uh just “too busy” to get around to telling me. So guess what I did today? Nothing. And yesterday? Oh, a whole load of nothing. And what do I have planned for tomorrow?More glorious nothing. I got a whole week off and I plan to spend at least at least most of it relaxing at home. I don't even want to change out of my PJs. After I shower, I'll just put on other PJs! No, not shower, I'll take baths! I got homemade bubble baths from the Chronicle Inn shop recently that I've been waiting to use. Holly texted me earlier which was nice. I haven't really talked to them much, at least not in a while. Originally they were just asking if I planned to go out to a an upcoming bonfire, before it gets too cold to really do much outside. And it was really nice to just tell them the full honest truth, that I'd been given a week off of work and I really didn't feel like going out and doing anything. It, just the idea of staying home and doing basically zilch sounds amazing. They then asked if they could call, which was equally nice as it was nerve-wracking. Nice because I liked the heads up for a call, but anxiety-inducing because I had no idea why they wanted to call, I said sure though, I had no reason not to. I think we talked for like an hour, just about whatever. As it normally goes with them. We went from one topic to another really quickly. It's nice to have someone that I can just flow from one topic to another with without having to explain my thought process. They just follow suit. Or, more often, take the lead in the leaps.

They told me about their job as a volunteer at the local school. Unlike me, they get along great with kids, always have. Hence why they worked the snipe hunt a little while ago. They heard about me looking into the haunting a few weeks ago, so I told them a bit about it, excluding the whole Enclosure business card thing. I also mentioned that I was finally given some paid time off work and they asked if we wanted to hang out. So uh, guess in a few days I'm having a movie night with Holly. They're going to show me some of their favorites, things I've never seen. One's called The Room? Apparently it's so bad that it's somehow good. I guess we're watching that later this week, and they're going to introduce me to some video games that they like. After we made plans for movie night I heated myself up some lunch and settled down in front of the TV. After lunch and a few episodes of whatever show was playing I decided to just sit and check in a little bit, do a little recording.

So my research with the old business card led me to a Dr. Severin Kelder at the Enclosure, right? Well when I looked further into him at work, I actually found out that he passed away like 20 or 30 years ago. Apparently he was working on some top secret project that I couldn't find the details on, but I could find more recent projects that reference Dr. Kelder’s work. So whatever it was that he learned or created, people are still using it in their studies of the Enclosure. It's for branches and projects that I don't have access to so I kept getting asked for passwords that I don't have. I… I could ask Dr. Loma- Milo. Promised them I'd be more casual with them now. I could ask Milo if they know anything. I mean even though we aren't lab partners anymore we're still friends. I'm sure they wouldn't mind helping out. Maybe I could ask Jamie? But she and I aren't really close. Would that be weird? And I really doubt that Dr. Castillo would be at all interested in really helping, she doesn't really want to talk about anything outside of our current projects. Not as chatty. I have a therapy session with Dr. Daman right after I get back from vacation, but I have no clue if I want to talk to her about this. She'd probably call my fixation on it unhealthy or whatever, but I need to get to the bottom of whatever this is. And that smell…

When my brain fixates on things it's really hard to just think or even talk about anything else. It's as if my brain has focused in so hard that nothing else exists, and nothing else matters, unless something else sweeps in and snaps me out of it. It could be really helpful when my brain decides to fixate on work and things I need to do, but it can be so infuriating when it... I focus on the song I heard on the radio, or a book that I read when I'm trying to get work done. I think Dr. Daman has been getting frustrated with my lack of progress, but what am I supposed to do? I'm not having much luck with remembering, but, hey! I'm using the audio journal more regularly, so that's good. It does feel like it's helping. Even if I'm not remembering much about myself at least, I'm learning about myself? And Milo said that's what's most important, more important than remembering. Because they said that things have inevitably changed, as is human nature. I still want to remember though! And I feel like Milo understands that better than Dr. Daman. But I guess it's a good thing that I'm learning about myself. I mean if nothing else I'm not as chronically uncomfortable as I used to be. Even learning these little things. I think I'll talk more to Holly when we hang out though. There's things that I think they may be able to help me with. I'd like to talk to Darius but I don't know if, um…

[scratching sounds] Hold on, there's something at my door. [door opens, birds chirping] Oh, hey buddy! Uh, no collar, huh? Oh, oh. I guess you're coming in... excuse me. [door closes] Okay, so there's a dog. A dog in my house. A black lab? No, its features are a bit too pointed. Almost like a shepherd of some kind. It's docile, and has just laid by my feet. There's no collar, and I've never seen this dog before. So I don't think he's from around here. His eyes are a little strange. I'll admit, I've never had a dog just make itself at home in my house before. Uh… who's a good boy? Huh, are you even a boy? That's a weird assumption for me to make. Considering that you're just a dog who basically knocked, then let yourself in. Either way, the dog is super sweet. Do you have a name? Um, Grove. How does that sound? You look like a Grove. So I guess I have a dog. Unless someone claims him... her... them? Uh...

Don't look at me like that! Gendered language annoys me, okay? That's why I like talking to Holly and Milo so much, they both really don't conform to what society puts on them and they seem to be more aware of other ways that things can be. Ways that the Enclosure didn't teach me, that's for sure. I mean why do people keep saying I'm “one of the guys”? I like being included, yeah, but I don't know... I don't.. just don't see myself as “one of the guys”. It carries implications. I don't mind being called sir or whatever, but it's... Ahem. I'm talking gender. With a dog. No offense. Oh shoot, what do I feed you? Should I call around and see if anyone's looking for their dog? What do you want to eat? I need to look into how to take care of a dog! Would Darius know how? Okay, hold on, gotta make some calls. I might have to change out of my PJs and run some errands. I'll be back soon.

JARED (contd.)

Okay, back. So, Grove hung out in my yard the entire time I was gone. He actually responded well when I called him boy, so we're gonna go with that. He greeted me with a wagging tail and then followed me back inside. He's a big dog, like the top of his head goes to about my upper hip. I got a range of things- wet dog food, dry dog food, treats, toys, the biggest dog bed they had, and honestly a bunch of stuff. I had to make multiple trips to bring it all in. I mean considering I don't know if I'm keeping this dog maybe it was a bit overkill. But having him around feels nice. It feels right. I did text Holly to make sure that they're not allergic to dogs or anything since it seems that I'm taking in a dog, at least for the time being. And apparently they love dogs, so that's, that's good. That's good. Uh, I put the dog bed near my bed and put out a bowl of dog food. But he doesn't really seem too interested in the wet or dry dog food. He seems to like the homemade treats though. I remembered that Ester sold them, so I made sure to make a second stop and stop by the Chronicle Inn to pick up some of those dog treats. But Grove doesn't seem at all interested in the food, but the fact that he likes the treats indicates that he does have an appetite. What do you want to eat, buddy? Listen I can't just feed you dog treats, that can't be healthy.

[phone buzzing] Ugh, why is he calling me? I'm on vacation… [Grove barks] Oh… Grove? It's okay, it's just my phone. I.. oh shit! [Grove starts growling] Grove calm down, relax? I'm not, I'm not answering it, I'm not… [Jared falls over] Oh, Grove, you don’t fit in my lap! [Grove pants] You’re much… you’re much too big. Down! Back down on the floor, please! We both won’t fit in this chair. [Grove snarls] Hey… hey not the key! Leave the key alone, the key stays on. Oh, uh… [Grove barks] Grove, Grove, down! Oh gods. Grove, down, back down. [Grove’s barking gets softer] Good boy… okay… seems I. Okay. [Grove continues making soft sounds] So, I think I know why Grove wouldn't eat the dry dog food but would eat the treats. Meat, he needs meat. That would explain the eyes earlier, and why he lingered outside of my house of all places, without a collar.

Um, oh shit! [Grove starts barking loudly, running. Door closes] Oh, I don't know what happened. I don't know if it was the phone vibrating that set him off or what. [Grove continues to bark at a distance] He was fine until he sniffed the key! He's way too big to be getting in my lap and then when he started sniffing the key around my neck and then, then he got mad. He started snarling. Smoke came out of his mouth and his eyes. His eyes started to glow red, and for the briefest moment I smelled putrid rotting flesh. The smell of death. [Grove continues to bark and snarl loudly] Seems that my new buddy is a hellhound. I thought he was going to attack me, he sure seemed like it, went from my throat. [Grove stops barking, starts whining] But now, he's not even scratching at the door anymore. He's whining. He sounds so sad!

Grove, are you done chasing me? I'd really rather not die again so soon, okay? So you're gonna relax, right? [Grove whimpers, door opens, Grove starts sniffing happily] Good boy, good boy. No biting, no jumping. [Grove quiets down] How about we sit? That's a good boy. You… you know sit! Good. He's okay. He's calm now, leaning into my touch and everything. No more smoke. His teeth are more of a... mortal dog-shaped size again? His eyes aren't glowing anymore. Jeez, I've got no idea why he was set off so badly by my necklace. I mean, yeah, I assume that the key has magical properties which is how it keeps my brain in check, but I don't know why that would have set him off. It's okay buddy, not gonna hurt you. It helps me. Let's get you some food. Okay so, we're gonna try some meat. I don't know if I have it... I don't really have much that's raw, only a little bit that I got for a casserole that I plan to try and cook, but I can go get more meat, you gotta eat I don't mind putting off cooking. [doors open and close, sounds of dog bowl being placed, Grove eating] Okay yeah so, uh, raw meat is what he eats.

Why is a hellhound so far from the cemetery out in the middle of the day like this? There's all sorts of creatures that come by my house all the time but this one is a bit strange. I mean the black eyed children and the not-deer, yeah, those make a bit more sense. They're generally wanderers and I do live by the roads and by the forest. But a hellhound? Y’all normally linger near cemeteries and churches, right? And I don't live near a church or a cemetery. The weirdest thing is that when he's not trying to bite my neck out, his presence is really soothing. I don't know, it's like he belongs here. As long as you ignore the whole key thing he's really lax with me, and I've never seen a hellhound act so domesticated. Especially considering how they normally are with people. But hey, if nothing else at least this means that you probably don't have someone looking for you. So I guess it wasn't too much of an issue that the clerk at the store talked me into buying all of this stuff for you. Hey, don't, don't… don't look at me like that, I panicked. I've never taken care of a dog before, and you're, you're a big dog! Sharing the bed with you would be like sharing a bed with a whole other person, and I can't just make you sleep on the hard floor so I got you the bed! I guess I didn't need to get all of that dog food especially since you won't even eat any of it. Ugh, whatever. Okay, we'll make this work.

I mean even if disguised as a normal, albeit big dog, it's weird that he's out and about during the day. I mean the black-eyed children yeah, now and then come out during the day, not-dear, yeah they're not really restricted to either time of day, but hellhounds? I guess I gotta do some more research, huh? Okay. Well, hey, if nothing else at least I have the resources to look into how to take care of a hellhound. That's not true. I have the information on what hellhounds are, where they are, what they do. How to restrain them. But I don't have the information on how to take care of them. They normally take good care of themselves. I guess you're gonna teach me something, huh? Well we'll learn together. If nothing else it'll be nice to have someone else here, someone that I am not required to talk to if I don't want to. Someone that we can just, share space. It'll be nice to not be alone. I'm gonna probably have some ice cream and watch a movie this evening. Here soon I'll be doing the movie night with Holly, which is nice. And oh god, okay, I didn't tell Holly about the whole children knocking on my door thing. I guess I'm gonna have to give ‘em a heads up of some kind. “Hey, just a warning, I have ghost children that knock on my door! Every night! Hope you sleep deep!” Whatever, I'll let them know, and I'm sure they've heard of weirder. We'll see. So much for doing nothing. But at least it's not work! Maybe I'll message Darius and see what he's up to this evening. I'm gonna go eat that ice cream and watch a movie first. So this is Dr. Jared Hel, signing off. Come on, come on buddy!

OUTRO

Jar of Rebuke is written and produced by Casper Oliver, who is also the voice of Dr. Jared Hel. The intro is read by Vanessa Rosengrant, and credits are read by Ashley Craft, who has created the podcast official graphics. Music was created by Luke Menniss, spelled m-e-n-n-i-s-s, who you can find and support on Bandcamp, Spotify and Twitch. Find us on Facebook, Instagram and Twitter for updates. You can support us on Patreon or Podhero by following the links in our episode description. And special thanks to our patreon supporters, Tristan F., Perry B., Devin W., Becky T., Nico A., and Joyce B.

#jar of rebuke #jar of rebuke podcast #jor podcast #jar of rebuke transcripts

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stillyourprussianblue · 4 years ago

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Title: skyclad;

under the moon, long shadows are cast Part II of III

Author: feuillemort [AO3] / stillyourprussianblue [tumblr]

Rating: T

Pairing: 10088 (Byakuran & Bianchi)

Event: KHRWeen2020

Prompts: Digging up a Body | Blood Drinking

“Witch!” the magistrate gasped.

Bianchi smiled wanly. “Yes, and?”

“Demon!” he cried.

“He prefers ‘angel,’” she replied lightly when the flames danced higher

[AO3] [image] [Part I] [Part II] [Part III]

“You stand before us accused of witchcraft,” the judge presiding proclaimed, leaning forward to fix her with a look down his nose. “What say you to these charges?”

She smiled demurely and spoke after an uncomfortably long silence. “What do you know of witchcraft?” she asked. Bianchi tilted her head just so, letting her hair slip out from behind her ear, her full lips parted in an enigmatic smile that she knew would unsettle the panel assembled to arraign her because of the apothecary she owned and the feral cats that frequented her home. “What exactly am I accused of?”

“Witchcraft!” his voice boomed.

When he realized that he had failed to intimidate her, Bianchi tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Look at all of these men, afraid of a few kittens.”

“Ah yes,” a new voice said breezily, its prescience pervasive but somehow without form or substance, “but kittens also have claws.”

The chief justice looked around, his panic beginning to rise.

But nothing changed in Bianchi’s demeanour, as if this was a regular occurrence. “And teeth,” she added. Then she turned her attention back to the judge. “But yes, I am a witch.”

The man’s eyes lit up as if he had caught her in his web, but her next words made his smug smile falter.

“Of the worst kind.” She watched him squirm. “What will you do with that knowledge? You can’t kill me in any way that matters.” She paused to allow him to splutter. “But would you like to try?”

“Such impudence!” The man looked at the panel of judges that sat on his either side, reeling back slightly when he saw the same dreamy smile on each of their faces.

Bianchi stepped forward, the lights in the room began to flicker and brighten as they filled with some sort of supernatural energy. The brighter it grew in the room, the longer the shadows that were cast and thrown about, criss-crossing and layering over each other until the contrast threatened to overcome them all.

Bianchi’s shadow on the wall seemed to tremor on the edges like a desert mirage, glowing hazily. A form began to take shape behind it, a silhouette of a man with feathery wings that oscillated between cold light and sinful darkness, tucked safely into her shadow, threatening to overflow, just brimming with untapped power and wild magic. But when the judge looked behind her, he saw nothing that could cast such an ominous and oppressive presence.

“Stop this at once!” he yelled, trembling in his seat as she continued to approach, pulling herself up onto the dais and leaned over until her lips brushed his ear and the collar of her dress dipped, tempting him closer. The others around him merely smiled dumbly, as if there was anything amusing at what they were witnessing.

“Witch!” the magistrate gasped.

Bianchi smiled wanly. “Yes, and?”

“Demon!” he cried.

“He prefers ‘angel,’” she replied lightly when the flames danced higher as the gas lamps struggled to keep up.

“If you don’t require anything else of me, I’ll be leaving now,” she murmured lowly in the judge’s ear, cupping his jaw in her long fingers, tilting his head back just enough to leave him vulnerable, with just enough volume to ensure that he was not the only one that had a shiver run down his spine. “You’d best be careful. There’s dark magic out there.”

She left a whisper of a laugh on his cheek and the faint scent of lilac and lemon verbena in her wake. Her eyes dared him to make a move. He didn’t; they were all under her thrall. They stared as she turned to leave, the smiling shadow of a spectre trailing at her heel, wings half unfurled as it moved like an angel in chains.

___

The first things she saw as she entered the dark apothecary were the white patches of Luce’s calico fur as the cat slept in a nest made in an empty crate on the counter. The matriarch of the colony had finally gotten comfortable enough in her presence to enter the shop and had begun spending more time indoors as she aged; she continued to sleep as Bianchi approached.

“There you are,” Bianchi murmured as amber eyes lifted from Luce’s sleeping form. “Renato,” she greeted. The black cat yawned, showing her his pink mouth before closing his eyes and returning to sleep as well, a sleek void curled protectively around Luce. “They mistook you for my familiar.” She chuckled quietly and lit the candles lining the space with a flick of her wrist.

Another cat pressed itself against her legs and she leaned down to give him a scratch behind the ears. “How wrong they were, right Fon?” It was hard to tell how old the feral was, especially given how spry he still was, but his once jet black fur had lost its pigmentation and he glowed a russet brown that was particularly red in the candlelight. He evaded her touch and disappeared deeper into the shop.

She watched him go fondly, seeing the small Russian Blue she had named Skull scamper after him. He had been the only one of his littermates to survive a particularly harsh winter, and now his gangly form shadowed Fon wherever he went.

“If you took any of them on as a familiar, they could stay with you forever, you know?” Bianchi felt the shift when his presence left her as if she were shedding a cloak. He materialized like a white shadow behind her. She didn’t bother turning to face him—he posed no threat to her so she went on to sort through her various sickles and knives.

“I already have you for eternity, my love,” Bianchi replied to the demonic presence as Byakuran floated forward to rest his chin on her shoulder, looking at the way she inspected each blade and placed each and every one precisely in its spot, lining them neatly beside the crucible.

“Until I tired of you, pet” he teased.

“Until I tire of you and send you back to that infernal realm that I summoned you from, darling,” she corrected.

“No, you wouldn’t!” Byakuran gasped with his eyes as wide as saucers. “As an immortal, hell does grow dull.”

“And you and your epicurean ideals simply could not be contained,” Bianchi said, stepping away to check on her greenhouse. Byakuran followed closely as she continued to poke barbs at him. “Except, that’s exactly what it was – you can’t sustain your form in this plane of existence without feeding off of my magic. Isn’t that right, dear?”

“I’m just another one of your charity cases,” he concluded, smiling down at little Skull who peered out at him from behind the safety of a cabinet. The kitten hissed and leaped away.

Bianchi ran her hands over the soft leaves of a silk sage plant, pausing to consider for a moment when the leaves crunch faintly –much too dry. There wasn’t a moment to spare to water it; there were more things to follow and she had to move things along.

Byakuran sensed the moment of hesitation and he took a half-step closer, and then away again when she gave him a look that was a little more forceful than necessary to remind him of his role.

His eyes narrowed, but he smiled as he held his hands up in feigned surrender.

She moved onto the next pot, pushing aside the fronds to check on the condition of the soil. The herb hadn’t seemed to be thriving as well as she’d hoped and she had crushed some eggshells to hopefully enrich the soil. She poked around the check the moisture and hummed appreciatively when she saw the fractured femur was dry of marrow and that the flesh had started coming off of the knuckles tucked into the roots –the plant would begin its recovery as nutrition was slowly absorbed.

“How is the dead man’s dill?” Byakuran asked conversationally.

“I know you don’t care unless it’s a flowering plant,” Bianchi said, to which he laughed, stepping closer to encircle her in his arms.

“I was hoping that once I escaped from hell I could at least stop and smell the roses,” he whispered with his lips on her ear.

“I’ll give you something better than roses,” she murmured, placing her finger in his mouth. He bit hard enough to draw blood and felt her magic flow, filling him with more of that energy until he was brimming with the madness and his dark wings unfurled behind them.

His tongue ran over her finger before he pressed a chaste kiss on the tip to stop the bleeding.

“Better than roses,” he agreed.

“Oh there’ll be more than roses, love” she promised.

They stayed like that for a while, swaying lightly, as confidantes in the low light, dangerous and untouchable. His voice was like crushed velvet, hers like sultry satin, his laughter like warm sugar, hers like a poisoned apple; both of them hardly soft and bitterly sweet.

___

He followed her to the graveyard, able to maintain a humanoid form at her side now that the world was asleep. Knowing his floral fixation as an aesthete, she wanted to give the demon enough to satisfy his greedy nature.

Finding a spot among the burial grounds, Bianchi drew the circle around her with her athame, carving it lightly into the ground. He felt the energy thrumming along the seam, and how it intensified as the circle was completed, letting her channel it freely.

The silky white robe she wore slipped from her shoulders and pooled on the ground by her feet. She slid a hand up her bare thigh and up her exposed arm. He followed the motion of her hand, gaze flicking over to her other hand as she beckoned him closer.

He took a few steps towards her, unable to get any closer than the circle’s barrier would allow. He watched her move: the tantalizing sway of her hips, the soft movements of her hands, the flutter of her lashes as she turned her face to the firmament. He had never seen someone so connected to the sky; the clouds had parted, letting the moonlight make her bare body glow and the stars dance in her hair as she turned slow circles with her arms raised. She looked like an angel, the picture of heaven, like a beautiful painting he would taint.

The blood blossom buds burst open, reaching for the energy she emanated. The moonvines grew around her feet, curling around the headstones in their vicinity, crawling closer until the flowers bloomed a brilliant white.

But something distracted him from fully appreciating the show.

There was a sound, a thudding, a pounding, repeating somewhere in the middle distance. So while Bianchi lost herself in the dance, Byakuran floated between the headstones to seek out the source of the sound, until he found the girl in the ditch, desperately clawing at the earth with her hands. He caught a glimpse of the hand that jutted out of the ground and the metal ring on the corpse’s finger and chuckled under his breath.

“Interesting,” he murmured, looking at the girl’s small frame as she and her beastly companions paused in their excavation. “So you’ve got something to do with that lovely man that wreaked havoc in hell.”

He floated back over to his mortal patron. That bit of amusement would only grow more interesting with time, aging like a fine wine, but he wanted to enjoy this moment with an angel before it was lost to time.

He saw her eyes fly open before he heard the first explosion, like a crack of thunder that shook the ground hard enough that she had to grip a headstone for support.

A dark figure flew past them in the opposite direction, stoic and steely-eyed, towards the graverobbing girl.

There was another explosion that shot fire between them, and he skidded to a stop, only to see Bianchi break the circle and make her way towards him, somehow still graceful while moving swiftly. He took her outstretched hand and pulled her close, his black wings wrapping them up as the fire raced along the edges of the graveyard. Loose feathers whirled around them, catching fire and taking flight.

“Hellfire not too hot for you I hope, darling?”

“It’s fire and brimstone, my angel; it’s the beating heart of stars, and it keeps me warm.”

The intensity of her words made him look into her eyes and really look—she was no longer acting. Bare of costume or disguise, she was somehow more than a skyclad sylph, more than passion incarnate, and he would gladly drink her love potion, poison and all.

___

[AO3] [image] [Part I] [Part II] [Part III]

#KHRween2020 #10088 #khr #khr byakuran #khr bianchi #under the moon long shadows are cast #feuillemort #prince supersharky #stillyourprussianblue #tumblr still isn't showing me in the tags so I'm reposting #tumblr equivalent of elo hell #cast me into the void

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feelingbluepolitics · 5 years ago

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Keep an eye on the guy with the hand on the pan.

"Out of the frying pan, into the fire."

That could certainly be trump's fate, sizzling and popping off scarring splatters all around him, until he trips one too many times and self-immolates.

It's human nature to watch what's happening in the pan, and how high the flames are getting, but what is really determinative is who is holding the pan, and what will they do about it all?

This person is not Pelosi. She chose the pièces de résistance, of course. But the hand on the pan is McConnell's.

McConnell doesn't talk much. When he does, it's best to ignore it, because his words drip with sickening malice and pettiness.

The thing to do is to watch what he does.

Remember during trump's extremely unpopular shutdown, when McConnell offered trump the "complete and total support" of leaving it all to trump entirely? McConnell even disappeared from D.C. for a few weeks, to show how that whole business was trump's to manage however trump chose.

That interestingly brutal "support," which McConnell reiterated throughout, was trump's reward for having gone against McConnell's advice in the first place, when trump triggered the shutdown which harmed millions and won nothing for trump. trump floundered stubbornly and damagingly for weeks, because McConnell offered no hand at all.

There is no question that McConnell has worked tirelessly to end democracy in America, with the goal of co-opting every resource in the country, including the strength of the appearance of holding elections. McConnell came a long way toward delivering it all into the hands of ultra-wealthy Republicons. But it should be fairly clear that trump scooping it all up for himself was never any part of McConnell's original plans.

McConnell retains his apparent deathgrip on the Senate for now. People are wondering if he might lose it to the Democrats. Yet McConnell has undoubtedly comprehended that trump actually bowled over and swept up McConnell's Senate from the beginning.

As soon as trump could terrify each individual Republicon politician with the wrath of trump cult voters, McConnell was in truth demoted to Party strategist, and Party counsel, but no longer Party leader.

trump hasn't just been angling to rid himself of the rival power of the Democratic House. trump, with Barr's help, has been angling to dispatch with Congress as a co-equal power, and really, altogether.

McConnell has a nice Senate there for his purposes, as long as he can keep it. That goes for his power in the Senate. It also goes for the power of the Senate itself. The greatest threat isn't Democrats; it's actually trump. Which adds interesting levels to this impeachment process.

McConnell has been notably quiet...and yet, he has determined that, when the House draws up Articles of Impeachment, the Senate will be bound by rules (which McConnell makes up and changes as he wishes) to hold a trial.

So what does Mitch really think about trump?

McConnell is an opportunist, certainly. When it looked like Hillary -- whom Republicons like McConnell have been ruthlessly attacking for decades -- would take the presidency, McConnell wedged the door open for Russian interference, which gave trump the full benefit of the Russian election interference trump had sought and needed, and made it possible for both trump and McConnell himself to score decisive hits against both Hillary and Obama.

But while Russia is definitely trump's thing, it's not, so much, McConnell's. Sure, McConnell will do dirty deals with Russia, such as the new Kentucky home of Oleg Deripaska's Rusal Aluminum.

But Russia really is not McConnell's cup of Oolong. He did in fact get truly ruffled about the "Moscow Mitch" moniker.

That's because who McConnell is really in bed with -- literally, unless they have separate bedrooms -- is Foremost, China and Elaine Chow.

More specifically:

"[H]er father, James Chao, [who] founded Foremost Group, a shipping, trading, and finance company now run by Elaine’s sister Angela Chao. While the company is based in New York, its fleet is, per the Times, 'overwhelmingly focused on China,' with roughly 72% of the raw materials it has shipped since early 2018 going to China, cargo that 'helps feed' Beijing’s 'industrial machine, which manufactures steel products that are a point of dispute in the deepening trade war between' China and the U.S."

https://www.vanityfair.com/news/2019/06/elaine-chao-china-trip-foremost

People talk about trump's trade war in terms of trump's political fortunes, in terms of U.S., Chinese, Brazilian, Russian, and world economies, and certainly, in terms of American farmers and the economy of the entire Midwest.

*See as a Highest recommendation:

It isn't being asked, for some reason...but exactly how unpleasant for McConnell, newly mega-wealthy and politically secure by way of his wife's family money, is trump's endless Chinese trade war? Because, between New York and China? Probably pretty damn uncomfortable.

trump and McConnell are absolutely not inseparable.

https://www.cnn.com/2017/08/23/politics/donald-trump-mitch-mcconnell-feud/index.html

Yet pieces like this one marvel at McConnell's calm negotiation of trump's impeachment, as if McConnell has "ice in his veins."

They may be overlooking the larger context. Before the impossibility of trump and 2016, McConnell fully expected Republicons to lose power to Hillary, and had certainly, as he does, planned his contingencies and backdrops to the nth degree.

But trump got put into office instead. Everything accomplished since, with trump, has been gravy on uncooked grits. But those contingency plans of McConnell's have no doubt by now been modified, just in case, from "no trump" to "post trump" scenarios, because trump is always teetering on the edge of the frying pan. It's just that now the flames under are leaping.

Curiously, both trump and McConnell have been trying to bolster power by hugely boosting Republicon influence in the third branch of government, the courts. That is the primary use McConnell has made of trump, clearly. But stuffing the higher courts with conservative extremists is a done deal now.

The courts, though, which can swat William Barr, and trump, and Congress, for that matter, onto their backsides, are under the secure and indisputable velvety iron grip of one sly, double-speaking, back-stabbing, profoundly ambitious Republicon, and that's John Roberts.

John Roberts will also have a role to play in this impeachment business. And nobody -- including trump or McConnell -- appear to have given any thought to what the black-robed ruler might do with all that boosted power they've handed over to him.

Roberts is in no danger, and faces no loss, regardless of whether trump and McConnell clash, or which one loses power, or even if both do. McConnell's hand is on the frying pan handle. Both trump and McConnell, however, and the rest of us, should probably also consider what the cagey and truly inscrutable Roberts, rather a greatly empowered Hades at this point, might have in mind.

Roberts is the person who single-handedly, in effect, reversed civil rights in America, with just one of his decisions, Shelby. He should not be overlooked or underestimated.

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petersmparker · 5 years ago

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The River Café (Peter Parker x Reader)

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader, Flash Thompson x Reader (as a Plot Device™️ (that I ended up being lowkey attached to?? hit me up flash))

Summary: You’ve decided that you’re going to go out and have a nice time, insistent feelings for your best friend Peter Parker or otherwise.

Word Count: 3757

Warnings: a spicey hint of sailor’s mouth

A/N: I started this two days ago and nearly shitcanned it but now I’m like... kinda in love with it?? I hope y’all like it, I know sticking Flash up in there is unusual but honestly I dig how it came together and I hope everyone’s willing to give it a shot 💙❤️ and also believe me when I say that Flash’s name is legitimately Eugene I fucking swear it (side note: consider this part of my congratulations to @moonstruckholland for one year on her blog!! I hope you enjoy this girl idk what your fic prefs are)

"Let's go on a date friday night."

Your group of friends has grown together over the past few years. Leaps and bounds past what you ever might have expected, even. It’s something that you still find yourself reassessing sometimes; occasionally getting caught off guard by something that’s actually pretty natural by now. You can’t help but be pleasantly surprised, though, when you catch yourself thinking back to what it was while witnessing what it is.

Sophomore year of highschool was a ton of awkwardness wrapped up in a silly belief that everyone had already become the person they were meant to be. Senior year, you find it much more appealing to declare just how much no one knows that they’re doing.

The one constant for you in all this time has been Peter. Peter, ever-changing, ever-moving, ever-working, has not remained static in his existence. He has, however, stayed unwaveringly connected to you. For him, you do the same.

You’re there when Uncle Ben dies, sitting in the stairwell of the funeral home when Peter can’t handle another person passing on their condolences. It’s you who makes Peter do his homework and study for his tests when he determines that he doesn’t need school anymore. Your eyes follow him as he sprints from the gymnasium on the night of homecoming, and again later when he decides to sneak off the bus to investigate the space ship descending upon New York. When you wake up on the other side of the Blip, it’s you who runs to Peter’s apartment to find him mourning the loss of his mentor.

“Don’t you get tired?” Peter asked once in junior year, as you wiped blood from his side with a wet wash cloth, fuming over the newest live report of J Jonah Jameson, “You don’t wish you didn’t have to deal with all of this?”

“Never,” you had responded, “I. . . I love you, Pete.”

Peter had given you a small, weak smile and returned to digging through the first aid kit, seemingly untouched by your admission. It’s not difficult to assume that he had interpreted it friendly in nature, and you figure that that’s proof enough of his nonexistent feelings for you.

That's why, a year later-- assured in the belief that Peter views you only as a friend and comfortable enough in the fact that you’re still figuring this whole life thing out-- you decide to accept the offer of one Flash Thompson for a date.

What’s the harm, you figure. It seems casual enough, and Flash had mellowed out over the years. He's no longer quite so quick to tease others or flaunt his wealth, and had become a relatively decent friend of yours. Worst case scenario, it’s awkward, you get a free meal, and the both of you continue on to pretend it didn’t happen. Best case. . .

Maybe you move on from Peter.

Peter shows up unannounced at your door late Friday afternoon with a backpack full of schoolwork and snacks. It's not unusual of him at all, and yet when you hurry to answer the door, the sight of him catches you by surprise.

His gaze flicks upward to your wet hair, twisted into a towel, and then down to your hands, which you're holding out cautiously to avoid ruining a fresh coat of black polish. The confusion on his face is amused in nature. You're not normally one to paint your nails unless there's an event going on.

"Uh, hi, Peter," you say, trying not to sound unwelcoming.

This is such bad timing.

"Hey," he greets, hand wrapping around the strap of his backpack, "What's up? I was thinking we could do homework for an hour and then give up to watch movies instead."

You hadn't told Peter about the date. Telling him, you feared, would feel like you were asking for him to disapprove. To ask you not to go. It wasn't a disappointment you were willing to inflict upon yourself. Not when you were feeling a bit of hope for the outcome of the date. You wanted to be enthusiastic; wanted to enjoy the company of a friend and see if something could come out of it that was more than hopeless pining.

"I kind of have plans," you admit, unable to meet his eye.

Confusion colors his tone now, too. "Oh, really? Well, uh, do you mind if I come in for a little while anyway? Since I'm here. I need a bit of help with the English assignment."

Part of you wants to say no. But you can't look at Peter Parker and turn him away, and so you back up to let him into your apartment. He knows the way to your room by now and leads the way there. Every available surface is littered with items of clothing. He'd seen your room somewhat messy before, but you can tell he isn't expecting it to look like a tornado has been through your closet. You avoid his eyes, embarrassed, when he turns to give you a questioning look.

He throws himself onto your bed, shifting to sit with his back against the headboard, and digs a notebook from his bag. After a moment, he pulls a dress out from under himself and puts it aside.

You find yourself standing awkwardly in the doorway. A glance at the alarm clock on your nightstand tells you that Flash will be picking you up in only forty-five minutes. Peter clearly doesn't intend to leave until he's asked, and you don't have the will to ask. Which means you're going to have to just finish getting ready, anyway, and send him off before Flash arrives.

"What did you need help with?" You ask, going over to the dresser to look into the mirror above it.

You remove the towel from your hair to find that it's mostly dry. Satisfied, you brush it all back, away from your face. You see him looking at you in the mirror, but attempt to ignore it. It's already uncomfortable enough preparing for a date in front of the guy you're in love with. Must he make you feel weird for prettying yourself up a bit, even inadvertently?

What did I do to deserve this? you wonder, and apply a hint of peach eyeshadow with the tip of your finger.

He looks back to the notebook. You pretend not to notice that, either.

"The argumentative essay," he says finally, with a sigh, "Mr. Sharpton said my thesis needs work."

"Sharpton tends to be a picky little bitch. Read it to me," you instruct, dabbing glitter onto your eyelids and across your freckles.

He does. It's not the worst thesis statement. The intention is clear. Peter's always been better with math and science, but he's never been hopeless with English, either. "Well, you've got all three prongs already," you start, before pausing to apply a healthy amount of clear gloss, "They're just not parallel. It sounds awkward. For what you're trying to say, you could probably just reorganize the sentence, but structure it around the phrase, 'Through the author's use of. . . '" you wave your hand, indicating his points, "'. . .blah blah blah is represented.'"

Peter hums in understanding, followed by the scratching of pen against paper. You take the time to apply mascara and go about picking through the clothes strewn around the room to reassess what to wear. Kneeling on the floor, you throw various clothes back toward the open closet door.

Too casual, too dressy, too casual, too casual, that's stained, ew.

Your cell phone beeps on the bedside table. The sound of pen on paper ceases. Before you can say anything, Peter, who've never minded reading your texts, picks it up out of habit. He reads the message out to you.

"Um. Flash says to wear something fancy?" He says, sounding disconcerted.

The sick feeling in your stomach is immediate.

"Uhh. Thanks."

You pull the black dress that you'd deemed too dressy back out of the closet, hoping to appear more casual and less about-to-vomit. Thirty minutes left. Not even that much. Just twenty minutes and you could have sent Peter home none the wiser and had an extra ten to hype yourself up for this date, but now you're confronted with the fact that Peter knows. He knows and you're going to have to hear about it.

"You're going out with Flash?" He asks as you attempt to quell your nerves by focusing very hard on removing the couple of cat hairs that stick to the velvet material of the dress.

"Yeah."

"Like, on a date?"

"Yeah."

You risk a glance at Peter. His expression is unreadable. The sight of it makes your stomach twist. To escape it, you step into the closet and close the door under the guise of changing clothes.

"How did that happen?" Peter calls through the door.

You wince. There's something in his tone like disappointment, and you realize that you never considered the possibility that he might judge you for your willingness to go on a date with Flash. Sure, they were something like friends nowadays, but maybe that didn't mean Peter actually genuinely liked the guy. The prospect of having just lost Peter's respect is like a needle to the heart.

"He- He asked me out after decathlon the other day. I thought it might be fun."

"That's. . . interesting," Peter says, tone still off in some way.

The feeling that spreads through you is gross. There's a bitter taste in your mouth. You hate it. This was supposed to be something simple, something nice you could enjoy for yourself. You don't want Peter to ruin it for you, whether or not that's his intention.

You tug on the dress hurriedly and exit the closet, doing your best to maintain some sort of neutrality in your expression. "Flash is my friend. He said he that he kinda likes me and it seemed like it would be nice to go out with him," you say, "Whats wrong with that, Peter?"

Peter looks like he's been accused. Your tone wasn't as calm as intended, so it's no surprise.

"Nothing!" He responds, throwing his hands up in a placating gesture, "It's just- it's weird, isn't it?"

It feels like the air has been sucked out of your room. Your ears ring. In the back of your head, you know-- you know he only means it's weird because it's Flash you're about to go out with. But you're being faced with a conversation you didn't want, forced to acknowledge that you were never going to just find a person who makes you laugh and be able to just get the hell over Peter, and what comes out reflects the hurt feelings that are eating at you in the moment.

"Weird?" You demand, "Is it really so goddamn weird that someone could have feelings for me, Peter? Just because you don't-!"

Anger and hurt clouds your brain and you lose your train of thought entirely, breaking off in an involuntary scoff. You snatch your shoes off the floor and your apartment keys off the dresser. It isn't until you've stalked over to the nightstand to grab your phone that you continue.

"I'm leaving. I'm going on that date with Flash and I'm going to enjoy myself. Lock the door on your way out."

Peter's still on the bed, unmoved. He looks more startled than he's ever been by something you've said, and then even more so when you toss the apartment keys in his direction.

When you storm out of your own home, shoes still clutched in your hand, you try desperately to wipe from your mind the image of the shocked look on your best friend's face.

The date is nice.

Like, actually, genuinely nice.

Flash happens to arrive at your building just in time to find you gazing hard into the glass of the lobby. You're swiping frustratedly at the mascara that has run with the few angry tears you couldn't prevent. You manage to play the makeup off as no big deal, but his eyes drift immediately to your bare feet and the shoes clutched in your left hand. There's no good explanation for being shoeless on a New York City street.

"Do I want to ask?" He questions, looking kinda grossed out and at least moderately concerned.

"Please don't," you answer.

He opens the car door for you like you haven't already ruined your chances of impressing him, and you can't help but marvel at how different he is from the Flash of two years ago, who would most definitely have gotten back in his car and sped off.

The drive is long and Flash won't tell you what the destination is. You pass the time with chatter, not all that different from what you'd probably be exchanging in study hall. The convertible's roof is down, which makes it difficult not to look up for a hint of red and blue passing by, but Flash stares up openly for his idol when the car is stopped.

You don't think Spider-Man will be out tonight.

After a while, you cross the Brooklyn Bridge. Flash hands the keys over to the valet of the restaurant and helps you out of the car. He makes a joke about how your shoes better be on, but you barely hear.

"Flash, really?"

"What?"

The entrance to the restaurant is beautiful, lit with warm-colored string lights and surrounded by luscious greenery. You recognize the name on the sign, hand-painted in green; your parents had come here for their 25th anniversary a while back.

"This place is really fucking expensive," you say, and suddenly become very aware of the fact that you hadn't brought your wallet.

"I like the side dishes here," he says, like the scalloped potatoes wouldn’t cost a normal person half a fridge of groceries.

"You're nuts."

Flash buttons the top two buttons of his plaid suit jacket and takes your hand. Your stomach flips. From nerves or guilt, you're not sure. It's probably both.

"Do you have a reservation?" Asks the Maître D' when you enter.

You're prepared to have to leave, figuring that a spot at a swanky place like this would need to be reserved months in advance, but Flash pulls out his license to show to the man.

"Yes we do. 6:30, under the name Eugene Thompson."

"This way then, Mr. Thompson."

Your table next to the window overlooks the East River. The dining room has already begun to fill with the dinner rush and the little band in the corner is playing a sweet-sounding song. The menu is astronomically expensive, but Flash urges you to get whatever you want. You settle for the cheapest chicken dish on the menu and take to watching the boats pass beneath the Brooklyn Bridge. Flash orders a meat and cheese plate to start, unsurprisingly, and arranges combinations on bread and crackers for you to try.

It's more fun than you ever expected it to be, honestly. You'd been prepared for Flash to be a bit much after having agreed to let him choose the date, but he's just trying to make sure you enjoy yourself. He makes jokes and laughs at your own. Refills your drink from the water flute before you've even noticed you've gotten low. Offers you a taste of his meal. You're distracted, Peter no longer at the forefront of your mind.

With Flash, it's easy.

"I'll be honest, Eugene," you start, teasingly, and giggle at Flash's fake-annoyed attempt to jokingly swat at the side of your head, "This is. . . This is really, really nice. My wig is sufficiently snatched."

He busts out laughing, earning a look from those at nearby tables. After a few moments, he quiets and takes to smiling down at his steak.

His smile softens into something a bit awkward, maybe somewhat unsure, when he says, “Can I ask you something?”

Your heart involuntarily skips a beat. When is that question ever a good sign? “I- uh, yeah. Sure. What’s up?”

“What’s up with you and Parker?”

When you meet Flash’s eye, he doesn’t appear accusatory. He doesn’t even seem upset. More than anything, you’d say he looks confused. You, however, can feel heat rising aggressively to your cheeks.

You feel guilty again.

“Peter? What do you mean?”

He rolls his eyes good-naturedly in response and sets down his fork. “Oh, come on now. You like him right? Since like, middle school.”

You know you’ve never really actively tried to hide it from anyone, but having it said aloud like that is jarring. It’s embarrassing. You wonder why Flash wants to talk about this, of all things, when your date had actually been going pretty darn well. But you decide to be honest, since fooling him is unrealistic.

“A while, yeah.”

“Then why are you on a date with me right now?” Flash questions.

“You. . . you asked me out?” You answer confusedly.

He passes a hand through his hair a bit agitatedly. You hope he isn’t annoyed with you, but you aren’t sure what he’s expecting you to say.

“I mean,” he clarifies, a laugh escaping his lips, “Why the hell aren’t you dating him? It’s been years already. Did you guys decide that you didn’t want to risk ruining your friendship? What’s up?”

It seems that your brain is exclusively capable of performing the sound of a record scratch on repeat. You have no idea how to respond to anything Flash has just said. None of it makes sense. Peter doesn’t like you. He never has. If Flash has paid enough attention to notice how much you like your best friend, surely he should have noticed that your affection is definitely not returned.

You don't want to think about it. You don't want a spark of hope, only for it to be stomped on. Today's events alone have been proof enough that Peter doesn't like you.

"Why did you ask me out if you knew I like Peter?" You question, staring down at your half-eaten chicken parmesan.

"Why did you agree if you like Peter?"

You can feel him looking at you. When you decide to meet his eye, you're scared to see the hurt that's in them.

It's not there.

"You were hoping to get over him, right?" Flash asks, half a smile on his face, "I was hoping you would, too."

He takes your hand for the first time since you entered the restaurant, and you realize that if anything, he maybe kind of gets it.

“Peter doesn’t have feelings for me,” you manage to say, after several long moments of silence have passed.

“Dude, Parker’s in love with you.”

Considering everything, the ride home isn't nearly as awkward as it could have been.

Flash parks a little ways down the street from your building. He doesn't get up to help you out of the car like he had before. You can't really hold that against him.

"Sorry about all this," you say, guilt still swirling low in your gut, after you've shut the passenger side door.

He side eyes you when he says, "Don't flatter yourself, honey, I'll get over it," and grins, "Go tell Parker that I will actually straight up call my lawyers if he fucks this up now that I've laid all this shit out for him."

With that, he waves his hand once and then pulls away from the curb.

Thanks Eugene, is the text you send him during the walk home.

He responds with selfie of him flipping off the camera, and things are just about as close to normal between you as you figure they can be, for now. It's with a laugh that you send one back, shoes once again clutched in your flipping-off hand as you knock on the door to your apartment and wait for your parents to let you in.

Peter opens the door.

Your smile freezes in its place and then falls. His gaze averts quickly to the floor, like he's just done something wrong. You aren't sure what to say to him. "You're still here," you settle on pointing out, eventually.

"How'd it go?" He asks, skipping over the part where he explains the fact that he's still in your apartment.

He looks very much like he doesn't want to hear the answer, but also like he's trying to sound enthusiastic for you. Your heart aches. It's been hours since you'd left, and he's been sitting here marinating in the fight. Meanwhile, while you were fine dining with a friend who turned out to be way better of a friend than you'd thought he was.

"We enjoyed ourselves," you admit.

"Oh," he responds, voice a bit shaky, "That's good. I mean- It's great. That's really great. I'm glad. I'm happy for you."

"Hey, Peter?"

"Yeah?"

Your throat wants to close when you look into his eyes, but you press on.

"Are you in love with me?"

". . .Yeah."

Despite the fact that you grasp the front of his shirt in your fist when you lean in to kiss him, it's neither hurried nor forceful. It's a response, and an assurance. You pull back enough to see his eyebrows knitted together in confusion, then kiss him a second time, just a peck.

He leans his forehead against yours, sighing in relief. The tension that he must have been holding in his body releases, and you feel his stance soften with your hand still against his chest.

"I should have told you," he murmurs, reaching up to cup your jaw.

You can't help but crack a smile. "Yeah, Pete. Flash had to tell me. On our date."

"That's so awkward."

You laugh. "You're tellin' me."

He leans away from you when he exclaims, suppressing his laughter, "Hey, you didn't tell me, either!"

"Oh my god, Peter," you gush, "Yes I did! Over a year ago!"

His smile falls like he's just had the air knocked out of him. "You what?"

"Oh my god," you repeat, shaking your head in disbelief, "oh my god."

Peter falls into a slew of apologies, but you're starting to laugh, and they start to die on his lips just ask quickly as they had begun to form. You pull him forward by his shirt once more and kiss him in the doorway, revelling in the ridiculousness of it all.

"I'm in love with you too," you sigh.

If his delighted smile weren't already enough, the kiss that follows more than makes up for it.

Tag list

@undiadeestos

#peter parker #peter parker fanfiction #peter parker fanfic #peter parker fic #peter parker x reader #peter parkerxreader #peter parker reader insert #peter parker self insert #peter parker fluff #peter parker angst #spiderman fanfiction #spiderman fic #marvel fanfiction #flash thompson #flash thompson x reader

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mittensmorgul · 5 years ago

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5.09, The Real Ghostbusters (except... there's a heck of a lot of Role Playing involved, still...)

After 5.08, it's nice to finally do away with one level of the mirrors, with Chuck actually playing his own role directly. Except it's all only to further his narrative vision, in the end.

This time, the players in the game include a ridiculous number of pantomime monsters, and a gaggle of Sam and Dean Impersonators, who "play their roles" with varying degrees of success. Demian and Barnes are objectively the most successful, but even then they can't make that final leap of understanding to see what's really going on. Even by the end, even after sumbling over the "real" ghost hunt there (in a direct parallel to the pantomime play Zacchariah forced Sam and Dean into in 4.17), and having the REAL Sam and Dean walk them through the hunt, they still don't get that Supernatural isn't a story by Carver Edlund, but a real accounting of the lives of this very real Sam and Dean Winchester... To them, even knowing hunting and ghosts are real, Sam and Dean are just... fictional characters.

Which also nods to episodes in the future like 14.16, and the notion that if people knew about the supernatural being real, they'd be able to fight it directly on their own. Even presented with direct evidence, and lived experience of it, and Dean literally TELLING THEM TO THEIR FACES that he is the real Dean from the books, they think he's pulling their leg...

But I digress, as per usual. :P

This whole thing is set up by Becky. And this whole runaround of this very real case that she unwittingly planted Sam and Dean in the middle of served to give them ONE bit of misleading, manipulative information:

BECKY: (Running after him) Sam! Wait, one more thing. In chapter 33 of Supernatural Time is on my Side, there's that girl Bela? She was British, and a cat burglar. SAM: Yeah I know. BECKY: She stole the Colt from you and then she said she gave it to Lilith, remember? SAM: Yeah. BECKY: Well you know she lied right, she didn't really give it to Lilith. SAM: (looking at Chuck) Wait, what? BECKY: (Excited) Didn't you read the book? There was this one scene where Bela gives the Colt to a demon named Crowley. Lilith's right hand man. And I think her lover too. SAM: Crowley. (To Chuck) Didn't it occur to you to tell us this before? CHUCK: I'm sorry. I didn't remember. I'm not as much of a fan as she is. SAM: Becky, tell me everything.

Which makes me wonder just how much of this entire thing was actually Becky's idea, you know? Why would she feel compelled to deliver them this EXACT bit of information, about a situation that ostensibly hadn't been relevant in TWO YEARS? Why, unless she was aware of their current Apocalyptic Situation, did she feel that this was an important bit of information that Sam and Dean needed to hear at this specific time?

It feels uncomfortably like the same sort of ruse Chuck set up in 14.20 with the other Magical Gun he presented as a solution to their problems, but which was actually a manipulation into tragedy (luckily thwarted by Dean's eventual refusal to use the gun for Chuck's purposes).

Becky doesn't even seem to think it's strange to bring this up, of everything she may have chosen to tell them about the books, you know? She leads them directly to the Colt, setting up the tragedy that plays out in the very next episode.

Which is odd, you know? Makes one wonder just how much of the Supernatural books Sam and Dean both have actually read. I mean, I can understand why they'd shy away from the horror of Time Is On My Side, since it was such a horrific loss and maybe revisiting that period of horrific memories is something they'd rather avoid. But Chuck did give them that clue, and maybe he was just getting frustrated by the fact that they hadn't found it yet, and used Becky to deliver that message.

Even though WE know the gun was useless against Lucifer anyway, you know? And LUCIFER HIMSELF was aware of that fact, so obviously Chuck would've been, as well... and yet... he let them play out that Tragic Sacrifice anyway. All part of the script... while he happily continues to LARP as the wibbly prophet, taking it out once level further into the realm of make-believe in this episode, "revealing himself" to his readers as Carver Edlund, the author of fictional series Supernatural.

spirals within spirals...

#spn 5.09 #s14 hellatus rewatch #it's spirals all the way down #spiders georg of the tnt loop #the winchester gospels

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caffeineivore · 6 years ago

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Spirits part next

R, Z, hints of R/J, A/Z, U/M.

The place they’d gone to had been reasonably priced and boasted a decent bottle selection. It was not the first time that Ember had seen Angela Schein since The Incident, but these girls’ nights out, such as they were, did not happen with great frequency either. Angela, married now and all but glowing with newlywed bliss, had been just as incandescently kind and pure-souled as ever, and they’d whiled away a happy enough hour over some small plates and small talk and wine-- an Argentinian Malbec for her, a Napa Valley Rosé for the blonde. Ember had then conscientiously seen Angela safely to her home, remembering the circumstances of their first meeting, before heading in the direction of Brooklyn herself.

Nothing is out of the ordinary until she is all but three blocks away from her building, but when it comes, the darkness rose with the speed and force of an eruption. She takes off at a run perhaps a split-second before the soft, ominous sounds of a scuffle even reached her ears.

Remember, little Firebird, bad things can happen to people on a quiet street anywhere in this city. It had been a lesson imparted upon her by her grandfather many decades ago, well before 9-11, or the Central Park Jogger case, or even the Son of Sam attacks. It had been cold comfort in the aftermath of some of the tragedies that she’d seen, and even now, though she knows, realistically, that there is no way to cheat fate, the black-fly buzz of impending catastrophe still fills her with knee-jerk anger and sorrow that will never be easy to shake.

She hears a muffled argument in gutter Spanish-- no less furious for all it’s quiet-- before she even turns the corner, and then the unmistakable sound of a pistol being cocked, and her heart makes an uncomfortable leap to her throat. Nothing she has on her is powerful enough to stop death in its tracks.

But then, as though out of nowhere, not one but three police vehicles barrel down the street, flashing lights and blaring sirens as they head directly towards where the argument started off. Two cruisers, followed by a burly SUV from the K-9 unit, converge onto the alley, and perhaps in fear or perhaps in a pragmatic desire for survival, two dark-clad figures run off from the scene before any shots can be fired.

She cautiously makes her way down the street, towards the cluster of police vehicles, and much to her surprise, the door of the K-9 vehicle opens, something sleek and sharp-muzzled jumping out. But where she might have expected a brawny Malinois or German Shepherd on a leash, she gets the immediate impression of something smaller but wilder-- vulpine, before it morphs right in front of her eyes into a man, sleekly handsome with long, curling hair the dusky blonde of old gold. Ember is sure her shock is registered on her face, but the man smiles, peridot-green eyes lighting up in friendly recognition. “Well met at long last, milady.” Silent and fleet, he crosses the street in a blink, and takes her hand in both of his, laying a kiss on the knuckles in a gesture that should have by all rights been sleazy rather than gracious. “I’m Zhen. A friend of Jareth’s, if you will.”

“Oh.” Ember relaxes, looking up into the man’s stunning face. All fox spirits, regardless of gender or clan or alignment, are known for their beauty, and this one is no exception. She knows of him-- a finance wizard, as befits his kin’s affinity for acquisition and illusion-- but had she not known his chosen vocation, she would have expected a visage such as his to grace a Milan runway. “Well. Thanks for the...” She gestures vaguely at the alley where the cluster of police cars had been parked, only to realize, belatedly, that they’d disappeared without a trace. Her eyes narrow-- even distracted, she should have noticed them vanishing into thin air.

His smile morphs into a grin full of fun and mischief. “I could be a hell of a stage magician, don’t you think? Like Harry Houdini and David Copperfield and Criss Angel all rolled into one but better-looking.” The statement incites a scoff and an eye-roll, as it is meant to, and he lets go of her hand, and a bit of the animal hypnotism lets off with the release of skin on skin contact.

“What were you doing here?” It’s the question that she finally settles on asking first. It is perhaps just a coincidence that they were both present when the shooting would have gone down. Or perhaps not. His aura is colourful and chaotic like an abstract pop art on a spiritual canvas, but she senses no malevolence.

“My lovely one is working late tonight, leaving me to my own devices, so I was visiting one of my favourite places, earlier.” He names a quaint little 24-hour cafe within walking distance that had been opened only six months ago but was already quite popular with the locals for their buttery scones and their exquisitely smooth espresso. “And then I decided to take a walk. And I happened upon that situation just at the same time as you, so I think I deserve another scone. Or six. You should come. My treat.”

He reaches for her hand again, gives it a tug, and now more aware of it, she feels the whisper of suggestion like the glide of cashmere against her skin, warm and with just the slightest bit of friction. More to make a better acquaintance of this adroit creature than for the promise of treats, she lets herself be guided towards the cafe. Within short order, they’re seated at one of the tiny round tables, with a plate of scones glossy with butter and flecked with orange zest in front of them next to a traditional duo of strawberry preserves and clotted cream. Zhen buys himself an espresso but Ember opts for jasmine green tea. It’s good-quality and gently fragrant, not steeped too long or hot. Zhen helps himself to a scone, then another, with an almost-childlike enthusiasm, and she leaves him to it. An illusion the scope of which he’d conjured takes more than a little skill, a little energy.

Three scones in, he takes a luxuriant sip of espresso and wipes his lips with a napkin. “Ah. So much deliciousness. I do hate being hungry, don’t you?” Not waiting in particular for her to respond, he leans back in his chair, eyes sharp and alert. “I suppose you’ll want to know what I’m doing here, in a more grand scheme of things than just Brooklyn at half-past ten at night.”

“I can figure that out on my own, but it wouldn’t be polite to pry without your knowledge and consent,” Ember answers, glancing at his hands for a moment before looking back up into his face. “I don’t really like to-- intrude, if you will-- unless I have to, or I am invited.”

“I can see why Jareth adores you so,” Zhen beams with the power of a high-powered halogen lamp. “But in answer to your question, I followed a man here. He did me a good turn once, and I have guarded him, since. We might be a mischievous and occasionally temperamental lot, but we’re loyal to those who come to our aid. And he did just get married-- to a lovely young lady. I blessed them with long life and prosperity, of course. As one does.”

“So you’re here to inquire about a wedding.”

“She’s like a sister to me.”

Another beautiful, long-lived man. Another inquiry about a wedding over a cup of tea. It’s like a puzzle piece which has fallen into place, and she can see the implications like spider-silk outlined in dew, reaching elusively out in all directions. The thoughts of what this portends for the future, though, fills her with trepidation. Where there is great good, there will always be great evil to challenge it. Despair follows triumph like night follows day...

Zhen must sense something of her distress, because he reaches over, pours her another cup of tea. His hypnotic eyes meet hers over the curling steam. “They’re safe, you know.” He does not clarify whether he is talking about the mortal couple, Adam and Angela, or the rest of the world as they know it, and the oblivious people who inhabit it. “Why, we would never have met, otherwise. And you seem almost as fabulous a personage as me, so wouldn’t that be a pity?”

The remark is flippant and designed to make her chuckle, and works as it is intended to do. But it also reminds Ember of the last part of that fateful Tarot card reading she’d done for Jareth, only a few months ago-- had it been less than a mere year that she’d known him?-- and the last few cards he’d pulled. The King and Queen of Wands, the High Priestess and the Magician. She’d known, in some sense, that he’d become important to her, but not the depth and scope of it. In a mere change of seasons, she’d entrusted more of herself and her heart into another’s hands for safekeeping than she ever had in several centuries of living. She glances again at the man across from the table, with his clever hands and mesmerizing gaze. His illusions and charms. Jareth’s agility and bow, the support of his kin. The primordial nature magic of the Iele and the strength of the Stone-Hewn. There were bound to be others she’d yet to meet. It would be the most powerful, diverse convergence of immortals that she-- and perhaps they, too-- had ever seen.

She lets out a breath in a long, shaky exhale and picks up her tea. Life and fate came with no guarantees, but she could always hope. And whatever battles may come, she’d never have to face alone, again.

#sailor moon #senshi/shitennou #fanfiction #fanfic

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vmheadquarters · 6 years ago

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Happy Birthday @spookykinney!

For your birthday, surfer-Logan and FBI-Veronica are teaming up in this delightful remake of Point Break as told by our very own @cheshirecatstrut! We hope you have a great birthday and that you enjoy this first chapter of Taking the Drop.

It’s not like Veronica thought, while fighting tooth-and-nail to win a job at the FBI, that a law enforcement career would be glamorous. She assumed ‘high-risk’ and ‘life-consuming’ went without saying… but jumped in with both feet because everyone assumed she’d fail. Throughout those years she waged battles with a stacked system, though, to earn her gun and badge—she never once imagined the work would be BORING.

She’s currently reading email nine-thousand-three of more than forty-six thousand, however, so she can catalog contents to make a searchable database; and the sheer tedium has her reconsidering her position. Because sure, she MIGHT find the smoking gun in this stash, and put an international fraudster behind bars. But since right now she’s transcribing vet bills for a Pomeranian’s impacted anal glands, she has her doubts.

Voices filter back to her small and grimy cubicle, her reward for graduating Cum Laude from Columbia Law; she perks up as she hears the words, “…see if an agent’s available.” Since she’s fresh out of the Academy, and most junior on staff, Agent in Charge of Random Bullshit is usually her.

Approaching footsteps bolster this theory, so Veronica pitches her gum, straightens her somewhat-wilted blazer. Turns expectantly towards the entrance, alert-and-professional expression in place, just as Logan Echolls lounges against the frame.

He looks GOOD, she thinks illogically, even as she wilts like her sport coat. Tanned and buff and fifty times healthier than he should, considering those six years of tabloid-chronicled hedonism since she dumped him. He’s in old jeans and flip-flops, his ‘Live Fast, Die Young’ t-shirt both worn and snug; faint sun-wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepen when he notes her disappointment. Darla from reception waves and OH-MY-GOD’s behind him as he says, “Why am I not surprised you turned a felony kidnapping investigation into a job?”

“Why am I not surprised you’re still wasting your potential at the beach?” She gestures up-and-down at his ensemble. “And what on Earth are you doing in the San Diego field office, Logan? Are you planning to make another romantic drunken speech? Maybe you saw a joke flyer advertising kegs, and the metal detectors failed to deter you?”

“You wound me, Veronica,” he says, clearly not wounded, as she shoos away Darla. “You know full well I’m always the host. Like I’d deign to turn up at some random loser’s party.”

She snorts, and his grin faintly manifests. “Tragically, though, there’s a distinct lack of revelry and booze at this locale, so how about I cut to the chase? Can I interest you in a theory regarding bank robberies?”

Her eyes widen and she sits back, gesturing towards the uncomfortable guest chair. He unfolds from his lean and slouches into it, stretching out his long legs and making the cube feel minuscule.

“Now what would a boy like you know about felony theft?” She taps her lower lip while he crosses his arms, entertained. “I’m guessing very little, unless you learned on a film set—but I’ll admit you’ve disappointed me before.”

“I’m talking, specifically, about high-yield local jobs—the ones you guys have bungled like Keystone Cops for three years?” He bobs his brows, tone ever-so-slightly-patronizing. “The robbers wear Ninja Turtle masks, and collect massive hauls with a crew of four?”

“I may have heard a mention,” V says, with irony, because this case is the local Holy Grail. “As has every cable-news watcher in America.”

“Any lovers of partisan coverage realized yet the jobs only take place in the summer?”

She rolls her eyes. “Give us a little credit. We’re the FBI over here, not credulous guest stars on Scooby Doo.”

“And has it further occurred to you,” he leans forward intently, elbows on knees, “that these are the prime surfing months in So-Cal? For the rest of the year, surfers travel to the best waves…which costs more than people other than me can afford.”

He’s close enough now for her to smell his cologne, the sun-baked scent of his skin. Her voice, when she speaks, is husky. “Logan, what have you heard?”

Shrugging, he reclines against the wall, satisfied he’s piqued her curiosity. “Rumors,” he says, with a hand wave. “Nothing substantial. You know how it goes, when we reprobates toast marshmallows and gossip. High-denomination bills are turning up among locals, lately…and I’m the only guy who hasn’t spent his trust fund.”

“Rumors,” she repeats flatly, disappointment washing over her. Decides he looks and smells too lickable for pointless conversation to continue. “Well if that’s all you’ve got, no need to prolong the awkwardness. Thanks for stopping by--we’ll look into your allegations and touch base if necessary. Appreciate the good citizenship, blah-blah, God bless America.”

She finger-waves, and he stares for a moment, disbelief fading into cynicism. “Fine,” he says at last, pushing up out of the chair. “Your loss. I’ve had fun exchanging insults again, Veronica—it’s been a while since my last creative tongue-lashing. Good luck with the glamorous new career. Oh, and…excellent choice, reverting to shorter hair. There’ll be less to tear out when ignoring my clue gets you nowhere.”

He winks and strides away. She runs a palm self-consciously along one side of her sleek bob, and watches his back muscles shift as he goes.

XXXXX

Veronica submits a form detailing the interaction, per procedure, then tries to re-focus on the mind-numbing emails. The memory of Logan’s disappointed expression nags…but what did he expect, showing up out of the blue with no evidence? She WANTED to believe him; just like she wanted, once upon a time, to have faith he’d give up reckless self-endangerment. But leaping without looking is Logan’s thing--and the best way to protect him is to NOT inquire into crimes of his nearest and dearest.

She’s a professional, though, and the bigwigs want their database yesterday. So she dutifully enters emails till it’s eleven and she’s wiped. V then drags herself home to run on the treadmill, eat a frozen dinner, and feel both sad and glad she’s got no hungry dog waiting.

When her alarm goes off (too early) the next morning, she staggers into the kitchen to grab a bottled coffee; slumps half-awake at the breakfast table to chug. Mac’s gone for the day, probably practicing Tai Chi in the park, but the San Diego Union-Tribune’s on the table, neatly folded to show the front page. Veronica’s bleary gaze passes over it…then swings back, focuses. She grabs it in both hands, cursing.

The headline reads, ‘Wild in the Banks? Surf Wax Found at Multiple Robbery Sites, Source Claims’. The article beneath, written by some pompous windbag named Julian Grac, details the theory Logan laid out yesterday…along with several bits of evidence she’s sure were kept from the press.

“That asshole talked to the PAPER,” she mutters, crumpling newsprint in her fists. “When I kicked him to the curb, I should have kicked HARDER!”

Her rage sustains her all the way through her shower and commute. But when she gets inside the forbidding white-stone-blue-glass building, and finds a summons from Agent Morris waiting? Anger gives way to foreboding.

Morris still holds a teeny-tiny grudge about the whole getting-outsmarted-IN-RE-Duncan thing. And continues to view Veronica with unreasonable suspicion--which is troublesome because right now she’s V’s boss.

Her fearless leader’s planted on the desktop when Veronica enters, legs crossed casually, arms folded. The ‘lazy housecat, circling’ routine Morris uses to intimidate is getting old; so V goes full can-do chipper in response. “You asked to see me, ma’am?”

“Mars, am I right in assuming we work for the same department?” Morris arches one eyebrow, and Veronica has to bite her tongue to contain sarcasm. “It’s not something I hallucinated, due to lack of sleep from investigating bank heists?”

“Last time I checked, ma’am,” V replies breezily. “Unless there was a re-org this morning while I was stuck in traffic.”

“And when a potential witness for said case appears in said department…” Morris pauses, for dramatic effect, Veronica assumes. “Shouldn’t the interviewing agent, who’s incidentally my subordinate, notify me ASAP?”

“I passed the information up the chain as per FBI rules,” Veronica says. “And you must have received it, or I wouldn’t be standing here.”

“Yes, but if you had walked Mr...” Morris consults a sheet of paper on the desk by her hip, “Echolls upstairs personally, instead of sending him on his way and writing a bare-bones report, I would’ve received the information YESTERDAY. BEFORE he ran to the paper, and spilled critical intel to perps. I might’ve even convinced him silence is golden, since you didn’t find it worthwhile to try. Here’s a hint—fake sympathy and charm work wonders.”

Veronica finds this claim dubious, but all she says is, “Ma’am, he was passing along rumors. He didn’t give names or offer proof. And I doubt he’s a witness to anything but his own moral decline.”

“Be that as it may,” Morris says. “He HAS made the acquaintance of this pain-in-my-ass Julian Grac. Who somehow knows about the beeswax residue at six of nine robbery sites--the chemical composition of which matches a well-known surf product. Mr. Zog’s Sex Wax, to be precise. Bubblegum scent.”

Veronica contains an eye-roll. “A detail which was kept out of the press.”

“Right.” Morris levers herself up to standing. “My question is, HOW does Grac know? Did he learn this tidbit from Echolls? And if so, where’d Echolls hear?”

“Logan parties a lot.” Veronica shrugs, hoping she comes off unaffected. “And snoops. Probably he stumbled into the wrong crowd and overheard a conversation. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Yes, I was interested to learn you and Echolls share a history.” Morris consults the paper again; Veronica wonders whether it’s a car-wash receipt or actual research. “He was your boyfriend after Duncan Kane fled the country, correct? It’s great you didn’t disappear him, too, because we can use that relationship to get close to his sources.”

“Logan Echolls isn’t big on being used,” Veronica says, lightly. “You might not find him accommodating.”

Morris sighs. “Look, Mars, we’ve been praying for a break on this case for years. And, as I’m sure you’ll be shocked to learn, none of our agents surf. He does, though—Echolls—I understand he’s pretty good. He also trusts you enough to hand you dirt on guys he knows. It might be…” she trails a finger along the edge of her desk, slants V a sly look, “…advantageous to your career to demonstrate team loyalty, Mars. Convince the guy to be our confidential informant. Get an introduction to some surfers, find out who’s flashing mystery cash. His social circle’s no doubt heard about your turbulent former romance. He could help us infiltrate the locals-only crowd, none of whom like talking to Feds.”

“But if I go undercover,” Veronica tries to conceal her mounting excitement, “who will log the last thirty-thousand Sanderson emails?”

“Let me put it this way, Mars.” Morris smirks. “If you DON’T go undercover? I got a server in today from Atlanta containing another hundred-k.”

“You know I’m a professional, ma’am.” Veronica folds her hands behind her back to conceal the involuntary fist. “Whatever my task may be, I’ll work hard to exceed expectations.”

“So you say.” Morris lays the paper, gently, down. “I’d rather you prove ‘my task’ means ‘anything the FBI asks’. Not ‘whatever I feel is right, even if it’s against the law’.”

Veronica nods, giving away nothing. Morris contemplates her in silence. “We’re working on an alternate post-Hearst background for you,” her boss continues, after a tense thirty seconds. “You’ll have it by the end of the day. I’ve also called in a favor from the owner of Neptune’s Net, a local surf hangout—congratulations, you’re waiting tables. You’ve got a month to produce actionable evidence, plus I want weekly reports, in person. And Mars…from now on, don’t leave ANYTHING out.”

“I would NEVER.” Veronica presses a palm to her heart. Morris narrows her eyes, then waves a dismissive hand.

XXXXX

Once back at her desk, V pulls up tools that make Prying Eyez look like a toy and researches Logan. Within two minutes she’s got a list of his petty crimes, including one drunk-and-disorderly sophomore year and two expunged charges…destruction of a police vehicle, and assault of Mercer Hayes. But since junior year at Hearst, Logan’s flown under the radar. He earned a political science degree, with honors, followed by a Masters in English from YALE; and then…he bought a house in San Diego by the water, and a dog from the SPCA. She copies down the innocuous address, cracks her knuckles and considers.

High-tech’s getting her nowhere, so Veronica decides to Google; finds a ‘What happened to Logan Echolls?’ article which reveals precisely nothing. Next she turns her attention to Julian Grac, which at least has the benefit of novelty. It yields links to crime stories in the Union-Tribune, and an article about ‘ten great authors you’ve never read’.

Frowning, she clicks through, only to realize it’s name confusion. But the phrase ‘a writer who prefers obscurity’ catches her attention, so she speed-reads the autobiography of one Julien Gracq; a turn-of-the-century novelist who rejected awards, refused to do book tours, and lived as a hermit. His masterpiece, ‘Chateau D’Argol’, was about a rich man whose best friend brings a poor girl into their social circle. After which the girl seduces, then ruins, them both.

At this point Veronica throws her pencil holder across the room. Because this is EXACTLY the kind of pseudonym Logan Echolls would adopt, and smirk about regularly, knowing few had the insight to penetrate his ruse.

She doesn’t need to use the search tools on Grac, at this point; but doing so reveals his paychecks languish in a shell account. Suspicions confirmed, she picks up the phone. Adopts the sugariest Southern accent she can muster, just because, and spins a tale to the Trib’s receptionist about the tip of a lifetime for ‘Monsieur Grac’. The voicemail box she’s transferred to boasts an inspirational quote (‘All news, as it is called, is gossip, and they who edit it are old women over tea’), recited in a drawl she recognizes. She hangs up, high on triumph, and decides a long-distance chewing-out won’t serve.

XXXXX

Veronica leans against a lamp post across the street to wait; within half an hour, Logan bounces out of the brown skyscraper housing the Union-Tribune. He loosens his tie as he walks, laughingly calling goodbyes to co-workers. He’s in designer flat-front slacks and a white oxford, hair mussed like he’s been running his hands through it--his impersonation of clean-cut and trustworthy is so cute she has to grit her teeth not to smile.

The street is packed with cabs, so it takes him a minute to notice her. When he does, he pulls a theatrical double-take before jaywalking, hands in pockets, smiling wryly.

“So,” she says, as soon as he clears the road, “Can I interest YOU in a theory about people who lie to FBI agents?”

“I didn’t lie, per se,” he counters, rocking back on his heels as his grin grows Grinch-like. “I just wore my weekend clothes and kept my mouth shut. The Veronica Mars Express Train to Paranoia-ville did the rest.”

“This is a serious federal investigation, Logan,” she chides, folding her arms. “Bringing evidence to the authorities isn’t a game for personal amusement.”

“What, exactly, are you mad about?” He lifts his brows. “That I gave you a hint instead of handing over story notes? That I failed to shout my job history from the rooftops? Or maybe you’re just pissed I’m not an alcoholic loser, since it makes you ditching me seem…selfish?”

“I could’ve had you subpoena’d and interrogated under oath,” she says, faux-thoughtfully. “But browbeating you in person seemed much more fun.”

He laughs. “THERE’s the Veronica who ran afoul of the Russian mob. So what convinced you my theory was worth pursuing, sugarplum? Not my charm, surely. Some fact in the article your colleagues missed, perhaps?”

“Like I’d discuss cases with a reporter,” she scoffs. “Why’d you go with ‘robberies only happen in summer’ when you had physical evidence in reserve?”

“Like I’d reveal my sources.” He grins. “Gosh, Veronica, seems like we’re at an impasse.”

“My supervisor wants to use your connections.” She goes sardonic in response to his glee. “I’d ask if you have experience undercover…”

“…But you know first-hand my skills are professional-grade?”

She narrows her eyes. He cocks his head, amusement warring with calculation. “If I help you, what do I get?” he asks.

“First crack at the story immediately following arrests,” she says. “With our full cooperation. And any information you gather solo you can use…unless, of course, it’s classified.”

He removes car keys from his pocket; stares, considering, into the distance as he flips them around one finger. Returns his gaze to hers and locks on, Logan-style. “I assume my role is to introduce you to suspicious surfers? Since I further assume you won’t let me handle this and report back?”

“You know what they say about assumptions,” she says, by way of answer. “Of course, you’re an ass already, so maybe you don’t care.”

“I should warn you, a lot of our high-school classmates have stuck around.” He holds his tie down with one palm as a breeze shifts it sideways. “This may suck for you, but you’ll have to pretend we’ve reconciled.”

She nods, and he extends the non-key-containing hand. “Give me your phone.”

V shouldn’t violate protocol; but Logan’s trustworthy, within limits, so she types in the code and does. He enters his number in the contacts and gives it back. “There’s a party tonight at Black’s Beach—should be locals-only, very exclusive. Text me an address, I’ll pick you up at eight. Oh, and dress like a surf bunny, even if doing so offends your sensibilities. Not all these people are stupid, you’ll need to blend.”

“Gee, I was hoping you’d refuse to cooperate,” she says wistfully, pocketing her cell. “Then do something worse than jaywalking, then flee, so I could knock you down and cuff you.”

“Maybe later, if you’re REALLY nice,” he says, leaning confidentially towards her ear. Then walks off, whistling, while she tries to purge the image from her brain.

XXXXX

Veronica’s sitting on the porch of her rented condo when Logan pulls up at 7:55—in a dusty black vintage Range Rover, not the shiny orange Porsche she envisioned. She considers, as she stands, whether she also makes too many assumptions. But his appreciative whistle while he opens her door is distracting.

“Guess it slipped my mind how much you love playing dress-up,” he murmurs. She doesn’t miss the quick once-over he gives her as he releases the brake. “You look great, Veronica, love the sarong. And friendship bracelets are a nice touch.”

“This is actually a tablecloth.” She strokes the fringed white linen, embroidered with red roses, she tied over one hip so she’d feel less naked in her green bikini. “I favor a no-nonsense black wardrobe these days, because Cup ‘o Soup stains don’t show.”

“Wise,” he says, and clears his throat. He’s in linen too, a short-sleeved, half-buttoned summer shirt over cargo shorts; she notes with amusement the shark’s tooth necklace has reappeared. “I figured we’d start at the top of the food chain and work our way down, since most surf crews around here are big on punching but short on brains. Brains being a prerequisite for smoothly-planned bank jobs.”

“Sounds fair,” she agrees, watching his arm muscles shift as he changes gears. “This party is where we’ll find apex predators?”

“Black’s has the most challenging waves in the area—ten, twelve footers courtesy of an offshore trench. It takes stamina to swim out and ride, so this spot attracts real athletes…the ranked surfers that compete on TV. And Zen masters, who just want to be one with the ocean.”

She makes a face, and he says, serious, “It’s not a joking matter to these people, Veronica. They don’t welcome posers in their midst. I vividly recall you disapproving of fistfights and vandalism, so be warned; the elite surfing community makes me, way back when, look like a piker. Crews are similar to those biker gangs you inexplicably love, although these are black sheep from MIDDLE-class homes--plus more ethnically diverse. This particular group is Mother Nature mystical in a way you’ll loathe and mock; so expect pot and hallucinogens, free love interspersed with showdowns. Stick close to me or you’ll be propositioned…and whipping out a taser would break your cover.”

“Understood.” She studies his face, surprised to see concern there. Gentles her tone in response. “I’ve gone undercover before, Logan. And agents are extensively trained in hand-to-hand combat. I can handle myself in a fight now.”

“Like you couldn’t before?” A smile plays across his lips; a street lamp illuminates his face as they pass beneath, then he’s cast again in shadow. He turns into a parking lot at the edge of a cliff and kills the engine. “I’m not worried about your moxie, Veronica. I just don’t want you to mouth off and find yourself surrounded. Out here, surfers make the rules.”

“I have full faith in your ability to fight dirty defending me,” she says softly. He laughs, gaze tracing her face, and she’s reminded of previous evenings with him in a parked car.

“Nice to see some things don’t change,” he murmurs, then climbs out to help her down. His hands linger on her waist as he lifts her from the seat, skin-to-skin.

They pass, in the moonlight, a brown sign that reads ‘stairway unstable due to rains’. He walks behind her down a narrow path with a rotting rail, hand on her shoulder like he’ll catch her if she falls. It’s nice, this unwavering focus, his concern for her well-being despite angry words. She used to take it for granted, the way she drew male eyes. But she’s grown up, post-Hearst; and she realizes now most men don’t pay attention as completely as Logan did.

At the base of the cliff, past a saucer-shaped observation tower, a bonfire sends smoke spiraling into the sky; loud music blasts, Dick Dale with the bass maxed. Seventy-ish people cluster near the crackling flames--on either side, a ribbon of sand stretches off into the dark. The water looks black, boasting military-formation-regular waves, and the rock wall at her back is smooth, forbidding.

The crowd’s uninhibited as advertised, drinking and making out, smoking and laughing. A few guys dance in a circle with much hilarity, like they’re having some Lord of the Flies moment or praying for rain. A knot of humanity encircles loose boulders at what’s clearly the party’s center.

It’s obvious Logan’s no stranger, despite his current respectability. He greets people with grins and backslaps, jerks of his chin, less unaffected than he seemed addressing work colleagues. Almost, he slides back into his high-school persona—the 09’er general who dictated popularity, who slashed tires and started shit when his judgments were questioned. But there’s a watchful tension to the set of his shoulders, and he glances left frequently to make sure she’s beside him. That, more than words, convinces her there’s danger.

They take an indirect path to the cluster by the boulders; Logan accepts a shot en route, which he tosses back, unhesitating. Cracking his neck, he meditatively surveys the throng, then coughs to get her attention as a gap opens.

“Guy holding court at the center,” he murmurs, indicating a ropily-buff Asian man with longish hair and ratty swim trunks. “That’s Bodie Chang, he was a year ahead of us at Neptune High. You remember?”

Veronica nods, watching Bodie gesture lazily from his semi-reclined position. Watching the crowd guffaw when he speaks, soak up his every word. “He’s come a long way since I interviewed him for the school paper. I remember Chang being shy.”

“He’s one of the top twenty-five surfers in the world, now.” Logan shoulders aside a drunk dude-bro to attain the inner sanctum. “In this place, he’s King.”

She opens her mouth to reply; but Dick Casablancas erupts from a log like the Ghost of Shitty Memories past, and drapes a wasted arm around her partner-in-crime. “Lo-GAN!” he shouts, like Logan’s not next to him. “Mr. Echolls in the house, now the party can START!”

“Enticing ladies again with the scents of puke and Jagermeister, I see.” Logan shoves Dick off, not without affection. “I thought you weren’t coming tonight, dude. Something about college cheerleaders and a hot tub?”

“They had emergency PRACTICE.” Dick accompanies a raspberry with a thumbs-down. “Seriously, how much do you need to rehearse waving pom-poms? It’s not like anybody looks at the props. Hey, who’s the wahine?” He squints, attempting focus. “Nice boobs, looks sort of familiar. Maybe I’ve seen her in a por…oh, holy SHIT! Dude, why the FUCK did you bring V…”

“Hey ECHOLLS!” a voice calls, mercifully drowning out Dick’s fit. Logan spreads a palm across V’s back to steer her--towards Bodie Chang, his summoner, and the makeshift royal throne. The King of Black’sBeach looks them both over impassively. “Thought you were too busy for our modest shindigs these days, man.”

Logan shrugs, nonchalant, but shakes the proffered hand. “You know how it goes,” he says, easily. ”All that money to spend, all those waves to ride. Plus too much temptation here to drink to excess. My body’s a fine-tuned machine.”

“I can respect that,” Bodie says, with a faint smile that reminds Veronica forcefully of Agent Morris. “Looks like maybe you’ve had other distractions lately, too. Who’s your date?”

“This,” Logan says, pairing a smile with a warning glance, “Is Veronica Mars.”

Then he snakes an arm unexpectedly around her waist. His hand finds the gap in her makeshift sarong, cups her hip; he pulls her flush against his side and adds, “My girlfriend.”

#veronica mars #veronica mars fanfic #vmhq birthday club #spookykinney #vm fanfic

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softlofty · 6 years ago

Text

take my heart and take my hand | ringsy

read this on ao3

the ringsy fake dating au no one was waiting for but here it is! the church is real, and so is the hotel with the flowers on chandeliers and the rooftop where you can sit :) let me know what you thought! x

-------

Ringo is on his way home from work, nearing the staircase up to the flat share when his eye falls on their communal mail box, two envelopes sticking out from underneath it. He rolls his eyes as he unlocks the box. Ringo had tried to set up a schedule with his roommates, have two set days in which one person collects all of their mail and have a different person every week, but it had not stuck so whilst Ringo still had hope that maybe someone else had bothered, he always ended up being the one to go and get it.

It’s quite a pile, and he flips through them as he makes his way up the stairs. Most of it is bills and advertising, but about halfway is a thick red envelope. The paper of the envelope feels heavier than normal ones, and when Ringo turns it around he sees his name swirled on it in fancy lettering.

He leans against the wall of the hallway at the front door, the remainders of the post tucked under his arm as he holds the envelope in his hand. He doesn’t recognize the handwriting, and the stamps don’t look different than normal.

Ringo carefully wedges his finger under the flap and slowly rips open the envelope. He pulls out the card, only to be greeted by his sister, a big grin on her face and her eyes gazing romantically into those of her boyfriend. Kira and Matteo. When Ringo folds the card open, there’s big letters at the top: We’re getting married, and we’d like for you to be there! His eyes quickly run over the rest of the card, most of it being practical information about where to be and at what time, and Ringo closes the card again and stares at the front, tears prickling his eyes as he sees his sister and can only describe her with one word: happy.

It had been a little strange when Ringo had answered a Skype call from Kira and his sister was not by herself but instead joined by dark haired man, who looked just as uncomfortable as Ringo felt. Kira introduced him as her boyfriend, and even though it was a little awkward, Ringo had consciously made an effort to get to know him a little, as much as he could with Skype making his screen freeze every five minutes and giving them long pauses where they couldn’t hear each other anymore. Ringo knows his twin sister well enough, she wouldn’t tell him about someone she’s dating unless it’s serious, and so Ringo took it seriously. And once she had taken that hurdle, Kira would mention him in stories and when updating Ringo about how she was doing. It was obvious she was happy with him, a smile on her face as she filled her brother in.

“A wedding.” Ringo mumbles to himself as he slides the envelope into the inside pocket of his jacket, walking into the flat share with the rest of the post in his hand. “Here is the post.” He says as he lets the stack fall onto the table, Paco and Elli immediately walking around the table to sift through the letters. Ringo can feel the envelope burning in his pocket, and so he walks up to his bedroom, sitting on the edge of his bed as he takes the card out and reads it again.

It’s actually that night, after dinner when Ringo is sitting on his bed with his laptop, that Kira calls him through Skype. He clicks on accept without a second thought, and his sister greets him.

“Hey,” There’s a smile on her face but Ringo sees her eyes bouncing over her screen. “Hey you,” Ringo says, “I got your card.” A full grin breaks out now, and Kira claps her hands together a few times. “Oh thank goodness, I was afraid I was going to have to keep myself from talking about it in case you hadn’t gotten it yet.” Ringo playfully rolls his eyes. “Congratulations, I’m really happy for you.”

Kira’s smile grows a little fonder at his words. “Thank you.” She waits a beat and then starts talking again. “Sooo. Did you notice the line of text at the bottom of the card?” Ringo’s eyes narrow, and when he realises what she’s referring to he can feel the internal panic setting in.

“What, about me bringing a plus one?” Kira grins smugly, nodding her head. “And you better bring someone!” she points a finger at him, “There’s no way you’re still single at this point.”

Ringo can feel heat flush his cheeks, and it’s awful because he looks at his sister’s face, and he can see how hopeful she is, how much she’s trying to pull at him to tell her about his dating life even though there is nothing to tell. But she’s getting married, and she’s happy, and those two things are connected in a way that makes his sister wish the same fate for her brother.

“Well, maybe I’m not single anymore,” Ringo says as casual as he can, shrugging his shoulders. Kira’s eyes widen and she smiles gleefully. “I knew it! Whoever it is, bring them to the wedding. I’m sure they won’t mind a quick trip to Milan.” He knows he’s digging himself into a hole here but Kira just looks so happy for him, he can’t take it back now. Ringo presses his lips together. “I don’t know if he can get time off from work.” He hopes it’s the end of it and Kira will take it back a notch, but instead she latches on. “He? Your first official relationship in years is with a guy? Good for you!” Ringo can see in her face that she’s genuine, and he knows it’s because Kira was there when he struggled with his sexuality, when he tried to deny himself his feelings for men. Guilt swirls in his stomach.

Kira still stares at him, an expectant look on her face. “Do I really not get a name?” Ringo rolls his eyes at her. “If you knew all this time, you should be able to guess who it is.” He hopes it will get him out of having to make up a name, but Kira just says, “It’s Easy, isn’t it.” He feels his mouth fall open a little, and his mind goes completely blank. “How, how did you know?” Ringo manages.

Kira shrugs with a knowing smile. “You’ve told me about how you two are closer friends now, it’s not that big of a leap. I mean, yeah you two used to hate each other, but even that was way too intense for it not to have sexual undertones.” Ringo hears himself laugh sheepishly, so dumbfounded at this situation he is now in that he just goes along with whatever she’s saying.

He thinks he hears Kira say something about what kind of suit Ringo should wear at the wedding and which colour tie Easy could wear to match, but it goes in one ear and out the other. All he can think about is Easy, and about how his sister now thinks they’re dating, and maybe even more importantly, how she saw that coming.

***

The next day at the office, everything feels like a blur. It registers somewhere in the back of Ringo’s mind that Huber sounds annoyed with him but he doesn’t feel bad about it, images of Easy laughing in his face when he asks him if he would be willing to go to his sister’s wedding as his boyfriend, flashing through his mind. Of every outcome this situation could produce, there is not a single one that seems like a good idea. Easy might be the only friend Ringo’s made in recent years, and the thought of losing that friendship, especially over something as stupid as this, is heart-breaking, and it makes Ringo realise how much he values having Easy as a friend.

The thought occurs to Ringo that Easy could assume Ringo has feelings for him, that this whole thing is a set-up, some elaborate scheme Ringo created in order to get closer to him. Easy probably would not put it past him.

He’s upstairs in his room, having excused himself from the dinner table when he lost his appetite, pretending not to notice his roommates’ concerned glances, when there’s a knock at the door. “Yeah?” Ringo calls out. The door opens slightly, and Easy pokes his head through. “Hey, Paco said you were here. Can I come in?” Ringo nods, and Easy takes a seat on the desk chair, facing Ringo as he sits on his bed. “Everything okay?” Easy asks after a moment, and panic tugs at the pit of Ringo’s stomach, knowing that he’s not ready for what this conversation could turn into.

Ringo shrugs. “I’m fine. Why?” There’s a small smile playing around Easy’s lips, and then his eyes turn serious as he looks at Ringo. “You seem a little off,” he waits a moment, gives Ringo a chance to interrupt but he does not, “I texted you twice but you didn’t answer.” He had purposely not looked at his phone ever since he got that card, too scared Kira might text him with more wedding talk.

He looks away, avoiding Easy’s gaze. He hears a deep sigh and then turns back. “Look, Ringo, you don’t have to talk if you don’t want to,” Easy leans forward slightly and places a hand on Ringo’s knee, “but you know I’m here right?” And it’s excruciating, because Ringo knows this is not empty politeness or mockery, this is Easy who has gotten to know Ringo better, who knows that even when he may not let it show, Ringo has things to say, things to talk through, can gravitate towards the comfort and affection of others.

When Ringo stays silent Easy gives his knee a gentle squeeze and then moves to get up. “Wait,” Ringo says when Easy’s by the door, standing still and turning around upon hearing Ringo.

He exhales deeply. “I need to talk to you.” Easy’s mouth tugs up at one corner and Ringo knows it’s because Easy feels satisfied, knowing Ringo well enough now to sense when something’s up.

He walks back to the desk chair and crosses his arms over his chest. “Well?”

Ringo leans off of his bed, grabbing the red envelope from underneath a book on his nightstand, handing it to Easy, who folds it open, eyes widening as he sees what’s inside.

“Kira’s getting married? That’s great, congratulations!” Easy looks at him, eyes warm and fond, and Ringo can see that he’s genuinely pleased for Kira. There’s few elements of Ringo’s life that don’t involve Easy.

Easy leans forward, putting the card and envelope on Ringo’s bed. “So what’s the problem then, do you not approve of the groom?”

Ringo rolls his eyes with a smile. “Obviously.” Easy grins at him, and Ringo wants to stay like this, enjoys the way everything feels so simple with Easy.

“Kira,” Ringo starts, holds his breath for a moment and then breathes out with a shudder, “expects me to bring a date.” Easy studies Ringo’s face for a moment and then slowly starts talking. “And, you feel awkward asking a friend?” Something flashes over his face and Easy gets a bit more tense and uncomfortable. “Or, or are you dating someone?” Ringo huffs a little laugh, but he guesses the self-deprecation definitely does not go over Easy’s head.

“I talked to Kira after I had gotten the card, and she brought up the plus one thing, and-“ Ringo presses his lips together, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. It’s been a while since he felt this embarrassed. “Ringo, just spit it out.” Easy tells him, but it’s not harsh.

“She thinks you’re my boyfriend and she now expects you to come with me as my date.” Ringo rushes, the words coming out in one long stream. Easy narrows his eyes as he stares at Ringo, but Ringo is relieved to see amusement in his face. “How,” Easy puffs out a short breath, “how did that happen?” Ringo can feel the warmth in his cheeks, and wants nothing more than to escape this moment, his only consolidation being that Easy hasn’t gotten angry at him yet.

“She asked if I was dating anyone and thus had someone to bring to the wedding, and she just looked,” Ringo closes his eyes for a moment, sighing as he suddenly feels completely exhausted, drawing a hand over his face, “she looked hopeful, like she wanted me to be someone’s boyfriend. And I didn’t have it in me to break her heart so I sort of half said that I was dating someone and when I let her guess who, she said your name.”

Easy flushes at that, and now Ringo definitely feels awful, like the thought of someone thinking they were together is so awkward for Easy that it makes him feel uncomfortable.

“And you went along with it?” Easy says quietly, eyes trained on Ringo, who nods at him. “By then I felt like I couldn’t take it back anymore. Plus, I was kind of shocked that she thought of you.”

Easy’s face falls a little at that. “Right,” he mumbles.

Neither one of them are saying anything then, and Ringo feels like he has to do something, make this better somehow. “I will tell Kira that I’m coming alone. And that I’m single.”

Easy’s eyebrows go up a little. “Oh, okay.” Well, that doesn’t sound like that was the right thing to say. “Or I could just go with you.” Easy says, and he doesn’t look as withdrawn as a moment ago.

“Really? But we’re not…” Ringo trails off, gesturing to the space between them. Easy shrugs with a lopsided smile. “We could be for a weekend. And I won’t say no to you paying for a trip to Milan.”

At this point Easy looks more on board with the plan than Ringo does, and Ringo doesn’t know if he should be glad or worried. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” Ringo says quietly, and Easy just gives him a reassuring look. “I know. Look, we can figure this out together, okay? It’s just a small white lie, which will only exist in Milan, and after that it will disappear. It’s fine, honestly.”

Easy looks so convinced that there’s no harm in this, that Ringo can feel his own red flags lowering.

“Okay.” Ringo agrees, “and I’m sorry.” Easy laughs a little, walking towards the door. “Don’t worry, I’m making you pay for everything.”

Ringo books two tickets to Milan that night, and if the thought of having Easy by his side at the wedding makes him feel a little more calm, nobody had to know.

He makes a point of it to not talk about it with Easy the next day, despite the fact that it’s the only thing on Ringo’s mind. He takes into account the very realistic possibility that Easy calls the whole thing off after all, tells him that he feels uneasy with having to fake being in a relationship with Ringo, that he doesn’t know if he’ll even be able to pull that off convincingly.

But none of that happens. What does happen, is Easy texting Ringo, asking him to come over for dinner after work. And when Ringo steps into Easy’s apartment, it smells like tomatoes and spices, and Easy pushes a glass of wine in his hand and invites him to sit down on the couch.

“Is my brother not here?” Ringo asks once he has sat down. “No, he’s working late.” Easy says over his shoulder, standing by the counter with his attention focused on the stove.

The conversation ends there, and Ringo feels nervous and twitchy, not really knowing what he’s doing here or what Easy’s intentions are. “Easy?” Ringo says, and Easy turns around.

“Why are you doing this?” Ringo asks, and he braces himself for a let-down, for a ‘I changed my mind about the wedding thing but I made you dinner to soften the blow’, but instead Easy meets his curious gaze with a shy one, looking away for a moment to hide a smile which hasn’t completely disappeared by the time he looks back.

“I thought it would give us a chance to talk,” Easy says, as if it’s that simple, and he turns around again and starts serving the food onto plates, “maybe figure out how we are going to do this.”

Ringo swallows down a gulp of his wine, watching Easy as he walks towards the couch and takes the seat next to Ringo, setting the plates down in front of them. “Right.” Ringo says quietly, and Easy gives him a worried look. “Do you not want to do this? Because if you’ve changed your mind, I totally get it and it’s f-“ Ringo places a hand on Easy’s arm, and Easy’s mouth snaps shut. Ringo gives him a small smile. “It’s good,” Ringo takes a long breath in, “it’s more than that, it’s very nice of you. And we should definitely talk about… things.” Easy looks relieved, and gestures at the plates. “Food and a show first?” Ringo agrees with a little laugh, and as they eat their dinner together, it occurs to him that Easy is the nicest boyfriend, fake or real, he’s ever had.

Once they’re both done eating, Easy shuts his laptop closed and shifts in his seat so he’s facing Ringo. Ringo figures he should probably take the lead on this, since he’s the one asking something of Easy.

“So it might be a good idea to set some boundaries,” Ringo says, and it feels strange coming out of his mouth, asking Easy to be his pretend boyfriend for a weekend and then starting with discussing the things they shouldn’t do. Easy presses his lips together for a moment. “Do you think Kira expects us to be really affectionate with each other?” Kira has never seen Ringo in a real relationship before, only short-lived flings and one-night stands, so she doesn’t actually have anything to go off of, except for Ringo’s personality. “She used to say,” Ringo pauses, shakes his head with a little laugh and takes a sip of his wine, “she’d say that as much as I pretended I didn’t need anyone, one day I’d fall for someone, flat on my face, and that would be me done.” Easy laughs as well. “I think that’s pretty accurate.” Ringo looks Easy straight in the eyes. “Yeah?”

Easy nods at him, shrugs after a moment. “Well, you know, you like to act like you’re all tough and strong, but you can be really soft when you want to. You like to be in control, but that’s the thing about love isn’t it? You can’t help what you feel for someone.”

Ringo lets Easy’s words sink in, and when Easy meets Ringo’s eye again it’s like he only just realised what he said, the tips of his ears turning pink, matching the flush in his cheeks. “D’you think I’m soft with you?” Ringo asks, tilting his head. The way Easy speaks about him, is like he thinks about Ringo, about the way he is and the way he acts. “A little,” Easy says softly, “ you don’t do this with everyone, do you?” He gestures to the space around them, and Ringo grins at him.

Then, his face gets more serious. “Listen, I don’t know if it will even come up, but you don’t have to kiss me or anything, I feel like I’m asking too much of you as is, and-“ The more he talks the more the feeling start to set in that this whole thing is a very bad idea, but Easy puts a hand over Ringo’s mouth. “Let’s just say casual touching is fine, we’ve hugged before,” Ringo’s mouth moves under Easy’s hand but Easy presses down a little firmer, “and if it needs to go further than that, then we will cross that bridge when we get there, okay?” Ringo nods, sees Easy’s mouth turn into a smile as his hand moves with the rest of Ringo’s head.

They end up staying like that for the rest of the night, talking on Easy’s couch, not just about the wedding but also about other stuff, about their friends, jobs and, eventually, on how long they’ve known each other. “Have you never had a serious relationship? In all the time we’ve known each other?” Easy asks, the both of them sitting sideways, facing each other. Ringo shakes his head. “Nah.” Easy traces the stitching in the couch with his finger. “Not with a girl or not at all?”

“Not at all, with no one.” Ringo says, tugging on the bottom of his T-Shirt. “That’s probably why Kira was so excited. I think she was one phone call with me away from setting up a dating profile.” Easy bursts out laughing at that, his eyes squeezed closed and his head tilted back, and Ringo suddenly feels a little breathless.

Just from a completely objective point of view, Easy is attractive. That feels like an undisputed fact to Ringo, there’s no doubt about it. With how he’s sitting now, under the dimmed lights, cheeks rosy from the wine, all relaxed and loose-limbed, lips red and shiny from running his tongue and teeth over them and dark eyes twinkling as they look at Ringo, he’s beautiful. Not just that, he’s… sexy. And it’s strange, because Ringo never really consciously thought about what he thinks of Easy’s appearance, but now that he does, it seems so obvious, like it’s almost impossible that the thought of Easy being attractive didn’t occur to Ringo sooner, because he so clearly is.

“Once you do want an actual relationship though, I’m sure you won’t have trouble finding someone.” Easy says, snapping Ringo back to reality. “What?” Ringo asks, after having played back what Easy just said in his head. “Well, I mean,” Easy gestures to Ringo, who just looks at him questioningly, “you’re, you know, you.” Ringo huffs a little laugh, “yeah, exactly.” He knows it’s not what Easy means, but it always seems to come back to that, to who he is. That’s what destroys even the slightest potential of having a relationship with someone.

“God, why do hot people always act like they don’t know they are,” Easy says teasingly, leaning forward as he refills both of their wine glasses. Ringo snorts. “You’re one to talk.” As soon as the words leave his mouth he presses his lips together, as if to prevent anything else from spilling out. He definitely should stop drinking wine, but instead he thanks Easy as he hands him his glass.

“What does that mean?” Easy says, a playful grin on his face. Ringo rolls his eyes at him, hiding a smile behind the rim of his glass. He takes one sip and places his glass back on the table. “I think we’ll be fine at the wedding.” Easy smiles back at him, eyes soft at the corners and lips slightly pouted, and Ringo feels like he should go. “Thank you, for all of this. I’ll see you tomorrow, I think.” They usually bump into each other somehow. Ringo stands up and walks towards the door, turning around once more with the handle in his hand. “Goodnight, Easy.”

“Goodnight, Ringo.” Easy gently echoes.

Four hours later, Ringo is still floating in his bed, and he tells himself it’s because of the wine.

After that, work gets busier, and Ringo is actually a little thankful to be preoccupied, giving him the distance from Easy he feels like he needs. They just got caught up in the moment, and it’s not a big deal but Ringo can feel it clogging up his brain. It makes things too complicated, and having to be together at his sister’s wedding is going to be intense enough, so maybe being a few days apart right now will do them good.

He’s sitting with his laptop at the table in the flat share, when the door swings open. “And?” Easy says, hands in his pockets, his dress shoes giving a slight clicking sound as he takes slow steps into the apartment. He’s wearing a suit, completely black with a crisp white shirt underneath. It’s nothing special, but it’s classic and clean and Easy looks so good. Ringo has apparently been silent for so long, eyes trailing from Easy’s feet all the way up to his eyes, that Easy starts talking again. “Ringo? Is it good? Good enough for the wedding?” Ringo shakes his head, trying to keep his gaze just on Easy’s face. “Yeah, it’s, uh, it’s great. This will do.” Easy grins at him. “Oh good, because I was not looking forward to having to go suit shopping. What tie are you planning on wearing?”

Right, because they can’t have two completely different colours. “Dark blue.” Easy hums, ponders for a moment. “You could go for light blue,” Ringo offers, “I think that would look good on you.”

He can’t even really tell if that came off as flirty or as simple fashion advice, but Easy smiles at him either way. “Alright, will do. Thanks.” Easy steps towards Ringo, squeezes his shoulder and walks back out the door. Once the door slams shut, Ringo leans his elbows on the table, holding his head in his hands. He can kind of feel what’s happening, but it’s not real. It can’t be. This is because Ringo has put them in this situation. They’re about to be pretend boyfriends for a weekend, no wonder the lines are starting to feel a little fuzzy. “Snap out of it.” Ringo murmurs to himself.

***

They fly on a Friday, arriving in Milan in the evening, with the wedding on Saturday and then the flight back on Sunday morning. The taxi ride to the airport is quiet but not unpleasant, and Ringo’s glad once they’re both seated on the plane. Airplanes aren’t his favourite place to be. He insists on not calling it a phobia, and refuses to take medication for it. He did however book a direct flight, which takes a little over an hour, so he thought he’d be fine but then the plane starts to drive and he can feel a pull at the bottom of his stomach. Ringo keeps his eyes trained in front of him, but then he feels something at his ear, and when he looks to his side Easy is putting one earbud in Ringo’s ear, the other in his own, his thumb scrolling through his phone before settling on a song. When Easy looks up from his screen he gives Ringo a gentle smile, placing his arm down on the armrest in between them, palm facing up. Ringo looks the other way, out of the window, but after a few seconds he puts his hand in Easy’s, and he feels Easy intertwine their fingers. About halfway through the flight Easy lets Ringo’s hand go, but by that time he’s asleep with his head on Ringo’s shoulder.

The landing goes a lot smoother than the take-off, and once the wheels have touched the ground again, Ringo looks to his left, Easy’s head neatly tucked against his shoulder. He hesitates for a moment, needing to wake Easy, but his face is all smoothed out, completely relaxed, and he doesn’t want to disturb him, least of all do it by unintentionally moving a body part and smacking Easy in the face in the process. What he ends up with, is combing a hand through Easy’s hair. “Hey,” Ringo says quietly, and as Easy stirs he retrieves his hand. “Are we there already?” Easy says, voice a little croaky, eyes half opened. “Yeah,” Ringo says, feeling himself start to smile as Easy yawns, stretching his arms above his head. “Alright, let’s go find a taxi.”

After they get dropped off at the hotel, they make their way to their room, drop their suitcases and nestle onto their respective beds, Easy ordering room service for them both. And then it’s not that different from home, the two of them with plates on their laps, eyes on the tv. “Ahhhh,” Easy groans, scooting down the bed until he’s laying completely horizontally, his hands on his stomach, “I’m so full. Why didn’t you stop me?” Ringo laughs, also laying on his bed, turning his head to look at Easy, who looks back after a moment. His laugh dies down, and he ends up just looking at Easy, and neither of them break contact.

“What are you thinking?” Easy asks softly. Ringo takes a breath, looking at the ceiling. “It’s strange. I’ve been so focussed on having a date for my sister’s wedding,” Ringo swallows thickly, “I feel like I’ve only just realised that my sister is getting married tomorrow.” When he looks back at Easy, he’s looking at him with a fond and affectionate gaze, the corners of his mouth slightly upturned.

“Feels like a big deal, right?” Easy says, and Ringo nods. “It does.”

They stay quiet for a bit, both of them now on their sides, gaze on each other.

“I think she’s happy though,” Ringo says quietly, “and that’s what she deserves.”

Ringo wakes up first the next morning, an hour and a half before his alarm. Easy is still asleep, the bottom half of his face tucked under his duvet, which gently rises and falls with his breathing. In that moment, Ringo feels grateful to have Easy with him, the imaginings of how nervous and tense he would have been, had he been on his own, enough to flood his chest with relief.

He decides to take a shower and then walks down to reception in sweatpants and a T-Shirt, not wanting to risk ruining his suit before the day has even begun.

When he opens the door with his elbow, as gently and softly as he can, Easy is sitting up in his bed, awake. “Hey. I’ve got breakfast.” Ringo whispers, pushing the door shut with his foot and walking over to Easy. He sits on the edge of his own bed, setting the plates down the nightstand and dividing the bread rolls. Easy rubs both of his eyes, looking at Ringo as he blinks a few times, and then he grins. “What?” Ringo says around a mouthful of bread. Easy shrugs. “Just, you in sweatpants. You’re usually in a suit.” Ringo rolls his eyes. “Sorry I didn’t get all dressed up for you.” He can see Easy trying to hide a smile, but he fails. “It was actually a compliment, you dork,” Easy says teasingly, and then his eyes sort of daze over Ringo’s chest, and it’s brief but Ringo sees it, “it’s nice. You look more approachable.” Ringo snorts at that, and Easy gives him a grin back.

And it’s nice that it’s still so easy and effortless between them, because Ringo can feel his stomach getting increasingly restless, excited to see his sister but also hoping that everything goes the way she wants today, hoping that everything will still be the same between Easy and himself at the end of the day, and if at all possible, that they both manage to actually have a nice time.

It’s funny, because Ringo keeps thinking of Easy doing this as some kind of task, something he has to put effort into and that he probably wants to get over with, but it doesn’t actually seem to be that way for Easy. “I can’t believe Kira’s getting married today, man,” Easy says, setting his now empty plate back on the nightstand, “I feel like it was yesterday that she was in middle school, crushing on a new guy every week.” Ringo smiles to himself. It feels good to have Easy here with him, not just to be his pretend boyfriend for a day, but like he should be here to see this, given how long he’s been in both Kira and Ringo’s lives.

“Alright, I’ll go shower,” Easy announces, and Ringo gives him a thumbs up. The ten minutes Easy spends in the shower, Ringo uses to put on his suit, and when Easy emerges from the bathroom, in a T-Shirt and boxers, Ringo is fiddling with his tie. “You want some help with that?” Easy asks, and Ringo is stubborn enough to pull and tug for twenty more seconds before giving up, letting his arms fall down his sides. “Here,” Easy says, standing right in front of him, eyes focused on the tie as his fingers fasten a knot, “it’s easier to do it on somebody else.” It’s a little dizzying, having Easy this near, and Ringo can’t tell if it’s because he’s nervous or because Easy is standing so close Ringo can feel the warmth coming off of his body and smell the cologne he just put on. “See, all good.” Easy says, and he smooths the tie down, closing Ringo’s jacket and smoothing it down again, flat palms over his chest. Then he looks up, warm brown eyes staring into his own, and Easy looks a little like he got caught with his hand in the cookie jar, looking away with slightly rosy cheeks.

“I’ll put on my suit as well.” Easy says, after clearing his throat. “Yeah, I’ll look up where exactly we need to go,” Ringo says, sitting down on his bed and opening his laptop. He can see in his peripheral vision that Easy hasn’t moved, so he looks up. “I won’t look, promise.” Ringo says, smiling when Easy gives him an amused look.

They have to go the San Fedele Church, in the North North-East of Milan. Ringo grabs the wedding invitation from his suitcase, going over it one more time and checking if he didn’t forget anything.

“Alright, how do I look?” Easy says, and Ringo looks up, and he looks gorgeous, a black suit with a teal tie neatly tied around his neck. “You look…” Ringo trails off, panicking over what word to choose, not wanting it to feel like too much, but Easy’s face is dropping now, like he thinks Ringo isn’t happy with it. “Really good,” Ringo settles on, but adding after a few seconds, “handsome.” Easy smiles shyly at him. “And you tied your own tie.” Ringo says, and Easy laughs a little, and the air feels lighter again.

Easy drags a hand over his face and then stops. “Oh. Do you want me clean shaven, or is a little stubble okay?” Ringo gives him an amusing smile. “You can do what you want, you know. But if you want my opinion, I like the stubble.” Easy nods, rubbing his cheek a few more times before grabbing his coat. The drive from the hotel to the church isn’t long, and before he knows it, Ringo’s sitting in one of the pews, Easy next to him.

The floor is covered with beige and tan tiles with dark lining around it, there’s all kinds of art at the sides of the room and there are gold, shiny details everywhere. On the table at the front and around the altar are white flowers, which make it feel more like a wedding. When Ringo looks around him he doesn’t recognize many people, only faces he may have seen on a photo or two which Kira sent him, and his brother-in-law to be, standing in the front. No aunts or uncles, and he knows that Tobias tried his hardest to be there, but couldn’t get the time off of work. Ringo’s heart aches for his sister, knowing that there are people missing in more ways than one, but it also solidifies the feeling that it’s a good thing that he did come.

They haven’t been seated that long, when the music starts. It’s a soft piano song, and everyone stands up. He shares a look with Easy, and neither one of them are thinking about acting like boyfriends, they’re just happy to be where they are right then and there.

And then Kira walks in, her hair loosely done up in curls, wearing a simple flowy white dress, on the arm of a man Ringo guesses is Matteo’s father, and Kira spots him immediately. Ringo can see the glimmer of moisture in her eyes, and he mimes a kiss at her. She grins at him, and continues to shuffle down the path, until she’s at the front of the church. Everyone sits down again, and a different man in a suit begins to speak.

It’s a simple ceremony, with a few piano songs and the exchange of vows. Ringo watches Kira speak to her soon-to-be husband, in Italian which has gotten even better since the last time he heard it, and he knows he has never seen her look at anyone the way she looks at Matteo. His throat starts to feel a little tight, and he feels Easy grab one of his hands from his lap, and hold it. He looks at him to his side and gives him a grateful smile.

After the ceremony in the church they take a taxi to the venue, a hotel called Château Monfort, which is nine minutes away. Once they’re sat in the car and it begins to move, Easy takes a deep breath in and out. Ringo looks at him. “Are you okay?” Easy nods at him. “Yeah. It’s good to see Kira again after all these years.” He stares ahead of him, and Ringo can see he’s still thinking so he keeps quiet. “It’s a little overwhelming.” Easy says softly, and Ringo knows he doesn’t mean it in a bad way, but the doubt and worry that he may have dragged Easy into something he was not prepared for, tugs at him. “You will let me know if you want to head back to the hotel, right?” Ringo says, sounding worried even to his own ears. Easy huffs on a smile. “Sure.” Ringo hums, knowing Easy would never take him away from his own sister’s wedding, but being satisfied for now.

The inside of the hotel is beautiful, and Ringo can see why people would want to host their wedding reception here. There is a glass dome in the ceiling which shows a darkening sky, there’s giant chandeliers hanging with bundles of brightly coloured flowers worked into them, luxurious chairs in pastel colours and white or soft pink details everywhere, from the walls to the table cloths.

“Wow. She knows how to get married.” Easy says when he comes to stand next to Ringo at the entrance to the main room. Ringo chuckles, and nods his head. There’s people already sitting at tables, and he guesses Kira and Matteo will be here soon enough. “Okay. If you’re uncomfortable with something, you’ll tell me, right?” Ringo says firmly, looking at Easy, and Easy’s face kind of loses its friendly demeanour, as if the reminder that this is all pretend, that there are boundaries they should respect, upsets him. He gets a short nod, and Ringo wants to say something to make it better but instead Easy walks out in front of him, heading to the bar.

He’s still debating whether he should go over there or give Easy some space, when he feels two hands on his shoulders, and when he turns around Kira throws herself on him, her arms tightly around him and it just feels so good to have her close again. “You look beautiful,” Ringo says when he looks her in the face again. She smiles at him, her hands on Ringo’s cheeks, and the way she looks at him is so emotional and raw, Ringo feels like he has to look away. “Hey you two,” Easy says with a smile, handing both Ringo and Kira a glass of champagne, leaning in to kiss Kira on the cheek. “You look amazing, congratulations.” Ringo can see that there’s nothing but warmth between Easy and Kira, and it makes him feel a little guilty, both for misleading Kira and for asking Easy to do this in the first place.

“I am so glad you could both make it,” Kira says with a smile, and Easy slips an arm around Ringo’s waist, looking up at him with such a fond intimacy that Ringo can think nothing but you deserve more than this. “I think I have to get congratulated by my in-laws, but I’ll see you guys later.” Kira says, squeezing Ringo’s hand before moving to the other side of the room.

They stand there for a while, not doing anything besides drinking champagne and occasionally glancing around. “So, what do you want to do?” Ringo says eventually. Easy shrugs, twisting his champagne glass around in his fingers. “We could eat something, if you’re hungry.” Ringo is about to reply that he’s not all that hungry when Matteo starts talking through a microphone, and everyone gets to their seat.

Ringo’s Italian is not top notch by any means, but his sister’s rosy cheeks and the soft glances shared between them is enough of an indication that Matteo’s speech is heartfelt and sweet. He then hands the microphone over to Kira, who stands up and starts by thanking everyone for coming. She does the majority of her speech in Italian, but every now and then she says one or two sentences in German, looking over at Ringo every time she does it.

“I thought I would only think of the people I am missing today,” Kira says, and she pauses for a moment, visibly trying to keep herself together, “and whilst I miss my parents, I mostly feel grateful for the people I do have and love.” Her voice wobbles, but she gets through it, continuing to talk.

Ringo wells up so suddenly, he doesn’t realise he’s crying until he feels tears running down his cheeks. He quickly wipes the tears away, but then a sob comes out of his mouth, and he’s unsure of what to do but Easy is by his side, scooting his chair as close to Ringo as he can get, a warm hand on the back of Ringo’s neck, the other hand in Ringo’s. “It’s okay,” Easy whispers, and he leans his forehead against Ringo’s shoulder. Ringo takes a few deep breaths, and then he feels a little calmer. “Thank you.” Ringo says quietly to Easy, his voice breaking slightly. Easy just looks at him, and it feels like there’s nothing Ringo can hide from him, he knows everything is showing on his face. Easy grabs the side of Ringo’s face with his hand and leans in, pressing his lips against Ringo’s cheek, lingering there for a moment. Ringo can feel his eyes fall shut at the touch, a shuddering exhale blowing past his lips. Easy pulls back then, his eyes now also suspiciously shiny, stroking his thumb along Ringo’s cheek a few times. Ringo just nods at him, both to say he’s okay but also because it’s the only thing he can manage.

He hears a few more Italian words and then people are clapping, so they both join in. Once Kira is seated again, everyone continues to talk, drink or eat, and Ringo looks to his side, to Easy. “I’m going to go outside for a bit, get some fresh air. Is that okay?” Easy immediately nods. “Of course. I’ll be right here.”

It’s crisp outside, bordering cold, but Ringo welcomes it. He leans against the outside of the building, head slightly back as he takes a deep breath in. When he opens his eyes again, he sees Kira at the entrance, looking to her left and then spotting Ringo on her right, walking towards him.

“Needed a break?” She asks, coming to stand next to her brother. It probably looks a little funny, Kira in her wedding dress and heels, outside on the streets, with her back against the concrete walls of the hotel, but this is what she does, what she’s always willing to do, to come stand by her brother’s side, and Ringo loves her for it.

“Yeah. You too?” Ringo says, and when they look at each other Ringo simply lifts his arm, and Kira moves closer, hugging Ringo’s side. “We don’t have to talk about them,” Kira says quietly, looking up at Ringo, and Ringo knows she’s trying to protect him, doesn’t want him to be upset. Ringo thinks about it for a while, opens his mouth to say something and then closes it again. “They’d be so fucking proud of you, of who you are.” Ringo then says, and it’s all they need to say. He presses a kiss to Kira’s forehead and pulls her a little closer to him. “You look so happy with Easy.” Kira says, and Ringo says the first thing that comes to his mind, because it feels true. “I am.”

The music from inside gets a little louder and a bit more upbeat, and Kira pulls on his hand with a grin as she walks them back towards the entrance again. “I think it’s time for dancing.” Ringo rolls his eyes at her but grins all the same. When he spots Easy, he’s still sitting at the table he left him at, making small talk in broken English with one of the guests. He has this expression on his face, which Ringo recognizes from when Easy patiently waits for a customer at the kiosk to finish extensively telling him about his day without regard to the line behind them, but his eyes are kind and warm as always. It hits him all over again, how lucky he is to have Easy in his life. How completely ridiculous it is that Ringo managed to lie to his sister about having a boyfriend, and how Easy went along with all of it, having done nothing all day but smile and actually looking like he’s having a good time. But that’s Easy, isn’t it? Kind-hearted and loving. Ringo comes to stand behind him, his hands on Easy’s shoulders. “Scusami, can I steal him from you?” The lady just gives them a smile and Ringo takes that as a yes, pulling Easy to his feet and holding both his hands, walking them onto the dance floor.

They stand at the side of the room together, the music switching to a slow song, Kira and Matteo emerging from the crowd to have their first dance together as a married couple. It’s one of those moments Ringo hates at other weddings, that weird feeling of staring at two people dancing, but at this one he doesn’t mind. He knows there’s a disgustingly sweet expression on his face but he can’t help it, and he figures he’s allowed to be a little softer and affectionate at his sister’s wedding. It’s a simple, slow swaying, and then Matteo leans down to whisper something in Kira’s ear and she laughs, her head thrown back a little, and as they continue to step in circles she hides her smile in Matteo’s shoulder. Kira then grabs Matteo’s hands, both of them stepping out so there’s more distance between them and Kira spins inward, Matteo’s hands on her waist as she dips down with one foot in the air. They remain in that pose whilst the people around them clap, and Ringo whistles on two fingers a few times. He’s smiling broadly, chest warm with adoration for his sister, and when he looks at Easy to see if he thinks the same, Easy is already looking at him.

Easy holds his gaze for a while, a moment that lasts too long to be meaningless, and Ringo can’t bring himself to look away. And then Easy’s eyes drop to Ringo’s lips, but a second later they are interrupted by Matteo, tapping Ringo on the shoulder, and Ringo immediately shakes his hand with a smile, congratulating him on marrying his sister. “I’ll go see if Kira’s got a dance left for me,” Easy says, and the way he looks at Ringo before walking away is just as charged and intense as before.

“I know we don’t know each other very well,” Matteo starts, placing a hand on Ringo’s shoulder, “but I am glad you are here for Kira.” Ringo smiles at him with a nod. “For you both.” Matteo looks a bit surprised at that, but he claps Ringo on the back with a grateful smile, and Ringo can feel his heart kind of squeeze in his chest, knowing that Kira has found someone who can be her family, can give her that sense of safety and grounding, and love her through anything; that’s all Ringo has ever wanted for her.

“She was really excited to see you with your boyfriend,” Matteo says, and when Ringo looks up at him with a funny expression, he points to the other side of the room, where Kira now has her arms around Easy’s shoulders, the two of them quietly talking whilst slowly dancing. Ringo lets out a deep sigh. “That can’t be good.” Matteo laughs at his worried grimace. “I’m sure she’ll go easy on him. She definitely won’t need convincing that he’s completely in love with you.”

Ringo feels his stomach drop, and suddenly he’s more aware of how hot he feels, so he unbuttons his suit jacket and shrugs it off. “Why do you say that?” He asks, keeping his tone as neutral as possible.

Matteo gives him a wide grin, pointing both his index fingers to the top half of his face.

“It’s all in the eyes.”

Ringo lets his gaze glide over the room, and when it stops at Easy and Kira, Easy catches his eye. Kira says something into his ear, and a slow grin begins to spread on his face, his dimples popping out and his teeth on show, and it’s more flirty and heated than usual, and Easy quickly winks at him, looking quite satisfied with himself, and then proceeds to continue dancing with Kira as if nothing happened, even though Ringo can feel his heart beating in his throat.

He hangs his suit jacket over the back of a chair and rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, excusing himself to Matteo. As Ringo crosses the room in one straight line, his eyes only on Easy, he tries to remind himself that going over now would fit perfectly within the picture, it would help sell the idea of them together to Kira, that it’s only normal for boyfriends to dance at a wedding, but the only thing that feels true is that he is doing this because he wants to.

“Mind if I steal him?” Ringo asks Kira, who steps aside with a grin. “Not at all.” Easy looks a little dazed, his hands mid-air from where they were resting on Kira’s waist, and Ringo steps to him, grabbing Easy’s hands with his own and putting them on his shoulders, his own hands on Easy’s waist. There are a few other people dancing in pairs, and the music slows down a little, the swelling of strings through the speakers, Etta James’ “At Last” flowing through the room. Easy’s hands move from Ringo’s shoulders to around his neck, and he looks up at Ringo, a half smile around his mouth like he’s keeping himself from smiling wide, little crinkles by his eyes.

They’re doing nothing more than stepping around together, swaying, but it’s close and intimate and it feels so good. “So, did Kira interrogate you?” Ringo asks, his voice a low hum in between them. Easy huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “She was just over the moon, about me being here and about you and me finally getting our act together.” Ringo lets his hands glide from the side of Easy’s torso, over his back, clasping them together there. He hums, and Easy licks his lips, seeming hesitant to speak but doing it anyway. “I guess we’re pretty convincing, huh?” Ringo ignores the cold feeling that washes over him, instead looking at Easy, his eyes narrowing as he pretends to think. “I don’t think we’ve done anything that differently than normal.” Easy presses his lips together, smothering a smile which peeks through.

“Only because you’re too chicken to kiss me.” Easy says, and it’s bold and daring, head defiantly held up as he looks at Ringo, the corners of his mouth lifted and his eyes so clearly inviting Ringo, pulling at him. Ringo’s lips part and his gaze flicks down to Easy’s mouth, and when he looks Easy in the eyes again he has a knowing glint in his eye. Ringo purses his lips and shakes his head with a smile, and Easy laughs, fully and audibly, his weight knocking forward as he presses his forehead against Ringo’s shoulder. “Tease.” Ringo murmurs, and he places one hand on Ringo’s shoulder.

Easy kind of stays there, his face tucked into Ringo’s neck, and for a second Ringo thinks something might be wrong, so he looks down, using his hand on Easy’s shoulder to push him back slightly, but then Easy looks up too, and their noses brush together, their smiles dropping as they’re suddenly so much closer than before. Ringo leans his forehead against Easy’s, moving one hand to the side of Easy’s face and the other arm still around his waist.

“Ringo,” Easy whispers, and it sounds like a warning, but Ringo doesn’t want to run from this. “What,” Ringo whispers back, and Easy has his gaze firmly locked on Ringo’s mouth, and for a moment Ringo thinks he’s going to pull back but he moves forward instead, his head angling as he pushes his lips fully against Ringo’s.

And then Ringo’s mind goes blank, feeling nothing except Easy’s warm lips around his own and the slight scratch of Easy’s stubble against his cheek, which tingles all the way down his spine. But then Easy pulls back, both of their eyes opening, and Ringo just pulls on Easy’s waist, moving down to connect their mouths again. It’s like Easy just got the confirmation that Ringo wants this too, and all inclinations to hold back go overboard, instead curling his body to Ringo’s, getting as close as he can, and Easy quietly moans and Ringo can feel the sound vibrate against his lips. Easy’s teeth graze at Ringo’s lips, and his mouth parts until Ringo can taste the champagne fizzing on Easy’s tongue.

They’re fully making out now, on the middle of the dancefloor, completely engrossed in each other. Just when Ringo feels like they might have to continue this somewhere else, the music changes to a much faster song, and Kira and Matteo get pulled onto the dancefloor. Easy is looking at him, breathing heavily. “I, I have to go to the bathroom, excuse me.” He mumbles, and walks off.

Ringo follows him out of the room with his eyes, a frustrated noise stuck in his throat. Then he hears clapping around him, and he joins in, blending in with the circle of people cheering at the happy couple and some other pairs, doing the dance to some song he doesn’t recognize.

He gets tired after a while, and even though most people are now either on the dancefloor or at the bar, Ringo hangs back, sitting at one of the deserted tables in the back. It’s not just that he worries about what’s going through Easy’s mind right now, it’s that everything is not as fun or enjoyable when Easy’s not there, and Ringo can feel himself getting annoyed. When did it get to this? How did he apparently grow so accustomed to equalizing Easy with having a good time, that he didn’t even notice how much he brings to his life until Easy pulls away from him?

It doesn’t take all that long until Kira is standing in front of his table, and Ringo supposes he should have seen that one coming. He isn’t exactly being subtle, sitting by himself on the other side of the room, sulking, and looking like it too. “I saw Easy walk away, everything okay?”

Ringo is about to force a smile and reassure Kira that everything is fine, but decides against it. He sighs. “I don’t know. He said he had to go to the bathroom, but he’s been gone too long for that to be true.” Kira makes an agreeable noise. “Well, he can’t have gone far.” Ringo looks at her questioningly. “We’ve only rented this part of the hotel, the only other place you can go is the roof.”

She points her finger to the ceiling, and Ringo looks up through the glass dome. There’s butterflies in his stomach now, nerves and anticipation swirling together. Kira laughs at his daunted expression and walks over to him, kissing his cheek. “Go get him.” She squeezes his shoulder before walking back to the dancefloor, and Ringo slips away shortly after, walking into the hallway.

There’s a door to his left, which leads to a staircase, and when Ringo gets to the top there’s a small area, the ground covered in gravel, with a few round tables and chairs standing around the glass dome in the middle which illuminates the night. Easy is standing at the edge, and he turns around upon hearing the crunchy sound of Ringo’s feet hitting the gravel. Ringo takes slow steps, until he’s standing by Easy’s side, the both of them looking out at the surrounding buildings towering over them, the dark night sky only visible in small strips and patches.

Ringo hears Easy take a deep breath in, and a long breath out through pursed lips and it feels like he’s getting ready to say something but then he turns to look at Ringo, and when Ringo looks back Easy’s face loses its vigor, and his eyes cast down with a little headshake. “Easy,” Ringo says, waits until Easy looks up at him, “why did you walk away?” “It’s just,” Easy bites the inside of his lip, a pained expression on his face, “it got a little intense. That’s all.”

“Hmm.” Ringo agrees. “A good kind of intense?” Easy looks frustrated, like he’d rather be anywhere else than here right now, having this conversation. “Let’s just head back to the party okay, we’ll have forgotten this once we’re back in Cologne.” Easy nearly spits, bitterly, and when he moves Ringo catches his hand. “Don’t do this.” “Don’t do what? Because none of this is real, Ringo!” Easy shouts now, his voice angry but his eyes hurt. “Did it not feel real?” Ringo shouts back, “because it did to me!” Easy doesn’t say anything, just looks at Ringo, chest rapidly moving up and down. “Easy, please, just-“ Ringo struggles, not even really knowing what he wants to say so he tugs on Easy’s hand, gives Easy enough time and room to walk away if he wants to but he doesn’t, lets himself get closer until they’re pressed against each other, and Ringo holds Easy, folds his arms around him and feels Easy exhale a shuddering breath against Ringo’s chest.

They stay like that for a bit, Ringo rubbing his hands over Easy’s back. Easy lifts his head then, takes a step back. “We shouldn’t have done this. Not like this.” Ringo doesn’t hesitate for a single second, taking Easy’s hands in his own. “Listen to me. Don’t think about Kira, or the wedding, or whatever we said before this. We’re not pretending anything right now. In this moment, we’re two friends standing on a rooftop in Milan. Okay?” Easy nods, and Ringo grabs his face in both hands and kisses him, gentle and slow, until he can feel Easy melt against him, his hands on the sides of Ringo’s torso.

When Ringo pulls back it’s genuinely because he needs to take a breath, not because he wants to stop, and he keeps Easy close, mere centimetres between their faces. “I liked you being my boyfriend.” Ringo says, his mouth curved into a smile, and Easy grins dazedly. “So did I. But your free trial is over.” Ringo raises his eyebrows. “Oh really?” Easy nods at him with a teasing smile. “So do I need to start paying a monthly fee now, or could I just ask you out?” Easy softens, putting his arms around Ringo’s neck. “Let’s go on a date.” Ringo nods enthusiastically and Easy laughs, even as Ringo kisses him deeply, the fact that they’re both aware they’re kissing each other because they want to only making them more eager. “Mm,” Easy makes a noise against Ringo’s lips, placing a flat palm against his chest, continuing in a whisper, “I do have to admit, I might already love you a little bit.” A wide smile spreads on Ringo’s face. “Good. I think I do too.” He has barely said the words before Easy kisses him, their mouths barely touching through their smiles.

When they get back to the dance floor, Kira shoots Ringo a smirk, which Ringo returns, letting his sister think what she wants, knowing that whatever it is she thinks happened just now, it could never be as good as the real deal. Easy has his hand in Ringo’s, the two of them joining the crowd. They dance along to some of the wedding classics, and Ringo occasionally takes Kira’s hand and spins her around. They probably look ridiculous, and it’s wonderfully silly, and Ringo just feels so happy.

Once most of the guests have left, Ringo walks up to Kira, hugging her and kissing her cheek. “Thank you for a great day, and congratulations again.” She nods at him, and Ringo sees her tear up. “We’ll see each other soon, okay? You know you’re always welcome at ours.” They embrace one more time and Ringo shakes Matteo’s hand whilst Easy says goodbye to Kira.

And then they’re in the taxi back to their hotel, and all of the noise and fuss from the wedding is gone, and Ringo and Easy have nothing except each other, their hands clasped together. It’s maddening, because Ringo has kissed Easy multiple times tonight, which is more than he’s ever done in his lifetime, but it’s all he wants to do now, and if Easy’s gaze is anything to go by, he’s thinking the same thing.

Which is how Ringo ends up pressed against the door of their hotel room, patting his pants to find the key card whilst Easy kisses at his mouth. The door eventually opens, and they stumble in together, Easy walking Ringo backwards until they fall on one of the beds. Easy is now laying on top of Ringo, and he groans into Easy’s mouth at the feeling. “I’ve been wanting to take this suit off of you ever since I first saw you in it.” Easy says lowly, and Ringo puts his hands on Easy’s hips and pulls him closer. “Please.” And so Easy pulls on Ringo’s tie, unbuttons his shirt and unclasps his belt, Ringo taking off the clothes as fast as he can. Ringo does the same for Easy, and then they’re so much closer but not close enough. “Oh,” Ringo says as Easy kisses down his neck, and Easy stops to look at him. “I don’t have anything with me.” Easy laughs softly, bowing his head momentarily. “I thought you were about to break up with me before we’ve even gotten together.”

Ringo flicks Easy’s nose. “Never.” Easy grins at him, connecting their mouths. “So what do we-“ Ringo mumbles in between kisses. “I’m sure we’ll work something out.” Easy says hurriedly, clearly not worried about anything except for getting his hands all over Ringo’s skin, and he slides his tongue into Ringo’s mouth. He rolls his hips against Ringo’s, his breath stuttering. “Fuck,” Ringo whispers, and he surges up to kiss Easy again, following the movements of his hips. Easy grounds down hard then, and Ringo feels his abdomen tightening, reaching a climax shortly after. Easy’s dropping kisses on his face, and Ringo reaches a hand down, palms Easy over his boxers until he’s at the edge, pushing face into Ringo’s collarbone as he rides out the waves.

Easy lets himself fall onto Ringo then, his head on Ringo’s chest as Ringo combs a hand through his hair. “I did not think this day would end like this.” Easy says, and Ringo laughs. “Neither did I.” There’s a pause. “I’m glad it did though.” Easy presses a kiss to Ringo’s neck. “So am I.”

The flight back to Cologne is similar to the one to Milan; Easy cuddles up to Ringo as soon as they’re seated, and they share a pair of headphones. Only difference being that they now have something to look forward to, and it makes it odd to part ways when they arrive home as they drop their suitcases in separate apartments.

Ringo is sitting on the edge of his bed with zero desire to unpack his luggage straight away, letting himself fall back on his bed. A few moments later the door opens slightly, Easy poking his head through. “Hey.” He says shyly, hovering by the door as if he’s not sure if Ringo wants him here, but Ringo just extends his arms out to him, making grabbing motions with his hands and Easy walks over with a grin, lying next to Ringo with one arm slung over Ringo’s stomach and his head on Ringo’s chest.

“Easy?” Ringo asks, and Easy hums. “What do you want to do on our first date?” Easy laughs a little, a warm puff of air against Ringo’s shirt. “You don’t waste any time, do you.” “Have you changed your mind already?” Ringo says jokingly, poking Easy’s stomach. “Of course not,” Easy says, lifting his head and resting his chin on Ringo’s chest so he’s looking at him, “but what’s the rush? We’ve got time.” Ringo smiles lovingly, looking at Easy like he’s the most beautiful thing in the world, because he is. Those brown eyes are starting to feel like home, and Ringo leans forward to press a kiss against Easy’s lips. “You’re right,” Ringo whispers, and Easy lays his head down again, nestling further into Ringo’s side with a content sigh. “Or we could just stay like this forever.” Easy murmurs, and Ringo can’t think of a place he would rather be.

#ringsy #ringo x easy #ringo beckmann #easy winter #unter uns #lisa writes fic

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rhaellatully · 6 years ago

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Strings’n’Drums Chapter 7 (fanfiction)

AO3:https://archiveofourown.org/works/13991202/chapters/42060230

FF.net:https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12814422/7/Strings-n-Drums

Sumary: AU. In 1969, Lucy runs from home and becomes a journalist for the magazin Strings'n'Drums, this will lead the young shy girl in the world of rock music, to meet the colorfull caracters that populates it. In between running from her father and living new experience Lucy will make friends, gorw into an adult and maybe have some romance. Will include Nalu and mentions of other parings

Chapter 1:https://rhaellatully.tumblr.com/post/170156396003/stringsndrums-fanficition

Chapter 6:https://rhaellatully.tumblr.com/post/179698623623/stringsndrums-chapter-6-fanfiction

Lucy liked writing about Nastu Dragneel, he was a strange character, childish and yet, with an fascinating in sighed on life. But none of this was what the readers of Strings’n’Drums would be interested in. Unless she could put it in relation with his work, which wasn’t an easy task. Lucy had decided that she needed more material to achieve her goal. In that spirit she had gotten the magazine to pay for a ticket to his concert in London.

The concert was in a massive room that could hold more five hundred persons. Lucy’s ticket was in the pit, of course. She had checked a London map three times before leaving, the concert was particularly far away from her flat and she had never been to that part of town. This was one of the things the loved about London, she always had new things to discover, even people who had lived here their entire life were finding new places every day. Lucy had quickly come to know every inch of the small villages around the estate. But she knew London would always have a part of mystery.

The weather was hot even at that time of night, Lucy was wishing she had worn a skirt, but as she knew how lively Nastu Dragneel’s concert could get, she had opted for pants. At least her arms could meet the refreshing wind thanks to her short sleeve shirt. The man next to her was smoking a cigarette, the woman behind her, something else.

Finally the door opened and Lucy made her way to the pit. In front of her there was a small fence, on the other side photographer were trying to figure out the best position to be when the concert start. Among them she noticed Loke, she took a step back hoping he wouldn’t see her. He didn’t. Actually, he seemed a bit too preoccupied with the pretty girl he was with to even look her way. Nevertheless, she backed to the third row, just to be safe.

The first part band came in, and Lucy quite enjoyed their music, but she didn’t catch their name. The moment they left and Nastu entered the stage, the all crowd went wild, they was screaming everywhere, and Lucy knew that if they started playing now, no one would hear them. Nastu Dragneel was smiling happily at the crowd. He came to the mike and started clapping his hand over his head. Quickly people stopped shouting and started clapping along. Lucy was among them, and the sound of their collective clapping gave the rhythm of the song that she recognised immediately. In less than a few second the melody grabbed her heart, and her body told her it wanted to dance. Lucy tapped her feet and moved her shoulder to the beat. Everyone around her was already dancing, but Lucy couldn’t dare to do the same.

The next song was just as upbeat. Lucy let her upper body leap while trying to be discrete. Meanwhile, Nastu Dragneel was jumping up and down the stage guitar in hand. The songs succeeded themselves and Lucy let herself be carry by the band. Lucy felt liberated, none of her problem could reach her, even her father couldn’t reach her now.

A ballad came next and Lucy found herself swaying with the rest of the audience, as Nastu pour his heart into the mike. Each notes entered her soul overclouding all her trouble, as Nastu’s emotions came in like a strike. Taken by this beautiful melancholy, her eyes wander to him. His eyes were close, remembering something perhaps; it would explain why he looked so grim. It was as if he had left this world, and he was somewhere else, on his own, for now.

Song after song, Lucy let herself loos. And by the end of the concert she had forgotten what she was here for. It’s only while passing in front of the backstage entrance on her way out that she remembered. She was definitely going to write a great article about Nastu Dragneel’s stage performance. Should she describe it as mystifying or unbinding? The wording was going to be hard to figure out.

She saw a large group waiting outside of the backstage door; they were getting on their tiptoes trying to see if someone was going to come out. Lucy wondered if she should try to get in. Would Nastu Dragneel remember her? Probably not, why would he remember a journalist he had only met once?

Taking a closer look she noticed that Loke was among the people waiting outside. The girl he had come with was right next to him jumping on her feet with excitement. Not ready to face the man Lucy decided to leave, she turned around but was force to turn back, slightly, by the sound of the door opening.

She saw Nastu Dragneel perked his head out of the door, he gave a smile to the crowd out side and then his eyes fell on her. His eyes widen slightly. He couldn’t actually remember her, could he?

“Luigi!” he shouted at her “You didn’t told me you’d be coming”

Lucy was embarrassed to be called the wrong name, but then again she couldn’t really expect him to remember it. Hesitantly she said “I- I didn’t know I’d be coming”

He nodded then made her sign to come in and disappear behind the door. Lucy stood unmoving, she was unsure that she should walk through that door, she wasn’t exactly sure that this sign was directed to her. What if she had misinterpreted it? Why on earth would Nastu Dragneel want some journalist he had only met once to come in the backstage with him? Unless he was hoping he could get a one-night stand out of her. This wasn’t good, Lucy wasn’t ready for that and she didn’t even know him. If this was what he was after, it was better for her to just go away.

“You’re coming?”

Lucy looked up at the sound of his voice, he had passed his head outside of the door again, and was looking straight at her with such innocent eyes that Lucy ended up joining him behind the door.

The backstage was crowed with technician trying there best to get the equipment back in their cases. Nastu led her to a close room, which had to be his dressing room. It was as messy as his flat, hard to believe he had managed to do that much in the short time he must have spent in this room.

As Lucy made her way into the room she was startled by something moving against her leg, she gasp and looked down to see the same cat she had met at Nastu’s flat.

Nastu smiled, “He really does like you” he said.

Lucy gave a smile as an answer. She bent down to pet the cat, which purred at her touch.

“Did you like the show?”

She looked up to Nastu, he seemed to genuinely want to know how she felt, as if anyone could dislike that.

“It was great” she answered honestly, she saw his smile grow even bigger than before, “it looked like you were elsewhere, not in a bad way, it just seemed like you were living the songs.”

“I guess I was” he said as he scratched the back of his “you know these songs, they’re about stuff I’ve lived, people I’ve known, like, when I play them it all comes back, you know?”

This was simply what art did, it transported you. Lucy had always figured out the art-pieces had the power to do so, but she had always wondered how they affected their creator. Hearing Nastu speak, it seemed like they were just as powerless in front of it and the mere mortal.

“Can I use that in my article?”

Nastu looked at her surprised then shrugged and said “Sure” he looked at the wall a few seconds before asking “Did you come just for your article?”

“No” she answered before thinking. It felt weird, because while she had always been a fan of his music and had always wanted to go to one of his concert, the reason she had decided to come tonight was to help her write her article. Yet when she had denied it, when the answer came out of her mouth, it sounded so natural, so casual, as if it had been entirely true. She had never been a good liar but he seemed to believe her.

“Wanna sit?” he said gesturing to the chairs in the room.

Lucy made her way to sit on one of them and Nastu sat across of her.

“Why you became a journalist?”

“Sorry?”

“Like why did you choose that?”

Lucy didn’t know what to answer, she knew her reason to become a rock’n’roll journalist weren’t the most romantic one, and she felt a bit embarrassed about it. But she was also curious about what made him so interested so she asked him “What do you think?”

“Honestly, I don’t get it” Lucy raised her eyebrow “I mean I don’t understand why you’d want to wright about other people doing stuff when you could be doing stuff.”

“I’m not sure if I’m the best person to ask, but I think that when you love something you want to share it with other people and that’s what a music journalist does, we found music we like and share with others.”

Nastu nodded, understanding showing in his eyes, followed by confusion “ Why aren’t you the best person to ask?”

Lucy suddenly felt very small, “Well, you see, I like being a journalist but my dream is to be writer.”

“Oh!” Nastu seemed strangely interested “What do you wright about?”

“I don’t know yet” said Lucy feeling even more uncomfortable.

“That part sucks doesn’t it!?” Nastu exclaimed, making large gesture. “It took me years to figure out what I wanted to sing about, and it’s awful because you want to sing, or wright, or whatever, but as long as you don’t know what you want to do it about your stuck! You can’t do anything!”

“Tell me about it” said Lucy while chuckling. “At least with journalism I get to practice my writing”

“I get that, I used to play with any band I could find.”

“Really I didn’t know about that.”

He tilted his head, “I guess I don’t talk about this often”

“Are they any band you though of staying with?”

“Not really” he said narrowing his eyes, “I mean they are some I liked working with but” he paused and tilted his head around “it was their thing not mine, you know”

“I see” Lucy didn’t had any idea what to add. Silence fell, Lucy felt the need to add something, to keep the conversation going, she was alone in a room with Nastu Dragneel for god’s sakes! “What were the bands?”

Nastu stared at her for a few seconds before answering “They were a lot I went through, huh- the only one I stayed in long was the alcoholics, I did a few gigs with them when Macao broke his arm”

“Yes the lead singer is one of your childhood friends”

He looked at her with a frown then clapped his hands together, “Oh yeah right you’re friends with Levy. You know, they’re all my friends.”

“Who?”

“The alcoholics”

Lucy couldn’t help but smile, there was something that warmed her up in his need to specify that he was friend with the all band to someone who would assume otherwise, and she had no idea why.

“How’s Levy?” he asked her.

Lucy was in a hard place, she hadn’t spoke to Levy since she had told her about Rust reaction to her presence. She wasn’t sure if her friend was all right, and neither was she that she could tell Nastu about it. But she wanted to, at least just to talk about it with someone. But if Levy didn’t want him to know, she would be hurting her. She had been friend with Nastu longer then her, anything she told her she should be fine with him knowing. Right?

Her mulling over took too long, there was now worry in Nastu’s eyes and none of what she said could convinced him there was nothing.

Lucy sighed and admitted, “I don’t know, she hasn’t talk to me in while. But the last time she did things weren’t going great with Rust.”

Nastu’s clenched his fist “If they hurt her I’m sending them to the hospital”

Lucy smiled “She’s lucky to have you as friend”

Nastu looked at her with a blank face then smiled and said “Don’t worry, a few more meetings and we’ll be friends too”

She chuckled, “I’d like that” she admitted.

They kept talking for a while, Nastu asked her about her friends and was surprised to find out that they basically resumed to Levy. Lucy changed the subject, and somehow they ended up talking about food. Something Nastu could apparently talk about for a remarkably long time. He gave her a few addresses. She would have to check out her wallet before checking any of them out. And then someone came to tell them they would have to leave. That’s when they parted ways, after she promised him they would see each other’s again.

Lucy got home happy, she had spent a great evening. But it had been a long evening and all she wanted was to sleep. She threw herself on her bed as soon as she got home. She closed her eyes, and heard the phone ring. Her first though was that she would let it ring and go to sleep. Oddly the phone only rang twice before stopping, then started ringing again. Lucy though of how weird this was, and then remember this was the system she and Levy had put in place.

She jumped off her bed and grabbed the phone, “Levy, how are you?” she asked the second she picked up.

“I’m” she held that m a few seconds then finally let out, “better”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I even got something close of an apology from Gajeel”

Lucy paused a second to process this, Gajeel Redfox didn’t seem like the kind of man to apologise for anything. But then again Levy had said something close of an apology.

“I mean he said “you can stay just don’t get that camera to close of my face”, so I guess that means his sorry, right?”

“Well I guess that’s the closest you’re going to get.”

“I guess so too. But you know his behaviour really improved, he actually greets me in the morning now”

“That’s amazing” Lucy said as she moved to sit on her bed, her head against the window, “you know I’m really relive to hear that, you hadn’t given me news in a while”

“Yeah, I know, I was really busy over here, are things alright on your end?”

“I’m fine, just finishing articles before the festival”

“We’ll see each others there! Have you seen the final listing? It’s going to be amazing.”

“I know, I’ve also noticed that most of your childhood friends are going to be there. Speaking of which, I told Nastu about the trouble you were having with Rust, I hope you don’t mind.”

“It’s fine, as long as its just Nastu, if you had told Erza we might have had problem.”

“Erza?”

“She tends to over react.”

Lucy was surprised by this, she would have picture Nastu to be more short fuse then Erza Scarlet, who always looked so calm and compose in her interview and even on stage.

“When did you talk to Nastu?” asked Levy sounding genially curious.

“He invited me in the backstage after a show” she explained, but as she said it, the all thing came to seem odd to her again, remembering the talk they had she added, “I think he wants to be my friend.”

“That sounds like Nastu, every where he goes he makes friend, I swear every time you go somewhere with him he knows someone.”

“That’s impressive” muttered Lucy thinking of her current friend situation. Her chest tightened and she looked away toward the street. Her eyes wandered along the lights of the streets lamps, they fell on a silhouette and she did a double take. This silhouette looked like Aquarius, didn’t it? Lucy didn’t have time to look better at it before it was gone, as if it had just been a pedestrian passing by. It could have been, after all, in this part of town people tend to wander at night. Maybe she had just imagined Aquarius. Again? What if she was indeed here? What if she wasn’t?

If she was here then her dad had found her, if she was here then she would be forced to go home. Lucy’s eyes glued to the window as her breathing quickened. She couldn’t see her anymore, maybe she hid in the shadow. Or, maybe, she had never been here.

Lucy sat back on her bed, her heart was still beating strongly in her chest, and her hand shook lightly. She breathed in and out. This couldn’t be Aquarius, if it had been her, she wouldn’t have been stalking her, she would have grabbed her and dragged her back home already. This wasn’t Aquarius, she was just imagining things.

What did that meant? Why would she be imagining Aquarius around her? Was she going paranoid? Or, perhaps, it meant that she missed her home. Could she actually be missing a place where she had felt trapped, unwanted and unloved for so long? Some people had been nice to her, but that wasn’t enough. She would never go back to that place.

“Lucy!” a shout near her hears interrupted her thought.

“Levy” she whispered remembering that she was still on the phone.

“What happened? Why did you space out like that?”

“I’m sorry” Lucy didn’t want to get into what may or may not be going on in her head with her friend right now, so she simply said “I’m tired and imagining things.”

She heard Levy sighed on the line, she mustn’t have been very convincing, still her friend didn’t pressed her. “Okay go to sleep, we’ll see each other’s at the festival.”

Lucy thanked her and hung up. She lied down on her bed. She was still shaken from what she had seen, or thought she had seen. It still seemed odd that she would think she saw Aquarius twice in such a short amount of time. She had the feeling this could very well indeed be her. But it didn’t really matter, she would leave for the festival soon, and there, Aquarius couldn't reach her. Until she came back.

But it wasn’t Aquarius. She was imagining things, Aquarius was back home with her father, doing whatever it is she does for him. So there was no reason to mull over it. Aquarius wasn’t here. But what if she was?

It didn’t matter. She needed to think of something else and sleep.

Aquarius could burst through the door anytime.

Think of something else.

She could be waiting for her outside.

Think of something else. Think of something else. Think of something else. Think of something else. Think of something else. Think of something else. Think of something else.

Think of anything else.

#ft fanfic #nalu #lucy heartfilia #nastu dragneel #nalu fanfic #fanfic #levy mcgarden #fairy tail #fairy tail fanfic

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janiedean · 6 years ago

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It really sucks how judgmental you and some people in this fandom are of anyone who doesn't interpret the text the same way as you or who you deem as intellectually inferior to you. I agree with so many of your ideas about the characters, but I hate how high and mighty you are about those ideas. Someone isn't an idiot if they interpret Jon or Cersei differently than you.

......

lmao

okay anon, thing is: one thing is being high and mighty, one thing is telling you that you’re not reading the text.

like. I read yesterday someone being like ‘omg I read someone dared saying C. abused people and murdered someone before puberty HOW STUPID CAN PEOPLE BE’. it’s textual evidence that a) she molested tyrion sexually and that’s even without taking account my opinion re lann*ncest, b) that SHE KILLED MELARA WHEN THEY WERE TWELVE THROWING THE POOR GIRL DOWN A WELL, which means that whoever said it cannot fucking read the text because it’s black on white that she did both those things and refusing to accept it is Not Reading The Text. that’s not even text interpretation, that’s basic textual reading.

now: never mind cersei who gets a pass for about every fucking shit she pulls because she’s a woman, and don’t tell me she doesn’t because if she got as much shit about robert’s fifteen bastards that she ordered dead without even blinking as theon got for two kids that he’s felt guilty about since it happened then we could discuss it but she doesn’t and that’s not even the beginning of it. now: do you see me tagging my opinions? like, honestly, if I think something shitty about cersei, do you see me tagging it? I didn’t even tag the one time I ranted about the valonqar prophecy with her, I only tagged it with the prophecy/meta/the two characters I thought were the v. and the younger and more beautiful queen, because in the middle I said that imo cersei only cares for herself and I know ppl on her tag aren’t into reading that opinion. so: I didn’t tag it. now: how many people came in my inbox informing me my opinion of c. sucked, was biased and so on never mind lann*ncest never mind actually harassing me for it? well, enough that I had to shut down anon to avoid feeling like shit for two days about it. so like, I’m so high and mighty that I keep my opinions about people I don’t like untagged even if I think that the other side can’t read. but okay.

now, about jonc: listen, fact is, there’s exactly ten people in this fandom that I know of who give a shit about jonc period and three of them are fanartists who show up once in a while. like. exactly TEN. I made peace with the fact that no one gives a fuck about jonc, I 100% embraced that if I want content I have to do it myself, fine, whatever. but what I’m really getting sick of is that every goddamned fucking time I see the jonc tag updating (as in, five times each month if it’s a good month), it’s someone informing us of how selfish, pathetic, useless and dumb he is FOR THINGS THAT ALL OF THEIR FAVORITE CHARACTERS ACTUALLY DO ALL THE TIME and for which fandom at large praises them. or something about how him being in love with R is the most horribly pathetic thing that’s happened to adwd, or how he’s an idiot because he apparently hasn’t understood that aegon is fake because his eyes aren’t the same color as R’s when not even dany’s or viserys’s are, but no one says they aren’t targs for THAT now, do they? and sorry but reading that this dude would treat either rhaenys or jon snow like shit when this is canon:

Last night he'd dreamt of Stoney Sept again. Alone, with sword in hand, he ran from house to house, smashing down doors, racing up stairs, leaping from roof to roof, as his ears rang to the sound of distant bells. Deep bronze booms and silver chiming pounded through his skull, a maddening cacophony of noise that grew ever louder until it seemed as if his head would explode. Seventeen years had come and gone since the Battle of the Bells, yet the sound of bells ringing still tied a knot in his guts.

Others might claim that the realm was lost when Prince Rhaegar fell to Robert's warhammer on the Trident, but the Battle of the Trident would never have been fought if the griffin had only slain the stag there in Stoney Sept. The bells tolled for all of us that day. For Aerys and his queen, for Elia of Dorne and her little daughter, for every true man and honest woman in the Seven Kingdoms. And for my silver prince.

now: it’s there black on white that he feels guilty for BOTH elia’s and rhaenys’s death, it’s not interpretation, it’s what is fucking written in there same as you can’t interpret that ned’s head got cut or cat’s last thought before she died was about ned loving her hair. so excuse me but I’m tired of going into a character who’s in my goddamned top ten and have to always, always run into people assuming he’s a pathetic selfish asshole (and the one time I tried to argue that there’s no way he’s *selfish*, maybe all the contrary to a pathological degree, the answer was basically ‘lol cannot hear you’ and not even a reblog but nvm that) rather than actual content because any of those people who have a obvious hateboner for jonc can’t just fucking tag it with *anti* jon connington. no, they have to use the character name and it’s never *content*, it’s just this drivel over and over again. and since I don’t do it with characters I don’t like, I’d appreciate if I could have the same courtesy spared for this asshole.

that said, the situation is that *one* single person (that I blocked but that’s apparently not enough for tumblr to spare me from seeing them on the tag) has asked that question to multiple blogs which all agree on jonc being shitty which means that it has popped up on the tag a whole lot in the last month and like....... if you don’t like that character why do you care so much, IDEK, but wow, I wrote one post, that I tagged with the character only, saying that ppl don’t bother to read his chapters (btw, one of the people who replied that he’d have been shitty to both jon and rhaenys was someone I ended up blocking because they were on the tag like ‘lololol grayscale I’m sure elia is laughing from the afterlife’ and when I told them it wasn’t funny and if they could avoid tagging that stuff I got told to fuck off but fine I guess, that was me being holier than thou I suppose...) which is true because they don’t, they only base their reading of jonc on that ONE line about elia which is a) obv. proof he’s jealous, b) way less bad than anything cersei and barristan think about her just to say two but lmao I don’t see them getting dragged for it, but everything else? what? two full chapters? do they exist? tyrion’s chapers? never knew them.

like.

anon, tbqh at this point if you wanna think I’m holier than thou just think that because while I like to think I’m not, if there is one thing I know I’m good at is text analysis (okay, last time I said I got two degrees based on text analysis I got told ‘ah okay so if she studies she’s obv. bragging so she knows nothing’ by someone whose main theory was robb stark is the unsung villain of these books but lol I mean having studied this counts for nothing, right???) and it irks me that in a fandom based on books/text analysis I have to read **meta** which is obviously made by people who haven’t read the text and then when given a counterargument ignore it. but even with that, do you see me engaging with it? nah. I can 100% assure you none of the people I would like to see out of the jonc tag actually go on the jonc tag nor follow me, so they will never know that I think their opinion is shit unless they go looking for it. and this because I might have engaged with at least two of them on the topic once - and nicely, not *judgmentally* - and no one gave a shit or reconsidered their stance, so like, excuse me if once per month I write a post on my own blog venting about how imo a character I like gets a shit treatment.

and for the love of god, anon, sorry, glad you like my opinions, but the fact that you’re coming at me assuming I am judgmental when I come from a fucking month and a half of people literally harassing me on anon over my fucking triple-tagged opinions on c/ersei and lann/incest and ignoring anything I said about how uncomfortable it was making me just because I happened to, in the most generous explanation, WRITE A META WHERE I C/P-ED CANON QUOTES WHERE C. WAS AWFUL TO J. WHEN IT CAME TO HIS DISABILITY which GRRM wrote, certainly not *me*, and it happened to get reblogged by asoiafuni, is really, really rich.

like, I tagged that shit to hell and back so people who aren’t interested in jb wouldn’t find it, I made sure to warn every time, I even tag anti-c/antijc posts so they don’t show up on mobile search in case ppl don’t have the anti tag blacklisted because I’m THAT invested into making sure other people can blacklist if they feel like it, but I can’t fucking say on my blog that I think some people in this fandom pull their meta out of their asses and haven’t even read the chapters of the character they’re supposed to discuss? like... really?

also, I’ll tell you a secret: I don’t remember 90% of what happened in dany’s adwd chapters and I don’t remember about 60% of what happened in her got-asos chapters. zero. now: do you see me meta-ing about dany and/or discuss her arc if not in extremely broad terms unless asked? no, because while I don’t particularly like her, I also don’t think it’d be fair for me to meta about her BECAUSE IF I DON’T REMEMBER HER CHAPTERS THEN I’D BE PULLING OPINIONS OUT OF MY ASS, and I don’t go judging anyone’s opinion re dany beyond the basics because mine is that her chapters are so boring I can’t even remember them. at most I’ll discuss the show version and I can swear to you that even if I’m not a fan or anything I’m still more lenient with her than about 90% of people who aren’t fans, and since I don’t pull meta out of my ass for people whose chapters I haven’t read, I would be extremely grateful of the rest of this fandom paid jon connington the same damn bloody effort, especially when he has TWO of them and hating on him that way is like... why would you, just ignore his fucking existence and let us ten ppl into him have a decent tag.

btw, the ONE time I dared say on a post that wasn’t tagged to hell and back to avoid people finding it ‘it’s kind of hypocritical that people fight themselves over bi!CHARACTER headcanons *because asoiaf doesn’t have lgbt POV CHARACTERS* when they ignore jonc exist and he actually is an lgbt pov character so maybe it’d be nice if they cared about the rep’, I got someone like WELL HE ISN’T LGBT REP ENOUGH, and on the other side I’ve had people actually giving me shit for liking him/writing him content because I’m straight so how do I dare writing a gay dude, and like, idk, since I can’t like him in peace in that sense, can the universe allow me to at least not see bullshit on the tag or is that too much to ask?

and to end this rant: anon, not to be that person, but fyi I’m hardly the person who dictates how the wind flies in this fandom unless we count maybe theon/robb fandom as a ship, my opinions aren’t nearly as popular as opinions belonging to ppl who imvho don’t read these books and that’s fine, I don’t particularly care beyond cultivating my garden as voltaire used to say and see if anyone else wants to come and see the flowers and in case they’re more than free to take some, but like...... the idea that me expressing an opinion about the fact that people in this fandom don’t use the same standards when judging characters and some haven’t read the book or forgot it and assume they know anyway is somehow being high and mighty when I also don’t tag that shit 99% of the time (with jonc I do it just because I know no one but me and ten other ppl goes on that tag) when there’s people in this fandom who outright deny what’s written black on white and actually literally harass you on anon for it when I can 100% swear to you that the only times I’ve gone on anon in my entire life were for a) memes that required being on anon, b) sending people headcanon requests, c) sending people I ALREADY KNEW and who KNEW IT WAS ME personal things that I didn’t want ppl to attach to me because I don’t owe 100% of my life history to tumblr dot com and I always put my face to my opinions.

like, glad you like my opinions, but honestly, if you think this is me being judgmental, fair enough but maybe I’m also tired of having to read stuff that’s based on not having fucking read the book.

thank you.

#1 #2 #3 #4 #5 #i mean IDK MAYBE SOME OF US ACTUALLY LIKE JONC BUT THAT'S LIKE TOO WILD TO ASSUME #idek #ch: jon connington #anti-cersei lannister #anti-cersei #anti-lannincest #anti-jaime x cersei #long post for ts #anyway jonc would <3333 any kid of r's thanks for coming to my ted talk bye #Anonymous #ask post

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thecomicsnexus · 6 years ago

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Detective Comics #475-476. February/April, 1978. By Steve Englehart, Roger Marshall and Terry Austin.

It is night time in Gotham City and Batman swings across the rooftops until he comes to the apartment window of Silver St. Cloud. After being invited in, Batman inquires whether or not Miss Cloud had anything to speak to him about. The look she had given him the previous evening expressed something akin to recognition. Silver stares back at him and confirm her suspicions that the Batman is Bruce Wayne. Batman, in turn, suspects that Silver may know the truth. An uncomfortable moment passes between the two, but Silver gives no signs of recognizing the real man, which is an act, since she doesn't want to lose Bruce Wayne's affection and trust. Moments later after Batman has left, he telephones Silver as Bruce Wayne, asking her to postpone their next date and Silver cancels the date altogether before she decides to leave town for a while.

Batman continues patrolling the city and eventually swoops down towards the Gotham docks. A stevedore approaches him and shows him barrels of freshly caught fish. Ordinarily, this mundane incident would not rouse the Batman's attention but for the fact that all of the fish bear faces similar to that of the Joker. The fisherman asks Batman why someone would want to create fish with Joker faces, but Batman discourages the inquiry, saying that Joker's methods are similar to his own madness.

The following morning, the Joker and his henchmen barge into the office of the city Copyright Commission. The Joker introduces himself to a clerk named G. Carl Francis, indicating that he wishes to trademark his designer Joker Fish. The man is clearly terrified by the Joker's presence, but tells him that nobody can register a copyright on a natural resource – even one as mutated as the macabre Joker Fish. The Joker scoffs at Francis and tells him that he has until midnight to make his desires a reality or else he will be dead.

The Joker leaves the office to confer with his underlings. As he is wont to do, he arbitrarily pushes one of them out into oncoming traffic where they are struck and killed by a truck.

Later, at the Tobacconists' Club, Rupert Thorne grows extremely nervous. His aide Marko comes to greet him, but his presence only serves to agitate Thorne even further. He goes to the restroom to wash his face when suddenly he is accosted by the Joker. The Joker knows that Thorne was involved with the mysterious death of Hugo Strange and wonders if Strange may have told him the true identity of the Batman. So far as the Joker is concerned, his greatest adversary has no identity other than being the Batman. However, he is satisfied that Thorne knows nothing and leaves him be. Frightened, Rupert scrambles out of the building, hops into his sedan and drives off.

That evening, Batman is summoned by Commissioner Gordon to the home of G. Carl Francis, who sought police protection against the Joker. Batman inspects the place for traps or hidden weapons, but he finds nothing suspicious. Then, the Joker broadcasts a message across television waves, declaring that he will kill Francis at 12:00 am. The three men maintain their vigil well into the evening, but at the stroke of midnight, Francis' study begins to fill with noxious gas. Batman quickly slides a re-breather into Francis' mouth, but it does no good. As the smoke clears, G. Carl Francis is dead, a grotesque smile etched across his face – the calling card of the Joker. Batman deduces that the gas that filled the room was one part of a binary compound, otherwise harmless unless mixed with another agent. He determines that the Joker must have sprayed Francis with the secondary agent when he visited his office earlier that day.

Later, Rupert Thorne continues driving across the state in the dark, rainy weather when he picks up a hitchhiker – Silver St. Cloud.

Batman and Commissioner Gordon know that the Joker will target another city bureaucrat in his mad effort to copyright his chemically-altered Joker Fish. As per another televised threat, his next target is a man named Thomas Jackson. As before, Batman, Gordon and a squad of police officers hole up inside of Jackson's mansion. Batman has Jackson don one of his costumes while he disguises himself to take Jackson's place. That way, if the Joker chooses to attack him, he will actually be attacking the Batman.

As luck would have it, Jackson's cat, Ernest, lopes into the study carrying a poisoned Joker Fish inside of his mouth. The venom has now infected the cat and her bears the striking rictus grin that most associate with the Joker. Batman dives after the animal, but the cat launches itself at Jackson (still wearing the Batman costume) and bites him across the face. The venom spreads into Jackson's bloodstream and he dies moments later. The television comes on and the Joker takes credit for ending the life of Thomas Jackson.

Batman leaves to track down the transmitting station that the Joker is broadcasting from. As he bounds through the nearby forests he spies a spectral image – seemingly, the ghost of his old foe, Hugo Strange. The image disappears, but Batman discovers a vapor analysis meter in the underbrush.

At his Ha-Hacienda, the Joker delights in his latest kill. He ponders to himself the fun to be had by mass-marketing his Joker Fish. He even considers using his special chemicals to infect cattle. "Joker-Burgers!" he cries. "Outrageous!"

Meanwhile, Rupert Thorne picks up a hitchhiking Silver St. Cloud. He barely remembers her from a previous exchange and pays little attention to her now. His mind is on Hugo Strange. Turning on the radio, Rupert and Silver learn about the most recent debacle involving the Joker as well as Batman's approach to the crimes. Rupert has no interest in hearing about Batman and angrily shuts the radio off. Silver expresses her support for the Caped Crusader and Thorne kicks her out of the car. Moments later, the ghost of Hugo Strange attacks him anew.

Two hours later, Batman and Commissioner Gordon meet back at police headquarters. They discuss strategies, but quickly discover that the Joker is impersonating one of the officers. The Joker tries spraying Batman with acid from a false police officer's badge, but Batman dodges the attack and the Joker escapes through the window. Batman follows him up the fire escape and the two adversaries chase one another up the side of the building as rain and lightning begin to pour down on top of them. The Joker leaps from the fire escape to a nearby construction scaffold and the Batman follows suit. Joker tries to get the upper hand on Batman by spraying acid on the cable holding the girder in which they both are standing. With a supreme effort, Batman jumps off the girder to the construction site and at that precise moment, a lightning strikes at the girder, shocking Joker and making him lose balance and plunging to the waters below. Moments later, Batman realizes that nothing has come out of the water, but he doubts this would be the last they hear from the Joker.

At that moment, Silver St. Cloud, who has since returned to Gotham and witnessed Batman's battle against the Joker, confronts him and tells him that she cannot involve herself with someone who lives such a dangerous lifestyle. During her attempt to break up with him, Silver's resolution breaks and the two of them embrace in a loving kiss for a few moments. When the passion fades, Silver finally breaks up with him. As Silver leaves, Commissioner Gordon approaches Batman and tells him that local cops had picked up Rupert Thorne, who is now confessing to all of his various crimes and has revealed that he is behind the public vetoing of Batman. However, Batman has already pulled his disappearing act on Gordon and he retreats to the shadows at the break of dawn.

From DC Wikia

I really appreciate how Silver was treated by the writer. She is not just a lady to rescue, and she can even face the same villains Batman faces. Her story with Thorne is actually very good.

Now, the Joker story is a classic and while Batman is a bit extreme in these stories, it feels like something that could happen in any run, making the story a bit timeless.

I found the use of the cat as a weapon very clever.

Now, I am not sure how Silver could sneak upon Batman like that at the end, or how was she able to find him that easily, in any case, it feels like a nice send-off for the character (as Englehart leaves the series).

I give the story a score of 8.

#dc #comics #review #batman #detective comics #joker #laughing fish #bronze age #1978

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chibisquirt · 7 years ago

Text

Celestial Navigation remix teaser

This isn’t even its final form.

No, seriously, this isn’t anywhere close to even a first chapter first draft. It will change! And I’m not writing it right now. (I would say “I’m not writing The Thing,” except that that would be true, and this would be The Other Thing.) I’ll probably seriously start work on this sometime in... April? May? Right around then. Definitely not during Remix Madness, not unless I can somehow work three work shifts and write *eyeballs it* 60-100k in two days.

Don’t hold your breath.

But @sabrecmc said she loved my idea, and I wanted to get it down before I forgot it. So this is... the start of an idea.

I had fun with it, anyway.

Tony stormed into the lab in a bitch of a mood, but he really didn't think he could be blamed. Fury's words were still ringing in his ears like a boxing blow.

“We have no problem with Iron Man; Iron man does damn good work. And we have no problem with Tony Stark; Tony Stark is revolutionizing every lab we got in this damn place. But Tony Stark and Iron Man being one and the same? Yeah, that we kinda have a problem with.”

In the wake of Afghanistan, Tony had been adamant that Stark Industries would no longer make weapons that could fall into the wrong hands. He couldn’t shut down every operation— SI was under contract for up to three more years, in some cases, and they couldn’t afford the fallout of breaking those deals— but all the contracts they were bidding on were dropped, and Tony had flat-out refused to consider any future deals making weapons.

But he wasn’t willing to just shut down the company wholesale, so alternatives had to be found. SI already made body armor and flight prototypes; Tony had ramped those categories up, adding green energy and communications to their list of milieus. He had SI producing with his usual high standards within months, and SHIELD was his biggest contractor.

Of course, once he had SHIELD clearance for those contracts— which weren’t being offered to the military yet— it made sense to bring Tony in as a contract engineer, too. For the last three months, he had been romping around as many SHIELD research departments as he could find, and been playing merry hell with all of them. (Except for linguistics; the linguists were a little weird, even for him.) He already had a helicarrier under development, as well as some prototype hard-light armors that no one other than SHIELD would ever be willing to pay for. He even had his hands in SHIELD’s perennially doomed efforts to create a super-soldier, not that he expected it to make a difference. SHIELD had been failing at that one since back when they were the S.S.R., Tony didn’t exactly expect it to succeed now.

The science division was about fifteen floors of the Triskellion (twenty-seventh to forty-second, in fact), but the central area of the twenty-seventh floor was its own little access way: if you wanted to get anywhere in the science division, you had to go through there.

Tony swanned into that science lobby like Alan Rickman entering a potions dungeon.

“Alright, kids, show daddy the good stuff," he said, and a dozen Beta scientists leaped to obey. Ten points to Ravenclaw, he thought, and sneered at the first project that came under his nose.

Well, okay, come on— that wasn’t being in character, it was just a really bad design! “Why did you put your damn rotors on the bottom, Evans?” As if Tony didn’t already have a migraine...

“I thought— it’ll make for less wear on the bolts to heave up the body than to pull, right? So—”

“First of all, no it won’t. And second of all, it’ll increase the wear on the rotors themselves—”

“No, but— it lands in water, right? I mean we’re not doing this from land, or anything—”

“ — and at those speeds, the water may as well be concrete! This isn’t grade school—”

Evans got the message.

Tony worked his way through them, the UAV’s and the phasers and the—

“Please don’t call it that.”

“Well, if you come up with a better name than the ‘night-night gun’ I’m sure we’ll be happy to change it,” the little Beta huffed.

— and slowly worked his way through to the back of the lounge where the scruffy-looking Dr. Banner was waiting.

“Done with the scrum?” Bruce asked. He sipped his tea.

“Mostly. Saving the best for last.” Tony pasted on an encouraging grin, just for him.

It wasn’t Bruce’s fault, it really wasn’t. Bruce was a good damned scientist, careful and thorough and painstaking, but with an effortless grasp of higher concepts of physics and chemistry that still seemed to elude some of his more decorated colleagues out there. It was Bruce’s bad luck, though, to be assigned to the shittiest project in the whole place. Seriously: if the projects were potions students, Bruce’s was Neville Longbottom. And it wasn’t fucking fair— but then, very few things were.

Plus, at this point, Bruce was contributing to his own relegation. It wasn’t like his good work had gone unnoticed— if no one else had tried to scoop Bruce, then Tony would have. But as Tony had been informed— repeatedly, and at a variety of volumes, some of which had not been necessary, thank you, Fury— Bruce had stubbornly insisted that he could crack his stupid Super-Soldier project, and had remained, slowly chipping away at it, for over a year after he could have been reassigned.

That was honestly the only reason Tony was even interested in the project. It was a bad idea; far too much potential for abuse, for one thing— what if you super-soldiered the wrong guy, and got a madman? So Tony jumped on board to help Bruce get done faster, and then he started screening the candidates, too— just to make sure they were all people he would trust with super-powers. It took up more of his time than anything else he did here, but it was also a bigger challenge: psych evaluation wasn’t exactly Tony’s strong suit. See exhibit one: Stane, Obediah, betrayals thereof.

“Got a new batch of subjects in,” Bruce said mildly. “I know you like to meet them.”

“Fabulous; something else to fail at.”

Bruce stopped and pivoted halfway through the door of his department, raising his eyebrows in surprise.

Tony sighed. “Nothing. Meeting with Fury went... poorly.”

Bruce tipped his head to the side, but didn’t push. Very restful guy, Bruce. Tony really did like him. “First one’s through there,” was all he said, pushing through and back to the exam rooms. Bruce’s department was set up so much like a doctor’s office that Tony suspected it had originally been intended to be one, and the decor didn’t help: muted tones and uncomfortably-padded furniture. He even had magazines in the waiting room, although, being for SHIELD agents, they were more Guns&Ammo than out-of-date US Weekly.

Tony snagged the file out of the holder on the back of the first exam room door. “Barnes, J. B., Level 3 SHIELD Agent,” he read off. “Fabulous, more spies; just what we need.”

Bruce nodded unironically and headed to the lab— ostensibly to run tests, but Tony knew that was where he kept his teapot, and his mug was suspiciously empty. Mark down another on the list of people who drink around me, Tony thought, although the thought was a lot fonder than it usually was. “Be nice to that one,” Bruce instructed. “I like him.”

“Good lord, why?” Tony opened the door.

“I’m serious, Tony; he’s on the short list.”

Tony blinked, and then without another word, stepped through, closing the door behind him.

J. B. Barnes was tall and fit, a Beta wearing a SHIELD uniform. So, they hadn’t pulled him off of an assignment for this, then. Closer examination revealed the cast on his left arm: a-ha. Benched, for now. His hair was brown, eyes pale— blue or gray, hard to tell at this distance— and his ears, apparently, were sharp, because he was grinning.

There was something familiar about that grin... Tony shrugged it off.

“Name and birthday?”

The grin barely faltered— no more than a sixteenth of an inch.

Okay, and right off the bat, that one was probably on Tony; they were required— stupid Bruce and his stupid scrupulousness about protocols— to confirm the identity of the people they were talking to before discussing any medical records. But Tony didn’t have to say it quite so sharply. He didn’t usually spit the words “name and birthday” like they were going to take out Gilderoy Lockhart, after all. So once Barnes had confirmed that, yes, he had been born March 10th, twenty-one years ago, Tony settled into the little doctor’s stool, did a full rotation because wheelie stools never got old, and apologized. “Been a long day,” he explained it, “people being difficult.”

“And by people you mean pirates?”

Tony almost didn’t get it for a second, because it was said so blandly it might as well have been asking his oatmeal preferences, and because it was so unexpected coming from a Level 3 agent. “You usually that irreverent about Fury? He might keel-haul you.”

Barnes grinned again. “I have a well-established pattern of snark,” he admitted. “There’s a reason I’m only a level three.”

Tony looked back at the chart again. “You’re a baby,” he said absently, “don’t take it personally—”

It was a pretty impressive chart, though. “You can shoot.”

“Yeah, a little.”

Barnes could probably win gold at the olympics and be set for life, given the numbers from his last round on range. Sure. “A little,” Tony repeated dryly. “Interrogation specialist, really? ‘Exceptional problem solver,’ what does that even mean? And you speak...”

“Five languages— well, okay, the Irish is mostly profanity.”

Tony hefted the file. “This says four. Counting the Irish.”

Barnes shrugged. “The Klingon’s more recent,” he admitted, “and it really shouldn’t count anyway, there’s only, like, three thousand words—”

“Closer to thirty-five hundred.”

“It’s not Chinese, though, right? I mean...”

Tony’s mouth twitched. “It’s not Chinese, no. Or... Russian, apparently. Huh; eclectic.”

“Thanks.”

“It wasn’t a compliment.”

“There a reason you’re busting my balls?”

Tony paused. More of the snark? Or was he really being too harsh?

“I mean, given that Doc Banner just told you he likes me. Either you’re trying to break me— which, good luck, chill out though because it’s not going to happen— or you’re in a legitimate shitty mood. In which case, I’d rather not be your punching bag.”

There was something about how he said it... The young man wasn’t saying it to push, like another Alpha would have. He wasn’t saying it defiantly, either; it wasn’t like he was daring Tony. That one was a standard technique in Alphas and Betas alike: the Alphas used it to start a fight, the Beta’s used it to make the Alphas look irrational and over-emotional. It usually worked pretty well in either case, too, although Tony had seen it often enough in boardrooms that he could handle it.

But that wasn’t what was going on here, and the difference was so obvious it set Tony blinking. The guy— Barnes— was just stating a fact, that was all. “Here’s what I see, and that’s how it is.” No bravado, no push— just truth.

Which neatly left only one possible response. “Sorry,” Tony said again, and meant it this time. “Pirates. You know.”

“Perils of the high seas,” Barnes agreed. “But it’s just us up here in the crow’s nest; you wanna talk about it?”

Tony laughed, impressed by the balls on the guy if nothing else. “No.”

“Could help.”

“No,” Tony repeated, struggling to keep down the simmering heat that had been resting behind the arc reactor since his meeting with Fury delivered his ultimatum.

“Look, we like what you do, Tony— there’s no doubt about that— but Iron Man is too reckless, too borderline suicidal, to also be the guy essentially running every research operation we have! Add to that, every analysis we’ve got—”

Tony had sent Natasha Romanov, sitting at the table with them, a dirty look, but she had just blinked slowly at him and Fury hadn’t checked his tide of words.

“ — has indicated that Iron Man is a dysfunctional personality— and that was even before we knew he was also you.”

Tony caught his breath. Iron Man was the best of him; hearing that even his best wasn’t good enough... that hurt more than he wanted to admit. And certainly not to Fury.

“He is headstrong, disregards the standard protocols of operation, twice he’s put our other agents in danger—”

“Point of order: he can’t put your ‘other’ agents in danger because he isn’t one—”

“I don’t care, Stark. Make a show. Be stable. Invest in the future—”

“What do you think the whole ‘green energy’ thing is about?!”

“ — personally invest. Hell, get yourself an Omega! Pop out a couple kids! We’ll all pray the brains are heritable and the personality isn’t. Just... don’t break things, for once in your goddamn life. Show me you can be a team player, and I’ll think about it. Show me you’re not an adrenaline-junkie mess, and I’ll welcome you back with open arms! But until that happens, Iron Man— and you— are barred from all aspects of the Avengers Initiative.”

Fury had almost made it to the door when Tony’s head snapped up. “You know,” he called, “if you don’t break things, you can’t put them back together with improvements!”

The only answer was the whisper-soft slide of the Black Widow’s boots as she followed Fury out the door.

“Unless you’ve got an Omega in your pocket,” Tony said now, his voice approximately as dry as a dead cactus, “I’m shit out of luck.”

Barnes froze. He blinked, and then blinked again. He looked around the room as if scanning for cameras before bringing his head back around to meet Tony’s eyes. “I mean...” He rubbed his palms along his navy blue trousers as if he were trying to rid them of sweat. “...You can’t tell Fury.”

Tony froze, thinking about it. It had been an offhand joke, a throwaway line designed to get the conversation back on course. But then again...

Tony was about to make a very, very, very large mistake. He tossed Barnes’ file on the counter.

“Tell me more.”

#celestial navigation #remix #steve/tony #stony #steve rogers not actually appearing in this snip #unless you count the phrase 'very very VERY large mistake'#in which case Steve absolutely does appear #whoops

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