#and also it’s a mesh bag. i can see her complaining that stuff will fall out

[fingertipsmp3]

Unfortunately I absolutely fucked up one of my nails today but also I made my grandma a tote bag for her birthday so I think overall it’s going well

[kariachi]

Okay, so occasionally I see ‘of course kids are doing hero stuff in media for kids wtf if wrong with people complaining about it’ posts and I have words, as somebody who occasionally complains about kids doing hero stuff in media for kids. Because the thing is most people, if it’s done well, won’t complain. Or at least won’t complain a lot. And to do it well you need two key things-

There needs to be a reasonable and well explained ‘why’

The adults need to either be shown as irresponsible or shown as actually responsible

For the purposes of this I’ll be comparing two shows that I feel handle this on opposite ends of the scale, specifically Digimon and Ben 10 since these are My Kids’ Show Franchises.

A Reasonable And Well Explained Why

This means there has to be a reason the children are doing this instead of adults. It’s something that can be done millions of ways and either very well or very poorly. ‘Chosen One’ motifs are very popular here, the child is the one doing it because the child is the only one who can. Unfortunately also popular here is ‘this is the child’s job because some adults figured that well they’re 13 now that’s old enough to die’ and that tends to conflict with Point 2. Without a proper ‘why’, people start wondering and it often doesn’t turn out pretty. Still, those are far from the only two options. One could have no adults being available for one reason or another, the children not telling any adults about a situation only they’re aware of for one reason or another including hubris, or maybe the children are sneaking around doing their own work on a problem the adults are struggling with. The possibilities are endless.

For Our Comparison

In Digimon works the ‘why’ is most often the ‘no one else can’ variety. The digimon partners draw their power from their humans, their humans are most often children, only the digimon have the power necessary to handle the situation at hand should violence break out (which it normally does). It’s only in one series that adults that can be involved in the violence even exist.

Ben 10 is a bit of a mixed bag in comparison. Looking at AF specifically, because the sequels are my bread & butter, for the main trio we have a bit of a combo platter. Ben is involved for a variant on the Chosen One motif, Gwen is involved because Ben is and heaven help you if you tried to stop her from fighting alongside him, Kevin is involved because he agreed to help and he wouldn’t listen to authority even if there was any over him in the first place. This works. It’s when you start adding in the Plumbers Helpers that things fall apart, because the show never gives a reason why these other, unrelated kids should be brought in rather than any of the actual Plumbers. The fact there even are other Plumbers is only brought up to mention that these kids are their children and for one episode that we’ll get to later, but the fact remains that they exist, and the insistence that it’s the children who have to be recruited into the fight for no real ‘why’ leads to complaints from any watcher who takes more than thirty seconds on it. It feels very much like passing over supposedly competent adults in favor of untrained children, and that makes people as questions that don’t have a nice answer ready.

And if you’re questioning why anybody would take more than thirty seconds on it, I’m sorry to tell you you’re on the wrong blog.

Irresponsible or Actually Responsible Adults

This means the adults have to respond to the situation in a way meshes with the circumstances. This means no loving guardians joyfully and proudly waving goodbye as their eight-year-old goes off to war. Irresponsible adults are easy, which is why you see them so often- they’re either parents and guardians who aren’t properly involved in the child’s life, and therefore making them essentially non-entities unless some added drama is needed, or they’re unrelated adults who blatantly are choosing not to provide whatever aid or support they can. (Note, this only applies to people adults either in authority or in on the situation, depending on the work, not to civilians, though I think we can all agree that any civilian adult who sees a kid in trouble and jumps in deserves praise.) Responsible adults can be done several ways, either as those who have little to contribute to the actual situation but provide support (physical or emotional), those who fight alongside the children (the Secret Saturdays Approach), those who are working on the situation independently, etc. They don’t even have to actually know there’s a situation ongoing, so long as it’s clear that if they did they would be providing what help they can. The key to a responsible adult is that they would very much rather there not be children involved in the situation, but because there are they’re going to do whatever they can to improve their odds, or at least least provide emotional support.

The way to do this that results in the highest odds of complaints and the most issues is what I call the ‘Responsible’ Adult. This is an adult character that the narrative presents as an Actual Responsible Adult, but who doesn’t behave in the manner expected of one. Read: the parents of the 8-yo from the start of the last paragraph. Signs of a ‘Responsible’ Adult may include- doing the absolute bare minimum to be helpful despite being in a position to do more, actively involving children in situations they don’t have to or otherwise wouldn’t be involved in, treating other people’s concern about the children as an insult to said children.

Like the first one, kids are likely to notice it in the moment, but parents and older siblings watching with them are far more likely to and far more likely to question it. Not to mention adults with no life.

For Our Comparison

Both works are a bit of a mixed bag on this one.

Digimon mostly does it well. The majority of works don’t have adults who would know better involved in or aware of the situation at all, and of those that do the adults are generally Actual Responsible Adults or a mixed bag. Overall Digimon tends to be very good at presenting Actual Responsible Adults, generally of the ‘there’s nothing I can do but provide support’ or the ‘working on the situation independently’ variety. At no point do the adults truly take attention away from the children, but they do what they can to aid them and openly would rather they not be involved in the first place for their own safety. You get adults offering supplies, providing back-up, and lavishing support and care on the children without ever undermining them and their accomplishments.

I can’t speak for other people, but despite one argument I’ve heard this never took me out of the power fantasy when I was a kid. This was exactly the way I hoped adults would react if I ever ended up in that situation- ‘can we help, how do we help, try to stay safe, we’ll be waiting for you’.

Ben 10, meanwhile, is also a mixed bag but leans more towards the ‘Responsible’ Adult. There are a handful of characters who are Actual Responsible Adults, mostly parents. From Ben’s parents freaking out upon discovering what their son’s been up to only to fall into a support role once they come to understand the situation, to Kwarrel being the only adult to treat Kevin like a kid at all, the big issue is that they don’t get enough screen time. They fixed that a bit with Ben’s mom in OV, but for the most part the decision to push the Actual Responsible Adults so far to the wayside gives the rest of the adults, most of whom are villains, an overwhelming presence in comparison.

The ones who aren’t villains, such as Max and Vin (from the reboot), are mostly ‘Responsible’ Adults. Max isn’t the worst on the show, but he still provides the minimum he can for as long as possible and directs for children to be involved in in situations where one would, and for all the show tells us could, reasonably involve adults. Meanwhile our other example, Vin, lost any points he’d earned when he decided to be totally cool with having very small children work a dangerous job for for a blatant piece of shit the sake of not being lonely for a while. The best example off the top of my head though would have to be Labrid, who showed up, was almost responsible, then decided to deputize three kids and wash his hands of the whole Highbreed Invasion mess despite handling that sort’ve thing, or at least delegating it to professionals, being his actual fucking job.

Conclusion

The problem isn’t with media where kids are running around in danger, playing the hero. The problem is with this being done in circumstances where the writers haven’t adequately explained why this is the case, and/or have made the adults in charge seem like either don’t realize that these are children they’re working with or don’t care. In the former it leaves a plothole that consumers are going to want to fill, and darkness comes easy. In the latter, while children probably won’t notice when they first consume the piece they will later, their parents will at lot quicker, and the instinct to protect children, even fictional children, is strong. When the two are combined? It’s a perfect storm for making what are supposed to be trustworthy and responsible adults seem incredibly suspect, and for people to get worked right on up over the piece.

So, if you intend to make a piece of children’s media staring child heroes, those are two of the key factors you need to keep in mind. Why are children doing this job? Are the responsible adults in their lives acting like responsible adults?

Keep in mind also that scale and genre can help or hinder you in this. Low-scale, edutainment, and heavily comedy works can get away with a lot more that more action or drama-focused pieces. There’s a reason people complain more about Ben 10: AF and Ben 10: UA as compared to the far more comedic series that came before and after them. Mood and tone play a big part. But you still should never forget those two key points.

Keep them in mind when you write, and while it won’t please everybody it’ll close up some of those openings for bullshit to get thrown your way.

[incarnateirony]

Optimism, Nihilism, Absence, Realism.

Alright, so I’ve got time for some real talk here.

By the title you’re probably expecting a meta, but that’s not really what this is. It’s time for a rare post laced with enough negativity to break my mold, but more congealing thoughts I’ve been banging on about in the background since I came to tumblr into a set of realities on my thoughts on the show at large.

Before this begins, this is absolutely not an invitation to come to my wall and start crowing and screeching about your ship, your characters, bagging on the authors or anything else. If you can understand the difference between constructive conversation, and prim word laced unbridled and pointless cynicism and complaining, you’re welcome to engage, but don’t mildew up this post.

But it’s about time we talk about the elephant in the room with the show. And despite this fandom’s gong banging, it isn’t Andrew Dabb. It isn’t MuH dEStiEl. It isn’t muh poor baby (fave char)

It’s SingerBuckLeming.

And I mean, in a way that’s obvious, and I really don’t think everybody has really, truly, wrapped their heads around it because they’ll still come yelling about Dabb whenever anything goes wrong.

But Dabb isn’t the one that’s been obsessed with a psycho dark godbaby story; Dabb’s the one that tried to at least craft it into something fruitful for TFW and subvert it into something more than burning bibles -- it’s SingerBuckLeming trying to relive the Lois and Clark fantasy they were denied.

It’s not Dabb that decided to hard push the AUverse story and all its attached splendors. The idea started as a one-off intro idea for Wayward, but it had to be pushed off a year, and Leming admitted to snaring the idea and, summarily, attaching it to their evil godbaby and making it their plot point.

It’s not Dabb that has an honest to god boner for Mark P and can’t shut his mouth up about him, that’s Eugenie too. It’s not Dabb that obsesses over half crocked characters like Asmodeus and Donatello. It’s not Dabb addicted to big shiny CGI and super saiyan powerups.

You’ll notice how many of these ideas are enmeshed into one giant ball of fuckery that, somewhere along the way, Dabb has tried to groom into having some sort of substance but there’s a very clear line going on here.

“How does this relate to my ship/my favorite character reeee”, why? Because with the amount of weight being tossed around via advantageous nepotism and a different core cluster in the author room quite clearly on a different creative page than everybody else, guess what -- everybody else gets railroaded.

And at times, yes, some presentations are becoming stressed and stretched. They only way to even bring any sort of emotion to the content is by retreading or exaggerating emotional roads, especially at the end of seasons. A season starts strong, and poetic, and then somewhere around or right after episode 14 everything starts fucking falling apart, often with one or two disjointed episodes in advance but strong character driven arcs. Traction and motion are lost. Poetry starts falling into pieces. Superpowers and over the top manpain become the leading thing.

This happens every year, and this year is more vivid than last. I do remind people that the last time we had SingerBuckLeming throwing their weight around on decisions so hard they double-directed-and-wrote an episode was Dark Dynasty, which the rest of the author room was uncomfortable with, even argued about, even lost author heads in the aftermath of. Guess what - we just got our second episode like that. The attempt to work into this weight-throwing by the rest of an author room tends to turn into a lack of cohesive storytelling. S10 turned into a rapid degredation into a benny hill chase for a book. This year - well, shrug.

That’s not to say I agree with every piss and moan about characters being “OOC” as often, in this fandom, the fandom’s idea of “OOC” ends at “things I don’t personally like”. There are differences between OOC and just not really... belonging in the moment. Because they’re often things the character has in their range of potential action, but whether or not the story is cohesively meshed in a way that’s worth a damn is a WHOLE other topic.

And this has just gotten worse. As the writing room gets newer and younger and SingerBuckLeming age older and older -- some of you may have remembered my panic attack realizing BuckLeming were being seated in position to become the next showrunners and Bobo had been bumped back. At the time, even meta bloggers I trust held different opinions that, frankly, I considered daydreamy “Oh don’t worry BuckLeming only handle this but all of the emotional stuff goes through Dabb co” but no, once BuckLeming get their hands in enough of that, the rest ends up on a railroaded crash course everybody is trying to write around to deliver as better than a doggie doo bag.

And I think, honestly, J2M know that. I’m sure a huge amount of their decision was indeed about family time, but the real question is, looking at this show that SingerBuckLeming have been aggressively railroading off a damn cliff while everybody tries to compensate, is it really WORTH negotiating more family time, do they really WANT to wait for it to crash out, do they really WANT to let Eugenie Leming run the show out of gas in the middle of a desert with hew new, bestest idea once Dabb inevitably leaves and she and her baes get full reign to make the endless Lucifer clone fleet and their godbaby powers all going super saiyan? Is that what they want their legacy to be, or would they rather go home, and be with their family instead of propping this up as it continues to veer to the left?

I keep praying SBL disappear for the final season, kinda like Singer buggered off in S11. And it’s kinda sad, because I do recognize that without Singer we wouldn’t have the show at all but somewhere along the way, he lost his nut, he lost his directing skills, he lost common sense and he let his seniority get to his head, probably in tandem with bringing his wife back in and getting to be a power unit which is just WOEFULLY unadvised to be honest.

This is so far beyond how anyone’s ship or favorite character is treated. It’s about the internal war in a writing room that’s as clear as plain day that’s causing a deterioration of the show that Dabb has DESPERATELY been trying to curtail into SOMETHING of note only to catch shit from people who can’t do a little bit of common denominator searching into events even before his showrunning time that just keep getting louder.

Right now I’m at a point where I’m just begging for cohesion and emotional worth from the final season. For something that BuckLeming aren’t just throwing off the cliff like a sacrifice to their new, bigger, dumber idea once S14′s Jack Course reaches its cap. And honestly, I’d hope that’s everyone’s primary concern rather than circular bitching about whatever element they’re hyper fixated on because this is an issue that spreads well and far beyond whatever singularity you choose to scream about. And most people just blind sweep in rage at the first name that’s easy to pick out that they feel is responsible. But this has been going on. FOR YEARS. It’s just getting louder.

I try to not be negative about the show in general. I do appreciate Dabb, Berens, Yockey, Merecuda, and to some extent Perez (though I still hold he’s the least artistic of that bunch.) I’m still in love with Sgriccia and Wright and Showalter. I still love this crew. But I’ve never been shy about pointing out BuckLeming problems and at this point, it’s just THE problem, to whence nobody is even realizing where they need to set their sights and complaints at. Everything else is an emotional or continuum casualty in their fuck offs to the new shiny idea. Or, in cases of the Lois & Clark godbaby, their old AF tarnished idea.

Some people may remember me saying that without Dabb converting Jack into being a TFW mirror for catharsis, Jack’s only individual arc is that of a villain, and here we are swinging around full force with BuckLeming sinking in, waiting to see how Dabb may subvert that in the final episode. 

“I’m losing faith in Destiel” “I’m mad about Sam/Dean/Cas” “This plot is dumb” ultimately all fall down into the same goddamn railroading that habitually, like clockwork, louder each year, fucks up the end of a season and I just want them to disappear before the final season, but I doubt I’m going to get that. Maybe, just maybe, they can be staved knowing they won’t need the new ultimate escalation to carry on the show yet-again. Fingers and toes and arms crossed. 

That said, this vivid repeat of S10 author room shift should also, hopefully, give at least some potential hope to meta authors who at least remember that S11 was recoverable and was in fact recovered, and also had final season plans afoot. It was on the table, at least, in thought in early concept, just not without the true bang announcement to promise it through. So I’m going to hold out some hope that this is going to shape up fine in the end.

But don’t expect me to humor your bitter bitching about your ship or favorite character of choice. You wanna bitch about the strokes Singer seems to have had that have stripped his directorial gifts, or Eugenie’s obsession with SSJ archangels and Mark P, by all means. They’re major culprits in everything else being flattened on the way with an author room y’all are bitching at trying to make it at least vaguely cohesive.

I’m a natural optimist experiencing distinct nihilism at the absence of any sort of respect for the show or J2M going on with SBL right now, and as ever a realist looking at it in the frame of what’s going on beyond our surface level issues, and what I can hope to maintain to roll back around to the optimism part. Ouroboros. Hopefully ending at the start of the journey and not to loop back through the nihilism by next season.

Can they just retire? Please?

Dump Mark P. Dump Donatello. Hell, dump Jack at this point with as much as they’ve fucked that off again. Dump the AU. Dump the Drama Coffin. Dump the instaboop angels. Just dump all of their dumb ideas and let the final season roll out without the resulting tire fire of all of their ideas and suddenly, the show is infinitely cleaner. Don’t think this is all their bullshit? Literally follow their episode impact in reverse the last few years before you come at me. It’s literally all their bullshit.

I really don’t give a shit about fandom drama around Mark P’s opinions. I get it, but I don’t care. What I care about is his unwillingness to look at his character and refuse a contract for any sort of integrity, doing literally anything to pull a goddamn paycheck out of milking this show. His character, formerly one of the most inspiring renditions of an overshadowing idea of good and evil and biblical scale, has turned into a toddler throwing tantrums on the floor of mcdonalds, begged for redemption that underscores the entire point of the hero’s journey, splattered in remnants of Hallucifer that wasn’t even the original character, and just won’t go away.

And antis can say what they want about, say, Misha or Castiel, but his character at least has a solid direction, and growth, and a real hero’s journey. It’s not just vomit splatter on the wall of whatever he can be niched into like Not!Lucifer. Mark S at least had the dignity to leave when he saw shit degrading for his character.

Oh yeah a lot of that was BuckLeming too. The plotholes in Crowley’s story he called out were BuckLeming, who summarily pitched Rowena. And I love Rowena and Ruthie and wouldn’t undo it for the world but GODDAMN am I glad Yockey basically adopted her. She was turned into something past their basic dumb ideas and, as of yet, BuckLeming has yet to unravel that like they’re proactively doing with Jack after Dabb and co put so much effort into him.

Like literally the fandom’s collective bitchfits have a very common denominator and nobody’s willing to suss out why.

SingerBuckLeming seem to have had a collective stroke and still think they’re creating for Lois & Clark in the 70s and not Supernatural as made manifest into absurdity by 13.23; and several people like Mark Pellegrino refuse to have the basic decency to say, you know what, pass. I had my show here, it’s been good. They feed it. But it still falls back to SingerBuckLeming in the end at the heart of it. 

Not enough for you? Still think it has nothing to do with J2M or Mark Sheppard’s choices? Don’t even just listen to the scalding tea, look at the post-engagement between Jensen and Mark S.

They need to go away.

[dogbearinggifts]

Little Tyrants, Chapter Three: No Other Superstar

Rating: Teen and up

Summary: When Vanya was four, Reginald Hargreeves visited her cell. But not to take her powers away. Just to let her know he could. Just to prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that her powers were a privilege he could rescind should she ever choose not to fall in line.

Years later, the old man is dead—and the last sibling Vanya wants to see has reappeared in the Academy courtyard.

This work is also available on AO3. 

Author’s Note: If you’d like to read the asks that inspired this story, you can find them here and here. Follow-up asks can be found under the tags “vanya keeps her powers au” and “five returns as a kid au.”

The title of this chapter is taken from Lady Gaga’s “Paparazzi.” 

Prologue  Chapter One  Chapter Two

********** 

Leonard had never been overly fond of coffee.

He drank it when it was in front of him, drained the mug and didn’t complain. To call it a show of strength would be overstating the issue—were that the case, his fellow inmates would have hosted more coffee-drinking contests than brawls, and Leonard could have risen to the top simply by forcing more and more of the stuff down his throat. No, there was something else to the ritual, something less dire yet more crucial. Drinking coffee, drinking it hot and bitter with no sugar or milk to make the experience somewhat pleasant, wasn’t proof of one’s strength, but denial of one’s weakness.

The thought brought a smile as he watched Vanya shake cocoa powder over a pile of whipped cream.

“What?”

“Nothing.” He allowed his smile to remain. “Just the way you take your coffee, is all.”

The whipped cream, a perfectly formed swirl of white, was nearly covered in a layer of soft brown, like the last patches of snow clinging to a mound of dirt. “Sugar and coffee with more sugar on top. If you’ve got a better way to toast my dad, let’s hear it.”

Leonard covered a flash of irritation with a chuckle. He’d learned a lot about Sir Reginald Hargreeves from the man’s daughter. For their first few dates, he’d taken her into or past various coffee shops around town, hoping to jog her memory of the incident that had, by some miraculous failure of the justice system, not landed her in prison. He’d expected a monologue about her restraining order or the woes of anger management; instead, he’d been treated to long lectures on Sir Reginald Hargreeves’ views of sweets and caffeinated beverages. Coffee. Coffee with sugar, coffee with creamer, coffee with nothing. Tea with milk added. Tea with dried fruit mixed in. Tea from the furthest reaches of the globe, tea from the local supermarket. He approved of none and had once spent thirty minutes tearing into the poor courier who mistakenly left a canister of ground coffee on the back step with the rest of the groceries. Harold Jenkins would have snatched up Reginald’s hardline stance on decaf and stowed it away in his collection of Umbrella Academy trivia. Leonard Peabody had been left with no choice but to smile and nod and wait for her to whine about something he could put to use.

Vanya could have launched into another diatribe, but instead she lifted her mug and sipped, leaving a dollop of whipped cream on her nose. On another girl, Leonard might have found it cute. “You’ve got a…”

“Oh!” She fumbled for a napkin, then wiped it away. “Thanks.”

“How was the service?”

“You mean the one we postponed?”

Leonard’s spirits gave a small leap. “Aw, you’re kidding!”

“Nope.” She sighed. “Apparently, when some brother comes back, you suddenly can’t have a funeral anymore.”

“Brother…which brother? The druggie?”

“No, Klaus was there already. I mean, he was in rehab, but he wasn’t the one who came back.”

Leonard filed that bit of information away, though he didn’t spy an immediate use for it. “The Moon guy?”

She shook her head over another sip of coffee, one that left no trace of whipped cream behind. “That’s Luther. Five’s the one who came back.”

“Five.”  The boy had been given a name at some point, but the papers and magazines and comics had never introduced him as anything other than Number Five. For a time, Leonard had tried to work up the courage to ask his classmates to call him Number Eight, but that desire was long since dead. “Didn’t he leave when you were—what? Thirteen?” 

“Yep. Just ran out the door and never came back.” The bitterness that worked its way into her tone was slow, growing slightly with each word. “Well. Until yesterday.”

“Damn. Must’ve been weird seeing him.” 

“That’s an understatement.” 

“He try to shred your mask again?”

He said it with a smile, but Vanya’s expression darkened. Leonard couldn’t say what about moping could rouse her anger, but whatever it was, he’d take it. “Nah. Just moped around the house until I left.”

Leonard tried to reconcile that image with the prankster he’d once admired, the one whose smile always hinted at an amusing secret. The two meshed about as well as oil and water. “What’s he got to be sad about? Came home, didn’t he?”

“I know, right?” Vanya took a bite of her bagel. Leonard had stood by as she followed the barista around the counter, watching her slice it and place it in a toaster oven and then a bag. The barista had managed to complete the task without error, despite her frequent glances toward the phone and its promise of a speedy response from the police. “He pops back in after sixteen years and he’s all anybody can think about.”

“That’s weird.” If Vanya didn’t intend to explain Five’s drastic change in personality, it would be pointless to ask. “I mean, it seems like they’d want to get your dad’s funeral over with.”

“God, you’re not kidding. I told ‘em we should just have it then, and Allison’s all ‘Oh, well, we really should wait, Five’s upset and we’ve got to wait for him to get better.’” She rolled her eyes, letting the bagel fall to her plate. “Come on. How long does it take to go outside and dump some ashes on the ground?”

“I dunno. The Sir Reginald Hargreeves, dead?” Leonard nearly added at last and caught himself just in time. “Maybe they want to be in the right frame of mind.”

“What frame of mind? High? That’s what Klaus’ll be. Everyone else’ll just be bored.” She lifted her bagel again and talked around her next bite. “Don’t know why they keep dragging it out.”

“Nobody wants to be there, huh?”

“Nope.”

“So why’re they staying? Couldn’t you all just say nope, no funeral for you and move on?”

Vanya sighed again. “I guess there’s something in his will about how he needs a real funeral with all his kids there. Can’t leave until we get the service over with, but you know. Nobody in my family knows how to do things the easy way.”

“Or the smart way.” From the way Vanya spoke, he’d figured a family reunion would be about as welcome as a family case of scabies, and the sooner they could all leave the Academy and return to their lives, the better. That probably still held true, but if the five of them—six now—were legally obligated to carry out a memorial service which they’d chosen to postpone, then it bought Leonard some time, though he couldn’t say how much. 

She sniffed. “You think my family’s ever done anything the smart way?”

*******

Number Five. An odd name, but not the oddest Hazel had found waiting for him in a Commission file. 

Much of it followed standard Commission format: a photograph, a location, a handful of scattered facts. Sometimes the latter came in handy, sometimes they didn’t. Learning that Zoya Popova had a bit of a sweet tooth hadn’t aided in her death, though the tidbit stuck with Hazel long after her body had cooled. 

It was the photograph, in this case, that held his attention. Dark hair, dirty and dulled. Pale skin clinging to cheekbones more prominent than they ought to be.  Whoever had snapped the photo had cropped out his surroundings, leaving only his face, dominated by wide dark eyes averted from a camera they hadn’t seen. Most targets didn’t smile in their file photos, and Number Five was no exception. 

“What’re you looking at?” 

Fifty or sixty jobs ago, Hazel might have told her he was studying the target, seeking out any additional information that might help them carry out the job as quickly and cleanly as possible. Staring down yet another night on a mattress that should’ve been thrown out five years back with the smell of cat piss in his nostrils, Hazel couldn’t muster up a single reason to lie. 

“Target. Number Five. How old d’you think he is?” 

“I dunno. Twelve. Fifteen, maybe.” Cha-Cha opened the closet door, peered into the shallow space, and moved on to the restroom. “Should be easier than the last guy.” 

That was Hazel’s cue to offer a few words of agreement, maybe crack a joke before letting the matter drop; but Cha-Cha had nudged aside the curtain now. She might as well have grabbed a handful of his hair and given one good yank, for all the good that rustle did his aching head. “What the hell are you doing?” 

“I’m making sure we have enough space to do what we’ve gotta.” 

Hazel let himself fall onto the nearest bed, the creak masking his sigh. “Run in, shoot the kid, run out. You really think we need another plan?” 

“If this one goes the way that job in Guadalajara did, yeah.” She closed the bathroom door behind her and moved past him to check the front window. “Should’ve had a backup plan for that one.” 

“Still did it on time.” 

“Doesn’t mean we did it well.” She pressed herself against the wall, leaning back to inspect the window without opening the curtains. “You heard what the Handler said.” 

He’d heard. And heard, and heard. The Commission was lucky they had all the time in the world at their command, considering their managers spent so much of it lecturing agents for perceived failures and slights. “Long as we get it done.” 

“You know that’s not how it works, asshole.” 

Hazel sighed. Working for the Commission wasn’t like delivering the mail or washing dishes in the backroom. Completing the task on schedule was never enough—no, they wanted flair. Nothing too noticeable, nothing that might be traced back to them, but speed alone wasn’t enough. Professionalism. Style. A body that left few clues for the authorities and enough questions to keep the case in their minds long after it had gone cold. One of those things on its own might earn a nod of approval; it took all three of them together to gain the Handler’s praise. 

Her inspection concluded, Cha-Cha turned from the window, but her foot snagged on the briefcase, sending her stumbling across the floor, nearly falling onto Hazel’s bed. 

“Shit!” Cha-Cha caught herself, arms braced against the bed, and pushed her way to her feet. “Why the hell’d you leave that thing on the floor? You know we’re supposed to carry it!” 

“I was sitting down! You expect me to carry it while I’m sitting here?” 

“I expect you to not leave it in the middle of the goddamn floor!” 

“Well, maybe you wouldn’t have tripped over it if you’d watched where you were—” 

“It’s not about me tripping, it’s about you leaving the goddamn briefcase out where anybody can grab it!” 

“Oh, like we’ll have the whole city walkin’ on through while we’re here.” 

“Just put it somewhere safe, will you?” 

Hazel could have tugged it closer to his bed, shoved it as far under as the boards would allow. That was the response she expected, the one she wanted. It would have been easier, ended the whole exchange on a somewhat peaceful note and made it less eligible to become the topic of a later argument. 

In one swift motion, he was on his feet. A few steps took him to a large grate set into the wall, and a few twists of the screwdriver attachment in his pocketknife had the screws in his hand and then on the table. 

“Oh, no. You are not putting it in there.” 

“You told me to put it somewhere safe.” He hefted the briefcase into the mouth of the shaft with a clanking thud. “And there it is. Somewhere safe.” 

“The Handbook says we’ve gotta carry it at all times.” 

“Well, then you carry it.” 

He watched her, grate in his hands. After a moment, she scoffed, rolled her eyes, and turned away. 

“Well, all right, then.” 

Hazel put the grate back in place, reached for the screws, and realized it would be more prudent to leave the grate unattached to the wall. Of all the things to land him in hot water with the Commission, not being able to reach the briefcase in time because he’d sealed it inside the wall seemed like one of the dumbest. 

When he got to his feet, she was now the one with the file open. Number Five’s photograph sat off to one side, the left edge of his face obscured by her thumb as she read what scant details the Commission had provided. “Any idea where to start with this kid?” 

“Should probably find him first.” 

“Thanks, dumbass. Couldn’t have guessed that.” 

“You asked.” 

Cha-Cha tapped a forefinger against the page. “Says his name’s Number Five. Can’t be that many kids in one city named after numbers.” 

“Probably not the only kid here with a shitty name.” 

She dropped her arm and the file with it. “Now why the hell would you think that?” 

“Oh, come on. With our luck, they probably sent us to the one city where every kid’s got some bullshit name. If there’s a kid named Number Five, there’s gotta be one named Gas Station Bathroom or That Year I Washed Dishes With a Man Named Hank.” 

“Well, if that’s what we’re dealing with, then we should still be able to ask around and find a kid named Number Five.” 

That tone, so purposefully even and intentionally calm, set Hazel on edge. He’d agreed to travel with a partner, not a parent. He’d agreed to work alongside her, not submit to extended lectures and constant condescension. “You know it’s not gonna be that easy.” 

“Doesn’t matter if it’s easy or not.” She hefted their package onto the bed. “As long as it gets done.” 

*******

Vanya didn’t discuss her family when she played the violin.

After their months together, in whatever one might call their semblance of a relationship, Leonard still hadn’t decided how he felt about that. No talking meant no endless litany of woes caused by a family she hadn’t seen in years or a court system that had decided a slap on the wrist was too harsh for what she’d done. It also meant a halt to tidbits about that family, snippets of information Leonard could commit to memory and scribble down later. There was a silver lining to every cloud, as he’d heard, but in this case he couldn't be sure which was which.

The comics had gotten her power wrong. Those writers, those artists—they’d understood her capabilities. They’d known how easily she could bend sound to her will, how she could magnify footsteps and rustling newspapers into a force ready to smash an entire wall to bits or toss robbers and kidnappers about like dishrags. All of those things had made it onto the page, though absent the blood and screams Vanya mentioned as matter-of-factly as she mentioned the time of day. 

Her violin changed things.

It didn’t rob her powers of their destructive potential. He knew as much long before the first strains of Tchaikovsky sent the curtains dancing as though in a gale and set her lampshade swaying back and forth, before the force of it hit him like a drumbeat blared through speakers placed too close. And it would be a mistake to say she had less control without her music. He’d seen and heard enough to know otherwise.

But there was a distinction. Without her violin, her power was a hurricane barreling down the coast, ripping trees up by their roots and tearing homes to pieces before tossing them aside. When she played, it was like an army marching in columns, guns at the ready and every step synchronized. Both were under her command, yet the difference between them was the difference between a man with a pistol demanding money in a back alley, and a man in a tuxedo demanding compliance from behind a revolver. After six months, Leonard still couldn’t say which he preferred her family surrender to. 

The final notes faded; the ripples through her apartment quieted. Vanya gave a small bow as Leonard clapped. 

“Was that okay? I felt like the middle was a little shaky.”

“No, it was great.” The sheer level of power she packed into a simple string of notes was enough to give him chills. Were that power intentional—had she infused the music with the full brunt of her fury—she could have easily brought the complex crashing down around their ears. 

She set her violin and bow in their case before returning to the sheet music, frowning over pages filled with notes she herself had arranged. “Something’s just not working there. Not sure what it is.”

Both her playing and composing held flaws, but Leonard knew so only from her habit of calling attention to them. Had he spent his teen years learning violin under the watch of Sir Reginald Hargreeves rather than waiting to be shuffled from juvenile hall to prison, he might have been able to spot them more readily than she did, point them out before she realized what she’d done, show her precisely which holes they created in the overall quality of her piece and tug at those holes until the whole production lay in shreds at her feet.

Instead, he kissed her cheek. She’d tensed at his first attempt months prior, but an apology, a frank discussion, and a pointed avoidance of similar acts for weeks afterward, had kept her from slamming the door in his face. Now, she relaxed at the touch. “It sounds fine to me.”

Her smile was genuine, soft and grateful. Almost charming. “Glad you like it. I’m still kinda new to this whole composing thing.”

It wasn’t enough that she could play music—oh no, she had to compose it too. Even with his limited knowledge, he could tell her efforts were nowhere near as complex as those of the composers she admired, but they sounded good. Pleasant. Had he not known the composer to be one of the Hargreeves, he could have enjoyed it. Here she was, writing her own music and playing the greats onstage, while he refurbished antiques for doddering old women and young people who thought themselves the first human beings in history to discover treasures in the past.

“Ever, uh….” The words were clear in his mind, the question more of a demand than anything; but he’d learned that the more uncertain his tone, the longer he hesitated before questions, the more it put her at ease. “Ever think of playing that for your family?”

“You’re kidding, right?” She stacked the pages together and slid them back into a folder, then stepped out of his grip as she snapped her violin case closed. “You know how many concerts of mine they’ve been to? None. Not a single one.”

It was amazing, he thought, how quickly bitterness could replace the uncertainty in her tone, take her smile and turn it into a scowl. Not every mention of her family did that, but those that did needed to be remembered, placed together and compared until commonalities emerged. “Aw, come on. I’m sure they’d listen to that.”

“Maybe if you tied ‘em up first.”

Leonard had considered the notion back when his plan was still an idea, when his dates with Vanya were still awkward and suffused with the sort of tension one might expect from international negotiations; but it had never progressed beyond that. A plan that took out Klaus and perhaps Diego before running afoul of Allison and Luther was no better than a plan that had him walk into the Academy unarmed and announce his intent to see none of them leave alive. “I’m sure it’d go better than you think.”

Her expression, never to be mistaken for one of joy and harmony, darkened even further. “Not with Five there.” 

“He doesn’t like violin?” 

“He doesn’t like me playing violin. I tell you he replaced all the strings once?”

“No.”

“Yeah. Changed ‘em out for yarn right before Dad wanted to hear me play.” Her jaw clenched. “Took me forever to find the strings.” 

“Couldn’t your dad just buy you some new ones?” 

“That’d make the most sense, wouldn’t it?” 

She didn’t elaborate further, and Leonard knew better than to wait for more of the story.  It could be difficult to predict when she’d launch into a longer tale and when the line or two she gave him was the story itself, but he preferred the option that didn’t compel him to listen and offer sympathy for minutes at a stretch. 

Vanya took her own composition back to where she kept sheet music for the orchestra separate from sheet music for her lessons. While her back was turned, Leonard cast a few quick glances about her apartment in search of some tool to turn the conversation back toward her family. As far as he could tell, she’d brought nothing back from the Academy, and kept nothing at hand to remind her of the eventual service in her father’s honor.

She glanced at the clock. “I’ve still got a while before I need to head to my next lesson. Want to walk around downtown for a while?”

Leonard would have sooner returned to prison, but she wanted to spend time with him. That was what mattered. He’d learned what she wanted, paid a little above asking price, and begun his investment. The more loyalty he gave her, the more kisses and hand-holding and rants about the unfairness of a world that bowed to her power he endured, the more trust she would reward him with.

He smiled. “Sounds great.”

********

Noon came and went. Hazel’s first year as a field agent had taught him not to expect meals at regular hours or intervals, that the job came first and his needs came second, if they placed at all. Combined with the jet lag he only managed to shake on jobs that lasted longer than they should have and the confusion that came with jumping from to day to night and back again, and Hazel had learned that mealtime was whenever he could set aside a few minutes to wolf down a bite. 

Even so, he was hungry by noon, so that seemed as good a time as any to start the usual argument. 

“Now? We’re this close to finding that kid.” 

“No we’re not.” 

“We’ve just gotta look a little longer.” 

“Look for what? It’s the middle of a school day. Even if we find out where he’s going, we’re not gonna get him. Should just wait until school lets out.” 

“If the Handler’d wanted us to do that, she’d have dropped us off right in the afternoon.” 

Hazel watched a red sports car pull slowly into the parking lot of a burger joint, then join a line of cars at the drive-thru. Sitting the way he did, elbow propped up near the window with his chin in his hand as though they were on a sightseeing venture and not a business trip, never failed to annoy his partner, but he couldn’t find it in him to care. “Just more shitty planning on her part.” 

“Shitty—” Only the motion of the car, it seemed, kept Cha-Cha from whirling in her seat. “They monitor time, Hazel. They know what they’re doing when they send somebody out first thing in the morning.” 

“Yeah. Right when they can’t even nab the kid they’re going after.” He shifted a little, trying in vain to relieve some of the pressure on his back. “God. Hate chasing down kids.” 

“How would you know? Number Five’s the first main target who’s not old enough for a driver’s license.”  

“Yeah, well, I hate it already.” 

Rather than launch into another lecture, Cha-Cha sighed, her shoulders sagging a little. “Yeah, me too. Been a bitch to find him.” 

That wasn't the reason Hazel would have chosen, but he didn’t offer one of his own. “You’d think they’d give us a little more information.” 

“They’re doing the best they can.” 

She had no proof they were, and Hazel had no proof they weren’t. As management styles went, the Handler’s was about as transparent as a soot-covered brick wall. She gave orders, and those orders were followed. Explanations were for those higher up the food chain. Questions were for those in charge. If Hazel broke into headquarters and found extensive profiles of past targets complete with facts that could have ended a job in minutes rather than hours, he wouldn’t even blink. 

He said nothing as Cha-Cha eased the car into a drive-thru. His stomach turned at the thought of another greasy burger, but searches for a target often placed her in a strange state of mind. If hours passed with no sign of the target, she’d push comforts aside. No glances toward scenery, no comments on the sights they prowled. No sitting down to rest. No water until her voice cracked or coughing set in. Most often it was Hazel who urged her to take a break for lunch, and then she’d complain about the smallest wait, try to sneak ahead in line when no one was looking. If she’d chosen to stop for lunch all on her own, hunger must have made it impossible for her to think of anything but. He tried to enjoy the anomaly for what it was, but his mind drifted toward a real, sit-down meal in an actual restaurant with table linens and napkins, a plate of manicotti that wasn’t warmed in a microwave beside a basket of garlic bread and a salad with housemade dressing and fresh croutons….

“Hey. Asshole.” 

Cha-Cha’s hand against his shoulder shook his thoughts away. Cool spring air floated through her open window; behind her sat a speaker and a menu. Faded letters on a backlit piece of yellowing plastic spelled out the names of simple meals. This place must have had the shortest wait, and it didn’t take a genius to guess why. 

“Just…uh…” The restaurant didn’t offer burgers, as he’d expected, but sandwiches. A nice tuna sub from a place like this would probably leave him flat on his back in the motel room, but the threat of hospitalization was enough to set him on a different course. The Commission didn’t take kindly to agents who brought their identities to the brink of discovery. “Roast beef is fine. Provolone cheese.” 

She repeated his order to the speaker, then pulled forward. Hazel half-expected her to snap at him, to remind him to get his head in the game because this job needed the both of them, but she kept her gaze forward. One forefinger tapped the steering wheel. 

“Number Five.” He couldn’t tell if she said to him or only herself. “Who the hell names their kid Number Five?” 

“Maybe they only wanted one kid and didn’t bother naming the rest.” 

“Why not just give ‘em all names that start with the same letter or something?” She passed a few bills to the cashier, took the change, and drummed her finger again. “There’s gotta be something else. Commission always gives us a couple clues, right?” 

He scoffed. “You call those clues?” 

“Well, they help.” 

“Since when?” 

“Beijing, 1411?” She didn’t give Hazel a chance to call that the fluke it had been. “That name. Number Five. Name that weird’s gotta be a clue.” 

“You didn’t say that when we went after Polly Esther Slack.” 

“We found her in—what? Two hours? Don’t need a real big clue for a girl who spends every Wednesday night and Sunday morning in the same damn place.”

“Well, far as we know, Number Five’s not spending his time anywhere.” 

“He’s somewhere, and somebody’s seen him.” 

She was right, but Hazel wasn’t about to admit as much. Not aloud. “So what’re we missing here?” 

She accepted the bag from the window and handed it off. Hazel took his sandwich and handed Cha-Cha hers. 

“I dunno,” she said. “But we’re missing something.” 

Hazel unwrapped his sandwich. Pale bread, suspiciously cold toward the center. Bits of dry beef stuck out from all sides, and a flash of yellow fought to tear his attention from the wilted lettuce. Part of him wanted to swear. Part of him wanted to demand they return to that godawful place and demand a redo. 

The rest of him lacked the energy for a fight with no chance of victory. 

He took a bite. The bread, at least, had been thawed enough for that, but not enough to conceal its origins. That was what held most of his attention—but it distracted him from the dry beef and processed cheese, so he followed that bite with another, and another. Cha-Cha didn’t touch her food. She drove in silence, pausing at stop signs but otherwise not deviating from whatever course the road set. 

In an instant, his sandwich was nearly pitched out of his hands as Cha-Cha slammed on the brakes. 

“Cha!” His hand snagged the grab handle and he clung to it. “What the hell—” 

She executed the fastest three-point turn he’d ever seen, one that left him glancing all around in search of police lights. None appeared. 

“We’re going downtown,” she said, as if that explained everything. “I know how to find this kid.” 

[canyousevmyheavydirtysoul]

My Best Friend’s Wedding. (Part 4) (Pete Wentz x Reader)

~Wednesday, 21:00, 61 hours until the wedding~

“You should tell him.”

“See, this is exactly why I didn't want to tell you!”

“Technically, you didn't tell me, I figured it out,” Patrick pointed out from his seat on your hotel bed, watching you as you removed your make-up in the bathroom.

“Whatever,” you waved a hand dismissively in Patrick’s direction, “But now that you know, I’d really appreciate it if you didn't constantly try to coax me into telling Pete like (Y/B/F) does. Lord knows I have enough to deal with already,” you mumbled.

“(Y/N), you can’t just let him marry that fucking awful woman when he’d be way better off being with you instead!”

“He’s happy with her. That’s what’s important. Not how we feel about her.”

Patrick collapsed onto the bed and groaned in frustration. “You’re unbelievable!”

“So I’ve been told.”

 ~Thursday, 12:00, 46 hours until the wedding~

“That’s perfect. I’ll be there at around 6 to add all the trimmings. Okay. Alright, see you then. Thank you so much.” You hung up the call with the manager of the restaurant you’d booked for one of the locations for Meagan’s bachelorette party and plopped down onto one of the plush chairs.

“All good?” Patrick asked, setting a mojito down in front of you.

“So far,” you replied, reaching for your drink and holding it up, “Here’s hoping it stays like that.”

You clinked glasses with Patrick and took a sip, relishing in the coolness of the liquid.

“How’re your plans coming along?” you questioned.

“Great, actually. Everyone really pulled through to make sure it’ll be a awesome evening,” Patrick gushed excitedly.

“Must be nice,” you grumbled, “I had to do everything by myself.”

“I’m not surprised. In fact, I’m 99.9% sure that the bridesmaids aren’t even real people. They’re drones that Meagan had made in a lab for the sole purpose of following her around and cackling like a pack of hyenas.”

“That actually makes way too much sense for it not to be true,” you chuckled as your phone lit up, signalling that you had just received a text. Scanning over it, you started to rise from your seat. “Gotta go, babe. The t-shirts I ordered are ready.”

“You ordered t-shirts?” Patrick asked, awestruck.

“And goodie-bags, and I ordered a limo, and booked VIP tables at the best restaurant in the area as well as two different clubs.”

“I’m starting to think that you’ve been compromised.”

“Please,” you rolled your eyes, grabbing your purse and stuffing your cell inside, “Can you imagine what would happen if Meagan’s bachelorette party isn’t ‘totes ah-mazing’?”

“I see your point,” Patrick nodded, sipping his drink.

“Later, loser.”

 ~Thursday, 18:25, 39 hours and 35 minutes until the wedding~

“Everything looks wonderful, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Michael. Let’s just hope it’s to the bride’s liking.”

“I’m sure it will be.”

“Don’t be. You never know with this one,” you exhaled, running a hand through your hair.

“So, we have a bridezilla on our hands, hm?” Michael brought two fingers to his lips and whistled, immediately gaining the attention of the waiters scattered around the room. “We have a code 2 tonight, everyone. All hands on deck.”

Everyone instantly began to move at a pace that was five times faster than their usual one while you stood stunned by the level of organization and the manner in which every single waiter melted together to form one perfectly meshing machine.

“Code 2?” you questioned, turning to face Michael, “What’s code 1 and 3?”

“3 is a robbery and 1 is any other kind of life or death situation.”

“Wait, so a bridezilla is a higher up on the list than a robbery?”

“Women can be crazy, ma’am.”

“Believe me, I know,” you chuckled before averting your attention back to the amazing workers in front of you. “Michael?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Is there any chance of hiring them to take over the rest of my Maid of Honour duties?”

 ~Thursday, 21:00, 37 hours until the wedding~

Sitting at the hotel bar with your head rested on one hand, you thought about what horrible thing you must’ve done to deserve this much bad karma.

Even though you worked your ass off planning what you thought was an incredible bachelorette party, it hadn’t been good enough for Meagan.

She found fault with everything.

First, it was the limo. Apparently, it was too vintage and not modern enough. She also didn't like the font on the shirts you had made. Then, she got upset because the restaurant only had wine from 1970 onwards and not 1969, and hated the appetizers prepared by the world-renowned chef. When you got to the first club, she complained that the VIP table was in the corner of the club instead of the middle, which then resulted in her forcing the entire group to leave early and move on to the next club. But, your booking at the second club was only for 21:30, meaning you ended up back at the hotel bar. You, searching for your will to live at the bottom of a whiskey glass, and the Barbie squad on the couches in the middle room, well on their way to being wasted.

Just as you downed the last of the brown liquid in the glass, a noticeably anxious Patrick came running over to you.

“(Y/N)! Thank God!” he sighed, out of breath.

“’Trick, what’s wrong?” you questioned worriedly; concerned that something serious had happened.

“Can we combine the parties for the rest of the night?”

“What? Why? I thought you had everything planned.”

“We did! But then…,” he removed his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes before sitting down next to you. “Okay, so, we were supposed to start the night off at Marcus’s place, y’know, cause he lives close by. And obviously, you know about how – by poetic coincidence - he’s going through a divorce while being a groomsman at a wedding.”

“Uh huh.”

“Right, so, when we all arrived at his place, we found him sitting on the living room floor. On the floor, because, you see, there wasn’t any furniture. His wife had come while he was here at the hotel and cleaned out the house. Like, thoroughly out. No furniture. No glasses in the kitchen. No curtains. She left his clothes, still folded, in the place where the dresser used to be. In the closet, his clothes were on the floor because she’d taken the hangers. The booze he’d stocked up for the party? All gone. Except for one empty bottle that she left in the otherwise barren fridge. She took the mustard, even. So, for the next little while, he sat on the floor, shell-shocked and stunned. Occasionally, he’d answer a question in monotone grunts. Joe had brought a couple of six-packs with him, so we all sat on the floor with Marcus, drinking and tossing bottle caps at an empty bottle in the centre of the room. As you can imagine, it was extremely fun. Then, Pete found a deck of cards in a pile of random stuff she’d decided she didn’t want and had thrown into a corner. We threw those at the target for a while, until Andy made a discovery: she’d taken all the hearts, and left only the spades, clubs and diamonds. Marcus started crying. The next hour was spent largely trying to convince him that he was better off without her while he shook his head at Pete and wailed ‘Don’t do it, man. It isn’t worth it” over and over. So, yeah, good times.”

“Wow. I, uh… I don’t know how to respond to that.”

“You can start by saying that we can come with to the next club,” Patrick said, hopefully.

“Are we sure that’s a good idea?” you questioned uncertainly, glancing over at the Barbie squad who were giggling uncontrollably, “I mean, poor Pete needs some time away from that.”

Patrick sighed. “I know, I know. But we don’t have a plan B and we can’t just not do anything.”

“Fine,” you groaned, Patrick smiling, “But I have a strong feeling that we’re both seriously gonna regret this.”

~Thursday, 21:45, 36 hours and 15 minutes until the wedding~

“See, Patrick? There are reasons bachelor and bachelorette parties are usually held separately from each other, and this is one of them!” you fumed, gesturing at the scene unfolding in front of everyone.

The club you were at had separate sections for male and female strippers and entertainment, so when everyone arrived, you and Patrick split up the group up once again and each headed to the respective sections. The only problem was that Meagan, being Meagan, got extremely jealous of the strippers dancing around Pete and decided to march up onto the stage instead, dancing and removing her clothes, much to Pete’s dismay.

“How was I supposed to know that this would happen?” Patrick asked frantically, gesturing to Meagan, who was still going and showed no sign of stopping any time soon.

“This has to stop,” you said, making your way onto the stage too, dragging Meagan off of it and back to your designated table.

“(Y/N), get your hands off of me!” Meagan struggled against your iron grip. “I honestly can’t believe you! It’s like you get more and more jealous which each passing second!”

“I’m not jealous,” you said, “I’m just trying to save you from embarrassing yourself even further.”

“Embarrassing myself?” she scoffed, “Listen here-“ she leaned forward, and as she did so, the candle on the table lit her hair on fire, prompting a blood-curdling scream from her.

All the hairspray in her hair fed the flames, and so did the vodka tonic she threw on herself in an attempt to put out the flames. Luckily, a neighbouring table threw a bucket of ice on her hair, and it was only her extensions that suffered damage.

“Taxi!”

~Thursday, 23:00, 35 hours until the wedding~

“I’m never gonna hear the fucking end of this,” you groaned, your head falling into your hands.

“It wasn’t your fault, (Y/N),” (Y/B/F) tried to comfort you, stroking your hair.

“Tell that to Meagan.”

“Everyone knows how insane she is,” Patrick spoke up, “No one takes anything she says literally. They all know how much she exaggerates everything.”

“Doesn’t stop it from being annoying as fuck, though. You know,” you got up and started pacing around your hotel room, “I’m so done. Honestly. I don't know how much more of it I can take.”

“(Y/N/N), talk to Pete,” (Y/B/F) said, “You need to tell him.”

The sound of the door closing sounded throughout the room.

“Tell me what?”

_______________________________

Thank you for reading x