#and go into detail on how nondescript yet weird he looks

[beedreamscape]

He's my lil guy with his monstrous obsidian eyes and ordinary urbane face and terrible divinity that clings to his hairy skin of nondescript brown

[ushidoux]

Not Enough - Oikawa (Haikyuu) x Reader x Gojo (JJK)

Summary: Your relationship with Oikawa feels more like a curse than anything else as it comes to a close. (~4.2k words) or tl;dr gojo is mr. steal your girl

Warnings: breakup, idk Gojo is a warning, cracky angst?, pegging mention, yandere themes

A/N: Ngl I’m patting myself on the back for making a crossover fic work somewhat LOLLLL, you can roll your eyes if you want this is hella melodramatic.

(if you wanna commission more niche things, you can always dm me <3)

---

“I-I think it’s best for us to end things here, Tooru...”

Oikawa’s fingers tightened around the cell phone in his hand at the sound of your shakily delivered proposition, and further at the abrupt pregnant pause thereafter - not because he was angry, nor afraid, but out of an all-encompassing confusion.

Two things were wrong with this situation. First of all, it was late enough for you, thousands of miles away, that he was genuinely surprised that you were still awake in the first place and the fact that your voice was thick with tears was particularly upsetting, implying that you’d been up all night before you decided to call. Second, you had to be feeling unwell because you were talking pure nonsense.

He must have not heard correctly. You wanted to ‘end things’?

End what? You and him? That couldn’t possibly happen.

Moments passed, maybe even a full minute, and Oikawa stood perfectly still in spite of the uncomfortable combination of a weightless sensation in his legs and a feverish pounding in his chest as he tried to let himself understand what you were saying. Suddenly lightheaded, he realized he had been holding his breath while you remained quiet on the other end of the line. Maybe he was hoping for you to fill the silence, but he knew you wouldn’t offer anything additional; he could tell from the single soft sniffle that betrayed your sadness.

He sucked air into his lungs.

“I... don’t know what you mean,” Oikawa replied, his voice steady even if his body wasn’t.

You continued.

“I don’t think I can do this anymore. It’s really hard… and I get so lonely, and I know it’s wrong, but sometimes it hurts to see you so happy without me…”

Your voice was smaller still, enough that he strained to hear you past the rush of blood past his temples. For a moment, he considered pretending he couldn’t hear you say such unpleasant things just so that he wouldn’t have to deal with the reality unfolding in front of him in this disdainfully sunny early afternoon, while he stood in the middle of the hallway right outside of his high rise apartment.

The fact that you had finally given up on him after all this time.

In a small way, Oikawa couldn’t blame you. While he had been gone chasing his dream, the emerging star had just as quickly been running further away from you day by day. He knew this was mostly his fault: he called you less frequently and whenever you did talk, the conversations were shorter and less substantial until you and he both felt like your interactions were a simple chore, a checkbox on his never-ending to-do list.

But yet, he could and would absolutely blame you. Long distance was hard but you had promised you’d stay by his side, hadn’t you? You’d promised him, rain or shine, through drought and storm. What could possibly be the issue now?

Even if you hurt, it would only be temporary, and he could always make up for it in full or even twice-fold. In fact, he was on his way to come see you in person this very second; it would just be mere hours before his flight would depart. Coming suddenly on holiday like this was meant to be a surprise, and his suitcase beside him was filled with gifts and souvenirs for you that would, at least partially, assuage your hurt.

At least he thought. Maybe the issue stemmed deeper, starting with the very fact that you weren’t such a fan of gifts - what you really craved was loyalty and quality time - and that too, he had chosen to ignore. Because it was easier to love you the way he wanted to love you, rather than the way you wanted to be loved.

You were often indecisive anyway. Did you ever truly know what you wanted?

“___, stop being silly. I love you -”, he paused at this last declaration for emphasis, gauging your reaction, of which you gave him none, then continued, “-and I’m coming to see you before the sun sets tomorrow,” he insisted, a stern edge in his voice to further supplant the denial that was keeping him able to breathe. Strength returning to his limbs, he resumed his path to the elevators, dragging his belongings behind him.

You were silly. You missed him and you were delirious from loneliness and sleep, and that’s why ridiculous things were coming out of your mouth, that’s all it had to be, he figured. End things? What you had was something precious and irreplaceable. Nothing could be better than what you were together.

It would be you and him for life, at least to him.

Unfortunately for you, that ideal had long since perished.

Any other time, you would have paused, your breath hitching in your throat, your heart pounding as you conjured up the image of your Tooru coming to be in your arms once more, to cross the vast distance and be yours again as it should be. He’d be quick to show you that he chose you over crowded gyms full of adoring spectators, a perfect set, the rush of victory, or a pretty Instagram model.

Any other time before, but time had run out with both you and him unsuspecting, in a flash of clear blue eyes.

---

A few months earlier...

“I’m not interested.”

Your voice was flat and so was your expression. Muttering a soft ‘excuse me’, you walked past the tall young man who had taken the fact that he’d helped you reach an item on the highest shelf (despite the fact that you were still somewhat tall, you still had struggled), as an invitation to follow you around the grocery store.

The stranger had started off indiscreetly at first, and you had to admit, when you’d passed him in the aisle, you had given him a double-take, and it wasn’t just because you were wondering how he could see the food before him with a black blindfold wrapped over his eyes, so you hadn’t thought too much of it. He was admittedly handsome - at least the lower part of his face was - and his relaxed voice and posture as he reached over and handed you your box of cereal reminded you just a smidge of your Tooru.

Your Tooru wouldn’t be caught in that nondescript dark ensemble, though.

Saying “thanks” and continuing on your merry way should have been enough. But instead, this same man had immediately started walking besides you as you pushed your cart as though he knew you, making comments about your groceries.

“I’m not particularly fond of eggs, but they’re a good source of protein.”

“You seem to have a sweet tooth, just like me!”

You probably should have been concerned about this man’s mental state, but he didn’t exactly seem harmful or delusional, just weird. But you were almost done with your shopping trip, and now he was in line with you with a single bag of chips in his hand, and it occurred to you for a while that this stranger might try to follow you home.

“Do you need something, sir?” You told him in exasperation.

He furrowed his eyebrows in mild confusion, still a smidge too close behind you and raised his bag of chips. “No, I’m fine.”

“Why are you following me?” You finally said, bolder than usual in this semi-crowded grocery store. You had had enough of being polite and you’d tried very hard so far. Today had been a long day and you just wanted to cook a meal and sleep, not argue with strangers.

“Oh, I was trying to be friendly,” he replied, shrugging, as though that were normal behavior, and thus here you were, switching lanes abruptly while making it clear to him that he needed to leave you the fuck alone.

Checking out of the store with your items occurred without incident but you had to admit you were both irritated and confused about that encounter, and again, while you didn’t exactly feel malicious intent or really any sort of ‘creepiness’ from the young man, the behavior was nevertheless alarming. You surreptitiously glanced over your shoulder just to make sure he wasn’t still in sight, only to catch him walking in the other direction, whistling again with the single bag of chips in his hand, now paid for.

Again stunned, you found yourself lost in a stare for a moment, a million questions in your head.

What was he trying to accomplish? And most importantly, how could he see with that blindfold?

What did he look like without it?

Quickly realizing your questions were getting absurd, you decided that whether he was attractive or not was a completely inconsequential thought, because the fact of the matter was that he had to be clinically insane. Absolutely.

With that thought in mind, you texted a friend briefly sparing the least salient details.

Call me in about thirty minutes if I don’t call you first. I’ll fill you in later.

Just for safety’s sake, but thankfully, you didn’t think you’d ever seen him again.

You may have brought up your odd encounter to Tooru that night, if he had managed to return your call.

---

“Go to sleep, I’ll talk to you when I land tomorrow. I love you, ____.”

Before you could protest, the line cut off abruptly and you lowered your phone to your lap. Now it was no longer just your voice wavering, but your entire body trembling as you sat over the side of your bed. You lurched forward, the pit of your stomach heavy with guilt.

Your Tooru was coming to see you and for once, he was the last person you wanted to see.

---

You had left your home a little later than usual but given that you would rather die than miss your morning coffee and croissant, you still stopped by your neighborhood bakery.

Noting that the line was a little longer than expected, you queued up, humming softly to the beats of your favorite song, not registering that the man standing before you had turned slowly in your direction and was now smiling down at you.

“Fancy seeing you here again.”

Your eyes furrowed as you looked up, then almost yelped in surprise when your eyes registered the same white-haired stranger who had stunned you at the supermarket lined up just two paces before you.

What the-

Of all the coffee shops in this city, why here? The hairs on your neck stood up on end, worse when he decided to keep speaking.

“Let me buy your coffee,” he proposed, tentatively. “Only condition is that you have to drink it with me.”

Today, the strangest of strangers almost looked normal; rather than a blindfold, his eyes were hidden by a dark pair of sunglasses and his hair had been allowed to fall into a slightly windswept cut. He was also dressed less eclectically, in a loose-necked long sleeved shirt and a pair of fitted dark jeans.

Like this, you could call him fashionable. He was definitely forward, at the very least.

He was obviously flirting and normally you would have a curt prepared answer for him, but the manner in which he leaned forward, smirking with hands on his hips, again felt too familiar. Like Tooru, who had forgotten to call you back and instead sent you a quick text that promised he’d get back to you.

If he remembered.

Before you knew it, and almost embarrassed as soon as it left your mouth, you blurted out, “I… have to go to work.”

It wasn’t a lie but for some reason it came out like one. Perhaps because what you would have normally said was, “I have a boyfriend,” without giving him a second look.

He frowned nevertheless.

“That’s too bad,” he finally said, letting out a loud sigh, excessively dramatic for the situation. You stared at him, dumbfounded, and he suddenly clasped his hands together, preparing to say something else but the barista had called for the next customer.

He made a motion for you to go before him, and flustered, you obliged, giving the barista a look that implored for help in any way he could offer it. The barista knew you well enough to ring up your order before you even asked for it, but not well enough to sense that the man behind you was actively harassing you.

“I can buy my own coffee, sir,” you murmured once you saw him rummage in his pockets and pull out his wallet while the barista went off to toast your pastry.

He grinned widely.

“Call me Satoru.”

---

“A drink for you, sir?”

The flight attendant’s voice betrayed a hint of irritation under her sweet tone of voice, hinting that she had been waiting for him to answer a while, and Oikawa realized that he had been staring at his phone for a lot longer than he expected. He flashed her his classic pearly whites before nodding, but the wheels in his head were still turning.

A mere couple of hours into the first leg of his flight back to Japan, he had taken to poring over his last few conversations with you.

Conversations that, at least from his end, had become pressured, short, and at times, he had been downright dismissive.

But he loved you - you had to understand that! It was a lot to manage:  being available for you but also giving 150% of himself to the game.

So what if he missed your calls but kept his Instagram up-to-date? So what if he was a little bit too cozy with his fans (and known to be so)?

There was always you, and you were supreme. He’d do anything for you.

“Wine?” The attendant offered him the higher octave in her voice making it clear that Oikawa had managed to charm her back into her retail persona.

Maybe a glass, but he’d limit his drinking. He wouldn’t want to disappoint you when you met.

---

You were shocked.

Satoru stopped a car that was meant to crush you, and you were still trying desperately to comprehend what had just transpired.

You were possibly too eager to escape that coffee shop, to get away from the young man whose presence both unsettled your stomach and made your face grown warm, that you’d hurried out into the crosswalk, somewhat complicated drink and slightly crisped pastry in hand, and right into the path of a car hurtling through a red light.

You didn’t have time to scream or rarely even time to drop your drink, but the impact of your carelessness and preoccupation, between him, being late to work, wondering why the fuck your boyfriend had yet again forgotten to text back, never came.

Instead, the car seemed to halt to a stop almost immediately before you, before him who now stood before you with lips held into a neutral expression, and one hand in his pocket. Even if time seemed to stop for a split second, the force that should have struck your body didn’t, instead hurtling around you in a terrifying gust of wind.

But you were safe.

There was a shatter of glass windows as energy redistributed and the car took the brunt of the shock, and airbags deployed, engulfing the driver who could have possibly ended your life.

When Satoru finally turned to you slowly, looking at your cowering form, you finally caught a glimpse of piercing blue. For once he wasn’t smiling, and he was suddenly much more terrifying than anything else.

As though the mask had come off.

He didn’t ask if you were okay. Instead, he asked you to control your grief.

---

You shouldn’t be able to love anyone so much that your heart breaks repeatedly.

Something about you had to be pathological - it couldn’t be normal to feel the pain of separation this acutely. It was just a long-distance relationship, even if he was just getting more famous and less available by the day.

You shouldn’t wake up wondering if you could still breathe without him.

You shouldn’t.

---

“I’m a sorcerer,” Gojo revealed as he stirred a warm caramel latte, as though he had said the most natural thing in the world.

You tilted your head over so slightly, knit eyebrows betraying your confusion.

“... Like a circus performer?”

The repetitive turn of his wrist halted almost immediately and he looked at you, the constant smug smirk immediately awash from his features.

“Do I look like I belong in the circus?!” He half-exclaimed, half-whined, as though you were the only patrons in this bustling coffee shop. Part of you was bent on saying yes, but you kept mum yet staring at his face in distress, you find yourself stifling a giggle.

Now that he’d saved your life, you felt (and probably erroneously so) obligated to at least indulge him in coffee, and your curiosity about the young man sitting before you a whole day later now waffled between morbid and genuine.

Cursed energy? Leaking from you? Sorcery?

He cleared his throat and leaned back in his chair once he realized you were more entertained by his distress than anything else, crossing his arms and raising his legs on the table. You stared at the bottom of his shoes with mild disgust but instead focused on his face.

He really was like your Tooru, the boyfriend that slipped away from your reach in your nightmares, causing you to wake in a cold sweat. You shook the thought of your head, a quick barely perceptible movement, and crossed your own arms.

“You’re sad enough that I can sense it, which despite the fact that I am obviously quite gifted, can be a bit of an issue long term.”

“Why would it be an issue to you?”

“Because grief creates spirits and spirits are a pain in my ass.”

You furrowed your eyebrows again.

“So you followed me because you thought I was sad?” It sounded far fetched enough but absolutely on brand for a weirdo like the man before you. You took a sip of your tea - you’d picked chai for this… meeting. It wasn’t a date.

He grinned, an elbow rested on the table propping up his chin as he leaned back towards you.

“No, it’s because I thought you were beautiful.” ---

For the first time in a year, Oikawa’s first step back on Japanese soil did not immediately bring him joy but anxiety.

It was odd for him to feel anxiety, this unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach, but of course it would dissipate the moment he saw you.

But first, a warm shower in his new hotel room. Then he’d go to see you.

It felt odd not to have you waiting for him, your million dollar - no, priceless - smile on your face, so he could kiss you dramatically in the midst of all watching to again reassert that you are his, and his alone.

But you were upset, and understandably so.

So he would come to you, as a good boyfriend should.

---

“I have a boyfriend,” you told him immediately and indignantly, as you got up to leave. “I don’t know how many times I have to tell you I’m not interested.”

He didn’t rise as fast as you did, watching you calmly instead as you balled your fists in irritation. It’s so shameless how he flirts, you thought. He’s so bold and rude and even if he’s a ‘sorcerer’ as he claims, there’s no spell that he can cast onto you that will make you leave Oikawa for him.

Not your Tooru, whose last Instagram post features a beautiful, tan, large-breasted and bikini-clad woman you’ve never met.

“Where is he then?” Satoru said in a low voice. He didn’t necessarily mean to cut but it did anyway. A lump formed in your throat.

“Overseas.”

---

The sound of chirping crickets is surprisingly loud for this part of the city, Oikawa considered, as he made his way towards your apartment building. It was an atypically warm evening for this point in the spring and he briefly mused if that is what excited them. Maybe they were cheering for him. They sounded a lot like the crowds if he closed his eyes.

He also hoped you had room for the gifts he carried with him, the most important of which was a Cartier bracelet he would hand to you once he departed, with a solid gold T for Tooru.

If he was on the search for fame and glory, he had to spoil you too, right?

To think that you were so angry with him that you had not yet contacted him since he had landed.

He knocked on your door finally, noting the shuffling of too many feet towards the door. This was the right door. He didn’t understand. Did you have friends over?

He called, and you didn’t immediately pick up.

---

“You have to leave!” You hissed. The statement was a plea and it was a command and it was a curse.

The blue of Satoru’s eyes was less electric in the dim moonlight, now more of a cool ice. Bare naked like this and barely visible save for the cracks of the illuminated city through your blinds, he was unfairly beautiful, as though he were carved out of marble. Again like your Tooru. Like, not better.

But still, he was there when Tooru wasn’t.

But Tooru was there now, knocking on your door, having traveled thousands of miles despite the fact that you had broken up with him just yesterday.

It was too little, too late.

But you didn’t love Satoru. He was just a band-aid for the loneliness that wrung agony out of you.

Right?

“I don’t want to leave,” your makeshift lover replied, flatly.

Your glare was sharp and instant, but Satoru matched your look, less pointed but unwilling to sway.

An unstoppable force, no different from the day he’d saved your life.

But he’d caused the problem in the first place, hadn’t he? Would you have run out so carelessly if not for him?

Your voice softened as you slipped on your clothes. The fight was lost before it started.

“Please? I… I can’t do this to him.”

Only a plea was left.

Your phone started to ring and your throat felt as though it would close up.

“___?”

Before you knew it, you heard your front door open and your heart dropped into your throat.

---

“What the fuck-”

Blue eyes were cruel.

Oikawa prided himself on his height but Satoru was taller, and his smirk was wide, while Oikawa’s face was ghostlike, devoid of any appreciable expression. Stunned.

“So you’re the boyfriend?” His voice dripped with mock amusement and he patted him on the shoulder before swinging open the door wide, letting Oikawa into his own girlfriend’s apartment, only to stand face to face with you whose feet seemed glued to the floor in shock.

“I.. T-Tooru..”

“Are you fucking serious?!”

His voice came out as a cry and his tears hot and fast. You never thought you’d see him crumple so fast, for you, for anything.

Your mouth opened and closed, and your hands shook but again, you stayed planted to the same spot while Satoru, still shirtless (but at least with the decency to have worn a pair of pants before answering the door), settled himself on the couch.

Before you could open your mouth to find a word to defend yourself to your sobbing boyfriend, your visitor let out an exaggerated yelp.

“____, you really showed no mercy on my asshole, did you?” he jeered. Then covering his mouth, he made a gesture of ‘Oops.’

What could you do?

Oikawa looked like he would stop breathing any second. He wanted to fight and maybe scream, but what use was that?

You had broken up with him yesterday.

You approached slowly, attempting maybe a touch, anything that would make your mistake less grievous.

You’d only been seeing Satoru for several weeks to… you weren’t sure why, really? Tooru was the one you loved. And to see him curl up like this… someone who was normally so proud...

You were disgusted with yourself.

“Tooru-”

“You said you’d wait for me.”

It was shocking how quick he rose, broken dignity, gifts and all.

“Tooru!”

He turned to leave, while Satoru contented himself on picking the earwax from his ears. It was easier to be like this, insufferable, than to gracefully accept the idea that his object of affection loved someone else.

He’d coveted you from the day he’d met you.

“Tooru!!!”

You were running after a man who gave 150% to everything, yet again. 

Everything but you.

But had he at the very least given you 100%? You weren’t sure.

Oikawa was the last person who could accept the thought of someone else. You weren’t sure if he’d call you ever again. You weren’t even sure you wanted to break up.

Cursed energy. Maybe you didn’t just leak cursed energy. Maybe you were just cursed.

Heart shattering to pieces once Oikawa was no longer within view, you made it back to your room. Satoru was there waiting, and you couldn’t see the look in his eyes, but his arms were open, and so you fell into them.

[ifmywishescametrue]

WAIT I DIDNT KNOW YOU SHIPPED SAMTONY TOO!!! another oneeee #13 "I saw you looking at it last time we were in the store together, so I got it for you." for samtony

samtony is a very pure ship 😌 thank you for sending a prompt, and I hope you like it!

It starts on a perfectly average Tuesday morning.

“Why do I do this to myself?” Sam pants out, folding himself in half with his hands on his knees. “Every damn time I say it's the last time, and every damn time here we are again.”

Bucky claps a hand on his back and almost knocks him over with one touch. “Maybe you're a masochist, Sammy.”

Sam feebly flips him off, walking off the elevator on jelly legs. “I told you not to call me that.”

“You let Tony call you that,” Bucky points out, following him towards the kitchen.

"I actually like him. We're friends."

“That's offensive. I'm literally your best friend. Your favorite person. The Abbott to your Costello. The Tom to your Jerry. The Lucy to your Ethel.”

Sam snorts, “You're not even my favorite hundred year old man in this building. Also, if anyone’s the Lucy here, it’s me.”

Bucky scoffs, but whatever retort he had coming cuts off when they enter the kitchen. “Oh, damn, are those banana pancakes?”

He reaches for one on the top of the stack, and Tony slaps his hand away with the spatula. “Where are your manners, Barnes?”

“You’ve got like ten there,” Bucky whines. “Why can’t I have one?”

“You can have one when it’s your turn.”

Bucky gives him a dramatic pout that has no effect, and Sam laughs at the scene as he collapses into the stool next to Nat at the peninsula. She gives him a raised eyebrow and a quirked lip at the complete lack of grace.

Tony flits through the kitchen, exchanging lighthearted quips with Bucky as he goes. He has on an apron that Clint gave him at Christmas last year, covered in snowflakes and purple hearts with arrows through them in a mimicry of an ugly Christmas sweater pattern. Underneath it is a t-shirt dotted with Captain America shields, and the sweatpants have a cartoon version of the War Machine suit on the thigh. As usual, all of the colors clash.

A mug of coffee is placed in front of Sam with a small smile before Tony returns to the stove, and Sam is still drinking the first sip when he comes back with a plate of pancakes for him, topped with just the right amount of syrup and a dollop of whipped cream. Tony’s gone again before he can even finish saying thank you.

“Why is it his turn before me?” Bucky complains, and Sam laughs again through his first mouthful at how petulant he sounds.

“I like him the best,” Tony says, sending a wink Sam’s way. “And they’re for him, anyway. Your favorite, right?”

Sam’s eyes widen a bit in surprise. He doesn’t remember telling him that. “Uh, yeah, they are. How’d you know that?”

Tony shrugs, “I pay attention.”

He hands Bucky a plate of pancakes with another jab at his lack of patience, and the moment passes as quickly as it came, but it keeps happening after that.

Tony pays attention to him.

Maybe it was happening all along, before that morning with the pancakes, but just too subtle for Sam to take notice at first. Now that he has, though, he sees it all the time.

The next is just a few days later, when Tony knocks on his door holding a small, nondescript black box.

“What’s this for?” Sam asks, taking it from Tony’s hand. He doesn’t get an answer before he opens the lid to a simple, leather-banded watch. It’s nothing overtly expensive, nothing that screams ‘gift from a billionaire,’ but it is exactly something Sam would have chosen for himself.

“I saw you looking at it last time we were in the store together, so I got it for you,” Tony says simply. “Figured it would go well with that suit Pepper picked for you for the gala tomorrow night.”

Later, Sam will realize that Pepper had nothing to do with the suit choice that fit him perfectly, but for now he runs a thumb over the dark brown leather and says, “Yeah, it will. Thanks, Tony.”

“No problem,” Tony replies, and he lingers in the doorway for a while longer, lower lip between his teeth. Sam is about to ask if there was something else he came here for when Tony claps his hands together and says, “Well, I should get going. Workshop things to do and all that. I’ll see you at dinner.”

He disappears quickly, and that becomes part of it, too. Never dwelling on it when he does something just for Sam. Fleeing if he can, but sometimes staying when that’s what Sam needs instead.

“You look exhausted,” Tony says, and Sam manages a grumble from where he’s slumped on the living room couch, rubbing a hand over his bruised abdomen.

The mission took longer than either him or Bucky expected, and the fights were more intense. It was supposed to be a quick in-and-out type of deal. Infiltrate the base, take out the lower level minions, and apprehend the leaders. But the intel wasn’t as accurate as they were hoping, and there were nearly double the number of enemies than predicted. No major injuries for either of them, but he’ll be sore for at least a few days. Bucky’s cuts and bruises healed on the way home.

Sam doesn’t notice that Tony left until he comes back with ice wrapped in a kitchen towel. He places the ice right on the worst spot over his ribs, holding it there until Sam replaces his hand with his own.

“It’s getting pretty late,” Tony remarks. “You should probably head up to bed. You’ll feel even worse if you fall asleep here, trust me on that one.”

It’s somewhere past midnight, Sam knows, but even with how tired his body is, his mind is still wide awake. The mission replays in his mind. Every faulty move, every chance to do better, every little detail both good and bad.

Sam shakes his head, “Not ready for bed yet.”

Tony takes the seat next to him, leaving an inch of space between them. “J, turn on the Saints game from yesterday.”

Sam smiles a little and asks, “Do you even like football?”

“It’s not the worst sport,” Tony replies vaguely. He settles back into the cushions and pulls the blanket off the back of the couch to cover them both.

“Yeah, what’s the best?”

Completely serious, Tony says, “Ping pong.”

Sam laughs, “That’s not a real sport. Pick something else.”

“Of course it’s real. It’s in the Olympics and everything,” Tony grins. “Give me one good reason it’s not a sport.”

“Alright, fine, maybe it’s real, but there’s no way it’s your favorite.”

Tony shrugs, “It’s entertaining sometimes. The professionals get really into it. There’s an awful lot of grunting involved.”

They stay up for a while longer, talking about nothing of importance, and Tony slowly shifts closer to him until that bit of distance is gone. His arm presses up against him, and Sam starts to have a hard time keeping his eyes open, it seems only natural to rest his head against Tony’s shoulder.

“You can go to bed,” Sam murmurs. “You don’t have to stay here with me.”

“I don’t mind,” Tony whispers back.

Sam does regret it a bit when he wakes up on the couch in the morning with a sore back, but there’s a fresh mug of coffee already waiting for him on the table, still warm and exactly how he likes it, and he smiles to himself anyway. That night is a shift to something different, and he knows it right away.

He starts to pay more attention to Tony’s interactions with everyone else, just in case he’s part of the rule and not the exception. Generosity is one of Tony’s best traits, but even so it tends to extend even further to him. More personal and frequent.

“So there’s this place in Brooklyn that claims to have the most authentic cajun cuisine outside of New Orleans. Want to come with me? Tell me if it’s true?”

It isn’t true, and Tony comes to him the next day with another one, until they’re on a quest together to find one that doesn’t make Sam miss home after just one bite. It takes them all over the city and into Jersey once or twice, and Sam doesn’t point out that Tony doesn’t even seem to like crawfish, no matter where it comes from. He doesn’t want it to be over if he does.

“This is pretty close,” Sam says. He thinks it might be place number eleven, but he lost count a while back. “Could use a little more spice, but at least they didn’t try to add their own spin to it.”

Tony’s watery eyes widen. “This isn’t spicy enough for you?”

Sam grins and shakes his head. “Remind me to bring you with me the next time I go home. You won’t know what hit you.”

Tony’s face does something complicated at that, before it settles on a soft smile. “Yeah, that would be fun.”

Sam fully gets it then, what exactly it all means, but he doesn’t quite know what he wants to do about it yet. Tony has taken up residence in a place in his heart that he wasn’t sure was capable of opening up anymore. He did it so easily, sneaking in like a thief in the night and catching Sam unaware.

Now the sound of Tony’s laugh makes his stomach flip. He seeks it out, telling him stupid stories and jokes to make it happen more. He stares a little too much to catch glimpses of his smile, and now he can see just how often Tony looks back.

It isn’t subtle anymore, this thing between them. Lingering looks, too long touches, and every quiet gesture all build up. Bucky teases him and Natasha gives him knowing looks. Steve tells him that he hopes they make each other happy, and Sam doesn’t tell him that nothing has happened between them like that. They’re still just friends, and they don’t talk about what any of it means.

“Do you want to see a movie with me tonight? There’s that weird one with the killer robots playing downtown,” Sam suggests, and neither of them say anything when Tony slips his hand into his in the darkness of the theater. It goes unmentioned, too, when Sam holds tight after Tony almost lets go when they reach the sidewalk afterwards.

It’s another late night when the last piece finally falls into place.

Sam is nursing bruised ribs again after another mission that turned a little sideways through no one’s fault. He’s still sweaty, dirt under his fingernails and dried blood caked around a shallow cut on his cheek, but Sam still asks JARVIS in the elevator to take him to wherever Tony is. It isn’t as surprising as it should be that Tony is waiting for him on the edge of Sam’s bed.

He stands there patiently while Tony looks him over, and he looks his fill in return. It’s strange how days away from him feel longer now. His balance is off center until Tony is around to set him right again.

“I missed you,” Sam murmurs, and Tony smiles softly.

“You were only gone a couple of days,” he points out, but Sam knows now that it’s his way of saying that he missed him just as much.

Normally, Sam would let it move on from here. Tony would lead him into the bathroom, gently clean up his scrapes, and click his tongue at every bruise. It would end with them on the couch, Sam’s head in Tony’s lap or vice versa, depending on what mood it takes. Sometimes he wants to hold Tony and remember that he survived another fight so he could come home to this, and sometimes he needs to be held to forget about everything else that was lost along the way.

But tonight he reaches out to grasp Tony’s hip, and he draws him in a little closer. The room is dimly lit, and each shadow on Tony’s face is accentuated. Sam can’t remember quite the first time he looked at him and thought the word ‘beautiful,’ but it’s all he’s thinking now.

“You love me,” Sam says. “For a long time now, right?”

Tony nods, and he wraps his arms around Sam’s waist, careful not to hold too tight. “You caught up eventually. Didn’t take as long as I thought it would.”

Sam smiles, cupping Tony’s face in one palm and stroking his thumb across his cheekbone. “How long were you expecting?”

“Maybe never,” Tony admits. “I would’ve kept trying, though.”

“Stay with me tonight?” Sam asks, because nothing more needs to be said for now. They both already know.

“How about every night?”

Sam leans in slowly, murmuring against his lips, “Sounds like a plan.”

[lorienfae]

The Uncanny Mountain

If it wasn't the library, then we'd sweep ourselves away into the Study, a sprawling yet dark mausoleum of hundreds of leather tomes lining the equally numerous shelves Father Atkins always kept immaculate. He would often retreat into the chapel and let us use the study. He thought its atmosphere was rather apt.

"Stern and formal is the best environment for pupils to learn in," he said. "There are no colors here to distract wandering minds."

We'd never disagree. At least, not to his face. However, the room posessed a weird musty odor and a possible ghostly presence, hence we made each other swear never to be left there alone. We could venture in pairs or a group, but not by oneself.

Father Atkins kept his most prized book, a large ornate antique Bible, locked away in his desk. He showed it to us once, proudly explaining he had inherited it from a mentor. We nodded politely. This book didn't speak to us, but later, there were some that practically hollered to be seen.

The Mortician's Encyclopedia, for one.

Quite morbid. Illustrated with detailed how-tos of embalming techniques, going all the way back to ancient Egyptian mummification, a variety of pallor-reducing make-up tricks, funeral dressing, coffin sizes and shapes, et cetera. Its gray spine with spidery lettering stood out among an array of black biology and zoology volumes practically begging to be looked at.

The Lackluster Poetry of a Vibrant Persona by an obscure poet called Nygel Wane, whom none of us had ever heard of before, was a thin nondescript book Ingrid found wedged behind a large dictionary. All of Wane's poems were made up of a single word. Each page contained a title and then only one word in the middle. Was it a riddle? A joke? A modicum of undiscovered genius or mere nonsense?

It was decided that the mystery itself was rather lackluster and the book was promptly put away onto a shelf that held literary works.

Our next discovery happened when Sid made a not so elegant turn, catching his bookbag on a rather thick, dusty tome that promptly fell onto the floor with a loud thud. It was bound with velvety-soft brown leather and had no lettering at all on the spine. The cover was likewise devoid of words, displaying only a single, very familiar symbol.

It was a pentagram. Inverted.

Sid bent down to pick it up and sneezed, setting off a mini-cloud of dust, which had revealed the symbol.

We stared at it in silence. None of us had expected to find anything so blatantly occult in a Chaplain's study. Not that the study belonged to him exclusively, because it didn't. Yet, he spent a lot of time there as well and it seemed somewhat uncanny.

Like the book.

In that moment of beholding it, all three of us had become telepathic, with the same exact thought coursing through our minds. A satanic grimoire. It felt a bit eerie, standing in that dark room, holding this potentially evil volume in our hands. Yet curiosity prevailed.

Sid turned the cover with slightly shaking fingers. The title page bore the same pentagram and proclaimed:

Brotherhood of the Crimson Temple: A Comprehensive Guide and Handbook.

As we proceeded to browse the pages, it dawned on us that we had been both right and wrong about it. It was and yet wasn't a grimoire. It was more than a simple book of shadows — a collection of spells, potions and rituals — sure, it included listings of rites and ceremonies the brotherhood performed, but also sigils, runes, and charts, illustrations of proper attire and a chapter on history of the order. There was a glossary of terms and an index of invocable entities. More than that, the pages were laden with a heavy aura that instilled an even deeper sense of unease in us than before.

What was this book doing here? Was this a secret society or a some sort of a demonic cult, and was Father Atkins a part of it? Or was it simply a remnant from someone's personal collection that got donated and eventually wound up in a random university study?

We had no answers, but seeing it cast a shadowy cloak upon the already darkened atmosphere around us.

The room felt larger and more mysterious than before. The temperature seemed colder. There was no ruling out of goosebumps on skin.

Sid replaced the tome onto the shelf and slowly backed out of the aisle, careful not to dislodge any more possibly demonic volumes. Ingrid and I followed him, wordlessly, toward the doorway. Thoughts of a nice, hot cup of coffee drifted through my mind.

I reached for the light switch on the wall beside the door and just as I flicked it off, I heard it.

A whisper of my name, from the back of the room. Then an exhaled sigh, on the back of my neck.

I did not look back as I slammed the door shut. Shivering.

© Anna S., 2021

[sunnysidekit]

Summary: The road to loving Frankie Morales is tough, but you’d do it all again if you had to. And again, and again, and again…

Pairing: Frankie ‘Catfish’ Morales x F!Reader (no y/n)

Warnings: Language, major character death but not the permanent kind, (this is literally just a series of au’s in which the reader becomes kind of self-aware), nondescriptive smut (minors, please skip this one!).

Word count: 2.6k

A/N at the end

My masterlist

“Hey,” Frankie shouts, his voice only just carrying over the heavy rain. “Hey, wait up!”

You glance back at him over your shoulder, but you don’t stop running. You can’t stop running. Not after what just happened. Why did you decide to tell him how you felt about him, again? Worst decision of your life.

“Hey!” Frankie shouts again, even louder this time. He’s quickly gaining on you; blame that on his Delta training. You keep running, looking left and right for a spot between the old buildings to shelter from the rain. Something just big enough for one person to hide from their best friend would be great, but you doubt you’ll find a spot like that.

Just when you spot an alcove the size of a small closet you step into a puddle that’s way deeper than it looks, and you smack against the pavement.

You hear Frankie curse from behind you, the splashing of his boots in the puddles getting louder and louder until he stops right next to you and crouches down to help you up. You let out a painful groan when he lifts you off the ground, your arms flailing around unwittingly until you manage to grasp onto his soaked flannel.

“Are you okay?”

“No, I’m not, Frankie,” you say with a sniffle. “Look, I know that just because I feel a certain way, you don’t have to… Why are you laughing?”

“I’m sorry,” Frankie grins. “But you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear those words! I’d given up all hope you’d ever say them, so,” he shifts to hold you closer to his chest, “I was a bit shocked, is all.”

You blink up at him dumbfounded as lightning flashes behind him, bathing the two of you in a heavenly light for just a moment. Before you realize what you’re doing, you grab his face and crash your lips into his with a passion you never knew you were capable of. He hums against your lips and you smile; this kiss is better than whatever you imagined it could be.

The rain washes over you and makes goosebumps pop up all over your skin, though that could also be from the intensity with which Frankie kisses you. His nose bumps against yours as he deepens it and something starts to blossom up in your belly, a tingling spreading from your sides all the way to your fingertips. After what feels like an eternity, he lets you go, the both of you breathing hard and haggard.

“Holy shit,” Frankie chuckles. “We’re both incredibly stupid, aren’t we?”

“Speak for yourself. I’d do it all again if this is what I get for it.”

Frankie laughs breathlessly and you can’t help but join him. All the anxiety in your body has transformed into exhilaration; you throw your head back and let the raindrops splatter onto your face freely when suddenly another flash of lightning strikes, this time so close you can almost feel it burn your skin. Hey, wait… why doesn’t it stop?

The burning sensation digs deeper into your skin and you snap your head back to look at Frankie, but he’s still laughing. You try to reach out and grab his shoulder, but something’s wrong with your hand. It’s- it’s shredding, your fingers flaking off and burning up in the air as you yell out, horrified at the sight.

Frankie doesn’t notice it when you feel yourself losing weight and floating upward, memories flurrying around you in the ash you’re slowly becoming. He doesn’t notice it when you get sucked higher and higher into the air, screaming his name and pleading him to help you. He doesn’t even notice it when you gasp in one last breath before the stinging headache you’ve developed in the last few seconds overwhelms you completely and you feel your consciousness slipping away.

You jerk awake. Holy stars, that wasn’t a normal nightmare. Where in Newton’s name did that even come from? Rain? It never rains here on the SS Endeavour, you’re in space. All the rain you’ve ever seen has all been via holovids. It did feel oddly realistic, though. Kind of like déjà vu. You stretch out your arms above your head and yawn; maybe you did drink a bit too much last night.

But that kiss… why would you ever kiss officer Morales? Sure, you’re friends. You’re his copilot, for Newton’s sake. But he’s far too mission oriented to even consider romantic relationships. At least, that’s what he says. You’d agree with him, if only he wasn’t obviously lying.

“Stars, would you hurry up already?”

You jump out of your bunk at the sound of Ava’s voice and start changing into your overalls, but it’s no use-- she’s already seen you.

“I don’t want to have to skip breakfast again because you can’t be bothered to get up when the alarm goes off.”

“Oh, stop worrying about your breakfast. I’m sure you still have some extra bread rolls in your secret hiding spot.”

“I will neither confirm nor deny that claim,” Ava says, but she’s got a twinkle in her eye. She’s such a bad lair. You step into your shoes, the soft hiss of the self-tying mechanism a nice reassurance of the fact that you’re not dreaming anymore.

“When commander Penn finds out you’ve been using his second wall safe to hide food, you’re getting an instant demotion,” you say. “You do know that, right?”

“It’s so sweet you still think that’s where I hide my stuff. Anyway, I really hope you’ve already picked up your new badge.”

You look up at her from where you’re sitting on the bottom bunk. “…Oh, shit.”

“Really? What kind of gas giant-”

“Don’t start calling me names you’ll regret, Ava,” you grumble as you scramble up and run out of the sleeping pod. This day really is off to an amazing start.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Fish greets you when you climb into the cockpit of your jet with a scowl. “We’ve got zone E today.”

You fasten your seatbelt and heave a sigh. “Yay for us.”

“I thought you liked the asteroid belt.”

“I do, I just…” You chew on your lip as you busy yourself with the control panel. “I had a weird dream, is all. Let’s get going, Fish.”

Because nothing kills a conversation quicker than telling someone about the strange dream you had last night. Now that you think about it, there was something else wrong with it: the stars. They were all in different places, made different constellations…

Usually something like that doesn’t dance around in your head for very long after you wake up, but this somehow keeps popping up whenever you try to navigate manually. It’s like your memories have been copied, but the copy has a whole lot of mistakes. Like there’s been a very, very bad data overhaul.

And then there’s Fish. Despite his casual, relaxed attitude he’s tapping his fingertips against the controls at a rapid pace. It’s a small detail, one you’ve noticed a hundred times before, but it’s taking on a different meaning in your head. You remember him doing it in the dream, too, right after you told him you loved him. Could that maybe-

“Hey!” Fish snaps his fingers in front of you, and everything around you comes back into focus. You’re floating in zone E, engine off, and there’s a bright red jet peeking out from behind a particularly large asteroid.

“Shit,” you mutter under your breath. “What’re they doing here? This isn’t Galactican territory.”

“Ambush, maybe?”

“I doubt it. If they were planning an ambush, they wouldn’t pick a fucking asteroid belt. Lord knows those new engines of theirs are about as stable as a peach in a blender.”

“Whatever they’re doing here, I don’t trust it,” Fish says with a frown. You sigh.

“Maybe they haven’t seen us yet. D’you think we can we get out of here in time?”

He shakes his head. “Can’t risk leading them right back to the Endeavour.”

“You… you haven’t radioed this in yet, right?”

“No.”

You lean forward to get a better look of your surroundings - seems you’ve been daydreaming for quite some time - only to see a whole lot of asteroids. “Well, it is just one of them, and it doesn’t look like the engine’s on.”

“It’s not broken,” Fish mutters. “At least, I don’t think.”

“Then what do you suggest we do? If we radio this in and someone’s in there, they can easily trace any signals the Endeavour sends out. If we open fire, we’ll have started a war-- and we really don’t need another one of those.”

“It’s taking too long.”

“Excuse me?”

“Not you,” he says absentmindedly, pointing at the blue spacecraft. “That. It’s moving too slow. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say the brakes are on.”

You grab the lens from the wall beside you and take another look. Fish’s right: if the engine’s off, it should be floating around freely, not hanging still. As you stare at it, though, it does seem to move a little bit. No, it glitches. Your breath hitches in your throat. “Holy fuck.”

“Hm?” Fish hums, turning to you. You push the lens in front of his face, and he looks through it as well. No five seconds later, he’s grabbed the controls and started the engine. “We need to get out of here, right now.”

You grab the radio, but Fish snatches it from your hands and throws it across the cockpit. “We’re not gonna radio this in.”

“Are you insane?”

“What do you think base is going to do when they hear tell of a glitching Galactica spacecraft in the last productive tantalum mining fields?”

“Are you seriously suggesting not letting millions of people prepare for-” You’re cut off by the sudden appearance of a dozen more spacecraft, all of their noses pointed in your direction as you and Fish zoom past way faster than you should. “No, no, no!”

“Sunshine, listen to me,” Fish says as he puts his hand over yours. It grounds you, and you’re grateful for it, even if you don’t understand what he’s doing. “If they know we’ve been patrolling the fields, I’m guessing their main plan is to follow us back to the Endeavour.”

“…Which means they don’t know where it’s anchored,” you add, your anxious expression slowly turning into a smirk.

“Now you’re getting it,” he chuckles. “Let’s go take some advantage of that, hm?”

You nod and grab the controls in front of you to start plotting a route that’s just erratic enough not to draw suspicion to the fact that you’re leading the following spacecraft away from the Endeavour. Fish navigates the jet precisely along your route, narrowly avoiding the asteroids while turning a few degrees to the left every few seconds until you’re coasting out of the mining fields and into empty space. It works; behind you, the stream of spacecraft grows steadily, and with it, so does the size of the individual ships.

“They’re still following us,” Fish says after a while. He sounds a lot less sure of his case than he did ten minutes ago. “Hey, we have enough power left for a jump?”

“Depends on where you want to go,” you say, checking the fuel systems. “I reckon we can jump a total of about a thousand light years.”

“The center of the galaxy’s a little less than eight hundred light years away, correct?”

“Yes, but what…” you trail off as realization hits you like a nuclear bomb. “No, don’t even think about it.”

“They’re not backing off, Sunshine.” Fish turns to look you in the eyes, a small, watery smile on his lips. “I don’t think we have a-”

“Of course we have a choice,” you say with as much severity as you can muster, which, to be frank, isn’t a lot right now. “There’s always a choice.”

“Would you rather wipe out their fleet or our own?”

“I don’t-”

“Do it, Sunshine,” he says sternly. “Make the jump.”

You hesitate, your hand hovering over the lever. “Is… is there really no one on the Endeavour you’d turn back for?”

Fish’s smile grows a bit; you can see it’s genuine. “…I’m here with you, aren’t I? That’s enough for me.”

It catches you off guard, the way he says it. Deep down, you already knew what his answer would be. You dreamt about it, after all. Without another word, you push the lever forward, and the jet glides across space-time until it slows down again, finally coming to a halt near the event horizon of the massive black hole at the center of the galaxy.

“Did it work? Are they coming?” Fish almost jumps out of his chair to look outside, while you decide to look at the little radar on the control board. One by one the tiny, blinking dots come streaming in; your evidence of a job well done.

“Fish?” you ask, your voice wavering. There’s something more important than saving the universe on your mind right now. “Am I really enough for you?”

“Oh, stars,” he says, his own happy mood turning into something else as well. He sinks to his knees in front of your chair and looks up at you. “You are more than enough. You’re all I ever think about, you’re the only one that-”

Before he can finish his sentence, you’ve already grabbed his face and crashed your lips into his. You’re about to be swallowed up by a black hole, explanations can wait. The kiss grows more and more fervent as Fish’s hands travel up your thighs to hold your waist, a tingling feeling taking up refuge in your belly. After Newton knows how long, the two of you reluctantly break away from each other to breathe.

Stars, Fish, you whisper, but he shakes his head. Call me Frankie, he says. Please, call me Frankie. You tilt your head and press your lips against his scruff. Frankie, you whisper, please don’t stop. And he doesn’t. He closes his eyes and kisses you, over and over and over until your lips are swollen and all thoughts have left your head.

He zips open your overalls slowly, kissing every inch of newly uncovered skin he can find. His kisses burn lower and lower across your skin, past your clavicles, your chest, your belly, and before you, thousands of stars slowly implode. You don’t know if you’ve ever felt like this before; it’s all so incredibly bittersweet. You get to spend the longest night of your life with the man you love, but it’ll also be the last night you’ll ever experience.

One by one little pinpricks of light fade out in the darkness outside, while others explode in brightly colored clouds-- the same thing happens to your nerves whenever Frankie moves even the slightest bit. It’s a good thing sound doesn’t carry in space, or else you wouldn’t be able to hear the beautiful noises he makes when he closes his eyes in pleasure.

The two of you tumble around in what little space you have, the light of a billion dying stars illuminating every single part of your joint bodies as you splay your hands across his chest. The darkness is taking over more quickly now, enveloping your jet into nothingness, drawing you into the vast emptiness of its core.

We must have done something right, Frankie whispers as you lay, sweaty and tired, awaiting your bittersweet ending, to deserve such an incredible encore.

You close your eyes and curl up into his chest as you whisper back, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

You open your eyes again and smile when you look at Mr. Morales. He’s so gentle like this, with his fingers flying across the piano, not at all the stoic soldier he usually is. It’s nice, even if the others think it’s boring.

He finishes the piece with a shuddering creshendo, and you bite back a smile when he looks at you with those gorgeos eyes of his.

“Why’d you stop singing, my lady?”

“I apologize, sir,” you say as you flip over the music sheet on the little ledge of the piano. “But I simply can’t help it; you play so wonderfully, and I never truly learnt to sing very well. It seems a shame to pollute such beautiful tones with my own.”

“Nonsense,” Mr. Morales says with a kind smile. “Your voice only ever makes me want to play better.”

Your cheeks heat up at that, but the moment is quickly disrupted.

“Encore, encore!” a voice behind you yells; it’s Mr. Garcia, who’s been sitting in his usual post on the third floor. “We’re gonna need more than just the one piece if we’re to have any luck in catching more than a score of those bastards tonight.”

“Why don’t you come down and try singing for a bit, it might help,” Mr. Morales chuckles beside you. When he notices you staring at him, he leans in a little closer and adds, “Are you all right, miss? You seem distracted.”

“I’m perfectly good, sir.” You swallow hard and let out a weary breath. “Your music always seems to carry me away further than I expect.”

And for a moment there, you think to yourself, I thought I saw the stars up close.

A/N: I really threw all my knowledge of space and science out the window for this one and replaced it with nonsense and movie-science. Also, I’ve watched Interstellar, Free Guy, and Groundhog Day way too much for my own good.

The title of this chapter comes from an instrumental by the Grandbrothers which I listened to while writing, so if you want the full experience you can look that up.

If I'm missing any content warnings, do let me know! I'd hate to hurt someone with my writing, but I don't really know how to work those out yet.

PS: If you've got a favorite AU and/or dynamic, I'd love to hear about it! This series is going to explore a bunch of different ones, but I think my own imagination will only get me so far :)

As always, feedback is appreciated and my inbox is open! Have a great day!

[goldencuffs]

fake dating au part two

Whenever Laurent was overwhelmed, or feeling the kind of loneliness even a good cock couldn’t cure, he would sneak off into the library in the north wing of the Palace, where most of his mother’s official portraits were displayed.

Laurent loved all of them; Hennike was smiling in every single one, blonde hair curled perfectly, and teeth a stunning white. The colouring of her gowns and crowns were so bright, even painted, they seemed to shine in the dullest light. Laurent didn’t really know her; she had died three days after giving birth to him, but he had watched so many interviews and home videos of her, he felt like he had. She had been beautiful, well spoken, and everyone had been shocked when she had fallen for Al, because she had been betrothed to someone else.

Laurent liked coming down here to talk to her. It helped to have her listen to his dramatic tirades. He had started doing it when he was thirteen, when Auguste had enlisted in military training and left him alone, but had stopped a few months later, when Al caught him, his face ashen as he’d watched his youngest son babble to his dead wife.

After that, Laurent made sure to only come down in the dead of night, when he was absolutely desperate.

Which was clearly now; Laurent’s head had been spinning since the dinner at Heston’s. Even dessert hadn’t cheered him up — Heston, the absolute cretin, had served only four options of dessert and not a single one had chocolate in them. Not even one! It was like people intentionally went out of their way to put Laurent in a foul mood. Laurent had already drafted a wordy letter about Heston’s appalling lack of class and hosting abilities on the way home, and he was going to send it to the local tabloid first thing in the morning.

Laurent paced around the library, addressing his favourite portrait of his mother. It was her wedding portrait, and he loved all the detailing in it. The blush pink flowers in her bouquet matched her lipstick and her blush, and the tiara she was wearing had 588 diamonds in it. It was called The Laurent Tiara, and when Laurent had found out it had been Hennike’s favourite crown, he’d cried into his pillowcase for an embarrassingly long time.

“If I tell Al the truth now, he’ll kill me,” Laurent wailed at an appropriately low volume; he was very considerate of the sleeping guards when he threw his tantrums. “Or worse — get me married! Oh god, he’ll set me up with that idiot Torveld and I’ll have to spend the rest of my life hearing about his coin collection. Who even uses cash anymore? And what exactly is the point of having money if you can’t use it? And has Al even considered the aesthetics of our coupling? How are we supposed to wear matching outfits if Torveld looks rubbish in Egyptian blue and azure? Hello! Those are my signature colours!” Laurent sunk down on the lumpy sofa and buried his head in his hands. “Maybe death really is the better option.” He looked up at Hennike’s green eyes. “Is heaven overrated? Where would you personally place it on a scale of one to ten?”

She didn’t answer him, obviously. It was no use, anyway; Laurent was definitely not getting into heaven.

*

Laurent woke up irritated and unrested, and not for his usual, fun reasons. He hadn’t come up with any sort of solution to his dilemma and he had had a very strange dream where Damianos punched him while Al watched on. Then the scene had changed, and Laurent was on stage accepting his tenth Oscar for Best Actor, even though he had yet to star in any films.

“I’m thinking of becoming an actor,” Laurent told Al later that night during dinner.

Al’s eyes narrowed and his mouth became a sharp line. “What?”

“I mean, I have the looks, obviously. And really, how hard is acting anyway? Clearly you don’t even need to be very good at it to star in a movie — look at Channing Tatum. I’m sorry, but it’s very obvious his height was the only thing that got him into Hollywood, and even then it’s not that impressive.”

Al put down his knife and fork. “Can we —” He sounded very strained, “have a normal conversation for once.”

Laurent considered this. “I don’t think we’ve had enough conversations to statistically find out what constitutes a normal one,” he said. Al went red, so he continued, “So you don’t think acting is for me? Shall I try directing then? Or maybe —” He sat up excitedly in his chair. “I could write movies! I have so many ideas! Why, for instance, has no one considered a gay version of The Princess Bride? What would that even be called? The Prince Groom? Ugh, no, that’s terrible. Oh, who am I kidding — with my face and my body I have no choice but to be on camera. Otherwise, it’d be such a waste.”

The vein in Al’s forehead was throbbing. If he had been wearing his crown, it would have gone unnoticed, but like this, it was rather unflattering.

Al said, “Laurent,” in a sombre tone. “I really hope you’re joking.”

“About The Prince Groom? Kind of. But the acting thing — would it really be that bad?”

“You are a prince,” Al said, teeth clenched. “If it is the glam and glitz you want, you have more than enough here.”

Laurent, uncomfortably, thought of his room, the only place in the Palace that was truly his, devoid completely of personal artefacts. He swallowed. “Yes, well.” He tried a smile. “Maybe I should borrow another crown from the royal archives. I don’t think I’ve worn one with emeralds yet.”

Al resumed eating. “Speaking of crowns,” he said, completely glossing over Laurent’s last statement. “I’d like you to wear the Crown of Naos when King Damianos arrives.”

Laurent’s mouth dropped open. “As if! Al, the gold colouring on that completely washes me out! Not to mention the fact that that thing weighs like, five kilograms!”

Al’s nostrils flared at the word Al. He said, “The crown is a gift from Damianos’ great great grandfather to yours. It will be an appropriate and symbolic gesture if you wear it.”

“But why can’t you wear it? Or Auguste?”

“I am not the one having an affair with the King of Akielos,” said Al.

Oh, right. Laurent had forgotten about that. But what was the point? It wasn’t as though Damianos would recognise the gesture. If anything, he might think of it as inappropriate.

Instead he said, “Well, gee, Al, I didn’t peg you as a romantic.” Laurent fluttered his lashes a little.

Al pushed away his plate. “I’m done, thank you.” A servant immediately came to clear away his food.

Al left the dining hall, his shoulders tight. Laurent wished Auguste would hurry back home already.

*

In the morning, on the way back from the stables, Jord said, “Looks like your wish came true.”

Laurent stopped dead. “Oh my god — is Pierre-Alexis Dumas here? Is he finally going to collab with me?”

“Who’s Pierre-Alexis Dumas?” said Jord.

Laurent whirled on him. “Watch your fucking mouth.”

“Sorry.” Jord said, not sounding the slightest bit sorry. The audacity! “But look.” He pointed past Laurent, to the front of the Palace.

Laurent looked. There was a nondescript black limousine parked on the long, gravel pathway. Laurent would have dismissed it, if he didn’t spot sight of Jeurre, Auguste’s chauffeur, leant up against one of the doors, smoking.

Laurent gasped. He passed on his bridle to Jord, who fumbled to catch it, and ran inside.

Auguste and Al were in the plate room. Al was sitting on the large, velvet throne, a glass of whiskey in his hand. It wasn’t even noon! And he was baring his teeth in that weird way — smiling, as he called it.

Auguste was standing in front of him, hands behind his back. He had gotten very tan, and his hair was much darker, a strange golden colour that made the blue-green of his eyes more appealing.

They both turned when Laurent entered. Al’s mouth was already drooping at the sight of him, but Laurent only had eyes for his brother, whom he hadn’t seen in eight whole months.

Laurent wanted to hug him, which surprised even himself. Laurent was not a hugger. He wasn’t much of a toucher, either, unless it involved getting laid.

Auguste gave him a nod. He sometimes acted so much like Al, it disgusted Laurent; the only difference was that Auguste’s eyes were always kind.

Laurent peered at him closely, shocked. “What have you done to yourself? Are you having a mid-life crisis? Should we call Paschal for a yearly psych evaluation?”

Auguste laughed. “It’s a moustache, Laurent. It’s very fashionable in Kempt, you know.”

“It’s horrendous!” Laurent cried. He stared at the thick hair above Auguste’s top lip in horror. “Right. I’m officially ruling Kempt out as a holiday destination this summer if all the men are growing that.”

Al’s eyebrows furrowed. “I like it. It’s very refined.”

“Oh god, now we have to get rid of it,” said Laurent, which made Al frown and Auguste laugh. Auguste squeezed Laurent’s shoulder. He was always mindful of Laurent’s boundaries. “I think you’ve grown taller.”

“I haven’t,” Laurent said. He showed off his riding boots. “See? It’s three inches of heel.”

“Very impractical,” Al said under his breath, which was not a very Kingly thing to do.

Auguste was still smiling. “I like it. It matches the piping of your coat.”

“Yes, exactly!” Laurent was so happy in that moment, he leant forward and hugged Auguste. It was very short, but Auguste looked so pleased afterwards, Laurent wished he had prolonged it.

“Did you get me anything?” he asked, to cover the embarrassment following his sudden burst of affection.

Auguste raised an eyebrow. “I’m hurt, Laurent. You’re not going to ask me about my classes or my rather excellent Anthropology professor?”

Laurent scrunched up his face. “Are you stalling because you didn’t get me anything?”

Auguste smiled. “There’s about fifty boxes of Grand Cru chocolate in your bedroom.”

Laurent’s sound of ecstasy was too loud; Al spilled some of his whiskey onto his pants. Auguste clapped him on the back in commiseration.

As the servants laid out a small meal —  roses of smoked salmon on cucumber slices, macaroons, thin slices of cured meat and cheese, crunchy shrimp salad on crusty rolls, grapes and strawberries and mango and pineapple, individual strawberry shortcakes, that kind of thing — Auguste said, “Father tells me you’re having an affair with the King of Akielos.” He said it casually enough, but Laurent could see he wasn’t thrilled about the idea.

Laurent swallowed his last bite of sandwich and placed a hand on his heart. “Al! You should know better than to gossip, shame on you!”

Al just sighed, a long, suffering sound, and Auguste glared openly at him. “I thought you promised to stop disrespecting Father like that.”

Laurent’s stomach pooled with an uncomfortable tightness. Being told off by Auguste somehow was always worse than being told off by Al.

“Fine,” Laurent said shortly. He said to Al: “Oh dearest Father, Papa, Your Majesty, light of my life, the man who impregnated Queen Hennike, so I, your glorious creation, could be born to bring some joy to this bleak, bleak world: stop gossiping immediately.”

There was a very long pause. Then Auguste laughed. “You are such a shit.”

Al sighed again. “He’s becoming more and more insolent by the day.”

“Thank you so much,” Laurent said, wiping away an imaginary tear.

Auguste barked another laugh. Al sipped more whiskey; a very good sign. Laurent was going to take advantage of this; he wanted a new watch.

Auguste continued his questioning a few minutes later. “So. You and the King — it’s true?”

Laurent flapped a hand. “Oh, you know how it is. He saw those pictures of me from Aimeric’s birthday party where I wore those silk shorts that were just long enough to be tasteful and the poor darling had absolutely no choice but to slide into my DMs and woo me.”

“What’s a DM?” asked Al, and if the question had come from anyone else, Laurent would have found it adorable. He probably would have tweeted it as well.

“Texting,” Auguste said. He seemed contemplative. “Aimeric’s birthday — from last September? It’s been a bit more than a year.”

“Yes,” said Laurent. He tried to say it as wistfully as possible. “He bought me a Ferrarri.”

“Really?” Auguste sounded impressed. “The 1954?”

Laurent grinned. “Do you want to drive it?”

“Fuck yeah,” Auguste said, then quickly cleared his throat and looked at their father. “I mean, yes. Perhaps later in the afternoon.”

Al shook his head, but he didn’t say anything for the rest of the meal. Well, he didn’t say anything to Laurent. He really was in a good mood.

*

Having Auguste back had Laurent so distracted it wasn’t until a few days later that he realised how frantically the staff were cleaning the floors and walls and painting frames.

In fact, he became so relaxed doing less than nothing all day, since Al was too busy doing this and that, or fawning over Auguste, he didn’t comprehend why the chefs needed fifty boars delivered fresh on Friday morning, until Al told him before their weekly Council, “I want you to wear your red high neck blouse tomorrow.”

“Why?” Laurent asked, checking for any fine lines in the shine of the armour of one of the propped knights in the hallway.

“It is the colour of the Akielos banner. I am trying to seem as diplomatic as possible.”

Laurent went very, very still. With dawning horror, he said, “The — Damianos is coming tomorrow?”

Al’s expression turned thunderous. “Do not waste my time asking stupid questions, Laurent. You know how much I despise it.”

Laurent’s eyes widened. “Oh no,” he said quietly, real fear settling into his bones. Damianos was going to murder him tomorrow. He would need to get a facial tonight, to ensure he was the most beautiful corpse the human eye had seen. And then something much more horrific occurred to him. “Wait! I can’t wear the red high neck with the Crown of Naos! Those colours completely clash!”

Al seemed to age a few centuries in a blink of an eye. With a shake of his head, he walked into the Chambers, leaving Laurent alone in the hallway.

Laurent frowned. One of these days, he was going to be the one storming out. It was only fair.

*

Things only got worse.

Laurent’s last minute facial broke him out, so he threatened to sue and smashed one of their stupid reclining chairs.

Laurent had honestly thought that was going to be the worst of it; the pimple along his jawline was easy to cover up once he got the local dermatologist to inject something in it.

But on the morning of Damianos’ arrival, Laurent was in a terrible mood. He hadn’t slept at all, worried about his pimple, his horrible outfit, and the fact that a man who was the size of a small house — Google said Damianos was 6’6”, but he was definitely way more, no arguments — was going to viciously kill him.

“Hurry up,” Laurent snapped at the servant dressing him, who had been pulling too sharply at his laces for the last six minutes.

“Yes, Your Highness,” he answered meekly, and continued fumbling about.

When a few more minutes passed, Laurent looked down at him. “Okay, seriously, this is ridiculous. You usually get me dressed in ten minutes or less. What is the problem?”

“I —” The servant looked like he was on the verge of tears. “Your Highness, the laces — I can’t do them up. It’s uh — it’s too tight.”

“What do you mean?” Laurent asked, narrowing his eyes. “This fit perfectly a month ago.”

“Yes, well —” And his eyes slid over to the bed, where an empty, open box of chocolates was stacked against many other empty boxes of chocolate.

Laurent saw red.

It took three guards and then Jord and Lazar to keep Laurent restrained enough to not kill him. In the end, he yelled until his throat was hoarse and the servant broke down, running out the room with his face covered in tears.

Afterwards, Laurent attempted to do up the laces himself, because he was not fat, and he definitely had not gained weight; he was svelte and sexy and desirable.

In the end, he could only do his trousers up, and only just. If he let out a particularly deep exhale… well, breathing was overrated anyway, Laurent had always thought so.

“Oh, forget it!” Laurent howled, miserable and on the verge of tears himself. “I look ridiculous.”

“No, you don’t, Your Highness,” Jord assured quickly. Too quickly.

Laurent glanced at himself in the mirror. His ass was practically suffocated in these trousers — and that was his best feature! He ran a hand down it forlornly. “It’s too tight.”

Jord’s eyes followed his hand with avid interest. He was drooling.

“Could be tighter,” said Lazar, leaning against the bedpost.

Laurent flung himself on the bed. “No it couldn’t. I need to lose about three kilograms in the next —” He checked the clock, “half an hour. Oh god. Just tell Al I died. It’ll make his day, go on.”

“Orgasms help with weight loss,” said Lazar. “I could fuck your face.”

Laurent sniffed “Don’t be so stupid.” He looked at the clock again. “Obviously, riding you will help me lose more calories. Both of you get on the bed, quick.”

*

Laurent did not lose three kilograms in half an hour. As enjoyable as the sex had been, it had only made him tired and anxious.

Jord suggested that Laurent should just let the laces at the back trail, and cover it up with a coat, even though it was far too hot in the year to wear one. Laurent obliged anyway, knowing how difficult Al would be if he showed up wearing undiplomatic colours. He changed his trousers into a different pair, making sure it had an elastic waistband to stretch accommodatingly.

When the crown was placed on his head, he staggered a little. It really was unnecessarily heavy. His great great grandfather must have had a head the size of a watermelon.

Laurent walked unsteadily down the hall, towards the Palace steps where Auguste and Al were already waiting. His insides became so twisted with the thought of seeing Damianos, he had to make a detour and hide behind a tapestry to have a panic, but only a little one.

Outside, the sun was blazing. Auguste clapped him on the back in greeting, and Laurent winced, the material of his blouse sticking to his armpits. Al’s lips curled at his outfit, but Laurent couldn’t care. He hoped he looked beautiful enough — just enough — so Damianos would reconsider his murder. At the very least, Laurent hoped nothing happened to his face.

“Alright?” said Auguste. “You’re sweating.”

“Shut up,” said Laurent, mortified. He was a prince; he did not sweat.

Auguste’s response was cut off by the sound of the gates opening and rolling tires on gravel. Laurent’s heart was in his ears; he swallowed, but it made him feel more sick.

The sleek, black car was parked in the driveway. Several seconds later, Damianos stepped out, tall and handsome.

Laurent whimpered. It was one thing to see photos of Damianos on the internet, walking briskly down the street or shaking hands with Al, and it was another thing entirely to see him in the flesh as he walked down their driveway.

He was so tall. And he was built like a tree; all thick arms and chest and thighs. Laurent had such a weakness for thighs, they were really the best part of a man’s body, how they framed the groin and the cock and —

Laurent realised, suddenly, that he had not prepared at all for how he was going to greet Damianos.

Lovers kissed each other, yes? Laurent didn’t think he could do that without being punched but god, would Al think it was weird if he didn’t at least attempt to kiss Damianos? Maybe he could pretend to suddenly be shy, too coy to look into Damianos’ eyes in front of everyone — yes, yes that sounded perfect.

Damianos came up the stairs, smile wide and straight. His teeth were amazing. Were they fake? Laurent didn’t think so; he ran his tongue over his own, nervous, heart still thumping in his ears.

He greeted Al first. Laurent’s head was spinning. What if Al said something? What if Auguste did? What if Damianos said something that alluded to the fact that this was technically, the first time he and Laurent would be speaking to another?

And then Laurent couldn’t think of anything else, because Damianos was standing right in front of him.

He reached out, one large, dark hand to shake Laurent’s. Laurent staggered forward, into his chest, and closed his eyes.

*

When he opened his eyes again, Laurent saw the most beautiful angel.

“Wow, you’re hot.” Laurent poked a very hard, very strong bicep. “Heaven’s pretty cool.” He was dead, obviously,  because people this good looking didn’t exist in the mortal world.

“You’re not dead, Laurent. Can you sit up?”

Laurent thought about it. He wasn’t dead? That was good news. But he felt like he was dead because he couldn’t move his body at all.

“Here, can you follow my finger?”

“Hmm.” Laurent said and stared unblinkingly at what he assumed was a finger. It was quite blurry.

“I think he’s concussed.”

Laurent giggled. The stranger’s accent made it sound like he had said cock-cussed. It made Laurent want to suck cock.

He said, “If I’m not dead, I’d like to be. Jord, get me my blue Prada scarf. I want to be buried in it. Lazar, get your gun out.”

“He doesn’t seem concussed.” That was Al. The compulsion to die was suddenly much stronger.

“We should take him to the hospital,” the hot angel said. Laurent was in love.

He said as much: “I really love you,” he told the blurry figure. Then he rolled over onto his side and threw up.

[carewyncromwell]

“I know you -- I walked with you once upon a dream... I know you: That look in your eyes is so familiar a gleam...”

~“Once Upon a Dream (cover),” by Lana Del Rey

When he was growing up, Atticus Grimsley @cursebreakerfarrier​​ was something of a teacher’s pet. Thanks to the influence of his father who put such stock in the Grimsley family’s reputation and legacy, Atticus grew up with a hyper-focus on his studies and so ended up having a rather solitary and lonely time at Hogwarts. Therefore when he met Bartholomew “Bat” Varney as an adult, Atticus wasn’t incredibly well-practiced in the art of making or maintaining friendships. Fortunately, despite his and Bat’s obvious differences in attitude and life experience, the two men ended up slowly building a bridge of understanding and camaraderie between them. The big turning point was Atticus agreeing to help Bat track down and capture a vampire who had stolen Bat’s identity and used it to target and murder a wizard just outside Hogsmeade, even if it put Atticus at considerable risk not just with that vampire, but with the Ministry, since Bat was still considered a suspect at the time. After this, Bat finally accepted Atticus into his heart enough to start calling him by the nickname “Grim,” rather than the more detached and nondescript “Professor” -- in essence, seeing Atticus as an individual and allowing himself to “get attached,” even if Bat would no doubt out-live Atticus and mourn him when he died. Bat opened up, showing a genuine warmth and a love of life’s trappings that encouraged a youthful sense of fun out of Atticus he’d never really experienced before.

As the two friends got to know each other better, Atticus -- like Adelia Selwyn @that-ravenpuff-witch before him -- started to notice certain inconsistencies and interesting word choices in his conversations with Bat. Bat was very evasive about how he became a vampire, but he’d also make weird off-the-cuff comments about his condition, like that "his body didn’t truly belong to him.” He could give a full history lecture about the War for American Independence and describe multiple battles in great detail, and yet would immediately go quiet and disinterested as soon as any mention of the Battle of Yorktown propped up. He’d sometimes even compare Atticus to his best friend at school, telling full, exciting stories about their exploits and laughing at the memories, but seemed oddly tight-lipped when Atticus asked him his friend’s name. After a while, the man the Department of Magical Law Enforcement would go to whenever they had a case they had trouble solving found himself way too curious about all this to let it lie, and so set about tackling the mystery of Bat Varney’s past on his own.

Through his investigation, Atticus found out more and more things that just didn’t add up. Bat always seemed pleased whenever Ravenclaw was in the running for the Quidditch Cup, but an enchanted portrait of Bartholomew Varney in his Hogwarts robes that was commissioned by his family featured him wearing a red and gold Gryffindor tie. Bat was well-versed in Muggle society and culture, and yet the Varneys had been a prominent wizarding family who had shares in a large assortment of businesses in Diagon Alley back in the day. Then there was the story Atticus had collected from the merpeople about the three students who had helped save their queen a hundred years ago -- Robert Harker, Cecelia Crouch, and Bartholomew Varney. “Robert” had to be the mysterious best friend that Bat had mentioned, Atticus thought -- after all, he and Bartholomew had gone to war together as if they were Muggles despite both being wizards, so they were clearly incredibly close. But why had Bat never mentioned his other best friend, Cecelia Crouch? Particularly since, according to letters, she and he grew up together, and according to Ministry records, she’d eventually become his wife.

At long, long last, Atticus conjured up a terrible theory -- that Bat, in fact, was not the real Bartholomew Varney. His suspicions were confirmed when he tracked down a shady contact in Knockturn Alley who explained the unforgivable Dark process of creating a vampire, which requires not just a person feeding their subject a potion containing both their own and the caster’s blood, but also the caster cursing the soul of the person upon death to be forcibly chained to a body against their will. Atticus realized that his friend -- the vampire called Bat Varney -- was in truth the soul of Bartholomew Varney’s best friend Robert Harker, chained to the first’s reanimated corpse by Bartholomew’s wife and Robert’s once-friend, Cecelia.

The knowledge shocked Atticus -- he hadn’t known such a thing was even possible, and if it were true, it’d be a horrific thing for anyone to go through. The Defense Against the Dark Arts professor took some time to himself to get a handle on what he’d discovered, only to be surprised one evening by the sight of a familiar Irish Wolfhound sitting in his office chair. Bat had noticed Atticus wasn’t in Hogsmeade at all for more than a week after having come to visit nearly every evening prior, so he thought he’d pop up to the castle to see what was going on. So Atticus took the opportunity to tell Bat everything he’d found out.

Whatever reaction Atticus had been expecting, it was not Bat looking hurt.

“Robert?”

“Don’t -- ”

The word came out in an oddly sharp, barking voice. Bat gave a very painful-looking swallow to try to restrain himself, even as his red eyes pulsed with pain.

“ -- don’t call me that.”

Atticus was confused. “What? But...it’s your name, isn’t it? Your real -- ”

“Shut up,” Bat said very harshly.

He turned his back on the professor, his fist absently clenching at his side.

Atticus’s skin prickled with an emotion he couldn’t yet place. It made him suddenly feel like the ground he was on was very unstable.

“Bat, what’s wr -- ?”

“I don’t want to talk about this. I didn’t want to talk about this. And yet now you’ve forced my hand and are now trying to make me talk about this. Well, I don’t want to talk about this with you! I know time is different for you than it is for me, but do you truly have no patience at all? Do you truly have so little respect for me, that I wasn’t allowed a choice in whether or not you knew? I...”

The vampire’s eyes were going redder, as was often the case when his heart was beating painfully fast or his lungs were breathing heavily. Although Bat’s voice never got incredibly loud, there was a very low, growl-like aspect -- something oddly raw.

Atticus knew what the emotion he was feeling now was -- it was guilt. Remorse.

“Bat -- ”

“I have to go,” Bat cut him off lowly without skipping a beat or turning around.

And in a blur of motion, he’d become a dog again and darted out the open door.

Bat didn’t reappear in Hogsmeade. Nights went by, and no one Atticus spoke to had seen him. The Honeydukes family even said he hadn’t returned to roost in their attic in the daytime like he always did. And Atticus knew why -- he knew that Bat’s sudden disappearance was all his fault.

In the nights following the argument, insomniac Atticus had even more trouble sleeping than usual. Once he ended up fitfully nodding off in the armchair of his bedchambers around 3 AM -- and there in his dreams, he was confronted by a vision of Robert Harker, looking just as dark-haired and handsome as he did in the enchanted portrait Atticus had found of him and Bartholomew in their army uniforms, signed with Cecelia Crouch-Varney’s name. Robert was smiling just as he did in the picture, and his brown eyes shone with the same sharp, bright gleam Atticus knew so well from Bat’s eyes. He even spoke in Bat’s voice.

Robert Harker bent down over Atticus sitting in the armchair, his handsome face mere inches from his. The proximity immediately startled Atticus, not just because he wasn’t used to people being in his personal bubble, but because Bat in particular so carefully avoided getting too close to him due to his blood lust. The Defense Against the Dark Arts professor shakily brought up a hand against the taller man’s chest as if to try to push him back, but his limbs lacked strength.

“W-wha -- what are you -- ?”

“Now, now, Grim...you were looking for me, weren’t you? It feels good to have solved the mystery, doesn’t it -- to know all those terrible things your mysterious associate was keeping under wraps?”

“Th-that...”

“Well, really, how else were you going to find out? I certainly wasn’t going to tell you. Why would I want to revisit the time when one of my dearest friends stabbed me in the back and turned me into a bloodthirsty animal? Made it so I could never be a professor like you, the way you know I wish I could?”

“You’re not an animal, you’re my -- ”

“Your what? Your friend? Oh, now, that is a cute sentiment.”

“What...?”

“You don’t have any friends, Grim, old boy. You never have. What I was, who knows...a pet, perhaps -- someone to talk to, to pass the time -- but a friend? I don’t believe friends go behind each other’s backs and betray their trust. Oh...but I suppose mine already did. Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised, that you’re just the same...”

“Robert -- Bat, I’m...I didn’t mean to -- ”

“At least now, things can go back to the way they were before. You’re all on your own again. All alone with your books, just like before. Just like you’ve always been...”

The nightmare was really rather short, but it was still enough to make Atticus wake up in a icy cold sweat.

Two weeks later, Atticus caught wind from his students that Bat had returned to Hogsmeade. Despite the anxiety and shame he felt, Atticus dropped everything that night to go find him, catching up with the vampire just outside the Three Broomsticks, not far from where they’d first met. Atticus immediately launched into an extensive apology, as Bat listened with a rather blank, placid expression on his face. It was only when Atticus started getting really emotional that Bat actually reached out and took hold of the man’s shoulder. The vampire immediately had to use his free hand to take out his flask and take a long drink of blood, and then he had to bury his face in his winter scarf and turn his focus onto the closest chimney to try to ignore Atticus’s scent and blood pulsing through his skin and clothes -- but he held Atticus’s shoulder anyway, his voice very low and soft in his throat when he spoke.

“I’ve...already forgiven you, Grim.”

Atticus’s guilt lingered somewhat even after that, but the whole affair ended up strengthening the two men’s relationship even more than before. Since this point, Atticus has become the only person who knows Bat’s real name and will, on occasion, use it in private conversation.

[chasseurdeloup-retired]

Gimme Gimme Gimme || Otto, Nadia, Dot, Nic, Alain, and Kaden

TIMING: Current LOCATION: The docks SUMMARY: A deal gone wrong

Otto glanced at his unfamiliar reflection in a broken pane of glass double-checking the glamour runes carved into his collar bones were still functioning correctly. Sunken eyes, a thicker jaw and plain brown eyes looked back at him. Different enough from his day to day appearance that he could pass without someone recognising and the spell would hold for a few hours now that it was in place. Hand-offs were always tricky businesses even more so when you didn’t know the other parties you were involving yourself with so precautions had been taken. Namely in bringing Nadia along as back-up along with a trusty shot-gun. Spells were useful in a pinch but if things went sideways little beat the pure destruction the end of a shotgun could bring about. Unfortunately, tricky business was simply the life of a newfound criminal trying to find their footing in a small town full of strife.

He glanced over at Nadia who carried the delivery in a nondescript brown box padded and covered in protective runes as an extra layer of precaution as they made their way into the boating house on the docks where the arranged trade-off had been arranged. Boats bobbed silently, crusted sea-salt clung to several surfaces and the splosh of water was broken by the occasional bay of a seagull outside. They’d scouted the perimeter already, checking their entrances and exits before heading inside and even then Otto kept to the pillars as cover. He checked his watch and when he spoke his voice was an octave lower, “they should be here soon. Not met this person before…” in other words, he didn’t trust them at all. But then again, you didn’t live in this job if you truly trusted anyone

Adjusting the box to one hand and pulling her hood up a little more, Nadia grinned. This was what she really needed. A good job, the potential for a bit of action, a shotgun on her back, and a revolver at her side. And she was back to being more connected with her body again. She’d been hungry that morning. Hungry. It might’ve been because she’d forgotten that she even had to eat, but it had gnawed at her stomach in the most pleasantly painful way. Even better was that she’d been able to go somewhere and grab herself something without worrying about someone looking for her. Plus, Nadia wasn’t fighting, and she was back to being the one in charge. So she was ready for whatever Otto’s job managed to throw her way. Part of her wanted something easy, a quick drop off, nothing major, maybe a bit of smooth talking if need be. But another part of her wanted some action. She’d be thrilled either way.

As Otto caught her eyes, Nadia gave him a wink. He was a fun guy, from the jobs they’d run together before. Almost as good with his words as she was for a guy who didn’t have a built in lie detector and emotional radar. Plus, his magic was wicked cool. Following him in, she leaned against a pillar and waited. “Cool, cool. Well, don’t worry, as long as they’ve got a pulse, I think I can figure them out.” She could read his distrust like a magazine at the dentist’s office, so she wasn’t feeling quite as blase as she might have seemed. If Otto was worried, she should probably be a bit worried, too. But being a little worried was always healthy. She took out her revolver and opened the chamber, making sure it was loaded. The shotgun was double-barrel, two bullets in. Everything looked good to go.

Everyone had a secret talent. Some people could juggle or burp the alphabet backward. Dot’s secret talent was getting involved in the shadier shit a town had going on. Her other secret talent was being able to do a really fast crab walk. She didn’t like that one as much as she liked getting involved in crime though. She loved that. People would ask her to do jobs and most of the time she didn’t care if she was getting paid or not, though she didn’t tell people that part. She liked the thrill of it. Breaking rules was fun and she liked when she made things inconvenient for other people. She wasn’t a career criminal, not even close, but she never said no to a job. It hadn’t taken long after she moved to White Crest for someone to approach her doing something for them. After doing a couple of jobs, she proved that she wasn’t a complete imbecile and then this job was given to her. It was simple, a hand-off, nothing she hadn’t done before.

Walking to the meeting spot, she was glad that she actually took her gun and knife with her this time. She relied on being a siren far more than she really should. As she saw the two in front of her, she popped her lollipop out of her mouth. Grinning at them, she spoke in a cheerful voice,“Hello, lovelies. Are you here waiting for me?” She might not have been an idiot, but she was never professional. “It’s like we’re all having a little secret party,” She shook her shoulders at them. She considered asking them if they wanted a lollipop, but she only had green apple left and those were her favorite.

At the sound of approaching footsteps, Otto lifted his head to eye the newcomer. He didn’t recognise them, but then again he didn’t recognise most people in town on first meetings considering most of them weren’t really memorable enough to truly warrant him paying them all that much attention. But this sort of situation demanded a new sort of attentiveness for a lack of it could cost you so much more if you made the slightest misstep. Yet, that wasn’t the vibe he got from the woman he saw approaching; lollipop and all. It was… intriguing to say the least, her grin was infectious and brought one of Otto’s own about. Cocking his head his eyes sparkled with newfound mischief.

“Seems so darling,” he greeted pushing off the pillar “and it does, doesn’t it? Little rave is just what everyone needs… Let off some steam, have some fun. Shame we don’t have music to set the mood.” He knew Nadia had his back in this, it was one of the few constants he actually trusted in this situation which was saying something, “now as much of a sweet-tooth as I happen to be, I’m curious to see the sweetener to this little party hm?”

Looking at the girl walking towards them, Nadia grinned. Good, a pulse. The other woman’s emotions weren’t nearly as easy to read as Otto’s, but that wasn’t a problem. Nadia only needed a sense of what she was feeling to make sure nothing the wrong sort of shady happened here. Not that there really was a wrong sort of shady. Shady was always fun, even if it went to shit. But, taking in the girl’s appearance, her laid back nature as she had a lollipop of all things in her mouth, Nadia couldn’t help but feel that this was going to be nothing but the good kinds of fun.

“I’m all up for parties,” Nadia said. She jerked her head towards Otto. “This guy throws some of the best, I swear. He might not look like it now, but he’s a fun guy. Isn’t that right, Kelly?” She gave him a wink. She was glad that he trusted her still, even after all that she’d told him. Maybe not completely, maybe not the same way that he had before, but the trust was still there. She could feel it, after all. She hefted the box with their delivery into her arms. “Maybe when all this is said and done, we can actually have a party, to celebrate. Music and everything. And booze. So much booze.”

Maybe she would offer these two her lollipops… They seemed like fun and Dot loved some good fun. She had expected a bunch of people with sticks up their asses who would tell her that she’s too immature to be in this business. The type that took themselves way too seriously. Those people were exhausting at the best of times and she wasn’t doing this to be exhausted. Based on the grins these two had, she liked them so far, but she wasn’t naive enough to forget that this was still a job.

It took quite a bit of self-control to stop herself from beatboxing right there and tell them to dance to the music. Slipping the strap of her bag off her shoulder, she waved it slightly at them. “I think this is the sweetener you’re looking for and that’s what I’m looking for,” She nodded to the box. She liked this part a lot, the anticipation right before a handover. “I know a guy who can get us more than booze,” Dot told the woman, a sparkle in her eyes. Sighing, very dramatically, she continued, “But I guess the job comes first. What was agreed to is in the bag.”

Kaden didn’t know much about the situation at hand, but he knew Nic asked him to be here. That was enough. No matter how weird his relationship was with hunting right now, he wasn’t about to drop his loyalties. If a hunter was in need, one he trusted, he was there. The place by the docks looked sketchy enough, seemed appropriate. “You know what it is we’re looking for, Nic?” he asked, making sure for the fifth time tonight that his gun was loaded properly and ready to go. “Probably a little late to ask for details but if you need all of us here, I’m guessing it’s something big and bad.” He wondered if this was some big monster take down, something like the bounty Montgomery had made a call for a while back. Shit, hadn’t thought about that fucker in a while. The thought of the trophy room sent a shiver down his spine. But he trusted Nic and Alain, despite any differences of ideals they had, would never chop off someone's head and keep it. Which was good enough for him. His brow furrowed as he picked up a sound off in the distance, closer to the boathouses on the docks. Looking in that direction, he saw a small flash of movement and a figure headed into one of them. “Hey,” he whispered, nodding over towards the boathouse. A quick glance back and it was clear where the hunters were headed. Whatever shady shit they were looking for, pretty sure they found it.

While Nicodemus still couldn’t quite wrap his head around what a turn it had been with the Bossman, now known as Roy Chambers, he didn’t question Erin when she told him she might have found a way to figure out what the fuck he was. All he did was agree, make a few calls, then pack up what was necessary before making his way to the agreed upon meeting place. It was gonna be a long night. Shit, it had been awhile since he had worked with one hunter. Let alone a whole gaggle of them. That was just the bounty way. He worked his jaw as he double-checked the edges of the knife he carried. “Reckon it ain’t somethin’ that’s gonna be easy-breezy,” he muttered as he slid it back into its sheath. “But hell, it ain’t ever is.” His fingertips lightly tapped against each other as he cocked his head. Looked toward the same place Kaden had heard the noise. A short nod and a quiet grunt of agreement followed. The calm that settled over him before most hunts began to run its course. “Ain’t no time like the fuckin’ present,” he whispered as he started to move, boots quiet. “We goin’ in quiet or goin’ in loud?”

While Alain was still unsure of why it was that Nic had asked all of them to come here, he was relieved to see that he was not the only clueless one here. It was reassuring to be with familiar faces, and with people he knew he could trust, but some details would have been great. On the one hand, he doubted that she would put them all in mortal danger without warnings, but on the other hand, if the hunter needed back up, this could not be good. “Going in loudly when we have no idea what’s in there, that sounds like a really shitty idea, Nic,” walking beside him, the hunter repressed a yawn. He had managed to get a bit of sleep lately, but he was still having too many nightmares to get rather proper rest. Tired or not, he still would help, because while he never signed up for anything, he had always acted like it was the case. With no idea of what to expect, he had left his sword home and gone for shorter blades, and probably for the best, all things considered.

“Stop yawning, slayer,” Kaden said, giving Alain a small nudge. “Isn’t this your normal hours, anyway? When all the creatures of the night come out and shit?” He was giving the other hunter some grief, sure, but he did kind of hope he wasn’t too exhausted to be here. One mistake on a hunt, especially one like this where the details were sparse and the threat seemingly high, well, that could be deadly. Kaden nodded at the suggestion to keep it quiet as they headed in. There were a few entrances and it was best they split up if they were trying to go for a surprise attack. A few gestures and nods and it was figured out. Kaden creeped up to the side door, listened a moment, and heard voices inside. They seemed occupied. For now. Good enough for him. He did his best to slowly and silently open the door, sneaking through and hiding behind a crate near the entrance. With his pistol in hand, he leaned around the corner to get a better look at what was going on. Three people as far as he could tell. None of them werewolves as far as he knew, either. One guy, didn’t recognize him, two women. The one was also unfamiliar, but the other... Was that… “Nadia?” he found himself saying out loud. Or rather, whoever was in her body. Shit, he didn’t mean to do that. He also didn’t mean to keep walking forward. But he had and he fucking tripped and stumbled over a rope on the ground. Putain. So much for his stealth approach.

They were in the middle of the transaction, the briefcase being opened and the requested black-steel music box embossed with silver images of graeco-figures deifying some strange entity revealed, nestled within a bed of foam to protect it from any harm. “As discussed, acquired and undamaged.” Though not tested, Otto didn’t know what this thing was meant to do but the less he knew the more deniability he had regarding it. Closing the lid once more and clicking it shut the runes engraved across its surface glowed a bright purple before fading from sight once more to prevent anyone untoward tampering with it. “Wonderful, in that case let’s exchange and maybe after this we can all go cele-” but any further remark was cut off, by the sudden intrusion of another voice from a stack of crates nearby. Shit. His eyes cut to the man he didn’t recognise who tripped over the rope in judgemental frustration.

But this stranger’s focus seemed to be on Nadia, recognising her - or recognised the old her most likely. But there were perks to this being the Nadia he’d worked with for so long and on so many occasions. A silent language that a subtle look or expression could convey a thousand messages. So the curious look between Nadia and this stranger and the thin smile that followed spoke volumes. Play him, buy us some time. In the interim, Otto subtly scanned the nearby vicinity for options they could run, but who knew how many more people this dude might’ve brought along. The warehouse might be surrounded.... They had their guns but a firefight was never ideal if it could be avoided.

His eyes passed a few of the boats moored nearby. Maybe if they could rig one up it’d be a decent means of escape… Otto glanced at the other woman unsure if he could trust her or if she’d staged this whole thing. What he did know was he wasn’t going to die because of some fucked over job.

Things were going good. Easy, even. And then Kaden fucking Langley literally tripped his way into the meeting. Nadia pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to maintain her control. But, hey, things were still going well. Just not easy. Well, she didn’t care for easy, anyway. She made sure the box was with the others, and she gave Otto a wink. She knew what to do here. “Heya, Kadie!” she said with a sweet smile, letting it reach her eyes. Nadia Diaz had a great smile. Very charming. Easily disarming. Perfect for getting people to let their guard down, even if they knew they were locking eyes with a rattlesnake. The problem with Kaden was that he knew. He knew what she was, had looked at her and really seen her. He wouldn’t be fooled again. Not for long, at least. But she still had the advantage. He didn’t want to hurt her. Well, actually, he probably wanted to hurt her really, really badly. But he didn’t want to hurt Nadia Diaz. She gave him a wave. “Been a minute, yeah? How’s it going? What are you and your friends doing skulking around the docks at such late hours?” She walked a little closer to him, attempting to block Otto and the other woman to give her partner time to think. She knew the bastard would still be quick on his feet. She just had to play distraction. In a stage whisper, she said, “You know that dangerous people hang around the docks, right?”

For all the things Dot had done, she had never been caught before. Sure, she had gotten in trouble with the cops before, gotten a slap on the wrist for trespassing or some community service for fighting, but this was different. Had he been alone, she would have just gone for her gun, but as Nadia pointed out, he had friends. Her lips pressed as she looked over at Otto, trying to hide the rising panic she felt. She was no professional at this and she knew it. She began to inch towards the door she had come through, bag on her shoulder. The deal wasn’t happening with company. Kaden being here was no good sign. Blanche had liked him, but Dot had never really been around him enough to form an opinion other than ‘fun to make fun of on the internet’. “This is a closed, invite only party,” She chirped, popping her lollipop back in her mouth. “Very exclusive rave you just wandered into and partycrashers are no fun. Unless they’re me, but you’re not me, so no fun,” She rambled around the candy. “So. Shoo.”

Alain had a point and Nicodemus nodded in agreement. “Yup, you got a pretty good fuckin’ point there.” He muttered to Alain as he crouched himself and followed behind Kaden through the door, his own gun drawn and a hand over the knife on his belt. Better to survey the area, get the lay of the land, and--Goddamn it, Kaden. Nicodemus pursed his lips and breathed in sharply. That’s alright, he thought. The rest of them could go around, surprise. And then that was also shot to shit at the word friends. He nodded to himself, resigned. “That’s fine,” he grunted quietly. “Knees gettin’ tired anyway.” The hunter stood and worked his jaw as he walked beside Kaden, pistol resting against his shoulder. He glanced at the briefcase between the three of them. The way it looked, the three of them were all talkers. Time wasters. He sucked at his teeth. “Could save us all some time and fuck off,” he said with a tilt of his head as he took a small step forward. Mediation wasn’t a skill he spent time or money on. “Chattin’ ain’t what we’re here for.”

Alain’s eyebrows raised as he gave Kaden an Italian salute. Of course it was ideal to him for things to be happening at this time of the day, but lately he had had to skip a few cemetery trips in order to rest a little. It would be fine, it had to be fine. Besides, even if he was not at the top of his form, he had to be here for these two hunters. Although that did not mean he would agree with everything they did. Are you fucking kidding me? Breathing out loudly, his eyebrows furrowed as he recognized Nadia. What in the goddamn hell was she doing here? He did not suppose that now would be the time to question her life choices, but from the look on his face, you could get an idea of how disappointed he was. The other two, he did not know, but he was not impressed. “Cute,” he said with a sucking sound of disapproval. Now that their plans of being quiet had gone down the drain, he supposed that the least they could do was not to waste their time trying to have a conversation with these people. “Yeah, let’s get this over with,” he agreed.

Shit. There went the stealth approach once and for all. And it was painfully clear which Nadia he was dealing with. At least he didn’t have to worry about this being some weird hostage situation “Hello Janet,” Kaden replied, using Blanche’s nickname for the ghost with disdain as he stepped out from the shadows, properly this time. He kept his fingers ready on the trigger of his pistol just in case. Nadia was no danger to him, but the ghost, Janet or Cordelia or whoever she was, would kill him without a single remorse. He knew that much. “Funny I could say the same to you. Dangerous and all that. Good thing none of us are out here wandering all alone.” The other hunters had seemingly given up the pretense of stealth as well. He peered around Nadia’s body to get a better look at her cohorts here. “Hey. No one move,” he said, holding his gun up, aimed at the woman trying to make a break for the door in the back. “My invitation is right here so how about you show us what you’ve got there.” Kaden wasn’t sure if these were the calls to be making or what exactly they were here for but if it was to break up something or extract something, it was going to be a lot harder to do if anyone fled. “You wouldn’t want to ditch the party early. We’re just getting started.”

Otto had hoped he could slink away to at least get on board one of the boats, having made it several steps backwards though mindful not to blindly signal his intent or direction with his body language. But as another burlier man stood up behind Kaden holding a pistol he knew this evening was likely very soon going to go to hell in a handbasket. What was it with people and guns? They were so… primitive. But it didn’t change the danger they posed either way. His magic ebbed near to the surface, practically urging him to throw the first shot at these intruders and yet he bided his time. No need to give away his game just yet. He’d purposefully not tapped his reserve at all just in case, always just in case. His leather clad grip tightened on the briefcase handle, shifting it out of the line of sight of these assholes while running through the list of options that were fast running short. Think Nova. One thing they did have in their favour was positioning. These guys were too closely spaced and that tipped the balance in their favour. Maybe if they could carall them some density spells would be enough to immobilise them where they stood. Give them enough time to get the hell out of dodge. The guns were trained on the others for now, that counted for something at least. He took a few more steps, nearing some crates stacked up. Just in case things went sideways, cover never hurt. “Sorry, I was taught better than to hang around and talk to creepy men following me at night. Avidazen.”

“It’s cuter when the kid calls me that,” Nadia said conversationally, one hand on the strap of her shotgun, the other resting near her pistol holster. “Speaking of, let her know I said hey, and I want my gun back.” She pretended to think a bit before she perked back up. “Oh! And tell her next time I won’t fucking miss, ‘kay?” She checked on Otto and the chick that was with them, hoping that the two of them would get out before she had to do anything serious. She took a step towards Kaden as soon as he pulled a gun out. Like second nature, she smoothly pulled her own revolver out and leveled it at him. “Sorry, babe. Put the gun down. I think we both know which of the two of us is more likely to shoot someone, yeah?” Could they not just fucking leave? “Party’s over, folks!” she called out to the people with Kaden. “If you could let us be on our way, that’d be so fucking nice.” She tried to avoid the look of disappointment on… Alain’s (she thought that was Alain’s) face. She needed to stay calm. She needed to keep her cool. She… really fucking wanted to kill Kaden, still. She’d take the shot as soon as they all lowered their guards, and then she was making a break for it.

Bro, Dot was not fucking into this. She was so not into this. “Listen, Kandy, Blanche wouldn’t be happy if you went around shooting her ex girlfriend so like what if you put down the gun and I head out.” Dot loved fights, she really did, but she liked them when guns weren’t drawn. She was pretty out of her fucking depth here. “I don’t want to fight, ‘cause we all who’s gonna win and it ain’t these two,” She nodded toward Otto and Nadia with a shrug. “I mean unless you want me to fight with you guys, would that get me off the hook? I might not be too much help, I’m literally a TA, but I got a gun.That wasn’t a threat to clarify. What do you say Mr. Thickness? Kandy? Tall Napoleon?

Nicodemus wasn’t in the mood. These people talked too fucking much. He sure as shit wasn’t Kandy. Tall Napoleon? Nope. That only left one option. Jesus fucking Christ. He glowered but didn’t move his eyes from the one near the briefcase. He shook his head. “This ain’t a conversation.” His stance shifted and the dirt under his boot crunched. They weren’t going the easy route of just handing off the briefcase, were they? Fine enough. The three hunters had a job to do and they would sure as shit see it through. One way or the other. He spat to the side. His hand tightened around his gun, finger under the trigger guard. A second passed before he took off into a dead sprint. Straight toward the briefcase.

“Blanche? What the fuck does pipsqueak have to do with this? Leave her out of--” Before Kaden could finish, it looked like Nic had the briefcase covered, for now. And he was getting shit started. Great. Fighting was better than talking anyway. “No one leaves til we get what we came here for.” Kaden took a shot at the door, hoping to scare the obnoxious TA lady. Catching Alain’s glance, he gave him a quick nod to her. If he had the TA covered, then that left him free to deal with Janet. He knew Nadia had a gun trained on him and while he had a feeling Nadia would do what she could to save him, bullets fired real fast. He ducked behind a box briefly before taking off towards her. Maybe if he could get there fast enough, disarm her, he could help Nic. If he needed it.

Well shit. Those were the initial thoughts that went through Otto’s mind as Popeye McGee took off in a sprint straight at him. Shoving his hand into his pocket and drawing out a pile of iron filings these were dusted over the briefcase, there was a moment of concentration before an aura of purple seemed to circle the briefcase and seep into its essence with it suddenly becoming heavier in his grip. Backing up towards the dock he extended his arm back fighting against the significantly increased weight “hey now, back the fuck up or I drop it and then nobody gets their due!” With the weight of it now and the water finding it again would be a job for anyone. Not impossible, but more work than whatever this job was worth.

Well those were some crappy nicknames coming from Iago - yes, he had read Othello a while ago - Alain deadpanned as she approached them, probably hoping that she could switch sides like that with no consequences. Considering that she was a skinny woman, and that it didn't take too much to knock someone out (much to most people's surprise), it didn't take much for Alain to get rid of the betrayer and leave her down. Glancing over at the drama queen with the suitcase, the hunter tilted his head to the side and looked over at Kaden to communicate his fed-up-ness with someone, then back at the magician. "You do realize that even if you drop that suitcase, you still have to deal with us next? This doesn't change much for you. Or... Well, it does. It gets things a lot worse."

This was all going to shit. Nadia could see that clearly. Fuck the briefcase, fuck the payment, and fuck that bastard charging at her. It wasn’t particularly smart to run at the woman with a gun trained on you, but Nadia had to give Kaden credit. The guy had balls. Too bad that wasn’t going to save his life. Finger on the trigger, she smiled as he got close and, as she pressed down, gave up control for a brief moment.

Nadia always seemed to be around for the inevitable unhappy ending, and her eyes widened as she watch the bullet from her own gun connect with Kaden’s chest. It was like the cabin all over again. She tried to drop the gun, tried to step forward, but she couldn’t move. She wasn’t really in control at all.

Even though Nadia wanted to gloat, there wasn’t anytime. “Too fucking slow,” she told Kaden before she turned on her heels and started running. “It’s not worth it!” She yelled at Otto, hoping he’d take the hint. They needed to fucking leave.

Kaden was running full out, eyes on Nadia. The gun was drawn, she looked ready to shoot, and Nadia might, but Nadia would never let her. He had to count on that. He had to. He kept running at her. He was sprinting, he almost reached her. Until he didn’t. Something hit him. No. Worse. Something shot him. Putain. Kaden dropped down and screamed out in pain, hand clutching to his chest. Fuck, fuck. Where did it hit? Upper. Near the collarbone. Not heart. Fine. He’d be fine. He hoped. But fuck it hurt. “Fuck off, Janet! I’ll make sure your soul is banished to fucking hell!” He curled up by one of the boxes, hand pressed against the wound, blood spilling out. Aw shit, he saw black at the corners of his vision. He tried to fight it off but he was slipping. He looked around for something to press to the wound, hold it together, so he could hold himself together, too.

The tides were turning fast, one person choked out and a gunshot that echoed across the warehouse with two individuals advancing on his space. Apparently not deterred by the notion of losing the thing they came for. Otto’s eyes slid across to Nadia and then to the pile of cash in the backpack the woman had brought along, with her out cold it was there for the taking. So Otto abruptly dropped the case which hit the ground with a dull thud, shoved his hand out in the direction of the bag and curled his fingers muttering the simple summoning incantation. The bag jerked as if tethered by some unseen force before it arrived in his hand leaving him standing there with the two men making ground fast. His hand shoved once more into his pocket and a scattering of iron filings were tossed out in an arc through which Otto pushed an open palm. The magic radiated in a sudden conical shockwave, reverberating around normal air suddenly growing denser and slowing those that moved through it. Giving him enough time to turn and hightail it after Nadia towards one of the boats. “Unhook the rope! I’ll get the engine!”

Nicodemus breathed in sharply through his nose. If the case went into the water, then the fucker holding it wouldn’t be far behind. He moved with an intensity he hadn’t carried with him before. An intensity that if they didn’t get this fucking job over and done with, there was a lot more to lose. A hell of a lot more. Langley was shot, Alain had knocked someone out, and the two left behind were scrambling. Something slowed his progress and he strained against it, sweat gathering at his temples and the back of his neck. It didn’t matter, he thought, as he continued to brute force through it, muscles and tendons bunched as he worked to push through it. The case had been dropped and as far as he was concerned, he didn’t care if any justice or whatever other asinine bullshit happened. The case was what they came for and it’s what they would leave with. He pushed further, stepped closer. Fuck, he hated magic. Vurals withstanding. Blood gathered between his teeth but it didn’t taste like copper when he managed to get closer to the case. Just a few more steps and his hand would be able to wrap around its handle.

With quick fingers, Nadia untied the rope from the dock, more than anxious to get the hell out of Dodge. But the anxiety, the stress, it wasn’t really hers. She wished she could get rid of it, for good. But at least she had control for the time being. She gave a smirk and waved at the men still left on the docks. Win or lose, it didn’t fucking matter today. She turned around and sank down into one of the boat seats as they drove away, running a hand through her hair and laughing breathlessly. “What a fucking shitshow, huh?” She closed her eyes, not even paying attention to an answer. What a fucking shitshow. She never seemed to get paid enough for these things.

[redspiderling]

Next on “Do the Russos even know how to direct”

We have Civil War.

In this instalment we are going to focus on the following:

Camera Angles

Lighting

Locations

Let’s start with some easy stuff: the Church scene.

There are several things wrong here but first I feel like I should congratulate them for getting the ENTIRE faces of the actors on screen. Well done Russos.

I am left to wonder though, what’s with the angle? The camera is well below eye level, and it’s tilted. There are specific reasons why a director might use a tilt in the camera angle, for dramatic effect usually to portray imbalance, a moment of uncertainty for the characters etc. 

The script of the movie though has led us to believe that Steve gained his equilibrium after Sharon’s speech at the funeral, so he’s actually much more grounded now than he was during the meeting at Avengers HQ. Natasha is never imbalanced, and she definitely wasn’t during that time since she had made her position quite clear early on.

Thus, I am left baffled by the tilts and angles employed here. My eyes are feeling tired and I’m the one off-balance trying to figure out why they decided suCH ExtrEME AngLEs were necessary. 

It’s like a first year film student trying out weird shots for the heck of it, even if the characters are just having breakfast.

Also this

Was it really that hard to put the fucking mark a step to the right so they’d be centred? Why should my eyes bleed with your compositing Russos?! Also, we are we watching them from slightly above the floor, whyyyyyy?

Lets see a good example in a similar setting

Aaaah, the joys of being parallel to the ground and not watching the world like a drunkard. Note: this film was partially crowdfunded, yet this film-maker knew how to best position the camera AND, to use lighting as a storytelling tool to create tension and drama.

Let’s talk about lighting. Look at the frames bellow

If you hadn’t seen the film a dozen times, would you have been able to tell that these scenes took place in completely different settings, at completely different times, and with a completely different context? I know I wouldn’t. Everything, including tony’s clothes, is exactly the same. Same lighting, similar nondescript office space same weird tilts. 

I could argue with myself that they’re trying to offer character perspective, but it’s completely unnecessary and thus doesn’t work. There’s no reason to move the camera around just because one of the characters is sitting down, much less tilt it. 

I should note here that the Russos get away with A LOT thanks to how good the actors are. I mean, look at the disbelief on Sam and Tony’s face when Natasha agrees with Tony, and the self-satisfied smile on Tony’s face when he realises he knows something Natasha doesn’t (the spider kid). I also love how Tony says “case closed” the moment Natasha states her opinion. They knew she was the one that would seal the deal. Too bad character moments like that are cut as fast as possible.

To get back on track, character perspective should be employed when it’s of some use. There’s no reason to attempt (badly, I might add) to get Natasha’s perspective in these scenes. It doesn’t offer any information to the viewer and it’s just weird. Lets take some lessons from miss Fisher. The characters in a public setting

and the characters in a private setting

Everything is different even though the scenes are minutes appart. The light is employed to indicate the passing of time, top is morning, bottom is early evening. Top is more jovial, bottom is dim and intimate, this is a private discussion.

Also, note how, even though some of the characters are sitting down and some are standing up, the camera doesn’t tilt, or follow them around for no reason. Instead what it does, is slowly close in the more intimate the conversation gets.

Yet another thing the MCU lacks: a moving camera. 

The characters in the MCU are never allowed to breath on screen. There are constant cuts between shots, which means the actors don’t really get to dive into what they’re saying, and we’re not given the chance to really get a feeling of their emotional state. When a camera is allowed to roll, we get a much more complete sense of a discussion, because we get the quite moments and we get to slowly get to a close-up, instead of cut straight to it.

Moving on to talking about location. Take a look at these shots

Same generic lighting, same generic backgrounds (but OMG LOOK! They learned how to use focus blur!). 

Nothing in the frames above says anything of significance about the locations. The light is so eerily similar. It doesn’t offer anything in terms of atmosphere, we can’t tell how Natasha feels by looking at the location. One of them takes place, presumably, in her home, another is after a funeral, and bottom one is at the UN headquarters in Europe. Yet nothing screams “home” in the scene after the meeting at Avengers HQ, even the furniture look like they came out of a magazine. Nothing on screen, aside from Natasha herself, gives us any insight into what’s happening with the plot, and the emotional state of the character.

By the way, this is why the MCU uses labels a lot. “VIENNA”, “10 weeks later”. They don’t use the tools that they have properly, which leads to us viewers having no concept of time and space. Hell, the entire Civil War could have taken place during lunch hour on a Wednesday as far as we’re concerned.

Let’s take another lesson from Miss Fisher.

Location 1, morning, indoors

Location 2, midday, outdoors

The light already shows signs of difference, even though the scenes are a few hours away. Notice 2 things: a) The light is dimmer in the outdoors shot, and you’ll realise later why. b) The location is made clear by a sign on the fucking door, not to mention the character reads it out loud. No need for huge titles to cover the screen.

Location 2, evening, indoors

Intimate lighting, characters have taken outer layers of clothing off since they’ve been here for a while.

Location 2, night time, indoors

I can’t possibly stress this enough. Lighting.Is.Crucial. 

In the span of a few scenes, we have moved from nondescript, to intimate, to slightly creepy, because that’s what the script demanded of it.

Time is a very important element of film-making as well. We lose part of our connection to the characters, and to the plot, if we can’t figure out the timeline on which the events on screen unfold.

And an Easter Egg to close this post: Location 2, night time, outdoors

It’s raining. The film takes place in London. The weather is fickle in London, which means that even though they had a sunny morning, by midday the sky got cloudy (hence the dimmed light in the outdoors shot of location 2) by night time it was raining like hell.

Those are details that might seem minor, but are actually very significant. They add realism, tension, and a sense of story. It’s London. It’s going to rain, characters will have to deal with it. This, is what my professors were talking about when they were telling us that everything on camera has to have a reason to be there. The Russos are not film-makers, they’re hacks.

[ramblinganthropologist]

Writober 2020 - 18 (photograph)

Extra, extra, read all about it: someone’s about to fucking die. As they should, because who the hell honestly believes that Commander Shepard and Commander Shepard are straight anyway?

(ME1)

---

“Do you think either of them know they were seen yet?”

“Doubt it. Definitely explains the last name thing, though. How long do you think it's been?”

“Can't have been more than 5 years, they both did N7...”

Alistair was starting to get tired of people whispering. Didn't they know it was rude?

Ok, maybe his nerves were still a little frayed from the whole touch the Prothean beacon, figure out Saren is trying to kill everyone, become the first human Spectre thing. Nobody could blame him that he was a little cranky that morning as he left his office to get the Normandy where it needed to go. The fact it was actually his ship definitely didn't help either. After years of being enlisted or an officer, having free reign was... deeply uncomfortable.

He'd probably get over it, but... yeah it felt weird.

Still, even in his terrible mood it was impossible to miss the stares and the whispers from the crew whenever he walked by. Part of him had wondered if it was them gossiping about how he'd gotten the Normandy off Admiral Anderson, but... it didn't feel right. Professional whispering from the ranks was one thing, but this felt... oily. Salacious, maybe. Definitely something personal, which just amped up the gossip even more.

Now, had he been in a better mood, Alistair probably would have ignored it. The thing was, he wasn't. So he would have to be forgiven if he took a right when he should've gone straight and walked straight behind the two gossiping crew-mates. Neither of them noticed him, of course. He was quiet like that.

“What was that about N7?”

He shouldn't have enjoyed just how much air the two men cleared when they jumped out of their skins, but forgive him if he wasn't feeling just a little petty that morning. They were both 3 shades lighter as they turned to face him, and the sweat was really starting to pour down their faces. On his scale, he'd call that shit terrified.

Good.

“C-Commander Shepard, sir! W-we didn't see you there!”

He smiled, but there was nothing friendly about it. “Yes, that tends to happen when someone comes up from behind you. Now, to reiterate. What was that about N7? Have either of you been asked to join the training program? My congratulations if so, it's an honor even to be asked.”

He would know – he had it tattooed above his ass. And he definitely knew nobody on his ship was in active training at the moment. It was one of the perks that came with being the Normandy's CO. The other was getting to see moment like this transpire before him.

The larger of the two was sweating bullets as he tried to figure out what to say. “N-no... nothing like that, sir.”

“Just...” the words failed the smaller one. His face screwed up as he seemingly gave up whatever he was holding back. “How long have you been married to XO Shepard?”

…

Alistair blinked slowly. “What?”

If he hadn't known better... someone had just asked if he was married to his XO. His XO, Commander Bo Peep Shepard. His XO, Commander Bo Peep Shepard, his best friend and probably the closest thing he had left to family.

What the entire fuck?

Big one rubbed the back of his neck as his face began to take color again. “It... was on the extranet a few days ago. Pictures of you two together. It implied that you two were married. We thought it would explain the shared last name and all...”

Alistair let a sigh leak from between his teeth as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “A tabloid with nothing better to do, I assume.”

He let the pinch go, shaking his head. “Mind sending that site to me? I think I need to do some correction next time we dock at the Citadel.”

The two were already racing for their omni-tools, but he could tell the question still loomed in both their eyes. After all, he could just be trying to quash the story to keep his so-called marriage quiet. These crew, lovely as they were, didn't know he or his XO well enough yet.

Maybe that was why he rolled up his sleeve to expose his tattoo. “And by the way, I think this should clarify your questions.”

He tapped the wing colored in the gay pride flag for emphasis. The other, shaded in trans pride, went without saying. Years later, he was still glad he had gotten it during pride, even if it had been somewhat of a spur of the moment choice. Ironically enough, he had gotten it with Bo – she had the lesbian colors around her ankle.

You know, because she was a fucking lesbian and he was gay as hell.

“O-oh... yeah I guess it would.” Someone's face was turning red. “Sorry, Commander...”

“Just don't spread it around anymore.” Down went his sleeve. “Now, I'm going to go see where this website is hosted...”

With that he left them, the details blooming to life on his omni-tool screen. Once they got back to the Citadel, he and Bo were going to have to take a little trip...

---

“I'm going to murder them when I get my hands on them.”

“Don't worry, I won't stop you.”

The port hissed as Bo and Alistair left the Normandy's decontamination lock and entered the Citadel docking bay. It had been a few days since the discovery on ship, and now they were at the heart of the matter. Someone was about to get their clock cleaned, and it wasn't going to be mechanically.

'Don't forget ,you two, you don't have to testify against each other in court since you're married and all~!'

Al shot a glare back at the Normandy as he pressed the communicator in his ear. “Joker-”

'Just kidding, commanders. I know what teams you two play for. I guess we'll know you found them when we see the blood spurting.'

“You better fucking believe it.” Bo's eyes were practically glowing with hostility as she stomped down the walkway that connected their ship to the dock. Around them hummed the activity of the Citadel proper. Ships sailed above their heads, people went about their business... and somewhere, a tabloid was about to get the unholy shit kicked out of it.

Alistair checked the details on his omni-tool as they began to walk. “I traced the website's ISP to a building in the Wards. Chances are, they're there.”

“If not, they're going to tell us where the fuck they are.” Her knuckles were white as she slammed them together. “Damn straights and their height kink. How the hell could anyone think I was straight?”

Yeah, that was his question – she was built like a tank and had pink hair. How the hell could anyone read that as straight?

“I mean, they thought I was straight somehow, so they don't have a great judge of character.” Alistair tapped at his omni-tool. “It would be faster if we got a taxi, but walking is an option too. Up to you honestly.”

Bo didn't answer him. He realized why once he figured out he had lost his handy patch of shade. The other Spectre had left him in order to go storm over to a nearby newsstand where people were whispering. Given a few were running...

Well, he ran over to make sure nobody died.

“I can't fucking believe this!”

She pounded her fist on the counter, and Alistair felt like doing the same once he saw it. A new story had popped up, front cover with a picture that definitely wasn't photoshopped. Bo was front and center, chatting with a rather lovely lady. Anyone who could read body language could guess the two were probably flirting, which is probably why someone had been so quick to take it. Above the photo, a bold headline proclaimed “Commander Shepard: Newlywed in Bisexual Affair?”

Oh boy... whoever took that was a dead man.

Bo rounded on him, fire in her eyes. “Taxi. Now.”

Alistair didn't need to be told twice – they were soon in the back of a cab, headed towards the Wards. To say a burning silence fell over the back was putting it mildly. Bo was gearing up to kill someone, and he... well he didn't want to be next in the tabloid.

The cab driver unfortunately didn't have the sense God gave to rocks as he surveyed the two. “Trouble in paradise, huh? Well, there's always divorce court.”

Alistair grabbed for Bo before she could crash the cab. “We're actually going to clear up we're not married!”

“Ah, that's a shame. You two make a cute couple, being the first two Spectres and all. You could've made some wicked strong biotic kids.”

“Sir when I tell you I'm the only thing keeping you alive right now, please believe me and keep driving.”

By the time they were dropped off in the Wards, Alistair was pretty sure he had lost 10 pounds keeping the cab driver alive. His arms were killing him as they stepped out onto the sidewalk in front of a nondescript office building. It had a listing on the side, telling the different businesses inside. Their next stop was on the fourth floor... so if anyone got tossed out of a window, they would probably live.

“Alright, so let's figure out what we're-”

He didn't get to finish his statement. Bo was already walking in like a woman on a mission, leaving him in the dust. All he could do was chase after her, eventually catching up on the stairs to the second floor. All the while, a receptionist chased after them.

“Excuse me, you can't just-”

Bo turned back to face her dead on. “Spectre business.”

Their tail shook a little, but... Al was pretty sure it was because she was kind of into that. She was definitely blushing a little as she backed up. “R-right... fourth floor is what you're looking for, ma'am.”

Alistair sighed as he held up his hand in an apologetic gesture. “Sorry, we'll be done quickly. Thank you for your information.”

And then he was chasing after Bo again as she took the stairs two at a time. Before long, they were standing on the fourth floor's landing. There was only one door here, labeled with a sign that called themselves Citadel Daily. They were one of many tabloids that supplied the Presidium and Wards with the lack of news people loved, and no doubt they were one of the more popular ones. After all, they were creating quite the buzz about humanity's first two Spectres.

A buzz that was about to be repaid with a lot of violence if he didn't mediate.

He managed to grab her wrist before they went in. “Let's just... try talking first.”

“It's not you they're calling a cheat, Al.” She tugged her arm away. “I'm handling this my way.”

And then she pushed the door open, probably burying the knob in the wall. All motion stopped on the other side as she stormed into the room, coming to a stop at the heart of it. All Alistair could do was enter after her pulling the door out of the wall as he did. Yep... the handle went straight through. That was going to require a patch.

Bo glared at the room filled with desks and people. Someone was reaching for a camera, a device that abruptly died as her eyes glowed red. She might not have been good with technology, but she knew how to break it just fine. No more devices came out after that – they were smart.

“I'm only going to say this one, who the fuck is John Jacobs and when are they getting the fuck out?”

Nobody moved at first. Alistair could hardly blame them as he scanned the room. Mostly, he just saw shocked wanna-be journalists and gossip columnists who had never expected this kind of treatment. After all, they weren't printing anything particularly hard hitting. Of course, their mistake had been printing about the Shepards... which was a bad idea to say the least.

He spotted someone twitching in the corner of the room. Rather than alert Bo, he began to pick his way over. Nobody would look at him, but that was fine. He had his eye on the man trying to hide behind his desktop, looking at though he might piss himself.

And as he should – from the looks of things, he was working on his latest article.

“'Commander Shepard spotted coming out of a bar with-'” He shook his head, sighing. “Mr. Jacobs, if you were even half a journalist you would know I can't drink on my medication. That's just sloppy work right there.”

The man definitely pissed himself as he backed up in his seat. “C-Commander Shepard!”

“One of them, anyway.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Bo, found him.”

Maybe that was mean, but the photoshop job on that picture had been particularly atrocious. So maybe he didn't feel bad that hell on wheels was storming over, ready to put her fist straight through this guy's head. At least he'd stop it if it came to murder...

Maybe.

Bo came to a stop in front of the desk. His desktop fizzed and died as she loomed over him. Alistair definitely smelled piss and something else as the full weight of his crimes fell upon him. And of course, nobody was dumb enough to take pictures. After all, they were Spectres and about ready to prove what happened if you tried to smear them.

Though... was it actually a smear if they did make this guy's life a living hell?

“John Jacobs?”

His answer came out shaky. “Y-Yes, that's me. I didn't expect the story to get so big, b-but-”

Too late. He was already out of his seat by the collar of his garish shirt. Bo had him at eye level, and Al was there to avoid the pants region as he watched the carnage unfold. Someone nearby had a camera up  - a blue-eyed gaze quickly put a stop to that. Bo wasn't the only one who knew how to break technology.

“What the fuck was going through your demented little fucking head?” She brought him closer. “You got some kind of height kink, you nasty fuck?”

John was sweating bullets. “N-no! I just... a lot of people think you two are married! It's the same last names!”

Yeah, Alistair was doubting the lack of height kink, but at least he was trying to be honest. He was still probably going to get the shit beaten out of him, though. He kind of deserved it, what with insinuating they were not only married but... ugh...  straight.

Really, how the hell did anyone think that of them?

Bo's eyes said murder and her fists were willing to comply. “Let me put it to you this way, that receptionist down there is more my type than this manlet will ever be.”

“Hey, I'm a maligned party too, don't take out your frustration on me.” Alistair rubbed the back of his neck anyway – talking about his height was a sensitive subject. “Anyway, we're very clearly not married.”

“Or straight.”

He nodded. “Or straight, yes that's kind of important. So maybe you should print a retraction on those articles and apologize so you don't get thrown out a window. You'd probably survive, but it would sure hurt a lot regardless.”

Judging by the grip on his collar, he wasn't going to get out of this without some form of damage... but maybe they could keep him from getting tossed out a window. Besides, if he pissed himself anymore he was going to start leaking on the floor. Talk about gross.

John's eyes traveled from Shepard to Shepard. “T-this is cen-”

“Oh come the fuck on, she's ready to murder you do you really wanna complain about censorship? Read the room, man.”

Normally, Alistair didn't swear. However, this man clearly didn't have sense in his head, so maybe shock methods were needed. At least he shut his mouth that time as he thought the offer over. Maybe he should think a little faster.

Bo started to move to the window. “Well, he had his chance.”

“No, wait, stop!” Both his fists couldn't fit around her wrist. “I'll print the retraction!”

She stopped a few feet from the open window. “And you'll stop writing about us. No more Shepard stories, understood?”

He started to look like he wanted to argue, but... that window was pretty damn close. Sweat dripped down his forehead as he considered his options. Then he got inched a little closer, and the decision was clearly made.

“U-Understood... I won't print anymore.”

And then he was dropped to the floor in a sad, soggy heap. Bo wheeled around and glared at the entire room. Alistair stepped forward as well, feeling much more pleasant as he surveyed the terrified reporters sitting before him.

“I hope you all understand, that goes for anyone here. Nobody gets a free pass out of defenestration, understood?”

And then his eyes glowed as another camera died. “No story about this either, by the way. I've added you guys to my omni-tool news feed, so don't think just because we're off saving people that we won't hear about it.”

Given everyone else looked like they might need a change of underwear once they left, that was another pact sealed. With any luck, they wouldn't get too stupid about their stories. Of course, if they did... it wasn't like they were going to move buildings.

“Good talk.” Bo was already throwing the door open. “Let's get the fuck out of here, it smells like piss.”

Alistair was already following her out, sighing in relief as the door shut behind them. At least nobody had died, or even been really bodily harmed in the process. As far as missions went, this was one of their more successful ones.

Then again, Bo hadn't gotten to work her frustration out, so...

“Want to hit up the Alliance training course to work out that energy before we go see Anderson?”

“Fuck yes.” Bo was already heading in that direction. “I still should've thrown him out the window. Damn your sensibilities.”

Eh he could take her being mad at him if it meant nobody died. Dissatisfaction was part of being a commanding officer.

---

Retraction on previous stories concerning Commander Bo Peep Shepard and Commander Alistair Shepard

The Citadel Daily would like to publish a retraction towards two stories it printed. Along with this, we extend a heartfelt apology to-

“Well, I guess they got the message.”

Joker was chuckling as the message read over Alistair's omni-tool. All three were gathered in the cockpit a few days later, after a successful mission on a nearby planet. The news had come in as they were on the shuttle, and he had been waiting to listen.

Bo nodded as the message finished. “They fucking better... still don't know who took those damn pictures. They're lucky I didn't find them...”

Alistair nodded as he killed the feed. “Oh, speaking of. Turns out they're a freelancer. I think I have a beat on them-”

No doubt he was starting another hunt for some poor sap, but... well, again, he didn't feel bad. After all, they had thought he was straight. Someone had to pay for that grievous misstep. And with any luck, maybe this one wouldn't wind up out a window either.

You know, maybe being the CO wasn't so bad after all. He got to schedule time for defenestration duties. Talk about a perk of running the show...

[bettycooperoutfitwatch]

2x22 Chapter Thirty-Five: Brave New World

End of season 2!!!!!!!!

I had a bit of difficulty in the latter half of season two (maybe you noticed). In costuming, there’s a point about two thirds into the season where I struggle to see a perspective in the wardrobe choices being made. This isn’t a wardrobe department’s fault (although it can be). Wardrobe takes its cues, first, from the script, and by that I don’t mean costumes are dictated in the writing (although, yes, sometimes they are). Rather, the script is the foundation on which all matters of production of an episode of television are built, wardrobe included. Television is a writer’s medium, or so it is often argued.  

We start in Jug’s dream state, which is always a fun place to visit. Betty wears her B pendant, and a black coat that is actually new to us. 

And carries Jug’s hat. 

Addendum: @heartunsettledsoul​ pointed out that I failed to make mention of her crown earrings, which, wild, because fandom was all about those earrings when they first popped up on social. My oversight. 

In my defense they’re hard to see!! Anyway, putting his girlfriend in crown studs during his death-dream—I see u Jughead. 

“Jughead to his friends.” How do you think he felt about them putting his full-ass name on his headstone? I actually think he secretly wouldn’t mind. Kid is very family proud, and wouldn’t introduce himself as Jughead Jones the Third if he wasn’t. 

We’ve seen Betty in several sweaters of this raspberry color. 

And yet the v-neck on this one actually suggests it’s brand new to us lmao. What’s to be said, beyond that a girl loves a raspberry pink sweater?

Please note the cozy socks. And the beanie, on top of Jug’s blanket, which narratively connects us to the dream that opened the episode. Perhaps she was holding onto it for him. 

Betty says she wants to atone for her father’s sins, which always makes me a little sad. That’s not her work to do. But this idea is something Riverdale will tease out over the third season and actually into the fourth. 

(Ice cream letterman, envelope purse.)

The neon pink of the Xs are kind of great on top of this cream color. This sweater’s doing quite a bit, with the varying knits and stitches, which seems to make it a true Betty Cooper Sweater. 

And then she goes and apologizes to Fred? Who, rightly, is like ‘girl, not your fault.’

Betty and Polly play with the twins on the floor of the living room. 

Betty wore this sweater when Jughead first kissed her back in 106. 

CHEEKS.

Interstitial moment: Boys eating their feelings. 

Now we must acknowledge a timeline oddity.

This Betty-in-a-white-sweater-on-the-living-room-floor-with-the-babies scene takes place on a different day than the previous Betty-in-a-white-sweater-on-the-living-room-floor-with-the-babies scene. Jug and the Serpents escape the Whyte Wyrm and the Southside, at night, between these two scenes. What’s up? 

Filming with babies. Filming with babies happens under very strict time constraints (note the babies don’t get a costume change either.) That’s probably our reason. They’re in, they’re out, there’s no time to do a costume change. You make due. It’s probably why she’s wearing an incredibly nondescript sweater.

As it is, I didn’t even notice until this moment. So. Shrug. 

If this sweater looks familiar, that’s because it’s a sister to the one Betty wore in 211. This iteration is a little tamer; perhaps it indicates Betty’s desire towards innocuousness, as the daughter of notoriety. It’s also this navy color, a darker palette than Betty usually dons, but not unheard of by any means.

Here young Elizabeth wears blue sheets and this weird gold honeycomb duvet. Carry on, girl. 

PS Polly’s back from her sojourn to the West Coast and/or 1967. RIP Headband Polly, all rise for Earth Mother Polly. 

[It’s not relevant to our subject here, but this is an...oddly tone deaf moment, especially for Riverdale. Why the choice to include the American national anthem, at a moment when its performance was a topic of great conversation in the culture? And to make a black woman sing it? (Who else would have to sing it but Josie, she’s the chanteuse.) Just things I wonder about. Season 2 was weird.]

We finish in a multi-color crewneck knit with a chevron detail. It’s just a sweater, but it’s also a marled knit with a riot of color that you only notice if you look really closely at what’s going on. Read into that what you will. 

Summary: It’s complicated: 1 dream outfit, 6 irl outfits, 1 of which is worn on 2 different days, and one instance of Betty in her all-together. How many is that? 

Key necklace appearances: no, we haven’t seen key necklace in an age 

Is Betty a River Vixen??: the Vixens open this inauguration pep rally, so she would not appear to be one

That backpack?: ...I forgot to look but also that says to me no??

Best outfit: I’m partial to that white sweater with the pink x details. Carven? Whew, yes. 

Slave to the aesthetic. 

Season 3 let’s goooooooooooo.

[noonawriter]

Delicious Rendezvous Chapter 3

WORD COUNT: 4151

WARNINGS: cursing, an attack of sorts (no bloodshed), thinly veiled protectiveness

DELICIOUS RENDEZVOUS

Chapter 3

“There,” Heechul told you, panting. “It is done.” He pulled away to lay beside you. For him having a cold touch, you still immediately missed what warmth he brought. The sensation of the spell spreading the rest of the way through you was half pins and needles, half a deep sort of pleasure that defied explanation or words, running up your spine. He turned on his side, one elbow bent, chin resting on his head. “I’m going to be quite busy - frankly, I’ve already taken a lot of time out of my day for you.”

His nonchalance came as a surprise after the intimacy he’d just shown. “You could be nice for one second,” you mumbled, the afterglow quickly fading, but he was apparently determined to ignore any and all feelings, including yours. You shook your head to hide your face and the look of disappointment. 

“I’ll figure out a training schedule for you tomorrow. For now, go make friends and get some food. Order what you like.” He smiled as though he’d handed you the keys to the club. “I’ll let them know to expect you.” Heechul continued to make himself presentable when he added, “I didn’t take much blood, but you still need to replenish what was lost. Let Shindong know what you want at the bar and he’ll relay it from there.”

“...Wait, huh?”

Heechul let out a put-upon sigh. How were you supposed to learn anything from him, let alone stick around for the next three months? Was he really going to be able to help you? You rolled your eyes.

“Look, I thought you were pretty good at talking to strangers, but maybe I was wrong.” He huffed out a little almost-laugh through his nose. “Just start with,” he gestures with his chin towards the door, “Ryeowook’s little boyfriend, the kid at the piano. He should be wrapping up soon. He loves to eat and he’s a blank, so you aren’t in any danger from him and you won’t be alone for now.”

Your eyes widened, “Am I in danger from anyone else?”

Heechul raised his eyebrows once. “That depends on you, doesn’t it.” His grin is wide and knowing, one eyebrow cocked up. While you gaped as such an unhelpful response, he levitated himself to standing, summoned his pants and slipped his lean legs back into them. Though you couldn’t help but watch the movement of muscles beneath the skin for a moment, you were determined to not make a habit of it, forcing your eyes away.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Nice to meet you!” Henry shook your hand enthusiastically, already a weird start. He didn’t look old enough to be in a bar in the first place, which the rosy tint perpetually blooming on his pale cheeks didn’t help. After the ritual, though, you probably didn’t look any better, so it was nice of him to not comment on that.

“Um, I was told Ryeowook-”

“Oh, yeah! He got me this job.” He looked over in the direction of the stage and back, though not before you caught the gleam in his eye, a particular one that left you aching with longing. Adoration couldn’t be written more plainly on his face. “It works out really well, you know? I didn’t actually know what I was going to do with my degree.”

“That’s really good.” You feigned politeness just long enough to ask the question you really wanted the answer to, leaning forward to speak more quietly. “How is it here really, though? Do they treat you well?”

“Yeah, everyone’s so nice here!” He beamed. “When Ryeowookie is busy,” the gleam of affection cropped up faintly again before fading, “Donghae makes sure I get lots to eat. My visa got processed so much faster here than my school one, and I got direct deposit since my first check. It’s great!” With a cute tilt of his head, he added, “I’m glad no one minds that I don’t really drink. I get all itchy. But Heechul’s never had a problem with it.” Sticking his hands into his pockets, he frowned. “To be honest, the only thing I’m worried about is that Ryeowook never eats breakfast. But everyone’s different, right?” He concluded his rambling with an easy, friendly smile, shrugging his shoulders, then rocking on his heels.

“...Right.” In your mind's eye, you could see clearly what Ryeowook would look like with his wings and claws out. And that the butler was actually over by the entrance to the club, his shoulders subtly widening and narrowing over and over again, his hair growing longer and then shorter. You realize what wasn't said. That made you mad as hell! Oh my god, you thought, this kid doesn’t know anything, does he. Heechul is a bastard.

Too bad you still needed his help.

“Oh yeah, you just got here, so you don’t know where anything is, huh.” Henry’s words drew your attention back to him and away from your thoughts of Heechul. “Come on, let me show you the break room.”

As the two of you made your way past the bar, Shindong came in from the back, carrying a nondescript box. He pointed at you, then immediately, his hair shot up and back as if by a gust of wind. His confused expression was so comically exaggerated that you couldn't help but laugh. 

He patted it back down into place, looking confounded, then went on his way as if nothing happened without so much as a wave.

“He’s a weird one.”

Henry held his finger up to his lips, eyes that told you to be quiet. “Don’t let him hear you say that.” The rosy-cheeked man looked around, as though he was worried Shindong was watching at that very moment. He stepped closer. “Man is insufferable, at times. Even moreso if he likes you. At least you got some form of interaction from him being it's only your first day here. Took me a week to get anything out of him.”

All you could manage was a quiet “hmm”. Henry resorted back to indifference as he made sure you were following him as he continued to guide you to the much-needed food. Something about Shindong was intimidating, despite the brief comedy routine, so you decided to come back to the issue of ordering food a little later, when you’d had a chance to gather some courage.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Once he’d taken a bite off the corner of one sandwich, Henry exclaimed, “Alriiiiight! He remembered to salt them more this time like I asked.”  Handing out the egg sandwiches, cut in two halves to form neat triangles, he added, “You’d think it wouldn’t need it when the bread has garlic butter on it, but there’s a lot of egg, you know?” One was placed in front of Donghae, and another in front of you.

“Oh, uh, thanks.” This only left you more determined to put off figuring out Heechul’s food. The kitchen you’d passed on the way was loud and looked extremely busy, so it just felt weird to add to that. And you hadn’t seen a menu anywhere, either...

“No problem! Ryeowook always makes extra anyway. I think he gets worried when our schedules don’t line up to eat together.”

Both men sharing the small round table with you stuffed practically a whole triangle in their mouths at once. You couldn’t help but giggle. “Oh, is he going to be on stage for a while?” You asked, trying to keep the conversation going. It was a fair trade - garlic butter was such a simple indulgence, yet oh so worthwhile. Had you missing home, all of a sudden... Missing it so bad that you couldn't bear to think about it.

The conversation turned out to be a welcome interruption.

“Nope,” Henry said, only half succeeding at covering his mouth. “That part's done for today. He’s got backstage appointments to get to.”

“...Technical work? I didn’t know he did both.”

He only stared at you for a moment. “No,” he said slowly, “backstage work.” Left utterly confused, you looked back and forth between them until Donghae’s lascivious smirk got the meaning across.

It slowly dawned on you that it was a euphemism, not to mention what was going on behind all those closed doors. “Oh.” Your eyes widened so much they nearly fell out of your head, and you had to force your mouth closed, because you were something like a guest here and it’s not polite, right? What if it seemed insulting or condescending, the longer you looked scandalized? You could feel your cheeks heat further at that thought, even if that had seemed impossible with how they’d burned immediately after Donghae’s hint got through. “Oh! Right. I see.” Well, you’d really rather not, but it appeared the rumors were true after all. Staring at the plastic container was the closest you could get to meeting anyone’s eyes for a little while after that kind of revelation. “That doesn’t bother you?”

But Henry only shrugged. “Nope.” He offered no details whatsoever. That was that; he and Donghae proceeded to bicker over who had to eat the carrot sticks hiding underneath the stack of sandwiches. (Donghae insisted that demons don’t eat carrots, which Henry reluctantly accepted, though not without a heaping spoonful of skepticism.)

The three of you chatted amiably for a few minutes between eating. That calmed you down enough to see about asking for a menu after all, making your way through the same corridor from earlier, the one with the framed drawings of urban wildlife with inspirational slogans under each one. You were pretty sure the kitchen was back this way-

Whatever just took you off your feet meant business. Your eyes opened to find the ceiling above you and the cool marble tile beneath your back. You sucked a deep breath in all while moving your hands and feet to make sure everything still worked correctly. What drew you out of your self-inspection was the groaning coming from a few feet away. The strange yet beautiful man from earlier was bent over with his hands braced on his knees. He looked wobbly, maybe just as hurt as you were.

Laying back and being still just made more sense at that moment. You closed your eyes as the back of your head met the ground

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He sensed the spell and honed in on it to take him there.

Of course, he’d already been attuned to security alerts for defensive spells. From his alcove, Heechul had watched as his apprentice stumbled back and fell, at the same time that the reflective force flung Sungmin just as far back. Luckily, the incubus had reflexively done one of those martial arts rolls, but now leaned heavily against the hallway wall where he was sitting slumped against it, his eyes glazed, one small hand pressed to his own cheek and temple.

While Henry ran over to him, Heechul shot a faint blue spark from his fingertips.

“You know being teleported makes me dizzy,” Jongwoon grumbled at Heechul in the next instant, but quickly softened when he spotted his patient. Dropping onto one knee next to her, resting his forearm on the other, he leaned forward the slightest bit. “Hey there. Can you tell me what’s wrong?” He asked in a soft, husky voice.

“M’dizzy,” she mumbled, “and I fell.”

Jongwoon turned to the vampire, already back to looking annoyed. “Did you set your shield to let healing through?”

“Of course I did,” Heechul scoffed.

“Then open up pain relief as well.”

Feeling a bit sheepish when he realized that that type was indeed still blocked, Heechul did just that, drawing a quick symbol on his palm with his fingertip. Admittedly, he hadn’t cast this sort of protection in quite a long time, and the last time... That wasn’t sexual in the least. So he’d asked Shindong to set up tests for it, making sure his friend wouldn’t tell him when or how. It was a mercy that he didn’t have to specify to not hurt her; the risk was too great, and the very thought stabbed fear through his heart.

An invisible anodyne cloud sprung up around Jongwoon, a sort of magic dandelion the doctor himself had developed. Caught in its radius, the ever-present ache in Heechul’s wrist dialed down to a faint hum.

The pained grooves marring her forehead eased at once, too.

She was in good hands. Heechul knew this, knew it with the knowledge of many decades, so he turned to check on Sungmin, but... It was more difficult to do so than he’d imagined. No matter how much he tried to make his eyes focus forward, he itched to do otherwise.

Worriedly looking back over at her, Heechul nonetheless made himself turn away once more to attend to Sungmin, where Henry was already murmuring to him while pressing the back of his hand to the incubus’ forehead. Logically, Heechul knew Sungmin must've gotten the brunt of it, but-

That was all he’d allow himself. He shook himself back into action. Heechul motioned Henry away with a small gesture of his head. The young, bright eyed man wanted to stick around and help, but Heechul’s eyes insisted, mouthing ‘thank you’. Henry, ever shocked by the silent but kind motion, nonetheless complied. He turned his sights back to the scene he’d turned away from. "You did a great job, Sungmin. We got the test data we needed." Sungmin nodded gingerly, only grimacing. "Thank you for helping again. Donghae should be back near the bar by now, or soon, that'll be kicking up some lust. Go soak that up until your head settles, then lie down for at least five minutes, alright? I'll send the doctor to check you over when he's done here."

"Yes, boss," Sungmin said, slowly standing up, one hand on a nearby wall the whole way up. Heechul lent his arm for support, only remembering to call out when Sungmin had made it a couple of feet away on his own, "And drink some water!" Sungmin merely threw up a thumbs up over his shoulder as he cautiously walked away.

Setting that aside, he hurried over to her. To his apprentice. That's all, he told himself. Just someone who needs my help. The shield held beautifully, though nothing could beat real world experience to be sure. Since every scan and both tests came up well...

Mostly well, he realized, watching Jongwoon shine a small light into her eyes, then asking her to follow his finger. Fuck, the stun shouldn’t have gotten through that strongly. That meant there were cracks, and right now... He didn’t know how to fix those.

There were no shortcuts. He couldn’t help but get close enough to squeeze her hand, needing to touch her even if only fleetingly, to feel that she’s alright, then immediately left to do a field reset on the room he’d set aside to start her training. She would need so much more than just this. No telling how soon she’d have to be able to protect herself.

Not for the first time, Heechul lamented that he couldn’t be in two places at once.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hardly a minute or two later, belly full and mildly nauseous after whatever that stunt was, you felt a caress brush against the confines of your mind. It drew you in, past this door, that way down the hall, into a quiet carpeted room that contained only Heechul. His trademark smirk sat easy across his mouth.

“So you’ve properly met at least one of my kids now.”

“I did,” you said tartly, recalling what you’d realized, “and-”

“Hold on.” Holding one hand up, he stopped you with merely two words; you hated that you were going along with it. “If you’re looking to chew me out some more, save it for another time. Training requires dedication and concentration.”

“...Fine. But it’s only a delay.”

“Good enough,” he said, rolling his head side to side. “So, he’s a sweet kid, right?”

“Henry? Yeah...”

With that admission, Heechul’s smile turned genial. “Good. You have some basic sense.”

“Oh, so you get to insult me during training? What’s wrong, you can dish it out but you can’t take it?”

Though he rolled his eyes, his smile grew wider, too. “Some fires are unquenchable. We’ll work it out as we go. Now. Follow me. Deep breath in, then let it out slowly.”

Reluctantly, you did as he said, putting all other concerns into a box and setting it aside in your mind’s eye. “Okay, now what?”

He raised one eyebrow. “You really will have to learn some patience. Not an insult, darling!” He added with a laugh. “A simple fact required to progress.”

“Hmph.” You crossed your arms. Realizing how petulant that looked, though, you forced yourself to let them hang loose at your side instead. “I suppose. If you learn some manners.”

“Fair’s fair,” he answered with a shrug. “Now, back to the kid. Only pull up the image of him if it helps you; the essential part is whatever feeling of connection you can find. This works the same way an address on a building does.” He blinked slowly, tilting his head back, then forward again. “You feel it?”

The thread may have been thin, but you were able to strengthen it by kind of... latching onto Heechul’s connection as well. Were you supposed to do that? Who knows, but it felt like it was working. “Yes,” you answered distantly, almost having forgotten that you were asked a question at all.

“Good. Now imbue it with your magic.”

For some reason, this step scared you. Was it safe? Would it hurt anything? What if once you did it, that little bit was gone for good...

“You’re panicking.” But you weren’t- Oh, Heechul was right. Your breathing had gotten heavier, shallower, too quick. Before you’d noticed, he stepped closer, one fingertip tilting your chin up. “What is it?”

“I don’t wanna let it go!” You blurted out. Immediately, Heechul’s hand smoothed over your hair.

“It’s alright,” he said more gently than you’d thought possible of him. “You’ve done it before, and it’s always filled back up. You just didn’t know you were doing it.” But he stepped back, screwing up the corner of his mouth, and that also frightened you. You wanted his reassurance back. “This will be the only exercise for today. We’ll start you on foundational material next time.”

“Did I mess it up?” You croaked.

“No, everything’s alright,” he assured you, still in that too-gentle voice. “Let’s just try one more time, okay? The well will refill. You’re just taking a drop from it. Deep breaths. Two, three, four. There we go.”

Slowly, the whole thing feeling embarrassingly elementary, you made your way back to being calm and levelheaded. “Okay, I did it.”

“You found it? Good, well done. We’ll continue tomorrow.” Before you, far too close, Heechul visibly swallowed, then pressed his face to your neck for a long moment, taking a deep breath and leaving you feeling immensely calmer, strangely enough. When he wrenched himself away, his eyes held a faint tint of red, something gleaming in his mouth as well. “Forgive me,” he said. “A moment of weakness.” He looked at you intensely, his nostrils flaring. “All creatures hunger.”

Then he whirled away. “Please do not think me evil for it.”

You desperately wished you could see his face when he said that, but in a blink, he was gone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Kamau’s treatise on diplomacy and oratory is a must,” Heechul muttered to himself, flipping through the pages absently before adding to the pile on the table at the center of the room. “Oracles are known to be inherently weak in persuasion, and Zhang’s research on complementary domains proved it..." Back at the shelf, he ran his finger over the spines of an entire row, hoping it would jog his memory. “Damnit, who wrote that particularly clear natureweaving introductory text a century ago? I know I have it here somewhere, I just can’t remember their name.”

Familiar footsteps accompanied by a click on the floor sprang up behind him, so he didn’t feel the need to turn around. It wasn’t long before strong hands alighted on his shoulders, that familiar moon-topped cane gleaming where it leaned against one of the shelves.

“You’ve been in here for hours, Master,” Siwon murmured, clearly doing his level best to forcibly massage the tension out of Heechul’s body through his shoulders.

Probably true, but the leader wasn’t going to admit it. He allowed himself to hum low in his throat, turning into a closed-mouth groan, but no more. “Why aren’t you finalizing the quarterly ledger?”

But Siwon only chuckled. “The computing machines handle nearly everything in the modern era, Master. Did you forget again?”

“I still don’t like that whole expense,” Heechul muttered. “They’re just little boxes and they don’t show their work!”

Moving down his back, his right-hand man told him in a strangely indulgent tone, “I can audit them any time you’d like. You need only say the word.”

Heechul sighed. “No, don’t bother. There are much more important uses of your time.”

“Like this?” The other man joked, digging his thumbs into a knot at Heechul’s lower back.

“You very well know I meant getting ready for that raid that I sense coming sometime next week,” Heechul said archly. “See if,” god his head hurt just pulling the info, but raids were always hard on his kids, “the same one’s still in the 223 precinct to cut a deal.” However, when he felt the loss of those strong hands, he failed to hide his laughter when he complained, “I didn’t say to stop!”

“Very well, just another minute, then, shall I?”

His head drooping forward, Heechul muttered, “Whatever happened to ‘Yes, Master’?”, though the words had no bite to them.

Suddenly, hovering next to Heechul was a grid without lines, each one holding what looked to be a title and author. “How about an index instead?”

“What would I do without you?” Heechul whirled around, the index following to his right, to squeeze Siwon’s hand. “I guess it was worth saving you after all, if you’re going to make yourself useful.”

In front of him, Siwon beamed as though Heechul had said something far more affectionate. “You might even like me, too,” he lobbed playfully, squeezing back. “Also, Whitman’s parlor tricks book got into your pile again,” he added, pointing to the table with his chin.

“Ugh.” Heechul ran his hand through his hair. “Goddamned cursed fucking book. You see?” He picked it up, waving it around. “This is why I tell everyone to not get me presents. Not everyone can sense what’s been cast on them, so I get stuck with a useless book that tries to follow me around like a lost puppy. Prestidigitation? Hardly a step above distracting children with a marionette,” he huffed.

Siwon held his hands behind his back, but he was visibly suppressing laughter; Heechul never could prove where the wretched tome came from, but he had his suspicions. “Your evening appointment grows near, Master. Are you going to be in here much longer?”

Flipping through the index with only half his mind on it, Heechul did a locate on a symbolism book. He’d have to review that one first before adding it to the curriculum - not to mention, there was something waiting its turn to be shown to him that left him feeling that he’d need to have it fresh in his mind.

“Return to me in half an hour. I’ll be ready then, but I need you to handle the nightly security review in my stead.” The flash of fear in the other man’s eyes had its answering echo in Heechul’s chest, and he hated being powerless to assuage it.

“May... May I ask why?” Siwon sounded hesitant when he asked. If Heechul took in any more information, though, he’d be completely overloaded, and thus useless for meeting with the ingredient supply broker. Still, he knew that Siwon had never done a security review without him, and didn’t know how to reassure him about what it could mean. There was just... too much to do. And no way to know what kind of attack could be coming next.

Of course, if that fact became known to his staff, it would bring nothing but panic. Leaving Siwon entirely in the dark was not a viable option, however. If only the damned visions would be more specific!

Once more, Heechul sighed. “I need to be prepared while I know not for what I prepare. Don’t make a Cassandra of me for saying so, hmm? But I have a feeling,” he said, shelving the gag book while pointedly not looking at Siwon, “that our troubles are far from over.”

Author’s note: again, a huge thanks to @thesirenandtheking​ for all the assistance in this piece. It would not be possible without the SuJu knowledge and effortless flow of the editing process.

[orihara-infobroker]

I should be writing but instead, my brain is meandering. I was thinking about the visual presentation of the characters in Durarara a few days ago and went flipping through the first novel. The anime presents them very differently than the descriptions in the books and it kind of makes me sad to see those changes because I don’t think they’re positive ones. 

Specifically, the one that I think bothers me the most is our protagonist, Celty:

^^ Anime version of Celty

Below are some descriptions from the first novel, where we are introduced to her:

The shadow of a figure stood over him. Not metaphorically, either—it was a shadow. The figure was dressed in a black full-body riding suit without a single pattern or logo on it, making it look as though the black material had been dipped into even darker ink. Only the reflection of the parking garage lights signified that there was even something physical there at all. From the neck upward was even stranger. An oddly designed helmet sat atop the figure’s neck. In comparison to the uniform blackness of the body, the shape and patterning of the helmet seemed somehow artistic. It didn’t clash with the overall dark look, however. The faceplate of the helmet was like the dark mirrored glass of a luxury car. It showed nothing of what lay behind the glass, only the distorted reflection of the lights overhead.

<The guy riding the black motorcycle—has no head.>

Celty had been patrolling Ikebukuro for twenty years, and for much of that time, she’d known this man. Of course, he had no idea of Celty’s true nature or her gender, but Shizuo was also the kind of man who didn’t bother with little details like that.

Hair as black as darkness, just tracing over her eyes, features that were carved into her heart long in the distant past—right atop the shoulders of the woman stumbling across the sidewalk in her pajamas!

Rumors had spread about the headless rider, but the rumors didn’t identify her as a woman or a dullahan. She didn’t feel a particular need to hide these things, but neither did she plan to reveal them.

So yeah... We have an androgynous form of a person that almost everyone mistakes as being male. Even Shizzy. Also, her head has black hair.

Yet the anime puts her in a catsuit, gives her obvious female features ( . Y . ) and changes her hair to brown, which I am guessing is to emphasize her not-Japaneseness? But there’s no significant reason to change her physicality. Especially when you’re talking about Celtic fae who are very often quite androgynous in their beauty.

And the catsuit thing is just plain objectification. Biking suits do not look like catsuits. They are actually quite different. They’re leather and usually armoured to protect the wearer from injury. They don’t have the vinyl catsuit look that is given to Celty (or later Vorona whose biking leathers also look more like catsuits than actual bike gear).

I know there are plenty of reasons why they might have made changes to characters, some of which might actually be valid, but it still bothers me because I know that on some level the choice was sexy-sells because Celty isn’t the only character who faces this.

Shizuo is actually spot-on between books and anime, for example. As are Mikado and Masaomi.

But Big-Tits McSchoolGirl (Anri) is not. Nowhere in the first novel is she described as having big tits.

Izaya is also not entirely the same. I mean, on the one hand, they make him an anime pretty boy, which he is in the books, but they give him a very nondescript outfit and that’s not how he’s described. You can’t get more generic than black slacks, black shirt, black jacket. but the novel says this of him:

But in the next moment, all of that was destroyed as a fresh new maelstrom of anxiety and excitement burst into life. “Hey.” It was a very pleasant voice, crisp and clear and vibrant, as though being hailed by the pure blue sky itself. And yet, the instant he heard that voice, Masaomi grimaced as though he’d been shot in the back with arrows. He slowly turned in the direction of the voice, an instant sweat congealing on his face. Mikado turned the same way and saw a young man with an equally pleasant face. He looked soft and gentle, but with a bold, intrepid edge—a perfect materialization of some ideal of handsomeness. His eyes were warm and all-accepting but glinted with a hard scorn of anything that wasn’t himself. His outfit, while possessing its own personality, did not show off any obvious features or characteristics. All in all, he was very difficult to grasp or classify. Even his age was indistinct based on appearance alone. He had to be more than twenty at least, but there was no way to tell anything beyond that.

Everything clicked into place for Mikado. The man not to get involved with. The man not to make an enemy out of. But the fellow standing before him didn’t seem all that dangerous. Aside from his sharp gaze and handsome features, he seemed like any other young man. Even his plain, glossy black hair stood out amid all the bleached and dyed hair around him. He looked like the kind of sharp young man that would be teaching at a cram school out in the country somewhere. He’s more normal than I expected, Mikado thought, and decided to introduce himself.

Izaya chuckled shyly. If that expression was the only thing to go on, he’d never be mistaken for someone fully immersed in the criminal underworld from head to toe.

In Izaya’s left hand, held behind his back, was a very sharp knife. The scariest part was that Mikado had been watching the man’s movements the entire time, but he never noticed where the knife came from or when he’d slashed the bag free of the strap. Izaya smartly folded up the knife and slipped it into the sleeve of his suit jacket, all one-handed behind his back. Mikado felt like he was watching a magician at work.

Now I don’t know about other people but I don’t find this:

To be an outfit that has any personality. Aside from the coat. Which... Maybe this is because I am Canadian but... coats with fur lining aren’t that weird? I mean, not even winter coats but we have fall/spring coats with fur trim? So why does everyone comment on his coat? Why is it so weird to y’all? But the rest of his outfit has absolutely no personality whatsoever. Literally, the blandest thing you could wear.

And the last quote: when he meets Mikado during the bullying incident, he’s wearing a suit, my dudes. A suit. In which he hides knives. :3 Give me more Izaya-suit-porn pls. Need it. For research. :3

I know anime has a habit of sticking characters with a single, identifiable outfit but honestly, they could have given him something better. And it’s not that I’m opposed to his look exactly... I just don’t think it entirely lines up with his character.

So yeah... These are just some points from the first novel. I might go through more of the novels at some point and do this for other characters too because I’m curious. When I read them the first time, it was with the anime images already in my mind as visuals so I didn’t pay as much attention to physical descriptions.

Done rambling for now... XD

[elizadunc]

Marry Me, Because I Want to Date You

There’s a moan and then an expected “Oh my gods, marry me, Bluebell.” 

They’re cookies, and she got them from the store. 

But still, he proposes.

As he’s been doing for the last 8 years. 

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It had started in college, they had been assigned as partners in a required chemistry class and had quickly gone from hating each other, to becoming begrudging allies in the face of Dr. Tarly’s archaic ideas of teaching, to being best friends, over the course of about 3 months. 

The proposals were harmless at first, it had started as a joke, or at least, she had assumed it was a joke.

They had been up late studying and she had gone on a coffee run. She’d learned his coffee order by this point and, though she preferred tea, it wasn’t like remembering a coffee order was difficult. 

But he’d taken a sip and looked at her as if she was the Maiden in the flesh.

And then he’d done it. He’d said it. 

“Marry me, Bluebell.” 

She’d snorted and rolled her eyes, doing her best to hide her response to his dumb nickname that always made her feel like the ice cream more than the flower that he claimed was the inspiration. 

She’d allow herself to take out the whole interaction and turn it over in her mind later when she wasn’t being faced with the full force of her best friend.

He’d smirked at her predictable reaction and they’d both gone back to studying as if nothing at all had happened. Well, Brienne supposed, nothing actually had happened. 

It was only later that night in her dorm room that she’d sat on her bed and screamed a bit into her pillow about the fact that she’d actually heard the words “Marry me” directed at her. 

Not seriously of course. 

Brienne was well aware of what she looked like and what Jaime looked like. She was under no ridiculous notions that anything would ever happen between her and her best friend. So she had taken it as a joke and moved on. 

But then he’d done it again a few weeks later at the student union when she bought him a sandwich after he’d realized he left his wallet in his dorm room. 

And again when they were at the climbing wall in the student rec center and he’d forgotten his climbing shoes so she’d loaned him an extra pair that she had in her locker. They were purple. He looked hilarious. But still he said in that ridiculously serious voice, “Marry me, Bluebell”. 

Jaime had continued to “conveniently” forget his wallet, and so Brienne had continued to buy him coffee, or lunch, or any number of things that meant he would ask his dumb question. 

It continued like that for years. 

They'd graduated and moved to King’s Landing and started careers that kept them busy, day in and day out, and still he would propose. 

It had to have been the longest running joke in the history of forever. But Jaime liked it, and who was Brienne to deny him.

He’d shown up to her apartment once with a six pack and a movie and then asked her after she’d ordered the pizza, as if it were some big thing for her to pay 15 dragons for a large pizza with pepperoni and bell peppers. 

And again after she’d bought him yet another coffee and gotten his new, ridiculously complicated, order right the first time. An order that was much, much, more ridiculous than the simple black coffee with two creams and four sugars that had been his go to during college. That time he’d written the question on the napkin. He'd doodled a little flower next to his dumb nickname for her. A doodle that to her managed to look like a cross between a sad dog and a really weird looking dandelion. It had spikes.

She’d drawn mean looking eyes on it in response. Jaime had burst out laughing, and, after a moment, Brienne couldn’t help but join in. They’d laughed for what seemed like hours. They’d gotten stares. 

They had started to get settled into their jobs and their lives, they’d added some friends to the group and Brienne contented herself with a life full of friendship. Contented herself to a life without romance. 

Then she’d met Hyle Hunt. 

He was everything she’d expected to deserve in life. Almost nondescript looking, brown hair and brown eyes, and entirely forgettable. 

But he’d liked her. He’d brought her flowers and took her out to dinner and didn’t mention her height all that much. 

He had managed to be both sweet and a bit patronizing and while she wouldn’t have taken it from anyone else, she felt that if someone was actually showing an interest in her she should at least try to show an interest back. 

And it was fine. 

Jaime had hated him, but Jaime was a prickly person to people who weren’t in his immediate friend group. 

But they'd been fine. Hyle was fine.

He’d tried, toward the beginning, to call her Bluebell and she found that there was no way in any of the hells that she would ever allow anyone but Jaime to call her that dumb nickname. 

Hyle had been offended at first, but then had taken to calling her all sorts of different names that hinged on the word blue. 

She really hadn’t wanted to hurt his feelings, and she’d already felt like she was pushing it with not allowing him to call her Bluebell. So she allowed it. 

Hyle was always doing that, finding ways to inch into her life in all of the spaces where Jaime normally fit. And it wasn’t always a seamless transition. 

She and Jaime loved watching documentaries about the age of heroes. Hyle found them mind-numbingly boring and never failed to let her know during the few times she picked one for their now weekly movie nights. 

Jaime loved trying new and weird dishes from different parts of the world and would regularly order from the most obscure hole in the wall restaurant he could find. Hyle hated anything that wasn’t from Westeros and refused to eat something that had more than one pepper of spice in it. 

Jaime and Brienne worked out on a regular basis and were matched fairly evenly, Hyle had gone once or twice to the gym and ended up complaining both times that they didn’t include him in their workout. Mostly because if they’d tried he would have collapsed into a heap on the ground.

He’d claimed that he was trying to be a good boyfriend. That generally boy/girl best friends weren’t as close as Jaime and Brienne were and Jaime was obviously trying to steal Brienne away. 

Brienne usually rolled her eyes at that and did her best to reassure Hyle that if Jaime was interested in her he would have said something some time in the last 8 years. 

But then Hyle found out about the proposals.. 

He’d been at her apartment for dinner and had found one of the millions of times that Jaime had proposed by writing it on a random piece of scratch paper on her desk. 

That particular time had been after he’d had a particularly trying work-day and she’d bought him Pentoshi take out even though it wasn’t her favorite. 

They’d been lying on the couch watching a dumb movie and he’d hopped up suddenly and run over to her desk to grab the first piece of paper he could find. Then he’d dropped it in her lap and settled back down to watch the rest of the movie. 

It was dumb, a random moment among millions of other random moments that all surrounded the ridiculousness that was her best friend’s insistence on proposing at every chance he could. 

But Hyle had been upset. 

Well, upset was putting it mildly. 

He’d stormed over to where she was just starting to brown the meat for the tacos they were having and thrust the random piece of scratch paper under her nose as if presenting the final piece of damning evidence in a courtroom. 

“Did you know about this?” his voice was not calm. 

“Of course I knew about it, it’s a joke. Jaime does it all the…” Brienne trailed off, realizing too late that this was probably one of those times where lies of omission were permissible. 

But the damage was done. 

“He does this all the time?” Hyle’s face was turning red. It wasn’t pretty. 

“Yes, but he doesn’t mean anything by it! He’s done it since we were in college!” 

“Right, well that’s going to stop right now. I will not have another man proposing to my girlfriend.” 

“I’m sorry?” she said this incredulously but Hyle, in his fashion, misinterpreted it. 

“You should be! This isn’t right! I’ve been trying to lessen his hold on you for months now, but if this is how it is then maybe you should stop hanging out with him altogether.” 

“No, sorry, no. I’m not going to stop hanging out with my best friend because for some reason you’re jealous of him. Jaime doesn’t see me like that.” The meat was going to burn if she didn’t stop stirring it, but this seemed like it was probably an important conversation that deserved her full attention. She turned the burner off. 

“Well it’s him or me, Brienne. I won’t date someone who gets a regular marriage proposal from her best friend.”

It was then that Jaime proved to either have the best or the worst timing imaginable. A key turned in the lock and Jaime entered already talking. 

“Hey Bluebell, I forgot to bring back your copy of ‘The Life and Times of Knights in the Age of Heroes’, oh hey Hyle.” He was holding the book in his left hand and two bags of Mereeneese take out in the crook of his right elbow. 

Hyle turned to Brienne, “He even has a key. Choose.” his face was a lovely shade of puce at this point, and he was glaring at Jaime and Brienne alternately. 

“Him, of course I choose him. I’m sorry, Hyle.” 

Hyle had immediately stormed out leaving Jaime looking bewildered and Brienne feeling, well, rather relieved actually. 

Jaime had wanted to know the details but after that all she really wanted to do was watch a documentary and eat food that wasn’t from the three places Hyle deemed ‘acceptable’. 

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Yes, Jaime. Alright, I’ll marry you.” 

It’s been two weeks since Hyle walked out and Brienne is done with saying no or rolling her eyes. She wants to see what will happen if she says yes. 

Jaime looks at her for a second, blinks twice, and then shoots to his feet and cups her cheek. 

“You’re not just saying that. You never say yes.” 

“Jaime my boyfriend gave me an ultimatum and I chose you, no I’m not just saying that, but are you actually asking? Were you serious all this time?” He rubs her nose with his and then nods. 

“Of course I was serious. I wouldn’t just ask. You laughed it off, and I understood, we were young, and for all that I had my dad’s money I hadn’t exactly bought a ring. But you kept saying no. So I figured I’d keep asking. And maybe one day you’d say yes. Because Bluebell I’ve been in love with you since chemistry.” 

It’s like all of Brienne’s hopes and dreams are coming true all at once and she doesn’t know how to feel. 

Jaime shuffles his feet, “any time you want to say something would be alright with me, Bluebell.” 

“I love you too, of course I love you too. I’ve been in love with you for years. I don’t remember not being in love with you. But I thought you were joking.” she gives in to the temptation to run her fingers through his hair and he leans into her hand.

“I know you did, but you were always going on about how you didn’t need a relationship. But then, then Hyle happened and I was so angry with myself for not asking you out first.” 

“I didn’t think you’d ever actually want me.” 

“Of course I want you, you’re my Bluebell. How could I want anyone but you?” 

“Okay, enough. Sap.” Jaime laughed at that before brushing his nose against hers again. 

“I need to kiss you now. I’ve been waiting for this for 8 years.” It somehow manages to be the best kiss Brienne has ever been a part of. Sweet, and intense, and laced with more meaning than any of the kisses that she had ever shared with Hyle. 

“I love you, I love you, I love you. Did you actually mean it when you said yes?” 

“Jaime we’ve never even dated. We can’t rush into getting married. This is too important.” 

“A long engagement, then. Just, wait here for a second.” He rushes out of the apartment and returns not even 5 minutes later with a small black box, and for a second Brienne can’t breathe. 

“Okay, okay, I’m going to ask you for real this time.” 

*fade to black*

[writerofscribbles]

— the shadows have teeth -- wip introduction

- - GENRE: ya/na gothic horror/supernatural western, murder mystery, wynonna earp meets stranger things

- - SYNOPSIS: cursed. broken. frozen.

Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. Mountain ranges beyond compare, waving towers of grass, spiked cacti, and a few singular homes that have stood the test of time. A ghostly town that to the rest of America, doesn't exist. Time moves strangely in this range of town, a fact that the residents just accept. The clouds drift, the saloon doors swing aimlessly, and the curse remains unbroken for another hundred years. Within a span of acres and acres, where the two rivers connect and split northwards and then trickle into streams, that's the boundary line. Crooked and wavy due to the rivers, and then abruptly going straight across the west bound railroad, this triangle of land has kept its inhabitants within their own personal western hell for the last hundred years.To step outside that boundary means hellish death for some, for some it means the unknown and abandoned railways. For the brave, it means a long stretch of highway that leads to civilization. But the ones who have made their home Copperhead since the early 19th century know that it is a little weird. Cursed in a way. Why does this curse exist? Who knows. Someone probably shot someone's daughter's boyfriend in the barn and a jealous witch cursed them. Who gives a fuck at this point? It keeps the demons within it, the witches safe from becoming government experiments, and the humans just live humbly. Maybe Copperhead is better off staying frozen in 1800.

But when a stranger, half-dead and bloody, arrives on the Quinn’s ranch, a series of unlucky and horrific events lead a particular group of teenagers to discover the dark demonic underbelly of their tiny western town. Shaken to its roots, Copperhead’s unusual residents must finally face the dark history that placed them in the frozen grip of their curse. 

You see, Copperhead has a demon problem. These demons are immortal, unlovable, monstrosities. Kinda. You see, about 140 years ago, a gunslinger, outlaw gang swept into town and murdered a bunch of people. Standard stuff, except the town was protected by a pact that the humans had made with the witches of the era. So, that gang was cursed, or something like that. Now, all of the members of that original gang must live eternally in the arid climate, and let's just say they weren't just cursed to live forever. Many of them have become twisted versions of their evils selves, the curse taking its toll and wreaking havoc on their humanity. Hating humans is the least of their problems, when they have to worry about stepping out of the boundary, keeping their demonic eyes hidden, and trying to keep their sanity. If they want it at all. The cursed can't hurt the humans or else they'll lose their grip on reality and on their sanity, and would be impossible to stop.

featuring: demons, a two-hundred year curse, witches, found family trope, queer characters, murder, horror elements, magic, a lot of strange description and a town that is definitely very weird.

- - THEMES: finding yourself, absolving guilt, revenge, forgiveness, what makes a monster?, free will vs. fate

- - POVS: it’s written in multiples povs and is in past tense, third person

- - STATUS: outlining / discovery writing

- - CHARACTERS: MADELINE ‘MADDOX’ QUINN, who finds the bloody, broken girl on their ranch and shoots at the shadows. ANNA DOE, the stranger who pissed off a demon and can’t remember her own name. JULIAN STEELE, a tired ™ witch who just wants a normal life. THE STEELE FAMILY (aka elliot, kieran, violet, & flynn) who keep fucking up Julian’s quiet life. ISA EROS, a four-hundred year old witch who keeps messing with everyone’s love life. CLEMENTINE THORNE, a precious cinnamon roll yoga instructor who is also a demon. AMBROSE WAINWRIGHT, a demon man who can’t make up his fucking mind. JACKSON S. CLARK, a horrifying monster who you do not want to piss off. DR. FRANCIS RADCLIFFE, the maker of the most horrible decisions. and finally, THE GRAY ONE & GRIM, two mystery figures who are at the epicenter of all this drama. 

more detailed character introductions to come.

EXCERPT UNDER THE CUT. please interact with this post in some way if you’d like to be added to the tag list <33

There came a point on any given night when the clouds rolled in from deep in the valley with a biting wind and sudden lack of stars. It was a telltale sign to the residents of Copperhead that the devils were out to play. Usually, the civilians knew by feeling when they were coming and either packed it on home or risked the chance of being ripped apart. As long as they went out with a whiskey in their hand, most of the men didn’t care. But the drunks came stumbling home as their wives pulled their curtains tightly closed and prayed for peace. The chatter from inside the warmly lit buildings of Copperhead seemed to quiet for a while, an unnatural, yet organic silence falling over the town’s center square. It usually took a few hours, but then the darkly clad figures would start to meander in. At a glance, they would have looked normal. Just a bunch of newcomers sweeping into the Crystal Snake for a pint and a hand of cards, but the air seemed to ripple around them as one or two entered, the atmosphere taking on a heavier and dimmer weight. Anyone who came too close was choked on the feeling of rot that coiled around them.

Outside the Crystal Snake, the clouds had parted to reveal the sliver of ghostly moon and its crown of stars. In a swirl of cream skirts and long red hair, Isa Eros exited the bar with a cigarette tucked between her fingers. Leaning on the post outside of the bar, her eyes scoured the dark night. Despite being late July, a chill had seeped into the air, spreading goosebumps down the bare skin of her arms. How easy it would have been to slip away from the bar and her shift and nip down to the Rattler. Refresh the spark underneath her skin, lit the flame inside her stomach. Life had been so boringly quiet lately, nothing a little spell wouldn’t fix. Copperhead had grown, many of the children grown up into young adults who would soon make even more babies. With a little magic under her fingernails she could weave a simple Cupid’s arrow and sling it at the most taken man in town in hopes of sewing some mischief into the town gossip pool.

Her spine tingled with the thought of it.

The clouds continued to shift away, the lights that hung on the houses illuminated the wide road into town flickered a few times. But then, July seemed to remember what her job was and the sticky warmth swept in again. And with it was a lone rider on a jet-black horse. Just as quickly as her goosebumps came and went, they prickled Isa’s skin again. She’d known that beautiful stallion and tall figure anywhere. He ambled up, reining his horse next to the others and swung gracefully off as if he’d been riding a horse for the last hundred and fifty years. Which, Isa knew, he had.

Before she could move back into the bar, a cold sweat broke out across her skin and the dew drops of sweat that had gathered on her forehead now made her feel clammy. With a slightly hitched gait, nondescript black suit and hat, Jackson S. Clark moved past the antique post and into the dim glow from the bar. “Isa.” His voice collided with her and made her shudder, his lightning blue eyes pinning her to the spot. He was slow moving, a cane in his hand as he climbed the stairs.  

“Jack of Knives,” She replied, her voice smooth, but clipped. He tipped the brim of his hat to her, and her heart jumped to her throat at the sight of his claws. Despite the inherent fear that tangled with her curiosity, she kept a warm smile on her lips, hip cocked out, and chest pushed forward. She looked away to snap her fingers in front of her cigarette, the end flaring with a sudden flame that ticked off her fingers. She inhaled deeply, letting it out slowly. The smoke clouded the air and just as it drifted away, Jack was gone.

She let out a sigh of relief and her trembling knees forced her to sit on the top step.

xxx

The bar doors opened and the laughter cut off. Except for a few gambling tables. The candle’s tiny flames shivered for a second, before returning to their cheerful glow and the chattered roared back to life. Jack lifted his hat off his head and slide his fingers carefully through his hair, smoothing the thinning dark waves. He stepped quietly up to the bar, smiling at the noticeable stiffens from the old men sitting closest to the door. The bartender wasn’t looking his way yet, and so he placed his hat on the counter and began to tap his nails on the hardwood.

Eyes darkened as they trailed to the source of the noise. Wicked iron claws tapped rhythmically, loud and sharp. The click of them would have faded to white noise, if they drew attention at all, had the nails not been tapered into perfect iron points. “Hey, Jackie boy.” A familiar southern lilt paused the tapping.

“Doc,” Jack’s voice was alluring, even if there was something off about him. He turned on his heel to face the dark clad figure he was sure would be grinning at him. The candles shivered again as another devil passed next to them, the light dimming around the two figures. Jack said nothing as Doc sidled up to him, leaning on the bar and clearly already quite drunk. Doc’s gray eyes already had a shimmer to them, a laughter on his lips. But Jack didn’t doubt that his fingers would be steady on his pistol slung on his hips.

Doc simply smirked, one elbow on the bar and the other on his hip. There seemed to be a stare down between the two of them, but the smile never faltered. Doc wasn’t afraid of Jack, he couldn’t be. He had no mortality to lose, his own southern charm matching the false gentlemanly wit of his darker counterpart. They’d be in this world for a hundred and so years, and had somehow, even though they lay on two sides of the coin, could respect each other.

A whiskey slid down the bar and quickly Doc swiped it just before it was caught in iron claws. “Jack be nimble, Jack better be quick,” Doc murmured as he straightened, about to saunter back to his table of poker. But right before he could get out of range, the cane swung out and the snake head topper bit into Doc’s shoulder and halted him. Doc turned slowly, removing his hat and facing Jack.

But the iron devil was already in front of Jack, grabbing onto his wrist and curling his talons into the soft flesh of his wrist. Jack said nothing, just went to pluck the whiskey from Doc’s hands when he felt something press into his stomach. “Don’t worry, Jackie, I’m not happy to see you,” Doc murmured, pressing the silver pistol into Jack’s stomach. “Wouldn’t want to do this in front of the ladies,” He jerked his head to a few scantily clad girls giggling by one of the booths and at Isa, who had just reentered to tackle her next shift of serving drinks.

Blood welled up underneath Jack’s nails, his grip becoming stronger. Doc’s smile twitched and a hint of pain shone in his darkened gray eyes. Sweat curled on the edge of his brow, the feverish pallor of his skin evident up close. Red flashed on the tips and Doc winced as Jack pulled away. Four crescent burns lay on the inside of his wrist now, the shallow slices cauterized shut. Doc twirled his pistol back into his low slung belt and headed back over to his table, pulling his sleeve down over the welts. Jack didn’t bother trying to conceal his wicked slice smile.

[statusquoergo]

Credit where credit is due, Gabriel did a nice job directing this episode. He had more screen time that I’m used to from actors pulling double duty, and he seems to have handled the extra workload well.

That’s not to say the episode was flawless. Yeah, by Season 9 standards, it was pretty good overall, but I mean. Season 9 standards.

We start off at home with Louis and Sheila having a terse exchange over tea as I wonder, yet again, why they’re together at all if they’re always so goddamn pissy about everything. Louis bemoans his demotion as Sheila irritably directs him to drink his rooibos and asks him what the big deal is, being that he didn’t even want the job in the first place (true). Louis parries that he only said that because Donna offered it to him the same night he found out about Sheila’s pregnancy (true), but at any other time in his life, he would have taken it (false). On the contrary, you may remember this fairly unambiguous exchange from “Pecking Order” (s08e02) between Doctor Lipschitz and Louis: “As I recall, you accepted Harvey becoming managing partner after Jessica left.” “That’s when I realized I didn’t want to be managing partner.” I suppose I’ve never accused this show of internal consistency before, why bother starting now?

Louis then delightfully compares himself to a ball-less cat and laments that though “the job wasn’t sunshine and rainbows, [he] was getting really good at it,” and excuse me but what? Forget that disastrous hearing that summoned Faye to their doorstep, his most recent acts as managing partner include trying to bully Professor Gerard into letting him be the keynote speaker at Harvard’s Ethic Conference to talk up his failing firm, and going completely off the rails trying to fire the poor IT guy for failing to digitally break into the New York State Bar Association. Louis sucked at being managing partner.

Next up is a reminder that I need to be careful what I wish for as Donna and Harvey discuss his reflexive support of her impassioned but quite incorrect argument against Louis trying to fire Benjamin, and how much she didn’t appreciate it. Turns out it wasn’t so reflexive; he did it because she thought she would like it, which is its own magnificently flawed concept—thinking she’ll get mad at him for disagreeing with her doesn’t say much for his respect for her integrity—but then Donna realizes that he’s afraid she’s going to leave him if he doesn’t unconditionally support her, and you just know the writers thought they were being real clever with this. (Wait, isn’t one of Harvey’s defining character traits his ability to read people? “You read books, I read people” was actually one of the first things he said to Mike in the pilot… Gosh it’s been a long time.)

As I was saying about this show’s internal consistency, two things about this whole exchange: One, all through Season 7, Harvey had no trouble calling Paula out when she was being ridiculous and disagreeing with her about all kinds of shit. Two, as recently as “Everything Changes” (s09e01), Harvey cooed that “[he’s] finally where [he’s] supposed to be” when he’s with Donna, to which Donna replied “We both are,” and like, are they a match made in Heaven right out of the box or what? His trust in their relationship is wildly inconsistent. Unless he wants to forfeit his autonomy for some reason? I don’t know, it’s weird and I don’t like it.

I also take issue with Donna’s dismissive “Oh, my god. Of course. Harvey, I’m not gonna leave you.” This has been an issue for him since forever, as she well knows, but rather than ask him what’s wrong—is he really afraid she’ll leave him over something so small?—or point out that he needs to go to therapy (if she wants to be tactful, she could ask if he wants to “talk to someone” about this), she treats it as an endearing character quirk, and someone needs to save Harvey from all this shit yesterday.

The interruption to this…reconciliation isn’t quite as cringy as the can opener bit from the last episode, but I’ve gotta call it out for being just some truly lazy storytelling. Gretchen appears out of nowhere to tell them they “need to go see Louis,” on account of his demotion, and Donna’s deer-in-headlights response is “Oh, my god. We need to go to him right now.” Yeah, no shit, that’s what Gretchen just said, except this framing affords Harvey the opportunity to mount his noble high horse and declare: “No. You go to him. I need to go see Faye.” Which he does, dramatic music and all, declaring that “dammit, not everybody has to do everything by [her] book,” and I must point out that she demoted Louis for trying to fire the employee who he asked to perform an illegal activity that he failed to perform only because he was caught; in what book is that okay? He then asserts: “You want consequences, I’ll give you consequences,” which is delightfully reminiscent of that old classic, “I’ll give you something to cry about,” in that it makes absolutely no sense, and Harvey, you adorable impetuous dumbass, if your goal is to convince her to leave, I think you might be going about it in a little bit the wrong way.

Roll title crawl! (No seriously, that was all just the cold open.)

Anyway Donna does go to comfort Louis, already treating herself and Harvey as a unit when she assures him that “if [he] ever [needs her] or Harvey during any of this Faye bullshit,” they’re there for him, and dropping the much more interesting detail that she has a much older sister she doesn’t want to talk about who “turned every man she was ever with into an emotional doormat,” which I don’t have time to fic right now but I feel like might explain a lot. Then Alex and Samantha have an endearing little exchange wherein Samantha proposes doing something to help Louis and Alex clarifies that it has to be ethical, and it’s nice to know that at least a couple of people around here aren’t completely insane.

Speaking of things being insane, I won’t fault Gabriel for this because the direction itself is fine, but from a writing perspective, the narrative construct of this next scene is terrible. Harvey shows up at a meeting with Some Guy whose nondescript company is apparently, thanks to his board and the company’s lawyers, being taken over (by someone) against his wishes, and the only hint of context for any of this is that “the people” orchestrating this takeover are “related” to Faye. The obvious conclusion to this exchange is that Harvey is going to help this guy, who is apparently the CEO of this random organization, sue the company by acting as a shareholder rather than a C-level employee, and I still have no idea what the fuck is going on.

Back at the firm where I do kind of know what’s going on, Susan the Associate approaches Katrina with a problem she found in the VersaLife case Katrina’s working, and as soon as they gave her a name in the last episode, I know she was going to be important. More to the point, it looks like Katrina’s got herself an associate! (Remember when senior partners were required to hire their own associates? It was a whole big thing back in Season 1, I think.)

Next up, Louis is having lunch with an old friend, Saul the Judge, who informs him that some other judge is retiring or being fired or something, and offers him a judgeship, and there is so much wrong with this scene that I don’t even know where to begin.

Yes I do. Since when has Louis’s lifelong dream been to be a judge? This is literally the first time he’s ever expressed any interest in it, at all. And another thing, that is not how judicial selection works.

In New York State, judges, depending on the court, are either appointed by the governor and confirmed by the State Senate, nominated by a commission and approved by the governor, chosen at a partisan nominating convention and elected by the voting public, or appointed by the mayor. Qualified individuals can apply to be considered, such as by the Mayor’s Advisory Committee, but there’s no one-and-done offer/acceptance transaction between someone currently on the bench and his lawyer pal, so either this guy is offering Louis a job that doesn’t exist or, more likely, the writers don’t know shit about the New York City legal system.

Moving on. Harvey shoves a recusal form in Faye’s face as he informs her that he “got” a case against her old firm, and he’s “taking it,” as though he didn’t go way out of his way to hunt it down in the first place. He then throws a stupidly juvenile hissy fit, claiming he’ll use whatever he fucking has to to “win,” and prove his system his better than hers, but he won’t have to cross any lines because she de-balled (second reference, just as charming as the first) the guys at her old firm so much that “they’re shaking in their boots” at the mere threat of lawsuit. This whole exchange is basically a showcase of Harvey acting like a spoiled child, and I know he’s a passionate guy but I gotta say, I’m getting tired of this whole act.

Back to that clusterfucking disaster of a judgeship offer, Louis fesses up to Sheila but admits that he doesn’t want to accept the drop in salary with a kid on the way, or leave his friends in the lurch, and she in turn fesses up that she asked Saul to make the offer in the first place because “being a judge has always been [his] dream.” (SINCE WHEN?) Louis is incensed until she tells him that it was basically Saul’s idea, but that if he doesn’t take it now, he’ll never get the change again, which… Why? Well, I guess they haven’t pointlessly manufactured any tension in awhile. Anyway, Louis promises to sleep on it.

Elsewhere, Samantha proposes committing conspiracy to get Faye out of their lives and Alex shuts that shit right away, and I’m actually really enjoying their dynamic right now. Susan asks Katrina what she should do about a smart, funny paralegal she clicks with; Katrina, having “seen that before,” recommends finding a new paralegal, and I’ve never had this question before but is Katrina anti-Machel for some reason? Doesn’t matter. Susan proposes reaching out to opposing counsel, who just so happens to be an old family friend, and Katrina wisely tells her not to, but somewhat less wisely starts and ends her rationale with “Because I know,” which I’m sure won’t motivate Susan to act in any sort of way.

Now, I’m no dream theorist, but luckily this show has all the subtlety of a Liberace action figure, so it’s not too difficult to figure out what Louis’s subconscious mind is trying to say: He wants to humiliate Faye (for demoting him and taking over his firm), he wants to bang Donna (and maybe also Alex), he thinks of Harvey as his peer but also his inferior (who he wants desperately to impress and probably also to fuck), and his confidence is mainly derived from the approval and admiration of others. Also he wants to have sex with basically everyone. Maybe not Gretchen. But everyone else.

Dr. Lipschitz, to whom Louis was evidently relaying the events of this dream, finds the whole thing quite amusing, but points out that if Louis takes the judgeship, he won’t have his friends around him anymore. Double-edged sword and all that.

Part II