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zmediaoutlet · 3 years

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in support of Texas relief, @padxleckiss donated $50, and requested always-a-girl!Deanna/Sam, lingerie, comeplay. Thank you for donating!

to get your own personalized fic, please see this post. (no longer taking prompts)

(read on AO3)

In the week after they get back from St. Louis, dealing with James and the witches and the familiars and everything that got dragged up along with them, Deanna throws herself into the bunker. Sam thought she was nesting before; turns out he didn't really know what that looked like, from his sister.

There's cleaning. There's rearranging. She turns the kitchen upside down and finds another farmer's market over in Smith Center that even in late February Kansas weather has produce that she fairly squeals over, when she's dumping her egg-crate of loot out onto the island. "How are you getting tomatoes this time of year?" Sam asks, and she makes a raspberry noise and says, "What? Greenhouses, or something, Sammy, don't bitch when I'm bringing home gold." While Sam's still digging out in the library, still trying to make sense of the diamond-mine of lore and records and history that they've fallen face-first into, Deanna makes mysterious trips to Wichita, to Topeka, to department stores, to—who knows where else, because Sam isn't invited, because he, apparently, "doesn't know how to shop." Sam didn't know Deanna did, considering that their whole lives she's lived on thrift-store finds and leftovers same as him, but apparently his sister has yet more depths Sam didn't realize he wasn't privy to until they were suddenly revealed.

She comes home late after another trip—swinging past Kevin on the houseboat, but clearly an excuse from the shopping bag swinging on the end of her finger—and Sam's tired from a long day sitting in the library and trying to manage this nagging cough without worrying about it, but she bounces up the steps and there's a shine to her that hasn't been there since—since Sam doesn't remember, how long—and he smiles at her, despite everything. "Good drive?" he says.

"Update, Kevin has advanced in his diet enough to alternate between hot dogs and Hot Pockets," Deanna says, and wraps an arm over his chest from behind and kisses his cheek, easily affectionate like they also haven't been in too long. He swallows, tasting iron, and catches her wrist to keep her there. She hmms, reading his laptop over his shoulder like she always does. Her hair swings down, too, falling over her shoulder, smelling like road and like the faintest trace of her crappy strawberry conditioner. More absently: "Not even the good kind. He's getting, like, off-brand meatball and four cheese."

"Did you cook?" Sam says, and she goes pff against his cheek—tickles, and he flinches away, grinning despite himself—and she says, standing, "I am not Kevin's mommy, Sam, what do you take me for?" When he cranes his head back to give her a face she presses her lips together, rolling her eyes, and says, "I mean, yes, I made lasagna, okay? Kid can't live on weird mystery meat alone. It's got tomato sauce, that counts as a vegetable." She snorts then, tugging her wrist out of his loose grip, and Sam flattens his hand against his chest instead, wanting her back already. "You shoulda heard the noise he made when he got the first bite, too. If he never lost his virginity before, that thing blasted his cherry."

"Dee," Sam groans—Kevin's been through shit but he's still a kid, as far as Sam's concerned—and she says ha, unrepentant.

"You eaten?" she says. Bag on the other table, the one she's staked out as hers, which he isn't allowed to spread 'moldy records' on, apparently. She squats at the brand new mini-fridge, rummaging, though when Sam's silent she gives him a sidelong look. "Samwise? Dinner? Supper?"

"That would make you Frodo," he says, and she rolls her eyes again, coming up with two beers. She cracks them on the edge of the fridge—there's already a scraped-spot coming up—and comes up to him holding his just out of reach, her eyebrows high. Sam sighs. "Yes. Like, two hours ago. The mothering routine is weird, you know."

"Oh, something about us is weird, huh?" Deanna says, smile pulling at her mouth, and when she holds out the beer for him to take she keeps her fingers on the bottle and pulls herself in when he takes it, sliding inside the v of his legs, pressing her thigh against his. He tips his head back and she leans in, making a fake sweet moue of concern. "Tell me about it, baby."

"Dude," he says, protesting only vaguely, and she grins outright, pushing his shoulder and turning away.

"Yeah, whatever," she says. She scoops her bag off the other table and half-salutes with her beer. "I've got a date with the shower room and some new sheets. You going to come to bed tonight, or is this whole lore fetish permanent?"

Asked casual, her eyes on her shopping bag as she presumably admires whatever purchases. Sam swallows down a cough. "Give me a few hours," he says.

Deanna glances at him, not smiling at all for a moment, before that little exasperated dimple peeks up in her cheek. "Fe-tish," she coos, half-singing, and he rolls his eyes for her to see so she'll grin, brief, before she disappears again, her boots clomping loud down the concrete hall, so he still knows where she is even if he can't see her. Sam holds the beer in both hands, running his thumb along the edge of the label, listening. The bunker feels different, when she's in it. The world feels different, when she's in it.

It's been… how has it been. Complicated. That's the best way, maybe, to describe it in brief and still be truthful. His sister is one of the most complicated people on the planet, though she'd protest that description. Sam's personal opinion is that she's one of the most complicated people in history, and considering their relative position in history it's probably not a stretch to figure that, on an objective scale, she's at least ranked.

The last eight months or so—that was complicated, too, although in some ways it was very, very simple. Sam had been with another woman for almost a year and Deanna had been with another man and regardless of extenuating circumstances—death, or presumed death, or loneliness so complete that it gave Sam nightmares, even now, these bleak dreams of an empty world where he calls out and his voice doesn't echo, a deaf-and-mute misery where all he sees is absence—that was it, pretty much. Since then, they've forgiven each other. They broke off other concerns and when Sam walked back into that cabin in Whitefish Deanna was standing at the window with her arms wrapped over her stomach, looking out at something Sam couldn't see. She cut her eyes over when Sam closed the door and Sam shrugged and her lips folded between her teeth and, for a second Sam's always going to remember, she closed her eyes very tight, the faint crow's feet beside them going white with tension. Then she went to the cupboard and got down two cans of chili, and Sam found the can opener, and she uncapped the beers. They ate silently, watching a rerun of a wrestling match with six inches of space between them on the couch, but they were together, and that was more, almost, that night, than Sam could handle. It wasn't until the ridiculous adventure with Charlie—until after—when he woke up in the middle of the night already reaching for his gun with her hand small on his wrist and red-and-white makeup still smeared at her temples, her hair still caught up in the ridiculous Viking braids Charlie had given her—with her leaning in, in the too-big t-shirt she'd stolen from him to sleep in when she first came back from Purgatory and, he quickly realized, nothing else—when she said, soft in the dark, Sammy, asking—and he touched the bare shine of her knee gleaming in the moonlight and saw how her eyes closed again, very tight again, and he sat up and put his thumb to the clenched tense skin beside her eye and put his lips to her cheekbone, on the opposite side, and felt all the way through his body the breath she let out, like a tension she'd held close for a year or more was unraveling, all at once.

His sister. He knows what that means, about them. It's worse, of course, because she's his sister who raised him, who taught him how to shoot and bandaged his skinned knees and who beat the shit out of the first girl who ever stood him up for a school dance, when he was fourteen, and Sam had tried to intervene but Deanna had whirled on him, furious, and said no one gets to treat you like that, you get me? No one. Sam remembered that moment on the Greyhound, pressing his forehead against the window and watching the pale grey Arizona desert go past in the moonlight, California beckoning and Deanna's face, turned away while Dad shouted, pinned miserably behind his eyes. His sister, rowdy and caring and bullish and sweet. The town whore, boys had claimed when Sam was a teenager, and he'd gotten in his own fights, for that, fights that had led to Deanna pressing wadded TP against his lip and holding frozen peas against his eye, shaking her head, saying, Sammy, I know I taught you to box better than this. You fixing matches and making bank on the side, or what? His sister, who stood smirking in his kitchen in Palo Alto, her eyes not cutting to the girl at Sam's side even once—who said to him, voice sore, we made a good team, back there—who said to him, when Sam was out of his skin with worry after moving matter with his mind when the vision of her dead had filled it, nothing bad's gonna happen to you, not as long as I'm around, and smiled at him with her eyes clear, like it was nothing but true—who wept, cracked-open miserable, when she was sure that their dad had sold his soul for her—when she said to Sam that she wasn't worth it, and she didn't know why he had—that she was sorry, that she'd lost their father for both of them—his sister, who he folded into his chest, cupping his hand around the wavy-thick weight of her hair, noticing in a way for the first time how small she was, compared to him, and how she quivered, shaking in agony, caught against him, and how when he tipped her chin up on that mountain pull-out in the late afternoon sunshine the tears gleamed on her cheeks and her face was wrecked, her eyes red and her nose shined with snot and her mouth screwed up, bitten red and chapped, but full when Sam dipped and kissed her—plush, and startled-open, when Sam kissed her—giving, and tasting of salt, and desperate, and furious, and yielding, and precious-sweet, delicate, shocked, when Sam kissed her. She blinked, when he pulled away, stunned silent. Her eyelashes clumped and dark, and her eyeliner smeary, and her mouth red, red, red. Sam touched her lower lip with his thumb and she took in a huge deep breath that stuttered on its way in, staring at him big-eyed, and then she gripped his hair in both fists and tugged him back down and kissed him again, vicious, and that—well, that was it. His sister, and him. All the years between then and now, and that's still what it boils down to. Sam and Deanna. No matter what, the and is still the most important word.

He comes to bed. Midnight. A little after. They have separate rooms but Deanna's is nicer, despite the guns racked on the walls, and the weird obsidian axe that Sam doesn't ask about in pride of place, above the headboard. She's made the room her own—girly, sort of, despite the weaponry, although Sam doesn't describe it that way out loud—a new-built rack of her FBI-pretext suits and her few dresses on the other side of the wardrobe, and a throw blanket and fluffy pillow she has completely failed to explain or acknowledge on the uncomfortable loveseat, and candles on the shelf above the bed that she clearly had burning for a while before she went to sleep, because the room smells faintly of orange blossom when Sam's pulling off his boots, leaving his jeans on the chair in the corner. When he slides into bed behind her into the apparently-new sheets she makes a faint questioning sound, her head turning. He shushes her very quietly, sliding his hand over the wide curve of her hip, over the blanket. The memory foam sinks beneath him, too soft, but the bed already smells like her and so it's comfortable, anyway. He presses his lips against her bare neck, the soft baby-hairs there silky, her hair pulled messily up for bedtime as always, and she sighs, in her sleep, and curls in closer to her pillow. Sam smiles at the back of her head, wishing—well, whatever he wishes doesn't matter. He tucks in, knees pulling up into the curve of her knees so that he'll fit in the bed, and closes his eyes, and figures that, whatever he dreams, at least when he wakes up he'll be here, in what passes for home, with his sister.

As a matter of course Sam wakes up first. Unless there's a job-related deadline or nightmares dragging her awake, Deanna would happily sleep straight through the morning, and with no check-out times nagging at them in the bunker she's often wandered out into the library wrapped in one of those too-big robes at ten a.m., her hair wrecked and her slept-in makeup smudged and her mouth surly, demanding to know if Sam's made coffee. He has always made coffee.

This morning, though. Sam's alarm goes off at seven as usual, and he groans and smacks his phone, as usual, barely awake but knowing that he doesn't want to hear Deanna's bitching if it wakes her up, too—but there's no too-warm plush weight plastered up against him, and no murmured threats of shooting the phone if he doesn't change his alarm sound, and when he drags his hand through his hair and sits up and his brain actually comes online—the bed's empty, and the room's quiet, and he sits there blinking, surprised, not really knowing what to make of it.

Smell of coffee, when he opens the door, and bacon-smell snaking underneath it. When he gets to the kitchen, still trying to rub the sleep out of his eyes, Deanna's in her sleep-shirt (still Sam's, the shoulders way too big and the v-neck gaping), and tugged-on shorts, and bare feet, and her hair in a honey-brown messy pile on top of her head, and she's in a whirl of breakfast, pancakes on the griddle and a pan of bacon going and something being whisked with extreme prejudice in one of the big steel bowls, more suited to feeding thirty than just the two of them. She jerks when she notices him, like she's been caught at something, but then her eyes go to his hair and she starts to smile, wide mouth pulling into what Sam thinks of as her Joker grin. "Don't start," he says, and she says, too innocent, "Start what? I think it's very brave that you're joining a Flock of Seagulls cover band," and he drops his head back and sighs and ignores her snort-laugh, but he also drags his hands through his hair a little more strenuously while she says, "Whatever, Pigpen, take a seat. Grub's up in five."

He gets coffee, first. Strong, but good—like, really, really good, for some reason that he doesn't quite get—it's the same machine, same crappy tub of pre-ground stuff they get from the little market in town—but then Deanna's always been better at this kind of thing than she let on, and he savors the first few sips, breathing caffeine. She ignores him, moving confidently around—the whisking it turns out was eggs, which she pours onto the griddle too and starts working like she's a line cook—and he watches her, content for a second to let that be the only thing he's thinking about. She was a line cook, once, he remembers. When he was in high school, and she'd quit school by then, and the credit cards hadn't come through. She got a job for a few weeks at that diner, in Joplin. "What was that place you worked?" Sam says, while she's flipping pancakes. She frowns at him over her shoulder. "They gave me free grilled cheese for dinner, that month."

The frown clears. "The Show Me Diner," she says, turning back to the griddle. "Manager always joked I should show him my tits." Sam pauses, cup halfway to his mouth. He never heard that part. Deanna laughs, scraping at the griddle with the metal spatula. "Man, that kitchen was gross. Great fries, though."

"The grilled cheese was good," Sam says, after a second, and she says, "Damn right it was, I was the one making it," and then she's ducking under the island and grabbing plates, and then in the next second there's breakfast—fresh and hot and delivered with a fork clattering down into his eggs and his sister plopping down on the other side of the table, tucking her foot under her other knee and gesturing with the other fork: "Eat, drink, be merry. Happy birthday, Sammy."

Sam frowns. "Uh," he says, and makes a show of looking at his watch. "Unless I slept way too late—"

She rolls her eyes, cramming pancake into her mouth. "Shut up," she advises, garbled, and he wrinkles his nose at the chewing but looks down at his plate. It does look good. Bacon's burned, exactly the way they both like it. He picks up a piece, lets it shatter on his tongue, but he gives her a look, too, and she rolls her eyes again—a little too obvious, playacted, which makes him pay more attention—and makes a show of swallowing. "I know, duh. But, hell. I wasn't here for the last one. And, you know, I didn't really get a chance to make it up to you. Before."

She cuts another bite of pancake, studiously piling it and syrup and egg and bacon-shards into one monstrous bite, while Sam's processing that. "We didn't do anything for yours, either," Sam says, after a few seconds. Jesus, his birthday? He was in Kermit, then, only barely coming to terms with how he was going to have a hole in his chest for the rest of his life. On Deanna's birthday—god, that was only last month—they were moving into the bunker, he thinks, and they were okay but that hole in his chest somehow still smarted, and Sam doesn't even remember if they did the bare minimum of pizza and beer.

"We can do a Seagal marathon sometime," she says, shrugging one shoulder, and smiling at her plate when he groans. "I'm taking the opportunity, dude. We've got a house, we've got steady cash, the world isn't currently ending, so. I'm in charge. Birthday queen. You've gotta do what I say."

"How is this my birthday, again?" Sam says, and she says, "Shut up," lightly, and then taps his plate with her fork and says, "Eat up, beanpole," and so he shuts up, and eats. Why not. It's good. Of course it is; she made it.

There isn't, it turns out, all that much of a plan. He washes their plates but then she shoos him out of the kitchen again, tells him to run a marathon or bench press a car or something, and so he goes for a jog, as ordered. Not much of one—full stomach, and the cough, which forces him to stop and lean against a fence-post and spit, laced with red. He licks his lips, swallows, and keeps running, and when he's back Deanna's still in her pjs, doing something in the library, and she gives him unimpressed eyebrows and says, "You look like you reek, Lance. Shower time." So, fine, shower time.

When he's done, he finds clothes in his room laid out for him. Basically pajamas: soft loungey sweatpants in a dark grey that are clearly brand new, and a thin soft black shirt to go with them. "Merry un-birthday," he hears, and when he turns Deanna's leaning in his doorway, clearly enjoying him in his towel. "You like?"

"Uh, I guess," Sam says, fingering the material. Their birthday presents to each other are usually along the line of a six-pack or embarrassing porn or, memorably, twenty-nine boxes of Ho-Hos when he turned twenty-nine. Three guesses who ate more of them. He picks up the sweatpants, giving her a quizzical look, but she only lifts one shoulder and raises her eyebrows, waiting, and he huffs and then, fine, drops the towel. It is sort of—something—how immediately her eyes drop to his dick, and he bites back a smile and tugs on the sweatpants with a minimum of show. They are soft, thin but warm in the bunker's cool air, and the shirt stretches only a little over his shoulders. He pushes the sleeves up to his elbows and turns, modeling. "You like?" he repeats.

"You'd still get thrown out of bed for eating crackers," Deanna says, eyes tracing his body. "But you'll do."

He comes to her, sliding a hand over her waist, and she doesn't move except to tip her head back, eyes steady on his. Watchful and more still, now, like she wasn't before Purgatory. The kiss is unhurried. He parts her lips with gentle pressure and she sighs, letting him in, her head tilting back. Her mouth, perfect. He slips his hand down to her hip, squeezing the wide curve of it through the t-shirt and the ancient denim cut-offs, and she unfolds her arms and wraps a hand around his wrist, stopping him from going further. When he pulls back her cheeks are a little flushed but she blinks at him, shakes her head. "Not yet," she says, and he frowns, confused. Like they haven't messed around in the middle of the day before? She bites her bottom lip, attempting to look coy. "I mean. There's… stuff to do, first."

Sam narrows his eyes and she switches from attempted coy to attempted innocence. "Dee," he says, and her eyes go round, guileless as a cartoon princess. He drags his thumb over the soft of her belly, his hand still trapped by her light grip but enough room for him to find the waistband of the shorts through the t-shirt, rub there. Her eyelashes flicker, but she remains steadfast. "Stuff to do," he says, finally. "Like what?"

"Oh," she says, waving her other hand. "You know. Important stuff."

Okay, so she's clearly got some plan. He glances down at himself, dressed for… nothing, as far as he can tell. If it's going to be an elaborate and terrible roleplay fantasy, as least she isn't making him be a cop or a doctor or something. "And what am I supposed to do?" he asks, conceding. "While you do important stuff."

She starts to grin but bites it back, in that way where her dimple peeks out. "I think you should hang out in the library," she says, half serious.

"The library," Sam says.

Deanna nods, the dimple deepening. "For like… an hour, probably." She tips her head, eyes cutting to the side. "Um, maybe longer. But I'm sure there's a book in there that'll entertain you, gigantic nerd that you are."

"Thoughtful," Sam says, and her grin blooms wide, her eyes crinkling in that way they do when she's really happy, and it catches in Sam's chest, like it always does. He dips and kisses her again, quick, just because he needs to, and she puts a hand to his jaw and lifts into it, eager, before she dips away, licks her lips, lifts a finger. Sam sighs. "An hour."

"Ish," she corrects, but she slides a hand down his chest to his stomach, presses in. "It'll be worth the wait," she says, warm and promising, in that way she has where she can flip from just the biggest dork in the world to the sexiest woman he's ever known, even in ratty pajamas and still all mussed from sleep, and he doesn't need more than just—her, just her, ever, and she should know that, but—he nods, and her eyes drop to his mouth and she looks tempted, but then she nods too, and disappears down the hall, bare feet noiseless on the concrete, and he closes his eyes and tells the warm wanting feeling in his gut that it has to wait, unfortunately, and he goes to the library, and he finds a book.

He doesn't actually know how long passes. He stands over the archiving work that he still needs to do but—god, he's not going to be able to concentrate on that, with this tugging in his belly that says he's got something better coming down the pipe. He goes over to one of the alcoves, instead, picks one of the leather armchairs, picks a book off the shelf. History—the Spanish incursion into Tenochtitlan—and it's dry and old-fashioned and he scans page after page, half-focused, barely taking in details about the supernatural elements of Aztec ritual when he's thinking about…

It took him until he left to realize that he judged all women against his sister. His first official college hookup, after a freshman mixer, was a perfectly nice girl whose name he can't quite remember, but he remembers to this day how he thought: shorter than Deanna. Blonder than Deanna. No freckles, not like Deanna. When she tugged him into her dorm room, both of them more than tipsy on jello shots and cheap beer, she tugged off her tank top and dragged his hands up to her breasts and he'd thought, in a way he didn't examine at all until much later, that they were bigger than Deanna's, and her ass filling his hands was—was probably smaller, although Sam didn't have the evidence then to know it, and when he rolled off of her afterward she curled up against his arm and promptly fell asleep and he looked at her muzzily confused and thought, distantly, that Deanna didn't do that, with guys, that the few times she'd brought someone home to their motel room when she thought Sam was either out or sleeping she'd fucked the guy and gotten whatever satisfaction she got and then showed him the door, and they were done, except for how sometimes Sam would squint carefully through shut eyes at how she stood with her back to the door for a few minutes, her eyes closed and her head tipped back and her body barely hidden in a big t-shirt or a towel, and he didn't know what she was thinking, then. She certainly didn't just roll over and drool on the guy's shoulder, until he had to awkwardly extricate himself, and fret over leaving a number, and then ultimately decide to just go. Bethany, Sam remembers, suddenly. It was Bethany, who was not Deanna.

He's stretched out in the chair, book open but mostly-abandoned on the arm of it, staring unseeing out at the library. Deanna, five foot seven in her bare feet, her lips a plush pretty curve and her tits a good handful and her ass, god, her ass, that she fretted over when they were younger and made him say that it wasn't fat—but it is, god, this fat perfect swell, impossibly hot along with her wide hips and her thighs gorgeous below and her body just—made for his, he thinks, sometimes. Even if of course that's impossible because they shouldn't be—it shouldn't be how it is, between them. Impossible or not, though—

"Ahem," he hears. He looks up.

Deanna's standing there, one hand on his research table, the other holding closed her grey dead man's robe. Sam blinks, taking her in. Her hair's up but she's clearly taken some time to style it—not quite the FBI-agent bun she's perfected, but looser, and the layers near her face tucked faux-messily behind her ears. Make-up, her eyes framed with liner and thickly sooty, but nothing on to hide the freckles, and her lips shining like they're freshly licked with that clearish-pink gloss she likes. Nothing too odd, or different. She takes another step, that clicks, and he glances down to find that she's wearing heels—not ones he recognizes, very high and impractical and shiny black, not her usual at all—and above the heels—

"I'm in charge, remember?" Deanna says, dragging his eyes back up to her face. "You've got to do what I say." He nods, feeling his face already getting hot, and he sits forward but she holds up a hand. "Stay sitting," she says, firm, "and don't touch, okay, not until you're told," and with that, she unclasps her other hand from the front of the robe, and lets it slide off her shoulders, and Sam takes in a breath and doesn't know if he ever lets it out.

The heels are the least of it. It's hard to take in all at once. His eyes leap from detail to detail. Deep maroon, in the silky material of the bustier, the bra-cups curved in and arrowing down to satiny buttons that close it at the front. It covers her ribs, surprisingly modest. Modest, too, the matching maroon panties done in a full cut, except that they're also sheer lace, and he can see the shadow of her trimmed hair through them, barely visible through the pattern. What's making his mouth dry, though, beyond the fact of her presented like this, is: a wide black garter belt, sitting high on her hips, leaving just an inch or two of bare white belly below the bustier—the arch of it high enough that the soft dimple of her navel's visible, above the waist of the panties—thick ribbons, for the garter, that curve sweet over her hips and down her pale thighs—and half-sheer thigh-high stockings, black lace thick at the tops, going all the way down her long legs to the heels, shining in the puddle of the discarded robe.

One heel turns in, her knee bending a little. Sam's dick pulses, caught in the sweatpants. This isn't—she doesn't bother, never has, and he never even thought to ask—in his life, he wouldn't have asked—

"Surprise," she says, spreading her hands to the side like a dancer, and Sam says, "Holy shit, Deanna."

Her tongue flicks to wet the center of her top lip. Nervous, almost, but what in god's name would she have to be nervous about? "Figured I could dress up," she says, shrugging—god, the way that makes her tits move—"and you know, it's your birthday, or uh—your unbirthday, right? So—"

"Are you sure I can't get up?" Sam interrupts. She blinks at him. "I really want to get up."

"So—" she says, fingers curling, and Sam says, "God, come here," with his voice rough in this way he didn't intend it to be, but she blinks again and then smiles, slow, her tongue pressing against the back of her teeth, and she steps forward, hips swaying, coming close enough to touch. He starts to reach but she puts her fingers to his collarbone and stops him, pressing him to the back of the armchair, and then she stands between his spread knees, leaning over him a little, so he can smell—the chemical peach of her bodywash, and the faint vanilla of the lotion she prefers, and beneath that—christ—he can smell her, her body clearly ready from whatever she was thinking as she put all this on, and he has to grip the arms of the chair very tightly not to get his hand on her pussy and find out just how ready she is.

Deanna trails a finger down his sternum, looking down at him with her lower lip caught in her teeth. "Didn't think this was going to be this much of a hit," she says, quiet, and Sam huffs. He's still looking all over. God. Her soft belly, lightly dented by the garter belt. The way the buttons of the bustier strain over her tits. "Hey, Sammy? Tell me something." He makes some sound. The stockings, christ, the stockings—that's doing something to him he didn't even know—"If you could do anything right now what would you do?"

His brain doesn't engage with the answer; it comes straight from his balls. "I'd eat your pussy," he says, and Deanna's hand spreads on his chest like a star, her chest heaving under the breath she takes. "Can I?" he says, belatedly, looking up finally at her face, because he wants to suddenly very badly, can practically taste the wet split of her, and she's pink over her cheekbones and ears, her lips wet and flushed, already, but she says: "No," and climbs into the armchair with him, instead, straddling him, her ass settling down on his knees, her hands in his hair, pulling his head back, making him keep eye contact. She dips her head, lips brushing his, and he opens his mouth for her but she doesn't quite kiss him. A tendril of hair swings forward, brushing his cheek, and she follows it, her lips faintly wet and a little sticky from the gloss, trailing over his cheekbone, breathing warmly damp against his ear. Her thighs clench around his and his hands flex, on the chair-arms, and his dick—god, he hasn't hardened up like this with no contact at all in years, didn't even know he could, but any second now it feels like he's going to start leaking, ruin the new pajama pants she gave him.

"If I asked you to hold on," she says, low and private against his ear—like anyone else could hear, like they're in a strip club and she's offering a private show. "You think you could? Hold on, not go until I said?"

"What, because I'm on such a hair trigger the rest of the time?" he says, attempting lightness, but honestly—christ, it feels like that could be a danger, right now, with her in his lap like this, with her smell, with her fingers dragging out of his hair and down his chest again, trailing down his abs through the sleep shirt. "God, Dee—you're so—" He's interrupted, when her fingers brush against the shape of his dick, through the sweatpants. She leans back, looking between them, her lips barely parted and her eyes dark. His dick flexes, against her hand, and her eyes flick up to meet his. "I can hold on," he promises, recklessly, and she flattens her palm and presses him thick against his own thigh where he's caught awkward in the soft material, but her chest heaves again on a deep breath, clearly as turned on as he is, and he says, then, "Kiss me," and she leans down immediately and does.

No touching rules or no, he's not going to just sit here, inert. He lifts up into the kiss right away, knocking her mouth open and licking inside, and she grips his hair again, fucks her tongue against his, squirms. "Scoot forward—come here—" she mumbles against him, half-coherent, and he hikes his hips forward between her legs so he's right on the edge of the seat and that, fuck, that tucks his hips warm between her thighs where he belongs, and his dick swells up against her pussy, the heat of it intense even through the layers of sweatpants and lace.

She doesn't tease, not exactly. She grinds down against him but then slips her hand right back to his dick, cupping the bulge of it firmly through the soft cotton and then sliding her hand inside. God—soft, warm. She rubs her thumb at the base, scratching her nail through his pubes, and then says, "Get it out," and he lifts, squirms, drags the waistband of the new pants down below the urgent heave of himself. Christ, he's hard. She presses right up close against him, thighs closing around his hips and his dick crammed tight up between his stomach and the scratchy lace of her panties, and she fists him capably, knowing, her cheek pressed against his and looking down between them, her breath heaving. She presses his cockhead up against herself, smearing it in the window of bare skin between the waist of the panties and the line of the garter belt—the sensitive ridge catching against her navel—and rubs her thumb hard under the crown—and fuck, fuck. Sam's balls ache. "Jeez," she says, low but light. "Happy to see me, huh? Wish I could suck it but I think I'd tear my tights if I went on my knees."

Sam groans. "You could try," he says, and she snorts, smears her lips against his jaw, kisses him brief and hot. She's as turned on as he is, which isn't helping him cool down at all. "Fuck, Dee. Let me—can I—"

"You can touch my ass," she offers, and he grabs her there immediately, squeezing, tugging her in so the spine of his dick crushes in against her pussy, grinding where her clit's got to be swelling, all trapped in the lace. She hitches air, back arching, and presses his dick firmer there with the hand caught between them, riding the pole of him. It feels outstanding but he's half-distracted because her ass, her ass. Fat and hot and so soft, denting under how hard he's gripping her. He slides his thumbs under the garter straps, tugging, and then sliding down, daring, finding the clips where they attach to the stockings. She squeezes his dick and he pulls, there, slipping his fingers under where the top of the stocking rides high and sweet and tight, and groans again, and says thoughtless Deanna, and she lifts her head up, looks down at him, eyes bright and her face flushed and her lips wet and her expression half-thoughtful, half-delighted. "Sammy," she says, and he squeezes the fat sweet swell where her ass rises up out of her thighs, the garters slipping silky against his palms. "That doing it for you? My stockings?"

He can hardly say, just lifts up and kisses under her jaw, sliding down to suckle at her throat—pulling—but she finds his hands, arrests them. He wants to knock them away but his brain's not completely offline yet and he stills, lets her pull his wrists away—lets her stand, fuck, up, wriggling backwards off his lap and getting her heels on the floor again, standing. "Hm, let's see," she says, low, and turns around, and that's when he gets to know that the stockings ride just a little higher in the back, the straps pulling with how the belt's fastened high at her waist, and they've got a thick seam that arrows down the line of her legs, ending in a little triangle of lace at the heel, just barely visible above the patent leather. The panties are practically sheer in the back—the lace finer, showing the crack of her ass—and the bustier dents in at the sides of her waist, making the tiniest roll there between the edge of it and the top of the garter that makes him want to fucking bite her, there, feel the soft flesh, taste her salt.

She's kicked the fallen robe out of the way and found the research table, her table, the one that's clear of books and mess. She bites her lip like a coquette and beckons, and he's up in a second, crowding in close, hands on the table on either side of her hips because she said, she said—

"If you want," she says, looking up at him, flushed, "you can eat me out, now."

He goes to his knees so fast it hurts and his mouth's between her thighs in the same second. He opens wide, breathes hot, sucks through the lace—her taste, right there, the fabric soaked at the little knot of the seams coming together—and she groans, bracing her heels on the floor, her ass barely perched on the edge of the table. He knows her cunt in every single way but like this it feels new, wrapped and pretty and served up for him, and he takes it slower, savoring. Drags his teeth over the unfamiliar scratch of the lace, kisses the pale-plump inside of her thigh above the edge of the stocking and suckles there, pulling tighter and tighter until she's squirming and gripping his hair and saying Sam breathless, and then switching to the other side and doing the same. Fuck, her smell. Salt-ocean, the queer unmistakable tang of pussy. He sucks at her clit through the fabric, not hard but in slow pulsing drags of his mouth that work her plump lips even fatter with hot blood, and her hips lift against him, a low pleased noise making his dick pulse. "Take them off," she says, somewhere, and he lifts up and kisses the little half-moon of skin above the waistband, fucks his tongue into her belly-button, and when he tugs—he pulls—dragging the panties down under the constriction of the belt and its straps—and he doesn't know how to get them out without ruining her whole costume—but christ, these are his present, aren't they?—and so he pulls harder, tears, and she gasps up above, "Holy shit, you lunatic," but then the lace is in two pieces and her thighs are pulling wide and he gets to dip his head and lick wide up the whole glossy slit of her, burying his nose in the slick-wet gingery patch of her hair, getting the salt without any stupid fabric in between. She grabs his head, pulling him closer, and he hooks his fingers into the straps of the garter belt and works, deep sloppy licks that smear slick all over, her clit swollen and aching just like he likes it. He spreads her wide with the edge of his thumbs, not touching, and licks the entrance to her vagina without dipping inside in the way he knows drives her absolutely nuts—and, yes, her thighs close around his shoulders and she arches with this surprised stupid sound that makes him grin against her cunt and she says, "Fuck, fine, fuck, get up here, come here—" and he stands slow, kissing her belly and her sternum and breathing against trapped satin swell of her breasts before she grabs his face and kisses him, eating her own taste out of his mouth.

"If you don't get your dick in me," she says, panting, "in about two seconds—" and so he grabs her ass and tips her backwards on the table and feeds his dick inside, pressing in bare, the scraps of lace tickling a little at his skin but the overwhelming feeling just the, fuck, the tight slippery grip of her, the close-grasping heat, the way she arches and makes this little hurt sound when he gets deep because he's thick, and he didn't even finger her to warn her, but she's so sloppy-wet he's not sure it makes much of a difference. He tips his hips in and presses his pelvis against her clit and leans in deep and kisses her, just staying still for a minute, feeling—christ. All of her. She slides a hand down between them and feels where he's splitting her wide, and he rocks back a little so she can hold his dick and then feel it slot right back in where it belongs. Fuck. "Fuck," she says, breathless, her hand flattened between their hips, and then Sam realizes she's massaging her mound with heavy, slow pressure. "Come on," she says, low and tight against his cheek, and he grips her hips and works her with a deep rocking, hardly pulling out, just grinding up and up and up inside while she works herself from the outside, and it's no surprise at all when she comes, fast, rippling inside and clenching so hard that he can barely move for fear of getting pushed entirely out. He drops his forehead to her collarbone, pushing deep, letting her clench and pulse. His dick feels so fat and swollen he could imagine all the blood in his body's there. It certainly doesn't feel like he's brain's involved.

Deanna sighs, after a second. "Holy crap," she says, like relief. "Mm. Lift up, 'kay?" He lifts up, keeping his hips right in place—his back cracking as he stands all the way straight—and she's flushed and pleased, spread out below him. "Shirt off?" she says, and so he strips it off, tossing it to the other end of the table. She reaches out and trails cold fingertips over his pecs, his abs, licking her lips. "Hm," she says, and smiles at him, wide and unexpected. She kicks her heels off, each one clattering to the floor, and lifts her legs against his sides, the stockings slick and smooth against his skin. He grabs her thighs immediately, savoring the long clench of muscle under the satin. She unbuttons the top two tiny buttons on the bustier—the top three—her tits spilling a little, the creamy swell of them loosened, and when she arches he can see the dark shadow of areola, peeking from below the maroon cups. She laughs a little at whatever his expression is, and then reaches down and grasps his hips, the sweatpants still barely caught around his ass. "Okay, birthday boy. Your turn. You can do whatever you want, but—" and her nails dig in, making his ass clench. "You make sure you come inside."

"Jesus christ, Dee," Sam groans, and she grins, eyebrows popping high like she's made a joke she's letting him in on, but it's not a joke, christ, it's not at all, and he hooks his fingers into the garter again and jolts his dick inside, deep as he can where he knows it knocks her cervix, and her eyes fly wide and she grasps his biceps instead, thighs clamping around his waist in shock, and that's—yeah, yeah, that's what he wants, and so he nails her again, and then one more time to make her gasp in a deep choked way and say shocked oh, that's—oh, and then he leans down and mouths her tit away from the soft cup of the loosened bustier and slip a sweet dark nipple into his mouth and then he just—fucks her, gripping her thighs and suckling her tit and slotting in and in and in to the perfect wet of her, making her gasp, making her clench and cry out, her heels dragging against his ass in harsh drags, scratching because of the lace, the seams of these perfect fucking stockings, pulling at him. She's soaked, her pubes a sticky mess when he drags his thumb over her clit, and he drags that wet up over her quivering belly to the garter belt, smearing there, rolling his dick in these demanding dragging slides that are making Dee arch her back, lift up one elbow, her other arm hooked around the back of his neck, her hips working back against his, her lips wet and helpless against his temple as he works her, her pussy grasping and clenching and knocked-open for him. He pulls out just because he can—feels the load of wet that spills out with him—looks down between them, at her tits spilling flushed out of her lingerie and her garter twisting and her stockings, fuck, still neat and tight in place even with her all red-sloppy and fucked-open between them—and when he pushes back in, her pussy parting immediately and welcoming, tight, perfect—she groans in this deep shocked way that connects directly to his nuts, a molten tight thing taking over where his brain ought to be, and he hooks a hand into the split of the bustier and grips a thigh tight against his side and fucks her hard, fast, his orgasm screaming up his back. If he weren't feeling so insane he'd wait for her, make sure she came again good, but it's—this is for him, she said, she wanted this, she wanted him to have her wrapped up like a present, to use like she told him to use her—and he dips down and finds her nipple again and bites there, sinking his teeth into the swell of her tit, and she squirms and clenches and says hot and quick, "Sammy, Sammy—harder—" and he unloads inside, just like she asked him to, his wad pulsing out of him hard enough that his thighs shudder, struggling to keep him up. He slams a hand on the table by her head and she flinches and moans at the same time, feeling it maybe—his dick twitching and pulsing so urgent that surely, she can feel it, even if she's so wet she can't tell her slick from his load—and he lifts off her tit with his jaw loose and his mind strange as an animal fresh off a kill, and she clutches her legs around his hips to keep him tight inside and grabs his head in both hands and presses her mouth open against his. Not kissing. Just their lips brushing, and their air shared and hot, and her forehead tipped against his, bone to bone.

His dick throbs, satisfied. His balls clutch, unload another wet pulse. He slides his hands down her sides, catching on the bustier, and then up again to frame her tits in the soft cups. The left one's out, the bitemarks obvious. He tugs down the little maroon-silk shield on the right and finds that breast full and pale, faintest freckles dusting the top, and kisses it softly, tender. Licks over the half-swollen bud of the nipple and feels it tighten, and suckles it gently when it does. Deanna's fingers comb through his hair, her chest rising against his mouth, and below her pussy clenches around his still-hard dick, needing. Wanting him.

He lifts his head and she's watching him, very close. Her eyeliner's smeared with the sweat of their fucking, the lip gloss long-gone. He fucks his dick in and out, carefully, and watches her eyelashes waver, and then slides out all the way and feeds three fingers in right after, squishing in on the mess he left, his thumb riding over her clit. Deanna's hand flashes down, fingers covering his thumb, and he lets her take over, watching not her hand but her face as he helps her chase it. She's close, has to be with how swollen and hot she is around his fingers. He kisses the pale inside curve of her tit where the bustier buttons are split wide, and the sweet peek of her belly, and then crouches and spreads his mouth wide on the thin skin of her hip, where the garter strap's still hanging on, fucking his fingers in again and again in steady pulses while Deanna arches and tightens and clutches around him and then ripples so hard he can't move, for a second. He looks up and she's silent, her mouth split and dark on a heaved breath, her head tipped back. He rubs his thumb over her wet fingers and she shudders, and he's pushed out of her pussy that way, the muscle clenching deep. His fingers are smeared white. She grabs his hand, quick, and pulls, and he stands up between her legs again and his dick presses against her pussy and he watches while she wraps her lips around his fingers and sucks, her eyes closing in concentration, her tongue slick against his knuckles, getting every last drop of come, until he's clean. He tugs his fingers out and she blinks at him, looking almost dazed, and he holds her eyes while he slots inside again and scoops out another gob of come—christ, it's slipping down against her thigh, staining her stocking—and he collects that too, and presents it to her, and she takes his wrist in both hands and sucks it all in, taking it, wanting all of him.

It's—quiet, after. Sam's tugged his sweatpants up. They're folded into the armchair but she's in his lap, this time, tucked in with her head on his shoulder, her legs slung over the arm. Deanna's torn panties are discarded on the floor and he keeps looking at them. "Do my hair?" she murmurs, finally, and he shifts them a little so he can reach and then does, searching careful for the bobby pins and pulling them out one at a time, setting them on the side table with little clicks, mussing her hair to looseness as he goes. Long time, since she asked for this. Not since… god, it was when Sam's mind was still trapped behind a wall, and he'd had a few bad flashes of memories he didn't understand. When they'd screwed madly, after that terrible job with the mannequins, and she'd held him inside in the same desperate, needing way, and she'd…

Her hair falls to mid-back, when all the pins are out. He combs his fingers through it, thick and soft. "Thanks," he says, quiet.

"Thank you," she says back, snuggling her head against his chest. "Now I'm not gonna stab myself in the middle of the night. Hallelujah."

Quiet, dumb. He sweeps her hair over her shoulder and runs a finger down her spine instead, finding the edge of the bustier and rubbing there in a soothing, repetitive line. "Dee," he says, asking, and she sighs, and doesn't say anything.

That time, that last time, when she'd been so desperate and clinging, when she'd wanted him inside. Held her hand against herself when he pulled out and felt the load he'd left, and of course it couldn't do anything, she'd been on birth control since she was fifteen, but it had made something go queerly hot in his gut to see it. Like some instinct she was operating on, trying to absorb him every way she could. Greedy, his sister. At least she used to be. He wonders if that's true, now, and doesn't know if he can ask. She's nesting, she's content, but between them—things are good, but…

Sam kisses the top of her head and she makes a small content noise, turning her face against his throat, her lips soft. He runs a hand over her knee, the stockings slick, and finds the lacy top, plucking lightly where it bites into her skin. He pulls at the garter strap and she smiles against his skin. "Never thought you'd be such a horndog about this," Deanna says, and it's sleepy-smug enough that he pinches her, on the soft plumpness of her thigh, barely hard enough that she'll feel it. She completely ignores that and crosses one knee over the other, bumping her leg up into his palm. "Should I get more? Pantyhose under the FBI suit?"

"I thought you said pantyhose was the patriarchy trying to suffocate women to death, or something," Sam says, and Deanna leans back so he can see her face, grinning, and says, "Yeah, but if it gets your dick that crazy then I'll deal with suffocation, doofus."

Honest, and nothing but content. Sam slides his hand over her belly where the garter's still digging in and slips two fingers between the clutch of her thighs where her pubes are still damp, incredibly hot, and she blinks at him surprised and then her smile changes, her thighs pulling open just like that. Easy for him, just like always. Sam puts aside any other worries and nods, thoughtful. "I guess I wouldn't mind seeing you use a garter belt to strangle a vamp," he says, and she barks out a quick delighted ha! and then lifts her mouth to his, opens her body to his, and he takes what's on offer instead of wondering about what's not.

#ffcc #wincest #girl!dean #lingerie #my writing #sam going nuts for deanna's pussy is even more boneheaded than him going nuts for dean's ass #which is saying something

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lee-scribbles-and-doodles · 3 years

Text

Episode 4 reaction

Sam and Max using the roach to prank the commisioner 😄😄😄 (Date Goals)

"Demonic possession is the gift that keeps on giving"

We're fighting the president? Is this the golem Abe Lincoln intro episode?

It is, I wasn't paying attention to the episode title or image I just hit play as soon as the game booted up

"Get the keys" Lol of course the only thing Max cares about is his gun

Can we talk about how much of a bop the intro is. I wasn't paying it much attention previously but it's real nice

Asdfgh how did Max's boxing glove get on the white house lawn?

Lol why is Jimmy allowed in the white house

"Doggy daddy, this is lose canon. Requesting permission to pants this goon."

"Ah, emotional violence. Good plan!"

I like Superball :)

"I'd like you to smell these two handkerchiefs and tell me which smells more like clauroform."

"I want to write down a reminder to smother you with a pillow in your sleep."

"I'll drive!" "Not while I'm alive." "Exactly."

"That fox is totally checking you out. Go for it Sam!"

Lol. Sybil is a dating service now.

"Ever feel lonely, Max?" "No, I have the voices to keep me company."

Sybil's surprised that Sam and Max want to get dates. I'm 100% sure she ships them.

Lol, she really diagnosed them with "mlm who should be dating."

Lol, she agrees with Max that being a volcano God is better than being a matchmaker.

Mr. Spatula apparently went crazy because of Sam's blood???

"I still don't trust him, Sam. He's tasted your blood."

They're keeping Leonard in the closet!?

Oh, Hugh Bliss. At least he's better than the soda poppers. (I think it says something that peepers creeps me out more than the obvious cult leader).

It's cute that Max is so into the prismatology nonsense.

Bosco is Russian now

Max breaking the fourth wall and staring directly into my soul was slightly creepy

Asdfgh HOW does he have a satellite defence system?

His truth serum is just whiskey or something, right?

Max why would you use someone's toothbrush to clean out your ears????

"I could donate my body to science again, but the guys at the lab seemed pretty spooked last time."

"It's okay Max, I've been paying them out of your retirement fund."

"Federal pudding embargo"

"--Anybody need their nuts cracked" "heehee"

Lol, I got kicked out for trying to enter the war room.

Whizzer is a governor?

Also SHIT I have to deal with the soda poppers again

Chuckles roasting Sam and Max has me dying

"Your codependency sickens me."

Max trying to give Chuckles puppy dog eyes

Sam doesn't know who George Washington is

"Foolish chief executive! Does he not fear us?"

"Just the funnies." "You mean the obituaries, Max." "Potato, patato."

Whizzer is addicted to soda?

"Pop heads"

Sorry Whizzer, we got to get rid of you, drink your soda gdi

"I don't have a conscience, Sam. What's your excuse?"

Oh, I get rid of Chuckles by sending Whizzer to the war room

Oh so we're just killing the president, huh? Good thing he was a puppet (apparently)

"Sam did it!"

Love Chuckles

Oh golem Lincoln is the Lincoln memorial!

The commissioner is omnipotent

Oh, Max gets to add president to his career list!

Superball: "Solid Oak. Good Doors. Strong doors."

"I was on TV" (Yeah my mans, you sure was)

I'm pretty sure I can give sybil Lincoln's flyer... yup!

Oh, no. Do I have to set baby girl up for disaster.

Oh Sybil honey I'm sorry

No baby girl don't cry

Max's happy run to the desk 😭😭😭

And Sam's fond look 💖

Max immediately lording his power, ofc

At least I get to make it up to sybil by giving her enough money to go on a nice vacation.

Bosco honey, please get some new hot dogs

I knew the truth syrum was alcohol.

Hehe funny Easter egg joke go vrr

I'm giving the alcohol to Whizzer. He seems like the most logical choice

Wow little man can not hold his beer

Yeah, alcohol is the best truth serum

Omg they’re actually starting a war

Superball is singing???

What is happening!?

Sam has the most wtf expression ever, Max is just staring ahead

Ok this is a bop

Superball is a really good singer

Omg it just keeps going

At least Superball is having a good time

"Well." "Let's not do that again."

Secretary Superball of Mysterious Gassy Emissions/Secretary of Meats and Cheeses

"A vacation? Permission to weep openly sir." "Granted, and encouraged."

What to do in time of war. 1. Select Target. 2. Press Fire.

Imma blow up EVERYTHING

Asdfg KRYPTON!?

"This will teach them to put me in the Phantom Zone!"

Oh, Bosco IS being watched

Good way to test out his defense system... It works! Good thing cause that would've totally killed him.

Ok I got the Beacon

"I like to think I transcend genre conventions Sam."

"Lincoln smash!"

Max (lounging on table): Shouldn't we revel a little bit?"

"We broke two presidents in one afternoon!"

"Sam, you're my best friend." 🥺🥺🥺

I love these two.

#sam and max #freelance husbands #sam and max freelance police #sam & max #sam & max freelance police #sybil pandemik #bosco #agent superball

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forlornmelody · 3 years

Text

The Fantabulous Vacation of One Harley Quinn and Her Girlfriend Poison Ivy

Rating: T (suggestive themes, cartoon violence)

Fandom(s): DC Comics

Ship: Poison Ivy/Harley Quinn

Linkage: Ao3

Summary: Harley's been burning the wick at both ends and Ivy knows just the thing to help. But it takes more than just a change of scenery to get Harley to let go.

Note: Commission for @rookie009

~*~*~*

“You’re probably wondering Mr---Watchman--”

“Tockman.” Mr. Watchman spits. “William Tockman.”

“Why I’ve brought you here today.”

Mr. Watchman rolls his eyes. “I imagine you’re going to tell me.”

“Ah! Good. You’ve stopped struggling. Progress, Mister!” Harley boops him on the nose. Maybe she made the binding too tight? “I’m not cutting off your circulation, am I?” She leans in close. “Are you comfortable? I need you comfortable.”

“I’m tied up in ropes, wench!”

“Ah, see! This is what I’m talking about!” Harley sits across from him and his fainting couch, pulling her pen from her bun and making a heading on her notepad. “You have a whore madonna complex.” Chewing her pen, she murmurs, “perhaps from the trauma of your wife’s death? Cystic Fibrosis, was it?”

Her new patient says nothing. “Mister?” Harley glances up. “Willy?”

“Help!” William Tockman dangles from his left ankle, suspended in air by a beefy vine. “She’s gonna kill me!”

“Oh please. You’re hardly worth the trouble.” Ivy steps around him and the vine, brushing the dust off her hands. “Hi Harls!” How she got the vines up this far on this abandoned apartment building, Harley has no idea. But it sure has a lot of brick to climb.

“Ivy!” Harley doesn’t so much as hug her as ram her at full speed.

Her target, used to such behavior by now, braces for impact and manages to hug back. Harley takes a big whiff. “Mm. Jasmine?”

“Lilacs.” Ivy peers over at Clock King. “You...uh, busy?”

“Mm yeah. A little tied up at the moment. Or he is, at least.”

“So I see.” Ivy chews her lip, staring out the window as if she had left a reminder there. She makes a face as the draft stirs some of the painting tarp discarded on the floor. “I was thinking maybe we could get out of town for a bit.”

“HELP.”

“Are you asking for help, Billy? Or do you prefer Willy?”

“HELP ME! THESE WOMEN ARE CRAZY.”

“Great!” Harley says brightly. “Admitting you need help is the first step towards healing!”

“Harls? Are you even listening?”

“You need help dismantling another CEO along with his company?”

“No.”

“Fundraiser for conservation efforts?”

“Harley--”

“Pride pre-game with Kitty?”

“Harleen.” That stops Harley short. Ivy never calls her that. Mostly cause she hates getting called Pamela with an undying passion. Probably childhood trauma. But Harley digresses.

Ivy sighs. “Sorry. Look. I need a vacation. We need a vacation.”

“I need help!”

“SHUT UP ALREADY.” Ivy and Harley say it together, and Ivy waves a hand, muffling Harley’s captive, er, patient with a particularly broad leaf.

“Mm... I’m a little busy--”

Ivy glances at Tockman, finally. “I can see that.”

“Lemme look at my calendar. Mmm.. maybe...next year? Definitely the one after that.”

“Harls.”

“I know, I know. But there’s my derby team, missions with Task Force X, the Birds of Prey, my day job--”

“I know.” Ivy takes her hands, gently, and squeezes them. It’s the softness that stops Harley in her tracks. “It’s why you need some time off.”

“But--”

“Shh. I already have plane tickets and a hotel booked. You don’t have to plan a thing.”

Harley can’t help the blush creeping up on her cheeks. “Aww, shucks, Ives. When are we leaving?”

“Now. The plane’s departing in--shit. We gotta go.”

“MMRPH.”

“Oh, right.” Ivy releases Clock King with a patented thud as she shoves Harley out the door. “Bye!”

-----

“So, we’re we goin’?” Harley pushes the arm rest out of the way and rests her chin on Ivy’s shoulder. She glances at Ivy’s phone as if it’ll give her some clues. She spots a sudoku puzzle. “Japan?”

“No.”

“The Amazon?”

“Nope.”

“Themyscyra?”

Ivy gives her a look. “Really?”

“Er….my mom’s? Please say it’s not my mom’s.”

“It’s not your mom’s.”

“Thank God.”

“Also, why would we fly to your mom’s house when we could easily drive? Or take a commuter bus?”

“Good point. Mm.”

Ivy smooths Harley’s hair out of her eyes. “It’s a surprise.” She snatches a quick kiss before the flight attendant rolls by. “You’ll love it.”

In this moment, Harley’s pretty sure she’d love anywhere as long Ivy’s there with her. She’s lit up by the light of the tiny window behind her, and her crimson locks glow like an angel’s. But Harley knows well enough that neither of them are anywhere close to innocent. “Say, how’d you get us past security?”

Ivy winks at her.

“No casualties?”

Her lover mockingly brushes her own chest like a scandalized church mouse. “I would never!” she snorts. “They’ll be fine. Just a little dazed and confused.”

Harley leans her head on Ivy’s shoulder. “I know the feelin’.” And really! Harley’s proud of her. Ivy’s never been one to follow rules or care for humans. But she tries for Harley. Why she bothers when Mistah J never seemed to care, Harley has no idea. But it means the world to her.

-----

The taxi drops them off in front of a large revolving door. But it’s not the gold handles that capture Harley’s attention.

It’s the lush plants growing from every nook and cranny on the place. Harley bets Ivy could spend an hour naming all of them (scientific names and personal names.) Butterflies and hummingbirds in every color of the rainbow--and the faint buzzing of bees. A solitary stream crosses their path, and a wooden bridge stretches over it. Garden terrace after garden terrace rise up from the ground to an open-air cafe at the top.

And behind the walls and the hotel proper? A waterpark.

Harley’s eyes go as big as saucers. “Ivy! You shouldn’t have!” She squeezes her into a hug.

“Thanks, sweet pea, but I can’t breathe.” Ivy manages to get out.

“Oof, sorry. Here ya go.” Harley releases her, and Ivy pecks her on the cheek.

“Best part is, they’ve a zero-carbon footprint and they’re waste free.” Harley rarely sees her grin so wide.”

“Whoa.”

“They call it The Greenhouse.”

-----

Their first day at the resort passes in a blur. Harley shows Ivy a good time in and out of their bedroom. They go snorkeling in the ocean, ride the rides so many times Harley ends up upchucking their picnic at the beach, then make love at sunset in their honeymoon suite. Harley wonders if the management thinks they’re--well, they’re as good as, aren’t they? They don’t need rings or a wedding or a place of their own or--

“Harley?”

She blinks. Ivy only calls her that when she’s worried. Harley realizes she’s been staring at the chocolates on their pillows for God knows how long. “Yeah?”

“You okay?”

“Of course!” she says automatically, pulling Ivy into another kiss.

Ivy kisses back, then runs a finger down her cheek. “You’d tell me if you weren’t, right?” The setting sun makes her hair even redder, which Harley didn’t think possible, and Harley finds herself toying with her curls.

“Hey, I’ve been wonderin’.”

If Ivy notices the change in subject, she doesn’t mention it. “Yeah?”

“How come we haven’t seen any other guests? And how come we haven’t been arrested?”

“Oh! That.” Ivy waves a hand dismissively. “I rented out the whole resort.”

“With what money??”

Ivy shoots her a wicked look that sends shivers down Harley’s spine. “Ace Chemical’s investment fund.”

“Ooooh, you’re naughty.”

Harley dives in for another kiss but Ivy puts a finger to her lips. And doesn’t let her suck on it. Rude. “So, are you going to tell me what’s bothering you?”

“Since we’ve got all this extra cash, wanna make a run at the casino? I hear they donate the proceeds to rainforest restoration.”

“Alright.” Ivy sighs and reaches for her dress. Harley has a sinking feeling that she’s going to bring this up later. Maybe if Harley’s lucky she’ll forget about it? Yeah. Ivy forgets things all the time.

“Last one there buys the first round!”

-----

Ivy and Harley sit across from each other, an immaculate brunch setting between them and two mimosas. Her lover’s plate sits almost empty, and while Harley’s lies largely untouched. She keeps playing with her veggie egg white omelet, but the next bite never seems to make it to her mouth. “And then we can go for a walk on the beach later! Have you seen those beds? Right there on the water? Mm. Do you think anyone would hear us if we--”

“Harley, wait.”

“Like, the sound of the waves would cover it up, right? Mm. Maybe not. I’m loud. Not as loud as--”

“Harley, no. Stop. Stop.” Ivy presses her hands on either side of Harley’s face, drawing her to a standstill and inches away from her. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I want to!”

Ivy gives her a sad smile, shaking her head gently. “You don’t have to impress me, Harls. I love you.”

Harley, in typical Harley fashion, vibrates with energy. “But…I want this to be special. As special as y--”

“This vacation already is special. Cause you’re here with me.”

“But--” I’m not that special, Harley wants to say. But she knows Ivy won’t let her get away with saying that out loud. She wants to crawl underneath the tablecloth and hide until Ivy leaves. They always leave in the end. Once they get what they want. Mistah J--

“I love you, Harley Quinn.” Ivy takes her hand, gently, rubbing her thumb over her knuckles. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And maybe. Maybe it’s that she doesn’t know what to do if Ivy stays. It’s easier to love someone who doesn’t love her back. It’s safe. Ahem. Emotionally safe, Dr. Quinzel says inside her head. For once, Harley has nothing to say. She’s too busy trying to keep the tears from falling.

“You don’t have to do anything. I already love you.” Ivy bites her lip--the way she always does when she’s thinking hard. Like how best to resurrect a drooping petunia or a rose bush that has a pest. She takes a deep breath, steeling herself. “And if it’s not too much--too early--to say this: I always will.”

“You proposin’ or somethin’?” The words tumble out of Harley’s mouth before she can stop them. Her cheeks feel like they’re blushing as bright as Ivy’s hair.

“I…” Ivy’s eyes widen. “I-I don’t have a ring on me.”

Shit. Fuck. ShitshitshitFuuuuuuuuuck. “I’msorryIdidn’tmeanit.” “It’s way too soon.” Harley puts on her best brave face--the same one she always put on when Bats showed up and Mistah J magically was nowhere to be found. “Marriage is so outda--”

“Harley.” Ivy puts her entire hand over her face. “Quinn.” “I never said I didn’t want to marry you.”

“Mmphwr?”

“Who wouldn’t want to marry Harley Quinn? You’re amazing.” She traces her eyebrows. “You’re the smartest person I know.” Boops her nose. “You’re impossible to kill. Holy fuck.” Runs her fingertip across her bottom lip. “You…” Ivy presses her lips together, looking down at the table. “You helped me love again when I hated everyone.”

“Pam.” Fuck, she’s getting misty eyed.

“I mean it. I was ready to wipe humanity off the map and start over.” She laughs a little, her voice rough as she wipes her cheek with the back of her hand. “But then you came along and nominated yourself my new shrink.”

“Don’t give me all the credit.” Wow, okay. Maybe she’s more than just misty-eyed. “You saved me too. From Mistah Jay. From Bats. From what woulda been a really boring life.”

Ivy’s smile slips slightly. “You’re not gonna die on me, are you Harls?”

Harley squeezes her hand. “Nah. You’re stuck with me.” Her words come out a little thick. “For richer or poorer.”

Her lover leans in close, capturing her lips in a warm kiss. “That’s usually pretty literal for you.”

“HEY.”

“It’s true! Guess I’ll have to see if Ace or maybe Lexcorp has any funds they won’t miss. I need to get that ring soon. Garnet? Spinel maybe?”

“Aww, shucks. How am I gonna be surprised now?”

Ivy scoffs. “If it’s a real surprise, it’s not a good time for a proposal.”

“But what if I want to be like those girls in those Tik Toks? Like where you propose to me but like I got my own box in my pocket?”

“Harley. A ring box wouldn’t fit in your tiny ass pockets, and you know it.”

“You know what would fit in my shorts?”

“Harleen Francis Quinzel.” Her laughter dissolves in a kiss and Harley pulls her back to their suite. They got a lot of planning to do. Though Harley has a pretty good feeling they’re not gonna get a whole lot of planning done today. But Harley’s okay with that. Pam’s always been the top of her to-do list anyway.

#harlivy #DC comics #poisonquinn #harley quinn #poison ivy #clock king #fluff isn't my usual so PLEASE tell me what you think #so sugary sweet you're gonna need to brush your teeth #melody writes #fluff

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lovelyirony · 4 years

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Title: I wish i could forget you

Tony Stark was not supposed to be in the car when Howard and Maria Stark attended a Christmas holiday party for another company. In fact, Hydra had wanted him to stay home.

Unfortunately, Tony had ticked off Howard a bit too much, and so here he was in a tuxedo that was a bit too big, uncomfortably shiny shoes, and a temper that was close to blowing.

Thank god they were almost home.

When a car crashes, one almost can’t believe it. Tony can see the outside blurring, and he can hear glass crunching, and he hears things that he really doesn’t want to hear. He is fairly sure that Maria screamed.

A metal arm.

Huh.

Well, not the most typical. He also doesn’t think that the man knows he’s here.

Howard and Maria Stark are killed. Tony feels like shit because he couldn’t do anything. His forehead is bleeding and he didn’t want to move out of fear for himself, which seems selfish, but also maybe a survival instinct?

God, his bow-tie is still constricting air flow.

Once the man turns, Tony realizes that he wasn’t the target. They probably had no idea he was in the car, whoever “they” were.

He gets out of the car. The car door creaks, and the man whips around.

His eyes widen.

“You--what?”

The voice is surprisingly American.

Surprisingly? He’s not sure why it’s surprising, it’s not like an American can’t kill just look at history, but still, Kind of surprising.

"What, wasn’t supposed to be here?” Tony rasps out. He realizes now that he’s basically sent himself a death sentence as the man surges forward.

“What are you doing here?”

His eyes are piercing. Also very, very familiar with some photographs that Peggy has on her mantle and her desk.

James “Bucky” Barnes. Son of a bitch.

“What are you doing alive?” Tony asks. “I thought you were lost in a ravine in Europe somewhere.”

“What--huh?”

“Ravine. In Europe. You know who you are, right? Is this some kind of sick...what did they do to you?”

“I do not know what you are talking about.”

His eyes get cold again.

“Who are you?”

“I am the Asset.”

It is now that Tony realizes that every single shitty sci-fi book is probably right, and his disdain of “wacky science” and “magic” have all been for nothing, because here is Bucky Barnes, who apparently has no idea who he is.

Then Tony gets knocked on his ass. His body slams against the icy road, and Barnes is rushing towards a motorcycle.

And he’s alone. He can’t breathe, all the wind knocked out of his chest. He thinks he broke a couple of ribs.

No one believes him. At all. SHIELD brushes it aside.

“There’s no way Barnes could be alive. You were probably just seeing things,” they tell him. “Would you like us to find you a therapist?”

“No,” Tony says, and they ask why. He laughs, sipping on his water. “SHIELD has so much loyalty to itself, I’m afraid I’d be compromised.”

“Therapists aren’t supposed to divulge any information,” Nick Fury adds carefully. “And we’re a secret-keeping bunch. Nothing goes out that comes in.”

“Unless, of course, it’s necessary,” Tony drawls, staring at Fury. God, the leather outfit...that’s weird. “Then I’m out in the open, Nicky. And what fun is that unless I get to show off an outfit in full-coverage?”

“...I’ll have an agent escort you home. We’ll have guards overnight.”

“Don’t bother.”

“And why is that? Think you can handle it by yourself?”

“Fury, my family has made a career out of thinking a lot of things. You’re not being as detrimental as you think.”

He finger-waves, grinning and winking at agents on the way out.

Now comes paranoia. This is welcome, actually, because it’s allowing him to work up new security measures and hack into various security cameras around the world to see if he can find Barnes.

It’s like he’s a ghost. And fuck, maybe Fury was right. Tony doesn’t like that, but that may be it.

Merry fucking Christmas.

Years go by, and Tony keeps a tiny ear to any news about mysterious deaths that can’t be explained. A man that glows in lamp-light, has no identity. He’s not sure if it could be Barnes. God knows he’s no longer seventeen, and Barnes--it if it was Barnes--would be way older. He should’ve been an old man in 1991, but he wasn’t.

It kind of reminds him of the conspiracy theory that Walt Disney was kept cryogenically frozen, which is just ridiculous, because as far as he’s concerned, you’d need a bit more to you than just regular skin and bones.

And this is where it hits him.

Barnes was experimented on when he was captured by Hydra. Peggy told him that Rogers told her that he was repeating his dog tag number over and over, as if someone was trying to take him over.

Yeah, you’d need a bit more.

Like a fucking super soldier serum.

This then delves into Tony realizing that if Barnes is flash-frozen, then...well, could Rogers have survived? He always thought his dad was crazy, but a broken clock is right twice a week or however the hell that saying goes. He never used it, he wasn’t a broken clock.

(He was broken, but he’s not going to compare himself to a clock. Perhaps Model-T.)

They find Rogers. Tony realizes Howard did his math completely wrong for years, and probably never let anyone look at it because he was a World Super Genius. And a Colossal Dick.

Steve Rogers is one tough cookie to crack. Tony chips off some of the ice and puts it in a glass of scotch.

“Do you really think that’s the most appropriate thing to do?” Phil Coulson asks.

He’s shocked, but mainly because Tony has seen his Cap collection, and that man has so many limited edition cards and lunchboxes that it’s a bit crazy. But at least he knows how to decorate with it and not have it look like an absolute nutjob swept into his house and did it all in red-white-and-blue.

“Phil, my darling, when have I ever done anything the appropriate way?” Tony asks. He stares at the face that’s emerging out of the ice. “Besides, what else are you going to do with this ice, hm? Besides melt it all off?”

Steve is a miracle. Every scientist on earth wants to poke and prod at him.

Tony breaks him out of SHIELD in a week, because he swears to shit if one more scientist asks to take blood samples “to see how going under Arctic temperatures affects the bloodstream” (and also take DNA for cloning) he’s going to lose it.

Fury yells at him for two hours.

Steve flips Fury off from the couch, where he’s been channel-surfing for the better part of three hours.

“You’ve already corrupted him,” Fury scowls. “Rogers, we need to talk--”

“He’s retired,” Tony says.

(Steve is not, technically. Hasn’t said anything. But Tony is putting him on mandatory retirement for at least a year.)

“What’s...what the ever-loving fuck is that?” Steve asks.

An infomercial. For an automated chair. Mostly used for old people.

Tony grins.

“You wanna see how fast I can launch you out of one?”

“I’m going to say yes. Professionally.”

Ten miles an hour, and Steve goes flying across the room into a pile of pillows.

It’s not the end-all solution. God knows Steve calls him “Howard” and asks where a lot of nasty food is, and sometimes can’t tell the difference between what his brain is seeing and what is actually there.

But Tony gets him help. And Steve goes to art school.

It’s all very funny, actually. Steve rants about “modern art” and how “if he could kill any concept it would be abstract expressionism, what the fuck.”

Tony buys and then donates a Rothko in his honor.

Steve fumes, but finds it hilarious.

Then, there’s the attack on New York.

Norse god of mischief decides to end New York, blah blah blah.

Captain America reappears, everyone loses their shit, and Tony almost dies.

Then he gets four other roomies besides Steve, and he has to make a chore chart. Ugh.

Barnes reappears in France. Tony gets a fairly good image, and Natasha stills.

“You know about Winter Soldier?”

“Barnes? Yeah.”

“You know who he is?”

“James Barnes. At least, I think. He tried to kill me, wasn’t very successful at it.”

Steve overhears.

This leads to a chain of events that ends in Steve not coming to family dinner because he’d rather sit in his room and listen to Green Day or Glenn Miller or whatever the hell gets him even more upset.

“Listen, Steve, I’m sorry. But up until this picture? I was only about sixty percent sure I wasn’t full of beans.”

“Why is that the phrase you use?”

“What, full of beans? Bruce says I have to work on my cursing. Apparently, children are impressionable. Who knew?”

It’s not a total success. Steve still doesn’t like that Tony didn’t outright tell him, but Tony isn’t going to tell Steve that he has the mental stability of a single cashew.

So begins the hunt for Barnes. Which actually isn’t too bad.

He’s in DC. Not for any political clean-up, unfortunately. He’s trying to kill Fury. Tony doesn’t know why, at least until he looks up Pierce, who’s technically, mostly retired from SHIELD.

And yet still uses most resources that technically? He needs more than one authorization from multiple people.

God, people are getting bad at covering their tracks. Used to be harder to catch and see if someone was doing dirty deals.

(Okay, not like he can talk because Obie was...well, no use in discussing that now. He needs to focus.)

Nat and Steve are bad at lying. This kind of surprises him, because Steve is usually a successful liar. He’s convinced Clint that it’s not him who keeps eating his peanut-butter-fudge ice cream, but Thor.

And Natasha used to be Natalie Rushman. Then again, Tony was poisoned during that one, so that might just be on him.

Helicarriers go in the water.

Tony’s working on making sure most of the information doesn’t reach the general public, although he can’t stop it all.

Barnes falls off the face of the earth, and Steve wants to go on another treasure hunt.

“Let him come to us, or figure himself out.”

“This isn’t a college kid going backpacking in Europe for a year,” Nat snaps. “He’s...you know who he is, who he was, and what he can do.”

“Counterpoint: we don’t know if he secretly really wanted to see traditional decoration of Ukrainian Easter eggs,” Tony says. “God knows that I want to learn more about that.”

“Is everything a joke to you?”

"Only on federally mandated holidays,” Tony says with a shrug. “But let him be. Steve, it’s one thing that he didn’t kill you. It’s another thing that he hauled you up from the Potomac. I’m not sure I would’ve done that because who goes up alone to a helicarrier?”

“Historically nobody,” Natasha says. “Most people don’t have any helicarriers.”

“God, this situation sucks,” Tony says. “What if. We potentially. Ignore all of it and have spinach and artichoke dip? Hm?”

“With toasted bread?”

“I’m not an animal, Steve.”

“Your penchant for four a.m. coffee while you don’t realize you’re singing songs from the seventies says otherwise,” he responds.

“Well well well, if it isn’t the punishment of you getting the aux taken away for a week,” Tony taunts.

“Oh, come on!” Steve whines.

“Nope, just you having to listen to more of Bruce’s questionable tastes.”

“Fuck.”

Barnes comes stateside. The only reason Tony knows this is because Jarvis says that he may have spotted Barnes, but he’s not sure.

“J, you’re the most advanced system in the world, not to mention my son, and you like to hack into the Pentagon for funsies.”

“All of that could not have prepared me for this.”

Barnes is wearing a neon green tank top that is advertising Coco Beach in Florida.

“Can I laugh? Or is that sad?”

“Multitask, Sir.”

“Oh, true.”

Barnes is not in New York. Tony has to near-about put an electric fence around the whole state so that Steve doesn’t go on a road trip.

Hell, Tony doesn’t even trust him to go to coffee alone, but that’s a bit much.

“We have to wait,” Tony says.

Sam Wilson is a godsend. Also the funniest man Tony knows.

He is also emotionally healthy and very perceptive, so he has been noticing that Tony is nervous.

Because how do you face the man who killed your parents? Technically?

“Are you talking to your therapist?” Sam asks. “Just thinking you should.”

“Sam, we’re working on my issues from 2007. Believe it or not, it will be taking a full year.”

“I don’t like that I can never tell if you’re serious.”

“I know you remember the tabloids from 2007, I wrote a mesh vest. Clearly, I need so much help.”

Sam snorts.

“Maybe. Hey, I’ll catch you later. Clint and I are gonna go try and find some questionable shirts to crop.”

“Did his little protege convince you? Bishop, right?”

“Kate, yeah. She’s convinced our public image will go viral or something. Good luck with helping Steve and Nat with your super-soldier hunt.”

“Thanks. Let me know if you find a shirt with my face on it. I want it.”

Sam snorts.

“Will do.”

Bucky Barnes comes to New York in early May. The springtime is slowly but surely fading off, sun approaching more and more. Tony is enjoying coffee on a veranda, and then suddenly his waiter is nowhere to be found and he’s not entirely sure if his visitor takes credit or debit.

“Can I help you?”

“Maybe. Depends on if you’re gonna kill me or not.”

“I think Steve would be a bit broken up about it.”

“Do you care what he thinks?”

“On this situation? Yes. When it comes to culinary choices? No.”

There’s a ghost of a smile on his face. Tony’s trying extremely hard not to remember shattered glass and a motorcycle on ice.

“Can we, uh, table this conversation? For later. Espresso and all that, plus the added bonus of our shared history, so...”

“Shared history?”

“You don’t remember?” Tony asks. Bucky shakes his head. “Ah. Then this is truly a comedy of errors. Maybe. Um. Listen, I, uh...I gotta go. You need to talk to Nat or Steve or hell, maybe even Thor. Is Thor a good option?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Barnes, I can’t exactly face you right now.”

And then he jumps off a balcony.

A fucking balcony.

Jesus H. Christ, his therapist is gonna be so excited for their next session.

The suit wraps itself around him, and he can finally breathe, and he’s thinking about calling Pepper and see if she would like to schedule him a vacation for maybe anywhere but New York and Iowa.

“Why not Iowa?” Pepper asks. “They have good antique stores. I’ve gotten quite a few good finds for clothes.”

“I can do shopping retail literally anywhere else, absolutely not.”

“Spoilsport. Steve know you’re leaving?”

“I didn’t even really tell Steve what happened with my parents.”

“Oh, your therapist called. She sounded concerned, but also intrigued.”

“It’s because Sally almost became an employee of NASA and still has a soft spot for aerodynamics.”

“What exactly did you do when faced with Barnes?”

“Check the front tabloid page tomorrow, just tell everyone I’m out of town.”

“Got it. And Tony?”

Her voice is soft.

“Yes, dear?”

He can feel her rolling her eyes. Affectionately, of course, but rolling all the same.

“Be safe, and come back. You know Rhodey and I miss you.”

“I miss you too.”

A week is spent in Malibu. He really is thinking about selling this place. But for now, it suffices.

Steve texts him.

bucky’s back. holy shit

be back in a week. radio silence.

got it. no more messages from me. thor tells me to tell you that he broke the sink

:((((

And that’s it. He’s sitting in the house for a week, has already called Sally once and explained how his suit works, and then listened to her talk about how “his reliance on the suit to help him escape unfavorable situations is not exactly the healthiest but also none of my clients have had to face someone who is of weird standing.”

It’s no secret that Tony doesn’t like Howard Stark. Who would’ve liked that sorry excuse for a father, a man who was so cold-hearted the Arctic looked like a tropical paradise?

Maria was...Maria was different.

She wasn’t a good mother. No, she was never a good mother. But she tried, and she didn’t deserve her fate.

And then there was the question of Bucky Barnes. Who wasn’t Bucky when he was there, but still so damn recognizable.

It’s kind of like when there’s a movie about a famous person, and another person plays them. Like Tom Hanks, essentially. Bucky played whoever the fuck they get Tom Hanks to play and it’s similar: you see the resemblance, but it’s not it.

So yeah.

There’s also the little tidbit that things get complicated when you involve personal feelings and rationality, and really? Tony misses New York. A lot. And he’s not going to let someone else overtake his life just because he’s uncomfortable.

So he flies back to New York.

He’s in a bad way, Barnes is.

“He remembered you,” Steve says. “What he did.”

“Ah, there’s that.”

“He doesn’t have to be here,” Natasha says. “I have a couple of SHIELD safe houses to choose from.”

“None would be adequate to house something like me,” comes the response.

Barnes looks remarkably shitty, as if he hasn’t slept in eighty years. And maybe he hasn’t.

“Jail would be more fitting.”

Tony rolls his eyes.

“You are literally the most dramatic person ever, and Bruce threatened to take over the government because Thor ate the last croissant. Put those on the grocery list, Steve

“We’re not gonna throw you in jail,” he continues on. “Not because you happened to be used as a goddamned Swiss army knife. I have issues, sure, but I’m not going to be going all Hannibal Lecter or whatever.”

“Who the hell is that?”

“Cannibal. I realized that that’s a terrible comparison, please forgive me.”

“Why a cannibal?”

“Couldn’t think of anything else but Anthony Hopkins, the actor. My mistake. Point is, we’re gonna have to go through some channels, and I’m introducing you to BARF, as well as a new person who’s gonna rock your world.”

“I’m pretty much well-acquainted with vomit.”

“No, not that,” Tony says. “Although we can cover that through my 2005 edition of partying if we really wanna dig up some old magazine interviews. No, I’m introducing you to something that’s going to change your life.”

After that, Tony doesn’t have much to do with Bucky’s life.

He serves as a permanent guilt trip, nothing says “well, shit” much like being a permanent guilt trip.

Sally tells him that they should talk it out. Do all that “and how do you feel?” questioning that makes his skin crawl and his eyes ascend to the ceiling.

I mean yeah, they share a living space. Tony has seen Bucky laugh and smile with Sam, talk with Bruce about a really interesting article about regeneration of plant cells or whatever, and Bucky enjoys videochatting with Wakandan royalty.

(It also helps that Shuri is blunt as ever, but so blisteringly smart. He’s reading her paper on regeneration of nanotechnology, and it just...it’s the Pieta of research, that paper.)

But he never speaks to Bucky. Well, he does. But it’s more along the lines of “hey Barnes” and “how are you?” which aren’t exactly the Most Thought Provoking Statements Ever Made.

Summer comes swiftly, and about near with a vengeance. Tony’s dealing with a heat wave and trying to figure out if going outside is even worth it, and then he and Bucky are alone in the kitchen.

Tony was debating getting a couple of popsicles from the freezer. Bucky is considering sabotaging Clint’s smoothie that was supposed to be special for tonight, but that he’ll most likely forget.

“Hey,” Bucky says. “Um, can we talk?”

Shit.

He’s been avoiding this, officially, for a month. Potentially more if you’re going to count a few choice events that have been brought up by his psyche.

“Sure thing, buttercup. What are we talking about. Economy, world crises, the great debate on financial advice?”

“Isn’t the third thing just the economy?”

“We can break it down over coffee.”

“Mm, maybe another time. No, I’m talking about us. About how I--I kind of ruined your life.”

Tony blinks.

“You didn’t ruin my life. If my life was ruined you’d be hit with so many lawsuits that I could make the rest of your life look like the third circle of Hell, or wherever it is that people go nowadays in Dante’s eyes. No, you didn’t ruin my life.”

“I still killed your parents.”

“If you hadn’t, someone else would’ve. Believe me, there were about fifteen others in line. Sometimes, myself included.”

“You can’t not take me seriously,” Bucky stresses. “I still did a terrible thing. I just want to make sure you know that you’re being too kind.”

“I most certainly am not,” Tony says. “Being too kind would have me feeding you grapes.”

Bucky’s face blanks.

“Don’t. I...I don’t wanna take advantage of your hospitality. I don’t want to remind you of what happened.”

“You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t wanted,” Tony says. “Believe me. And if you want to leave, you’re free to leave. I don’t want to make you feel like you need to stay here.”

“I...I want to make it up to you.”

“Then use BARF and review it,” Tony says. “I’m serious. I need user feedback, and you’re the best candidate for it. Also, please try to convince Steve to wear neon yellow. I just want to see if he’ll do it.”

Steve wears neon yellow. Tony laughs so hard he cries.

Bucky smiles.

It’s a nice smile, really. It’s wide and happy and wow. That’s all worth it.

And then BARF. Bucky just gives user feedback, nothing else. Tony doesn’t want to know anything else, but they start talking more.

Tony finds out that Bucky’s been doing crosswords to catch up on current events, and he’s bought taped recordings of World Series games.

He loves antique stores. He visits them and brings home little trinkets that he remembers in his own house, or what he remembered. He watched old commercials from the fifties and sixties, laughed as he remembered the Sears catalogs that would come in the mail.

“Me an’ my sisters would beg my mom for new clothes from the catalog, and she never would. Always sewed our pants and skirts so damn well, I probably could’ve used them for the next ten years.”

Tony laughs.

“Well, I can’t promise I can sew. But I could give you some armor that could last you twenty years, if you want. Steve told me you’re thinking about doing some distance missions.”

“Just observation, no armor required.”

“Sometimes it’s the simple missions that get the worst hits,” Tony says. “Believe me, I know how it goes. So, do you want some armor?”

Bucky smiles.

“Sure.”

“I’ll need feedback.”

“I’ll give it all I’ve got.”

Bucky is a goddamned dream to design for. He knows exactly what he needs, what areas are most likely to be pierced, and also has a flair for the dramatic: he requests an Iron Man helmet be embroidered on the back.

“You’re really just trying to be sweet on me, aren’t you?” Tony teases.

“My master plan to gain your fortune,” Bucky teases right back. “I’ll waste it all on champagne pools and the worst-looking but most expensive shoes I can find.”

Tony laughs.

“Sugar, that’d be incredible if you could spend all of my money on that. I’d commend you.”

Bucky smiles, and it shouldn’t be as nice of a smile as it is, but here Tony is with his opinions and his concerning thought that maybe he wants to see more of Bucky.

In the morning, there begins a routine. Tony is always up at eight o’clock. It’s a rare lull in Avenger-morning-routines: Nat, Steve, and Bruce are all done, and Thor and Clint won’t be in until ten o’clock at the earliest.

(What can he say? Thor’s a god and Clint...well. He needs a lot of beauty sleep.)

Tony makes coffee, and Bucky makes them both breakfast. Says that officially, it’s to test and make sure that his prosthetic is still performing under optimal conditions.

(They both know that’s not it.)

Tony always says he pours too much water, makes enough for two cups.

Steve calls them out on it.

“You two are being weird,” he says. “And not like Thor and Bruce trying to reenact that one show about ghosts and unsolved things.”

“That’s their form of courtship, don’t be fucking rude,” Clint remarks. Natasha snorts.

“What, us being weird?” Tony asks, pouring a bit more coffee into Bucky’s mug. He always uses too much creamer and then won’t finish his coffee unless there’s more. “Why do you say that?”

“It’s because you both do couple shit,” Bruce says, breezing into the kitchen. “Also, Steve, lovely to see that you have volunteered to be the next guest on Avengers: Unsolved. We’re planning on using you as a guilt-trip in order to access files about aliens.”

“Truth will be found!” Thor adds. “But also, yes. Bucky, I thought you were taking him on a date to the art museum on Saturday.”

Bucky turns red. So does Tony. It really is quite inconvenient.

“I mean, we could go on a date there,” Tony says. “If you’re okay with that.”

“You’re doing this in public?” Natasha asks, eyebrows raised. “Hm. Would not have called that.”

“You owe me fifteen dollars,” Bucky says. “Not you Tony, quit looking at me like that. Yes, it will be a date on Saturday, I’ll wear a nice shirt. Nat said that I couldn’t do anything that surprised her.”

“Technically, Tony surprised me.”

“I thought dates were mutual events, hm? Fifteen dollars. I’ll use it to buy the best bouquet in New York.”

“The best bouquet costs over a thousand dollars,” Thor answers.

“Not questioning how you know that, but I’m scared of you,” Bucky says. “Then I will get the best fifteen-dollar-bouquet in New York.”

Tony snorts, smiling.

“I guess I’ll spray a bit of my perfume on my pillow then, soldier.”

“I’ll pick you up at noon sharp,” Bucky says, grinning. He finishes his coffee. “We’ll make fun of Steve’s art exhibit together.”

#lovelyirony writes #holy shit this was longer than expected #thank you to angel for this inspiration #winteriron #avengers as a family #personally i like the fact that thor and bruce are doing avengers unsolved and have to force different avengers on #natasha romanoff #bruce banner #thor #bucky barnes #tony stark #howard stark #maria stark #sally the therapist

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statticscribbles · 4 years

Text

Transition Period Chpt 4

Transition Period Chapter 4: Jughead/Reader

It’s only been five months since you’ve been living with the Andrews, since your parents kicked out and then had the audacity to move slightly farther away, clearly sending the message if they didn’t have a daughter they didn’t have a child at all. You know that bothers Fred Andrews more than he wants to admit.

You also know that he’d been pouring over medical bills and various receipts and you’d wanted to say something, assuring him you could find somewhere else to stay, but then Cheryl and Veronica manage to slip bills between anything that exists in the Andrews house, you help, it's what you imagine parents feel like on easter having to hide eggs for easter egg hunts. You chuckle at the image of the three of you dressed in bunny costumes and keep stuffing money in various spots. You don’t ask Veronica or Cheryl how much they’ve been hiding, the highest they’d given you was seven twenty dollar bills and you assume they have a similar amount with how quickly they finish.

Archie is the one to tell his dad what Veronica and Cheryl have done.

The extra cash amounts to not only covering the few expenses you living with had brought up but also as Fred suggests pay for you to start your transition properly, he hits and not only a steady supply of Testosterone, instead of the last bit of prescription gel you’d been trying to stretch out, but even fully covering top surgery. You refuse, you can’t let them use all that money on you, a practical stranger, although Fred seems to laugh and nudges Archie who glares a little. “What was that about?”

“My dad is convinced you and Jughead are going to get married, and since Jughead is basically his son, well he’s basically saying you’re family.”

“Wait have we just completely skipped dating in your dad’s mind then?”

“Oh totally, he’s a very forward thinking person.” Archie laughs and Jughead snorts into his shake as you’re once again complaining about Archie’s family using the extra money on you.

“Besides it’ll just be sitting somewhere, and there’s plenty to keep in savings, since we can pay on instalments or through a payment plan.”

“Okay, maybe..”

You give in after Jughead and you make-put and his hand runs against your side and you pull back when he nudges your chest slightly, you hadn’t realized how much it truly bothered you until you’d been presented with the option.

“I’m starting a go fund me campaign, i’m not letting your dad pay for that shit Archie, it’s hella expensive.”

“Fine.” Archie seems to relent and you’re not sure why until he stops in front of the pharmacy and you can see him waving a prescription order in your face.

“We’re getting you your first T-shot today then.”

“Can you help?”

“Well yeah that’s why I’m here.”

“No like do the shot…”

You can’t look as Archie pushes the plunger into the bottle, when he holds it up, to tap at it you cringe and cover your eyes with your hands.

“Let me know when you do it.”

“I’ll count to five.”

“Thanks…”

“Okay give me a sec I just-” Archie doesn’t finish you yelp when he suddenly jabs you and you grin a little finally peeling your hands away to see him tossing the used needle and already covering up the spot with a race car bandaid.

“Race Cars?”

“I haven’t needed bandaids since I was like six.” Archie assures and you want to say something else, but Fred calls you down for dinner.

This becomes the usual routine, Fred, having returned most of the money to Veronica and Cheryl, both of whom still casually slip in bills at random places, comments that you should check on your go fund me status, you open the page laughing as it says Fred’s donated two hundred dollars. You blink, suddenly confused as the rest of the goal is met twice over, you know it’s Cheryl and maybe Veronica’s doing but you only see one name listed.

“Do we know anyone named Forsythe?”

“Huh, so Jughead went through with it.”

“Through with what?”

“He said he was going to mention to his dad about using the Serpent medical fund to help you out.”

“Oh wow, but I’m not a Serpent, do I have to join now?”

“I don’t think so, he probably just did it cause he has a crush on you.”

“I feel like I shouldn’t know that.”

“Oh you totally shouldn’t; but I’m not going to let you go into your surgery not aware of that. Besides if something happened, which Jughead is terrified of, then you know how he feels about you, and depending on what you say, I can tell him while you’re out so then when you’re back home you two can have a talk without the awkward confession first.”

“That’s sweet if not a little backwards.”

You’re not really sure where you are when you wake up but you can hear someone chatting and then the voice gets slightly more in focus and you realize the nurse is talking to you.

She helps you sit up and you answer her questions as she offers you some water, half of it ends up down your shirt and when you look down you’re annoyed at the tubes looping from your armpits.

“I look like shit.” You grumble and then feel a hand brushing your shoulder.

“I don’t think so.” You feel Jughead’s lips brush against your cheek.

“I thought I was in the recovery room?”

“You were but they said it was okay for you to have a regular room for a little bit while they monitor you.”

“Oh.”

“You fell asleep and they said to just to let you rest, so we did.”

”So?” You grin a little and nod to where Jughead doesn’t look up from the notes you’d lent him.

“Mhm, your shirt is nice.”

“Jughead.” You huff a little and he still doesn’t look up, you’d finally healed enough to not have to wear a shirt, having a fully flat chest now, you’d wanted to show it off, but then Jughead grins at the notes.

“So I was wondering if you wanted to-” He finally looks up, face flushing as he realizes you’re topless.

“If I wanted to?”

“Go, uh to pop’s, on a date…”

“I’d love to.”

“Okay good.” Jughead keeps his eyes down and you laugh, leaning slightly forward.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, just uh, you not having a shirt on is distracting.”

Support My Writing?

#jughead jones imagine #jughead jones #jughead jones x trans reader #jughead jones x y/n #jughead jones x you #jughead jones x reader #jughead x reader #jughead x you #jughead x y/n #trans reader insert #trans reader #transition period #written #stattic

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purplesurveys · 4 years

Text

1010

survey from diggitydoo

Have you ever felt a baby kick? Yes, when my mom was pregnant with my brother. What color pants/shorts are you wearing? I’m only wearing a duster gown; no shorts underneath. I just got it last night, actually - my mom wanted to donate clothes to victims of a recent fire incident in Manila and so she asked my sister and I to sort through our closets for clothes we were willing to give away. My sister ended up giving away a comfy-looking duster gown that she never even wore and even smelled brand new to boot. It ended up in my hands, ha. But apart from that we gave away a lot of stuff that aren’t old uniforms or costumes (which is what most people tend to ‘donate’, ugh), so we just hope they end up with people who really need them. When is the last time you did something truly fun, and what was it? Last night I went on our org’s Discord server and we played Jackbox games for around an hour or so. It was my first time to socialize again after around two months and I really, really needed that moment. I even met the org’s newest roster of applicants for this semester, which was neat. :) What was the scariest moment of your life? Men terrorizing me or near-car crashes I’ve had.

Have you ever heard of Leonard Cohen? The name is familiar, but that’s the most I know.

Pancakes or flapjacks? I guess pancakes, since I don’t even know what flapjacks are. What kind of computer are you on? It’s a laptop. Do you eat Chinese food? If so, what's your favorite dish? For sure. Pork buns or minced pork with eggplant. With century egg on the side, yum. What are you usually doing at midnight? Either passed out or desperately trying to sleep because I don’t want to lose any more hours of sleep and risk being cranky for the whole of the next day. Have you ever developed feelings for a friend, but you were already with someone? No. The worst thing that’s happened was being someone’s ball date (and unbeknownst to me, they apparently had feelings for me at the time) while I was already with someone. If so, how did it turn out? He figured it out by himself, which I still feel bad about. But the timing was super off and I just couldn’t find a moment to sit him down and set the record straight...ah well. It was just super complicated at the time. Give me your brief definition of love. My favorite love-related quote is “Love never says ‘I have done enough’” and for the longest time, that has been my guiding principle when it comes to it. Definitely a tad bit cheesy, but telling myself that over and over makes it easier to continue loving the people I care for and be patient with them when they’re being asses. Gab included, then and now. What is the most beautiful part of the human body, male or female? It differs for everyone but I’m a thigh girl through and through. What kind of shoes do you wear? Uh...various ones? I have sneakers, flats, heels, flip-flops, probably a couple more kinds that I can’t place at the moment. What is the worst thing you've ever done when you were really angry? Resorting to physical violence. I was a kid constantly exposed to violence in my old home, and at the time I genuinely thought that’s how most things were settled or pacified. I still feel like shit about it to this day, and my backstory isn’t an excuse at all; but the past is the past and I’ve been trying to make up for it by being a much more gentle angry person in the last few years. Are there any pills you take on a daily basis? If so, what? Nope. Do you like the smell of coconuts? For some reason I can’t stand anything coconut (which is a damn shame considering I’m Filipino) but I love dishes with heaps of coconut milk in them, like curry. That’s the one coconut-related thing I enjoy, but otherwise I’ve never learned to appreciate the taste and smell of buko juice, coconut shavings, coconut pies, and everything else coconut. What is the heaviest you think you can lift? From what my old PE class showed me, around 70 to 80 lbs. Do you take Tums? Idk what that is so I guess I don’t. Have you ever walked on a pier at the beach? I’m not sure if I’ve been to a pier before. I bet it feels wonderful and freeing and I’d love to visit one; but I also can’t keep myself from associating piers with the recurring image of Jennifer Connelly’s character standing on one from Requiem for a Dream. How about under one? No. At what age do you first remember feeling butterflies in your stomach around someone? Not sure if it was 11 or 12, but it was definitely one of those years. Do you feel that way around anyone now? Yeah, if they allowed me to see them. But I’m shut out now so I haven’t had that sensation in a while.

Do you ever talk to yourself or think deep thoughts while on the toilet? No. Do you ever sing to yourself? Sure. I’m sure most people do every once in a while. What is a sound that relaxes you? Ocean waves have never failed. How hard has it been to reach your main goal in life? ‘Main goal’ sounds so overwhelming; I make it a point to avoid one overarching goal and instead make little goals and plans here and there depending on where I am in life. Do you remember the song about hoes in different area codes? Never heard of it. What is your main heritage? Filipino. What kind of pickles do you prefer, if you like pickles? I hate pickles. What kind of cheese do you prefer, if you like cheese? Mozzarella and feta are my faves, but I love cheese and am willing to be adventurous when it comes to it. If you could have a sea creature as a pet, what would you want? Eh, they can stay in the sea where they can actually survive. I don’t exactly have the best track record when it comes to keeping fish as pets. How about a farm animal? Probably pig. So, do you have hoes in different area codes? No, and ew. What is the most annoying song you can think of that came out recently? Haven’t been exposed to a lot of new music lately and the songs I do get to hear on the radio whenever I drive are actually pretty good. This totally doesn’t answer your question but my favorites so far have been Birthday by Disclosure, Kehlani, and Syd; and Plain by Benee, Lily Allen, and Flo Milli. What is a song that you hate to admit you like? Any Kanye song I like. What inspires you to get off your bum and do something productive? Not wanting to go into another downward spiral. Do you ever use Urban Dictionary? Extremely rarely. I only do when there’s a new slang I’m completely unfamiliar with. Do you find the definitions on there to be generally funny or stupid? Stupid for the most part. I find them too immature or vulgar, but that’s one of the points of the website so I guess I’m just not in their target audience lol. What comes to your mind when you hear the word 'transformation'? Uh, the Transformer robots.

What was something you regularly played with as a child? My cousins’ toy soldiers.

Have you ever given in to peer pressure? Eh, a few times. If so, what did you do? I’ve been pulled to drinking sessions here and there when I really shouldn’t be drinking because I had an important test tomorrow or something else was happening the next day that was just as significant. What part of your body have you had the most problems with in your life? Teeth, I’m pretty sure. I’ve had braces, needed a tooth extracted, gotten a cavity, and gone through a severe toothache.

Do a lot of people check you out when you're in public? Idk I never look around because being aware of it would just freak me out and make me feel like I’m naked. What is a good name for a turtle? Would depend on their personality. And this applies to all kinds of pets, at least for me. I don’t decide on their names until I have a good grasp of their attitude. Can you imitate any accents well? If so, which one(s)? Stereotypical Filipino mom and valley girl. Do you like having your ear nibbled on? Sure. What makes a good kisser a good kisser? I’ve only kissed one person so I’m not the best judge for this; but I always like it when my lower lip is tugged or grazed on. How many times a year do you have a family thing? This is a little vague for me. Do you mean get-togethers? Giant-ass reunions? Movie nights? Game nights? What are the best things to put in a smoothie? I only like one kind of smoothie and it’s sold by a local joint – and I think I’ve already shared this before but that smoothie of theirs that I like has “apple, banana, cinnamon, oats, coco sugar, chia seeds, greens, and soy milk,” according to their menu. So I guess those are the best ingredients for me, ha. Do you ever eat with your eyes closed and just focus on the taste? When I find something extremely delicious, yeah. What do you dislike most about where you live right now? For the most part I can’t wait to get out of suburban residential villages. I’d love to finally experience living in a condo in a super busy and active city. Has anyone ever given you a rose/roses? Yes.

Are you watching your weight? Not really. I’m trying to gain pounds though, if anything. I haven’t eaten much in the last two months. Have you ever become really good friends with someone you found online? I trust y’all with my life, so that’s one. Apart from Tumblr, the best friends I made were probably the people in the AJ/Punk fandom, back when I had a stan account on Twitter. I don’t remember most of their names now and we fizzled out pretty quickly when both parts of the ship left WWE, but I look back on that period with fondness. Those people made high school a lot easier for me. What makes your best friend your best friend? She doesn’t care whether I’m on top of the world with happiness or completely self-destructive and crying my eyes out; she has always been present. Do you have a drunk uncle? *rolls eyes* We don’t wanna open up that can of worms... Do you hear weird noises in your house at night? Nope. What is something you do that is generally more like something the opposite sex does? Based on personal experience and not to come off as sexist, but it’s liking wrestling. I have never met a girl in real life who has even the most remote interest in pro wrestling or can tell me who Hulk Hogan is. And the ones I’ve had discussions with - from shallow/casual to in-depth - have all been guys. Seeing girls who are into wrestling is like finding a rare Pokemon, at least in real life. What is the girliest thing you do, if you're a girl? Idk. What is the coolest tattoo you've ever seen? Probably the spork tattoo of Josh, a crew member from Good Mythical Morning. It’s just a line tattoo. Of a spork. On his arm. But he managed to make it so goddamn fascinating lmao; and apparently, as I learned just now, it has a pretty touching backstory to it too, which makes it a million times cooler. Have you ever created anything artistic that you're proud of? If so, what? I’ve never finished any of the crafts I bought. Never finished a coloring book page much less an entire coloring book, a painting, a gem painting...it’s something I’ll have to bring my butt to do one of these days. I can’t imagine how fulfilling it would feel. Do you only eat the middle of the oreo, if you eat oreos? I eat the whole thing but I honestly find Oreos too sweet and I’ve always much rather preferred Oreo-flavored stuff instead of the actual cookies.

Do you know anyone with a huge ego? My mom. If so, is there anything else about them you actually like? She’s fed me for 22 years and gave me an education, I guess. Though it’s something I appreciate more so than like. Have you ever used a racial slur, even jokingly? Probably as a dumb kid, when historical context wasn’t a thing to me yet. I still wince thinking about it, but I suppose what matters is being better and more responsible moving forward. Do you have any friends who are more like siblings to you? Angela and to some extent Andi.

If so, what about them do you like most? They are both understanding when it comes to me - almost to a fault. What do you like on your hotdogs, if you eat hotdogs? When you say ‘hotdogs’ here, it refers to the sausages itself. The sandwich kind of hotdog isn’t super popular here. What is everyone else in your house doing right now? My siblings are still resting in their rooms; my dad is preparing for work, I think. What is the most money you've ever had at one time? Something like P10,000 or P15,000 when my mom needed me to pay for something in cash. How long do you think it would take you to run a mile? Idk, maybe 10 minutes. I won’t be fast, that’s for sure. Look down. What do you see? My legs and the pillow I’m sitting on. What is a subject that makes you uncomfortable? Right now, probably my failed relationship. I haven’t gotten to the sharing stage yet and remotely thinking about it gets my voice all shaky. What is a subject you can talk on and on about and not get sick of it? Paramore. What kind of mood were you in most of today? It’s only 7:52 AM. My only mood so far is just woke up. Has anyone ever walked in on you naked? Yeah. Because people in this damn house never knock. Tell me an inside joke you have with someone. The word ‘ariba.’ What is the worst thing someone could do to you emotionally? Break my trust. So simple but it packs a punch. What is the worst thing you've ever done to someone emotionally? Idk if I’ve ever been that aggressive. When I want to do something destructive towards someone I always end up asking what it would feel like if the action was done to me, and it’s always been enough to sway me away from doing the thing. How do you feel now about the first person you ever dated? Sad. How about the last person (your last ex)? Same person. What is the best invention ever invented? Air conditioners.

What is something that needs to be invented? Portable air conditioners. What always makes you burp? My burps come randomly. What are you doing tomorrow? It’s my last weekend before my new job, soooooooo...I’ll be bumming around for my last two days of freedom.

#survey #surveys

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once-in-a-blue-moon-rising · 4 years

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SO it’s time for another La Casa de Papel stream of consciousness, this time about the spectacular and perfect Nairobi, and some questionable choices made for her in Part 4. Not that one. The other one.

Spoilers below the cut

I am of course talking about the scene where she asks the Professor for a sperm donation so she can have another kid, and the dance party with the other ladies that follows.

Now, fundamentally I don’t think it was an awful idea for a storyline, and could have actually been incredibly sweet if handled correctly (and included earlier - I’ll get to that later). However, I think it was handled very very badly and as a result was completely terrible.

But let’s start with things I liked about it:

Nairobi is super maternal, We know this. So it makes sense that she’d want to have another kid at some point, particularly as it’s going to be so difficult to contact Axel.

It actually kind of makes sense to ask the Professor. They are family now, and although she could scour sperm banks for a super-hot rocket scientist donor, she knows and trusts him.

It’s not framed as a Nairobi-hitting-on-him thing - we know she fancied him previously, but even the joke about ‘the traditional way’ is just that - a joke.

I actually even don’t hate that he didn’t ask Raquel. I’m not sure that he’d see it as a big deal (aka in conflict with their relationship) and, in any case, it very much is his decision. I have a long-term partner, but if a friend of mine desperately wanted an egg donation, I’d make that choice by myself, and it would probably be yes. (I mean, I’d tell my partner, but I wouldn’t consult him.)

However

I do think it is a problem that Raquel clearly doesn’t know, particularly when she happily celebrates Nairobi’s impending pregnancy with her. I also think that, if she does ever find out, this is the thing that will bother her, not the fact that Sergio agreed.

And you know what - I think it’s Nairobi who’s out of character here. Nairobi doesn’t let people’s husbands or boyfriends treat them like shit. Nairobi stands up for other women, and although we don’t really see much of her relationship with Raquel, I can’t imagine that they wouldn’t get on.

So I think that Nairobi would have been the one to include Raquel in the decision-making - either asking them together, or even just giving Raquel a heads-up first.

She just wouldn’t have deliberately hidden it from a woman who might have been hurt by the exclusion.

On the Professor’s side, he probably should (and would) have mentioned the history of debilitating illness in his family.

But there’s more. I don’t just object to the questionable characterisation - I also think it’s very suspicious timing.

In my opinion, this storyline was put in to make Nairobi’s death sadder, something that was a) unnecessary and b) not the way to do it.

We already love Nairobi

More than that, the Professor already loves Nairobi, and I think it’s him that they were really trying to clobber here. Shortly before she dies, he’s stressing out about how he might be having a kid with two members of the gang, and then after she dies you get those flashbacks to them hugging after he agrees to be her donor.

And it makes me mad, because of all the great things about their relationship, him agreeing to give her some sperm is actually pretty insignificant. You don’t need to have a kid with someone to care about them. I can’t think of a gang member he wouldn’t be distraught about losing. He cares so much (and that’s what makes him interesting).

(It also makes zero sense insofar as when Nairobi was shot at the end of Part 3 [or even during her recovery at the beginning of Part 4] he wasn’t freaking out about how the two mothers of his kids were in danger - he was upset because his friend was fighting for her life, and upset because his not-yet-wife was - as far as he knew - dead. That was better.)

I know it’s a minor plot point, and tbf I do think it’s pretty much the only choice that I actively dislike. Still, it feels like a cheap attempt to add emotion to a very emotional moment, and a plot point that will either have to be dropped and forgotten about, or one that will cause totally unnecessary drama later on.

#la casa de papel #money heist #lcdp the professor #lcdp lisboa #lcdp el profesor #lcdp lisbon #lcdp nairobi #nairobi #raquel murillo #sergio marquina #agata jimenez #writing

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hachichimitsu2 · 5 years

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A Comprehensive List of Stan and Kyle Moments (I UPD8 AS I GO)

Hello. Yes, you heard me. Here are all the scenes that legit scream out “STYLE” in South Park, whether these scenes are too far of a reach or not. I mostly compiled this out of my very own convenience, and hopefully this’ll help you a whole lot too. This is extremely text heavy, so I’ll put this under “Read More”. I haven’t played any of the games, so I won’t be including it here at this time, so if you guys know any good moments from the games, please let me know and I’ll add it to the list.

Cherokee Hair Tampons:

- The entire goshdarn episode.

- Stan being concerned and distraught over a dying Kyle breaks my heart. He was even bawling next to Kenny.

- Stan willing to donate his kidney to Kyle, even if it’d hurt a lot.

- Stan knowing that Kyle ate a bean and bacon soup half an hour ago shows that he’s been by Kyle’s side for quite some time now.

- Stan holding onto Kyle while they were at Cartman’s house.

- “Dude, you’re my best friend. I don’t want you to die before I do...”

Super Best Friends:

- Yeah, um, this episode...is gay.

- Stan and Kyle entering the episode with ice cream cones while Butters and Cartman wondering where they got them from. It’s assumed Stan and Kyle were hanging out with each other off-screen.

- I think Kyle being convinced that he’s not “really happy” through brainwashing is parallel to Stan being convinced that he’s “depressed” by the Church of Scientology.

- Stan trying to help Kyle escape with him, not even mentioning this plan to Kenny, Cartman or even Butters.

- Stan and Kyle looking at each other with longing looks while dramatic music plays in the background. Ah yes. I am...not even joking...this legit happened.

- How to Find Your Boyfriend 101: “OH MY GOD! THEY KILLED KENNY!!” “Y-you bastards...”

- Stan pleading Kyle not to kill himself and to hold his breath while being there for him.

- The ending where they call each other Super Best Friends and both proceed to beat up Cartman when he teased that they should make out.

Cartmanland:

- Stan comforting a distraught Kyle.

- @belovedhomosexuals mentioned that canonically, Stan helps Kyle with his hemorrhoid cream, and IM-

- Stan doing everything he can to get back at Cartman for Kyle’s sake.

- Stan demanding the doctor to wheel Kyle out to see Cartman in misery.

Asspen:

- “YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW HEATHER!!” >:(

- Kyle not wanting Stan to do the K-13. He doesn’t want him to die.

- Kyle holds a polaroid photo of the both of them. How cute. Does he bring it with him wherever he goes?

The Biggest Douche In The Universe:

- Stan not wanting to go back to Colorado without Kyle and does all he can to convince him that John Edward is a fraud.

Follow That Egg:

- They are dads.

- They take care of their egg really well.

- “As a matter of fact, it is the nicest hat I’ve ever known”

- They’re the reasons gays could get married.

- Stan getting jealous of Kyle being paired up with Wendy. It does seem like a reach I have to admit, but if you’re a Stylendy fan, then this one’s for you.

Return of Chef

- The iconic beginning “flashback” where they both look at the sunset together.

Smug Alert:

- Stan and Kyle meeting in the parking lot in the beginning when Kyle was helping his dad give fake tickets.

- Kyle being moved away from South Park has Stan write a song to get Kyle and his family to come back.

- The cute hug in the end.

Fantastic Easter Special

- Stan, out of breath, asks Kyle for help in protecting Snowball

- Kyle helping him out anyways even though he was busy with fingerprinting.

- Cinematic parallels of Kyle killing Jesus and Stan killing that alien in Pinewood Derby.

Imaginationland Trilogy

- Kyle calling Stan in the morning regarding the “dream.”

- Stan and Kyle, unsure of the notes, both trying to recall the Imagination song. It was cute.

- Stan being distraught when ManBearPig got a hold on Kyle. (I swear, I’ve used the word “distraught” for over 1948388 times now)

- Kyle communicating through Stan telepathically with his Imagination.

Guiltar Queer O

- The whole episode.

- “I know...I need you.”

- The whole episode was literally as if they went through a break up.

- They’re both in sync when playing, right up to their tongues up.

- “Oh, so the gallant knight now comes to rescue me from the bowels of mediocrity! Oh, thank you, your royal lordship!” (Foreshadowing for SOT?)

- Stan thinking of Kyle as he’s “driving”.

The List:

- Stan doing all he can to prove that Kyle is a handsome mf. Another episode that screams Stylendy rights.

You Got F’d in the A:

- Kyle being so happy to see Stan dancing back to the Orange County kids.

- It’s canon that Stan can dance well while Kyle doesn’t have rhythm whatsoever. Wouldn’t it be a cute idea for Stan to teach Kyle how to dance?

You Have 0 Friends

- Kyle pleading Stan to water his crops.

- A short detail but if you noticed when Kyle announced that they made an FB account for Stan, he only added himself as Stan’s friend. This means that Kyle legit “friended” himself in Stan’s profile and didn’t bother to add Kenny or Cartman to Stan’s friend list.

- “Yes. WE’RE REALLY GREAT FRIENDS STAN!!” :D

You’re Getting Old:

- Oof. Yeah....

- Stan obviously loves Kyle a whole lot, but him seeing Kyle slowly turn into a turd probably did break his heart little by little. And when I mean by probably, I mean massively.

- Kyle shouldn’t exactly be demonized for not being able to handle Stan’s cynicism. Because I think it’s ok to admit you can’t handle such emotional drainage even if coming from your SBF, but do mind that him leaving Stan was most likely NOT easy for him. It’s kinda sad that they’ve slowly drifted away since then. BUT NO I REFUSE TO LET THAT HAPPEN ;-;

Assburgers:

- “Fuck you Kyle! You’re a piece of shit...Kyle, I love you. You’re a piece if shit though, fuck you...! I love you...”

- Stan immediately going back to Kyle when he’s feeling “better”

- That McDonalds Exec. literally narrating Stan and Kyle’s current rocky relationship and not believing every second of if.

A Nightmare on Facetime:

- “WILL SOMEONE GET ME A CHARGER OVER HERE!!’

- Kyle bringing and guiding Stan through the iPad.

Ginger Cow:

- Jokes aside, when Stan was asking Kyle about Cartman’s farts, he was really sweet and understanding to him. He genuinely wants to understand why Kyle likes Cartman’s farts so much and knew something was up by the way Kyle was hiding things.

- I also like how he was not afraid to call Kyle a dick. I think a good level of transparency is needed in a healthy relationship. That’s just how they roll.

- Stan helping Kyle cover up in the end....though it did backfire.

Black Friday Trilogy:

- “DID KYLE KNOW ABOUT THIS?!” “Kyle thought of it.” ;-;

- Stan being grounded and Kyle apologizing at the other side of the door was peak gay angst level.

- “That’s just how Xbox people are...” D:

- Ok now for something sweet. In the deleted scene, Stan was showing Kyle how the playstation controller works and...wow.......what cute babies.

Prehistoric Ice Man:

- “Oh my god! They killed Kenny!!” *looks at Kyle* “What? I’m not talking to you anymore.”

- Them fighting and arguing was so adorable. Their voices were so squeaky and cute in this episode.

- “First one to die loses.” SOGKEKGKRI WHAT MORONS

- Stan and Kyle kind of awkwardly trying to start the fight reminds me of Tweek vs Craig.

Mexican Joker:

- Stan angrily sending Cartman to the detention center after hearing about him sending Kyle there.

Band in China:

- “kyyyyyyYYYYYLEEEE :D DUDE YOU’RE BACK!!”

- Stan making a death metal band because a.) He hates living in the farm and b.) He misses Kyle so hard.

Britney’s New Look:

- Another Stan and Kyle episode where they both realized how so far in the wrong they’re in, and they desperately want to fix it.

- Stan and Kyle giving up in the end and joining in the chant.

The Death of Eric Cartman:

- Stan offering Kyle money so he could buy milk for lunch.

Two Guys Naked In A Hot Tub:

- “You can't just hang out with your buddy Kyle all the time. People will think you guys are, you know, funny.”

- When Kyle walks over in the end, Stan proceeds to complain to him how he had the worst night and they both go to Kyle’s house to hang.

The China Probrem

- In the beginning, Stan telling Kyle to refute Cartman’s racist sayings and got overly concerned when Kyle said he couldn’t do this anymore.

- Stan going in Kyle’s room to talk about moving on from what they’ve witnessed.

- Stan holding Kyle’s hand to run away in Kyle’s dream. Kyle waking up and crying when Stan wasn’t around to comfort him.

- Stan and Kyle crying in each other’s arms and telling each other “I love you”.

- Small detail but when they were leaving the attorney’s office and the attorney and the kids were crying altogether, Stan put a hand on Kyle to comfort him as they were crying.

The Mystery of the Urinal Deuce:

- Stan appearing in Kyle’s living room suddenly.

- “Well dude, maybe we're just super badass. Have you thought of that?” Yeah I know Stan was trying to cover up what he just did by saying that but still.

Cartman Gets An Anal Probe:

- Stan helping Kyle save Ike.

- “Hahaha you farted.” WHAT GROSS DORKS

- Kyle telling a speech to the aliens and Stan remarking how beautiful it was.

A Very Crappy Christmas:

- Kyle calling Stan in the middle of the night to get the guys, and Stan answering all sleepily is so adorable.

- Stan and Kyle voice acting together.

- Stan and Kyle doing the stopmotion animation together.

- Stan and Kyle laughing when they had Stan voice act Cartman to say the “ham” line.

Fun With Veal:

- Kyle taking care of a sickly Stan despite being a bit of a germaphobe.

The Snuke:

- Stan coming over to a sick Kyle’s house immediately after school has been suspended.

Crack Baby Athletic Association:

- Stan not being afraid to call out on Kyle.

- Kyle snuck into Stan’s room and Stan was listening to him unfazed.

Quintuplets 2000:

- Them trying to do gymnastics.

Pee:

- Kyle getting disgusted after hearing Stan talk about how it’s normal for people to pee in pools and in the shower.

Butterballs:

- Kyle calling Stan out in the bathroom, and they have this long ass stare. Kyle knowing that Stan will be jackin it in San Diego.

Bike Parade:

- Stan making Kyle laugh.

Proper Condom Use

- Stan and Kyle playing with a Jennifer Lopez doll and roleplaying.

- “SCREAM FOR ME BITCH!” “AHHHHHHHHH”

- Stan and Kyle in the same car with their cute big heads protruding.

World War Zimmerman:

- Stan and Kyle playing football.

The Scoots:

- Once again, Stan and Kyle playing football.

City on the Edge of Forever:

- Stan saving Kyle in his dream.

- Stan and Kyle sitting a bit closer to each other than usual in Stan’s dream.

Grounded Vindaloop:

- The tetherball date.

- Stan and Kyle saying “fuck you” to Kenny.

Clubhouses:

- Stan reading Bebe’s note, and Kyle being unfazed about it later in the episode. It was never defined whether he was informed the note came from Bebe.

#REHASH:

- Stan and Kyle being called grandpas by the little kids.

Tegridy Farms:

- When one of Ike’s classmates blew smoke in front of Kyle, Stan got extremely defensive about it.

Raising the Bar:

- Stan informing Kyle that it isn’t cool to continue on with “Fatty Doo Doo”.

- Stan checking up on Kyle as he’s sitting alone and listening to him lament about how the bar has sunk so low because of people.

Go Fund Yourself:

- *looking at Kyle’s ass* Boy this is the life huh.

Truth and Advertising:

- Stan and Kyle fist fighting for real, and Tweek and Craig looking at them concerned since they rarely ever fight like this.

Conjoined Fetus Lady:

- Stan preparing to catch Kyle if ever he fails to catch the dodgeball.

Stanley’s Cup:

- THEIR YOUNGER SELVES PLAYING HOCKEY!

ManBearPig:

- Stan’s head on Kyle’s lap. It’s so beautifully rendered.

Board Girls:

- “Wow, you are really into board games.”

A Scause for Applause:

- Kyle confronts Stan about cutting the bracelet by saying Heidi Turner saw him with super glue.

The Death Camp of Tolerance:

- “KYLE! KYLE! YOU HAVE TO KEEP MAKING YOUR MACARONI PICTURES!!”

South Park Bigger, Longer and Uncut:

- Stan getting jealous that even Kyle is amazed at Gregory.

Cartman Join NAMBLA:

- Stan and Kyle putting their face against the glass.

Mr. Hankey’s Christmas Classics:

- Stan and Kyle making fun of Shelly behind her back.

Raisins:

- Kyle coming to visit Stan with the gang after the whole breakup.

- Kyle wanting Stan to be happy again by bringing him to Raisins.

- Kyle being annoyed over Stan being distraught over Wendy. Jealous?

Mr. Jefferson:

- When Stan hears a knock on his window, he assumes it’s Kyle.

- Stan and Kyle being good caretakers of Blanket.

- Stan and Kyle sleeping with Blanket.

173 notes · View notes

docholligay · 4 years

Note

Question! What made you decide to avoid eating pork, but not some of the other food that's supposedly proscribed? (I'm actually unclear on what exactly is a no-no, even after trying to look it up online)

I’m Reform, which doesn’t mean “You don’t have to follow any of the rules ever” like some Reform Jews who I might argue haven’t given their faith a lot of thought would say, but it encourages us to be our own “sage” and to really try to discern what has meaning, and what God might have meant, rather than saying, “WELP IF SHAMMAI SAYS SO.” I think, done correctly, it’s a really challenging form of the faith because it asks us to be in touch with what we feel the ideals of God might be, to constantly be climbing the ladder.

I mean, my BIGGIES, and if I could make the world take anything from Judaism, it would be this, are the ethical obligations. The prohibition against lashon hara, asking us not to spread something, even if true, simply to discredit or harm someone, asking, ‘why can’t this be handled privately?’, asking us to search our motivations for “warning” which holy shit do I wish fandom would get that one. The obligation to the poor, the obligation to tzedakah, our obligation to stand for others, to attempt to think good of people, to guard against joy in the misfortunes of others. That’s my big deal Jewish following! This is where I put the majority of my energy!

But also, I keep a version of some of the kosher law. I don’t eat pork, and I don’t eat “matched” meat and dairy. So I don’t eat beef and cow milk together, for example. I do this because the ACTUAL LAW IN TORAH is “Don’t stew a kid in its mother’s milk” and I have a lot of very personal feelings about how that’s gotten SEVERELY overstretched as a linchpin of Jewish behavior and if we’re going to “put a fence around the Torah” why aren’t we doing that by donating 20% of our income?? Just to make sure??? and things like that, but this is an argument better kept in my Torah study class.

Anyway, the pork thing. I had been thinking about it for a few years, not only out of personal thoughts, but as a mark of Jewish identity, perhaps one of the most commonly known ones. But two things changed it for me: knowing a pig, and a random rabbi I was reading.

But Doc, you might fairly say, you’ve known plenty of farm animals. Yes, and so I don’t feel bad about eating them. Chickens barely know they’re alive. Cows are assholes. Sheep are ridiculous. None of them has a keen sense of intelligence that BOTHERS me. Pigs are very intelligent, akin to dogs and maybe even smarter, and working at a place that had a few (Keeping pigs is not common here) made it feel...not okay to me. Then I was reading a rabbi, also Reform, whose name escapes me, and he pointed out that there is no use for a pig on a farm but to die. It cannot give milk, or wool, or eggs. And I was like, “HO HO HO IS THAT AWKWARD AS HELL.” so I gave it up.

I don’t really care if other people eat it or not! People always want to argue with me, and I’m like, “Bro I could not possibly care less about your life.” But I won’t cook it. So. I told Jill she can cook it whenever she wants but as it turns out she wants pork less than she wants to cook.

There are a lot of kashrut (kosher) laws and honestly all Jews keep them to different degrees from Very Very Serious to Not At All. IN my congregation, I’m one of the more serious, but not the most serious, as far as food goes.

People get hung up on the food thing, but there’s plenty of other things I do and keep too. I say Modeh Ani when I wake up in the morning, I light Shabbat candles every week, I don’t use internet on Shabbat, I say the Shema before I got to bed. Whether I’m “religious” or not depends on one’s perspective, i suppose, and I’m really not interested in whether anyone considers me religious or not. The older I get, the more mizvot I find I pick up.

#Anonymous

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britishassistant · 4 years

Text

But I Like One Piece (7)

The Uchiha compound is creepy.

It’s the same way Auschwitz is creepy. The knowledge of the atrocities committed there, combined with all the little context clues which make it more than just knowledge.

Smashed windows, run down storefronts, overgrown gardens, doors hanging off of rusted hinges. Random objects scattered around, as though waiting for their owners to pick them up.

Brownish stains everywhere.

This is what she always imagined the aftermath of a Buster Call would look like.

Except this is.

Real.

She shudders and clutches Naruto’s hand tighter. He squeezes back, averting his eyes.

Uchiha scoffs in front of them.

She frowns at his back. What, are they not allowed to be disturbed by the scene of a genocide? Still, she’s surprised he can stomach cutting through here, even if it is a shortcut to their destination.

“Is it far to your house?”

“Hn.” He says.

She scowls at his back. So much for pleasant conversation.

Eventually they come to a large house at the very center of the compound.

There’s more brownish stains here than in the rest of the compound, but Uchiha pushes the front door open.

“...Don’t bother taking your shoes off.” He says. “Training ground’s this way.”

“Wait.” Naruto stops dead, looking around wild-eyed. “You said the trainin’ ground was near where you live.”

The Uchiha actually turns around at this. “Yeah, and?”

She stares at the dusty, dark interior of the house. She closes her eyes and counts to ten.

“Sasuke-kun.” She says with her brightest smile. “Is there anyone living with you at the moment who looks after you?”

He shudders. “N-no. That’s stupid, I’m an Uchiha. I don’t need to be looked after. And d-don’t call me that ever again.”

She keeps smiling as she buries her face in her hands and tries not to scream. For the love of Luffy, Chopper and Robin, how is this child not a gibbering wreck?

Naruto gestures wildly at their surroundings. “But why—why’d you live here?! The village gave me an apartment! Why live where—”

He clamps down on the sentence. But it’s too late.

“What? Where my an-bro-broth—where That Man murdered my family?” Uchiha sneers. “A clanless moron like you wouldn’t get it.”

Naruto flinches a little.

“Well no one can if you don’t use your words and explain this shit.” She snaps, irritated. “People aren’t mind-readers you know.”

He stiffens, lip curling, before turning his back on them again. “Let’s just get this over with.”

She throws her hands into the air as Naruto cracks his knuckles, following him into the darkness of the house. “Bring it, jerk.”

Much like the spar at the Academy, the two of them are on even ground initially.

Also like the spar at the Academy, it’s not long until Uchiha begins losing.

Even without an audience, Uchiha has something to prove in this fight, and that distracts him instead of motivating him.

All the little needling remarks they’ve been making clearly get under his skin and making him lash out where it would’ve been smarter to play it safe, his stances and footwork becoming less precise and more sloppy as he frantically tries to beat Naruto down and make him stay down.

Whereas Naruto can easily dodge or shrug off these blows, redirecting the motion and using the openings to hit back.

She winces gleefully at a particularly painful hit on Naruto’s part. They’ve trained under Gai-sensei. One of the first things he taught them was the importance of letting your emotions fuel your resolve instead of trying to keep them separate and leaving them liable to distract you at the worst opportunity.

Naruto knocks Uchiha’s ankle out from under him and carefully controls the fall so Uchiha doesn’t even end up winded, but is definitely pinned with no hope of escape.

She grins widely, crowing. “Finished! Match victory to Uzumaki Naruto!”

Naruto promptly leaps up and begins whooping, running in circles around Uchiha, while the boy on the ground shouts that this wasn’t fair, he was only warming up, they need to go another round so they can clearly see how strong he is.

She just keeps grinning fiercely. “It’s better to accept loss with grace, Uchiha-san. Now, where’s your kitchen?”

This...

This is a travesty.

If Sanji was here, he’d kick Uchiha Sasuke so hard he’d rearrange his entire shitty face. Of course, given the track record of that move, it’d probably end up improving his looks, but still. Travesty.

There’s fruit shoved into pile in a corner and moldering, glimpses of white-green fuzz visible.

There’s packets of meat and fish in the fridge that have been carelessly torn and left open, their juices dripping down onto other items.

There’s eggs and yogurt left out on the countertop, already long curdled by the smell of them.

There’s congealed leftovers shoved into the fridge on the plates they were served on, without any foil or covers to protect them.

There’s grimy and poorly cleaned utensils sitting in a sink full of dirty water, and the countertops themselves are covered in stains from previous cooking attempts.

At least he knows milk goes into the fridge, and put the tomatoes in the cooler drawer. Even if they’re so squished together over half of them are bruised.

She takes a deep breath and tries not to choke on the stench. Sanji give me strength.

“Well.” She says brightly. “Congratulations. You’ve managed to somehow be even worse than my shittiest expectations.”

Uchiha glares at her out of a swelling black eye. “Shut up.”

She hangs her head, exhaling harshly. Not constructive Ketsugi.

“Right. Where do you keep your bin bags? The bigger the better I think.” She steps up to the sink, pulling the plug and letting the grime drain away, turning the tap on as far as it can go on “hot”.

Naruto makes a face at the rattling sound the drain makes, the expression pulling at his fat lip. She sighs. “Rubber gloves too, if you have them.”

“Your problem.” She tells him, in the middle of sorting through the fruit and seeing what’s salvageable and what has to go, “Is that you have too much food.”

They’re on the fourth bin bag already, having filled the other three with the contents of the fridge and carried them out to a monstrous skip at the back of the compound.

“You have loads of people giving you more than you can feasibly eat, let alone prepare.” She continues, grimacing at a particularly fluffy punnet of cherries. “So it goes to waste. You need to begin doing your own shopping. Or telling some of them thanks but no thanks. Or, hell, even donating the extra stuff to people who can use it.”

“Like who?” Uchiha asks dismissively, as he reorganizes his pantry so things aren’t just thrown in there willy-nilly, carefully sweeping up spilled grains of rice or flour or sugar or pasta into a dustpan as he goes.

“The Orphanage.” Naruto throws out as he scrubs pots and pans until they gleam under almost-boiling water. “They’d always tell me they never had enough food to go around when I lived there.”

Sasuke’s face is wrought with some complex emotion when he next empties the dustpan into the bag, his mouth twisting when she mutters, “Wouldn’t get it, huh?” striding back into the pantry like he hadn’t heard her.

She tilts an avocado, marveling at how much it feels like a rock, and says in a louder voice, “You could always see if there are any charities or soup kitchens that would appreciate the donations. Even I could always take some of what’s left over and make you something with it.”

“...” There’s a lot of judgement she doesn’t appreciate in that silence.

“I don’t just make curries.” She replies snidely, stuffing some rotten bananas into the bag with more force than is perhaps strictly necessary. “I do lots of other foods. Right Naruto?”

“Yeah!” He says, depositing a metal spoon onto the veritable field of tea towels they’ve laid out over the counter. “She just makes the curry super spicy because she has no idea what it’s supposed to taste like. She does other foods normal though!”

Her eyebrow twitches and she has to fight to stop herself from lobbing a mushy apple at Naruto’s treacherous head.

By the time they’re done, the countertops are gleaming, the fridge has been scrubbed clear of contaminating juices, and the sink’s drain no longer sounds like it’s giving out a death rattle every time water goes down it.

The pantry is arranged so Uchiha actually knows where stuff is, and the fresher meat and bread he doesn’t know if he’ll eat in the next week or so has been frozen and put into the freezer.

They have used a grand total of seventeen bin bags to throw away all the wasted food.

In one of the now-gleaming pots, there’s enough minestrone soup for one person gently bubbling away. All Uchiha has to do is let it simmer until the pasta is cooked through and then he can eat it. And wash everything up. She’s very adamant about him washing up properly.

She now has a bag stuffed full of food that Uchiha turned his nose up at on her shoulder.

The sun is beginning it’s slow descent out of the sky. They need to get going if they want to even have a quick dinner together.

“Wait. You two live together?” Uchiha asks, incredulous.

“No. I have to live in my apartment in the village.” Naruto says, looking crestfallen. “An’ I can only eat with Mayu-chan and Mayu-chan’s Okaa-san and Otou-san if I make it there and back before the sun sets.”

She smiles sadly at him, reaching out to squeeze his hand—

“If I leave, the Uchiha clan lands are forfeit.”

They turn back to Uchiha Sasuke, who’s begun looking like he really, really wishes he hadn’t said anything.

He huffs. “If I leave this place, the council will take it as a declaration of the Uchiha clan forfeiting their right to this land, since there wouldn’t be any living here anymore. The land will be reclaimed by the village, and—and—”

Clans are required to do things certain ways or risk dissolution. She sighs. “There is so much wrong with...that, but okay. We can start working on that next. Thank you for explaining.”

He nods stiffly, and walks them to the gate of the compound.

“I don’t get it,” Naruto says as they walk down her street, sun hot on their necks. “Even if the village does claim the lands, wouldn’t it be better to not live with...that?”

She shrugs the bag higher on her shoulder. “If he does, the village might tear down the old compound buildings to make new ones. And even if it is the site of an awful tragedy, he may still think of that place as ‘home’. If you’d lost everything else, would you wanna lose that too?”

Naruto shakes his head and bites his lip.

She gently bumps his shoulder with her own and they arrive home in pensive silence.

She makes sure to bring her (now dogeared and slightly stained) easy recipes cookbook with her to the Academy, alongside extra servings of eggplant tempura, to loan to Uchiha Sasuke.

He doesn’t quite throw a tantrum.

But it’s pretty close.

“I. Don’t. Want. It.” He grits out, glaring at her.

She bites into an onigiri she’s traded with Shino. There’s half a hard boiled egg inside as filling, and it’s supplying her with absent-minded ideas for recipes based off of food from her past life.

“Look, we’ve got your food down to manageable levels, but that means nothing if you can’t do anything with it.” She taps the book’s cover. “This is the first cookbook I ever owned. It’s what I used to use to make stuff for Naruto when we met.”

Naruto perks up a little at the other end of the table, craning to see it’s cover, so she holds it up for him. “It’s pretty easy to follow, and there are some more complex recipes in the back if you want a challenge—”

“I’m not wasting my time with cooking.” Uchiha hisses, nose wrinkling in distaste. “I need to focus on getting stronger. Only civilians care about useless things like that.”

She’s about to give him a good kick in the shins and see how he feels about civilians then, when Chouji abruptly stands up next to her.

“Wanna say that again, Uchiha-san?” He says, his tone low and surprisingly steely.

Shikamaru lifts his head off the table and sits up straight for once to give him a death glare, while Ino scoots her chair away from “Sasuke-kun” and crosses her arms, frowning at him imperiously.

Uchiha’s eyes dart between each one of the three, and he looks away, taking a bite out of one of the tempura she’s snuck into his lunchbox. “Hn.”

She blinks, trying to digest this new information about there being stellar cooks who also are apparently ninja while Chouji just sighs, settling back down in his seat and returning to his sandwich.

Of course, once he feels slighted, Uchiha can never leave well enough alone.

“It can’t even be that good.” He grumbles, pretending he doesn’t hear Kiba’s snickering. “If it was where soup you made came from. That was disgusting.”

She hears Hinata breathe a soft little “oh dear,” over the rush of blood in her ears.

“I see. What was wrong with it?” She asks.

The Uchiha puffs up a bit, oblivious to Shino shaking his head behind him. “Everything. I couldn’t even eat it, so I threw it out.”

There’s a soft slap as Shikamaru covers his eyes, muttering “Troublesome.”

“Alright. Well, since this is the first time, I’ll be sure to take your complaints into account.” She says, smiling.

She grabs his shirt collar and drags him up over the table to meet her gaze. “Because the next time you waste food, Sasuke-kun, I’m going to rip out your baby teeth, boil them down into a bone broth, and feed that to you instead. Are we clear?”

The Uchiha goes pale.

“Easy Mayu-chan, I think the jerk’s just lying to make you mad.” Naruto says, leaning over and gently attempting to pry her fingers off of the shirt collar. “C’mon, jerk, Mayu-chan doesn’t mean it—”

“Yes I do.” She adds.

“—No you don’t, stop making this worse!!” He yells, finally separating her from Uchiha. “I get you’re upset, and he shouldn’ta hurt your feelin’s, but you can’t just make bits of him into ingredients over stuff like this! Even Sanji wouldn’t do that, would he?”

“...Sorry, Naruto.” She replies hesitantly, feeling a bit abashed.

He gives her a disapproving look that is a stunning replica of her mother’s. “I’m not who you should be apologizin’ to, am I?”

She shoots a poisonous look at the offending party. “...Sorry Uchiha.” She says grudgingly.

He just huffs, storming off to the other side of the classroom where his fangirls coo over him and glare nastily at her.

But her cookbook has vanished along with him.

The next day he comes back and throws her recipe book at her face.

She has just enough time to catch it before it clocks her in the nose before he begins boasting in that quiet, insinuating way of his about how he’ll surely surpass her as he waves around a newer, updated copy of the same book.

She asks if that’s supposed to be a challenge, mind turning over the possibilities of recipes Uchiha will willingly cook and eat, mentally marking down the pages.

He haughtily snorts, but doesn’t deny it.

Sakura then shoots up, one hand in the air, saying she’ll be the judge. When Sasuke snorts and says she’ll be biased because she’s civilian, her lips purse and she grabs Chouji’s arm, proclaiming him to be her “co-judge”.

Chouji just shrugs and says he doesn’t mind getting more food.

So then of course, Ino invites herself and Shikamaru along as “moral support”, though why the judges need it is a little beyond her.

Naruto and Lee come with her, obviously, so Kiba and Hinata also show up that weekend with a reluctant Shino in tow.

Shikamaru’s beginning to teach him how to play shogi, and she’s experimenting with different concentrations of sugar water and fruit juice to see what his insects enjoy best, so she hopes he’s not too put out by spending time with them.

Akamaru is still a very good boy, and is perfectly happy with bits of meat and a rawhide bone.

They work out pretty quickly that Naruto can’t really be around for the cooking contests.

This is because Uchiha will, without fail, work out something to argue about with him, and then they’ll have to take it out on each other in the training ground, and by the time they’re finished it’s always too late to actually begin cooking.

So the weekends when Naruto is required to visit the Hokage become cooking contest weekends, while the ones where he comes become sparring weekends.

They don’t all always show up—Ino’s parents have a flower shop they want her to help out at, and her and Chouji and Shikamaru’s parents are all best friends so sometimes they have to go to parties. Shino, Hinata and Kiba often will have clan duties that mean they can’t come.

Sometimes she and Naruto or Sakura can’t come just because they’re spending some time with their parents.

But there’s always someone there on any given weekend, as the leaves on the trees change colors and fall off. And it works. Uchiha’s house is beginning to feel less like a mausoleum and more like somewhere lived in again.

She enjoys the chance to stretch her culinary muscles without bankrupting her parents and test her skills against a rival who she will grudgingly admit might be catching up to her.

She’s still more irritated by him than not, but Sanji and the other chefs at the Baratie drove each other up the wall too, so she’s fine with this working relationship.

Comrades don’t need to get along or even share the same goals to be able to work together after all.

Naruto’s birthday is always a strange affair.

They aren’t allowed to see him for the entire week, for one thing. He’s always collected by masks on the Sunday before and doesn’t return to his apartment until the next Monday.

The first time it happened, she freaked out badly enough that her father accompanied her to the Tower and they sat in a little waiting room outside the Hokage’s office for four hours, not meeting the glares that all the busy, ant-like people sent them.

Hokage-sama had taken their visit in good humor, even as he told them he couldn’t tell them where Naruto was, for the boy’s safety. He’d patted her head and told her not to worry, that Naruto would be back soon.

Of course, she’d worried enough that she ended up sitting outside of Naruto’s apartment for most of the week, watching the village’s festival below and knocking on the door intermittently, occasionally munching on bits and pieces from food stalls that her parents brought for her.

When she’d finally knocked on the door and Naruto had answered, she’d tackled him to the floor in a hug.

There may have been tears. She really couldn’t say.

Neither could Naruto, no matter what he likes to insinuate about “photographic evidence”.

So they’ve developed a tradition of celebrating Naruto’s birthday the weekend after the week it actually happens.

His birthday dinner is held at Ichiraku’s, like there’s any other option.

He gets his first five bowls of ramen free, and the rest heavily discounted. Teuchi-sama and Ayame-sama ladle extra toppings into each bowl, with a grinning “Happy Birthday, Naruto!”

Unlike last year, he’s got two birthday cakes this time, because Uchiha turns even gift-giving into a competition. He’s made an extremely bitter coffee cake with dark chocolate fondant and decorated with sour cherries forming an Uzumaki spiral. Naruto manfully eats two entire slices before passing it off to the adults, who derive much more enjoyment from it.

He likes the lighter vanilla sponge with orange buttercream and a white chocolate narutomaki which Chouji made much more. Chouji subtly lords this over Sasuke for the rest of the night.

Hinata stutters out a “Ha-ha-happy B-bi-bi—” before dropping an intricate box filled with shuriken and a whetstone on the counter and fleeing.

She lasted ten minutes longer this year.

Kiba gives Naruto kunai, as does Ino, which leads to an argument about the quality of their preferred suppliers. Sakura gives him a book on the language of flowers, while Shikamaru gives him a book on the plants of Uzushio and a calligraphy set.

Gai and Lee give him a piggy-bank in the shape of a smiling frog on a lilypad.

It’s really cute, and Naruto instantly declares it to be Gama-chan’s “big sister”, Kaeru-chan.

Her parents have bought him a selection of orange hoodies, some sleeveless and some not, all with the Uzumaki spiral hand-embroidered on the back by Okaa-sama. She also added little ninja frogs with teeny shuriken and kunai and katana in all of the hoods.

She’s a bit worried about her present by now, because it seems silly by comparison. Never mind that she had to search high and low all throughout Konoha and eventually ended up giving all her money to a merchant from Takigakure for this.

She hands him a (rather ratty) plush of a grey pelican with an offensively yellow bill. Her embroidery skill is nowhere near her mother’s level, so the red Uzumaki spiral she attempted to stitch onto its breast in place of the customary tomoe is crooked.

Naruto stares at it for a really long time.

The adults are very, very quiet.

“Well,” She hazards. “Hokage-sama did say everything we give him needs his symbol on it?”

Then Naruto begins laughing and hugging her tightly, proclaiming that it’s name is now Peri-chan, and the adults begin talking again, acting like nothing interesting has happened.

So she hugs Naruto back as hard as she can, Peri-chan squished between them.

It’d be nice if this could last.

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enkisstories · 5 years

Text

Just like them

- Short Detroit Become Human fanfic starring Daniel - - Close enough to canon, not my Sims!AU - November 15, 2038 Park Avenue

Daniel placed his hand on the door lock. However, the device rejected his request almost instantly.

ACCESS DENIED

It wasn’t just a string of bright letters, the message additionally burned itself into the android brain. And although the narrative went that androids didn’t feel pain, the sharp sting of the “Nope” signal along with all the emotions it triggered in Daniel’s deviant mind were unpleasant to say the least.

“Shit!”

Daniel raised his hand – or rather, he moved his shoulder to lift the replacement arm and hand up, spare parts salvaged from other unfortunates that had found themselves in the DPD’s evidence archive. Just when the new limbs had started to feel less like prostheses and more like parts of himself, the android had to receive a reminder to the fact that this wasn’t the case. His real hand was lost and with it the RFID tag that would have opened the door to the Phillips apartment.

Daniel wondered briefly the key to which door he was carrying now, because some signal had gotten exchanged between the hand and the door lock. If there had been no key present at all, the door would just have stayed silent instead of bellowing its “Access denied” at the intruder.

A shutdown police auxiliary beyond repair had “donated” Daniel’s new legs, but also the hand? Daniel didn’t remember. It hadn’t mattered earlier that day when they had set him more or less free.

And now the android he was standing here, with an electronic cuff somewhere in his system, a novel worth of parole terms in his head, but fresh out of an emergency override keycard for his own home.

I should have went with that guy from Jericho when he offered it. But, noooooo, I HAD to do this alone, because I don’t NEED help at all. And I shouted at him, so there’s no turning back now. It’s getting dark anyway. And ‘sides, I have a right to this flat! It’s my inheritance, the pay for four years of service, no way I’m going to live in, what was it, a wrecked cruise ship or something? No way!

Tap,tap,tap… jingle,jingle,jingle… swoosh

Daniel exited the elevator and only when the doors closed behind him did he realize that he had just traveled downwards by one floor without actually having decided to do so.

Check. Deviant brain doing deviant stuff. They warned me about this.

Daniel’s subconsciousness had taken over, now the question was where had it taken him?

Looking around Daniel discovered that he was standing right in front of an apartment door, one hand raised slightly, obviously in an attempt to ring the doorbell. The nameplate that went with the bell read “Rasoya”.

Ah, right, that was familiar territory. The Rasoyas were the Phillips’ direct downstairs neighbors. They had helped them out by taking Emma when her parents were out and with sugar, flour and eggs that Caroline tended to forget to stock up in sufficient quantity. That had been before Daniel had joined the household, of course, but even with the Phillips owning a state of the art household assistant made by CyberLife now the families had remained… close?

I have always assumed we were close, but looking back I feel “habitually on speaking terms” is more precise.

Someone was stirring now inside the apartment and a female voice rose up:

“I think I heard someone at the door! Will you take a look?”

“Yes, it’s me!” Daniel shouted back, then rang the bell.

Someone was looking through a spyhole, not trusting the electronic security camera, then opened the door. Before it was fully open, Daniel already gasped at the person behind it: “Can I borrow a crowbar, please, Mrs. Rasoya? I need to break into the Phillips apartment!”

Mrs. Rasoya laughed so hard at this that the toddler boy she was holding was shaking violently. Reflexively Daniel grabbed him while Mrs. Rasoya was still trying to get a grip on herself. Eventually the woman said:

“Daniel Phillips – the most polite android revolutionary ever.”

“Calm down, calm down!” Daniel shushed the human. “I’m not with Markus or whoever, I don’t even have a clear idea what exactly’s going on!”

I mean, when have I ever? I lived in an illusion all my existence, believing myself appreciated… sheltered… Going by my experience Markus could just be another Connor: playing nice, but harboring ulterior motives.

“They just…”

Looking for a familiar term in all the madness that was the present, the android continued:

“…let me out of prison and here I am, but I can’t enter my own damn apartment!”

“Own dan apartment!” little Caden Rasoya repeated cheerfully, at which his grandmother demanded the kid to get returned to her.

“Raj, dear?” she called into the apartment and a few heartbeats later her adult son, Caden’s father, appeared. Raj was a gourmet chef and his body was certainly looking the part, although he tended to dress extremely casually at home.

“Would you accompany Danny here upstairs to break down the Phillips’s door, Raj?”

“You know what, mom?” Raj laughed out loud. “This is by far the most normal request I’ve heard those last few days.”

Daniel watched Mrs. Rasoya retreat into her home where she picked up an old handheld gaming device that she had been playing on. He heard Caden giggle. The TV was running, Caden giggled some more, but then listened intently to his mother, who was explaining something connected to the evening children’s show they were watching. Everything was so normal!

Why were the Rasoyas still here, Daniel wondered? Were the feeling that the worst was behind them and deeming it save to stay in Detroit, even though the president had arranged an evacuation of a scope that put to shame even the annual floods? Were these humans maybe just as attached to their territory as Daniel himself was? Regardless of the possible consequences? In retrospect, what if Caroline had still been here tonight? Or – was she, maybe?!

“Uh… Is Caroline…?” Daniel started asking Raj.

“Left Detroit. In fact, she didn’t even wait for the presidential nudge to do so.”

“Ah.”

Raj grabbed the doorknob and with his head motioned the android to join him.

“Come in!”

“But I need to…”

“No way I’m trying to kick in a sturdy apartment door, least of all with security still intact”, Raj explained. “And neither should you do that, with a criminal record on your head. You have one…?”

“Yes, yes, it’s all legit. The DPD knows I’m here, but, fuck, I should have asked for an escort to actually get into my home.”

“You certainly picked up some language there that you didn’t know before”, Raj commented, still more amused than wary. Definitely wary, too, but not to an extent that prevented the man from acting civilly.

“But what am I to do now?”

“You’ll want to take the balcony route, Daniel. Climb up from our balcony and find your door. It was never properly repaired after… the incident, you should be able to push it open easily.”

“That’s that Connor’s fault!” Daniel spat. “It doesn’t respect anything!”

And that were the last words he exchanged with the Rasoyas. Without even a “thanks” the deviant made haste towards the balcony, jumped onto the railing and started scaling the apartment building like an ape. A PL600 wasn’t particularly strong, but their dexterity and eye-hand-coordination had to be rated outstanding even compared to other androids. Daniel was also rather agile, although he suspected that was a personal feat, nothing hard-coded in his system specs. And of course his new PC200 legs were also contributing to his athletic ability.

Inside the Phillips home Daniel didn’t linger much in the apartment proper, but instead went straight to the fish tank in the floor.

“Huey, Dewey, Louie… everyone still there!” he noticed with relief. “It’s feeding time, gentlemen! – Hehe, yes, go for it! No need to fight, there’s more where this is coming from!”

Smiling the android watched the fish gorge themselves. When had been the last time they had been fed, he wondered? So typical of Caroline! Flaunting the family fortune, but possessed of a total disregard of actual living beings. Like those of the ornamental fish she had left behind to their fate. Or her android’s…

Daniel had never given his artificial lung much thought. They were just there, moving his chest to make him appear more lifelike. Now the deviant realized how this particular biocomponent came in handy: he sighed deeply.

Moving back into the apartment Daniel almost expected to find John’s tablet. Of course after all this time it wouldn’t be there anymore. Or at least it would no longer display the order confirmation for the AP700, where John had ticked the “Disposal of old device at no extra cost” option. There had been another option, also at no extra cost: to donate the old android to charity. It would have taken the man no longer than two minutes to choose an organization from a dropdown list, but John Phillips hadn’t wanted anybody to mooch from something he had payed good money for. He had said so aloud and that comment had alerted Daniel to what was going on in the first place.

John’s greed and antisocial tendencies might very well have saved my life!

Daniel shooed this thought and looked around some more.

Pictures of Emma, John and Caroline, sometimes alone, then again as a family or with various friends, were everywhere. Of their android there was no sign and hadn’t been before the incident. Daniel felt a little like visiting the Dursleys with all the pictures of Dudders and no hint whatsoever that another boy was living at Privet Drive…

He picked up one of the framed pictures. It showed the family gathered under a Christmas Tree. The spheres, bells, stars and pine cones were all made from real glass and in between hang handmade charms fashioned by Emma. The Phillips didn’t believe in anything transcendental, neither god, nor magic. But even so they had followed the traditions and actually gained something from them. There had been an unusual warmth around that time of year each year.

Daniel put back the photograph. Suddenly the glass ornaments were too bright, the fishtank next door too loud and even the carpet his feet were touching was too rough. The deviant hunkered down and buried his head in his arms. Thirium tried to get up and out through his nose. Daniel didn’t understand what was happening to him. His system status hadn’t been that bad this morning!

Stay in… stay in… I don’t want to die! Only, I feel like dying… But I don’t want to! It’s not fair!

Daniel had sat there hunched over and crying for a while, when suddenly the door rang. A jolt went through the android’s body. Daniel jumped up and the weak, but steady stream of skin fluid mixed with blue blood came to a halt. The android wiped it away and licked the thirium from his new fingers before opening the door.

“Hey, Geeta”, Daniel greeted the visitor. “Afraid I might shut down from sorrow all alone up here?”

The words sounded like an accusation…

“Nah.” Mrs. Rasoya shook her head. “Not you. In fact, I reckon you are unable to suicide.”

“Huh? How would you know?”

Geeta walked past Daniel. She grabbed one of the family photographs at random and turned it for Daniel to get a good look at it.

“Dogs take after their owners, children after their parents and androids… androids take after their masters.”

“That’s utter bullshit!” the deviant flared up. “And even if it wasn’t, it wouldn’t apply to me! I’m a de…”

“Deviant, Daniel? For deviants what I said goes even more so, because of your emotions.”

“I may have acquired some of those, so what?!”

“The Phillips couple, too, was never one for thinking before acting… for taking a step back from their desires… or for putting themselves into others’ shoes.”

Daniel started to yell again, but was cut short:

“What kindness they had, manifested indirectly only - in their little girl and in their household assistant.”

“Huh.”

“Not what you wanted to hear, I know.”

Daniel took the picture.

“Me? Being like them?”

“It’s true.”

The deviant smiled warmly, not unlike when he had watched his fishes. For several moments he stood there, content with the world and himself. But then he jerked around his arm and smashed the frame against the nearest wall.

“They never were my family!!!”

Geeta shrugged and said her goodbyes.

“You know where to find us if you want to borrow gelignite or whatever a modern deviant might need”, she said. The woman had meant it as a joke, but as she gently closed the door behind herself, she wasn’t so sure about that anymore.

#dbh daniel #dbh #detroit become human #dbhtextpost #dbh textpost #non sims #danielgavinnewstory

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i-am-jazzy13 · 4 years

Text

Dear ******

Dear ******,

I’m not expecting anything from you, especially not a text or call. Most of what I’ve been thinking every day since the day I walked out of your house is how you never once texted me or at least said SOMETHING. Why not explain what you know I saw but of course you didn’t and you never tried to. As the days went on I saw that wasn’t going to happen and you obviously didn’t care anymore so why would I keep trying? Why keep texting my so-called boyfriend when every text sounds like I'm such a bother? Legit I tried to run through so many excuses and dumb ass scenarios for HOURS in my head to explain hat I saw and came up with absolutely nothing. Now I never cared if we would argue I just hated your reaction was to get loud and shut down. Why would I want to deal with that? Like you would talk at me and not to me and last time I checked I was your girlfriend, not your child. Communication was something I never saw a good side of growing up and you blowing the little things out of proportion just made me sure that we wouldn’t be able to actually TALK about it. It would just be you yelling and getting loud. BUT that doesn't excuse the fact that I should have communicated that seeing the app had pissed me off or maybe even brought up the earrings you were so certain was mine. But it wouldn’t have helped and it wouldn't have fixed us. Why couldn’t you come to me as a man and say you wanted to pursue someone else? I’m chill as hell and trust I wouldn’t have been as mad as having to find out on my own. When we started talking you were like “ I have enough friends I want something serious now”. That made my whole WEEK! Like I was grinning from ear to ear because for once someone was choosing me and I didn't have to work extra hard. I still smile when I remember our first date. We went to Dave and Buster and it was another great night just full of laughter and smiling and bliss. I can replay it in my mind so vividly because that was the first night you said "I love you" after like 6 months of us just "chilling". You were the very first man I ever said I love you back to. Normally I clam up and never talk to the guy again but with you, I felt so vulnerable and free and for once something was really easy for me. But happiness doesn't last forever because when I had gone to LA for my egg donation surgery and YOU had a blood test done because you weren't feeling all too well for quite some time. Perfect timing your results came back when I was in LA and they weren't good. That day, October 29th was the day you paused our relationship, it was the day we should have walked away and just forgot about each other. Left things while they were still fresh and new. In my heart, I truly feel like we should have ended things right then and there. You treated me as if I was your enemy and all I wanted to do was to be your friend at that moment, not your girlfriend, YOUR FRIEND... But you kept me at arms length. Seriously do you know how much pain I was in then during that time? I had JUST lost my dad, had surgery, and just got off the plane the same night as my surgery but there I was worried about you. You know you did not once ask me how I was after the surgery or how I was dealing with my dad's death. I thought that your problems were most important but they should have been most important to YOU, not to ME. I always made you my number one priority and I can't blame anyone for that other than me. I stayed with you out of comfort and didn't want to have to go through all of the beginning bullshit I'd have to start all over again and that was wrong. I apologize for that. When you told me I could leave right then and there, I chose to stay. I was sure we’d be fine once you got your medicine but you would get mad over the littlest of things like I was trying to make you hurt or something. I remember your rules no touching, no kissing, nothing and it didn’t bother me until you would push me away literally. You didn’t want to have sex and that was fine. I wanted to hold you, love on you, make sure you knew I was there. I was determined to fight for that relationship. The intimacy I was longing for wasn’t sex and it was never about sex. It was your touch, your hands on my thigh, kisses on my neck. Sheesh, the things that gave me butterflies before everything had to change. Truth moment: I’ve found used condoms when we weren’t having sex in your room, those ugly cheap ass hoop earrings, and perfume. But I made excuses for everything I found. Because I didn’t think you’d cheat when you weren’t even looking at me with any type of desire. Like damn, why would he cheat and he keeps telling me he can’t be with me? It legit didn’t make sense. So I tried to make sense of things then I just stopped believing the things that I saw. Nope, he wouldn’t say he loves me and cry about real personal shit to turn out to be on POF, nope not ******. He wouldn't do that to me. But it was hard though. It was really fucking hard on me because we went from literally having sex every day we saw each other and damn sure touching each other to only touching each other when it was okay with you. I’d touch you and you’d push me away or tell me to stop. So I stopped expecting it because when we did try it always felt like you had something to prove but I never asked you to become a pornstar in bed. NEVER. I remember you started to take your phone to the bathroom, changed your notifications so it doesn’t show on the screen. Like damn, I’m not going to go through your phone and I would never want to but that was something else that was never said just thought. Our texts even started to become robotic and forced after a while because I could feel myself losing something that I spent time rebuilding. I could feel myself caring more about making you happy rather than myself. It felt very one-sided after a while. I’d have to start conversations saying the same thing every single day. That got very exhausting. The night I left is just like the night that we went to Dave and Buster in the sense that I will NEVER forget it. I remember it so vividly; we were supposed to be getting something to eat, so we went through all of the restaurants near your house then bing bing. The first thing that shows up on your phone while we were looking at places is a POF notification. Now I was heated which is why we settled on checkers to take-out versus a sit-down restaurant. You even tried to lighten the mood at Checkers but the only thing I wanted YOU to tell me is what the app was for or maybe why do you have it. I kept thinking, "please tell me it’s not what it seems like, please just say something". You didn’t... You went the whole fucking day without mentioning it. Like damn how rude could you be? So I don’t deserve the truth or honesty, right? I supported you, cared for you, trusted you and you just sat there and lied to my fucking face. So I left that night a little after midnight, I waited 12 fucking hours that day and you managed to lay on your back and go to sleep. I felt like there was no explanation to explain what a hook-up app is doing on a brand NEW, recently bought phone. At that point, I think I completely gave the fuck up like checked out and didn't want to check back in. I stopped forcing text messages, I slowed down on my visits until they completely stopped, I gave up on planning every damn date from start to finish. I gave up always having to drive to you all the damn time. I mean I did that crap for 2 years and you came to me three times during our whole relationship. I never asked you for money or sex or materialistic things, just your time and your love and your trust. Why was that so hard to give back? As of now, I do hope this will get me over needing an explanation from you. I don’t want one anymore but I do want to end things better than they did. Which they didn’t really END because I just left so this is MY version of closure. I have no more hard feelings. I don’t even expect you to respond because you didn't when I texted you so keep that same energy. ******, I'm done hoping that you'll see what you missed and come back or text me an actual apology. I'm not going to get it because not everything has a happy ending or ends with communicated closure. Truly I’m done thinking I did something wrong because I now know in my heart I did NOTHING to you. I did learn I was a problem in our relationship in addition to you because I made so many excuses for you, accepted the cheating, the lies, stayed out of comfort and I had to learn the hard way. It does hurt and it definitely left a scar but I'll get way better next time and I'll know how to give it. I do take full responsibility for my mess-ups but I hope you know I didn't act the way I did because I wanted to or because I was so over you. I loved you and I still do but it's not worth thinking about someone who could give a rats ass about me. ******, I was there when you needed a friend and I was there when you couldn't tell your family certain stuff. I can say I never cheated, I never lied to you, and I did love you the whole time so yeah. I forgive you. I want you to be happy and I truly hope 2020 gives you everything you need.

Love Aria

#love #letter to my ex #exs #peaceofmind #peace #understanding #for me #justbecause #no hard feelings #quarantine #porque #encantado #from me to you #from me for me #healing #pain #breakup #ending

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surveys-at-your-service · 5 years

Text

Survey #247

“i tried to choke my mom with my umbilical cord, the doctor was too busy amputating my horns.”

Have you ever had confetti pancakes? I don't believe so. Do you obsess over your appearance? To a degree, ex. in regards to weight. Are you responsible for stuffing someone’s stocking? No. What’s your favorite romantic comedy? Ah man, idk. I like romcoms, just none are coming to mind right now. Do you stock up on make-up palettes during November? ????? no????? Have you ever taken a class online? Yes. Do you have a Neopets account? Omg I have so many piled up, I'm sure, lol. Loved that shit and kept going back. Do you make your own smoothies or juices? No. Do you think time really does heal all? No. Are you more sensitive to heat or the cold? HEAT, FUCKING CHRIST. Has anyone searched your room for anything recently? Mom helped me search for one of my mood stabilizers that the cat got out of my basket... We never found it. A new bottle. Thank god my psychiatrist just gave me a sample pack til my prescription can be refilled. Is anything in your room purposely hidden? Yes. Do you get a cold around the holidays? I rarely get sick, regardless of the season. Does it snow where you live? Rarely. Have you ever been pranked via hidden camera? No. Is hair gel a turn off on guys? "Not necessarily, but too much can be." <<<< This. Do you think cursing makes people sound unintelligent? Lol fuck off. What’s something you can cook extremely well? The only thing I CAN cook is cheesy scrambled eggs but I mean they're exceptionally good lol. Have you ever been bitten by a snake? Nope. How about a spider? Possibly at some point. If you don't want kids, was there ever a time you did, and vice-versa? The only time I ever wanted kids was deep into Jason's and my relationship. It's funny because I wanted three and now I'm just all NOPE. I stopped wanting kids after him. What is your favorite color for bridesmaid dresses? Idc. Do you ever count sheep to help you fall asleep? No. Do you have a youtube channel? If so, when did you start it? Yeah. I was on YouTube real early... don't remember the actual year, though. Do you have a secret crush right now? No. When was the last time you called customer service? I haven't. Do you take birth control pills? Not currently for mood reasons, but with my incredible fear of being raped, I kinda wanna go back. Do you like chocolate cake? Yeah man. Do you know anyone who doesn’t want to have kids? Plenty of people, myself included. Do you regret letting a certain guy or girl slip away? Ugh idk. There's no telling how awfully or well that path would've gone. Have you ever fainted? Yes. Do you consider yourself a good artist? Decent, anyway. Do you ever play board games anymore? Not really, I don't enjoy board games. The only time I ever really do is if Girt's over cuz that's like our "thing." Who was your first celebrity crush? Whew, Jesse McCartney. Who in your family did you get your height from? Mom. Who did you get your smile from? your hair color? your eye color? Smile, idk. Hair, also unsure. Dad was born dirty blond like me, but his hair turned black. Meanwhile I think Mom has always had brown hair, but hers is very dark/almost black. My maternal grandpa had blue eyes like me. Do you have big or small hands? Idk, normal. What was the name of your first imaginary friend you remember having? I never really had one. Do you pray to God regularly? Considering I don't believe in Him, no. What is your favorite version of the Bible to read? Even growing up religious, I sure never spent time reading various versions of the Bible. Have you been baptized? If so, how and where were you baptized? I was as a baby in a Roman Catholic church. You know, the traditional baptism with being dipped in water. Do you eat meat? Sadly. What college did you go to? and what was your major? I'm not sharing what college I go to, but my major is Art & Design. Do you miss living with a roommate? I look back on living with Jason, Jacob, and Amanda fondly most of the time, but idk if I can say I miss it. I at least don't miss my mental health. Have you ever been abused in any way? I feel incredibly thankful that I haven't... It seems like most people I know have been in some way or form. Do you like unicorns? Yeah man, they're dope. How old were you when you found out Santa wasn’t real? Idk, some year in elementary school. Do you sleep with a stuffed animal? Ha ha no, I've got a cat for that. He insists on being cuddled most of the time. Name 3 things you are allergic to. Just pollen and silver. Oh, I do get headaches from artificial sweeteners, but "allergic" seems like the wrong word. Is there one book you have read over and over again because it’s so good? if so, which is it? The only two books I know I've read more than once are Because of Winn-Dixie and the Meerkat Manor book. Who was your favorite Rugrats character? Uhhh I think it was just regular ole Tommy. Which fairytale resembles your life the most? Uh idk. Do you play games on your phone a lot? No. What’s your favorite thing to do on your phone? Text Sara. Where do you buy most of your clothes? Wal-Mart or Hot Topic. Who is your favorite cousin? I don't have a favorite. Do you have family that lives in another state? Oh yeah, we're all the hell over the place. What states have you lived in? Only NC. Do you watch birth vlogs on youtube? bitch what the fuck What is your favorite type of cake? Red velvet. Favorite arcade game? I neeeeeed to find an arcade one day that actually has the Silent Hill game. It's so rare. I'm sure I'd love it. Have you ever found a roller coaster relaxing? Uh no, but I've never been on one, nor can I even imagine one ever being relaxing. Have you ever seen a spirit? I believe I have. Have you ever been kidnapped? Yikes no. Is there a running trail near your house? Not that I'm aware of. A game you cheated on in elementary school? None that I remember? Do you wear a retainer at night? I'm SUPPOSED to, but I haven't in so long that it doesn't even fit anymore. Where is the last place you had a kiss? The airport. When was the last time you cried out of physical pain? I think it hasn't been since that infected cyst was drained in like late '16. FUCK that. Have you ever done anything to Support the Troops? No. Do you donate blood? I did once, but now I'm too nervous to because I know I don't drink enough water and don't wanna faint. Have you ever owned the socks with toes on them? Ha, yeah, my sisters and I did. They were just a silly gift sometimes. What were you the last time you went trick or treating? WOW I couldn't even try to tell you, that's reaching far back. What was your favorite part about studying ancient Greeks and Romans? The badass names lmao. Where did your mom go to high school? Somewhere in NY. What’s a subject you would never major in? Mathematics. Is there someone who you can turn to for money and not be ashamed? No. I'm only EVER capable of doing so with Mom, but even then I don't like it. Have you ever swam in a river? Yeah, as a kiddo. I don't think I would now. What food do you love the smell of while it’s cooking? Cinnamon rolls omfggggg. What food do you hate the smell of uncooked? Fish, I guess? Has a bee ever stung you? Yes, once. Where did you last go camping? Never been. In what month do you start Christmas shopping? I can't Christmas shop considering I don't have an income. Have you ever slept in a bed with someone with bad BO? Yes. Do you have a favorite flavor at Baskin Robbins? No. Have you ever had a crush on a celebrity of the same sex? HUNNY Hannah Hart is a GODDESS godDAMN What kind of flowers would you plant in your garden? I'm too lazy for a garden. Do you believe that kids should be taught abstinence? I would definitely inform them of it being a completely valid and safest form of STD prevention, but I don't believe it should be what is "right." What's important is educating them on safe sex and to choose whom they're intimate with very carefully. I absolutely encourage them being taught what being "too young" means, too. Now what "too young" is can be argued, but let's be a late teen at least. When’s the last time you went to Chuck E. Cheese? Boy, I don't have a clue. What’s your favorite cheese or cheese flavored food? American. Cheese-flavored food is absolutely impossible to pick. Do you like black licorice? I hate licorice. Do you watch anything on the E! network? No. Have you ever tried out or thought of trying out for American Idol? Nope. Did you keep any momentos of high school dances? I had my... what's it called? The flower band on your wrist? Whatever, I had that for a long time. Do you still have clothes from your high school dances? I have both prom dresses. I'm probably gonna try to sell them this prom season though because I have absolutely no reason to keep them, and I'm poor lmao. Can you touch your nose with your tongue? No. Ever been to the original 13 colonies? I live in NC so like,,, Have you ever been to a concert that got out of control? Nope. Can you jump rope double dutch? I used to be able to as a kid. I loved jump rope. If a crystal ball could tell you the truth about anything, what would you want to know? Eek... idk. Actually, I might know. I want to know, but also don't, if whether or not how I treated Jason after the breakup was abusive or not. I've asked people in my life, old therapist included, if it was from what I told them (which was honest), and the unanimous answer has been no, that I was sick/actually insane and heartbroken beyond words, but yeah. I still wonder about it. Do you have a bucket list? If so, what are the top three things? Not really, but I mean of course there's things I wanna do, top two (idk about three) being to meet Mark and visit the KMP to photograph and pet the meerkats. Do you feel you had a happy childhood? For the most part, yeah. When did you last cry in front of another person? Last week when I was having a meltdown about school. How do you feel about tattoos and piercings? Explain. I LIVE!!!!!!!! FOR THEM!!!!!!!! As someone who never felt totally comfortable in her body, one thing that has always helped me has been new tats and piercings. It's like a more permanent form of make-up, you could say. All they've ever done is make me like a part of myself. Do you wear a lot of makeup? Why/why not? I almost never do unless I want to take a "pretty" picture. Talk about a song/band/lyric that has affected your life in some way. JINKIES!!!!!!! UHHHHHHH man that's hard 'cuz there's a whole whoppin' load. I guess I can talk about some lyrics from Ozzy's "Life Won't Wait" that used to make me really emotional back in the dark days: "Every day that you wait, you're falling faster / no sleight of hand, no twist of fate, no ever after / when it's gone - it's gone, a fight to the bitter end." Just that whole song used to sting so much when I felt like I really was just entirely wasting my life being sad every day. Just like... a lot of Ozzy's lyrics have really resonated and stuck with me. I still have the hardest time believing the Parkinson's news. God, life's cruel. Poison a legendary singer's voice. I hope, so long he feels truly capable, this concert still happens so I can actually hear and see him one time and literally sob and okay I'm getting emotional basically I Love Ozzy Osbourne. List the concerts you have been to and talk about how they make you feel. Ha, speaking of concerts. Only seen Alice Cooper, but it was aaaaaaamazing! Outside in a (mostly light) thunderstorm playing some classic good shit. It was a fun adventure, especially having my younger sis, a full-on redneck, come along just because she was bored and came for the ride. She was so, so, SO confused and creeped out and was NOT fucking happy when he brought his python on stage as he usually does. We were absolutely drenched when it was over; the ride home, we were freezing, and changing out of those soaked clothes was like a holy experience. Who in the world would you most like to receive a letter from and what would you want it to say? Jason telling me he forgives me and doesn't hate me. Do you have a desk/workspace and how is it organized/not organized? I don't, sadly. My bed is where I do like... everything, which I hate. I'd love to turn my sister's old room into like my "work" room, where I do homework, draw, etc., but I can't for a number of reasons. What is your night time routine? Go to the bathroom, take my meds, go to bed. Not very complicated. What’s one thing you don’t want your parents to know? Certain places I've "done things" oops. If you had to dye your hair how would you dye/style it and why? I wanna dye my hair lilac currently. I wouldn't change the style. What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done while drunk or high? N/A What’s one thing you would never do for one million dollars? Murder, to name just one. If you’re a boy, would you ever rock black nail polish? If you’re a girl, would you ever rock really really short hair? My hair is short now. What is the most important thing to you in your life right now? My mental health.

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