#i actually wrote something called the boulevard

[spawksstuff]

National Association of Broadcasters' Hall of Fame - Part 3/3

William, Leonard, Bill were invited to say a few words. De's speech is at the bottom. But first-

Backstory: In the article posted in Part 1, it mentions how a man rushed the same stage where Ronald Reagan was giving a speech the day before, smashing his award, glass flying everywhere, before getting tackled by the Secret Service (video is online).

William gets up to the podium and says, "Leonard, if somebody comes to grab this and smash it, pinch 'em."

During Leonard's speech, he read the very first Variety review Star Trek got. If you haven't heard it, this is the funniest version of it, along with the actual review. If you haven't seen it, go watch/read it, and then come back:

https://www.tumblr.com/spawksstuff/730307018235281408/variety-review-of-star-trek-september-14-1966-the?source=share

Leonard reads "William Shatner appears wooden."

Then reads "The same goes for Leonard Nimoy, co-stared as Mr. Spock, so-called chief science officer whos bizarre hairdo is a dilly. And DeForest Kelly as chief medico is the same." As soon as he said "DeForest Kelley", De did this:

De's speech. (FYI Brandon Tartikoff is the one that introduced them for their awards and is standing behind De on the left). The transcript is below.

Thank you. There's something very weird about this. We have a new godfather at Paramount now, Mr. Tartikoff. We lost Mancuso so Tartikoff is here to take over our family. Since he's been here we have been celebrated in some very strange ways. I received a Star on Hollywood Boulevard. Then we were immortalized in cement on December the Fifth at Mann's Chinese Theater. Next time I saw Mr. Tartikoff was in Washington, D.C. where we were installed in the National Space Museum where they have a bunch of artifacts for OLD museum pieces. I shudder to think where he's taking us next. I want to express my deepest and heartfelt feelings for you bestowing this honor upon us today. We are, indeed, grateful. But I cannot leave here without quoting a poem, a little short poem that I read, in lieu of some of those smart-ass remarks that Don Rickles made. I wrote a poem sometime ago, and in the body of it, there were a few lines about the critics. You see, what we've done in the motion pictures, we've made a few bucks for Paramount. They haven't done badly. But it seems to be its the critics of someone who can't stand the fact that we're growing older. So I wrote a little thing that said they have critiqued our bellies, our wrinkles, our hair, we just keep going, we don't care. It seems to me that they've never been told that all of us are growing old. Thank you very much.

[adarkrainbow]

Tales from Broca street: Preface

Before entering into the tales proper, I want to briefly share with you the content of the Preface Gripari wrote to introduce his tales.

The very preface begins with Gripari making excuses to the kids who are about to read the text: as everybody knows, kids understand everything and if this book was just for kids and no one else he would not need to have to write a preface... But since grown-ups might end up with this book in their ends, Gripari needs to write the preface down.

Next is the "magical abnormality" that I evoked before in my Introduction posts: Gripari explains how, if you follow a map of Paris you see that the Broca and Pascal streets are supposed to cross the Port-Royal boulevard, but if you down the ACTUAL Port-Royal boulevard you won't ever encounter any of these streets. To understand this anomaly one must enter "a space curved, like the one of Enstein", and plunge into a "three-dimensional universe" by discovering that the Broca street is located BELOW the Boulevard, and can only be accessed from Port-Royal by staircases descending into the "depths of the world".

Gripari disdains the Pascal street, "too straight, too large, too short to have any mystery". Rather he prefers to talk about Broca street... A curvy, narrow, twisted, burrowed street. On each of its end the street opens onto the town of Paris - but the street itself is not quite Paris. It is an "outdoor underworld", a small village in itself where all the inhabitants know each other (something Gripari notes to be exceptional for Paris). The author also highlights two common factors of the Broca street inhabitants. 1) The diversity, as they come from everywhere. You have people from Kabylia, from Spain, from Italy, from Portugual, from Algeria, and the French people form there a minority. 2) Their love for stories and tales. Gripari notes that the many misfortunes of his literary career are due to how the French person, especially the Parisian, does not like "tales". They want the truth, or at least a form of realism and imitation of truth - whereas Gripari was always interested in tales where no one was sure they ever really happened, stories without any document or proof to back it up, impossible stories. And hopefully for him, the Broca street inhabitants loved these kind of tales.

Gripari then moves on to describe the épicerie-buvette of Broca street, at the number 69 (he even goes as far as to mention how people will accuse him of being bawdy, when he just retells the actual number of the shop). He describes papa Saïd (a Kabyl man who married a woman from Bretagne), and his four children, Nadia, Malika, Rachida and Bachir (there was a fifth child but he wasn't born at the time of the tales). He also mentions how right next to the buvette there was an hotel where lived an Italian man named Riccardi, who had four children - the older was Nicolas, the younger Tina. Nicolas Riccardi was a good friend of the Saïd children, regularly going at their house to play games with them.

And one day... a strange person appeared.

He was called "monsieur Pierre" (in English it would make "mister Peter"). A tall man, with brown hair looking like a porcupine, with one eye brown another green, and wearing glasses. He always had a two-days beard, and his clothes were always worn-out. He was forty years old, single, and living at the Port-Royal boulevard. He went to the Broca street only to go to the buvette, to eat there some biscuits and chocolates, sometimes fruits, with a lot of coffees-with-cream and mint tea ; and he could go to the buvette any day of the week, at any hour. He pretended that he was a writer, an author - however since nobody had heard of his books or even seen them in shops, people were not very satisfied with this claim...

... while children all knew the truth. They knew that monsieur Pierre was not a regular man... But an old witch disguised! To break his disguises, the children started regularly dancing before him, shouting "Old coconut witch!" or "Old witch with rubber jewels!" (It sounds better in French "bijoux en caoutchouc"). This did work as one day monsieur Pierre shed his disguise and became a clawed, hooked-nose, cackling witch and threw itself on the children. But the kids were brav and fought them and hit her - which the narrator of the preface entirely agrees with. Because, as he explains, that's how you must do with witches: they are only dangerous if you fear them, but if you break their disguise and fight against them, defeat them, then they do not become dangerous, but rather funny - and they can even be tamed, like a wild animal turning into a pet. And this was the case with mister Pierre: once the lie of "I'm an author" was broken and everybody knew he was a witch, everybody was relieved and life returned to normal.

Monsieur Pierre took the habit of telling stories to the children of papa Saïd's buvette, however the kids liked them so much they kept asking for more, and more, and more. Monsieur Pierre had to dig up old fairytale books and folktales collections: he fed his little audience with the stories of Charles Perrault, of Andersen, of the brothers Grimm ; he told them French and Arab, Russian and Greek folktales... But it wasn't enough and the kids still wanted more.

After one year and a half, monsieur Pierre didn't have any more stories to tell. So he invented a game: every Thursday he would gather with the children, and together they would invent stories. New stories, and once there were enough of them, they would be turned into a book.

And this was the origin of the book...

[an-aura-about-you]

tackling the foreword now, possibly more if I think I'm up for it:

-well, we're dropping the g slur on the first page of this foreword. I knew it was in here but that's certainly less than ideal.

-it's mentioned here that the author is Jewish, and the information I have indicates that this is going to be used later to confirm the main character is Jewish. that's just sloppy writing if this is true. but I'm putting it here in case it IS the only time anyone is mentioned to be Jewish before the love interest asks the main character about it.

-"We met in quite an unprecedented way." They met via the internet because they had a common fandom. *takes a look at all of my friends on here, some of whom I've met in person, that I share a fandom with*

-so far the person writing the foreword has talked more about the book SHE wrote instead of the one I'm about to read.

-the foreword is five pages long and doesn't start talking about the creation of the book I'm reading or what it means to her until page four.

-she doesn't start talking about what happens in the book until the second paragraph on page five and she gets some fairly noticeable information wrong in the very first sentence she writes about the book. (she says the main character is from Nashville. this is not true. the main character is from a small town that is CLOSE to Nashville. I don't even know if you could call it a suburb because it's got a population of like less than 300.)

-she says she enjoyed this book more than others in the same genre, but as far as I know she writes in the same genre. granted, I'm primarily thinking of this as a romance book along the lines of fluffy coffee shop au fic and not as any sort of magical adventure. if the person writing the foreword thinks it's the latter, then maybe she likes this book more because it doesn't cleave to the conventions of the genre she thinks it's in.

-"I tend to be a bit snobbish about books." funny, that, because I don't and will gleefully wallow in the trash if it's to my liking. but I can still recognize trash when I see it.

-we get a page with four quotes on it before we kick off on the book proper. now, I'm cool with using multiple quotes in a book to set the stage? in fact, one of my favorite books, The Disaster Artist, uses a LOT of quotes. most of the chapter titles are quotes from The Room since a good portion of the book is about making that movie. in addition to that, every other chapter has a movie quote alternating between Sunset Boulevard and The Talented Mr. Ripley. but this works because Greg's story resembles Sunset Boulevard and he and Tommy going to see The Talented Mr. Ripley was a turning point that led to Tommy writing his script for The Room. it also helps that the placement is at the start of each chapter and not dumped all at once at the start of the book.

-I also get the feeling that I should just. keep my copy of The Disaster Artist on hand. the more I think about it, the more Lani Sarem resembles Tommy Wiseau when it comes to their art and how they perceive themselves.

-oh yeah I should probably mention that each chapter of the book is named after one of the tarot cards in the Major Arcana. not for any good reason, though the placement of the Fool and the World make enough sense. if you want to read something that's actually worth reading with an author who writes well and knows how to use tarot cards in naming chapters, go read the fanfic Persephone's Gambit by Diva from Musical Hell. it is a Phantom of the Opera fic in which Christine offers a different choice to Erik's ultimatum and how that plays out.

-I went to do a quick count of how long it takes from page 1 to get to when the main character's name is finally said for the first time because that is pretty infamous. we, the readers, don't learn our main character's name until we get to the middle of page 7. girl, you are not Daphne du Maurier nor do you have her reason for not divulging the main character's name a la Rebecca.

-the book straight up starts with, "I've always envied those with normal lives." no you don't. know how I know? because your name is Zade. the name you ask other people to call you is Zade. fun fact: one time when I was a kid, I told a kid at the swimming pool that my name was Amy because I didn't want to struggle with someone I didn't really know trying to say my somewhat unusual name. if you truly wanted to be normal, you would probably do something similar.

-"I won't cover everything that has been crazy or unusual in my life." I kind of wish you would because that would probably be more interesting to read.

-"Don't fight it. Destiny will always win." Ok thanks D. D. Drosselmeyer.

-our main character is blabbing on and on about things that truly aren't important, but I will talk about her thoughts on thunderstorms because hey, it's my blog, I'm allowed to be petty and nitpicky. I don't get why she's like, "The nighttime thunderstorms are more magical." That seems backwards. like, ok, I will temporarily allow the author to possess me and spend an unreasonable amount of time writing about why daytime thunderstorms are more magical to me. when it happens in an otherwise clear, sunny sky, it is the unexpected pleasure of a sunshower. but it's even more impressive to me when the clouds roll in and the world is under their dense, turbulent blanket, and the sky grows so dark that it is nighttime during the day only for the sudden sunbright shock of a lightning bolt to blind your senses. but then, I get the feeling my tastes are going to differ a LOT from our protagonist's.

-you see that thing I did where I pointlessly talked about thunderstorms for like 60 words? when our protagonist talked about thunderstorms, she did it for about 180 WORDS. this is what she's burning her precious chapter 0 on and she hasn't even introduced herself yet.

-oh right, it's chapter 0 because the Fool is 0. This is actually something I'm ok with.

-our protagonist's mother is the local fortune teller (and witch who can do legit fantasy magic, but that's not made absolutely clear yet) and she's talking about how people come from all over to see her. like, this COULD be worldbuilding because we don't know how many legit magic users there are in the world or how spread out they might be. but lemme tell ya, if they're going for a spread or to have their palm read or whatever, that's honestly not as weird in the south as she's trying to indicate. yes, there are the churchy sorts who think it's of the devil, but I've been on enough road trips down here where I've passed multiple fortune teller setups. I am not going all the way to Nashville to have her mom fuss over my broken marriage line when I've got perfectly competent locals who know their palmistry.

-she says when she was a kid, the other kids weren't allowed to be friends with her because of her family's beliefs, and I call bullshit on that. again, southerner here, and I've been to enough sleepovers that included a trip to church in the morning to know full well that at least one family would allow their kids to be friends with her for conversion purposes.

-by the way, our main character didn't actually do anything in the book until we got to page 5.

-so, our protagonist is leaving her family home, which she compares to the plantation Tara in Gone with the Wind. and earlier she said her family has owned land in Tennessee since the 1700s. while I get the feeling none of this will matter later, it still merits a fairly big Yikes from me.

-it's so weird when authors spend a lot of time talking about the brands their characters use. it feels like that scene in Wayne's World where they parody corporate sponsors. it's just distracting and makes me wonder if they paid you for the reference.

-gosh, the way she describes what normal people do to those who stand out is so clunky. it's not even worth repeating because it's honestly just painful. there must have been a better way to make that point.

-so wait a minute: Zade says her mother Dela can always tell when she's lying, but then she says she's not good at lying to her mother. the first part of it made it sound like her mother has some sort of power where she can magically sense when people are lying to her. why don't we establish that? it would be some much-needed world building.

-Zade is going to an audition, and Dela makes it clear she knows who the audition is with. I'm gonna just come out with the big twist now because I want to highlight how this book will not hold up upon a reread. Zade is going to audition for a magic show in Las Vegas that's headlined by Charles Spellman. but *Speed Racer announcer voice* unbeknownst to the readers, Charles Spellman is actually Zade's long-estranged father! but here's the thing: WHY don't we know? the book is told from Zade's first person pov and it's clear from the way she and Dela are talking that Zade has some awareness of who Spellman is. this is going to shoot the book in the foot later for a bunch of different reasons, and I can offer two ways to fix it: either write the book in third person limited so we're not in Zade's head or make it so Zade doesn't know Spellman's her father until the very end. (though there would be some other issues with the story if that second option had been taken.)

-"My anger erupted, if she hadn't been my mother I probably would have punched her." much like the taste we get of Zade's love interest Mac from the blurb on the back of the book, Zade is also a violent person. this is only going to get worse as the story goes on.

-also right after that they hug and make up. it seriously goes from 100 to 0 like that.

-I don't care that you got permission to print the song lyrics. that is not what I am here to read.

and that's how we end the very first chapter of this garbage heap. it's amazing how much I could just kind of skim over because so much nothing happens.

[skylermadness]

Volatili-Tea (Junkrat TF/MC)

(Original Date of Upload: January 29, 2023)

Original Description:

My half of a trade with A-C-Crowley on DeviantArt! His half for me was a Reinhardt TF that also functions as a companion piece to this story, which can be found here: DeviantArt I actually had this written roughly three or four months ago, back in October, but I didn't want to post it until both our halves were complete. Although funnily enough plans for this trade were being set up as early as summer of last year. Damn how time went by, huh. Writing this story was actually quite fun! So much so that I actually wrote it and edited it in its entirety in roughly an entire day. I don't know what struck me with that much inspiration to write something that fast, but it sure as hell was a fun one! Especially since I feel like this story explores a couple new concepts in my writing. Prosthetics in TFs, more complex bodily descriptions, and especially transformations in a public space. Makes me want to do more public setting TFs these days, honestly. Anyway, a very fun story to write, especially for a great friend of mine!~ ...I honestly kind of hate the pun in this story's title though...

   "And the winner of our third raffle of the day is… Matt, numerical designation 478! Please head to Big Bang Beverages in the northwestern catering sector to claim your prize."

   Despite being surrounded by crowds of convention-goers, Matt could hear the announcement loud and clear. It took him a moment to cross-check the number on his raffle card and the numbers played aloud on the intercom, but it was proven correct in an instant. Pocketing the card, his head moves up and takes a cursory glance around the area he was in.

   He stood within the middle of a boulevard of a convention center, not necessarily directly near any retailers or exhibitions. He was mainly roaming around taking in the sights and trying to understand the layout of this year's convention. Where he stood there were walking around left and right, individuals and groups of friends. Among the people in standard attire were various cosplayers ranging from video game characters to anime ones. As for Matt, he was just one of those individuals in casual clothing. A black long sleeved shirt, gray pants, and dark grey shoes.

   He begins to tread casually through the middle of the boulevard, relieved at the fact that he shouldn't be too far away from the catering area of the convention. His thoughts wander to the announcement, curious about what the raffle he won would fetch him. Admittedly he wasn't exactly excited, but more so intrigued.

   As the announcement entailed, this was the third in a line of raffles. It was also the third in about an hour and a half since the convention presumably began. The locations that each winner was deemed to head to seemed different with each announcement. Unfortunately, the only other one he could really recall correctly was one to someplace called the HoloDrome. But it leads him to wonder how different the prizes were amongst the winners.

   The lighting begins to brighten slightly as Matt closes in on the catering area. Smells of various foods begin to permeate through the air the closer he gets, and soon it's really all that can be smelt once he properly enters the region. The source of the smells range from the various concession stands lining the area, the rows bisected by tables sprinkled about the area. As he starts to walk through the area he adjusts his glasses for a moment. His eyes slowly scan for the place he was looking for.

   Matt whispers under his breath the name as he does so. Big Bang Beverages. A peculiar name, he thinks. Also not one he's familiar with. But then again he never goes around memorizing the concessions at these places.

   He's lucky that it doesn't take long to locate what he was looking for. A stand nestled between two other ones in the left row. It stood out particularly well because of how… average it seemed. As Matt started to step closer, he took note of the weird air that seemed to emanate from it. The front casing of the stand was completely black with no additional design flare. The stand's logo used the most generic font. It felt almost manufactured in a way. He tries to ignore that though as he finally walks up to the stand itself. 

   The internal portions of the stand were a silvery white and contained various tools for beverage creation, a few stacks of cups beside those tools. The only person within it was a man of average build and looks wearing what looked to be a standard button-up uniform. Matt took notice of a logo on the right side of the uniform of a company he can't quite pin down, but his eyes then drew to the man's name tag: Louis.

   "Hello!" the stand worker greeted with a smile.

   "Uhh, hey," Matt shoved a hand in his pocket and took hold of his raffle card. "I'm uh, Matt. Won the third raffle." He then holds out the card for the man to take.

   Louis takes the card. "478, wonderful!"

   Matt raised a brow. "Could've just called me by my name but alright…" he says in a whisper.

   Louis seems not to hear (or just practically ignore) Matt as the man bends down and trifles with something under the stand's table. Matt grew a little curious as the noises that accompanied the worker was metal clanking as something was inserted and unlocked followed by the hiss of depressurizing air. Louis then stands back up with a smile, a medium-sized metallic object in his hand. "Here!" He places the object onto the table and slides it closer to Matt. Matt looks down at it to inspect it.

   It seemed to be a flask of some kind. Circular with a cylindrical protrusion. Metallic silver with a light coating of… rust? Dirt? Something. Curious, he picks it up and is greeted with the noise of something liquid inside. Unscrewing the cap, his nostrils are filled with the familiar scent of tea. He peers into the container to inspect the liquid, eye widening as he notices small spherical objects floating within the fluid. Strangely, the objects within looked stylized. Black with protrustions on them, almost reminiscent to a stereotypical look of a bomb.

   "Boba tea…?" he asks no one in particular.

   "Yup! It's our unique Frag Bomb Tea, only sold for a limited time here! However, you also get the flask as well!"

   "Uhuh…" Matt presses the flask against his lips and takes a small sip. Tasted kind of milky and sweet, accompanied with a weird bubbly feeling to it akin to carbonation. It didn't interfere much with the taste though.

   "We thought with the grand event coming up later today we'd produce something for the occasion."

   Matt swallows the swig of tea and moves the flask away. "You mean that Overwatch IRL event or whatever?"

   "Yup! A lot of the stands here have been hammering the Overwatch-theming. That beverage in particular is meant to be reminiscent of Junkrat!"

   Matt nods. "I can definitely see it…"

   He lifts the flask back up and takes another drink, mind starting to wander. He was well aware of the Overwatch IRL event going on, although he barely had any real information on it. It was hyped up as some grand event for this convention, however the specifics behind it were all under wraps. Theories roamed around online about it being a complex costume contest or some form of roleplayish question panel. These were even a few outlandish ones like it being some kind of musical or something-

   His thoughts are interrupted for a second as he realizes a few boba cascades through his mouth. There was a flavor to them he couldn't quite pin down. It wasn't fruity, but it had a sweetness to it.

   Matt hums as he pulls the flask away again, a shiver running down his body for a moment. "That was weird…" he whispers before starting up another conversation with Louis. "Hey, what ingredients did you use in this boba? It tastes good but I can't exactly pin down what's in it…"

   Louis just smiles. It was getting eerie at this point. "Company secrets I can't divulge."

   "Well, alright…"

   "You should go enjoy the convention now! I hope you like your prize~"

   Matt tilts his head in confusion, a little confused at that last statement. It had a tone that felt like a 'go away'. But considering he had nothing else to really say, he might as well. He turns his back and walks away, taking another quick sip of his tea as he goes, unaware of the fate that lies ahead of him.

   Matt exits from where he came, heading out from the catering area and returning to the boulevard. All the while he occasionally takes small drinks from his new flask. He's never really had something like this before, but the taste of this tea was rather nice. He still kind of wishes he knew what was in the boba though.

   Strangely, with each consumption of boba, he also finds his body taking weird shivers. There was no noticeable temperature shift, he didn't feel cold, but for some reason he'd have a sudden shiver run down his spine. He tried to ignore it though. 

   Ultimately Matt decides to walk into the opposing region to the catering district. An area composed of various bits and pieces that didn't truly fit a singular theming. He found himself walking past a small tattooing booth on one side, and on the other side some random booth that seemed empty.

   Taking another sip from his tea, a few beads of sweat start to form on his forehead as now he begins to feel a warmth start to rack his body. "Ough, did the heat get turnt up…"

   The cause of this wasn't heat related, mostly. Rather it was because something was starting to change in his body. It was subtle at first, though. Arms and legs getting a little more defined, his torso and abdominals pronouncing a little more. Small amounts of muscle slowly expanding throughout his form. It was just enough to cause his shirt to start rubbing up more against his skin, body steadily filling it out.

   His leg feels numb for a moment, causing him to stumble a little. He quickly manages to stop himself before he falls though. "Ugh, startin' ta…" he stops to clear his throat. "Starting to feel kinda weird." Did his voice sound a little strange for a second? No, that can't be right.

   He tries to shake everything off as he continues his walk. He tries to roll his shoulders, his delts continuing to expand. Previously nonexistent muscle spirals around his arms. His biceps and triceps grow a little thicker, the muscles in his forearms doing the same as well. It isn't very long until his sleeves properly fill out. His musculature isn't the most impressive, but it is definitely noticeable beneath his clothing.

   A pressure enters his bones for a moment shortly after as they are forced slightly longer. The ends of each sleeve run further upward and away from his wrist. His left arm then starts numbing, a stronger numbness than what was in his leg. One that felt oddly permanent. He took note of this and, with what little strength he had left in that arm, transferred his flask to be held by his right hand.

   He stares at his hand and proceeds to grip and ungrip it. It was responding to his actions, but he didn't really feel it. A pang of worry entered him, but a part of him was attempting to rationalize this. As if to say that this was fine.

   He also noticed the new musculature in his arms. "Were my arms always this thick…?" he asks himself, a brow raised. They… must've been, right? 

   He shakes his head. He's worrying too much about this. It's fine, it's fine. He lifts the flask to his mouth again and takes a drink of it. With an exhale, his worries fade. It's fine!

   With a couple more steps Matt walks out from in between the two booths and into a smaller boulevard. He curiously looked around, finding a few more assorted booths. In the distance was a photo-op area, and he could just make out what seemed like a few autograph booths beside it. His head then turns a few degrees rightward, turning upwards as something else piques his interest.

   It was the only part of the wall that seemed to roundly curve outward. It also stood out as it was the only wall that wasn't colored beige, being a deep blue instead. At the bottom of it was a doorway that was blocked off by a few velvet ropes (as if that'd stop anyone), but as he looks further up he finds a massive screen with the Overwatch logo displayed on it. Beneath that logo was a number that was counting down. 

   "Ninety minutes…" he says, entranced momentarily. There's a fraction of him that kind of wants to break in there and roam around, perhaps cause some… mmph, he shakes his head and casts the thought away. Strange, he's never had that kind of thought before.

   He presumed that place to be the famed HoloDrome where the convention's key event was going to take place and decided to ignore it for the time being, taking a left instead. If he remembered properly, this would be the way to the exhib…

   Matt's leg numbs a second time and does so for a few seconds longer. He stops walking in order to prevent himself from risking falling, but still finds himself wobbling for a few moments until his leg regains feeling. He takes another sip from his flask and sighs. "My body's actin'-" he clears his throat again. "Everything's acting really weird today. Heck, I swear my voice sounds weird every so often…" It sounded like for a moment there was an odd shift in tone and accent in his voice. Such a notion felt absurd to Matt, though. 

   He starts walking again, and with each step his body changes more. His sleeves stretch a little bit more as a final bout of muscle growth is incurred in his arms. His hands were also catching up with all the changes, growing and stretching to become slightly larger than they were before. Changes in them weren't as impressive as other changes in his body as the only shifts that occurred were them getting a little meatier. At least, that's what was happening in his right one…

   The numbness in his left hand and arm seemed to be a result of a much greater change. Beneath the elbow the forearm rippled, skin and muscle seeming to squelch and tighten as the material upon it hardened. Pale skin deepened, orange fading in as his flesh was morphed into metal. The bottom end of that sleeve tore against the transforming limb, fabric shredding as metal continued to extend from the area.

   The associated hand's changes mirrored that of the arm, albeit it seemed a little more intricate. Fingers bulking, cell structure twisting into something inorganic. Mechanical joints rippling forth from his own joints, each finger splitting into a more mechanical and functional version of themselves. Rivets and screws bubbling and popping into place, everything reformulating as his entire hand was transformed into something mechanical.

   While feeling wasn't restored in that hand, Matt had a sensory perception of his nervous system having been connected to it. All he gave it was a cursory glance as he heard his shirt sleeve tear against it, a few bits of fabric slipping off the slightly weathered metal. 

   "Huh…" was Matt's only acknowledgement, his voice slightly lower and raspier at the time. For a second he thinks something is off, but shakes his head and looks upwards, continuing his walk.

   "Nice mech arm, man!" a random stranger says towards Matt as he walks. He stops for a moment and turns towards them, his mind trying to register the compliment. He finds it odd for a split second, but loses that feeling an instant later.

   "Th…thank ya!" he responds. Matt's eyes widen and he shakes his head again. "Jeez, my voice keeps gettin' weird…" He takes another swig of his boba tea and resumes his trek.

   He was roughly two thirds of the way to the exhibitors area now. The mechanics in his arm whir as he opens and closes it, a sense of newness settled in his mind despite himself having a conflicting sense of familiarity with it. Come to think of it, a lot of Matt's mind was conflicted, but every drink he takes from his flask seems to suppress it more and more.

   He raises his mechanical hand and pulls at the neck of his shirt. The body part was now starting to properly feel a little tight as well. Ridges formed in the black fabric as his torso began to push out slightly, pectorals properly emerging from that region. His abdominal region was also slowly growing out, although it was not as prominent as his pecs were. That area remained a little flat, although the ridges of a budding six pack were steadily etching their way across his form.

   The hem of his shirt began to rise further up his belly as a pressure settled in his back. Matt felt a little disoriented as the world around him started to adjust in some way. Looking down he saw that the ground was getting further from him, and his shirt was riding up his body. "Why did I wear such… small clothin'... Come ta think of it why am I… wearin'... Mphm…" he shakes his head again. Why did going shirtless sound… appealing just now? And his voice kept changing… why did it sound like it was bordering on an Aussie accent?

   He tries to ignore it and takes another drink. He starts to wonder how he hasn't gotten to the bottom of this, or how he hasn't even run out of boba. Everything about this is weird, but it's fine!

   As his shirt tightens a little more, Matt also starts to feel something stimulate his skin. A weird feeling of something leathery snake around his body, circling the sides of his torso and extending around his pecs. The chill of something metallic settles on the upper half of his back as something begins to materialize there. All it does is make his shirt tighten more.

   Stumbling slightly, Matt finally enters the exhibitors district. Various booths focused on the latest information regarding different medias lined this region. Much like everywhere else, people and cosplayers alike were doing their own things.

   Matt could sense eyes on his as he stumbled slightly into the area, him feeling his leg numb again. Walking started to shift more into hobbling as moving that leg had finally become hard to do. "God, I hope no one thinks I'm drunk…" he mutters to himself. Although this haze in his mind might as well make him drunk but like… there didn't seem to be any alcohol in this tea.

   With another drink he shakes his head. "Agh, who the hell cares about what others think!" he says a little too loudly, his voice growing deeper with each new word. A noticeable Australian accent was even settling into it. He garnered the attention of a few more conventiongoers, but many of them decided to look away.

   Matt shifts his flask to his left hand again, the metal of the flask clinking against the metal of his hand as he does so. A smile starts to plaster on his face as his eyelids start to move downwards a little. He places a hand in his hair and scratches his scalp a little, the man starting to feel a warmth etch into that region as well. "Damn, the heat's gettin' annoyin'..."

   Not as bad as Aus, though, he thinks to himself. He blinks at the thought though. "Urgh, what's with my… my mind today…"

   He stumbles again. Fuckin' 'ell-

   He tries to regain himself quickly, his pants becoming the next to tighten as similar changes swath that region. While his legs had already become a little more toned over the course of the past ten minutes, their changes were kicked into overdrive. More muscle loaded into them, albeit a similar size as that in his arms. Thighs thickening, the crus of his legs bulging as his calves grew larger. His legs also grew longer, his height increasing even more and the legs of his pants rising.

   He resolves to just stop moving, Matt feeling even more eyes on him. He looks around, a slight look of aggression in his face. "Oi, who y'all lookin' at?! Mind yer own business!"

   His outburst seemed to get most people to divert gazes away, although there were still one or two who seemed to watch. Matt didn't care too much at that point though, his own attention drawing to his legs. Shaking his head and blinking, his eyelids flitter a little. "Fuck, something is… nngh…" he squeezes his eyes shut and presses his right hand into his scalp. "N-no, 's fine-"

   Despite its numbness he could feel a heavy pressure compressing his left leg and foot, although it seemed more focused in his foot. Within a shoe, the foot was squishing and compacting, flesh, bone, and muscle twisting and squeezing. The associated lower leg was thinning at the same time, atrophying at a rapid pace and going beyond what would be considered human. 

   His flesh and bone hardened to a cold metal. It wasn't long until his left foot was warped into nothingness, structure fading into a thin and flat tip. At the same time, a yellow spiral coiled around the upper end of the newly created metallic peg leg. The end that connected to his knee bulged out, skin and muscle dislodged and reshaping. His kneecap practically split in half and became a metallic casing as his knee itself became a metallic joint, two massive screw-like connections emerging from it. A silver ring then bulged around the flesh above his knee region, becoming a clean connection to his knee prosthetic leg.

   He lifted the new leg out of his shoe and sighed before lifting his head back up. A few eyes were still drawn on him. "Ain't never seen anyone with a… a metal leg before??"

   He blinked again. His voice kept fluctuating but to a bystander it was clear it was being overtaken by something decidedly Australian. A few people continued to stay, looking worried, but Matt just lost the ability to care at this point. His new leg clicking against the floor, Matt continues his walk through the convention center, all while drinking some more from his flask.

   The toes of his remaining foot curled as he could feel his shoe get smaller. That foot was easily growing in size, steadily getting larger and thicker and pressing up against the cloth of his shoes even more.

   His eyes zip around the area of the convention center he was in, Matt's back arching as he was settling into a slouched position. Every so often he'd take a sip from his flask, but his mind kept jumping to weird thoughts he couldn't bat away.

   A more chaotic state of mind was seeping into the man's brain. He had already experienced such thoughts earlier but something about this felt overpowering. There was a desire to cause mayhem, to cause some form of destruction- But even then, some part of him still tried to keep such thoughts away, to retain some rationale.

   The almost manic smile creeping onto his face was a clear sign rationality wasn't winning.

   He runs another hand through his hair, rolling his eyes as his mind continues to descend into a state of chaos. Multiple ripple throughout his face as he walks, the structure and vibe of it shifting into something far from what it used to be.

   His broad structure steadily narrows out; lower jaw lengthening and chin sharpening as his skull shape is compressed thinner. Facial features shift and restructure; mouth widening, ears noticeably pushing out, his round nose sharpening to a dull point while a mole formed on the left side of it. The feeling of his face squeezing and shifting felt almost euphoric to him for some reason. 

   He blinked his eyes, his eyesight seeming to improve drastically. As it does so his irises seem to brighten to a bright greenish-yellow, and his eyes seem to sink into his head slightly. His eyebrows flare out and, starting from the tips and moving down, brighten to a dusty blonde. Brows grow thicker and bushier, the ends styling, spiking, and curling to something almost flame-like.

   Speaking of flames, the heat on his head seems to progress until a dull flare enters it. Brown follicles throughout the peak of his head and down slowly burn away in an oddly symmetrical pattern. It's not the most drastic of changes though as what remains of his hair seems to stay in a perpetual flame, those follicles lengthening and sticking out higher. The style shifts from neatly combed to a cataclysmic style of stuck up hair that in itself was reminiscent of a burning fire. At the same time, the color shifts as blonde overtakes browns at a quick pace, and smoldered black enters in certain points as well. 

   He pulls off his glasses and crushes them in his mechanical hand, letting the fragments and frame clatter to the ground shortly after. "Don't know why I was wearin' those!" He then stopped for a moment as he started to feel his shirt tighten more. "Oohoh what's…" he closes his eyes and moans slightly, smile faltering and voice cracking for a second. "What's going on…"

   Something started to push from his back, pulling his shirt to his front at a steadily increasing pressure. More and more this grew, small tears forming and expanding territory to reveal his chest. What looked to be a harness grew visible with each passing second. The back of his shirt was gaining a noticeable circular indent that only seemed to grow as whatever was forming was getting bigger, bigger and bigger.

   The faltered smile restores to its manic glory, his eyes widening. "Heh… heheheh- this is feelin' goooood…"

   His shirt continues to tear apart over his chest at a constantly increasing rate. Black fabric was easily sloughing away as whatever was pulling at it still got larger. He could feel a weight forming as the size was becoming evident, but the sensation of his constricting clothes being torn away filling him was pure ecstasy. The circular formation in the back of his shirt continues to grow some more before it convulses for a few seconds. A cacophony of tears echoed through the air as one final crescendo, and a loud bwoomph! accompany them from behind him.

   The man twitched slightly as he regained his bearings. His head turns slightly to glance at the newly materialized object. A large circular chunk of rubber with metallic spikes sticking out of it. "Ah! My RipTire~"

   He can feel the eyes of others on him again. They were accompanied by whispers that he felt were almost judgemental (even though in truth they were of worry). A part of him flares up, wanting to show them a thing or two… He shakes his head. Some sense of rationality still stubbornly remained. He sneers as he walks further down. 

   More feelings started to run through his body as various final changes ran through it. He felt something appear around his right wrist, a tire-like band appearing before a substance exploded out the top of it and wrapped around his hand and hardened into a leather glove. On his left arm something inked into the flesh of the upper arm, a concise image forming as a skull and crossbones tattoo forms on the skin. At the same time, the fingernails of his remaining hand darkened to black.

   A new material soon grazed the skin of his legs as what seemed to be a new set of legwear started forming beneath his current set. Slightly scratchy fabric rubbing up against his skin as it threads itself around each leg. Something about this seemed to cause his current pants to begin to rip, revealing the camo pattern of the new pants.

   His current belt buckle then snapped, the button of his pants breaking and zipper descending as a new belt buckle materialized beneath the region and pushed everything out the way. An even greater sight of destruction occurred to the left side of his, a lump forming in that side of his pants before it floomf'd out into a pouch. Slowly, the remains of his old pants start sliding down and making way for his new legwear.

   The feeling of bandages wrapping around his right foot ran through that area, followed by the feeling of something else encasing it. Something akin to the top line of a boot slipped around his ankle and rose from the top of the shoe, hinting at the nature of what formed there. His shoe underwent its own pressure as result, the footwear pushing outward being forced to a new limit. The straps snapping, cloth ripping. The shoe couldn't handle it anymore as shortly after the cloth shattered revealing a new, if not ill fitting, boot; black in color and leather in material. He wiggles his toes at the sense of freedom.

   Shreds of his former legwear sloughing off more, his new pair of pants seem to fully reveal themselves in their glory of frayed legs, camo coloration, and various patchings stitched around them. With one last drink out of his flask Matt clips it to his belt, content. Although really, is he Matt anymore?

   His mind was practically overtaken with an irrational desire to destroy something. The very thought was no longer concerning, but instead rather appealing! It was an intense feeling of mental pandemonium. Of an overpowering desire for causing havoc.

   A voice begins to echo through the massive convention hall. “Can Matt, numerical designation 478, head to the HoloDrome sector. We repeat…”

   He stopped walking and planted a hand on his head. His voice cracks, likely for one last time, as it shifts into a mix of two voices. "I… that’s my… eheh… heheheh~"

   Crazy laughter escaped his throat as his mind finally snapped. His voice settles into a perfect Australian accent, and his mind settles into a perfect manifestation of madness. A truly explosive personality! As a result, a new identity was nestled into his brain.

   “Matt? That ain’t my name! The name’s Junkrat…!”

   A few more glares are thrown his way but at this point they are no longer lingering. With a frenzied smile he looks around the spot he stands in. He had no recollection of where he was or who any of these people were, but… 

   He feels a weight push onto his torso, prompting Junkrat to look down at the source. His grenades… 

   “Heheh, maybe just one…”

   His thought pattern is broken when he’s suddenly acknowledged by a set of strangers.

   “Nice cosplay, man!” One says, prompting Junkrat to turn around. The one who spoke was a slightly burly looking man, dark skinned man with fake-looking blue armor and an orange scarf. Accompanying him is a woman in some kind of blue and gold dress (or at least that’s what Junkrat thought it to be). She also seemed to have a prosthetic arm (which Junkrat wasn’t aware was fake).

   “You’ve got the acting pretty well~” The woman begins to take out her phone. “Mind if we get a picture with you?” 

   Junkrat raises a brow and smiles. A picture? With him? Such a proposition was stroking his ego. “Sure!”

   The duo gather around him, sandwiching him between themselves. The woman holds out her phone and holds up a peace sign and the man smiles. Junkrat smiles as well, although his is more maniacal. After a few seconds a shutter sounds emit from the phone, the picture being taken, and the duo break away.

   “Thanks a lot man!” The man said, smiling and walking away. The woman follows behind him, letting out a “Yeah, thanks!” as she departs.

   With that dealt with, Junkrat proceeds to turn around and eye the convention hall. With that distraction out the way, he can-

   “Can uh… Junkrat? Numerical designation 478, head to the HoloDrome sector.”

   Junkrat’s face falls and he rolls his eyes. “The heck’s a HoloDrome…” he whispers to himself. “Eh, whatever, I’m sure it’s not important!”

   He begins to clasp a hand on a grenade pinned to his harness, eyeing a good (and preferably not crowded) spot to throw it. Unfortunately for him, he’s interrupted a second time…

   A large, thick hand grabs his shoulder, followed by the sound of a deep voice muffled by a mask. No words were spoken, just an elongated guttural grunt.

   It takes a few seconds for Junkrat to register the voice, but once he does he somehow slumps more than he already does. “Roadhog! When’d you get here?”

   The gas mask they wear is emotionless, but Junkrat practically feels displeasure illuminating from the larger man.

   “Uh-huh… well Roadie, I think now’d be a good time to-”

   A third announcement rings through the walls of the convention hall, except this time it’s a more feminine voice in a clearly annoyed tone. “Junkrat, numerical designation 478, head to the HoloDrome sector immediately. Precautionary measures will be taken if you do not heed to this announcement. God, this is so FUCKING annoyi-” the announcement then abruptly cuts off.

   Junkrat can practically feel Roadhog’s gaze pierce his very form. He turns to Roadhog and smiles nervously. “Heheh, guess we should head there then…?”

   Roadhog nods, then lifts an arm and points in the direction forward to him.

   Junkrat turns around, vision centering at the outwardly rounded portion of the wall. A large screen that was even visible from where the two were displays a weird circular logo with a bunch of numbers below it. “I guess we’re going there then!”

   The two begin to walk towards their destination, garnering gazes from the conventiongoers. A silence settles between then for a second, one that was quickly broken by Junkrat.

   “...how do you know that’s where we’re supposed to go?”

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

   Even to Junkrat there was an uneasy feeling of artificiality in the location he now was in.

   Despite it clearly looking like the outside, the lack of proper heating or fresh air was noticeable. Nonetheless, it looked like the perfect replica of some small village that he had no idea was an actual place or not. He was also apparently put in a team of some kind. Said team was prompted to sit around some weird looking truck. That was a long time ago though. Now he’s just alone, leaning on a wall, fingers itching to cause some destruction. Roadhog had left a few minutes prior, presumably to inspect the area a bit more. The larger man was likely assured he could leave the Aussie alone after Junkrat failed to blow up a wall. He was still seething about that incident, by the way.

   He watches the rest of his teammates communicate amongst themselves. There were only six of them including him and Roadhog. He didn’t really get any of their names though. There was some older looking dude in a mask, a dark skinned guy with dreadlocks, an Omnic that was surrounded by gold orbs, and…

   A hulking guy in armor walking right towards him.

   “Ah! I don’t think I’ve gotten a chance to introduce myself to you…” The man speaks in a deep and boisterous tone with an unfamiliar accent lacing it. His face is shown to be pretty old; weathered with thick graying hair and a beard. “The name’s Reinhardt!” he says loudly, holding out a hand.

   Junkrat doesn’t hesitate to grasp it and shake. “Junkrat!”

   Reinhardt smiles. “It is nice to meet the both of you! There seems to be quite the colorful cast where we are…”

   “I dun even know where we are, big guy. I just have the itch to blow something up…”

   “I take it you were the cause of the explosion I heard earlier, then?”

   “Yup! Although it didn’ even do any damage! Everythin’ here looks like it’s made of wood and shit, a hole should’ve been blown clean through that wall!”

   Reinhardt nods. “This place has some peculiar properties. It’s an odd reminiscent of a place I have… memories of. It fills me with a feeling of uncertainty.”

   Junkrat’s eyes just slowly drift sideways, unsure how to respond to that.

   “Ough, I apologize. Went a little too personal there. Either way, I’m sure we’ll make a great team here!”

   Junkrat just nods. “Yeah. Do you even know what we’re doin’ ‘ere?”

   “...no. Not really. I actually kind of woke up…”

   Their conversation is abruptly interrupted by an accented, calm, feminine voice ringing through the area. “All participants please move to your stations. We will commence the event in five minutes.”

   Reinhardt looks up. “There’s that voice again…”

   “I don’t know what stations it wants us to go to, but I have a feelin’ I’ll finally be able to set something ablaze!”

   “You’re quite the eccentric one, aren’t you?” Reinhardt says with a deep laugh.

   But Junkrat doesn’t respond. A goofy and manic smile forms on his face, the Aussie filling with excitement as the prospect of causing some chaos enters his brain.

   This is going to be great…

[mindy-lichtman]

A little backstory:

Since March 2020 I've been walking from my house to this gas station and using this set route back roads. It's 3 miles to and from the gas station using this route I used for years.

Well, I rest my legs up here for half an hour and then walk back the way I came after getting the fountain drink up here. Circle k carries his fountain drinks called polar Pop. And a little bit of ever dropping but they have this program called sip and save it cost like 8 or 9 bucks but for 30 days straight you get either one free coffee or one free polar Pop a day. I'm on the plan and every time I get paid I make sure to buy it. And make sure I got something caffeine in me for 30 whole days for free. The downside is that you have to have the receipt the initial receipt when you get it because sometimes the circle k systems will register you as not having sip and save and thus showing that receipt to them will clear up the situation and you'll be able to get your free whatever you want polar pop or coffee.

So back to my story, I went from 220 lbs years ago and with my exercise walking and my working at a food store called publix, I dropped my weight down drastically from 2:20 to 160 it took about a couple years but it was well worth it. I wouldn't give it up for the world.

A dark side to the story is that connect to mine from last year went and sabotaged my name for over 3 months and we still people stalking another dude and the people every time they see me taking my backwards like normal dude just outdo my exercise walk, they would like yell at me to harass me and intimidate me from walking and backwards anymore. I guess to make sure that I have no hobbies in my life that guarantee my happiness piece. All I do is in my thoughts in my head I flipped the bird to who's ever yelling at me and still continue to do my walks anyway. Because I'm doing it for my physical health and nothing more so I'm not harming anybody but being out and about and walking so those people can pound sand.

Oh, there is actually a backstory to the couple pictures of The greenery. That's actually a grown over storm ditch which back in 2020 wasn't that overgrown. But the first night in March 2020 I did my fitness walk down the road which is called alligator boulevard, there was this big scary broncos Jeep coming down the road and then all sudden when they caught side of me, they kept going up and down the road and hiding up roads well I wasn't having any of it so when I seen that ditch by chance when they went up one road I went ahead and wrote quickly duck down and slid down into the ravine and then I waited myself out on my stomach and I was out of you as the driver is a bronco. And then all sudden back and forth so you can hear it going back and forth like looking to see where the hell I went. Good times!

I haven't actually had any bad stuff happening to me when I'm walking at night. I mean, if you count the time I was walking home from work Halloween night 2021 and got into a bad pedestrian accident, then yeah that counts. But other than that nothing really scary's ever happened. The people that were yelling and shouting at me for a month and a half straight at night for seeing me doing my exercise wall, that wasn't scaring me, that was actually honestly pissing me off.

[wordfires]

The First Bloom of Autumn

The night was cold, but I didn’t really mind. It always was here. And the night was more comforting than the day anyways. The wind was whistling through the trees, but I was used to it. I’m out here too often to not be. The nature around calmed me, hence why I’m in the forest, not my house. Ugh, I’m here to destress, not think about that hellhole.

Snap!

I whirled around, the snap of a branch pulling me from my thoughts. Why would anyone be out here? It was 2:30 in the morning. But there where I heard the sound come from, there was… a girl? A pretty girl at that. Beautiful, even. Jesus, I don’t even know her name I should not be thinking these things.

“Um, who are you? What’re you doing out here so late?” I questioned nervously. Christ, I try to talk to one pretty girl and my confidence fails me.

“Oh! I’m Lilliana, and I’m out here to look at the stars, aren’t they pretty tonight?” She gazed in wonder at the sky, the moonlight reflected in her brilliant blue eyes. Jesus, I sound like I’m falling in love. Ew, no. No, no, definitely not. I’m not crushing on this pretty- no, perfectly average looking girl whom I have no feelings of attraction to at all because I met her all of half a minute ago. Right. Yes. Of course.

“Oh, um yeah. Um, I’m Ari, by the way. In case, you um, wanted to know.” Why can’t I just say one thing? I see one girl that makes my pulse pound and I can’t talk anymore. Looks like all my dreams of enchanting any potential love interests are down the drain. Turns out faking it till you make it doesn’t work.

“That’s a lovely name, Ari. Heh, I think it’s beautiful.” Wait, did she just say she liked my name? Holy shit she likes my name! She said it was beautiful! The girl I like said my name is- wait, no, she is a person I just met, I am not crushing on her.

“Uhm,  thanks. I, um, think your name is really pretty, too.” Am I blushing? Oh God, I’m blushing.

“Oh, are you nervous?” She giggled, smiling into a scarf that covered her neck and chin. “Don’t worry about it, love. I won’t judge you for what you have to say.”

“I-I don’t know what you mean. I’m not nervous. I am one-hundred percent not nervous. I am just, um, in awe because of, uhm, the stars! Yes, I am quite simply in awe of the most beautiful stars.” I glanced over at her, pulling my leather jacket a bit tighter around me, and tried to drag the topic of conversation away from me. “So, what do you like to do? What’re you interested in?”

She laughed again, bell-like giggles tumbling into the crisp fall air. “Well, I play flute, I just love the sound of it, so light yet it can seem so mournful. I love drawing, too. The way you can just create worlds of your own, it’s just so amazing what you can do with art.” She sighed and smiled at the sky before turning to me. “What about you? Anything you’re interested in?”

Oh God, she smiled at me. God is real, a pretty girl has- no. No, no, a nice girl that I just met and am therefore having no feelings of affection towards would like to know what I’m interested in. Oh God, what am I interested in? What do I do in my free time? Who even am I? There isn’t time for this, she’s waiting!

I cleared my throat. “I, um, like to read. And I guess I write a bit. It’s amazing, really, what you can do with words. The way they can flow together to form stories is just beautiful, isn’t it? It’s like weaving a giant tapestry, but instead of thread you’re using thoughts and ideas and characters and struggles and triumphs, and it all comes together to form one universe, one story.” I turned to face her upon finding myself looking to the sky.

“Wow.” She whispered, eyes wide. “That was beautiful. I-I don’t know what to say. That was amazing!” Holy shit she thinks I said something good, oh my God maybe childhood dreams of enchanting potential love interest with words are coming true! No, no they are not. Because Lilliana is not a love interest. She is a nice girl that happens to make my heart beat out of my chest when I’m talking-no. No, no. She is a perfectly normal girl who I just met and who happens to like something I said because I used it before in writing.

“I, um, thanks. I don’t really know what to say, people never really say anything like that to me.” Pull it together, Ari! Stop stuttering, it’s just a casual conversation. And now I’m blushing. Great.

“Why not? Honestly, that’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever heard anyone say! Oh!” She paused, pointing a finger to the sky as if something that would not end well for me just occurred to her. “You said you wrote a bit, do you have anything I could read?” She looked at me, a pleading look in her eyes. Dammit, I knew this would happen. Why did I say that I wrote? Well, just gotta suck it up and think of something I wrote that she might like. Oh, the one I wrote last week might work… Wait, why am I not just giving her the one I like the most? I shouldn’t put too much consideration into it, not like I would with someone that I was falling head over heels for. Because I am not doing that. Whatever. The one from last week it is.

“Uh, yeah. It’s called ‘The Boulevard’. I was listening to this one song while I wrote it, so it’s based around that. It’s kind of really gory if you don’t mind that. I’m actually kinda proud of it, though because it’s two different perspectives and one of them is hallucinating because it’s the apocalypse and everything’s gone downhill.” I stopped, realizing I was about to spoil the ending. “But. um, it’s a Google doc so I could share it with you if you’re comfortable with giving me your email, if you’re not I can just print it if you’re still interested.” I fidgeted, poking the ground with my foot.

“Of course I’d love to read it! I don’t mind the gore. Oh, do you have something to write with on you?”

“Uh, yeah. Here.” I pulled a pen out of my coat pocket, handing it to her. She took it, before grabbing my arm, pushing my sleeve up and pulling me close. My heart fluttered, my pulse pounded, she had pulled me towards her, but why? I felt the tip of the pen touch the underside of my arm. Right. Yes, that was the reason. Not because she returned my feelings. Because she couldn’t return them at all because there are none. She’s just giving me her email, that’s all. Nothing special.

“Alright, there you go!” She drew back, pulling me from my thoughts. “And here’s your pen.” She handed my pen back to me as my arm fell to my side.

“Thanks. So, I figure we should get going, it must be after three by now. Um, will I see you again?” Wow, that was actually not too horrible. Denying feelings works!

“I’m sure we will.” She smiled and waved before waltzing back into the forest, going back the way she came.

“Uhm, bye!” I called after her, which was met by faint laughter. Or I’m just imagining things. It was probably just someone’s windchimes. I began the walk back to my house, through the cold fall air. Which, now that I think about it, seemed a little less cold and dark than it had been before I saw Lilliana.

[baldwinboy5ive]

I call this Cobra Drive. AU where a sad boy meets another sad boy in his building elevator and they just stare longingly at each other for extended periods of time. (Daniel LaRusso, who made the crane kick famous, gets to add to his repertoire of bird karate moves by stomping Mike Barnes to death in the same elevator like a secretary bird.)

I also wrote some crap for this AU, even though I am not much of a fanfic writer. However, it’s not that bad. It’s just regular bad. 

“If I drive for you, you get your money. You tell me where we start, where we’re going, where we’re going afterward. I give you a five minute window when we get there. Anything happens in that five minutes and I’m yours. No matter what. Anything happens a minute either side of that and you’re on your own. I don’t sit in while you’re running it down, I don’t carry a gun, I don’t do karate - not anymore. I drive. Do you understand?” 

The well-rehearsed speech was delivered in an accent that was undeniably East Coast, but from a man who knew well the 100,000 streets of Los Angeles. Daniel ended it every single time with a secret tribute to his beloved mentor, whose life lessons were always punctuated with “Understand?” 

And Daniel did. He always understood what Mr. Miyagi had told him, and replied “Yeah, I understand,” even if some of his lessons had taken awhile to really make their impact on him. 

-----

Daniel moved frequently. It was routine now for him. Funny how things changed. He often remembered how monumental that first cross-country move had been, how the course of his entire life had shifted that summer of 1984. Now, his moves were quick, efficient, and all within LA. 

On his second day in his newest building, Daniel returned to his apartment by elevator. Another building resident stepped in with him, hauling a basket of laundry from the basement. 

He was familiar. Daniel kept his eyes trained at his feet while he felt the familiar man’s gaze on him for a moment. He allowed himself one quick glance, but didn’t manage to time it as well as he’d wanted. The golden-haired man who now shared a building with him was still staring back at him. 

His eyes were beautiful and sad. 

It was Johnny Lawrence. 

-----

“You just move back to LA or something?” was the question Johnny finally settled on after he and Daniel hauled his groceries into his second story apartment. There was too much he wanted to ask. It had been 34 years. Something in those 34 years had hardened the look in Daniel’s eyes.

“No, I’ve been here for awhile.” 

“So just new here?” 

Daniel nodded. 

“What are you up to now, LaRusso?” 

“I drive.” 

“Like, those internet car things?” Johnny asked, a touch of confusion on his face. 

“No, for the movies.” 

“You mean all the car chases and stuff?” 

“Yeah.” 

Johnny let out a soft laugh. “Isn’t that dangerous?” 

Daniel fully met Johnny’s eyes, and stared challengingly, the words “Oh, now you care about my safety and well-being?” hanging between the two of them unspoken. Daniel’s lips quirked into a slight grin. So did Johnny’s. Then Daniel knew. Johnny remembered it all. 

The intensity of Johnny’s bright blue eyes and the pain they carried eventually became too much for Daniel, who was the first to drop his gaze. He broke the silence by saying placatingly, “It’s only part time. Mostly I work at a garage.” 

“Where?” 

“Reseda Boulevard.” 

After a few more beats of silence, Daniel nodded his head towards the teen boy sitting at the kitchen table doing his homework, as if only just noticing him even though he’d rode up in the elevator with them. “He yours?” 

“They sometimes just come with the apartment. Old place here is infested. Overrun with roaches, children, teens. You might want to check under your kitchen counters and shit if you haven’t already, LaRusso.” 

The boy snorted, not offended in the least. “I’m Miguel,” he said. 

A door in the apartment slammed open, and another teen boy wandered into the kitchen. “Who’s this?” he asked, pointing at Daniel.

“This is LaRu- Daniel. Daniel, this is Robby.”

Daniel stared at the two teenagers. Neither of them resembled Johnny. Perhaps Johnny hadn’t been kidding about them surfacing from under the kitchen counters. 

-----

At the garage, a sly smile spread on the face of the man who’d given Daniel all of his jobs. “Oh, you and the kid know each other,” he said, gesturing rapidly between Daniel and Johnny while leaning over the open hood of a car he’d been working on. 

“Don’t,” Daniel warned. He stalked off, but not without grinning at his employer. 

“Uh…” Johnny began. A “He kicked me in the face when we were teenagers, but I did sort of deserve it a little, and it’s actually at least a 126 minute-long story” died on his lips. 

“We’re neighbors,” Johnny said. 

“Ahh,” said Daniel’s employer, as if that was all there was to know. 

Johnny explained in more detail what was going on with his Firebird, and was told that the repairs would take a few days. 

“Miguel, call us one of those car things from your iComputer.” 

“It’s an iPho-” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” cut in Daniel’s employer. “You and the kid are neighbors! He’d be happy to give you a ride.” 

Johnny met Daniel’s eyes from across the garage. He did indeed look happy.

---

“Hey, I know you. Come on, we met last year! Well - met again. It’s me. Snake. You drove me and Dennis back from Palm Springs. Hey, I got this sweet job planned out --” 

Fury blazed in Daniel’s eyes. Someone both recognizing him and talking to him about his jobs was more than enough to make Daniel disappear for a few months, but this wasn’t just any someone. This was one of Terry Silver’s men. Over the years, Daniel had done everything he could to be free of Terry and his mob. But every time Daniel thought he was safe, eventually, Terry would always come back. And there would always be a job. 

Terry’s man - and therefore Terry himself - reappearing in his life would have been bad enough before, but now? Now he had Johnny. He couldn’t just pick up and leave. He realized with anger burning up in his chest that he didn’t want to pick up and leave. 

Daniel cut Snake off with a low whisper. “How about this? Shut your mouth. Or I’ll kick your teeth down your throat, and shut it for you.” 

All Daniel had wanted was to finish his dinner and coffee in peace, until it was time to drive Johnny to the bar for his night shift. Daniel stared at Snake, never taking his eyes off of him until Snake quietly retreated from the diner. Only then did Daniel feel comfortable returning to his food.

-----

Daniel’s face took on a detached and aloof manner when he addressed the man Terry had sent. 

“When you get your money, his debt’s paid. He’s out for good. And you never go near his family again. Do you understand?” 

-----

Daniel did everything in his power to keep his voice even. Confident. Balanced. But that voice on the other end of the phone would always terrify him. Some things never changed. 

“I’m going to give you a time and a place and you’re going to come and get your money. Do you understand?” 

Terry barked out a laugh. “What do you get out of it, Danny boy?” 

“Just that: out of it.” 

Daniel hung up. For once he had the satisfaction of dictating terms with Terry Silver. 

-----

“They came to my apartment. How did they know where I live?” 

“I told you, I was going to call Kreese, I just wanted him to know that… that it wasn’t about the money… that you’re not interested in the money… that you just did it for him.” 

Daniel exploded at the man who had been his longtime employer. So this was how Kreese and Silver and known it was him. “Why?! You told them about Johnny! Why did you tell them about Johnny?!” 

“Calm down, kid. Just calm down.” 

“I should fucking kill you - you told them about Johnny! That’s how they figured it out, you know - that it was me. You told them about Johnny and then they knew it was me.” 

“I just wanted him to know… that as soon as you returned the money, that was the end of it, that’s all! I didn’t know. I didn’t know. How was I supposed to know?! How was I supposed to know… that everything led to Silver!” 

Daniel’s voice was breaking as he screamed at the old man. Daniel’s eyes were wild and he was breathing hard. Breathe in, breathe out, echoed the voice of his dear sensei in his head. Soon, his racing heart slowed just enough for him to calmly tell his employer, “They came for me, and now they’re going to come for you, too. You have to get out of here. Do you understand?” 

-----

John Kreese pleaded with his lifelong friend. “Anybody finds out you stole from the family, we’re both dead. The money always flows up, Twig. You know that!” 

Terry Silver fell uncharacteristically quiet amidst their shouting match. He looked at Kreese ruefully. “That’s why this driver’s gotta go, Johnny. That’s why he’s gotta go. He’s gonna tie me to this robbery.” 

It was too bad. Terry had always been fond of Daniel. 

-----

Daniel hoped he would never again have to fear for Johnny’s and his kids’ lives. He flicked his eyes up to the rearview mirror. Miguel and Robby were fast asleep in the backseat - and safe. Alive. 

Daniel did, however, find comfort in knowing that he didn’t have to pretend anymore, didn’t have to keep his karate hidden and tucked away. If Johnny ever needed it again, Daniel would use it. He’d help Johnny remember his. He thought fondly of the way Mr. Miyagi had once insisted that only Daniel’s root karate came from Mr. Miyagi, and had urged him to make his karate his own. 

If Daniel could do it, so could Johnny. Johnny’s Cobra Kai would be better - different, new. A product of the goodness Daniel was confident Johnny had inside of him. Johnny would use that goodness to teach Robby and Miguel. And Daniel vowed to be there with them. 

If anyone ever again tried to hurt any of them, the four of them would be ready. 

Another Mr. Miyagi lesson surfaced in Daniel’s memories as he continued driving. Back in 1994, Mr. Miyagi had returned to Daniel in LA after a long stay in Boston, and over the course of several days, had told him all about Julie Pierce, and the lessons he taught her. The final lesson had been: “Fighting not good, but if must fight - win.” 

That was what Daniel had done. 

Daniel smiled at the beautiful man in the passenger seat next to him, whose sadness never left his eyes, but who, despite this, could now smile back warmly at him. Daniel checked the rearview mirror once more, never taking his attention from the road ahead of them. Miguel and Robby were both still asleep. 

Daniel turned his gaze back to the road for a moment, feeling the hum of the car around him and those he loved. 

“I’m yours. No matter what. Do you understand?” 

-----

OH SHIT i forgot to mention, the idea for the cobra on the back of the jacket AND for including Robby both come from @idontknowkaratebutiknowcrazy !!!! Thank you for your moral support and help on these concepts! I always knew I wanted Daniel to be the Driver, so it didn’t even OCCUR to me to have the cobra on his jacket, until @idontknowkaratebutiknowcrazy said it, and then she said he can give it to Johnny later (even though it won’t fit him haha!). Just a note - I changed up the cobra design from the Cobra Kai logo though because the original logo looked kinda goofy as a silhouette. 

[juniorgman187]

Something Borrowed, Something Blue (Reid Fic)

*MY GIF

Summary: Despite her engagement to someone else, Spencer grapples with the reality that he’s in love with SSA Reader when he sees her in her wedding dress.

A/N: I am so fucking proud of Spencer’s speech that I wrote.  Playlist: Till Forever Falls Apart by Ashe + FINNEAS This song hurts so good :,) Category: Fluffy happy ending! Pairing: Fem!Reader x Spencer Reid Content Warning: possible unrequited love, soft angst  Word Count: 6k

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　

Call it a superpower or a sixth sense, but I had this inexplicable, preternatural ability to detect when we weren’t heading in the right direction - a skill unaffected by even shut eyes or the deepest slumber. 

It seems as though after all these years of being (y/n)’s passenger, my body has developed a survival adaptation in order to offer her guidance before she would even have to ask, or worse - lower her pride and admit she’s lost! 

With as hard-headed as she is, she’d sooner drive us to Timbuktu before asking me for help.

I was half-asleep when I peeked through one half-lidded eye to observe where we were only to see she blew right by Gregory Boulevard when she should’ve turned left on it. 

“Um, you should make a u-turn at this next light,” I gently advised her before returning my head to its previous position perched on my hand. I closed my eyes again with the presumption she would follow my navigation and make a u-turn, but when I didn’t feel the car change course, I opened them to see that she blew right past the stoplight, too. 

“Hey, my apartment’s that way.” I gestured behind us while looking at her for the first time, catching a smug look on her face. That’s when I knew I was in for it. “Where are you taking me?” 

“You’ll see.” 

“You know I don’t like surprises,” I grumbled, slumping back into my seat with partially renewed energy. Her little antics never failed to get my heart racing. I never knew whether to expect a sweet sunset or a sea of snakes when it came to her. She was that polarizing. “Can I at least get a hint?” I egged on, considering she had yet to even reply to my first statement. 

She was completely unfazed by my pleading. She didn’t even peel her eyes away from the road - that’s how little attention she thought I deserved. “Mmm depends. What’s the magic word?” 

This blatant tease was successfully getting a rise out of me. “Pleaseee,” I dragged out the word as if it would do me any good to let her hear it for longer, but in reality, she just liked to hear me beg. 

She took a sharp intake of breath through gritted teeth, a chupse, to express her displeasure before saying, “Ooh tough luck. The magic word was actually mushroom, but nice try.” 

A mirthless chuckle escaped me for willingly falling for her tricks despite knowing she’d pull something just like that. This girl was the bane of my existence, but at least she still rewarded me with a hint anyway. 

“Your hint is …” While pondering what hint to give me, her eyes traveled to the side, away from the road long enough to make my heart palpitate in a “if-she-doesn’t-pay-attention-to-the-road, we’re-both-gonna-die” kind of way. 

“... something old.” 

Again, she tore her eyes away from the road so she could register my reaction, but truthfully, I didn’t have one. I had no idea what that hint meant. Or rather I had too many ideas, far too many to limit to just one. 

She could’ve been talking about the age of a location, the history of a place, the vintage appearance of something - virtually anything.

“There’s an infinite amount of possibilities about what that could mean,” I argued. “If you actually want me to guess, you’ll have to give me something more.” 

As expected, she was not a fan of my whining and simply rolled her eyes at me. “Oh, stop complaining and use that big brain of yours. I’m sure you’ll figure it out before we even get there.” 

Although there was a high probability she was right that I could’ve solved it by myself, it was more enticing to feed off of what she could give me. “What if I ask you ‘yes or no’ questions?”

The gears in her head were turning as she weighed the pros and cons of humoring my offer. “You better ask some good questions then,” was her answer, which was the long way of saying yes. 

“Is this ‘something old’ an object?”

She hesitated, then decided on, “No.” So I took that as maybe. 

“Is this ‘something old’ a place?” 

There was no indecision with this answer. “No.” 

“Is this ‘something old’ as in appearance?” 

Again, a partial hesitation, but still ultimately a, “No.”

Realizing I pretty much exhausted the tangible, I settled for something more abstract. “Is this ‘something old’ a concept?”

“Yes, you could say that.” 

Her answer would prove to be redundant, as just seconds after we would arrive at our mystery destination. 

Ellie’s Bridal Boutique. 

“Something old, something new. Something borrowed, something blue.” I recited to myself under my breath when I finally unearthed the meaning. The rhyme was a wedding tradition that referred to the things a bride is supposed to wear on her wedding day that’s meant to provide protection and prosperity for the new couple - a superstition.

“Ding! Ding! Ding!” She mimicked the sound of a winning buzzer. “And you are going to be my something old.” 

A short chuckle left me as I stepped out of the car. “Oh yeah? What are you gonna do - wear me?” I jested. 

“Well you are a very pretty boy, but I don’t know if you’re pretty enough to wear down the aisle.” 

“So then how am I going to be your something old? I’m only two years older than you.” 

She stopped dead in her tracks on the sidewalk to reach for my hand. I’d be lying if I said the chilling warmth of it didn’t make my breath hitch. My eyes fell to where our bodies met, but they rose to look at her again when she finally spoke. 

“You’re the very first person I met when I started working in the BAU, which makes you my oldest friend on the team, and since you were the first one that saw me, I wanted you to be the first one that saw me in my dress, too.” 

I was already aware that she’d picked out her wedding gown months before, so this appointment couldn’t have been anything more than an alteration update. The only reason I knew that, besides the obvious, was because I could still remember with perfect clarity the morning she came into work after her fitting. She marched right up to my desk to wave a picture of her in the garment right in my face. It wasn’t until I drew back with my head that I could see the image clearly. The dress, while incredibly stunning on her, ‘didn’t fit right’ - her words, not mine. 

“But that’s not how it’s actually gonna look on me. I asked them to take in the waist, change the neckline, and alter the length.” She vividly described to me, letting her finger run over the digital photo of the dress as she spoke. “Do you see what I mean?”

I lied when I said, “Yeah, I do,” because really, I didn’t need her to describe the details to me - I could already see the vision. Even if the dress was the wrong color, length, and ‘poofiness,’ I’d still think she’d look lovely. 

It was my only hope that her future husband would think so, too. 

“I’m (y/n) (y/l/n). I’m here for my alteration with Reagan at 4.” Just as quickly as she introduced herself to the receptionist, she was being whisked away by an older woman who seemed to have recognized her. 

“Oh, (y/n)! It’s so good to see you again! Come, come, your dress is ready. I just know you’ll love it.” 

Before she slipped out of my vision completely, (y/n) turned around to address me. “I’ll be right back, I promise. Just wait here.” 

I raised my hand in the air to give a short acknowledgment goodbye and followed her instruction to sit in the chair that lied directly in front of a circular raised platform. 

“Are you the groom?” A soft voice from beside me suddenly asked. I looked up to see it was the receptionist holding a tray with a glass of champagne. 

“Oh, I’m okay thank you,” I denied the alcohol with a shake of my head. “And no, no I’m not. Just an … an old friend.” Again, her words, not mine. 

It would come as a surprise to both me and you that with as much as I know about the world, I had no idea how long this would take before I saw her again. With my estimates, it should take maybe fifteen minutes maximum before she walked out in her dress, but who knows? It’s (y/n) after all. She runs on her own clock. The sun rises and sets on her. 

At least in my world it does. 

By around minute 17, I realized my estimates were way off and there was no way she’d be coming out any time soon, so with all that I could do in that store having been done already, the only thing left for me to do was read. Nothing of quality, though. Just those frivolous bridal magazines on the coffee table beside me. I didn’t even want to think about the germs and bacteria that were harboring on these reading materials, but if it meant it’d cure my boredom then perhaps the contraction of microbes would be worth it. 

To say I wasn’t well-versed in fashion would be an understatement and reading the subscriptions only emphasized that further. To put it in perspective, you could style my future bride in a medieval frock and it wouldn’t discourage me whatsoever because I simply have no understanding of what a ‘good’ wedding dress is, therefore, I cannot make an accurate comparison. 

Take, for example, the dress on page 17 of Modern Bride. The model was donning a high neck, long sleeve creme satin dress. I thought it looked quite nice and classic, but the excerpt described it as totally out of style and too old - a faux pas.

But when comparing that dress to the gown on page 24 of The Bride’s Guide, I couldn’t spot a single difference between the two, yet this passage was written in complete adoration. “This dress is vintage done right,” said the article. But to me - they were exactly identical! What was wrong with the first one?

Maybe it was a good thing grooms weren’t allowed to help pick wedding dresses because if I had to assist my bride in picking her’s, then, of course, it would be bad luck! I’d probably pick something utterly horrendous!

I had to admit it was slightly humiliating to confront my incompetence relating to wedding dresses, so before my self-esteem plummeted any further, I set the magazines back in their rightful place on the coffee table so they could once again be what they were always intended for - extraneous decor. 

With a flick of my watch, I noted the period of waiting had only increased by three minutes. Again, I had yet to master the art of wedding garment fittings, but how was 20 minutes not enough time to put a dress on? However, unlike my better half, I had (relatively) zero problems admitting my ignorance, whereas she’d rather drive us off a cliff or into a lake before letting me know she was lost. 

In surrender to my lack of knowledge, I rose from my seat to approach the receptionist and ask if she had a more accurate estimate for how long it would be until I saw (y/n) again. But as it turns out, any estimate she might’ve been able to tell me would’ve been completely wrong for she wouldn’t have even been able to finish her answer before the aforementioned future bride entered the space behind me. 

Remember before when I said I had no gauges of good fashion to outrank a medieval frock? Well, I stand corrected. 

(Y/n) in her dress is what I will measure everyone against. And no one will ever compare. 

“Wow…” The word came out of my mouth before I could think to stop it. My tone was so honest that it scared me. “I’m - You’re …” I was at a total loss for words that I had to sit back down to hopefully regain some clarity. She laughed at my stupidity with a laugh so gentle, I couldn’t not laugh back. 

“That good, huh?” 

I wordlessly nodded while my mouth lied openly in waiting. But the right words never came out; there just weren’t any that could capture this vision of perfection in front of me. 

My mannerisms had clearly already given away the true level of my admiration, so in an effort to lessen the enormity of my obvious wonderment, I reluctantly broke my gaze away from the angel in white and picked up a magazine on the table to perfect the notion of nonchalance. 

“You look . . .” She impatiently waited for my addition, even doing the most adorable little twirl in her dress to give me the full view in the meantime. “Nice,” was the adjective I settled for, as it was such a thoughtless response that perhaps it would convince her that there weren’t a million thoughts on my mind. The most recurring one, and arguably the most troubling one being: I think I’m in love with you. 

“Nice?” She repeated like the word stung her tongue, more out of mock offense than earnest disappointment. “You’re reading your magazine upside down so it’s gotta be better than nice.”

I bashfully looked down to find that, sure enough, her words were true. The magazine was upside down and therefore a total revelation of just how ‘nice’ I really thought she looked.

I tried to hide my smile behind my knuckles as I pressed a fist to my lips, deciding on the most sincere compliment I could give her. 

“Nobody holds a candle to you, (y/n),” I nodded in affirmation. “You look absolutely beautiful.”

After saying so, I nonchalantly - well as nonchalantly as one could when caught slack-jawed and completely in awe - reoriented the catalog. Had I glanced up even a second later, I might not have caught her reaction to my words and the way they made her smile uncontrollably. I looked back down at the magazine with a smirk, giving it a brief flick to open up the pages all the way to me and parrot the motions one would make if they were actually reading.

We both knew I wasn’t though. 

It seemed I never left that wedding boutique because even as we arrived outside my apartment later that day, my mind was still there, stuck on the future bride in her gown.

“Earth to Spencer!” She waved her hand in front of me to grab my attention despite already having it. “We’re here!” She announced. Who was I kidding? She always had my attention. I only wish it didn’t take me this long to realize that the reason she was constantly at the front of my mind was that I loved her.

Nearly about to exit the car, the millionth and one thought rang in my head like a bell - wedding bells, if you will. 

Speak now or forever hold your peace.

At a tantalizingly slow speed, I released the doorknob and turned back towards her.

“...I love you.”

She furrowed her brows and shrugged with her mouth, forming a confused pout. “I love you, too, Reid?” She kind of laughed when she said it, so I knew she thought this was just a friend sending off a friend goodbye, but I couldn’t let her think that’s what I meant. 

“No, not like that.” I clarified with the utmost candor. “I’m in love with you.” I shook my head when I said it which, in any other context, might make you think I was lying, but the shake of my head was merely the physical manifestation of every bone in my body knowing I shouldn’t be saying this, but my heart still having the audacity to do it anyway. 

I confessed with that brutally honest tone again, the one so raw and vulnerable it leaves you nauseous and breathless all at once as you anxiously anticipate the other person’s response to your vulnerability. But I couldn’t even meet her eyes, I was too scared. Even if I had, they would’ve been vacant. Her spirit had vanished from her body, and in its departure left just the shell of a woman who was completely void of color. Her flushed face was a remnant of the shock that paralyzed her and it wouldn’t disappear even as I tried to bring her color back. 

“I’m so sorry, (y/n). I wish I had better timing - trust me, I will beat myself up later for not saying it sooner. But I promise you, I am not trying to ruin things between you two and I would never actually try to stand in the way of your wedding - you have to believe me. I want you to be happy and if he’s what makes you happy, then I will live with that. I just had to tell you now because ... if you married him without ever knowing how I felt, I wouldn’t have been able to forgive myself.”

This was true - I wouldn’t have been able to forgive myself if I hadn’t said anything - but now that I have - will she be able to forgive me?

Vacant stares turned into piercing glares that drove, what felt like, a thousand daggers right through my heart. She was looking at me as though I were a stranger - completely unrecognizable to her. 

(Y/n), it’s me. It’s Spencer. Don’t you remember me? My heart pleaded. I’m still the same guy I was before. I’m the first friend you made on the team, remember? I’m your something old. Please, please remember me. 

By the time I came to the woeful conclusion that she wouldn’t reply, at least not now, there was only one question weighing on my heart heavily enough to make me ask it before I left her car. 

“Would it have been better if I didn’t tell you?” 

My question stayed answerless even as I lingered at the door after getting out, waiting for one. I knew I should’ve closed it, but I couldn’t. In many ways, it would’ve been shutting the only open vessel to her, formally closing myself off from our friendship. The possibility of losing her as soon as I walked away was too real, and I wasn’t ready yet.

“Please, (y/n), talk to me.” It was a trending theme to have every word I spoke be underlined by this profound piteousness. “Say something.” Say anything.

“I ... I need to get home,” She quietly whimpered, practically begging me to let her go. Up until then, I didn’t want to, but I suddenly wished I had shut the door sooner so that I might not have had to hear the quiet addition, “To my fiancé.”

The color she was so void of in her face? It seems I must have recompensed, for not only was I crowned her something old that day, but I was also her something blue. 

_ _ _ 

If there were a guidebook on all the things to do as the love of your life’s wedding (to someone else) nears, I’d like to think I was following all the protocol. 

Since my not-so-subtle confession, I had yet to press the subject or force her for an answer to my final question, which I think she was thankful for. I also hadn’t plotted a giant scheme to ruin the wedding, nor did I have any intentions of doing so. 

For all intents and purposes, I was acting as a gentleman (who’s in love with you but whom you’re not marrying) ideally should.

You would think that after my big declaration, (y/n) would do everything in her power to avoid me. It’s what I would’ve done. But she’s no coward. That exact heart of gold I fell in love with made no exceptions. Because even after what I did, she still had it in her to extend her kindness to me. 

She’s stubborn like that, remember? 

And though she was showering me with a treatment I didn’t deserve, it still wasn’t enough for my greedy heart. 

The true pain lied in the pretending. Every day I would have to come to work and talk with her and laugh with her and smile with her - I would have to be her friend … pretending that was all that I wanted and nothing more. 

It was both a blessing and a curse that she was acting just as she always had with me. It may seem weird to have expected, nay - wanted - a different reaction from her, but I just wanted something. At least, if she was angry, then I would know what I said had some effect on her, but she was just so indifferent. Like what I said didn’t matter. 

It’s been said that there is a thin line between love and hatred. Hate and love both seem to be involved in the neural processing of what is sometimes referred to as the arousal effect of emotion - this is a technical term, so arousal can be negative. Scientists studying the physical nature of hate have found that some of the nervous circuits in the brain responsible for it are the same as those that are used during the feeling of romantic love – although love and hate appear to be polar opposites. Therefore, the same brain circuitry is involved in both extreme emotions. So, as strange as it may sound, if she didn’t love me, then I at least wanted her to hate me, just so I’d know she had any passion for me that matched my burning passion for her.

But as it turns out, she would never go on to display signs of hatred or love, for she never acted passive-aggressively, never gave me the silent treatment - nothing. Nope, she just acted as if it never happened. She went on with her life, essentially expecting me to do the same, but how could I carry on with life while she was still carrying half of my heart with her? 

It’s an impossible feat, that - to walk around with half a heart. And it’s one that has not gotten easier with time. If anything, time has made it worse, and the closer we got to the wedding, the more difficult it became for me to hold back. And with this exponential growth, it was only inevitable that the pinnacle of difficulty came right before the wedding. 

Before shit hit the fan, she arranged, or rather insisted, that I give a speech at the dinner rehearsal. That hadn’t changed, despite almost everything else having done so. Up until the minute I arrived at the venue, I could’ve recited that speech a million times, forwards and backwards, in my sleep, or even in Russian. But I lost any ability to form coherent thoughts from the second I laid eyes on her. 

As soon as I opened the door, she stood at the entrance to greet her guests, having taken a radiant form that I could only imagine would not pale in comparison to what she would look like tomorrow on her actual wedding day. That thought alone scared me shitless. 

If this is how beautiful she looked tonight and it was only just the rehearsal, how would I ever be able to resist her less than 24 hours from now when she would be marrying a man I could only dream of being half so lucky as?

“Spencer!” Familiar crinkles formed around her eyes as a result of her gigantic smile when she saw me and hugged me thereafter. Her embrace was strangely tighter and lasted for longer than usual, not that I was complaining, but I had to wonder if she was compensating for something. What’s that saying - keep your friends close, and your enemies closer? Was she killing me with kindness? That might’ve been wishful thinking though. Because the same flash of indifference I’d been dealt in recent times came back into her face and tone after hugging me. “You’re at table five with the rest of the team.” 

“Oh, thanks.”

That was it? Just a ‘Spencer!’ and then a nudge in the direction of my seat? No questions about my speech? No threatening comments to not say anything that would ruin the charade we’d been playing for months now? Had she forgotten I was even giving a speech?

“Oh, wait, Spencer!” I felt her hand on my shoulder before I heard her voice. “You left this in my car a couple months ago. I’ve been meaning to give it back to you, but I didn’t remember until today.” 

The first thing that raised a red flag was what she was saying. I’d left something in her car? That would imply that I’d forgotten something, and we both knew that wasn’t possible. But the second suspicious element was the matter of what she claimed I’d left behind. She was handing me a book with the back cover facing me. From the looks of it alone, it wasn’t mine. Clearly, it wasn’t mine. I knew every single book that resides on my shelves and this one has never once crossed them. That, on top of the new book smell and the lack of a wear in the spine, was enough to tell me that not only was this a book I’d never read nor was one to grace my bookshelf, but it was most certainly not one I would have left behind.

She was lying. 

She saw the realization dawn on me, but knowing I would mention it, her hand’s grip around my wrist, which I hadn’t noticed was even there in the first place, tightened, sending me a message. 

She knew I saw the deception. There were so many flaws in what she was saying, that she couldn’t have possibly been clueless of them. It was too easy. Or maybe that was by design. She wanted me to figure out it was a lie. But why?

What was she hiding?

The final thing to leave me when she did was her hand. In its place, it had left a a near perfect indentation in my sleeve. How flawlessly it sculpted to her hand told me just how tightly she was holding me. What was she trying to say?

That’s when I flipped the book over to see the cover. 

Can Love Happen Twice?

And right on the inside cover page was scribbled - in a handwriting so distinctive it could only belong to one person and one person alone - “Yes.” 

_ _ _ 

My heart was racing the entire night as I anxiously awaited for the moment to give my speech. Nothing seemed to ease the tension. Not a sip of water, not the loosening of my tie, not the self-soothing bouncing of my leg. But all it took, all it took was one glance from her and suddenly, the storm within me had settled. 

“Next up we have a speech from Spencer Reid!” 

I rose from my seat like a floundering mess, as to be expected, because how can you possibly catch your bearings as you’re about to make a speech to a room full of people?

“H-hi there. I’m Dr. Spen- I’m Spencer Reid. I’ve worked with (y/n) for several years now and - and so I, um, I wrote this speech for her, so, so I’m gonna read it to you all now,” My stammering had gotten the best of me, so before I could unravel into the mess I surely came off as right about now, I spun from my previous position facing the majority to facing only her. I needed to see her. I needed the reprieve of her eyes again, and she was happy to give it to me.

“(Y/n), from the moment I met you, I thought who is she? And I mean that quite literally because I had no idea who you were and why you were there,” Laughter from the crowd erupted, but her laugh was the only one that mattered to me. “But also because there was just something about you that told me I needed to talk to you. I had no idea what that instinct to strike up a conversation with you would lead to, but I trust my gut a little more now because that very intuition gave me one of the best friends I’ve ever had.” 

To my words, an endeared pout formed on her face. She was touched, and I was glad. 

“Over the seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years we’ve spent together, I have enjoyed every single measure of time with you. You have taught me more about life and myself than I could have ever learned otherwise - which says a lot,” This once again brought her to laughter. “So I thank you for that, because without you, there would be no one to tell my campfire stories to, there would be no one who could recite Jung or Freud with me, and there would be no one I’d have to correct when they drive down the wrong path,” My own chuckle cut my sentence short. 

“Life with you has simply been made better, and my only hope is that tomorrow, as you get married, you too, will experience that eternal bliss with which you have surely bestowed upon everyone who has had the privilege of knowing you.”

By now both of us were on the verge of tears, hers more apparent than mine as she used the palm of her hand to stifle her sniffles. 

“There is so much more I could say about how great you are, but your favorite author, F. Scott Fitzgerald, has said it best. ‘She was beautiful, but not like those girls in the magazines. She was beautiful, for the way she thought. She was beautiful, for the sparkle in her eyes when she talked about something she loved. She was beautiful, for her ability to make other people smile, even if she was sad. No she wasn’t beautiful for something as temporary as her looks. She was beautiful, deep down to her soul. She is beautiful’,” A tear ran down her cheek as my own eyes welled up beyond their means. “So to you both - may you have a life as beautiful as the bride.”

Even if that life isn’t with me. 

I tuned out all the clapping and cheering, and set my focus solely on her, giving me full liberty to see the way she rose from her chair and escaped the room. Not even shock could paralyze me or stop me from running after her. I sprung so fast into action, which required the maximum amount adrenaline, although I could not credit my speed to the rush, but it was more the exclusive motivation to find her that powered me. The entire time I kept calling out her name as I frantically chased her out of the venue. 

“Spencer.” 

I didn’t even see her there at first, probably because I was half-expecting her to be jumping into a cab or running away from me some more when I found her, but just as before, she made it too easy for me. She was waiting for me, standing there in no spectacular fashion. 

The wind was blowing strands of hair in her face that were not so large so that I couldn’t see the red rings around her eyes that were caused by the irritation and formation of tears. She was simply staring back at me with this look in her eyes as if she wanted to say something. 

In the silence, I could still appreciate how astonishingly gorgeous she was. How badly I wanted her. I would’ve whisked her away and taken her as mine if I knew it would make her happy. But that’s just it - I didn’t know. 

I needed her to say it. So say it. 

Say it, darling. 

Spoken through a congested voice (which spoke volumes in reality because of the mere revelation that she was indeed crying) was the plainest, “I’ll see you tomorrow.” With that, she vanished back into the restaurant, leaving me to my devices on the sidewalk. 

She didn’t say it, but she didn’t have to. 

_ _ _ 

Perhaps the false confidence in my speech or what little she had to say to me after it or even the hidden message in the book got to my head, but whatever it was, I was feeling suspiciously alright. Luckily, that feeling didn’t deviate even as I made my way to the church. 

Upon arrival, everything seemed exactly as it should be, so consequently the lack of something out of place did not adequately denote what lied just beyond those doors. Or should I say what didn’t?

Much to my mortification, it was a completely empty church. Every pew, though decorated for a wedding, was uninhabited and showed no indications of having been such recently. As I walked further in, the door automatically shut behind me with a loud bang. It would’ve shocked me more had something else not caught my attention already. 

It was (y/n), standing at the altar … completely alone. 

Suddenly, it felt like I’d been drawn in by this invisible gravity, which was now floating me down the aisle. My feet could not carry me to her fast enough.

I was sure this was some kind of dream simply by the way the light gleamed through the stained glass windows, casting banners of golden luminescence on her. It was as if heaven itself had come down with the specific delegation to illuminate the vision of one of its fallen angels. 

“(Y/n)?” My voice reverberated throughout the chapel, ricocheting off the high, painted ceilings and back to me. “Where is everyone?” 

It wasn’t until I reached a certain point in the middle aisle, that I realized her veil had been covering her face this entire time. The angel in white only turned more heavenly when she flipped the veil backward, revealing herself to me. 

It took her a moment to answer, but it was her head that answered first before her mouth did. She began shaking her head slowly, followed by a short, unequivocal, “No.”

As you might imagine, I was dumbfounded. “No?” That answer wouldn’t have made sense in the context of what I had previously asked. 

“No.” She repeated, with somehow even more definitiveness. I decided it was best to stay silent and wait for her explanation. 

“No, it wouldn’t have been better if you didn’t tell me.” 

There was my answer I’d been searching for. 

“God, Spencer - what took you so long?” 

From the breathlessness and the rushed cadence of her voice, I knew precisely what was coming next. She instantaneously abandoned the bouquet she’d been clutching in favor of her hands’ ability to pull me in. The pressure on my fragile skull when our frenzied lips finally met was not a punishment so much as it was a reward. And just as we began to find our rhythm, I slid my hand into her hair, which I began to regret when I realized just how much time and effort probably went into its structuring. I pulled away the moment I felt a carefully placed pin lodged within her hair slip between my fingers. 

True, for a moment I was unable to open my eyes afterward from the sheer elation I was experiencing, but as I came to, I found myself looking at the hairpin I’d accidentally extracted from her curls, one that I could’ve sworn I’d seen a fellow coworker of ours donning in the past. 

“Is this -”

“Yep, it’s Penelope’s.” She admitted through the most debonair giggles. After giving her a quizzical, and only partially judgmental glance, she managed to blurt out, “What? Why are you looking at me like that? It was my ‘something borrowed’!”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　

reid taglist: @s1utformgg @no-alarms-no-surprises-silence @jemimah-b99 @justanothetfangirl @kylab @rainsong01 @calm-and-doctor @inkstainedwritergirl @rexorangecouny @ashwarren32 @carooliina @fortheloveofcriminalminds @watermelongubler  @obsessedmaggiemay @k-k0129 @aperrywilliams @eevee0722 @spencersmagic @spencerreid-mgg @half-blood-dork @goldeng1rl8 @just-a-bunch-of-fandoms @random-human-person 

[michelangelinden]

A coffee order doesn’t tell you someone’s sexuality (but it kind of really does)

HAPPY BIRTHDAY @iti-iskuna I WROTE THIS FOR YOU I HOPE YOU LIKE IT

this is a willex coffee shop au because there aren’t enough already! (Thank you @sunsetcurbed for beta reading ily)

(6.2k words, link for ao3 is in the reblogs)

„Honey, I’m home,“ Luke calls as he strides into the apartment.

Alex groans loudly as a greeting. He doesn’t want to get up from the couch. His position isn’t very comfortable – his face is pressed into the armrest, his neck at a very awkward angle – but he needs to lie like this to mope correctly.

“Why isn’t dinner on the table yet? What are you doing in the living room?” Alex lifts his head to stare at him. “Sorry,” Luke says quickly and comes over. He drops his backpack by the coffee table and Alex pushes himself up so that Luke can sit on the couch and Alex can lie back down over his lap. Luke begins to gently card his hands through Alex’s hair.

“Why are you moping?” he asks, scratching Alex’ scalp and he feels himself relax a little.

“You know how I work at the coffee shop down Wilshire Boulevard?” he begins and Luke chuckles.

“Yes, I am in fact aware of that job. Pays our rent.”

“Right. Get a job, by the way.” Alex turns his body so that he’s lying on his back and his face isn’t squished by the cushion.

“I’m working on that. Continue.” Luke starts pushing Alex’ hair out of his face.

“Anyways. So, you know how I meet a shit load of people every day. Like, we have our regulars, but we have a lot of new people coming in, too.”

“Let me guess,” Luke interrupts him, “cute boy?” Alex groans again in response and raises a hand over his eyes.

“So cute. You have no idea.”  

“You’re gonna tell me about him.” It’s not a question. Luke already knows what’s coming.

“I sure am, close your eyes.” Alex peers up at him but the angle doesn’t let him see if Luke actually did as he was told. “Are they closed?”

“They’re closed.”

“Alright, picture this.” Alex thinks back to the situation from this afternoon. “I’m just chilling behind the counter, wiping the same spot for like three minutes straight, ‘cause I’m so bored, it’s a Tuesday afternoon, you know the drill.” Luke nods. “Flynn said some stupid shit, as she does, I’m laughing, and the bell above the door rings. So, I whip around, a little surprised, because, you know, Tuesday afternoons are always super lame and no one gets coffee –“ there’s a bite of pain his side “– hey!”

“Get on with it.”

“Chill. Okay. So, I turn around and in walks this absolute god of a man.” Alex takes a moment to envision him again. “Long, dark hair, black shorts, a skateboard under his arm, tie-dye shirt that’s, get this,” Alex pauses, “cropped.”

“Oh shit,” Luke gasps, rightfully so, that has been a damn sight for Alex’s sore eyes.

“YES! And he just strolls into the shop like it’s no big deal, like I’m not dying behind the espresso machine just looking at him.”

“Did you greet him?”

“I didn’t, at first, I was too stunned by the inch of skin visible above the shorts.” Luke laughs because that definitely hasn’t been the first occasion that Alex has been stunned into silence by the looks of a cute boy. “But Flynn pushed me and I had to serve him.”

“And?”

Alex frowns.

“What?”

Luke sighs.

“What’s his name?”

“Oh. Yeah, I didn’t ask.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Luke looks down at him, his eyes now open and his eyebrows in a deep frown.

“It’s a Tuesday afternoon, the shop was empty! I can’t just ask him for his name if he’s the only one there,” Alex exclaims, gesturing wildly, before hesitating. “He’d think I’m a creep,” he concludes.

“But now he just thinks you’re not interested in him!” Luke counters.

“Good! He’s not supposed to.” He glares at him. “He’s a customer, Luke, I have rules.” He groans again. “Hell, I don’t even know if he likes men.”

“What did he order?”

“Vanilla cold brew.” Luke squints his eyes at him until he continues. “With oat milk.”

“He’s gay,” Luke says with a satisfied nod.

Alex scoffs.

“What? Luke, someone’s coffee order doesn’t –“

“Have you ever had a customer order a vanilla cold brew with oat milk that gave you heterosexual vibes?”

Luke raises his eyebrows at Alex, who frowns in concentration. Then he sighs.

“No, I haven’t.”

“Told you!”

Alex grumps.

“Maybe he’ll come back,” Luke offers, patting Alex’s chest consolingly.

“God, I hope he doesn’t,” Alex answers, but at Luke’s confused face he quickly adds, “I’d combust if I had to see him again.”

Luke makes his ‘that’s fair’ face. Alex drops his arm over his eyes again, trying to block out reality.

The front door opens again, a fresh gust of wind blowing over Alex’s face and he lifts his arm. Reggie’s face pops up in his vision, sporting a bright grin, but it turns into a concerned frown when he spots his roommates on the couch.

“Oh no,” he starts, stopping in his tracks, “why are you in the ‘Alex is sad’ position?”

“I’m not sad, Reggie, just gay,” Alex answers him tiredly.

“Oh my god, same,” Reggie exclaims loudly.

He lifts Alex’s legs and drops himself onto the couch next to Luke, draping them over his own lap. Alex turns so that his face is pushed into Luke’s stomach. Luke gives a small ‘oof’-sound in surprise but starts stroking Alex’s hair again.

“Bobby took me to the petting zoo to pet some goats and it was really cute and he was really cute and I was so excited and he took a photo of me and called me ‘Boo’ and –“

Alex closes his eyes. He really loves Reggie but he can’t really handle listening to him gush about his almost-boyfriend-but-also-not-really-boyfriend-but-actually-definitely-his-boyfriend while he’s still moping.

So, he tunes him out, presses his face further into Luke’s stomach, and lets him handle the situation.

 ***

 It’s another Tuesday afternoon and Alex is fucking bored. The shop has been a desert for the better part of his shift – he’s had like three customers and none of them wanted cool fancy drinks but instead something like ‘a coffee, black’ or ‘a green tea, please’.

Not that there is anything wrong with liking black coffee or green tea, but the least his three customers could do for him is ordering something fun for him to make that requires more than pressing a single button. Especially when it’s a Tuesday afternoon.

Flynn is on her break in the back, talking to her girlfriend Carrie on the phone, but Alex doesn’t mind that she left him alone; it’s not like they have anything to do anyways. And when she uses her break to talk to Carrie, the amount of time she spends to talk about her is much shorter, which Alex appreciates. He loves Flynn and Carrie both, but they’ve been dating for two years now and act like an old married couple which can get hella annoying hella fast.

He’s standing behind the counter, sharpie in one hand, drawing random doodles on the paper cup in his other. He’d started with a ghost, that’s his go-to drawing when he’s bored, but now it has four friends, three dogs, a small drum set, a microphone and two failed attempts at a guitar.

When the bell chimes and the door opens, Alex lifts his head and he almost drops his pen.

It’s the boy from last week – hair down, shirt cropped, a skateboard in hand.  And he’s headed his ways.

Alex looks over his shoulder to check if Flynn finished her break and magically appeared behind him but nope, he can still hear her giggling in the break room.

Fuck, he thinks as he turns back around. He startles when he sees the boy right in front of the counter, smiling at him.

He straightens up and clears his throat quickly, running a hand through his hair, almost tangling the pen in it. He drops it and it hits the counter’s edge before falling to the floor and Alex crouches down at rocket speed to pick it up. When he snaps back up he sees that the boy’s eyes follow every movement, his eyebrows quirked and his lips in a lopsided grin.

“You good?” he asks, his eyes scanning Alex up and down.

He clears his throat again, his mind scrambling for an answer for probably a moment too long.

“Yeah!” he settles on eventually, really rushed and with too much air to be too convincing. “Uh, yeah, sorry,” he continues, tucking the pen in the front pocket of his apron. “I didn’t have a lot of customers today, I didn’t, uh, I didn’t expect you.”

The boy chuckles and tucks a strand of hair behind his ear and Alex could combust right then and there. Who gave this man the right?

“Yeah, it’s not very busy right now,” he says, looking around a little. He turns back to Alex. “I was here last week, though.”

“I- yeah. I, uh, I just didn’t expect you to come back.” Alex is so sure his face his bright red from embarrassment. Why can’t he just hold a conversation like a normal person?

“Well,” the boy starts, leaning his board against the front of counter, “I liked your coffee.”

Alex stares at him for a hot second before clearing his throat a third time.

“Anyways, what can I get for you?”

The boy smiles again.

“I’ll have a vanilla cold brew with oat milk, please. The biggest one you have.”

Alex smiles a little at the order but nods, punching the order into the cash register and picking up one of the plastic cups. He contemplates for a second, before pulling the sharpie from his pocket again, starting to push the lid off with his thumb.

“Uh, what’s your name?” he asks carefully. God, he hopes he doesn’t sound creepy.

“I’m the only one here,” the boy answers and Alex half expects him to frown, when he looks up at him, but he’s sporting a small grin.

“Uh,” Alex just says again and mentally kicks himself for it. “Sorry, I-,” he continues, closing the sharpie again and beginning to tuck it back into his apron, when the boy speaks up again.

“It’s Willie,” he says with a smile shining through his voice and Alex blinks at him. “My name is Willie. With ‘ie’.”

Alex looks at him for a second longer than probably appropriate, studies his long, brown hair falling over his shoulders as if carefully draped there; the small golden earring in his right ear, glistening in the afternoon sun shining through the windows; the mischievous glint in his dark eyes as he looks back at Alex. He decides that Willie with ‘ie’ fits perfectly.

Alex smiles at him. He flicks the lid off the sharpie, careful not to send it across the counter, and writes ‘Willie' on the cup in his hand, adding a smiley face after another second of contemplating and deciding that fuck it, he deserves a smiley face.

He moves over to the coffee making station, flipping the lid of the vanilla syrup open and swirling some into the cup with a skilled motion. He adds a scoop of ice and then another, filling the cup almost to the brim. He’s just closed the fridge getting the cold brew when he hears the boy – Willie – speak up again.

“Is this yours?” he asks and when Alex turns to him, pitcher of coffee in hand, he sees that Willie is holding the paper cup full of doodles. “Did you draw these?”

Alex feels an embarrassed blush creep up his cheeks and he looks down again, concentrating on not missing the cup when he fills it with coffee.

“Uh, yeah, I was bored.”

“They’re cute,” Willie says and Alex feels that it’s genuine, the smile noticeable through his words. “I like the ghosts. And the dogs.”

“Thanks,” he answers, not looking up out of fear that Willie might notice his blush.

“What are they called?”

Okay, now Alex does look up, looking at Willie with a frown.

“What?”

“You need to give them names,” Willie tells him as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Really Alex, why haven’t you given them names yet, huh?

“Uh,” he just says, unable to form correct words in his head.

“Can I name them?”

Willie looks at Alex with his eyes sparkling softly, the excitement clear on his face and if the plastic cup full of coffee in hand weren’t for him Alex would crush it for sure.

Can Willie name the doodled ghosts and dogs on his cup? Of course, he fucking can, he can name Alex first born if he asks like that.

“Uh, sure, go ahead.”

He’s so glad he sounds so calm because he’s totally screaming on the inside.

Willie beams at him and turns back to the cup, holding it closer to his face and studying the drawings.

“I’ll call this one George, totally the vibe. And this one – oh, that’s a cool drum set!”

He’s turned the cup over looking at the other side and for a moment Alex feels bad that he has to see his ugly drawn guitars.

“Thanks,” he says anyways, because yes, his drum set did turn out pretty good.

“Do you play?”

Alex’s head snaps up from where he’s pouring oat milk into the cup.

“How- how do you know?”

“You do?” Willie's eyes widen as he looks up at Alex. “Really? That was a wild guess.”

Alex can’t help but grin back at him, Willie's excitement over that revelation infecting him too.

“Yes, I play,” he tells him happily, setting the carton of milk down to not spill anything. “I’m actually in a band too,” he adds because a little promo can’t hurt.

“Dude!” Willie almost yells, leaning over the counter to get closer to Alex. “That’s so cool! What are you called?”

Alex feels pride and excitement bubble up in his chest as it always does when he gets to talk about his band.

“We’re ‘Julie and the Phantoms.’ Tell your friends!”

“Oh, I will! Do you play gigs? Are you on Spotify?”

Alex chuckles a little when Willie pulls his phone out of his pocket eagerly.

“We are, we have an EP out. You should check it out.”

“I definitely will!” Willie taps on his screen before he gasps. “That cover looks so cool!”

“Thank you so much,” Alex says genuinely. “Julie designed it herself.”

Willie looks back up at him, the smile still stuck to his lips.

“Who’s Julie?”

“Oh, our lead singer. She’s honestly the best. You’ll be so impressed when you hear her, I promise.”

They’d all been there when they first heard her sing. That girl has a power that’s not to be underestimated.

“I can’t wait,” Willie answers and his clear voice accompanied by his honest eyes tells Alex that he means it.

For a moment they just stare at each other, both smiling, a blush high on Alex’s cheeks, Willie still holding his doodle cup in one hand and his phone in the other.

It gets awkward after another moment because Alex notices the ice in the cup in his own hand hurting his fingers a little. He pulls his gaze away from Willie and down at the coffee, busying himself with slapping a lid on it.

“Your, uh, your coffee.”

He walks back over to the counter and sets it down in front of Willie, pulling a paper straw from the tall glass next to him and balancing it on top.

“Thanks, uh,” Willie's eyes flick down to the name tag on Alex’s chest, “Alex,” he finishes with a smile. “What do I owe you?”

Oh. Right. Money.

He glances at the cash register.

“$4.55, please. Do you want a receipt?”

“No, thanks,” Willie says. He pushes his hand into the pocket of his shorts and fishes out a $5 bill, sliding it over to Alex.

“Keep the change,” he says while dumping another $1 bill into the tip jar. He grabs the straw and his cup and slowly walks back towards the front door. “I’ll see you around?”

Warmth spreads in Alex’s chest at the thought of seeing Willie again.

“Yeah, definitely.”

Willie smiles at him and salutes him with his drink before he turns and exits the shop.

Alex stares at the closing front door for a moment, watching Willie place his board onto the ground and step on it, pushing off and skating away out of Alex’s sight. When he can’t see him anymore and it doesn’t look like another customer will enter the shop, Alex places his hands on the edge of the counter and leans forward to let out a loud groan towards the floor.

What just happened? Where did Willie come from and why does he make Alex’s insides feel like mush?

This – this – is not okay!

“Ehm, what did I just witness?”

Alex’s head snaps over to Flynn standing in the doorway to the hallway, one hand propped up on her hip, the other holding her phone.

“How long have you been standing there?” Alex asks, not moving from his awkward position at the counter.

“Long enough to watch you fall head over heels for a skater boy.”

Alex gets up straight immediately, holding his hands up in defense.

“I – I didn’t – I’m not in – I didn’t fall – You can’t,” he starts to splutter, taking a step back and bumping his hip against the counter. “What?”

“Sweetie, you had a whole gay panic in the 30 seconds I watched you.”

“What?” he says, his voice raising at least an octave and he clears his throat. “No, I didn’t.”

Flynn doesn’t answer him, just tilts her head and raises an eyebrow.

He groans again because yes, she’s right, he did have a gay panic.

But who can blame him, honestly, when Willie exists with his beautiful hair and his beautiful smile and he’s just strolling into the coffee shop wearing a cropped shirt and –

“Alex!”

His head snaps around to the source of the voice and his eyes lock with his friend Julie, Luke standing behind her.

“Are you okay?” she asks, one hand hovering in the air as if close to reaching out for him.

“Yeah,” he starts, but Flynn butts in and yells “gay panic!” over from where she’s standing behind the espresso machine.

Luke perks up behind Julie, his eyebrows flying up until they’re hidden under his fringe.

“Was it the crop-top boy from last week? Did he come back?” He comes up behind Julie to stand next to her, leaning over the counter to get closer to Alex.

“I –“ he pauses, glancing back at Flynn, who just raises her eyebrows at him. “Yeah,” he answers with a sigh, watching Luke gasp excitedly.

“Did you finally get his name?” Luke asks.

“Wait, what? Who are we talking about?” Julie asks with a frown, looking back and forth between Alex and Luke.

“Alex has a crush on a –“ Luke starts to explain, but Alex cuts him off.

“I do not have a crush on him!”

“Then tell me why you were staring longingly after him just three minutes ago.”

Alex gasps dramatically at Flynn’s betrayal, turning back and glaring at her, but she just glares back at him. He sighs again, turning back to his friends.

“So, there’s this customer, his, uh, his name is Willie.” He pauses for a second for Luke to start vibrating out of excitement about the new information. “He came here for the second time today and – and he’s so beautiful, fuck!” He slumps forward, burying his face in his arms on the counter.

“Oh Alex,” Julie said consolingly but he can hear her smile. He feels her hand patting his hair gently and he lifts his head a little, setting his chin on his forearms.

He’s fucked. He’s so fucked. And Willie is so beautiful, Alex just wants to scream.

 ***

 “No- no Flynn, you can’t – don’t leave me!” Alex argues as Flynn struggles to release his grip. “It’s 3.30, he’ll come any minute now!”

“Exactly, which is why I don’t want to be here!” she argues back, softly punching him in the stomach to let go of her. It doesn’t hurt but he gets the message and releases her shoulders. “I don’t want to watch you simp over this guy for five minutes while you stretch making his coffee just so you can talk to him.”

She’s calling him out and she’s right. He does take way too long making his drink just to get him to stay a minute longer. But it’s not like he’s harming anyone with it. Most of the times Willie came in in the past month he’s been the only customer and he never seemed to be in a rush, so Alex doesn’t feel bad for pouring the milk in very slowly.

And yes, she’s also right about the simping part, even though he really doesn’t want to admit it. He keeps staring at him when he talks about a topic he’s interested in – art for example, he really likes art – and has to be careful not to spill anything when that happens. It happened once. He’s not proud of it.

But every time he starts to ramble about something he likes his eyes start to sparkle and it seems like he’s glowing and his hands are everywhere and he makes it really hard for Alex to look away.

Willie got him to ramble too, one time, about the band and their music and when Alex looked up from the cup in his hands and at Willie, he saw that he had the brightest smile on his face, teeth shining and his eyes crinkling. Alex had felt the punch in his gut before his brain caught up to him.

Yeah, he does have a crush on Willie, there is no denying it now, as much as he wants to. But there’s not really much he can do about it.

So, he can kind of get why Flynn tries to get on her break. Still.

“I don’t want to be alone with him, Flynn. He’ll say something cute and I’ll start crying.”

“Oh my god!” Flynn lets out an exaggerated groan. “Just – be the responsible one and start flirting with him or something. Tell him he’s cute.”

“I can’t!” he says loudly. “I have anxiety.”

Now it’s Flynn’s turn to put her hands on his shoulders, shaking him a little while she speaks.

“Alex. You’re 20 years old, you pay rent for an apartment, you’re an adult, you play drums in front hundreds of people! You can tell a boy that he looks cute!”

Alex opens his mouth to argue but she shushes him.

“I –“ he tries again but she cuts him off with a “nope” and when he opens his mouth again she finally asks “what?”

“This is different,” he says, very softly, hoping she finally gets his struggle.

She doesn’t.

“Okay, how is this different?”

He groans internally. How do people not get this?

“I – I don’t know, I –“ he breaks off to heave a sigh. “I really like him, okay? I don’t want him to think I’m weird.”

Flynn tuts. Not in the annoyed way, but in the way she does when Julie is being really dense about Luke’s crush on her or when Reggie hurts his foot jumping around while playing bass.

“Alex,” she says slowly, grabbing his face and making him look at her. It’s a little awkward, her being almost a foot smaller than him, but her grip is strong and her message clear.  “He wears crop tops and buys coffee with oat milk. I don’t think there is a single drop of toxic masculinity in him that would make him think it’s weird if you call him cute.”

He stares at her, his head unmoving between her palms, as she glares into his eyes, into his soul. She squeezes his cheeks a little and he chuckles quietly. She smiles at him and releases his face.

“Here,” she says, looking down at her chest and removing the small rainbow pin from her apron. “Maybe this can give you some emotional support.” She fastens the pin to his own chest, right next to his nametag, and puts her hand over it once she’s done.

“You got this!”

“Thank you,” he says genuinely.

The bell above the door chimes and Flynn’s eyes fly over to the entrance.

“Oh, he’s coming,” she whisper-yells, removing her hand and turning on her heel. Alex takes a step forward in panic, trying to get her to stay one last time.

“No, Flynn, please,” he tries but she shakes her head without looking back at him.

“Nope, I’m already leaving, good luck!” She throws him a thumbs up before she disappears around the corner.

Alex stares after her for a moment before turning around slowly, facing the counter and Willie behind it. Willie smiles brightly when their eyes meet, his gaze warm and Alex feels his stomach flip from that alone.

“Hey,” Willie says, “what’s up?”

Oh, nothing, I’m just hopelessly in love with you, Alex thinks but thankfully doesn’t say out loud.

“Nothing,” he answers instead. He steps closer automatically and props himself up with his hands on the edge of the counter, as he always does when Willie comes in. “Just, uh, life, I guess.”

Willie chuckles at that, a strand of hair falling in front of his face and he brushes it back with his hand absentmindedly. Alex follows the motion closely and hopes Willie doesn’t notice him staring.

“Yeah, I get it.”

They both stay silent for a moment before Alex remembers why Willie came here in the first place.

“Coffee,” he blurts before he can stop himself and he leans back to get to the cash register.

“Right,” he hears Willie say and then the sound of him setting his skateboard onto the floor.

“Vanilla cold-brew with oat milk?” Alex asks, his fingers already hovering over the buttons.

“Actually,” Willie starts and Alex looks at him, “I kind of want to try something new today.”

“Oh, sure. Do you already have an idea?”

“Hm, no, not really.” Willie leans forward, settling his palms on the counter, his face turned upwards at the menu above Alex’s head.

“Do you mind if I suggest something?” Alex asks carefully. Willie tilts his head to look at him and smiles.

“No, not at all, please.”

“So, you like sweet things, right?” Willie nods. “Okay, I’d suggest a latte and we got this cool new cinnamon syrup that makes everything taste like cinnamon buns. I can make it iced and with oat milk, too, if you want to.”

Willie's face lights up and he nods excitedly.

“That sounds great, thank you so much,” he comments. Alex bites at his bottom lip for a second but then he smiles, giving himself a second to appreciate Willie's smile before turning to make his drink.

Out of the corner of his eyes he sees Willie leaning forward, his elbows on the counter and resting his face in his palms. He can feel him watching him work, observing his motions of preparing the espresso, swirling the inside of his cup with the cinnamon syrup and filling it with ice. It’s not really something to show off with, but if he could he totally would. When he turns to get the milk from the fridge he catches Willie's gaze, head tilted slightly to the side, and he feels a blush creeping up his cheeks. Knowing someone is watching you is one thing, but seeing it makes it more intense.

“So,” Willie starts to strike up a conversation, “what made you decide to be a barista?”

Alex huffs a laugh, taking the espresso cup and tipping it over the plastic cup.

“It’s really not as exciting as you might think,” he says, setting the empty cup next to the sink and looking at him. “I moved into an apartment with my friends, needed a job, saw that the café was hiring and applied and thankfully I got the job.” He adjusts the straps of his apron as Willie takes a short look around the shop.

“Do you like working here?” he asks when his eyes have settled back on Alex, now slowly pouring the milk into the cup. He’s taking his time, not only to not overfill it, but also to get Willie to stay longer, talk to him longer, to look at him like that for just a little bit longer.

“Yes,” he decides, because it’s true. He does like working here. “Yeah, I really do.”

“What’s your favorite thing about it?” Willie asks, his gentle voice showing genuine interest.

“Oh, that’s hard.”

There are so many things to like about his job. He likes that it always smells like coffee and sugar when he comes in, he likes it when the sun shines in through the glass panels at the front and paints the entire café in golden hues, he likes having his regulars greet him like friends and tell him about their day. And he likes the work too, making coffee, preparing desserts, talking to his coworkers.

But then he knows what to say.

“Probably observing people,” he finally answers, causing Willie to laugh.

“What?”

“Oh, no, I know how it sounds, but not in the creepy way.” He allows Willie to calm down for a second. “I like watching them being here as a part of their daily routine, you know. When they come here before work they’re stressed because they have somewhere to be, but when they come here after work they always stay to chat for a bit.” Willie nods. “And sometimes we have people come in here, order a hot chocolate and a croissant and then they sit here for hours typing on their laptops or writing in notebooks. And there are people going on dates here and there are many friends and families just spending their afternoon and –“ he breaks off, noticing how he’s rambling and spares a glance at Willie.

“Oh, please continue,” he encourages him, the smile on his lips warm and comforting.

“I – I don’t know, I just – I like the idea of being a part of their life, in a way. Giving them something nice to make their day a little better.” He looks down at the drink in front of him. “Even if it’s only an iced cinnamon latte. Do you want whipped cream? It’s vegan.”

“Yes, of course, thank you.” Willie straightens up, pushing his hands into the pockets of his shorts. He watches Alex add whipped cream to his drink, as well as another small swirl of the syrup and a sprinkle of cinnamon.

“Ah, look at how pretty that looks.” Alex carefully takes the cup and places it in front of him on the counter. “Please appreciate it for a second, before I slap a lid on and smush it.”

Willie laughs but leans forward again to take a closer look.

“It looks very nice, excellent swirl, chef’s kiss.” His eyes flick up at Alex and he feels the blush, that has never quite left his cheeks, darken.

“Thanks,” he says with a short laugh.

“I don’t think I need a lid,” Willie says as he leans back again, “but I do need a straw.”

Alex nods, pulling a paper straw from the glass and sticking it into the cup.

“Voila. Now it’s done.” He pushes it a little closer to Willie. “Please try it.”

Willie reaches for it immediately, picking it up slowly to not spill anything. Alex can’t help but stare in anticipation as Willie takes the first sip through the straw. His eyes flutter closed and he lets out a satisfied hum and Alex is too busy blushing hard to be proud to have evoked that reaction.

“This is really good,” Willie says after a moment, keeping his eyes closed and taking another sip. “Thank you for recommending it.”

Alex clears his throat, trying to get his brain to focus again.

“Sure. You’re, uh, you’re welcome.” He has to scrunch up his eyes for a second and when he opens them again he sees Willie looking at him with an eyebrow raised.

“You good?” he asks and Alex nods.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m glad you like it.”

“I do, really. How much is it?”

Alex’s brain jumps on again and he moves over to the cash register, tapping in the order.

“$5.20, please. Would you like a receipt?”

Willie shakes his head, setting the cup back onto the counter and pushing his right hand back into his shorts pocket. Alex fiddles with his apron straps again while he waits and adjusts his nametag, too.

When Willie hands him the cash, dropping $2 into the tip jar, his eyes settle on Alex’s chest and a smile on his lips.

“Nice pin, by the way,” he comments, stuffing his hands back into his pockets.

Alex, who thought it had stopped, blushed again, looking down at the rainbow pin still on his apron.

“Thanks, it’s my friend Flynn’s.”

He now remembers why he’s wearing it, too. Emotional support. For telling Willie that he looks cute. He can do it, he thinks. But he doesn’t.

“Here’s your change,” Alex says as he hands over a few coins.

Willie nods and a silence forms around them, while they both kind of stare at each other but also kind of don’t. At least Alex tries to hide it, but Willie's eyes bore into his face.

“So,” he starts and Alex can hear his foot scuffing the floor. He’s nervous. “Are you, like, an ally?”

Alex blinks.

What?

Alex didn’t hear him correctly. He can’t have. That can’t be what Willie just asked him.

He blinks again and a concerned frown settles on Willie's face.

“Are you – not an ally?”

What?

“I’m gay.”

Realization dawns on Willie's face. His frown loosens and he opens his mouth slightly.

“Oh,” he says softly. “Yeah, that makes sense.”

“Yeah,” Alex answers, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

“Cool.” Willie pauses, nodding. “Me too.”

“Cool,” Alex repeats, to seem causal, but inside his brain he’s yelling gaygaygay on repeat.

Willie stares at him for another moment and Alex tries his best to stare back.

“I’m gonna go now,” Willie says, grabbing his drink and taking a step back.

Alex’s thoughts are a wild mixture of no, please stay, you make everything feel warm and oh my god, please leave, this is getting too awkward, but he doesn’t want to say either of those so he just says “okay” very quietly and mentally kicks himself for it.

So much for telling Willie that he’s cute.

Willie walks backwards a few steps before finally turning, holding his board under his arm and his drink in his hand, to pull the door open. Alex watches him, unmoving behind the counter. Just as Willie's about to step outside, he turns again, still holding the door handle. He closes his eyes for a moment and breathes in and out.

“Hey, uh, if I were gonna ask you out on a date,” he pauses, “would you say yes?”

Ohmygodohmygodohmygod.

“Yes.”

Ohmygodohmygodohmygod.

“Okay, cool.” Willie moves to leave again, before stopping once again. “When does your shift end?”

Alex can’t believe this is really happening. He glances back at the clock above the menu.

“In about an hour,” he answers, his voice raising at the end like a question even though he’s never been more sure of anything in his life.

“Okay, cool,” Willie says again and Alex laughs a little. Willie smiles at him.

“I’ll see you then?” Alex asks, just to clarify what Willie seems to imply.

“Totally.”

Alex can’t help but grin back at him.

“Okay, cool,” he repeats Willie's words and this time Willie laughs a little.

Willie takes one last look at him before actually moving out of the door, placing his board onto the ground and stepping on it. He doesn’t push off right away, shooting one last smile at Alex and waiting for him to smile back and wave at him.

Alex’s eyes follow him rolling past the front of the shop. He’s still smiling when he disappears out of his sight and Alex feels like his whole body is glowing.

He grips the straps of his apron, biting back a laugh.

This can’t be real, he thinks, but the condensation of the drink on the counter is real and the tips in the tip jar are real and the blush on his cheeks is real and the date – date – is also real. So very real. Holy fuck.

[dreamsister81]

 Jeff and MI:

By age, you fit in the G.I.T generation, but you obviously are not one of them...

These facilities are a mystery to me. There they tell you only one thing: hurry up! This leads you nowhere, afterwards your own children run away from you. Through these trainings you get to know women, you get to know men, music is inoculated into people who have no feeling for it; then they can only scare other people or insult them...

I was in this terrible place too, by the way-G.I.T That was a complete waste of time, apart from the theoretical lessons and the friends that I had there. Otherwise: an absolute wrong decision.

How long have you studied there?

One year, the normal program. They give you tons of material, you have to absorb everything, you practice, you are tested and you go to the next course. An intensive support with development is simply not possible. I did so many things: theory, single string technique, jazz class, rock class, all sorts of genres. My friend John was teaching bass there, and he once said that there is not a single teacher at the institute who says to the students, "OK, you're learning all this stuff here now, you're learning how to entertain people and you're learning to learn. But do you even know that there is no one in the universe other than yourself who plays the music you play? " John left the school then. For me it was all a joke that cost me $ 3,900. People interested in music should take private lessons somewhere, start a band, do something with people who like them and have what it takes. These schools are a scene in their own right, a very small, secluded world-the music, on the other hand, is gigantic and open. If you don't notice it, you miss a lot of magic, pain, development...(thinks) and rock! Apart from Paul Gilbert, there was no one there who really rocked. Session musicians are bred there; and at the end of the year you get a piece of paper that says, "Now you have the skills to become a professional musician." Well, congratulations! And then you look for jobs and play what other people want. But that's not all the music, there's something else isn't there? Where's the music coming from? From your own head or stomach, or the concepts of the people you work for?-Gitarre & Bass, October,  1995

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I had a friend named John Humphrey. I went to this really crappy guitar school for a year, and he used to teach there, he was a bass teacher. And then he left, and we ended up being roommates later on, after I graduated. This is the kind of school where you give them a shitload of money in order to spend a year learning their curriculum.

What was it, G.I.T. (Guitar Institute of Technology in Los Angeles)?

Yeah, it was G.I.T.. They give you their curriculum, and it's not too comprehensive, but it's just enough, and then you can [snaps his fingers] move on to the next thing. And pretty soon you have all this shit inside you and then they give you this paper that says you have what it takes to be a professional musician.

It's a rock-oriented thing, isn't it?

In the end, I think, the only true product of that kind of learning is to get you gigs on the studio circuit and to get you gigs on the session guy circuit.

So, Lee Ritenour went there or something?

G.I.T. was started by Howard Roberts, the guy who played the wah-wah guitar on the theme to Shaft. And this other guy named Pat Hayes. I don't know. It just seemed like a racket, really. John said a lot of things to me that stuck in my mind. He said that there was nobody who stopped you, sat you in a room and said, okay, we have all these artists that you're learning the licks from, you have your guitar heroes, your virtuoso lust objects. But there's nobody who can make the kind of music you can make now except for you. And you can make it now. You don't even have to know how to go fast. And that makes all the sense to me in the world. It's also kind of an unseen process, that concept, originality. It's like that in all the education systems; there's never any real...identity education, self-generative identity art sort of thing, to be yourself. If everybody in Melbourne had a Wurlitzer organ and had the passion to sing something or make something, you'd have hundreds of thousands of different styles, if they were coming exactly from only their DNA, only their makeup, and their emotional percepts, their idea about what art is. You could have way-removed genres from what is already accepted, avante-garde country-rock-punk-folk-whatever. It's unlimited. But for some reason, the conventions always take over and there's a very ready and powerful formula to step into...

Those are the type of [formula-derived] players who can say, "Well, I was listening to the radio in 1967 and I heard the guitar solo in Jimi Hendrix's 'All Along the Watchtower,' and that guitar sound, that tone, would work perfectly for this television commercial."

Yeah. See? "Stealing from the greats, that's okay." That's right. Once I stopped in [at G.I.T.] years later, when I was on tour going through L.A., just to see what it was like. They've got a completely high-tech, multi-million dollar facility...

More so than when you had been there?

Way more. When I was there, it was just a ragtag bunch of teachers, and they had all left by then. They had video facilities and a class for stage moves and all kinds of things. And I saw this guy who was working the desk, the guy who watches the door. He had a bass on, and he was practicing his Nirvana chops! He was playing "In Bloom" on his bass, way up on his chest, jazz-fusion style, to the Nirvana song. I thought, oh shit--he was practicing his grunge riffs! He was getting his grunge down! Best fucking thing you can do, if you have the interest, is go to a private teacher, go someplace, some college, and learn theory. That was something I really enjoyed, actually, something that wasn't totally pointless. Theory meaning the meaning of the musical nomenclature. I was attracted to really interesting harmonies, stuff that I would hear in Ravel, Ellington, Bartok.-Double Take, February 29, 1996

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Once the site of a seakeasy and a bra factory, the 30,000-square-foot quarters were now the home of Musicians Institute, a vocational school for anyone who considered himself or herself a serious musician. With its wooden desks and chipped-tile hallways, MI resembled any other urban school, but at those desks, student guitarists and drummers studied scales and power chords in hopes of becoming the next Eddie Van Halen or Neil Peart, the flashy drummer with Rush. On their way to class each morning, flaxen-haired guitar gods in training could be spotted holding their guitars and practicing licks as they walked down Hollywood Boulevard.

Jeff had heard about Musicians Institute (and its subdivision, the Guitar Institute of Technology) while in high school and told everyone it was his one and only destination. However, potential superstardom did not run cheap. The school charged $4,000 for its one year course, and by the time Jeff Graduated from Loara High School, Mary Guibert was beginning to fall on hard financial times as she went in and out of jobs. In need of money for herself and her two sons, she prematurely broke into a $20,000 fund earmarked for Jeff, but only after he tured nineteen. Once Mary proved to the courtsthat Jeff needed it for his education, he and Mary received it a year early. In a deep irony, the father Jeff had barely met and increasingly resented would be paying his son's way through music school.

On graduation night, September 15, 1985, at the Odyssey in Granada Hills in the San Fernando Valley, Jeff, Stoll, and Marryatt closed the ceremony by playing Weather Report's "Pearl On the Half Shell."-from Dream Brother

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With its 30-odd thousand feet of floor space and row upon row of "labs", where hopeful guitar heroes could jam with such shit-hot players as Scott Henderson, LA's Musician's Institute must have seemed like nirvana for someone like Jeff Buckley, trapped as he was behind the Orange Curtain. According to his buddy Chris Dowd, that's exactly why Buckley enrolled there, arriving just before autumn, 1984, bankrolled by $4,000 that Mary managed to squeeze from a Tim Buckley trust fund.

Originally known as the Guitar Institute, which in itself says plenty, the school was opened in 1977. Drawing on the educational philosophy of journeyman guitarist Howard Roberts, it was co-founded and managed by Los Angeles music businessman Pat Hicks, "a real shyster opportunist", in the words of Tom Chang, an expat Canadian who would become very tight with Jeff Buckley during their two years at the Institute. In 1978, thr Bass Institute was opened, followed by the Percussion Institute two years later. Desppite Hicks' questionable business ethics-amongst other things, he'd hire students as cheap labour to do essential maintenance work on the building, which led to Buckley being hired as an electrician's assistant soon after graduating-he did manage to persuade well regarded players and bands to lecture, and play alongside, the hopefuls who'd enrolled there.

What Buckley lacked up in "front" he clearly made up for in ambition. That was proved, in spades, by Buckley's graduation performance which was played out on September 15, 1985, at a venue called the Odyssey in Granada Hills. While the sonic crush and enviable chops of Rush and Led Zeppelin still rocked the world of this Orange County teen, Buckley had also developed a real taste for such "noodlers" as Weather Report.

The number chosen by Buckley for graduation was their "D Flat Waltz" (not "Pearl On The Half-Shell", as documented elsewhere, which they'd performed at a previous event), a typically complicated few minutes of Weather Report neo-fusion-a "really cool piece, very involved", according to Tom Chang-and a standout from their 1983 set Domino Theory. But Buckley, accompanied by Stoll on drums and Marryatt on bass, didn't just play the piece, he also wrote the individual parts out beforehand for the band.-from A Pure Drop

MI pics by me

[ocw-archive]

The Story of O - Texas Monthly, June 2003

By John Spong “Mooooonshine,” said Owen Wilson, sounding typically awed and random. “Isn’t it too bad that something with such a great name has to be illegal? ‘Moonshine.’ It’s beautiful. I’ve never even had any, but I’ve always wanted to try it. How could you not? It’s called ‘moonshine.’” The Oscar-nominated screenwriter and big-popcorn movie star was driving down Wilshire Boulevard in Santa Monica, and the talk in the car was going a lot like it does in his films. Whether his lines are ones that he works on for months or just thinks up that morning on the set, they zig and zag softly around topics that appear to have no ready connection other than the fact that they popped into his head and right out his mouth. Following Owen through a conversation is like replaying the last five thoughts that entered your own mind, only he does it out loud.

The discussion had started with, of all things, a quote from Samuel Beckett. From there he moved through his dad, Ireland, God, Planet of the Apes, and moonshine. Owen was on a roll. He bounced to hard drugs to Axl Rose to James Garner to James Brown, then he lightly touched down with a bittersweet anecdote about perception and love that he’d lifted from another master of letters. The punch line to his rambling? Owen had never actually read the anecdote or anything by its author. But he sure did think it was cool.

And that was it: the perfect opening scene for a magazine profile of Owen Wilson. Here was Owen behind the wheel, floating in innocent oblivion, throwing out observations that would sound sarcastic coming from anyone else, looking a whole lot like Owen on-screen. Whether he’s supremely blond male model Hansel in Zoolander or the obnoxious young western novelist Eli Cash in The Royal Tenenbaums, his characters seem wholly unaware that the rest of the world runs at a different pace and in a different direction, and Owen plays them so naturally that it’s hard not to assume that he’s just being himself. This was the proof. Owen is as Owen does.

But a problem arose. When we talked on the phone a week later, he said that the bittersweet anecdote, the best part of our conversation, couldn’t show up in the article. Not even the author’s name. He said it was a key point in a script he’d been reading and that to use it would ruin the film. “So if you wouldn’t mind,” he said, as polite as you please, “I think we have to leave that out.” A couple of days later I e-mailed him to gauge his resolve. He wouldn’t budge. “I can’t say any stronger how off-limits that thing is,” he wrote. “But call me if you want to come up with something else. We’re both funny guys. Shouldn’t be too hard.”

Come up with something else? It didn’t exactly bear the hallmark of great literary journalism, but it was a curious notion, and not just because he was calling me funny. Owen Wilson was offering to co-author a scene for this story. I e-mailed him back saying I would give it a go. With Owen on board, it might not be hard at all.

At a time when there are enough successful big-screen families to justify a separate map to sibling star’s homes-Baldwins, Culkins, Gyllenhaals, and so on-the moviemaking Wilson brothers, Owen, 34, Luke, 31, and Andrew, 38, are the most fun to watch, in large part because they’re so often found together. Owen has created roles for Andrew and Luke in all three of the movies-Bottle Rocket, Rushmore, and The Royal Tenenbaums—that he’s penned with his best friend and collaborator, Wes Anderson. Luke still lives in Owen’s house in a quiet neighborhood in Santa Monica, even though he bought a house of his own more than a year ago. And not long after you read this, they should all be in Austin shooting The Wendell Baker Story, a film written by Luke, who will co-star with Owen and co-direct with Andrew.

But even though each of the brothers has a movie of his own coming out later this year, Owen is the Wilson to watch right now. In addition to his screenwriting success, he’s become Hollywood’s leading buddy, a strange hybrid of straight man and goofy sidekick to the likes of Jackie Chan, Eddie Murphy, and Ben Stiller. He’s got a string of upcoming movie projects that will keep him working for the next few years. And last March, when the three Wilsons sat with their parents at the Texas Film Hall of Fame induction ceremony in Austin, it was Owen who was the recipient of the rising-star award. Neither of his brothers seems jealous. “I thought my picture was going to be in an insert on the cover of Texas Monthly,” joked Luke when I called him in mid-April to talk about his older brother. “But I guess I understand. I want to get to the bottom of that guy as much as you do.”

Start at a household with no television. When their dad, Bob Wilson, took over as manager of the Dallas PBS affiliate in 1969, a year after Owen was born, he and his wife, Laura (a renowned photographer who took the pictures on these pages and the cover), decided the Wilsons would be television-free. “I really loved TV as a kid,” said Owen, “but we’d have to go over to a friend’s house to watch it. We’d watch the afternoon movie on Channel 11, where we’d see Planet of the Apes Week one week and Clint Eastwood Week the next.”

Despite the differences in their ages, the Wilson kids spent the time they might have been parked in front of the television actually engaging one another, playing sports, hanging out with the same friends, and making their own entertainment. “They did short plays as the Farquar Players,” remembered Bob (the name coming from the street they lived on in Dallas). “I was generally the brunt of the action. They’d set up three stools, and one of the boys would play me driving the other two out to East Texas or somewhere, trying to whack the two in the back seat. It was nice to have them act it out rather than rebel.”

Owen did manage to find his fair share of trouble. Never a student of academic distinction, he was expelled from the exclusive Dallas boys’ school St. Mark’s during his sophomore year when he and some friends got ahold of the answers to a geometry exam. According to Owen, a C to D student, he wouldn’t have been caught if he hadn’t started answering the extra credit questions correctly. But that’s not why he got the boot. “They wanted the name of a guy who cheated along with me,” he said, “but I talked to my dad about it, and we didn’t feel that was right. There’s kind of a shabby nobility in that.” Owen finished high school at the New Mexico Military Institute, in Roswell, a spot of his own choosing, surprisingly enough. He considers it a good move. At NMMI, he concentrated on his passion for writing, edited the school’s literary magazine, and more importantly, met the kid who would introduce him to Wes Anderson.

Owen’s fabled first encounter with Wes took place in a University of Texas playwriting class in 1990, Owen’s junior year. “Wes walked in wearing L.L. Bean duck boots and short pants,” Owen has said, “which I thought was kind of obnoxious.” But it wasn’t until that summer, when Owen’s NMMI friend introduced them, that they started to talk. They discovered a shared love of movies, which made Wes the perfect stand-in for the other Wislon boys, who for one of the few times in Owen’s life, weren’t in the same town. By the next semester, the two were sharing a house just west of campus.

“UT had a great movie thing,” said Owen, “showing them every night in Hogg Auditorium or that Texas Union place, and we’d walk over and there’d never be anybody there. Wes actually worked up in the projection booth for a little bit.” Wes was fascinated by the technical aspects of filmmaking, which never held Owen’s attention, and soon they were creating short films to air on Austin’s public access channel. “I was a big movie fan,” said Owen, “but I didn’t see how you could really work in movies. That seemed sort of impossible. The subject I was okay at was English, so I could see trying to write short stories or maybe even books. The most practical thing seemed to be in advertising, writing copy.”

In 1991 Owen left UT a couple classes shy of his English degree-he says he needed a break-and moved into a small apartment with his brothers on Throckmorton Street in Dallas. Soon Wes moved in, and he and Owen continued work on Bottle Rocket, a screenplay they’d started in Austin about a group of young guys with a hopelessly unrealistic dream to rob banks. They showed some film they’d shot to Texas filmmaker L.M. Kit Carson, an acquaintance of Bob Wilson’s, and with his encouragement, and about $7,000 he was able to round up, produced what Owen describes now as a “thirteen-minute, black and white, guerilla-style” short. They took it to the 1993 Sundance Film Festival, where it became the movie to see, even though it wasn’t in the festival competition. Then James L. Brooks, a true Hollywood don who created The Mary Tyler Moore Show and Taxi and developed The Simpsons, saw the short and was sufficiently impressed to secure a feature-film deal with Sony Entertainment allowing Wes to direct and the Wilsons to star.

Bottle Rocket, shot in Dallas, was finished in 1994. At first look it is a strange film, a caper flick with characters who spend their time talking about their life of crime rather than getting on with it; they don’t even seem clear on what a life of crime is. In the movie’s final scene, the group’s ringleader, Dignan, played by a handcuffed Owen, gives his comrades a no-worries smile and two-handed wave from inside a prison yard, as if the fact that he got caught means he’s finally arrived. Test audiences didn’t make it that far into the movie; they left in droves, and early. When it was released, reviews were mixed, and it died at the box office. Owen started talking about getting into advertising or the military.

But the passage of time was kind. When Bottle Rocket was released on video, it developed a strong cult following. It became a favorite movie for high school and college guys to get together and watch with a case of beer, just as Night Shift and Spinal Tap had been when the Wilsons were growing up. Hollywood took note and gave Owen and Wes a second chance. Their 1998 follow-up, the flawless prep-school daydream Rushmore, made even fewer concessions to the audience than Bottle Rocket but received universal critical praise and established Wes as a director. In the meantime, Owen began making a name for himself as an actor, finding ways to steal entire films with small parts. Some of the roles were in movies begging to be stolen, like 1997’s J-Lo meets Ice-Cube meets-great-big-snake debacle, Anaconda, and 1998’s Bruce-Willis-meets-asteroid-so-asteroid-doesn’t-meet-earth schlockbuster, Armageddon, but others were films expected to stand on their own, like Jim Carrey’s The Cable Guy, in 1996, and Ben Stiller’s Meet the Parents four years later.

By 2001, when he was handpicked by Gene Hackman to be rescued from Kosovo in the military action film Behind Enemy Lines, Owen was at the top of the marquee. At Christmas of that year, Owen and Wes’ Salinger-like family soap opera, The Royal Tenenbaums, came out, and critics who had dismissed Owen’s hilarious but light sidekick turns in Shanghai Noon and Zoolander had to pay their respects when the Tenenbaums script received an Academy Award nomination. Now, he has put his writing on hold while he picks his roles as he pleases, like last year’s I Spy, with Eddie Murphy, and this year’s Shanghai follow-up, with Jackie Chan. John Moore, who directed Wilson in Behind Enemy Lines, summed up Owen’s progress: “He can get movies made. I’ve been in meetings and heard people say, ‘Well, if we get Owen, we’re set.’ And they’ll pay him ten million dollars for it. That’s the judge of it these days.”

Owen measures things differently. For him, the critical reexamination that accompanied Bottle Rocket’s cult popularity-Martin Scorcese, among others, called it one of the ten best movies of the nineties-is all the achievement he needs: “It’s always gratifying when people come up and recognize me from a movie, but the one that means the most is Bottle Rocket. It was the first one, it’s me and my brothers, my friend Wes directed it, and we wrote it together.”

A week after visiting Owen in Los Angeles, he and I began exchanging e-mails, trying to come up with this article’s opening scene. It wasn’t so easy after all. He’d just started filming Starsky and Hutch with Ben Stiller and had plenty of other things to think about, like starring in an $80 million movie. I was in my office, sifting through photocopies of literary criticism. We agreed to begin with his thoughts on moonshine, but to get to the punch line, we had to find another writer and anecdote. Owen was full of ideas. “What about Finnegans Wake?” he wrote from his trailer on the set. “We talked about that. We had a long conversation about how much we liked Joyce or really just the idea of Joyce, since I haven’t read that either.”

This view of Owen at work was more than I’d hoped for. If there is any real mystery to Owen, it’s in the way he writes with Wes. Brooks, who followed the two through Bottle Rocket, couldn’t explain it, nor could Owen’s brothers, nor even Bob Wilson, who has turned rooms in his office and home over to the two when they are working on scripts. Conventional wisdom puts Wes at a keyboard, getting down the details and much of the story, with Owen on the other side of the room, feet up on a table, throwing out lines. But Owen was vague when the subject came up. “We both kind of respond to certain characters and try to spin a story around a character or relationship,” he said. “And, yeah, I don’t know how to type, so Wes is at the keyboard.”

Our e-mails were turning into that kind of collaboration, except that the characters were us, and I’m not Wes Anderson. I’d spent half an hour typing out a laundry list of suggestions, and as soon as it was gone, I’d get a one-line response from Owen, who was watching out for the bigger picture and the punch lines. “Explain what we get with that other story,” he wrote, righting our course. “I like the idea of talking excitedly about a book for a long time, and at the end we realize that both of us haven’t read it.” When we stalled, he’d throw out encouragement: “Let’s take this as a challenge. I, for one, think we can come up with something great. But you know me, I’m a bluesky artist.”

“’Bluesky’?” I replied.

“It’s blue sky,’”wrote Owen, “like Pollyanna. I think I left out a space.”

Finally, on Good Friday I e-mailed him a rough draft of a new opening scene. He mulled it over for a couple of days and on Easter Sunday sent his revisions. They were pure Owen, random musings you could imagine from almost any of his characters, and significantly funnier than his comments in the car. “I like this stuff,” he said when he called to read through it. “I kind of want to save some of it for a movie.” But he said to leave it in. Our new scene was complete.

The story of O, is not, contrary to a recent Details cover line, the story of a nose. Owen’s appeal has less to do with his oft-broken snoot (at least two times, confirmed) than with a demographic, specifically guys between the ages of twenty and forty. Carson claims that Owen has “given a voice to his generation,” an exaggerated characterization if you’re looking to Owen’s oeuvre for a grand statement. But it’s dead-on when you consider that much of what he says sounds like it could come from any guy near his age. Owen is like a buddy from college, a guy’s guy, someone it was more fun to stand by the keg and comment on the party with than to actually join in. Although Owen now dates rock stars-a highly publicized romance with Sheryl Crow ended last year-he’s never lost that familiar quality. When guys see Jackie Chan try to coax Owen into some ridiculous Crouching Tiger acrobatics in Shanghai Knights and Owen throws up his hands and says, “What in our history makes you think I’m capable of something like that?” he might as well be sitting in the theater next to them.

At a café in front of Fred Segal’s high-toned shopping center in Santa Monica, Owen though out loud about how he’s become everybody’s buddy. “Maybe it’s from growing up with my dad, who can be real funny but who can also be kind of moody, up and down. So I became good at getting along with tricky personalities. And growing up in Texas, it was important that we be polite. When I meet these guys like Eddie Murphy, Bruce Willis, and Jackie Chan, I’m always super respectful. Then I get to know them, and then I can start to kid around with them.” It’s an exercise he enjoys. Working with Murphy on I Spy fulfilled a childhood dream-if not box-office hopes-and he’s become close friends off-screen with Chan and Stiller.

What’s harder for Owen to understand is the way critics describe him, favoring words like “oddball,” “slacker”, and “quirky.” “I guess ‘quirky’ is a euphemism for something most people, like, aren’t going to like,” said Owen between bites from a bowl of turkey chili. But when I asked him about a New York Times review that called him a “stoner’s version of James Garner,” his answer didn’t quite counter the charge. “That’s great because I loved James Garner in The Rockford Files,” he said, without a trace of insincerity. “I loved the way they’d open each show with Rockford’s answering machine going off and him getting some cruddy message like, ‘Hey, Jim, just calling to let you know that that race down in Baja that we thought was this weekend-it turns out it’s next weekend. Hope you haven’t already left.’ I love that.”

In truth, Owen is well aware of how he’s perceived and it informs everything he does on the screen. When he signed on to play a cocky top-gun pilot in Behind Enemy Lines, he pushed to have his character moved to the back seat, figuring his persona would play better as a put-upon navigator. It did. When he didn’t feel right portraying an accomplished intelligence agent walking Murphy through the world of espionage in I Spy, Owen created a second, rival spy in the script who would outshine his own and get all the best 007 gadgets. And instead of portraying a hard-guy gunfighter in the Shanghai movies, he converted the character into an inept, insecure, wannabe train robber who was really just in it for the girls. “We’ve worked these characters to be ones that I’m comfortable playing, that aren’t such badasses,” he said. “I’m more the kid in the back of the class making wisecracks.”

These are natural roles for Owen, all the more so because he tends to invent his own lines. Here is where his generation really hears itself, connecting with the pop-culture references Owen uses to fill out his dialogue. A favorite line from Shanghai Noon, “I may not know karate, but I know ka-razy. And I will use it” is from a James Brown song. His taunt to rival male model Stiller in Zoolander, “Who are you trying to get crazy with ese? Don’t you know I’m loco?” was originally a point of high drama in 1992’s Chicano gangster flick American Me. And the line that may be his most quoted, “They’ll never catch me because I’m f---ing innocent,” from Bottle Rocket, is lifted from a Guns n’ Roses song. “Scorcese wrote in Esquire that that was one of his favorite lines, and it’s from ‘Out ta Get Me,’” he said. “Obviously it’s used very differently in the film from what Axl Rose did with it.”

Owen comes up with all of this, and though this kind of riffing may not be heavy lifting, if you’re in on the joke, it’s part of that otherness that makes up his appeal. Maybe that’s what the critics mean by “quirky.” Brooks, who gave the world could-be savants Georgette Baxter from Mary Tyler Moore and Jim Ignatowski from Taxi, favors more-flattering terms, although he ends up sounding like Owen himself when he talks about it. “It’s a very delicate thing to maintain the right distance between you and the world,” he said, “but Owen’s got a great perch. You could throw him in a Hemingway novel, you could put him in the twenties, you could put him in the forties; he would be a star in any era. There’s something nicely literary about that little remove. I don’t even know what I mean when I say that, but I’ve always thought it.”

So maybe Owen has a slacker’s remove but hardly a slacker’s workload; fans will see plenty of him in the coming year. Next in the theaters will be an adaptation of Elmore Leonard’s The Big Bounce, opposite Morgan Freeman. It’s set in Hawaii, and Owen said it concerns “a crime and a con, and I play an antihero. You know you’ve almost made it when you get to play an antihero.” He’ll be shooting Starsky and Hutch through June, then he and brother Luke will make cameos as the Wright brothers in Jackie Chan’s remake of Around the World in 80 Days. Then it’s to work on The Wendell Baker Story with both Luke and Andrew. Throughout these projects, he and Wes will be sending ideas back and forth on a top-secret project known in Hollywood as Wes’s “oceanographer” script. Within the next couple years, he’d like to write a script of his own, but in the meantime, fans will have to content themselves watching Owen in other people’s projects, listening for those signature lines only he would make up.

And finally, the opening scene: “Moooooonshine,” said Owen Wilson, sounding typically awed and random. “How great a word is ‘moonshine’? I don’t even know exactly what it is, and I’ve never seen it, but I know I want to drink it for the rest of my life. It’d probably be a good name for a dog. ‘Come here, Moonshine!’ Like an old Where the Red Fern Grows type of dog.”

The Oscar-nominated screenwriter and big-popcorn movie star was driving down Wilshire Boulevard in Santa Monica, and the talk in the car was going a lot like it does in his films. The discussion had started with, of all things, a quote from Samuel Beckett after I’d asked Owen, who is known as well-read, about a large black and white photograph of Beckett hanging in his living room.

“He wrote one of my favorite lines,” said Owen as we got into the car. “’Fail. Fail again. Fail better.’”

“What’s that from?”

“I’m not sure. I’ve never really read Beckett, but I like that line. And I really just like the photograph-all the lines on his face. You hope God looks like that.”

And from there he started rolling from his dad to Ireland to Planet of the Apes and finally to moonshine, where he ultimately got stuck.

“Moooooonshine,” he said again, letting the word roll around in his head. “Just think, if it were legal, what a good adman could do with a word like ‘moonshine.’ How is ‘water’ or ‘milk’ going to compete with something called ‘moonshine'? Orange Crush could maybe give it a run for its money but not really. It’s like ‘aaaangel dust.’ I guess its real name is PCP, but that doesn’t sound so good. ‘Angel dust’ sounds kind of wonderful. What about ‘skunk bud’? That’s not really a beautiful name, but it sounds….intriguing. I wonder why things that are so bad for you have to have such great names.”

Owen paused, realizing he’d answered his own question. I tried to bring him back down to earth. “So that’s Beckett. What about Joyce?”

“What about him?”

“Didn’t Beckett work for Joyce? I think when Joyce was going blind, Beckett was his secretary. He’d read to him and take dictation.”

“You know,” said Owen, “there’s that story about Finnegans Wake, when Beckett is taking dictation for Joyce and there was this knock on the door. Joyce heard it, but Beckett didn’t, so when Joyce says, ‘Come in,’ Beckett writes it down. Then later, when they pick back up and Beckett reads back to Joyce from the place they’d left off, Joyce asks how ‘Come in’ got in there. And Beckett says, ‘You said it.’ And Joyce decides to leave it in. He decides it would be okay for coincidence to be a collaborator. Do you know that line in Finnegans Wake?”

“In Finnegans Wake? No.”

“Neither do I. But I sure like that story. Doesn’t that sound like a great way to write?”

To the guy taking dictation, it certainly does.

[rina-writes]

I Pinky Promised

A/N: So, I have been sitting on this blurb for awhile because wearing masks are political now and I didn’t want to start a war. When I originally wrote it, I was really thinking of it in the context of this tweet. However, the video with them meeting practically all of tiktok without a mask inspired me lol.  I tweaked the scenario to fit in with the vid. (Originally, it was just with their friends, but this feels more natural). Long story short...Enjoy Grayson being a simp for his gf and embarassing Ethan!

Warnings: Really short (lol), Fluff, Mentions of sexual activity

Ethan covered his face with embarrassment as Grayson whipped out the box of masks. He passed it around ensuring each person took them.  It was funny the first time, but this was the fourth time today Grayson did this song and dance. As much as Ethan was an advocate for safety, the looks on everyone’s face made him want to hide away. To be frank, being this careful about the virus felt a little uncool.

“You...uh...” Thomas Petrov, or Tommy as Grayson liked to call him, slipped the mask on as he spoke.  “You really came prepared.”

“It’s my girl, man.” Grayson said with a sigh, whipping out a bottle of hand sanitizer.  

Ethan had heard this interaction so many times he could recite the dialogue himself.  Everyone asked the same questions, made the same comments, and had the same expressions on their faces. However, Grayson reacted as if it was brand new every time.

Ethan watched as Grayson lathered his hands with hand sanitizer and gestured the bottle towards others. A few of the Hype House reluctantly accepted.

“She like a nurse or something?” Someone else from the Hype House asked, haphazardly putting on the mask.  It was clear they weren’t used to wearing them all time.

“Nah,” Grayson shook his head. “She’s in college here, but she’s basically stuck in LA because no state is accepting people from Cali right now.  She’s been self quarantining to make sure she passes a COVID test to go home for her grandmother’s house for her 90th. And I’m not allowed to see my girl unless I pass a test too.”

“So basically,” Ethan jumps in, “My brother hasn’t gotten laid in two months because of a virus and he will literally end anyone who gets in his way of that.”

Grayson blushed softly, but he didn’t deny it, causing a rouse of laughter. 

“I don’t want Grammie to get sick.” Grayson argued. “Besides, I pinky promised.”

“Simp” Ethan pretended to whisper, blocking his mouth with hand while gesturing to Grayson with his thumb on the orher.

Grayson shoved Ethan in response earning a few laughs.

“Did she make your mask?” One of the girls asked, gesturing to the black mask on Grayson’s face.

Grayson touched it, his cheeks raising high above the mask. “Yeah..”

It was a pretty cool print.  It was a little caricature of Ethan and Grayson sitting together on the couch with Grayson’s arm around Ethan. It was a white outline of their bodies with just smiley faces, no facial detail, but it was clearly them. 

Ethan smiled softly as well; his mask identical to Grayson’s.  He knew you worked hard to make them by hand and you were kind enough to make one for him too.  The least he could do was wear it. 

Besides, if this all made Grayson a little less cranky, he would be a lot better off too.

As usual, that caused everyone to go “Aww” and adjust their masks.  A few people asked if she would commission some masks for them and Grayson told them he would throw it in if they bought the van. A few people laughed and then they were able to continue with the haggling.

‘End scene’ Ethan thought bitterly in his mind as they got back in the car. It was like Groundhog Day or something.

Ethan took over driving back to the house as Grayson FaceTimed you.  You were talking about a frustrating thing that happened that day, and Grayson was nodding along supportively.  When there was a lull in the conversation, Ethan chimed in.

“On the bright side, you are probably single-handedly reducing the COVID cases in LA.”

You laughed. “I don’t really care about anyone else.” You shrugged. “I just wanna visit my Grammie and get nailed by my boyfriend.  Preferably, not at the same time.”

Grayson and Ethan busted out laughing, Grayson’s laughter was a bit louder.

“That’s my baby!” Grayson said with a bit more of a growl making you to giggle.

“Ew, okay...” Ethan shook his head. “Any more and I’m actually going to vom.”

“Sorry, E.” You smiled. “Gray, we can continue during FaceTime tonight.”

“Oh yeah...it’s Thursday which means...” 

The tone in Grayson’s voice made it obvious to Ethan that whatever Grayson was about to say, he really didn’t want to hear it.

“Guys....if you don’t stop, I will whip off this mask, run around Holllywood Boulevard and cough on Grayson.” Ethan threatened. “Don’t test me!”

Grayson rolled his eyes. “I’ll talk to you later, babe. Ethan is being a whiny little baby...”

[ingravinoveritas]

You have a great site and seem to know lots about things Tennant & Sheen! Michael tweeted today responding another tweet that, AFAIK, he was not tagged in but it was snarky and critical about both of them. Ugh. One fan replied him with this and it kind of broke my heart: "I see you replying to people who are horrible to you. I tweet you telling you how much I love your acting and I get nothing." So sad. Why DOES he seem to give so much energy to replying to negative people? Any insights?

Hi, Anon! Well thank you for the kind words, though I will be the first to say that I do not at all consider myself an expert when it comes to David and Michael. I see lots of things and have lots of thoughts, and I’m glad to share them and have discussions. I did see the tweet that you mentioned, which does again seem to be another instance of Michael responding to a hateful tweet in which he was not tagged. And I think there are two things at play here, which are important to distinguish:

Thing #1 is that Michael is constantly being tagged in tweets--dozens and dozens, maybe even hundreds, every day. People asking him to do this, or look at that, or retweet this, but there is no possible way that he can give his attention to every person who wants it (nor should he have to, no matter what anyone says). Thing #2 is Michael responding to tweets in which he is not tagged--sometimes nice tweets, but usually negative ones--that he actively seeks out and gives a great deal of attention. Why? That is the question.

Let’s go back in time for a moment. A little over ten years ago, Michael appeared on the show Top Gear. And if you’ve never seen him drive before, the basic takeaway is that Michael drives like an absolute maniac. Flying around curves, not slowing down when he should...a sort of gleeful Welsh madness, as it were. So in my opinion, Michael tweets and uses Twitter the same way that he drives. He replies and retweets seemingly without thinking, music blasting and magnificent curls flapping in the wind as he cruises down the Twitter boulevard. He’s going so fast and so furious (I apologize in advance for inadvertently making that movie reference) that he doesn’t see everything around him. In the case of that one fan, though, I noticed he actually did respond to her:

So, much like when a squirrel darts out suddenly into the middle of the road, Michael did slam on the brakes long enough to see what was in front of him, and he wrote this kind response. Yet the question still remains of why he gives so much energy to negative people. I don’t claim to know the total makeup of Michael’s psyche--and at least some of this might be a cultural upbringing/British thing--but I think it comes down to there being a part of him that is more willing and able to hear something negative than something positive.  That’s something I can actually relate to myself. I was bullied all through school, called names like ugly, psycho, loser, retard, and so on. I internalized those words to the point where they fused with how I saw myself--irreversibly, unalterably. And while I don’t see myself as any of those things now (nor have I for a long time), I am always going to be more prepared to hear an insult than a compliment. To this day, when someone calls me pretty or beautiful, I can say thank you and accept the compliment, but it doesn’t quite fully register that it’s about me. Yet when someone says something negative, it always somehow seems bigger and louder and more real than the positive things, and as a result, I feel like I have no idea what do with the compliment but know exactly what to do with the insult.

All that being said...there is still a difference between feeling more equipped to respond to insults and actively seeking out those insults just to respond to them. I don’t know how Michael came by that tweet--whether it was sent to him, or he searched his name out of sheer quarantine boredom, or the Twitter algorithm randomly threw it in his direction. Neither am I defending the person who wrote it or agreeing with what they said. But I worry for Michael, because this is becoming a pattern of his, and it is having a noticeable effect on his Twitter presence. It sort of reminds me of Chris Farley in a scene from Wayne’s World 2:

Looking at all the tweets that followed that one, it seemed like there was something happening with Michael tonight, and that tweet was just the start of it. Whatever the case may be, I hope that in the future he is able to devote less time and energy to those negative people and focus more on the positive comments. So those are some of my insights, Anon. I hope this was helpful in answering your question, which I tried to do to the best of my ability. Thanks for writing in! x

[frenchy-and-the-sea]

Gift Fic - Calling Favors

Technically not REALLY a gift fic - this was actually in response to a, uh, micro story prompt by @elalavella eight million years ago. Micro, which decidedly does NOT mean 4k words. So I’m putting it in its own post to hide my shame, and then dutifully blabbing to you all about it anyway.

This is the piece I started before I wrote this one, which then became a direct sequel to it when I realized how deep I was. Alternate title is, “Adriàh Knows Who Can Help Fix His Arm, And Regrets That Knowledge Immediately.” 

~4000 words, wherein I slap my OCs into @elalavella‘s OCs’ universe and take immense liberties to make it fit.

-------

“This was a mistake,” Adriàh said as they stepped into the market square.

Market was, of course, what Adriàh had called it. What Oyu saw was a rough-shod collection of temporary wooden stalls that had been set up along the walls of a large and impressively filthy back alley. Customers - all of whom, like them, were cloaked or jacketed from at least the waist up - had kicked the space down the middle clear of bric-a-brac, but the gaps between the stalls were choked with the detritus of unfortunate merchants who had been muscled out of a prime spot, or had failed to pay their “maintenance” dues to the local guard. Oyu had seen said guard walking around with all sorts of trinkets dangling from their ears or tucked into their belts, the spoils of clearing house. 

Being here was absolutely a mistake.

“Then why did we come?” Oyu hissed, lengthening his stride so he was shoulder to shoulder with the captain. “Give me an hour, half of one even, in a respectable port and I can probably make something ten times better than whatever you’re going to find in this dump -”

“Because any “respectable port” is a death sentence right now,” Adriàh snapped, turning so Oyu caught the full force of his glare. “Even our usual haunts are risky, now that we’ve got snatchers on our tail. You know who likes an easy payday? Pirates. And bloodsnatchers looking for information on a runaway mage have got pockets as deep as the rich assholes that hire them. It’s dangerous for y– for us to be seen by anyone we don’t know.”

He recovered quickly, and turned away as he spoke, but there was no hiding what Adriàh had been a breath away from admitting. A little shiver of warmth crept up Oyu’s spine.

“Okay,” he said, slowly. “Fine. You still haven’t explained why we’re here, though.”

“And with any luck, I won’t have to. Come on.” Adriàh’s hand found his own without so much as a glance back, and tugged him towards the wide boulevard in front of them. “If we’re lucky, we’ll find one of the crew before the captain shows his ugly -”

“Adriàh Tall!” a voice called out from somewhere on their right, brimming with the sort of self-satisfaction worn by people who knew they were about to be irritating. Adriàh closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“Alex Sheffield,” he said tightly, turning. The figure leaned against the stall beside them just grinned and propped himself up on his elbows. He was a human, younger than Oyu even, short and ruddy-skinned and peering back from behind a frame of curls brushed into a ragged queue behind his head. He wore a nondescript merchant’s coat, plain breeches, a stained but otherwise tidy-looking shirt; the intentionally unremarkable garb of someone who didn’t want to be remembered. Beneath his unseasonably heavy cloak, Oyu suddenly felt very bare indeed. 

“I don’t remember having sent you a summons,” the other human - Alex, by Adriàh’s address - said as they approached, his grin curling up one corner. Adriàh huffed.

“You didn’t. Contrary to your absurdly high opinion of yourself, the universe doesn’t actually revolve around you.”

“Ah. A shame, to be sure. It would certainly get on better if it did.” Grunting, Alex pushed himself up off of the stall and folded his arms over his chest. “Well then, what else would bring your lordship out to this wretched little corner of the Quadrant? I always figured you titled sorts had more important people to meet and more impressive ports to call.”

“We do,” said Adriàh stiffly. “And even when we don’t, I try to avoid any place that you think is a worthy stop. But I…. need a favor.”

One of Alex’s eyebrows rose as Adriàh wrestled the words out. 

“You need a favor,” he repeated, with a worrying amount of relish. “Now Adriàh, I’m not one to argue a man’s vices, but I had assumed you might try to clear your debt to me before asking for another.”

“Another?” Oyu hissed under his breath, stealing a glare sidelong to where Adriàh was very pointedly not looking at him. Alex glanced his way and chuckled.

“New, are you? Aye, another. Your captain had some, ah, rather delicate cargo to be moved a year or so back. I happen to be in possession of both a proper merchant’s credentials, and contact with the right people in all sorts of right places. We settled on a favor as payment, which he has yet to fulfill.”

“Because you haven’t called it in -” Adriàh started, but Alex ignored him, leaning forward over the stall to offer Oyu a hand.

“Captain Alex Sheffield,” he said with a perfunctory bow of his head, “at your service. Again, as it were.”

He fielded Adriàh a smirk over his shoulder as Oyu took his hand. The palm of it scraped against his own, rough with the calluses of many years of ship work.

“Oyu," he said slowly. "Oyu -"

"- is as much as you need to know," Adriàh said, fixing Oyu with a warning look as he pulled his hand away. "And I'm not here for a favor from you, Alex. I need your bosun. He’s just about the only person in this entire Quadrant that knows his business, and for some reason, he only sails with you.”

“Likely because I don’t thumb my nose at the Council quite so regularly as some of us, I imagine,” said Alex blandly. “But you've got business with Davin, you say? That’s a rare request, considering you know what he’s like. What sort of business could it be, I wonder?”

His eyes drifted pointedly to the arm that Adriàh had swaddled in his cloak, then back up with a raise of his eyebrow. Adriàh scowled, but obediently stepped back and shrugged the fabric aside. Oyu looked away. He didn’t need to see the frayed wires and blistered metal of Adriàh’s prosthetic again, not when the vision of it bursting apart in a spray of shrapnel burned so clearly behind his eyes. Not when he could still feel his magic spiraling away from him like a dog torn free of its lead, bounding across the length of the deck towards where Adriàh had just begun to turn, panicked, wrenching away -

Beside them, Alex leaned forward with a long, low whistle.

“Heavens above and below, Adriàh,” he muttered, peering down at the scorched metal, “you try and arm wrestle one of your engineers with this?”

Heat bloomed on Oyu’s face as Adriàh fielded him a lopsided little smirk over one shoulder. “Oh, something like that.”

“Well, you ought to find them a better use for their talents.” Gingerly, Alex reached across his stall and took Adriàh’s battered arm in his hands, rotating it slightly as he pulled it closer. The limb moved with a faint grinding sound, and a barely-stifled hiss of pain.

“This is a mage’s work, isn’t it?” he asked after a moment. Oyu’s heart plummeted into his stomach with a speed that should have rightly made his heart stop, but Adriàh seemed to expect the question. He nodded. “And you’re trying to avoid notice?” Another nod, another dizzying plunge for Oyu’s heart. He suddenly wanted to scream. Hadn't Adriàh just lectured him about the dangers of pirates knowing about a runaway mage? Hadn't they sailed to the ass-end of the Quadrant specifically to avoid them? And yet….

And yet, Alex released Adriàh’s hand and stepped back, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers as if to ward off a coming headache.

“Fuck me and my unconscionable weakness for sob stories,” he sighed. “Well, you’re right about one thing - there’s a pitiable few options you have left than submitting yourself to Davin’s talents if you want this fixed right. And by your very great luck, I hold just enough account over him to ask. But you understand the sort of danger this is for me, don’t you? The sort of favor I can ask of you now?”

Oyu heard Adriàh’s teeth click together with the clench of his jaw, but he nodded. Alex shook his head like he'd just heard a man read his own funerary rights, then shrugged and turned back to the piles of rubbish behind him.

“Oi, Duchess!”

Almost at once, a slender black shape dislodged itself from the heap and leapt gracefully onto the counter of the stall. It was a cat, the proper Earth sort, all black save for the smattering of white on her chest and paws. She bunted her head against Alex’s outstretched hand when he offered it, purring loudly. 

“I’d ask you to mind the shop,” Alex told her with a wry smile, “but I’m certain you would run me quite out of business if I let you have it. So it’s back to the ship for the both of us. Come along.”

He tapped his shoulder, and Oyu watched in fascination as the little beast sprang up, unsteady for only a moment before flowing down into the cradle of Alex’s waiting arms. She settled delicately into the crook of them and turned to regard Oyu with a pair of narrow green eyes that seemed surprised to find that he wasn’t kneeling. Duchess, he remembered, and stifled a little snort of laughter.

“You too, lads,” said Alex, adjusting the little cat in his arms as he gestured down the alley. “The lady here leads us on.”

Adriàh rolled his eyes as Alex turned away, but swept his cloak back over his broken arm and followed. Oyu hurried after him. 

“You’re actually going with him?” he asked quietly when he reached the captain’s side. Adriàh raised an eyebrow.

“No, I just decided that I wanted to sail halfway across the Quadrant to subject myself to Alex’s winning personality for fun.”

“Even though you just got finished making some big point about how we shouldn’t tell pirates that you’ve got a mage in your employ?” Oyu hissed, snatching Adriàh's sleeve and dragging him down closer. “What was it you told me literally ten minutes ago? That pirates like an easy payday? And now we’re following one back to his ship, after you just told him -”

“- that I’m harboring a mage?” Adriàh huffed and yanked his sleeve away. “And you think I said that to him because, what, I’m that much of an idiot?”

It wasn’t the time at all to antagonize that captain, but Oyu couldn’t stop himself from indulging in a delicate little shrug. Adriàh’s expression blackened like a storm cloud, but he took a deep breath and seemed to convince himself not to strangle Oyu in public this time. Instead, he leaned back down towards him, lowering his voice.

“For all that he is a black-hearted, purse-swindling buccaneer of a tradesman, Alex Sheffield is not a pirate," Adriàh whispered fiercely. "He just understands that shiny things need buyers no matter where they happen to come from, and the Council has pissed him off enough that he’s willing to undercut their authority from time to time. So firstly, we have an understanding, him and I; if we meet each other honestly, I get an easy place to sell off my spoils, we both make ourselves a tidy profit, and I don’t have to trounce his scrawny ass all the way across the Eastern Quadrant with every pirate lord in tow.” 

For a moment, Oyu could have sworn he heard a little snort of laughter from ahead of them.

“And secondly,” Adriàh went on, “whatever scrap of humanity he crawled out of his mother’s womb with still seems to be mostly intact. You couldn’t haggle with him for a piece of rope to save your drowning sister, but he wouldn’t let her slip under either. He won’t turn a rogue mage under my company in because he knows better than to cross me, and because -”

“- because half of my best contacts are mages. Be a shame to lose that, I think.” 

Oyu looked up with a start and found Alex watching them from over a shoulder, grinning. 

“What? You two are not nearly as quiet as you think you are. Now, are you going to stand there gawking at me, or are you going to come admire my ship?”

He made a sweeping gesture in front of him, just as Oyu realized that they had arrived at the port’s launch bays. Dozens of ships rested quietly between crumbling wedges of mortar and stone, similar enough to the old harbors of Earth that you could nearly imagine the water stretching out towards the horizon beyond a forest of bobbing masts. Here, though, the ships were silent and still, save the ant-like crawling of crews across their decks, the smallest of which would have dwarfed their Earth companions the way a stag dwarfs a squirrel. 

Alex’s ship was still somehow more of the squirrel variety. She was a sturdy little thing done up in the old human style, a merchant's rig that looked more suited to the sea than she ever would to space. Smatterings of piping chased itself around the fat swell of her hull, and Oyu could see the gleam of cable rigging overhead, but she had none of the bulbous apartments or crooked bronze legs of the Cockroach. This was a ship whose builder wrote love songs to antiquity, whose captain felt no need to advertise her as certifiably not-to-be-fucked-with.

This was the sort of ship that a pirate lord hunted for sport.

Something about that made him relax, just a little. Even the most cautious pirate didn't make himself look like prey if he could help it. If this Alex wasn't playing thief, well, perhaps Adriàh hadn’t been entirely mad to trust him. The thought must have registered on his face, because when he glanced back, Adriàh was wearing a triumphant little smile that - damn him - looked for all the world like he’d just won a particularly rich hand of cards. Oyu huffed and turned back towards the port, pretending that the rush of warmth he could feel still spreading through his stomach was irritation.

Alex cut them a winding path down to the gangway, exchanging nods with a small gaggle of longshoremen lazing in the shade of the ship as they passed. His eyes were focused up though, past the glare of the planet's duel suns and up towards the topmost deck, where Oyu could just make out a figure leaned against the rail. Squinting, he saw another human, this one taller and broader than Alex or Adriàh would ever hope to be, with dark skin and a thick tail of even darker hair pulled back at the nape of his neck. He was paring whole chunks out of an apple, clearly trying to seem casual as he watched them from his place overhead.

Alex raised his hand in a makeshift salute as they passed into the shade, and the man waved back.

“Tahir?” Adriàh hummed, stepping forward to join Alex at his side. “I thought he had retired from cleaning up your messes already.”

“Only until it got boring,” said Alex. There was an odd sort of tightness in his voice, like he was trying too hard to sound casual. “As it stands, he’s agreed to join us again for a while. Davin’s brother too, in fact. Ah, speak of the devil.”

He suddenly lengthened his stride and shouldered bodily around Adriàh, making for the human that Oyu could see struggling up the gangway to his ship. He was tall and thin, with a thick leather apron strapped over his chest and a pair of goggles pushed high onto his forehead, and even at fifty paces, Oyu could hear him swearing violently to himself as he fumbled with the bulging canvas bag slung over one shoulder.

“Pity there’s no longshoremen around to help with that,” Alex called as they moved into earshot. The man turned with a start, nearly unbalancing himself, and then scowled so mightily that it wrinkled the thick pattern of freckles on his face.

“As if they’ll do a fucking thing when they’re lunching!” he snapped back. “And they’d manage to break something if they tried! Can’t get them to be gentle with a goddamned thing. Worse than sailors, they are.”

“Can’t imagine how that’s possible,” said Alex, strolling up the gangway to his side. “And at least they’d be breaking their own backs instead of yours. Christ, did you loot a galleon on the way in from town?”

He hefted the bag off of the man’s shoulder with a grimace and slid it awkwardly onto his own, swearing when Duchess began to claw her way over his arm in protest of her disturbed perch. The man snorted and dutifully plucked the squirming little thing out of Alex’s grip by the scruff of her neck.

“Not too often that I get to swindle pirates out of good scrap,” he said, slinging the cat over one shoulder. “They’re always in a real fucking hurry to sell their swag off, and they’re not too bright besides, so I - oh, evening, captain. Didn’t see you there.”

He grinned as Adriàh and Oyu approached, clearly less surprised by their appearance than his words implied. Behind him, Alex rolled his eyes.

“Adriàh," he said dryly, "you remember Davin, don’t you?”

“I do, unfortunately.” Adriàh reached forward, offering his good hand. “I’d say it’s good to see you again, but -”

“- but it’s not,” Davin finished with a smirk, and Oyu’s eyes widened as a jagged facsimile of a hand suddenly appeared from beneath the hem of his sleeve. It was made entirely of some dull, unpolished metal that Oyu didn’t recognize, cobbled together from pieces that looked for all the world like they had been scavenged out of a madman’s scrap pile. There was something purposeful in the design of it though, some deliberate strangeness that let the rough fingers fold gently, effortlessly, over Adriàh’s hand, with only the faintest whir of something tucked deeper in the sleeve. Fascinated, Oyu leaned forward, squinting to get a better look -

“Oi.”

The voice caught him halfway through the leaning; when he looked up, Davin’s eyes had turned towards him, two narrow flecks of burning steel.

“Keep staring like that,” he said tightly, “and I’ll give you a real fucking close look at it, hey?”

“Davin," Alex warned, just as something pushed past Oyu and into the middle of the standoff. He glanced down and found Adriàh’s good arm thrust out over his chest, one shoulder nudged between them. The captain's eyes were pinned solidly on Davin though, and for all of the steel in the other human’s gaze, Adriàh’s burned like a forge. A little coal of something raw and red-hot fluttered to life in Oyu's stomach, low and shivering.

Beside him, Alex sighed again.

"They're here for a bout of your expertise, Dav," he said, stepping forward to nudge the other human back. "The captain here has made a mess of his arm and is willing to suffer our hospitality to see it fixed, hey? So stand down, and let's please try to be some kind of fucking civil. Adriàh?”

He turned over one shoulder and gestured to the cloak still wound over Adriàh’s arm with a look that was half warning, half exasperated plea. Adriàh huffed, but Oyu felt him shift as he shrugged out of the edge of his cloak again, and then held the shattered remains of his arm out for further inspection. For a long moment, Davin just stared back, seething. 

Then his eyes dropped down to the scorched metal, and Oyu watched a flicker of the same fascination that had taken hold of him banish every murderous thought from Davin’s mind. 

He leaned forward, frowning, taking in the damage like a jeweler appraising his latest find. He was brazen, Oyu would give him that: barely two minutes after Adriàh had threatened to gut him with his eyes, and Davin had his hand clutched around the wrist of the prosthetic, turning it this way and that. 

“No fixing that,” he said at last, letting it drop back to Adriàh’s side. “Not unless you’re real fucking sentimental. No, if you want it working again, the whole lot needs replacing.” 

Oyu felt a little flicker of vindictive irritation; he had told Adriàh as much, long before he decided to subject them to the sideshow of this particular crew. He stole a glance out of the corner of his eye and watched with increasing satisfaction as Adriàh’s scowl deepened.

“How long will it take you to replace?” Alex asked, pointedly ignoring them both. Davin snorted. 

“I don’t see why I’m -”

“Because I’m asking the question, Dav. How long?”

Davin scowled and opened his mouth to argue, but his eyes caught sidelong on Adriàh and something like sense wrestled the fight out of him. He sighed. “Few days, with Finn’s help. But we’re setting out tonight -”

“We were setting out tonight,” Alex corrected. “We can spare the time, and no one is going to question a bit of extra leave, even in this shithole of a port.”

Davin’s jaw tightened. “I don’t have parts just lying about either. Especially if he's going to be picky about it, and you know -"

"I’m sure one of the pirate lords has the pull he needs to get something that suits his tastes, once it's working again."

"It'll be expensive -"

"And you'll have your pick of the ship's purse," said Alex, with a little twinge of a smile. “Give me some credit, Davin. If I beg your help, I won’t leave you to sort it out on your own. Will you do it?”

Davin passed a look over his head to Adriàh and huffed. “It’s not feeling like I have much in the way of a choice.” 

“Not especially, no.”

Rolling his eyes, Davin snatched the bag that Alex was slowly sinking under and hefted it back onto his arm. Then he turned back to Adriàh, gesturing to Oyu with a jerk of his chin.

“That one of your bodyguards?”

“My engineer,” said Adriàh, and something about the force of the word made that strange, shivery warmth in Oyu’s stomach suddenly flare to life again. “Whatever he can learn from you is one less trip that I have to take to deal with your boss.”

“Cheers to that,” Davin muttered, as Alex’s mouth hitched another inch closer to a grin. He glanced towards Oyu, looking him over in one long pan, up and down. Oyu straightened and did his best to glare back.

“You guild trained?” he asked after a moment. Oyu grimaced, but dutifully shook his head. To his surprise, the man’s scowl softened, just a little. “Well, there’s a fucking relief. You might be worth more than a headache, then. Here.” Without warning, he hiked the bag off of his shoulder and dropped it hard onto Oyu’s, ignoring his grunt of pain as he turned back to Adriàh. “Probably won’t need you the whole time, but it’ll be a few hours before we can be rid of you today. That suit you, captain?”

“I guess it has to,” Adriàh muttered, sweeping his broken arm back beneath the folds of his cloak.

“I’ll make some room in the coffers, then,” said Alex, in the tone of business completed. “If you’re still under our watch at the dinner bell, I’ll send someone to fetch you for the meal. Otherwise, I’ll be waiting for you here tomorrow morning. Good luck, Adriàh. Don’t get blood on my deck.”

With that, he gave a shallow bow, patted Oyu’s bruising shoulder, and then strolled into the swallowing darkness of his ship, whistling an old sailor’s tune.

“So,” Oyu said, as Davin started after his captain, “did you actually drag me here to learn how to fix your arm, or did you just want someone else to suffer these two with you?”

Beside him, Adriàh’s mouth curled into a grin.

“That depends,” he said primly. “Do you want the answer that’s going to make you feel better, or do you want the one that's true?”

[whatdoesshedotothem]

Friday 1 June 1838

8 ¼

12 ½

fine morning wrote and sent off before dressing the following note to ‘Monsieur le Docteur Double, Quai Voltaire n°3’  ‘Madame Lister prie Monsieur le Docteur Double de passer chez elle aujourd'hui avant trois heures d’après midi si cela lui arrange; si non, de vouloir bien indiquer par écrit l’heure qui puisse lui convenir ce soir’ – anser by George ‘it was all right’ – ‘Hotel Meurice. Vendredi 8 hures du Matin’ – on the return of the commissionaire sent him to inquire if Madame de Bourke was at home – yes ! and very well – (but I sent no name or message meaning to call) – breakfast at 9 35 at which hour F68 ½° and very fine morning – Had Dr. Double for about ¼ hour till 2 – gentlemanly little man – quiet in his manners and agreeable – mentioned remembering his attending Mademoiselle de Sans 14 years ago but did not allude to the where – he remembered and inquired after her and seemed to understand my shrug of the shoulders at her marriage and her being lost sight of? yes! he observed the match was not convenable – on finding that A- was right in all respects save the pain in her neck, and the redness and breaking out on her face, he asked if we could go to the Pyrenees – if not, A- should drink the fictitious waters here at Tivoli – but sure that the actual waters at Barèges, or St. Sauveur, would cure her – we ought to be off as soon as possible – to arrive in time for good accommodation – should arrive by the 25th instant – should set off from here on the 10th if we could be ready – he would call again two or 3 times and give us written directions what to do – I offered him a fee or rather asked what I was indebted to him – but he declined be paid today, saying it was not our custom – but I said it was rather our custom than not – on his going away A- and I did not say much on the subject for it seemed agreed we should go – I had been writing before Dr. D- came from about 12 or after (at and after breakfast read Galignani) and afterwards till after 3 wrote 4pp. of ½ sheet to Lady S. de R- and 2pp. to Lady S- when A-

.. thought we had no time to lose in going out – (had had Madame Figarolls’ woman at 11 – contente d’elle after all – she is to alter some of our things – and to make something new for us by Tuesday – A- to buy a new dress this afternoon and send it this evening along with the moiré to be altered) – A- and I out from 3 ¼ to 7 chiefly on the boulevards and in the r. de la Paix shopping – bought mousseline en laine for A- and ordered things from r. de la Paix to come for me to look at 10am on Sunday when Madame F-‘s woman is to be with us – lastly at Wallerands’ – Mrs. W- to see if she can get a place as  a governess for the young person mentioned to me by lady Eastnor – came in at 7 5 dinner at 7 ½ as ordered –hot and well cooked but not the potage à la bisque d’écrémasses I ordered – I suspected the real thing would not be to be had – A- poorly and asleep in her chair and I slumbering till 9 ½ - on coming found la comtesse de Noés and M. de N-‘s – very civil to call so soon – partly undressed – and sat at my journal writing the 1st 33 lines of Tuesday 29 May till 12, having been taken off for ½ hour at 11 and rang for hot water, A- very sick her stomach having rejected the whole of her dinner – I had just got into bed at 12 ½ when she was sick again – called up Oddy to sat all night, and A- soon afterwards slept was not again disturbed in the night -       very fine day F68° at 12 tonight

[skvaderarts]

Hiraeth Chapter 46: Resolve

Masterlist can be found Here!

Chapter Forty-Six: Resolve

Notes: OMG I had a BLAST writing this chapter! Couldn’t tell you why, but the word count probably alludes to that. IDK the last time I wrote a 4500 word chapter! That is a whole third longer than usual! Yay!

(-~-)

Quiet nighttime air made its way through the leaves and branches of the trees and bushes that lined the curbside. A chill hung in the air, frost refracting off of the dim lights lined the roadside in ten-foot intervals, providing just enough light to allow one to traverse the area unhindered but to not disturb the residents of the homes and businesses that adorned the main boulevard. It was late now, just after dusk, and most had either settled in for the night or located a source of evening entertainment. Barely anyone was out and about on this particular road, and that was fortunate indeed when what was about to happen was taken into consideration.

Without warning, a glowing blue tear opened up at the mouth of the alley between two buildings, and out tumbled a figure in a familiar long coat, bloodied and more or less completely done with the situation that they found themself in. Rolling into and across the road, they were nearly hit by a passing truck that sped up to pass them, the driver honking despite being the one who was meant to yield in that situation. The figure hit their back against a street pole, knocking their head against the curb before rapidly collecting themself and hurrying to their feet. They were not out of this fight just yet.

A second figure struggled through behind him, rocketing forward the moment they managed to make their way through the gateway. Another blurry dark figure could be seen just inside of the portal, but when they touched it, they recoiled in discomfort before nodding to their companion and skulking away, faceless but clearly displeased. The first figure bowed to them in a way that implied that the formless being held some power over them before turning its attention back towards the man in the long, dark blue coat.

Surging forward with its long halberd at the ready, it vaulted over the street and bore down on the eldest son of the Dark Knight Sparda, missing him with the downward thrust that it aimed at his head, but managing to kick him square in the chest hard enough to send him slamming back through the glass of some unfortunate empty shop. How fortunate that it was a vacant suite, or else someone would return to their shop in a few hours and be expressly pissed. But he cared little for that right now. He had bigger problems. He would not break his concentration for that.

“Had enough yet, spawn of Sparda?” The devil spat, taking a moment to lick its blade before brandishing it again. It was a slow, methodical action that had probably been intended to intimidate him, but if this creature, intelligent though it seemed to be, thought that something as meager as that would be enough to unnerve him, then it had another thing coming. Well, aside from his blade.

With no hesitation, he rushed forward at blinding speed, locking swords with the snarling humanoid demon before it pushed him back again, sending both of them into the planter out front of the buildings. It then snatched him and tossed him through the other window of the same building, succeeding in finally pissing him off enough to get him to take drastic action.

“Our master will have what he is owed! Surrender the nestling and you may yet be granted the privilege of dying quickly!” It said, kicking aside some of the concrete and plant matter that it had managed to dislodge during their brief scuffle. It would not entertain such unfamiliar surroundings for much longer. But it was woefully unaware of its mistake. They were only a block from the office. He knew this area better than this creature did. And it had no idea of what he was capable of.

Rocketing forward at an unbelievable pace, the half-devil snatched the demon by the throat and sent him flying across the street and through the brick wall that was under construction on the other side of the street that they had exited the portal from, setting back whatever construction project had been underway by several days at least. No. No, they would not. Over his dead body.

“You will have nothing, for that is what I owe you. But I shall take everything from you.” The Darkslayer said, marching across the street towards his opponent. He was clearly incensed and despite his injuries, there was little that he was not willing to do to keep his foes at bay and away from either of his sons. From what he could tell, they knew nothing of Nero. Their target was V. But they would not have either of them. His enemies had taken enough from his family. His father’s burdens should never have had to pass to either of his sons. The eldest Son of Sparda knew that he would not have wanted that. But he was going to ensure that they didn’t pass down to his children. And he was willing to die on that hill. 

He may have not possessed the strength to protect his mother that day, but he sure as hell had the strength to protect his children. And he wasn’t backing down. Never again.

Approaching the demon, it attempted to stab him again, only managing to cut his side. He barely registered the meager injury, a privilege of his incredible healing factor. He then seized the demon in his offhand, forcing it to its feet before cutting it up the middle. 

Reeling from the staggering wound, the demon stumbled backward into the alley and down towards the direction of the office, lashing out in useless resistance as it was relentlessly pursued by its advisory. But as it neared the front steps of the Devil May Cry agency, the Darkslayer admittedly began to feel the depth of his injuries, his vision going somewhat hazy. He had the distinct impression that his footsteps were unsteady, but was not level-headed enough to check. And as he made his way over to the front door, things seemed to slow down significantly. For a moment, his breath became labored, and he had the distinct impression that if he did not regain control of himself that he would probably collapse.

From what he could tell, it took him longer than it should have to register the fact that he was standing in front of the door as he attempted to open the door. It was locked, probably due to the time. He stared at it tiredly for a moment, looking down and noticing the sheer amount of blood on the stairs. A good amount of that was his, and he knew as much even in his delirium. He knocked. And then again. And again, pausing only to see if he heard anything from the other side of the door. He didn’t, a direct result of the fact that his ears and head were ringing like a church bell in a narrow well. 

He now found himself using the door to support his weight, not quite swaying but still not completely still. He knocked again, and then he slumped over entirely, his knees momentarily giving out. Why hadn’t he recovered yet? It was exceedingly rare for his body to have not started to heal yet. Perhaps the sheer number of injuries were causing him some difficulty? After all, he had been banged up pretty good. But for a moment, everything went dark and he felt himself go downward. He wasn’t unconscious, but he wasn’t all there, either. With his eyes closed, he found himself deprived of one of his senses. But so long as the demon was dead on the stairs next to him, he couldn’t muster up the interest to care.

Moments later, the music and talking from within the building that he couldn’t entirely make out stopped and he thought he could hear footsteps. Everyone was on alert. He could feel that much even without seeing. But then, just as he was attempting to collect himself, he felt a rush of climate-controlled air as the doors to the Devil May Cry agency opened, and the presence of his younger twin became unmistakably clear to him. There was a momentary pause during which nothing was said. And then everything hit him all at once, seemingly unwilling to allow him to just live out the rest of his life laying on the front steps of the office he now called home. It was never that simple.

“Vergil! What the hell happened to you?!” Dante said, taking a step backward as his twin struggled to his feet, barely coherent and registering his own actions; nothing more than a bleeding mass of stab wounds, gashes, slashes, and torn fabric. It seemed that he was going to need another shirt. A pity because he actually liked this one. How did his coat always manage to make it through mostly unscathed in spite of it all?

“You just said it, Dante. Hell!” Vergil half-heartedly shouted through gritted teeth before slumping over against the wall. Now he was painfully coherent. Honestly, he wanted nothing more than to sit down and give his injuries the time they needed, but he was going to have to do something first. Before his twin could respond, he withdrew Yamato and opened another portal, returning a few moments later with Nero. He heard the Darkslayer apologize to Kyrie for startling her, the sound of broken dishes as she yelped in surprise unmistakable. As the portal closed, he was sure that he caught sight of the young woman waving in a polite, if not delayed fashion, clearly unsure as to what else she could do with herself at that moment in time. Poor Kyrie. He would never understand how she got roped up in this mess. She had to truly love Nero to deal with the rest of them.

As Nero attempted to reconcile the fact that he had just been pulled through one of his missing father’s portals by the back of his shirt, Vergil left again, this time returning with V in tow. The young summoner stared at his father blankly as he walked through of his own accord, his demeanor revealing that he wasn’t even slightly surprised by this turn of events. He had been surprised when his father had knocked on the door and asked to borrow him for a moment instead of appearing inside of his house, though. He knew that he probably could, and the look on Nero’s face seemed to imply that he had just done something like that to the younger hunter.

Dante couldn’t remember the last time that Vergil had actually raised his voice. He was clearly not in the mood for this. Probably best to lay off for now. But first, he had a question for his twin, and it involved the devil that was lying dead on the floor of his front office. Hopefully, it turned to dust sooner rather than later. It would be hard to dispose of discreetly. “So why is that thing here, and where are the rest of them?”

“I can only assume that the rest are unable to cross over into this realm. Most of the more powerful devils still cannot set foot into the human world, especially while using a gateway opened by a blade that once belonged to the very devil that sealed them away.” Vergil finally allowed himself to collapse onto the floor, his back resting against the couch in the living room. He was thoroughly exhausted. “Even possessing Yamato would do them little good if they were not extraordinarily powerful. I doubt they know as much, however.”

“Makes sense, I guess. Though I’m willing to bet that every demon in the underworld probably wants to get a hold of Yamato if that’s the case. Those wackos in Fortuna sure did.” Dante said as he came slightly closer, covertly checking on his brother.

“Judging by my personal experiences and the endless hunts levied against me from the moment I came into possession of the blade, I would be forced to agree with you. I have not known a moment’s reprieve since I chose to take it up in our father’s absence.”

“Come on, Vergil. We both know that’s a lie. V and Nero wouldn’t be here if that was the case.” The younger of the two said with a soft laugh, struggling to hide how raw his nerves were from seeing Vergil return in such a state. He’d feared as much. Vergil truly had gotten himself into quite the mess when he’d left. He was lucky to be alive.

Vergil pulled something akin to a smirk, momentarily recalling something that they had no knowledge of. “Under whose authority did you come to the conclusion that those were calm occasions. I assure you, they were thoroughly tumultuous. Don’t assume.”

Dante blanched, admittedly stunned by his twin’s omission. He was rarely so forward. Nero and V turned bleach pale and beet red respectively, knowing that they would never be able to unhear their father’s words. Oh, how they wished they could be anywhere but here. Genuinely anywhere else. They were only being slightly facetious. Perhaps it was brain damage or blood loss at work? Nero was willing to bet that Griffon would assume the latter if asked. He was so fond of that argument that he was starting to agree.

“So, how was your trip, Brother? Hopefully half as fun as us all wondering if you were dead for a week.  And why does your coat seem even blacker now than it did before?”

“Painful and informative. Though not in the way that I had hoped. I can at least confirm something. Each of the nine Prince of Darkness had their own dark knights at one point or another, an assumption that I had back when I was trapped under Mundus’s servitude that has since been proven true.” He looked ill having to even speak that name. Oh, how he wished he could permanently remove it from his vocabulary. Still, he internally noted Dante’s comment about his absence and made a note to consider mentioning his intentions the next time. It wouldn’t take much. “As for the coat, it is darker. A side effect of Belial’s domain. It corrupts everything with darkness that steps foot into it. Fabric is simply an easy target. Or it could be the very air in that place that is to blame. The soot in that place would blot out the sun if it was allowed to.”

The youngest Son of Sparda nodded. That made sense from what he could tell. He shrugged, gesturing for Vergil to continue. Clearly, he had more to say. The eldest of the two nodded, adjusting himself on the couch before continuing. Part of Dante died inside as he realized that Vergil was absolutely going to ruin his sofa, but at least the old piece of furniture could be replaced. Vergil was in rough shape if he felt the need to lay down. He wasn’t going to disturb him.

“I’ve seen several of the others firsthand, but most have either been dispatched or their lords killed since that time. I saw to many of those tasks myself. It was a grueling and costly affair that nearly ended in my demise. Both of my sons saw the direct results of that ordeal first hand upon my return.”

“Ah yes, the cracks. That must have been some fight.” V thought to himself quietly. That explained quite a bit. A quick glance over at Nero was all it took to confirm that he both shared the same thought path as he did, but also shared the trauma caused by it. It didn’t escape his notice that Nero had rumbled his once departed arm in discomfort for a moment as though the mere mention of the attack that had claimed its predecessor was enough to cause him physical pain. Perhaps it was. Trauma worked in mysterious ways at times, and everyone’s reaction to it was different.

It seemed that Vergil had honed his trademark strength and aggression somewhere specific. Dante has assumed that much, realizing that he clearly couldn’t have made it as long as he had down there without adapting to his environment. But if he had waged war singlehandedly against the leaders of the underworld, then that explained the very noticeable and difficult to contend with jump in physical strength that he had witnessed since his return. Without Yamato at his disposal, he had been forced to improvise.

“I thought them a nonfactor… Except for one that I can now concretely confirm the survival of. And we do not see eye to eye.”

“And let me guess: he works for Belial, right? And he’s one of the ones you didn’t beat back then?” Vergil had literally no good news to impart upon them, it seemed. But perhaps being in the know was better than nothing. At least they knew what they were up against this time. Dante was glad for that.

“Unfortunately you would be correct. She does.”

She? Now, this was interesting. Nero, Dante, and V shared a look ranging between a raised eyebrow and a full head tilt on Dante’s part before returning their collective attention to Vergil. Lady seemed to take note as well, chuckling to herself at the mental image of Vergil getting his butt kicked by some random demoness. Trish sighed to herself quietly. She had a feeling she knew where this was going. She’d spent enough time in the underworld to have a general idea of who he might have encountered if he’d gone on that side of the underworld. What in the world had Vergil been thinking?

“Is that how you got your ass handed to you, Vergil?” Nero asked casually, leaning against Dante’s desk just a few feet away. V had taken a seat next to him on the surface of the desk, Lucia joining him. The young summoner barely hid his blush as he looked away from her, but he had to keep his mind on the topic at hand. This was serious.

“You don’t actually think you're funny do you, Nero?” A look of disapproval adorned Vergil’s face, but everyone present including the Darkslayer himself knew that he wasn’t going to do anything. He wasn’t in the condition to be as much of a threat as he normally was.

“Sometimes. Anyway, this knight that mopped the floor with your deadbeat ass got a name?” Nero inquired casually as he shrugged, unphased by his father’s comment. As long as Kyrie giggled at his jokes Julio sighed in playful annoyance at his puns, then he didn’t care what anyone else had to say.

Realizing that he wasn’t going to get anywhere with Nero, Vergil redirected his attention to his younger twin. He was learning to take Nero’s comments in his stride, filing them away as nothing more than tasteless dark humor on his son’s part. It seemed to be the tone that made all the difference. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, when the time came, he was probably going to need Dante’s assistance if he wanted to beat her and still manage to maintain the strength necessary to take on his true opponent. 

“Exalta, Huntress of Decay. She is… treacherous. She cannot be reasoned with, and she does not back down.” Vergil was clearly unamused. He had to admit that she had actually done that, both figuratively and literally. Despite her stature (which was immense, all things considered) she possessed extraordinary physical strength. This wasn’t the first time she had reminded him of that fact. “Doing battle against her is much like what I would imagine trying to stab a moving locomotive into submission would feel like. She’s an unyielding mass of hateful, concentrated destruction.”

For a moment, Dante considered asking Vergil what the “Huntress of Decay” part was about, but he decided against it. Somehow he just knew he would find out at some point anyway. And that title seemed pretty self-explanatory. This just got better and better by the second. Maybe against all the odds he could just odder her friendship and she would be gentle with him? Unlikely, but he did love a good fight regardless. If she had body-slammed Vergil through one of his own portals, then she was a foe worth contending with. But at least she couldn’t come into the human world. The town had seen enough destruction since Vergil’s return.

Trish nodded before shaking her head, her arms falling to her sides in dissatisfied exasperation. “I never did like her. She poured a drink on me once when I went with Vergil to pass a message to Belial for Mundus. A hot drink. And she didn’t speak. To my understanding, she comes from the same subspecies as your father, so she is more than capable of intelligence though. A foe to be reckoned with. Tread carefully.”

Vergil smirked. Oh, he remembered that. He stifled a chuckle before it could do any damage. One of the scarce moments of humor he could derive from the hell he had gone through back then. But even back then he could vaguely recall being pleased that Exalta had done that. Perhaps she wasn’t as bad as he had originally assumed.

“Great. She sounds like an absolute joy. But can one of you kill her? I mean, she’s not that tough, is she?” Lady asked as she barely held in the urge to laugh at what had happened to Trish. She folded her arms across her chest as she came slightly closer. She’d never seen Vergil get his butt kicked this badly before, not even when they had gone against her father as teenagers. And he’d literally been slapped across the room on his face during that encounter. Ah, good times. It had been the highlight of an otherwise terrible moment in her life. She could practically feel her leg ache just thinking about it. Or maybe that was just the cold weather.

Both Trish and Vergil nodded to confirm their ability to remove Exalta’s soul from her body, the pair then looking at one another in uncomfortable horror after the fact. Vergil then flopped back on the couch and stayed there for a moment. It was fortunate that his body healed so fast, but it was still strangely slow, all things considered. Either way, he could feel his muscles and skin repairing themselves. He would be fine momentarily, even if he was slightly worn out from that ordeal. He had not expected to run headfirst into the situation that he had just found himself in. The underworld was full of surprises, and they were never pleasant ones.

Realizing that that thoroughly unpleasant conversation was over with, Patty came from behind the couch where she had been standing this entire time, looking to break the ice. She turned her attention to Vergil, noting that he seemed to be more or less alright now. Well, at least much better than he had been when he’d arrived at the office. “So… Do you want to play a game of poker with me?”

Vergil stared at her blankly, seemingly not believing what she had just asked him. Surely she saw the gravity of everything that was going on. She couldn’t be that blind to it. But then again, perhaps that was the point. Tension was heavy in the room as everyone took in the gravity of the situation. She was probably just trying to alleviate that. Pulling himself to a sitting position, he rubbed his face for a moment before half looking at her. “Why not.”

“You can play poker?” Dante said doubtfully. Now, this he had to see.

He registered his twin’s presence and the utterly flabbergasted look on his face. It was apparent to him that his brother had never considered the fact that he might know how to do something like this. Not that he could say that he could. Dante certainly couldn’t if his ledger was anything to go by. But what did he possibly have to lose? He owned basically nothing. “Why wouldn’t I know how to play poker? It’s basically chess.”

Now Dante looked equal parts confused and genuinely irritated. “No, it’s not.”

“And how would you know that? Have you ever played chess, Dante?” He knew for a fact that he hadn’t. The Damned Chest Set that occupied the entrance to Temen ni Gru’s portal’s upper echelons didn’t count in the slightest. It was sentient and Vergil was confident that his twin had simply stabbed them to death. He didn’t have to even be there to know that. The eldest son of the Dark Knight Sparda had to genuinely contain how excited he was to see his younger twin this utterly perplexed. It was rare that he annoyed Dante in exactly the same way that his younger sibling annoyed him. He was going to bullshit his way through this game of poker, and Dante couldn’t stop him.

Dante raises his hand and opens his mouth to answer before letting his hand drop and allowing his hand to fall to his side. No. No, he hadn’t. Vergil had him beat and he hated it. Why on earth had he been so worried about him all week? A snaggle-toothed grin passed across his face as he turned, put his hand up in defeat, and retired to the one good couch that was left to watch his brother get his ass handed to him in poker. No one beat Patty. That was simply a fact of life.

Nero, Lucia, and V looked at one another, unsure as to what to do before deciding that it was probably best to just head back to V’s house. It had furniture now, and unlike Dante’s office, half of it wasn’t malfunctioning or soaked in blood. There was no contest in regards to the best place to spend the evening. Dante and Vergil were going to need some time alone. Nero and V would take their opportunity to check in on him once things were calmer around the office. It was best that V not spend too much time away from the safe confines of his home. After all, it was literally bad for his health.

Lady and Trish shared a look between one another as the trio left the building, thoroughly confused as to what the hell was going on before reaching into their pockets to procure their wallets. It seemed that it was time for that hypothetical wager that they had spoken about before to take place.

“My bet’s on Patty,” Lady said with a snarky smile and she placed down a crisp, solid hundred dollar bill on Dante’s now vacant desk. It was clearly new money. Trish took a moment to consider her options before smiling softly. She was willing to bet on Vergil any day of the week in spite of their past issues. She had seen first hand what he had endured. A game of poker was child's play in comparison.

“I’ll take that bet.”

(-~-)

Gosh, I really want to write a story about Vergil and his pre DMC5 war against the devil princes now because omfg that would be so metal! It wouldn’t be super long, either. Maybe like 5-10 chapters at most. Guess I have to add that to the list of things to do after I finish the Soliloquy Saga. Or would that technically be part of it? Who knows.

I’m taking bets now on who is gonna win this poker game lol! See you in the comments and again on Friday! Hope you liked this chapter! I accidentally pulled an all-nighter writing it because I was having such a good time!