#i should have focused on his tie considering i accidentally made it too dark

[bittwitchy]

Matthew Lillard as Steve Raglan / William Afton Five Nights at Freddy's (2023)

[peculiarmindset]

Can you do a prompt where Draco accidentally farts infront of Harry for the first time

***Sorry for the long wait- I really liked this prompt and wanted to write it out properly. And this will probably be the last prompt I write for anybody for while (unless I REALLY like it). I have something planned and hopefully it’ll be ready by this weekend *crosses fingers* Hope you enjoy anon! 🤗

The Bunbuster Fart - Sounds like a Beefy One, except much more sudden and much much more powerful. Generally smells eggy or beefy. Leaves your asshole smarting. You really feel these babies.

“How about an after dinner game of Quidditch?”

“You’re on!”

Draco and Hermione exchanged an exasperated but fond look as they watched the Weasleys running out the door, with Ron pulling a laughing Harry along with him.

If someone told Draco a few years ago that he’d be at one of the Weasley’s Sunday Dinners as a welcomed guest and actually find himself enjoying the company of redheads, he would have laughed himself silly before hexing that poor sod for good measure.

But here he was.

And he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else but the Burrow at that moment.

“Well, let’s go after them, shall we?” Hermione sighed, as she stood up from her seat.

Draco nodded as he also made his way up, looking behind to see the Weasley matriarch putting away the dishes with some help from Fleur. “Would you like some help, Mrs. Weasley?”

Molly looked up, one of the empty gravy boats in hand, as she grinned and made a shooing gesture at them. “Thank you dear, but you can leave it to me and Fleur here.” Molly gave him a wink. “And it’s Molly to you, remember? Now you all have fun!”

Draco chuckled. “Alright. We’ll see you after the game, Molly.”

“There’ll be some dessert waiting for you all when you return!” She called out to them as the two left.

Draco followed Hermione as they headed to the field, seeing Ginny and Ron already in some sort of argument.

“You ALWAYS get Harry!” Ginny yelled at her brother, throwing her arms up in the air.

“Mens before hens, little sister!” Ron crowed, shielding Harry behind him as if afraid she would physically drag his best friend to her team.

“That doesn’t even make sense!” She argued. She opened her mouth to add something before catching a glimpse at Draco and Hermione in a conversation as they made their way towards them. She paused and a sly grin grew on her face.

“Fine- you can keep the used goods.” Ignoring Harry’s offended “Hey!”, Ginny quickly made her way to the approaching pair and grabbed both their hands, startling the two.

“I get both your better halves on my team then!” She called out.

Ron snorted. “Sure. Malfoy has never once won against Harry and Mione’s never played at all.”

Ginny just smirked at her brother, as she pulled them away and formed a huddle with her team.

“Ok, so today is kind of like the grand championship of all games. Me and Ron are at a dead tie and today is the day we find out who is superior.” Ginny explained to Draco and Hermione. George already knew the rivalry his two youngest siblings had when it came to their family matches.

“I don’t think me playing is a good idea.” Hermione bit her lip, looking her ‘team’ that consisted of Draco, George, her and captained by Ginny. The other team had Harry, Bill, George’s girlfriend, Angelina and was captained by Ron. The referees were Percy and Arthur.

Ginny gave a dark laugh. “No, today will be utterly brilliant.” They came together as Ginny told them of her plan.

“My little sister has gone absolutely bonkers…let do it.” George grinned widely, grabbing his broom.

Even Hermione was smiling.

Draco looked at his boyfriend’s ex with an shocked and impressed look. “And how are you not in Slytherin?”

Ginny lips curved upward. “And break the Weasley tradition? Would’ve given my brothers a heart attack.” She gave a laugh and winked at the wide-eyed look Draco gave her. “What? Harry’s not the only one who can talk a hat into doing what they want.”

(=^w^=)**************************

This had to be one of the most bizarre but downright most fun quidditch games Draco ever played in.

Harry and he were of course the seekers, with Ginny and Angelina as chasers, George and Bill as beaters, and Ron and Hermione as the keepers.

At first, the game went alright, with Ron’s team gaining a lead in the first half.

Which was of course, all according to Ginny’s plan- to give her brother a false sense of security.

And then the second half is where everything went mad.

Draco trailed after his boyfriend and whenever he got too close, he would give accidental brushes here and there, a lingering touch and smile that darkened with barely concealed want that made his beau pause and shiver, completely distracting him from searching for the snitch.

Ron wasn’t faring any better neither. Although he and his girlfriend were on other sides of the field as they protected their respective goals, Hermione would flash him flirty looks and overly praise him with compliments whenever he stopped a goal, distracting her boyfriend and making his face as red as his hair.

Hermione and Draco had asked if their method would have been considered cheating, but Ginny assured them that after the Weasley Halloween match of 91’ where it ended with Percy’s arm twisted like a pretzel and Fred somehow turned into a gnome and lost in their garden for 3 days, everything was fair game during the Weasley Quidditch Matches.

George had also done the same game plan to Angelina, but his girlfriend had eventually caught on what he was up to.

But unfortunately, Ginny had predicted for that to happen and helped George make offensive attacks instead towards Angelina and Bill (who Ginny was originally targeting).

Draco flew his broom higher, trying to get a good view of the whole field and also for one other personal reason.

As he hovered above and watched Ginny hitting the quaffle through the hoop, barely missing Ron’s head, he felt a burst hot air slowly hiss out of his bottom.

Pssssssstttttt….

Draco hoped his blush wasn’t showing as his indiscreetly tried to shift his broom, fanning the stench away.

In actuality, the blonde’s stomach started to act up a few minutes after their game began.

Draco had eaten a lot during dinner, almost the same amount as Ron, which was quite an impressive feat.

Not only was this the first time he has tasted the Weasley matriarch’s cooking (whom he quickly agreed made the best Sunday dinner he ever ate) but he had also wanted to make a good impression on his boyfriend’s ‘adopted’ family as well.

Luckily, Molly had pretty much taken to Draco almost immediately anyway since anyone who made Harry happy as he was now, was pretty much welcomed as part of her family. But seeing the blonde enjoy her food as much as he had was like the cherry on the top.

Draco bit his lip, as another fart let him, the embarrassing sound audible to his ears making him grimace.

He should have never had that second helping of pot roast, let alone a third helping. Or any extra helpings he had of whatever was on that table.

Bbbbrrrrttttt….

Draco huffed as he ignored his lower half and tried to focus back on the game.

To everyone’s surprise, Hermione actually made a decent keeper. When she wasn’t distracting Ron, she was able to guard her goalpost and prevent any quaffle from entering.

Who knew that underneath that bushy haired bookworm lied a decent keeper?

Pffffffttttt….

Draco bit his lip as more air expelled from his bumcheeks. Thankfully, they were out in the open and he was far away from the others so no one would know about the symphony of farts his arsehole was playing right now.

Draco suddenly shot up, a loud fart boomed out of him when he did so, when he finally spotted the snitch.

Ignoring his rumbling belly, he zoomed right towards the snitch just at the same time that Harry had also caught sight of it.

They flew side by side, a few feet apart, both exchanging grins before focusing their sole attention on capturing the snitch.

The blonde wasn’t even aware of all the farts that was shooting out of his bum at that moment (they were too quiet for Harry to hear anyway and the speed of which they flew blew away the smells his farts may have had and cause it to dissipate in the wind).

After a few more twists and turns, both boys finally reached out their hands as they made to caught the snitch.

The snitch entered his hand.

And it was over.

Ginny’s team won.

“I got it!” Draco yelled triumphantly, holding up the snitch proudly in his hand.

“HELL YESSSSSS!” Ginny’s scream echoed throughout the field, loud enough to scare the flock of passing birds away.

Draco could hear his boyfriend laughing but his thoughts were too focused on the fact that he finally won against Harry Potter.

He, Draco Malfoy, finally caught the snitch.

The boys flew their brooms towards the ground, to a patch of high grass that was a little away from everyone and hidden the pair a bit, but they were too tired from their earlier chase to fly anymore.

As soon as they landed, Harry grinned at Draco and gave the blonde a loud smack on the lips. “Congratulations, love.”

Draco’s eyes were sparkling as he held up the snitch to the other. “Finally beat you, Potter.”

Harry chuckled as he nodded his head. “Right you did. I’m proud of you, although I kinda feel bad for Ron- Ginny will never let him live this down.” He tilted his head to the right and they both watched Ginny and George, arms crossed as they danced in circles and crowed loudly to their victory.

The boyfriends snorted when they saw Hermione trying to console her defeated boyfriend- although she wasn’t doing a very good job as she herself was laughing too much.

Harry shook his head as he gave the other a soft smile and pulled his boyfriend to him for a big hug and another kiss.

Right then, Draco’s gut reminded him of his earlier gas problems and before he could do anything, Harry gave his middle a tight saueeze, making Draco let out a huge and very loud fart right then.

BRRRRTTTTTT!

They both froze at Draco’s fart.

Mortified, Draco tried to push the other away, unable to believe that he had just farted in front of his boyfriend.

He wanted to die.

And that fart just now wasn’t only one of the loudest and smelliest one yet, but it exited his arsehole with a burn- he had to swallow the whimper at the sting it left.

Not knowing what to do, Draco became confused when he suddenly heard a snort that was quickly followed by loud laughter as he was once again gathered up in his lover’s arms.

“I guess your bum wanted to congratulate you as well, love.” Harry giggled, holding the other close to him, wanting to make sure the blonde knew he didn’t mind at all so his boyfriend wouldn’t feel bad.

Draco blushed, but stopped trying to escape as he let himself be held. “Oh, shut up Harry. I ate too much earlier.” He grumbled, relieved that his boyfriend wasn’t grossed out by Draco breaking wind.

Harry guffawed. “I’ll say, never thought you could put away all that food- I was impressed. Made Molly very happy.” Harry paused before giving a loud sniff, making a face. “But maybe next time, you might want to skip the extra helping of pot roast, love. It really stinks right now.” The air around them had a foul stench which was strangely meaty.

“Shut up.” Draco’s face reddened even more. “Unfortunately, my flatulence doesn’t come off as roses, oh mighty savior.”

Harry snorted. “Flatulence. So posh, you prat. Just say fart like the rest of us.” He then grinned. “But who knew this lovely thing would let out such a manly ‘burp’.” He patted his boyfriends bum before giving it a teasing squeeze.

Although Draco’s face was still red, he was glad that his boyfriend wasn’t disgusted or turned off by his emission of gas.

As he was still riding off the high from his first quidditch win against his lover, when he felt his boyfriend give his buttocks another squeeze, the blonde mustered up all the courage he had and shoved his bum hard against the other’s hand and forced out a very noisy and quite wet sounding fart right onto his unsuspecting lover.

BRRRRRRAAAAAPPPPPPPPPPP!

Draco burst out laughing as Harry gasped. “And that was my bum’s way of also saying I won and you lost, Potter.”

Harry opened his mouth to retort back but he ended up coughing as the powerful stench of rotten meat filled the air just then.

Eyes sparkling with mirth, Draco giggled as he quickly dodged his lover’s hands as the other made to grab him and he ran as fast as he could back to the others.

Draco couldn’t wait to come back again for next week’s Weasley Sunday Dinners and hopefully have another after-dinner game of Quidditch.

[pl-panda]

To Marry a Vigilante: Part 9

MASTERLIST || First || Previous || Next

To Marry a Vigilante: Part 9

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The Gala. The Wayne Gala. The Wayne New Year’s Gala. The Wayne Gala to celebrate the New Year.

“I can’t do it!” Marinette screamed. “What if I trip and fall on Mr. Wayne and then he will break his leg!? Or what if I accidentally babble something I’m not supposed to and make it a disaster!? Or what if Lila makes a mess and I get blamed for it in front of thousands of people!?” She started breathing heavily. “Or maybe I’ll just look awkward and people decide that I’m useless and Mr. Wayne decides that I should leave Damian to spare him the embarrassment?! I can…” Tikki slapped Marinette when she didn’t respond to any of her pleas.

“Marinette! Breathe.” The Kwami instructed her. 

“Sorry Tikki. I’m really nervous. I know that making the announcement today is the best option since we’re starting school soon and the news would break anyway, but it’s just so… I’m not used to all that.” 

“I know Marinette. But you must accept that your beloved lives in these circles and you must respect some of the needs. He’s changing for you, but you can’t just demand he abandon his old life.” 

“I know… I really want to make this work. He… I know I can trust him like nobody else. Even… even you… I love you, but you’re not…”

“Human?”

“Yes! I’m sorry Tikki. You’re still my partner and my best friend. Don’t tell that to Chloé though.”

“My lips are sealed.” The kwami giggled. “You’re my favorite chosen too, Marinette. You have the true creation inside you.”

“Thanks, Tikki.”

“Not get on and show them what you’re made of!” The little goddess cheered. 

“Yes! I’m going to rock! I’m great!” The girl said confidently and put on the purple mask with golden lines. 

-------

Damian waited impatiently for his beloved to come. The guests were already filling in and his father and brothers went to greet them. Tom and Sabine, dressed in their MDC original outfits, were already on the dance floor, showing everyone that they could still move even in their forties. Cass was probably somewhere with Bourgeois, stealing cookies or something. The two seemed to bond over being the third wheel and treating Sabine like their new mother. 

“Wassup Dames?” A voice startled him and Damian whirled around with a punch that stopped an inch from Jon’s nose. 

“Tt. Aren’t you supposed to be downstairs? With the guests?” He grumbled. 

“Nah. Mom and Dad are with your dad, going over the safe questions to ask your wi…” Jon didn’t get to finish that word because Damian lunged at him and covered his mouth. 

“Tt. Shut up. The last thing I need is drama caused by your big mouth.” 

*muffled sounds*

“I don’t care. Mouth shut or I’ll test the new Kryptonite dusters.”

*more muffled sounds*

“I did get them. Want me to try them out right now?” Jon shook his head. “Good. We’ve got an agreement?” A nod. “Fine.” Damian let him go.

“You’re very violent, you know that?”

“Tt. Shut up.”

“I’m just saying.” 

“I told you to…” Damian’s words died in his throat. Marinette entered the scene.

“Shall we?” She asked, handing him a sleek black mask with gold details. When light reflected from it, a very subtle purple gleam could be seen.

“It’s incredible, Habibti. Just like the rest of my suit.” He was dressed in a pure-black three-piece, a white shirt underneath, and had a black tie. He screamed style and power.

-------

All in all, the trip was not yet a disaster for Lila Rossi. Her lies were slowly taking root in the people around her. Like the clerk at the Hotel. Soon, she would have them all wrapped around her fingers. Only Maribrat and Chloé seemed to be completely immune to her charms. But that girl was too goody-two-shoes for her own good and Bourgeois was hated even before she started her work. 

There was also that exchange student, Grayson boy… Darren, Damien, something like that. She couldn’t believe she thought that guy was Damian Wayne when he first walked into her class. She went as far as stopping Alya from being mean to him. From her research, all Waynes were kind and helpful. Damian Wayne supposedly volunteered at an animal shelter. The press described him as ‘cute in a special way.’ Blasted Waynes and their no-pictures policy. The guy in her class looked a bit similar to Bruce Wayne, at least at first glance. Then, she noticed that his skin was darker (not just solar tan), his nose was a bit different too. And his eyes were green. It was the only constant with the Waynes. They all had dark hair and blue eyes.

As such, she dismissed him as unimportant and focused on her more important goals. Making a deal with Gabriel Agreste, or rather Hawkmoth, was risky. In the end, it worked out for her in many ways. She gained a foothold from which she made her small empire. And Agreste boy was nice arm candy for a while. Until he went all psycho on Maribrat that is.

Now if she found one of the Waynes, she could start working on worming her way in. Blasted masks! They appeared too good in the media not to have a big dirty secret to exploit. Blackmail wouldn’t be new for her. 

The Gala was slowly starting when all the lights turned off. Two stage flood lights focused on the stairs leading to the second floor of the manor. Two people appeared on them. First was a young man, about her age, dressed all black. He radiated money and influence and she was sure what he wore was in fact an MDC original. But he was nothing next to his companion.

Her dark-purple dress shone in the light like a thousand diamonds. It hugged her figure perfectly and while she was most likely the same age as her companion, she still looked stunning. The high collar was embroidered with a golden thread that formed intricate patterns around her slender neck. The sleeves went down to her arms where they seamlessly merged with gloves. The line was blurred by twin bracelets that each had a symbol of a bat with flowers. A nod toward the Bats of Gotham while keeping it original. From the waist down, it opened on the side, giving her the freedom to move while still keeping the near-royal appearance. With each step, it flowed slightly, revealing the golden underlining. Her legs were also covered with the same material down to ballet shoes in a deeper shade of purple finished with golden lining.

Her blue hair reached slightly beyond her shoulders and matched her eyes perfectly. All the gold and purple served to make everyone focus on her. 

Lila cursed under her breath. There was no chance anyone would notice her with someone like that parading around. Something had to be done. Lila checked her own dress. It was pretty, but when compared to that, it came plain. 

All her scheming came to the halt when the pair walked over to Bruce Wayne and got him to stop speaking with Gotham’s mayor. They knew him. A realization dawned on her. It was Damian Wayne and his date. They had to be. But his eyes… they were green. 

“No…” escaped the Liar’s lips. The woman she was talking to noticed and followed her gaze. Some part of Lila’s brain noticed she also checked her dress and was saddened. At least her reaction was not out of place. 

Bruce Wayne walked with the two back to the stairs where the stand with a microphone was prepared before the lights were turned back on. Sensing a juicy story, all the journalists and bloggers swarmed as close as possible. Some even lost their masks. 

“Can I have a moment of your attention?” The billionaire asked. His eyes swept over the crowd. “Before I start, I wanted to remind you that there is a strict no-photos policy on the gala. We’ve hired a photographer with an exclusive contract and any pictures taken not by him will be considered a breach and will be met with a lawsuit.” 

The murmurs broke all around the crowd. It was a known fact that taking unsolicited photos at Wayne Galas was forbidden. There was no need to remind anyone about it unless it was a really juicy piece. The last time Bruce Wayne took time to remind everyone about this was when Jason Todd turned out to be alive and well, only slightly amnesiac. 

“Now. First I wanted to welcome everyone to this year’s Gala. We’re closing another year and I thank everyone for showing up to celebrate with me and my family.” He raised a small glass of champagne. “In particular, I wanted to welcome a class from Paris that is participating in the year-long exchange program funded by the Thomas Wayne Education fund. I hope you enjoyed Gotham so far.” The journalists were frantically noting everything down. Either for publishing or just to put it in tabloids with some conspiracy theories. “Now, onto the main reason for the announcement. You know I’m not good at speeches.” He grinned and the crowd exploded into laughter. “Since my son just returned from Paris, I’m well aware that this news would break anyway when he returned to school. I ask you to respect their privacy and… well, at least try not to bother them. May I introduce Damian Wayne and his girlfriend, Marinette Dupain-Cheng.”

Everyone started to either whisper or frantically make notes and think of questions to ask. The fact that Damian Wayne, dubbed Ice Prince of Gotham, got himself a girlfriend serious enough to be introduced to everyone was already front-page news for many of them. Even just the dress she wore was front-page news. Any journalist that dabbled in celebrity fashion would recognize an MDC original by now, at least from Jagged Stone or Clara Nightingale. The two refused to even consider anything else. 

“Tt. Against my better judgment, I know that teenagers are walking gossip machines so you would all learn it the moment we entered Gotham Academy.” Damian started his speech. “As such, I want to clear any and all confusion before it can start. This,” he motioned at Marinette, “ is my girlfriend. We met in Paris and clicked immediately. I expect you to show her the same respect you show my family or I will challenge you to an honor duel.” 

Damian was not even trying to hide his distaste for journalists today. He could see that Marinette was uncomfortable with this attention even more than he was. He grew up used to attention while simultaneously being taught that newspapers were at best a propaganda tool and at worst trouble to be dealt with. Obviously, he disliked them, even more, when he became Damian Wayne. Usually, he tried to remain civil to the journalists unless they were irritating. Today, he didn’t bother. Not that they didn’t know he was a private person. A certain paparazzi with a blade going through his camera would attest to that. 

“Angel, do you want to answer their questions or should I?” He whispered.

“Um… shouldn’t you first tell them more?” 

“No. It’s better if I only answer what they want to know.” 

“Um… Maybe you start.” 

“Fine.” He turned back to the microphone. “I will be taking the first question.” He pointed at Clark who had his hand in the air. 

“Clark Kent, Daily Planet. Could you tell us more about how you met?” 

“I joined Marinette’s class for the exchange program my Father mentioned. The only free seat was next to her, so that’s where I sat. What got my attention first was her willingness to stand up to injustice and forgive those who slighted her. She was open-minded and didn’t back down even when I was… Ehm… a bit rude.” He admitted. “I managed to ask her out and she showed me the side of Paris you don’t usually see with a tour guide. We share a passion for drawing and she shared with me her favorite place in Paris. No, I won’t reveal it. After that, my respect for her only grew when she was willing to accept an apology from a girl that bullied her in the past, helping her actually change her ways. Next question?” He pointed at a different journalist. He really hoped he picked right. The masks were making it harder than he assumed. A flaw in their plan that they overlooked. 

“Vicky Vale, Gotham Gazette” The woman introduced herself and Damian resisted the urge to curse. His Father’s ex was not exactly the most favorable toward them after their breakup, even if she tried to stay professional. “What more can you tell us about the mysterious girl behind the mask? So far we know she’s from Paris and likes to draw, plus some traits.”

“May I answer this?” Mari asked Damian, thinking it was high time for her to step up and help. He nodded and stepped back so she had free access to the microphone. “Hi. I'm Marinette. Mostly, I’m just a normal girl with a normal life…” She started. What followed was quite a long introduction where she gave the press enough to satisfy them while keeping private the parts she wanted.

There were many more questions. About family, plans, dreams, etc. The young couple answered some while dismissed others as too personal and rude. Finally, after over an hour they ended the event and told those who would stay to move on with the gala while several journalists were removed. In total, ten photographic devices were confiscated and Chloé got the honors of handling everything with Tim. He was there for a technical site, she was there for intimidation. 

One of the particularly irritating paparazzi tried to argue, but then Chloé started to rant until he was cowering in the corner. Pretty much everyone around them was now glaring at him with a hateful gaze. After that, they mostly behaved. 

-------

“Well… that was exhausting. And it’s only ten pm?” Marinette and Damian were resting next to the snacks table. They were enjoying a moment of peace once the initial wave of well-wishers passed. Jason was keeping an eye on the class to make sure they were stopped from making anything worse for themselves and everyone else. So far they were too stunned to deal with it. He was pleased to see that Alix girl was finally doing something and pointing out many flaws in their reasoning. The problem was Lila disappeared in the crowd for the moment. Chloé was on the hunt though. She was a master of dealing with a rich crowd, probably surpassing even Drake. 

“Here you are!” A voice startled the couple. Marinette and Damian turned to see a group of four people. Jon was one of them. There was also a girl with blonde hair pulled into a long braid and a boy in a blue suit with medium-long black hair and blue eyes. The fourth one made Marinette’s blood run cold. Her eyes went wide and she acted before anyone caught the wind of it. A strong straight punch sent the boy looking like Adrien flying onto the ground. 

Chatter around them died in an instant. Marinette tried to lunge at him, but Jon caught her. He was probably the only one strong enough to hold her back. 

“Let me go! Don’t you see he is a criminal?!” She was doing her best to get out of his grip. Damian suddenly was holding the blade to the neck of the blonde boy. 

“You have five seconds to speak.” 

“I’m sorry, but I’m not my moronic cousin. Would you please let go of me?” He asked with a thick British accent. 

“Tt. Prove it.” Damian scoffed. 

“Ugh. I’m really tired of dealing with everyone taking me for a criminal just because I look like him. Ask my mother!” 

Indeed, a blonde woman in a gray dress was making her way through the crowd. “Felix sweetie!?” She kneeled next to him while glaring daggers at Damian and Marinette. Reluctantly, he took away the sword but didn’t put it away. Dick and Tim also arrived.

“What happened?”

“That twit attacked my Felix!” 

“Tt. He shows up and looks just like a known criminal. You should’ve really chosen something other than a black mask and a black suit.” Damian frowned. He didn’t exactly feel bad about the incident, but the press would jump on that.

“It’s alright mum. I admit I’m partially at fault. I forgot the reaction Parisians have to me right now.” He bowed his head. “Please accept my apologies.” His lower lip was bleeding.

“Um… here. Let me help you.” Marinette pulled a tissue from her pocket (of course her dress had pockets) and handed it to him. Nodding, he wiped the blood. 

“Tt. I’m still not convinced.” 

“Damian! That’s rude. I remember Felix. He was in Paris once.” Then, she mumbled under her breath. “Caused a triple akumatization.”

“I am sorry for that…” 

“Felix joined our class this year. You left the day before he came.” The blonde girl explained.

“It was all just one big misunderstanding folks. You can move on.” Dick took control of the crowd and allowed the teens some breathing space. Except that’s when the class finally decided to start speaking up. 

“Yeah right! Marinette is just a big bully! I’m in her class and she was mean to Lila from the beginning. I wouldn’t be surprised if she dated Damian Wayne just for money.” Alya had to babble. The rest of the class (minus Alix) was either nodding or giving their own confessions, real or not, and always against Marinette. 

So far the Waynes avoided any accusations about gold-digging. The one journalist that tried to pick up the subject (subtly at first) was silenced by Damian’s evil eye. Now more people murmured. And the number of people able to respond was greatly limited as Damian, Chloé, Jason, and Sabine had to be restrained from hurting people. 

To everyone’s surprise, it was Cass who jumped on the table.

“Shut…! Up!” She shouted. Or what stood for her shouting, which was only slightly louder than normal people’s speech. Still, it got everyone’s attention. “Cousin Nettie is… kind. Good. Sel… Selfless. She is my family. Not… digger.” She glared at several people that were still muttering. “Saw her… date with Damian. She did not let him pay. Not digger!” There was a dangerous edge in her voice. That was enough to shut people up. Except for the class. 

“Of course you would protect her!” Kim stared at her. “You’re probably…” He didn’t finish because Alix covered his mouth. The girl noticed that Bruce, who was restraining Jason Todd was about to let go. She wasn’t sure exactly what would happen, but she wasn’t willing to find out. 

“I think it’s time for you to leave. Where is your teacher/chaperone?” Bruce asked, also glaring at them.

“Um… Madame Bustier is…”

“Madame Cheng is right there!” Mylene pointed to where Tom was doing his best to stop his wife from grabbing the Bag and cutting the class into tiny pieces.

“I… I don’t think it would be healthy for us to go with her right now. She is very emotional right now.” Alix offered. She was trying to act like the voice of reason. Something this class lacked. 

The teacher was quickly located flirting with one of the musicians invited to the gala. She was completely unaware of what her charges did. 

“I’m sure it was just some misunderstanding. Marinette indeed started acting out a bit this year. They probably overexaggerated a bit.”

“Tt. You mean she stopped being a doormat?” Damian huffed. 

“As I said, it’s time for the kids to leave,” Bruce said in a harsh tone. 

“Oh… Okay. I’m sure Sab…” 

“Caline. You’re the one responsible for taking care of them. You’ll take them away when Mr. Wayne asks.” Tom then pointed at his wife, who he was holding a few inches above the ground to keep her from doing something stupid. 

“Um… Of course.” The teacher sighed. “Kids. Gather your things. We must leave.” 

As they were walking out, people applauded. After Alfred closed the doors behind them it was finally safe to let the more violent part of the family free. In all that mess, nobody noticed that a certain sausage-haired girl was not with them

“Now, Wayne.” The blonde started. “Want to explain why we had to learn about you having a girlfriend from a press conference?”

“Or why did Jon know her before us?” The boy added. 

“I would also appreciate hearing how my bloody cousin earned your ire,” Felix added. 

“Oh! Sorry.” The girl turned to Marinette. “I’m Allegra and this is Claude. You already know Jon and Felix. We’re Damian’s friends. Or the closest thing he had to such.” 

“Tt. I don’t have friends.” 

“Bro. Not cool.” Claude argued.

“Shut up. Claudius.” he huffed. 

“You wound me.” The teen gasped and put a hand on his chest. “Dami.”

Felix and Marinette watched from the sidelines how the quartet bickered. Jon tried to help Damian sort things out. 

“For what it’s worth, I am sorry,” Felix said after a moment of silence. “My cousin is a daft git.” 

“That we can agree on,” Mari said absentmindedly while trying to keep the eye on Damian. She hoped he didn’t bring the kryptonite dusters tonight. 

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

Masterlist // Next

[nurseofren]

Office Hours

Relationship: Charlie Barber x Student!Reader

Words: 3.3k

Summary: You decided to challenge Professor Barber’s new project in front of the entire class and he’s asked you to stay after class. What could go wrong, right?

Tags: Belting, spanking, bondage, naked female/clothed male, professor kink, left it open if the people want more.

ST Rambles: So uh, here’s this. I started it last week with the plot being completely different but knowing I wanted to dabble with impact play. I’m also thoroughly obsessed with the idea of fucking a professor, so it being Charlie is just. A dream, honestly. Enjoy this smutty smut. Tell me if you want more.

--

You’d never been asked to stay after class, your record completely clear and your GPA way too impressive to ever land you in any sort of hot water. But, as you sat in the overstuffed Chesterfield armchair, fingers toying with the swirl detail on its front, you couldn’t help but feel an overwhelming dread for what was about to happen.

Charlie Barber wasn’t necessarily intimidating, no, but you’d never been alone with him. And just during debrief you’d challenged the themes he presented on his latest project. His project. You know? The project he knows everything about? The one you have no business questioning because you have no part in its development? Yeah, that one. That was the only thing this impromptu meeting could be about.

Professor Barber had instructed you to wait for him, telling you he’d only be a moment as he dealt with the other students who stayed back willingly. Lifting a hand from the armrest you noticed the fine tremors, your heart pounding as you listened to the muffled voices just beyond the door. Another student was talking about their own project and how inspired they were during lecture. Why couldn’t I have praised him like that? you thought. Why did I make the choice of reprimanding his own work?

Charlie sent the students off with a bellowing laugh, informing them about the drafts due next week. His voice, so low and so stern, carried closer to the door, his footsteps steady as they led him nearer. There was no knock, but when the knob jangled at his grip you stopped breathing for a moment. There wasn’t a muscle left untensed as he closed the door, staying out of view for a moment while he settled his belongings on a credenza of sorts.

“I appreciate your patience.” Professor Barber’s voice was distracted, his long legs bringing him into view as he tugged off his suit jacket and folded it over the back of his chair. He didn’t sit immediately, though. A moment was spent first observing you, eyes flicking over your face, and the next he started on the cuffs of his shirt.

The silence he was allowing was palpable, catching in your throat and inspiring sweat at the backs of your thighs. “Oh, yeah. Yeah! Of course, mister – um, Professor Barber.”

He rolled the first sleeve up to his elbow and began on the second. “No need for overexuberance,” he finished the statement with your first name. Warmth flared in your face; you weren’t aware he knew your name, let alone your first.

“Oh, no. I didn’t mean to offend. I really just didn’t mind the wait. You didn’t take long at all. It’s fine, really.”

“You were waiting for twenty minutes.”

Professor Barber looked down at you with a hitched brow, a mocking challenge heavy in his features. He finally took a seat, your top teeth catching your lower lip for a second. He sat so his forearms were flat on his desk, fingers together and knuckles white.

“I mean. Yes. It was twenty minutes. But I… This is my last class of the week, so it’s alright, really.”

“Have any plans for the weekend?”

“Oh. Um… I guess not. Just studying. Like always, you know.” He let your mouth run and the quiet eat away at you once again. He only stared, nose twitching when your hands tightened over the armrests. “But, um, what is… what is this… Earlier in class when I-,”

“I asked your plans, not for an apology.” There was a tinge of urgency in the way he spat the words, his mouth a hard line as the room settled around them.

Averting your eyes, you now focused on a stitch fraying past the hem of your skirt. You swallowed, throat too dry for any good to come of it. “I’m sorry, I just feel the need to make it clear that I didn’t mean to-,”

“Let me make something clear,” he said, his clothes sounding while his left hand toyed with the tie around his neck, loosening it you assumed. “The next time you want to mouth off and talk down to me – the one producing this project—” his pause brought your eyes back to his, which he used to flay your nerves “—don’t.”

A bead of sweat slid from your neck to your tailbone, shivers making your lungs shudder. It was difficult to stay in place on the leather, thighs slipping while fear slicked them with sweat.

You swallowed, uncertain what he wanted if not an apology. “Professor, what can I do to settle this before any more parties have to get involved?”

A hum – no, a growl – left parted lips, his back coming up from the chair before he stood completely. He was looking down at you again, fingers tracing the edge of his desk before a palm spread flat over the surface’s center. His opposite hand lifted, sleeve sliding back down to his elbow when he bent it, two fingers crooking towards him.

“Come here.”

Pupils crowded his already dark irises, shadows pouring from his brow and down over his cheekbones. The sight of him, predatory and commanding, skipped your heart. Hitched your breath. Heated your ears.

“What do you mean? Like, bring you…something? I don’t, I don’t know what you want me to do.” You had a small inkling as to what he wanted, though you rejected the thought, marking it preposterous as soon as it formed.

Professor Barber’s shoulders tided once, high and harsh, another low growl rumbling through grit teeth. “Come. Here—” the hand over the desk flexed into a blood-starved fist “—Now.”

“Are you asking me to…t-to bend over your desk?” You whispered the second half, nails biting crescents into the thick leather.

“No,” he said. “I’m telling you.”

A spark lit between your legs, lips parting with a pant when you accidentally pressed your thighs together. Charlie’s gaze raced toward your accidental action, his throat bobbing before he stepped back from the desk and shook his tie looser.

“I think you’re playing a bit too innocent.” Without looking away, his hands undid the buckle of his belt, his jaw flexing while he observed you from his distance. “This is how you settle this, little girl.”

A whimper left you, more accidental insight into what he was making you feel. You considered it for a moment, thinking about the repercussions should anyone find out, regarding the consequences should you fail this class. Mostly, though, you found yourself giving into the way you were completely throbbing for him, how your heart was in your ears and your breath was hot against your agape mouth.

Standing, dropping your eyes to watch your feet carry you toward him, you stopped once the tips of his shoes lined up with yours. A hand trailed up the buttons of your shirt, fingertips catching on each before long fingers gripped the entirety of your throat. There was no constriction, only encouragement to look at him when they tugged up.

He was looking over your features, finding your fear and feeling your pulse beneath his grip. The tip of his tongue glinted behind his teeth before his eyes settled on yours, your breath stopping immediately.

“Take my belt off.” It was a breathy drawl, heat rolling off of him both in body and breath.

Not looking down, not that you could, you trailed the tips of your fingers along his torso before you caught the smooth leather, you right hand grasping the buckle and leading it to freedom until it dropped to hang limp in your hold. A light squeeze around your throat made your heart race, a whine leaving before he lifted the pressure.

Before you could realize, he spun you so your back was to his chest, his belt hitting the floor with a sharp thwack. The professor’s hands worked in urgency to undo your shirt, sliding up your abdomen when it was completely undone; warmth pooled in your belly, his heated palms exploring over your bra until they wandered to your back. Quick thumbs unhooked the garment, leading the shirt off your shoulders and past your wrists before guiding your bra in the same path.

“Did you lock the door? What if someone comes in?” You trembled against him when his head hooked into your shoulder, nose brushing against your lobe.

A low grumble stifled your neck. “Did I say you could speak?” Charlie bucked his hips into your ass, his erection obvious even through clothing. The force of his thrust stumbled your forward, aiding him when he flattened his hand between your shoulders and pushed your front onto the desk.

The frozen wood lit your bare skin with shock, the contrast sticking your lungs and igniting goosebumps to envelope the entirety of your body. He kept his hand steady in its pressure for a moment, considering how obedient you’d be before he lifted it.

A thwip sounded behind you. “Wrists together.”

“Professor, what-,” a yelp replaced your inquiry, a stark hand meeting your ass over the fabric of your skirt.

“Wrists.”

Pain stung in fine pinpricks over the flesh he’d acquainted his hand with, your arms straining to meet at the base of your spine. The rough threading of his tie found its way knotted over your skin, your hands locked in place even when he left them. Completely at his will now, he led a large hand up your back.

“Mm, being a good slut now, are we?” Another hand slipped under your skirt and flipped it over your bound hands. The professor smoothed over the earlier affected skin, feeling the warmth his exertion had inspired.

That same hand led down your leg, a rush of air telling you he’d knelt behind you. Metal scraped against the floor before you were distracted by the feel of his lips pressing behind your knee. A hand followed the lead of his face, nose trailing up your thigh and eventually pressing into the apex of your thighs. The accompanying hand went further, cupping your ass so his thumb could dip into your slit. Your hips bucked into him, mouth falling open with a curse.

The professor swirled his thumb in your slick, the noise lewd yet heady in the otherwise silent room. He paused to press his lips to you, kissing into the flesh before biting at it. Another curse from you, this time trailing with a whimper. A chuckle stuttered into your leg, his thumb pressing into your entrance. A choked moan fogged the desk beneath you; he felt good. And it was his thumb for fuck’s sake.

“You’re tight,” he pushed his thumb deeper, pressing it into your walls and rocking it back and forth, your eyes rolling back while your fingers tightened into fists. He turned his hand so his fingers could reach down to your clit; your foot kicked forward, wrists straining for freedom as his touch lit your nerves. “And so, so reactive.” Professor Barber pushed into you once more and pulled away completely.

The hollowness he left made you ache for more, but a foreign texture leading up the inside of your leg distracted you from this need. It was cool, not the heat of his hands, and smooth in how it glided with ease over your skin. He stood completely, the mystery object stopping at your apex for a moment, pushing into your folds, and then cracking against your slit with a lightning-fast flick.

“Fuck!” Your hips bucked away from it, shaking the contents of the desk just enough for a pencil to rattle free from the edge.

His hand gripped over the cross-section of your restraint, pulling back so your shoulder blades grew closer. “Tell me how that felt.” His words were dripping with breath, twisted with a latent need.

Having taken a moment to absorb the sensation, you couldn’t deny the way your cunt was throbbing for it, begging for more of whatever it was. You swallowed, sucking your teeth and closing your eyes. He didn’t deserve an answer, but you didn’t want him to stop.

“Good.”

More friction from the object, a loop of sorts catching your clit and rubbing it just right, a whine pushing through locked teeth before he stopped his machinations. “I want to teach you a lesson, understood?”

Words were unnecessary, a nod of your head against the sweat-slick desk conveying your answer just fine. He shuttered at your permission, a grunt sticking low in his chest when his hand left you. Metal jangled and you were quick to realize exactly the kind of lesson you were to receive. Realization flooded your skin with heat, your breath coming fast when panic set in.

“Professor Barber, there’s no need,” you worried out. “I really understand, I don’t-,”

The speed of the belt whistled against the air before you felt its force meet your left cheek, your weight shifting up to your toes when your body couldn’t escape its punishing bite. A thread of agony grated against your throat, but as the pain set in and it nestled into your muscles you couldn’t help but want more. It wasn’t agony that had come from your lips, but brutalized pleasure, so refined and concentrated it overwhelmed you with want.

“Understand all you want—” a second hit, this to your opposite cheek, lit a fire in your chest, slick wetting your inner thighs when you clenched “—that little stunt earlier isn’t going unpunished.”

Your chin started to tremble, teeth chattering as every nerve ending split open with pain-laced pleasure. Drool pooled at the side of your face, mingling with the sweat that fell willfully from your neck. He’d stopped, a new sound coming from behind when the smooth band came to brush over the raging skin; the touch was gentle, even so making you wince as the belt’s edge caught on the edges of your new raised marks.

“This is what I want from you,” that earlier sound came now with a heavy sigh, a breath of satisfaction. “Compliance. Submission. Understanding.” It was a wet, repetitious noise, a pattern of first quick patterns, but they would slow every now and then; when they did, it was always combined with the sound of hitching breath or an urgent exhale.

The time he was taking was driving you crazy, knowing he was watching your injuries come to fruition while he was stroking himself at the sight. “This is torture, you know?” It was a growl more so than a whine.

A third strike came perpendicular to the first, an “X” undoubtedly welting on the surface. Your teeth grit together, spit spraying across the finish before your nostrils flared fog beneath it. A heat sank over your entire back, warm breath and heated lips falling over your ear.

“Punishment, little girl. Not torture.” He pressed his lips to your neck. “Not yet.” That sound slowed again, a growl vibrating from his chest into yours. “Not here.”

The cold returned when he fixed his posture. Not completely, though; a hand flattened itself over your midback, a scalding, heavy pressure meeting your entrance. It made your moan, just the thought of his inside you, feeling how big he was when remembering the fullness only his thumb had incited. Professor Barber pressed his hand down with each nudge of his hips, inching into you with every lung-stalling, thick, throbbing inch of his cock.

“Oh, Professor,” you whined, eyes rolling back at the feeling of being filled by him. You swore you could feel him in your throat the more he pushed in. When you thought there was no more, he kept inching in, his own breath catching when he growled as he neared bottoming out.

“Fucking tight. I knew you would be. And so wet.” His hand inched up once he buried himself completely in your pussy, fingers coiling around a swirl of your hair. “A little masochist, hm? Like the pain, little girl?”

“If I say yes will you hurry up?”

A quick, deep laugh prefaced the heavy hand that smacked over your left cheek, pussy clenching onto his cock and making you see white for a second. Barber coughed, hair-wrapped hand pulling back and straining your neck toward him.

“That mouth,” he tsked, pulling out at leisure and feeling your walls desperately attempt at pulling him back in, “I’ll remember to gag you in the future.”

With that he finally, finally slammed into you, your hips bruising against his desk with each new plunge. The belt unfolded in your periphery when he let it go, his hand instead gripping into your hip and pulling you onto him and keeping your steady. He once more took hold over your wrists and your shoulders left and met the desk in pace with his thrusts. His breath came faster, every inch of him fucking into you with ease. He was hitting you perfectly, branches of impending release spreading over your skin and tightening in your belly.

“Shit, your close.” He kept steady, his pace and position the perfect catalyst of pleasure. “You think you deserve to cum?” Unsure if he wanted your words, you kept your mouth shut and instead frantically nodded, whimpers and whine leaving with every intoxicating crash of his pelvis. A seethed, another growl leaving him when you met him with silence. “Speak, you little slut. Settle this. Tell me!”

“God fucking dammit! You! I want you to make me fucking cum, Barber! Jesus fucking Christ!”

One last smack lit over your right cheek and your hips stalled, legs stiffened, and breath caught. A collection of moans, praises, curses, and cries left you, incoherent to you as you drowned in the alight pleasure that came from cumming on his massive cock.

Soon after, several deep, erratic thrusts carrying him towards his own climax, Barber’s hips stalled and he filled you further with hot, thick streams of spend. The sensation of his cum coating your walls shivered through you, your shoulders now strained as you listened to him come down.

He pulled out, fixed his pants, restrung his belt and untied your wrists. His casualness was so attractive, so routine even as you remained skirt-up and shirtless on his desk. It wasn’t processing that that had just happened; that Professor Barber had just fucked you – belted you – and you remained panting, feeling his cum linger out of you, all while he collected his bearings.

“My office hours end soon.” It wasn’t serious, his voice teasing yet stern. “You’ve learned your lesson, I trust?”

The smile you bit back was painful. He was funny, too, apparently. Finally opening your eyes, you stood from his desk and turned to face him, fixing your posture so your tits were on full display. Tracing your tongue over your bottom lip, you looked up at him and dragged a single hand up his chest. His jaw twitched, cheeks pink with sated pleasure, face framed with sweat-damp hair. He’d enjoyed himself just as much as you.

“I don’t know. I’m obviously not the best student. Maybe I need more teaching.”

Professor Barber’s face tightened as he tried to hide a smirk. He caught your wrist and dragged his thumb over the palm of your hand. “Oh, I know you will.”

“Was this my last class of the week, Professor?”

He couldn’t hide it any longer, eyes narrowing as his mouth quirked. He leaned in close, gripping tighter onto your arm. “So eager. Young. A little naïve, I think.” Your other hand went to dip into his pants, but he caught this one as well. “Definitely naïve.” He stood upright again, looking down at you through the intense dark crowding his eyes.

“Don’t schedule anything after my class on Monday. You’ll be… tied up.”

[bereft-of-frogs]

3. Do you have any upcoming WIPs? How far along are you with them? + 4: Tell me about one of your abandoned WIPs. Why did you abandon it? + 5: Share a snippet that you’re proud of from an upcoming fic/chapter. + 17: What has been the proudest moment for you so far since you started writing? ---- Sorry, i am very curious :D

Thanks for asking! Questions are from this list, if anyone wants to send any more!

3. Do you have any upcoming WIPs? How far along are you with them?

The two I’m currently focusing on out of my sea of WIPs are what I’m calling the ‘twin bastard WIPs’: aka, the grotesque fic and ‘variations on a redemption arc 1′. I’m calling them that because they’re both similar despite being in different fandoms. They’re both about the same length, they both deal with dark themes (including torture, always fun), there’s a lot of overwrought emotional conversations - and I was having the same problems with them. Specifically, I’d put them aside and let myself get distracted by other works and then when I picked them back up I would have like...the same series of revelations every single time. Like, ‘oh I should do this and this, and THIS is the real motivation for this character behind the mask.........wait I’ve already done this.’ So I decided to just focus on these two until they were finished, which is going...umm...okay.  (There was not a ‘variations on a redemption arc 2′ when I made this pledge and then wrote three pages of it in a notebook...)

I would say I should be done with both by the end of the summer? Hopefully? well, the grotesque fic has a deadline now and I’m making good progress on the other (though I have fight scenes left to write blegh I always procrastinate writing fight scenes).

4. Tell me about one of your abandoned WIPs. Why did you abandon it?

I rarely consider WIPs abandoned. Either they were never really WIPs to begin with, just snippets of ideas and dialogue I had no intention of expanding on in the first place, indulgent scenes I just wrote for myself, or I still have hope to finish them. Two slightly longer ones though that I would call abandoned:

- last year to combine a whumptober prompt with a bad things happen bingo square (hunting season + surrender) I started a Star Wars fic but the worldbuilding never came together and I subsequently learned there’s an arc of The Clone Wars that did almost the same thing (one day I will actually watch The Clone Wars....it is not this day, though I do have a friend who might bully me into it soon) so I just scrapped it.

- I had another earlier version of the ‘Team Revengers on the Ark’ type semi-episodic fic, but I ended up pilfering some individual scenes for ‘pain and other human sensations’ and I ended up liking where I went with that a lot better (even for things that didn’t affect the larger series plot, like the Grandmaster’s return) and never really cared to go back and continue this version

5. Share a snippet that you’re proud of from an upcoming fic/chapter.

from ‘variations on a redemption arc 1′

“You’ll let him die?”

The thought of it leaves him momentarily breathless. But he still says, “Yes. I would let him die a Jedi.”

Silence falls between them. Qui-Gon expects Dooku to leave. But he doesn’t.

“I cannot deny,” Dooku says after a few minutes of quiet. The roar of pain has dulled to a steady throb. “That once I would perhaps have answered as you did. That I would have perhaps had the sense of honor to let you die rather than fall. But I have watched too many Jedi cut down in service of a mission that failed long ago, and I will do it again.”

file this under, ‘willing to put up with writing 3 separate fight scenes because I am in love with this one exchange’

[additional note: the second ‘variations on a redemption arc’ isn’t actually a sequel but just another fic along the same lines, with some divergences, which is why I really want to finish this one first, because first of all I keep getting distracted and losing track of the complicated emotional and political motivations, but I also don’t want to mix up themes since they’re taking place at very different narrative points. it’s just a funny placeholder title haha, because the other day I was like ‘wait isn’t this just another variation on the same narrative’ and then was like ‘eh, two cakes’]

not from the grotesque fic, but the conclusion to an accidental trilogy about ghosts and hallucinations:

“You see, in this I preferred the old Thor. He’d spare me these sorts of conversations, bury it down deep and act as if nothing’s wrong.”

Thor’s gaze is level. “You’re asking me to act like nothing’s wrong?”

“Yes.” Loki would vastly prefer never to have this conversation. He’d much prefer that Thor dismiss any of his new oddities as simple quirks and let him suffer in silence until it all fades. He turns back to his counting. 5…10…15…20…

“I know you’d prefer to avoid this talk, but see, that’s what got us in this mess in the first place, brother.” Thor sounds weary. “I let you suffer in silence until it didn’t fade, until it all blew up in my face. And you ask me to do it again? To repeat history?”

Loki stops counting cans. He was certain that he had not said any of that out loud. He turns and opens his mouth, but before he can demand an explanation, Thor says, “How’s the inventory coming?”

Only the Thor he was looking at hadn’t said anything, and the voice came from behind him.

Loki turns. Thor stands in the doorway, looking at him with an innocent smile on his face. Loki glances back to the crate where his brother had been perched. It is empty. He turns back to the Thor in the doorway, face feeling very cold and something unpleasant in his stomach. “What?”

“How’s the inventory coming?” Thor asks, a bit slower this time.

This was just the first piece I wrote of this conclusion, still far from making any decent progress on it but I like it!

17. What has been the proudest moment for you so far since you started writing?

Tie between 1) any jokingly angry comment (like obviously not any actual nasty comments but the ones where people are like HURTS SO GOOD) 2) actually scratch that, when I finally got the first ‘you’re disgusting’ comment on one of my extremely rare actual Thorki fics, I was pretty proud of that too 3) any time I get to a place where I read back a fic of my that I’ve posted that hasn’t gotten a ton of comments or kudos and I’m like ‘hell yeah this is fire, I don’t care if the readers don’t appreciate you, fic, I appreciate you’. Which might sound sort of full of myself but it’s always a nice place to get to where it’s like...hey the validation is nice but also I just really like this work. wrote it for an audience of one, me, and me is happy so that’s a win.

Feel free anyone to send more asks! I will theoretically answer them at some point this evening as procrastination from actually writing

[emachinescat]

The Rich Girl Next Girl (Just Tried to Kill Me)

A Psych Fan-Fiction

By @emachinescat ​

@febuwhump ​ day 7 - poisoning 

Summary: Shawn will never complain about being ‘barely poisoned’ again after he’s ‘fully poisoned’ by a woman he’s investigating - via her poisoned lipstick and an non-consensual kiss.

Characters | Pairings: Shawn, Juliet, Henry, Gus, Lassie | Shawn/Juliet

Words: 3,199

TW: non-consensual kiss

Keep reading here, or on AO3!

If you enjoy, please consider liking, commenting, or re-blogging! :)

It was the beautiful ones you had to watch out for.  

She was tall and dark haired, with green eyes that twinkled like twin emeralds, and high cheekbones and plump lips colored with the most devastating red Shawn Spencer had ever laid eyes on.  She had squeezed into a tiny black dress with an open back and plunging neckline, with legs that seemed like they would go on forever.  She wore closed-toe, diamond-studded, four-inch heels that perfectly matched the color of her lips.  

Somehow Shawn had managed to charm her into asking him to be her date to a charity gala at the Santa Barbara Museum of Art, and he was very well aware of the many eyes on him as he moved through the crowd with her on his arm.

Well.  It would be more accurate to say that he was on her arm, because she was most definitely in charge, had been from the moment she’d picked him up her limo and she’d already had another, better tux waiting and pressed for him - and had refused to let him in the car until he’d made the switch.

She wasn’t only a total knockout, though - she was also a local celebrity, a socialite, born into enormous wealth but not the heir to the bulk of her late parents’ fortune.  That honor went to her older sister, who had, just a week ago, gotten into a terrible accident on her yacht.  Part of her had been recovered on the deck after the explosion.  The Coast Guard were still looking for the other part in the ocean.  They weren’t optimistic.

So now Aria Thorton, the twenty-seven-year-old millionaire goddess, was Shawn’s date to a high-end charity event, and they were the center of attention.  

Shawn should have been in heaven.

There were three things that dampened the occasion, though - for one, she thought he was a billionaire from two counties over named Chaz Hemsworth (no relation to Chris or Liam, but his rugged good looks and fabulous hair had made many people think he was).  

Then there was the fact that she was the SPBD’s number one suspect in her sister’s supposed-accident-but-Shawn-had-revealed-that-it-was-murder-yet-again case.  Hence, why she thought he was Chaz - he was undercover with the help of the police department, much to the chagrin of Lassie and Jules, because he was the best person for the job.  (Well, he had barged into the case and presented himself as Chaz Hemsworth, and she had been interested, and now he was the best chance they had since he was already on the inside and it was a time-sensitive case - just like he’d planned it).  

Oh, and the third thing was definitely the worst of them all: His actual girlfriend, the aforementioned Jules, was here too, acting as Lassiter’s date and ready to provide backup.  And she was pissed.  

Shawn forced himself to focus on the case, though.  Technically, he’d already solved it, put all the final puzzle pieces together, just half an hour before the gala.  But by that time, she was already at the luxury hotel the SBPD had reluctantly put him in as part of his cover (“Any snacks or room service ordered will be paid for by you, Mr. Spencer, not this department,” Chief Vick had warned with that iconic raised eyebrow of hers.  And no, she wasn’t going to sink funds into a ticket for Mr. Guster - Shawn had thrown himself into this investigation alone, so Gus would just have to sit this one out.  Needless to say, Gus had not been pleased.).  

Now, there were just a few more loose ends to tie, a few more t’s to cross and i’s to dot and little squiggly fancy things to add to capital S’s - namely, he needed to do the reveal.  And since Lassie and Jules would be at the gala anyway, it would be the perfect time to do the reveal (and he’d get to live it up as a male socialite for a few more hours).

He waited until he’d tested all the hors dourves (Why the hell had no one told him caviar was fish eggs and not really fancy boba, and that it did not taste good in even the fanciest of cocktails?), but as soon as the moment was perfect, he called everyone’s attention to him by accidentally-on-purpose smashing his cocktail glass with a knife a la the Princess Diaries, jumped onto the nearest table, and presented his case.

As he revealed the truth of the tragic death of Selena Thornton, and how her sister had taken freaking Skill Share lessons on yacht safety procedures so that she could backwards engineer them to arrange an accident for her sister and swoop up her portion of the inheritance, he noticed something odd - Aria didn’t try to get up, she didn’t argue or yell something like, “That’s ridiculous!” or “You have no proof!” or even “I would have gotten away with it, too, if it weren’t for you muddling, hunky psychic!”  Instead, she opened her shimmering handbag, calmly applied some sort of thick balm to her lips.  Then she pulled out her lipstick and reapplied it.  Maybe if Shawn hadn’t been so focused on his wrap-up, he would have noticed that the lipstick was the same shade, but that it came from a different tube than when she’d reapplied earlier.  Later, in his hospital bed, he would kick himself for missing that tiny, crucial detail.

He finished by announcing, “And remember, folks - this murder reveal was brought to you by Skill Share.”

And then he was getting off the table, and Jules was preparing the cuffs while Lassie held Aria, and the rest of the rich guests were sitting in stunned silence or otherwise whispering among themselves, already spreading the gossip for the next Tabloid, he was sure.  Then, out of nowhere, the formerly docile homicidal heiress lashed out, slamming the pointed heel of her left shoe - it looked like the heel had been shoved into a pencil sharpener - into the top of Lassie’s foot, buried the elbow of her perfectly tanned right arm into Juliet’s stomach, and broke away from the detectives.

Shawn thought she would turn tail and run, try to escape, but to his shock (and confusion), she lunged straight for him, zooming forward in those ridiculous heels with a speed and grace Shawn couldn’t even achieve with sneakers.  He braced himself for an attack, got ready to defend himself, even as Lassie and Jules recovered and dove for the sabotaging socialite.

They were too late.

What happened next was the literal opposite of what Shawn had anticipated.  She crushed her body into his, grabbed his face the way they do in every rom com ever, and pressed her lips against his in a kind of tender but still somehow aggressive kiss.

For a moment, he stood in shock, trying to process what the hell was happening.  Was she glad he’d caught her?  Did she look forward to being stripped of her wealth and going to prison for life?

Then he realized that as pleasant as her soft lips were against his, he had not authorized this transaction, and even though she was a rich, drop-dead gorgeous socialite, she was also a sister-killer, and his girlfriend whom he loved very much was watching, and he pulled back.  She held on, forcing her lips on his even as he tried to squirm away from her touch.  Her expertly manicured fingernails dug into his skin, and left scratches on the side of his neck when Lassie and Jules dragged her off of him.

Shawn stumbled back, neck stinging where she’d scratched him, lips tingling where she’d kissed him.  He could taste her lipstick - it didn’t taste like cherries like he’d thought.  It didn’t taste good at all.  He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and spun on Aria Thorton, who was now being wrestled into cuffs and passed off to waiting police officers.  “Hey, I know I’m irresistible,” he said, trying to fight off his growing discomfort at the kiss - any other time, he’d probably be thrilled to have a beautiful woman throw herself at him and surprise him with an attack-kiss, “but I’ve got a girlfriend.  And she’s way more hot and bad-ass than a homi-sister like you.”

Jules turned to him and there was a little smile on her face that told him maybe he wasn't as deep in the doghouse as he'd thought.  “Homi-sister?”  

“Yeah,” said Shawn, rubbing absently at his chest.  He needed to change out of this tux.  It was too hot, and it was too tight.  “Sister-murderer.  Like homicide, but for sisters.”

“Sororicide,” Lassiter corrected.  

“I’m sorry, Lassie, when did you take on the role of Scooby Doo?  I can only keep up with one fictional dog at a time, man.”  Beads of sweat popped up on his forehead.  A muscle twitched in his upper arm.

“It’s the actual term for killing one’s sister,” Lassie sneered derisively.

Shawn opened his mouth to retort, but he coughed instead.   And suddenly he couldn't stop coughing, and his chest was being squeezed, and the muscle in his arm jumped again, this time painfully, and he promptly deposited a disgusting mixture of fourteen varieties of hors dourves on Lassiter’s shoes.  A strong hand grabbed his upper arm and kept him semi-upright even as Lassiter groaned, “These are $400 loafers, and they’re rentals!”

“Shawn!”  Juliet’s face had gone white, Shawn noticed through tears and haze as she surged forward and gently lifted his chin with her delicate hand.  

He struggled to answer her, but his chest was so tight, and his left calf muscle contracted then, and all that came out was a strangled cry of pain.

“Call an ambulance - now!”  Lassiter’s voice was far away, though Shawn could have sworn that the head detective was standing right by his side, keeping him from face-planting in his own caviar and cocktail sludge.

Vaguely, over the sound of screams and murmurs and cries of alarm, he heard Juliet’s voice, scarier than he’d ever heard it before - he’d never been so convinced she was about to murder someone before - growl, “What did you do to him?”

He never got the chance to hear if Aria Thornton gave up her dark little secret.  His eyes rolled up into his head, and, muscles twitching and lungs scrambling for air, he passed out.

***

He woke up to pain.

It was a slow process, getting his eyelids to cooperate, but he could feel a soft hand in his, and he would know it anywhere, and someone was crying.

When his vision had cleared enough for him to make out more than just blobs of color, he saw Juliet sitting slumped in a hard plastic chair by his bedside.  Sure enough, it was her hand in his.  But she was fast asleep, her neck crooked back at an awkward angle and small, adorable snores wafting out of her slightly parted lips.  So it wasn’t her who was crying.

His gaze dragged languidly to the right, and everything made sense.  Gus was in the chair next to her, quietly sobbing into his hands.  Poor bastard.  

Shawn spoke, his voice raw and trembling and the effort seemed to squeeze every bit of air out of his already starved lungs.  “G-Gus?”

Gus’s head snapped up, he leaped out of his chair, and in a loud voice reminiscent to an all-black hallelujah choir, he exclaimed, “Shawn!”

Juliet startled awake, her hand instinctively squeezing his, and he saw the worry in her stormy blue eyes as soon as they landed on him.  She smoothed his sweaty hair from his forehead.  “Thank God you’re awake.  How are you feeling?”

Shawn didn’t answer immediately, but let his eyes wander around the room, confirming what he already knew.  He was in a hospital - a private room - and there was a heart monitor beeping above him and an IV lead ran from his hand to a pole, where two different bags were feeding his veins with who knew what.  He took a moment to remember what had happened and shuddered internally when he thought of the kiss of death.  

It took everything he had in him to speak again, but he had to know where he stood, “S-so, more than b-barely poisoned this time?”

Juliet laughed, a short, manic sound of mingled relief and exasperation.  “Yeah, a lot more than barely,” she agreed.

Shawn didn’t get to enjoy his moment of validation, because his left pectoral muscle spasmed, knocking the air out of his lungs and sending bolts of agony through his chest.  It was like the muscle was twisting itself into the most complex pretzel known to man.  An agonized guuuh burst from his mouth and he grasped at his chest, as if trying to tear the pain away.

Gus was panicking now, tears still streaming down his face, and Jules looked stricken.  Shawn was certain he was actively dying now and tried to call for help.  The door to his room burst open and distantly, beneath the mound of pain that had erupted in his muscle, he heard his father’s voice.

“Jules - it looks like it’s his chest.  Massage it.  Remember, small, gentle circles.  Gus, pull it together, you’re just making him panic.”  And then he could feel Jules gently massaging the screaming muscle, and Gus hiccuped into relative silence, and his father was there, seated in a chair on the other side of the bed.  He grabbed Shawn’s hand - the one with the IV - and for a wild moment, Shawn was convinced his father was going to rip it out like he had the last time his son had been poisoned.

But instead, he held on firmly to Shawn’s hand and said, “Squeeze as hard as you need to, pal.  Ride it out.  It’ll be over soon.”

The heart monitor was screeching now, and a nurse ran in just as the spasm was beginning to ebb, leaving the entire muscle feeling weak and squishy like play-doh.  She injected something into one of Shawn’s IV bags and checked his temperature and fed him ice chips and told him to try to rest and be patient, that it wouldn’t be long until the spasms would stop.  She might have told him her name at some point, but he didn’t hear.

Whatever she’d given him made him sleepy, and he felt his twitching, tense muscles relax the tiniest of fractions, and the last thing he saw before falling asleep was his father’s face leaning over him.  He must have been hallucinating, because he could have sworn that his father’s eyes were red and puffy and that there were tear-tracks down his face.

***

The next time Shawn woke up, he was still sore, and his muscles still gave the occasional, defiant twitch, but he wasn’t in blood-curdling agony anymore, so it was a definite improvement.  This time when he woke, no one was crying, and his dad had washed his face, but his eyes were still rimmed with red.

“What happened to me?” Shawn asked, his voice weaker than he could ever remember.  “What the hell was in that lipstick?”

His dad chuckled humorlessly, not because anything was funny but because it wasn’t crying.  “You figured out it was the lipstick, then?”

“I’m psychic, dad, remember?”  Shawn had put the pieces together the first time he’d woken up, but he’d been too out of it to realize he’d made the connection.

Henry didn’t dignify that with a response.

“I can’t believe you went to a millionaire’s gala and almost died, Shawn!” Gus chided irritably.  “If I had been there -”

“You would have hyperventilated and passed out on your plate of hor dourves,” Henry finished dryly, and Shawn couldn’t help but grin.

Juliet was the one who brought the conversation back around to his question.  “She refused to talk, so we took her purse and had her fingernail polish, lip balm, and lipstick tested for toxins,” she informed him.  “We thought that she might have done it when she scratched you, but it was the lipstick that was poisoned.  The lip balm was actually a protective buffer between her lips and the lipstick so that the poison wouldn’t reach her skin.”  With a heavy sigh, Juliet revealed, “It was VX poison.”

“What’s that?” Shawn asked.  “It sounds like something from a spy thriller.”

“It’s a nerve agent,” Gus supplied.  “It can be made into gas, but it’s base form is about the consistency of gasoline.  It’s super fast-acting, especially when inhaled or ingested, even in small amounts like with you, and it causes muscle spasms, respiratory issues, nausea, headaches, fever, and a whole lot of other nasty symptoms.”

“But there’s a cure?”

“Atropine and pralidoxime,” Gus answered promptly, and Shawn resisted the very strong urge to tell his best friend to, for the love of every 80s movie they’d ever loved, get a hobby.  “Both were administered the second the results came back.  It was a close call, but thankfully they were administered on time - though it was touch and go for a bit.  The nurse gave you another dose of a muscle relaxer the first time you woke up.  The other drip is saline.”

“I guess the real question is how the psychotic rich girl next door got ahold of poison like that in the first place,” Shawn muttered, head swimming and eyes burning and body feeling like it had been run over by a monster truck.

Juliet answered promptly: “Lassiter was finally able to crack her.  Turns out she’s also got some contacts in the black market.  She had that tube of lipstick custom-made and infused with VX two years ago in case any of her many boyfriends cheated on her.  Surprisingly, she hadn’t used it until you came along, but when you exposed the truth, it was her way of getting revenge.   She knew there was no way she was going to be able to escape, so she decided to take you down with her.”

“Damn,” said Shawn, faintly.  He was drifting off again, but he was so happy to be alive, to see his friends - even his dad, imagine that! 

“Go back to sleep, Shawn,” Henry ordered.  “It’s going to take a while for you to heal, and you’ll need all the rest you can get.”

Not knowing what had come over him, blaming the poison and trauma for the words that spilled unbidden from his lips, he found himself asking, “And you guys will be here?  Next time I wake up?”  

Gus grinned and leaned over to give Shawn a one-sided fist bump, and Juliet kissed him delicately on the forehead.  His dad ruffled his hair in a manner that could almost be construed as affectionate if he wasn’t careful.

“You bet your ass we will.”

Overall, Shawn reflected as he allowed sleep to claim him, being fully poisoned fully sucked, but it was kind of nice getting a glimpse of just how much his friends and family cared. 

They could find other opportunities to show their love in the future though. Shawn had had enough of poison, barely, fully, or otherwise, for a lifetime. 

[tripleaxeldiaz]

subtle as a brick in the small of my back

Eddie’s proposing to Buck. The whole team finds out first. It goes about as well as expected (not well at all)

Or: 5 times the team almost blows Eddie’s cover, and 1 time it’s already blown

read on ao3

In retrospect, Eddie really did this to himself.

But, in his defense, he had to tell Maddie — she was Buck’s sister, his only blood relative, and the only one who would honestly tell him if the ring was horribly ugly. And he had to tell Bobby — the guy was practically Buck’s step-father, and he wanted to avoid any possible lecture from his mother about not being “considerate” or “chivalrous” when it came to asking a man’s pseudo son to marry him.

He should have known, however, that it wasn’t just telling those two — he should have known it was telling Bobby, who would tell Athena, who would tell Hen, who would tell Chimney, who had already heard it from Maddie, and who was now practically skipping around the firehouse announcing it to everyone else.

Eddie watches from the kitchen as Chim flits around like a damn bumblebee spreading the good news about Buck and Eddie’s pending engagement. He’s not a holy man, but he prays to whoever is listening that Buck doesn’t find out until Eddie actually gets to ask him himself.

Whoever hears him has the worst sense of humor.

Buck and Eddie don’t like to be apart after bad calls.

This one could have been worse — four car pile up in the carpool lane with three critical injuries, all kids. They were in the ICU and expected to make full recoveries, but it’s still not easy pulling mangled bodies the same size as Christoper out of wrecked cars.

They sat close in the truck coming back to the station, thighs pressed together, shoulders overlapping. They changed together in the locker room, never far away enough that they couldn’t feel the others’ warmth. They climbed the stairs together to the lounge, Eddie’s hand around Buck’s wrist, making sure he stayed upright until they could fall onto the couch.

They’re better now, overall. They checked in with Carla and Chris (who were apparently in the process of an intricate arts and crafts project that required hot glue and a pound of glitter. Eddie can’t wait to clean that out of the house for the next 10 years). The TV in the lounge is softly playing a rerun of Chopped. Eddie is sitting in the corner of the couch, feet on the coffee table, fingers running through Buck’s short hair where his head is settled in his lap. His other hand rests on Buck’s chest, right over his heart, and he listens to Buck’s critical commentary of each chef’s use of ingredients. They know the bell will probably ring in the next 15 minutes and they’ll be right back in the truck, but for now they sink into this brief moment of peace.

Eddie’s so focused on the show and Buck’s apparently extensive knowledge of ways to prepare salmon that he doesn’t even notice Bobby coming over until the couch dips as he sits down.

“You boys doing okay?” he asks, a soft smile on his lips. Buck adjusts to see him better, sitting up to lean on Eddie’s chest, Eddie’s arm slung over his shoulder.

“Yeah, we’re good. Chris has a surprise craft for us when we get home, though I think the mess he makes will be more surprising than anything else.”

Eddie huffs out a laugh, craning his neck to kiss the crown of Buck’s head. When he looks back at Bobby, the look the captain has on his face seems...sentimental. A little too sentimental, if Eddie’s being honest.

Buck must notice it too. He cocks his head and asks, “Are you okay Cap? You’re lookin’ a little misty over there.”

Bobby smiles and shakes his head, eyes shining. “I’m good, kid. Just...really excited for you guys.”

Eddie narrows his eyes. That’s a weird thing to say.

“Excited?” Buck asks, cocking his head even more. “What, that we didn’t get crushed on the highway?”

Bobby laughs. “Well yeah, of course. But also, you know, just excited that you guys have each other to lean on in the bad times like this. And you’ll have each other for a really long time. Forever, hopefully.”

Now Eddie’s eyes are wide in panic. Seriously? You’ll have each other for a really long time? He gives Bobby a look over Buck’s head that hopefully reads as If you don’t stop talking right now I’ll spray you with the hose and I won’t even feel bad about it.

Buck — beautiful, slightly oblivious Buck — just turns to look at Eddie, a smile lighting up his face (a relief to see after the past few hours). “Yeah, I’m pretty excited about that too.”

Eddie melts a little, returning Buck’s smile. Before he can fully respond, the bell rings, and Buck jumps to his feet. He stretches, shaking off any lingering cobwebs of their last call before heading into another one. He kisses Eddie’s cheek as he passes to head to the stairs.

He watches him bound down to the truck, still smiling, before turning to Bobby with narrowed eyes again.

“I’m pretty sure my 11 year old is better at being subtle than you are.”

Bobby claps his shoulder as he follows Buck to the stairs. “Don’t worry, I don’t think he noticed anything. Consider that a precursor to my speech at the wedding.”

Eddie sighs, hopes he’s right, and follows the team to the truck.

~~~~~~~~~~

Eddie stares at Maddie’s kitchen island in the same awestruck confusion he usually has on Buffridays. This week’s spread consists of lasagna, garlic knots, summer rolls, banh mi, tacos, and what he’s pretty sure is fried cheesecake. He feels Buck come up next to him, hip checking him as he gets one of everything on his plate before returning to the couch to pick their movie for the night. Eddie follows suit, skipping the cheesecake but promising he’ll come back later, before dropping down next to his boyfriend, who immediately turns and gives him a quick peck on the temple.

Eddie does not blush and smile like an idiot, despite this being a regular thing that has occurred for the entire two year duration of their relationship. He doesn’t. He’s totally used to how much and how openly Buck loves him. It’s fine.

Maddie walks over while they bicker about what movie to watch and sits on Buck’s other side. She clears her throat, halting their argument between Booksmart and Heathers, and pulls something out of her pocket.

Buck turns toward her and freezes. Eddie looks over as well and sees her holding a scrap of dark blue fabric. It’s inky and rich and speckled with white dots, almost like…

“The Milky Way Dress? Maddie, I can’t believe you still have this, why—”

“I finally got around to cleaning out the last of my boxes, pretty much a bunch of old stuff I was not ready to deal with when I left.” She smiles, wistful and a little sad. “I found this and just thought it was time to pass it on to you.”

Buck’s in shock, Eddie can tell. His eyes are wide and his mouth hangs open like it did the first time Christopher referred to the two of them as “his dads”, or like it did when Eddie told him that he wanted to spend the rest of their lives together (and no that was not a proposal, Eddie was hopped up on drugs after falling off a second story roof at a call. He barely remembers it, save for the look on Buck’s face. Doesn’t count.).

Buck takes the fabric reverently, turning it in his hands and running it through his fingers. He turns to Eddie, a soft smile on his face, and Eddie places his hand on his thigh reassuringly. He can tell there’s a story, and he’s happy to wait until Buck’s ready to share.

“This is— wow. So my grandma was one of the main people who raised me, along with Maddie. And she was crazy in the best way, very Miss Frizzle. She used to make all her own clothes with crazy fabric, and she always made me a matching shirt or belt or something. She got this Milky Way fabric once, and I was just obsessed with it, I wouldn’t shut up about it. So she went all out — she made me a shirt, a belt, a tie, a damn suit out of the stuff. I wore them as much as humanly possible for the next few years before my parents ‘accidentally’ donated them away.”

“You wore that suit for picture day until you were 13,” Maddie reminds him.

“Yeah, exactly.” Buck laughs wetly, wiping at his eyes. “But Grandma loved it as much as I did and always wore the matching dress when I came to visit. When she died when I was 16, she made it very clear in her will that she wanted to be buried in that dress. And Maddie, genius that she is, cut some scraps off the dress so we could always have a part of her. I lost mine in one of my billion moves, but now…”

“I kept part of this scrap too, but I wanted to give most of it to you,” Maddie says. “I know how close you two were. I used it as my ‘something old’ and ‘something blue’ at my wedding, so I figured you could use it too for...I don’t know, something. Down the line.”

She catches Eddie’s eye in a silent apology. He’s glad she caught herself because he’s still a little too wrapped up in watching Buck relive all these obviously happy memories to register much of anything else going on.

He watches Buck for a little longer as he folds the fabric back up, placing it in his back pocket. He turns and wraps his sister in a patented Buckley Bear Hug, laughing as he kisses the top of her head.

“Thank you, Mads. Seriously, this is...perfect. It’s just perfect.”

“Of course, I’m just glad I found it for you. And seriously, don’t lose it. I have a feeling you’re going to need it soon.” She pats his cheek fondly, sending a not so sly wink to Eddie.

Eddie somehow manages to keep his groan in his head as Buck settles between them again, picking up the remote.

“Alright gang, I really think the only way we’ll be able to balance out all this sappy stuff is with the glorious violence of Heathers…”

~~~~~~~~~~

Laughter erupts as soon as Eddie gets to the front door of the Grant-Nash house, so he waits a minute before knocking. The door swings open, and he’s greeted by the sounds of soft jazz, the smells of home cooking, and the vision of his boyfriend looking happy, relaxed, and definitely buzzed.

“Ah, my knight in shining armor, come to fetch me away!” Buck smiles his lopsided smile as he lets Eddie in and kisses him soundly. He tastes like Merlot and chocolate and just Buck. Eddie’s pretty sure he can get drunk off that taste alone.

“More like your chauffeur in a shining Silverado, but being a knight sounds much more fun.” Buck falls into a fit of giggles, his head collapsing onto Eddie’s shoulder, and Eddie can’t help but laugh along with him. Few things fill him with as much joy as seeing Buck so unabashedly happy, and he’ll relish in it for as long as he can, whenever he can.

Buck grabs his hand and pulls him towards the kitchen. “Come sit, Athena said she has some wedding stuff for me before we go.”

Eddie’s stomach drops past his feet, possibly all the way to the center of the earth.

His internal monologue goes off the rails — dammit he should have asked by now, none of the big romantic plans he’s come up with seem good enough so he just keeps waiting, but maybe since it’s all ruined he’ll just do it tomorrow morning when they’re eating breakfast or tomorrow night after they put Chris to bed, and Jesus Christ he should never tell any of their friends anything ever again—

Pull it together, Diaz. Be chill. Maybe it’s nothing. Of all people, Athena would never break a secret so easily. She’s a cop for crying out loud.

“Wedding stuff?” he asks in a voice way too squeaky to ever be considered “chill”.

Thankfully, alcohol is an exceptional buffer to Buck noticing Eddie in a full on crisis. He turns to him with bright eyes and says, “Yeah, for Maddie! She told Athena she’s been dropping hints to Chim for a while now and thinks he’ll pop the question soon. She wants to get a jump start on things so they can have the wedding by the end of the year.”

Well now he’s pissed for an entirely different reason.

Before he can hit send on a text to Chim — what the hell dude are you trying to steal my thunder??? — Athena comes back to the table with three boxes full of binders, pamphlets, and fabric samples. Eddie stands to help, and she gives him a look he can’t quite read before flashing a smile at Buck.

“This should be everything Bobby had. There’s lists of venues with how many people they hold and how much they charge for food. There’s samples for place settings, centerpieces, and decorations. And there’s lists of bakeries for the cake, plus what allergies they can cater to and price estimates. I hope to God there are no other boxes but if there are, I’ll let you know.”

“Wow,” Buck marvels as he flips through a book of flower arrangements. “Bobby really doesn’t half-ass anything, does he?”

Athena chuckles as she finishes the last of her wine. “No he does not. Sometimes it’s a gift, sometimes it’s a curse that clutters up my closet for three years.”

“Well thanks very much Athena, I know Maddie will be thrilled to not plan a second wedding completely from scratch.” He hugs her tight and kisses her cheek before grabbing a box and heading to the door. “I’ll keep these safe for her until Chim gets his ass in gear. Babe, can you get the other two?”

Eddie’s already in the process of grabbing them before Buck finishes his question. He smiles soft and bright when he sees, kissing Eddie’s temple. “You really are my knight in shining armor.”

Eddie’s sure he’s got hearts in his eyes as he watches Buck leave and load up the truck. He’s only able to turn away when he feels Athena come up next to him.

“Speaking of getting asses in gear…”

“I know,” Eddie sighs. “I’m working on it. I just...it needs to be perfect. That’s what he deserves.”

“Honey, it’ll be perfect because it’s you asking. That’s all he cares about. Don’t think too hard about it.”

“Well looks like I have to do it sooner rather than later anyway. I cannot believe Chim’s gonna—”

“Oh, he’s not.”

Eddie squints. “He’s not?”

“No, those are for you guys, not Maddie. I really needed them out of the house and didn’t know how long I’d be waiting.” She levels Eddie with a look again, and he somehow feels like he’s 16 and his mom wasn’t “mad” at him for doing something dumb, just “disappointed”. “I already gave Maddie a heads up so she’ll play along. Just try to ask him before we all start going grey, okay?”

“Yes ma’am.” She smiles and pats his cheek before leading him out the door.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Wow, I don’t think I’ve seen these in person since I was in high school,” Buck says as Hen sits down across from him at the kitchen table, dropping a bunch of small, thick packages Eddie can’t quite see from his post at the coffee machine.

He blearily grabs the two cups of coffee he made, making his way over to the table. He places one mug in front of Buck, earning him a relieved smile and wink as he sits down, looking over to see what Hen brought in. The table is covered in developed pictures from old disposable cameras, dozens of glossy frames of people in suits and cocktail dresses laughing, a beautiful dessert table, something that looks suspiciously like a conga line.

“Are these from an old LAFD gala or something?” Eddie asks as Buck snorts out a laugh. He holds a picture up so Eddie can see Chimney with a tie around his head, perched on someone’s shoulders, yelling at something out of frame. “Oh that’s definitely getting blown up to poster size.”

“Actually,” Hen says, “these are from mine and Karen’s wedding.”

Eddie freezes mid sip of coffee, eyes snapping to Hen, who just stares back at him with feigned innocence and barely concealed glee. Hen’s smart, smarter than all of them put together, and while he knows she won’t tell Buck anything outright, he also knows she is thoroughly enjoying this opportunity to make Eddie squirm.

“Whoa,” Buck says. “There’s got to be at least a thousand pictures here. How’d you get so many in one night?”

“We had a few cameras on every table and told the guests to go nuts. We have some professional shots of the reception, but we wanted to see it how everyone else saw it too. And we decided to wait until our 10 year anniversary to get them developed so we could have a little walk down memory lane.”

“Huh, that’s a pretty good idea,” Buck murmurs thoughtfully, still absorbed in all the pictures in front of him. Eddie agrees, the cameras are a great idea, and he tucks that into the filing cabinets of his brain to use when they have their wedding.

If they ever have their wedding.

Eddie’s working on it. Really. He’s got the skeleton of a plan that will be beautiful and romantic and not too big, but big enough that Buck will know without a doubt how much Eddie loves him. So it’ll be soon, okay? Very soon. As long as someone doesn’t ruin everything before his plan can actually get set into motion.

He sees Hen’s smile get bigger, like she can see Eddie’s brain starting to overheat a little.

She leans over the table, pointing to one of the pictures. “I also recommend doing a dessert table instead of a big ugly cake. You can do a bunch of good stuff too like cupcakes, pie, we just went to a wedding with a candy bar…”

“A candy bar!?” Buck looks at Eddie like a kid on Christmas, and Eddie files that idea away too (while also noting that he’ll have to remind Buck that they probably can’t only have gummy worms at a candy bar).

“And you guys should definitely have a live band, they’re much better at getting people to dance than a DJ.”

Eddie clocks the “you guys” and starts sweating a little more. Hen notices too, eyes widening at Eddie like she knows she went a little too far.

Buck, by some miracle, still seems caught up in the fantasy of a 12-foot table covered in gummy worms.

He looks at Hen, eyebrows furrowed. “You don’t think a DJ is better? I feel like they have way better music usually. Live bands have, like, the same seven songs, and one of them is always ‘Footloose’.”

They continue to debate the pros and cons as Eddie stands to put his mug in the sink, squeezing Buck’s shoulder as he passes. Buck grabs his hand, kissing the inside of his wrist before letting him go, all without breaking conversation on whether “Shout!” or “The Macarena” is a more annoying song. Eddie’s stomach flutters like it always does with Buck’s absentminded displays of affection, but the butterflies also seem to be saying It’s time to get your shit together and ask this man for his hand in marriage, idiot.

Eddie closes his eyes, resting his head on the cabinet above the sink.

The butterflies are right. A little rude, but still right.

~~~~~~~~~~

Eddie knew Chimney was going to be the hardest loose end to round up.

He had stood at the top of the stairs, arms crossed, as Chim came up after telling the station (and probably the entire city of Los Angeles) that Eddie and Buck were getting engaged. “Chim, man, look—”

“No worries, Eddie,” Chim said, holding a hand up to cut Eddie off. “Cross my heart, I will not say a word to Buck. I’m sure you have something big and sappy in the works, and I will not be the person to screw that up.”

Eddie deflated a bit, still eyeing Chim warily. Chim just smiled back, clapping a hand on his shoulder and squeezing reassuringly. “Look, I’m so, so happy for you guys. You’ve both been through the ringer and still managed to find each other and create a beautiful life for yourselves. You guys really deserve it, and I—” He cleared his throat as his eyes filled with tears. He opened his mouth like he wanted to keep going, but he pulled Eddie into a tight hug instead.

“Thanks Chim, that’s...that’s really sweet.” Eddie felt his voice crack around the lump in his throat as he patted his friend on the back. They pulled away, laughing quietly and wiping their eyes.

“Plus,” Chimney said, punching Eddie softly on the shoulder, “we’re basically in-laws now, so there’s definitely a bro code. Add that to the firefighter bro code, and I’m double coded, man.”

“So you’ll...double keep the secret?”

“Exactly.” Chim patted his back as he walked toward the kitchen. Eddie watched him go, still trying to put together the double code thing that was definitely not actually a thing.

In his own weird way, Chim had seemed sincere in keeping his mouth shut. Eddie really thought that had been that.

That had most certainly not been that.

Because since Chim couldn’t let out his excitement with words, he had to let it out in other ways.

Namely, tears. An ungodly amount of tears.

The whole team is in the lounge, flipping channels until they land on Say Yes to the Dress. Chim blinks at the TV, then whips his head to where Buck and Eddie are squished together on the couch. Eddie catches his gaze, watching his eyes begin to water before he’s up and running down the stairs. Hen barks out a laugh and tries to hide it in a cough. Bobby shakes his head and looks toward the sky, either asking God for strength or to smite him where he sits.

They’re at the kitchen table early in the morning, heads bent together as Buck shows Eddie a TikTok on his phone (Eddie doesn’t get the deal with these things, but they make Buck laugh so hard he snorts so he’ll allow it). They’re startled by a strangled sob from across the room and look up to see Chim rushing past them to the coffee machine rubbing his eyes, his shoulders still shaking as he adds milk to his mug. Buck shoots Eddie a confused look, and Eddie just shrugs helplessly before shooting a death glare to the back of Chim’s head.

Buck and Chim are chatting in the locker room when Eddie arrives for shift, dropping his bag next to Buck and giving him a quick peck hello on the cheek. Buck smiles at him, reaching up to push back a lock of hair that had fallen on Eddie’s forehead in his hustle to be on time (he’s growing his hair out again because he likes it that way, okay, not because Buck told him he looked like a sexy Superman when it was longer). They turn back to Chim in time to see tears begin to fall in earnest, which he quickly blames on allergies before scooting past them and out of the room.

“Is Chim like...good?” Buck asks, watching Chim walk away blowing his nose in his shirt. All Eddie had done was smile (probably a little dreamily) at some dumb joke Buck made, but that was enough apparently.

“He’s fine,” Eddie replies quickly. “He’s just...you know. Going through it. I guess.”

Bobby snorts from behind the stove as he flips a grilled cheese.

Buck sighs. “Should we remind him about therapy at least? I’m just worried he’s gonna be perpetually dehydrated or something.”

“I don’t know if therapy is what he needs,” Bobby says, looking pointedly at Eddie. Eddie throws a napkin at him.

Buck turns to Bobby confused but is quickly distracted by the hot sandwich placed in front of him. They launch into a debate on the best combination of cheese for a grilled cheese, Chim’s hydration levels seemingly forgotten.

Luckily for everyone, they’re almost in the clear. Reservations have been made, Chris’s sleeping arrangements have been confirmed, and Eddie’s even picked out an outfit. Everything is finally ready.

Eddie’s excited, more excited than he can remember being in a very long time, possibly since Christopher was born.

He also feels like he’s gonna hurl.

Hopefully that’s a good sign.

~~~~~~~~~~

He settled on recreating their first official date. It’s just cheesy enough that Buck will get a kick out of telling the story over and over and simple enough that Eddie can handle everything without involving one single other person.

It’s really nothing crazy: dinner at their favorite Italian restaurant and watching the sunset on the beach, brown bagging a bottle of wine like they’re in college. Eddie even knows what he’s going to say already, going over it again and again in his head so he can get everything out perfectly.

That first date, Eddie had accidentally told Buck he loved him. He hadn’t planned on it at all, but the words had been bubbling under his skin for so long at that point it was a relief to get them out in the open. He was immediately terrified he had said them too fast, too soon, but Buck simply pushed him back into the sand and kissed him soft and sincere, more teeth than anything once they both gave up on holding back their smiles.

He doesn’t want to be so caught off guard by his own brain this time. Not for something this important.

But that all has to wait until tomorrow.

Tonight, Chris is with Abuela (who slyly offered to keep him all weekend so Eddie and Buck could “celebrate properly”, which Eddie was both thankful for and mortified by, hearing from his grandma), they had ordered Chinese, and are now watching a movie that (blessedly) has no cartoon characters randomly bursting into song.

It’s normal, domestic, something they do at least once a week.

And yet Eddie feels like his skin is on fire, his heart beating so fast he’s sure it’ll break through his ribs at any moment.

He’s looking at Buck, feels his chest on his back, his strong arm around his shoulders, drawing absent-minded shapes across his chest as his attention is focused on Bill and Ted meeting Rufus in the phone booth for the first time. The light of the TV highlights Buck’s jaw and cheekbones, casts an ethereal glow on his unkempt curls. He laughs at something, a rumble deep in his chest, head tipping back slightly exposing the long line of his neck.

He’s beautiful. Stunning, inside and out. The most amazing thing that has ever deemed Eddie worthy of attention and love, aside from his son.

And if he doesn’t ask him to be his forever right now, this minute, he’s absolutely going to explode.

He’s off the couch and striding toward the bedroom before his brain even tries to stop him. He hears Buck faintly call, “Baby? Are you okay?” but is too busy rifling through his sock drawer to answer. He holds the blue velvet box firmly in his hand and takes a deep breath.

He had been waiting and planning and trying his damnedest to keep this all under wraps so by the time he asked, everything would be perfectly romantic and swoon-worthy, a story they could tell their kids and grandkids and great-grandkids to inspire them to find a love like theirs. A moment so perfect that there would be no doubts about how desperately Eddie needs Buck in his life until he’s buried in the ground, and probably even after that. Buck deserves to know that Eddie would go to the ends of the earth to make him happy, have it spelled out in the stars just how deeply he makes Eddie feel loved and safe, and that he’d do anything to make sure Buck feels that in return, always.

But, really, they’ve never been perfect. They’re messy sometimes, and gritty. Too loud or too soft or too much or not enough. They push and pull at each other in good and bad ways, sometimes too far, but sometimes just enough that they come out even better together and apart than they were before.

They’ve never been conventional. So why bother starting now?

When he comes back to the living room, Buck is standing, movie paused, worrying at his hands as he watches Eddie walk in. He freezes as Eddie comes up to him before sinking to one knee, eyes widening as the box opens, revealing a simple, black, titanium band.

And then he’s laughing. Full body, shoulders shaking, like Eddie getting ready to bare his heart and soul to him is the funniest damn thing in the world.

Before he can dive too deeply into his wounded pride, Buck’s kneeling too, placing his hands on either cheek, eyes bright with a little mischief and a lot of love as he says, “It’s about damn time, Diaz.”

Eddie blinks, feels his shoulders slump a little. He wishes he was surprised, but he’s really not.

“Who told you?”

“Oh, no one told me, like, specifically. But Maddie finding our grandma’s dress? And Athena conveniently having all of their old wedding planning stuff? Plus, Chim hasn’t been able to look at me without crying for weeks. I don’t know if you know this, but our friends are really bad at being low key.”

Oh, Eddie knows. He had just been hoping (in vain, it seems) that Buck didn’t.

He breathes out a laugh and shakes his head, leaning into Buck’s hands still framing his face. “Well, can I at least do my speech? I have it memorized and everything. It was supposed to be for tomorrow, but…” He gestures vaguely, encompassing the whole, beautiful mess this has turned into.

“Of course you can,” Buck says, his smile growing by the second. “But hurry up, because I can’t wait to marry the shit out of you.”

And who is Eddie to argue with that?

He takes one of Buck’s hands, squeezing tight. He already knows the answer, but that doesn’t make him any less nervous.

“Evan Buckley, you are the most amazing man I have ever met in my life, and probably the most annoying.” Buck laughs again at that, and Eddie feels all of his insides swoop, his heart filling with so much adoration it’s probably about to crack. “You are unendingly selfless, unbelievably headstrong, kind and gentle, but would kill a man for the people you love without thinking twice. You have shown me more about what it means to love and be loved than I ever thought I could know. You are also responsible for about 75% of my grey hairs.” They’re both crying now, not even bothering to wipe the tears away, wearing them like badges of honor for each other. “You make me a better firefighter, a better friend, a better father, and a better man. I want to spend the rest of my life making sure you know how much I love you, every minute of every hour of every day.” He takes the ring out of the box, holding it up between them. “I want to have your back forever. Will you marry me?”

He barely has the question out before Buck is tackling him to the floor, kissing him so deeply he feels it in his atoms. He gets the ring on at some point, lips never leaving Buck’s, and they get lost in each other, in happiness, in love, in excitement at getting to spend their lives together, as a family.

Nothing leading up to this was perfect. But he wouldn’t trade any of it — their chaotic lives, their ups and downs, their crazy, unsubtle family — for anything in the world.

But next time he’s planning a surprise, he will absolutely be keeping it to himself.

[reiven2017]

From ridicule.

Chapter 3.

Rachel heaved a sigh as fatigue crept up on her again. She never considered herself an ACE in French, but he gave in to her and she even had an excellent in this subject. Until this moment. Roth sat alone in the empty library of the Academy, fiercely wrestling with a French essay, cursing herself once again for mispronouncing a sign or an accent. Damn that French guy. Rachel closed her eyes wearily, putting down her books and leaning on her hands in shock. It was late in the evening and she had lost count of how long she had been here. A thin ribbon of annoyance was already creeping up her throat, and she let out a startled sigh. She was tired again, the walls of the library were crushing her, and the oppressive silence was no better, and for a moment she thought she was delirious. She wasn't supposed to think about things that seemed delusional and didn't make sense to anyone. She was just a stupid girl. Rachel shook her head, rolling her eyes in exasperation as unnecessary thoughts began to creep into her head one by one, making this evening even more annoying and unbearable. She shouldn't have thought about him. It's only been 5 hours since their first "meeting"...not that it bothered her, but the itchy feeling in her chest prickled uncomfortably, making her turn back again and again to the boy with the dark skin and those inviting eyes ...

But...He's just a normal boy. He's just an ordinary person. Yes. It has nothing supernatural or magical about it. Right? He just pushed her, even though he accidentally bumped into her and they didn't say ten words to each other, so why did HIS name stick in her head? Why did her cheeks turn so treacherously red and her heart sink at the mere sight of those predatory emerald eyes? She didn't understand herself, and she didn't understand why her body responded so responsively to his warmth. She could and did control her emotions while remaining calm. But in that incident, near the office with Damian, all her calmness went to the pussy and she stood like a fool with her hands on the floor, redder and aleeya like a first-grader. Was she ill? Or maybe it's just her mind playing tricks. Were these normal feelings? When in one moment, literally the entire universe exploded into a million bright stars in her eyes and the images in her head blurred, when only his silhouette was visible in this light and when she was unable to look away from him? She was sick and she was sure it was bad. Goosebumps ran over her skin and her Scarecrow firmly stated that this is bad. Damian Wayne was a danger. Solid danger demolishing everything in its path and invisible obstacles. She heard the girls whisper breathlessly about his "bad guy" reputation and the big cough behind his back, and how they dreamily imagined themselves in his girlfriend's shoes, giggling happily. She had heard from Gar about his expulsion from the previous school. And from other schools, too. Rachel Roth was a good girl in every sense of the word. Like a good girl, she should have stayed away from him, not looked in his direction, and erased his name from her memory. From her mother's sad experience, she knew what it was like to get involved with bad guys and had no desire to repeat her story. Rachel Roth lifted her head, pulled her textbook closer, and puffed hard. She pushed the image of him out of her mind, sealing it forever in the back of her mind like a bad dream. Rachel Roth was a good girl, and Damian Wayne was a bad guy. And she was still going to write a damn paper.

Rachel gave her cousin a quiet smile, glancing across the room and giving her a thumbs-up. In response, Layla sent her a haggard look and a frowning smile as she let out a weak moan at the elated Mouth. Rachel giggled and turned to the Board, leaving her cousin to her mourning. This was the first class of the week in literature, and her love for this subject was not selfish, so Leila took a back seat. There was no annoying green spot, and Rachel sat alone at her Desk in complete silence for once. Bliss. She sighed with satisfaction when the bell rang and the old teacher, Miss Smithers, came into the classroom with her usual limp on one leg. Miss Smithers was an elderly woman, with a high gray hairdo and always in a clean, pressed pink suit. She was meticulous as hell, but she was also a soft and fun woman. Rachel always liked her bright pink suit. Or when she put in her hair, kakoenibud jewelry and podderzhala the Empress. Miss Smithers was one of her favorite teachers for her kind nature and Rachel was also one of her favorite students. As soon as jenna entered the classroom, she looked at everyone sternly, then smiled cheerfully and began her story in her only French accent. She liked to say a little French, which always seemed funny to Rachel when there was a knock at the office door and the headmaster came stumbling up to Miss Smithers. They were whispering about something and after a minute of meetings, Mister ........he turned to the class and solemnly adjusted his tie.

- "Dear students, I want to introduce you, your new classmate Damian Wayne." - a wave of whispers passed through the class, and then the voices faded as, slowly, like a hunter inspecting his prey, he entered. Fuck. Rachel felt like she was falling and she wasn't sure if she was on the ground anymore. Her blush returned as she gazed shamelessly at his figure. Damn it, he was a fucking model! No, of course they'd met before, but then she wouldn't even have had the courage to look at him. Now she was blushing and Alea thought it was a good thing, or her own feet would fail her. The gray school jacket clung to his broad, elaborately sculpted shoulders, and he was wearing it over a black shirt that wasn't buttoned with the first two buttons. His dark skin was not just beautiful, but perfect, kissed by the sun and shrouded by God. His plump lips curved beautifully, and his cheekbones courageously emphasized his appearance, adding even more charisma to the image. There was a noticeable scar above his left eyebrow, and now his charisma was mixed with something dangerous. She gripped the edge of her skirt sharply, hoping to stay on this earth with a clear mind and a firm memory. It couldn't be true. It doesn't have to be true. She had just made up her mind the night before to forget his name like a bad dream, and lo! Here it is! She tried to calm her breathing, counting to ten and ignoring everything. She doesn't need to worry. He probably didn't even remember her name? Isn't it? Of course, why would he remember her? As soon as she calmed herself by letting go of the irreparably ruined skirt and finally looked up, she was met by emerald eyes that were unabashedly scanning her figure. Oh, she wasn't sure she wouldn't be dead by the end of the day.

She was paralyzed again, and as for the first time, she stared at him, frozen, unable to move or tear herself away. Her heart thumped in her chest, and her blush deepened when Damian gave her a predatory wink, ignoring everyone else. Fuck. No, she was definitely dead. He continued to stare at her, oblivious to the sidelong glances and the words the headmaster said to IMU, focusing only on her. And of course, the only thing she had the brain for, if not the cynical brain, was to quickly look down at the floor, again clutching her hands to her school skirt and pretend to Shine, Rachel! Just wonderful! She was grateful for the opportunity, since all her classmates were busy with Wayne and the rumors about him, and her mood changes were not unnoticed by anyone. There were ragged voices behind her, and a curious gaze was boring into her back. Leila, she won't leave her alone. The voices faded and Rachel didn't seem to notice, too stunned by what was happening. Someone next to her pushed back a chair and someone's things fell on the Desk next to her.

His voice, dangerous and hoarse, filled her entire body from the tips of her fingers to the top of her head, and she clenched her knees together convulsively. She took a deep breath and looked up at him timidly.

- "Hello". she answered, hoping he wouldn't notice the tremor in her voice. Damian tilted his head slightly to the side, a faint smirk playing on his lips, and his eyes flickered lasciviously toward her lips. Rachel's stomach clenched like a coiled spring, her mouth went dry, and she swallowed involuntarily.

"I didn't expect to see you here. Before she could think, the words came out of her mouth and She bit her lip in confusion. Damian's lips curved in a wry smile and he just as unceremoniously continued to stare at her, sitting half-sideways. Rachel turned away from him, hiding her confused gaze in her book, and tried to concentrate on what Miss Smithers was saying. He was just an ordinary boy. She shouldn't react to him like that. "And so, Rachel Roth."Just Rachel," she said quickly, without looking up. Just don't look at him. Just don't look at him. Just don't look at him. She knew that if she met those emerald eyes again, all the words would just lose their meaning, and she would look like a weak-willed doll. "So, Rachel, what are you doing tonight?" Rachel drew in a sharp breath, blinking in confusion. Just don't look at him. Just don't look at it. "Forgive. What?" Damian moved a little closer, so that Rachel could feel his hot breath on her skin, and said, " I'm sorry. "I want to invite you to a party." Roth's hand was frozen over the notebook and she stared at it blankly. Her brain was overheated, unable to figure out what to do with it or how to behave under the gaze of those emerald eyes. Just don't look at him. Just don't look at him. Just don't look at him. Damian's eyes narrowed dangerously, and in one sharp, quick movement, he slid two fingers under her chin And turned her face toward him. "I don't like not being looked in the eye. he hissed threateningly, and it could be interpreted as an order that required no reservations and that Rachel didn't have the strength to disobey. She looked at him warily, without any second thought, biting her lip between the rows of snow-white teeth, and was momentarily startled when Demian's eyes flashed with something dark and the pupil in his eyes widened. "I'm still waiting for an answer, Rachel."..I da agrh...don't know."the thoughts in her Golva were tangled up in a huge tangle and all that she managed to put together was a pathetic sentence. Wayne chuckled, and gently, almost imperceptibly, traced the line of her chin before removing his hands from her face and speaking calmly. "I think it is-Yes." Miss Smiter coughed indignantly, drawing attention to herself. "Am I bothering you, young people?" Damian stood up easily, his impenetrable mask falling back into place and a cold aura enveloping him. He picked up his bag from the Desk and walked calmly over to Miss Smithers. "I'm sorry." he said as he left the classroom, just as the bell rang for the end of class.

[forasecondtherewedwon]

Smut?? *sigh* Oh how i've missed it. Also, how do I choose just one? Okay, how about no. 33 “I’m gonna fuck you so hard that you forget you ever even met that asshole.” (Don't mind me, I'm just too fond of jealousy fics)

Your time is now, friend! You picked a good one. It went… places I didn’t expect. I hope you enjoy it!

Best Man (and a Friend of the Bride)

Pairing: Peter Parker x Michelle Jones (Spideychelle)Rating: E/NSFWWord count: 5717

33. “I’m gonna fuck you so hard that you forget you ever even met that asshole.”

Peter escaped the banquet hall at a near-run while the guests were still applauding Betty and Ned’s first dance. After the newlyweds had burst into the room not long before, Ned had broken away to give Peter an important heads-up: that Ned’s mom had informed all of his cousins that the Best Man was single and they were just waiting until the dancing to pounce. It freaked Peter out to know that a bunch of strangers had been checking him out while he stood at the head of the aisle, clapping his best friend supportively on the shoulder as the music cued Betty’s entrance.

Even in the face of matrimony (and it had been right in Peter’s face for the better part of two years as he fulfilled his role as Best Man), it wasn’t that Peter was a commitment-phobe, some sort of serial one-night-stand-er. He simply wasn’t in a rush to marry young. Plus, he was trying to keep his wits about him today of all days; May had warned that people could get a little nuts at weddings, what with the atmosphere of romantic gravitas thicker than the icing on the big white cake. She was probably back there right now, trying to intercept Ned’s eager cousins to give Peter a head start.

As he moved away down the corridor towards the front of the hotel, the thud of pop-y bass transitioned into the tones of two people attempting to keep an argument quiet. Up ahead, a dark-haired man crossed out of a room and pushed angrily through the front doors. They didn’t slam, which took some of the effect out of it.

Peter wondered if he should turn back, but if the other arguer came this way, it would look like he was trying to slink away after eavesdropping. He would just… be casual and slip right past.

Except, when he was passing the room the fight had occurred in, the other person, a woman his age, walked out. He grabbed her shoulders instinctively before she could run into him.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” Peter told her surprised expression, belatedly releasing her.

“Oh, this?” she asked, circling her face with a finger. “It’s not fear, it’s relief. I thought you were Brad storming back in for round two.”

He could guess, but it would be better to ask.

“Brad?”

“My…” The woman paused. “…ex-boyfriend.”

Peter noticed a few tears overflowing her brimming eyes and patted his pants for a Kleenex, coming up empty. Damn, he remembered feeling one when he stuffed his tie into the same pocket after the ceremony.

“Sorry,” he said, meaning it, “I think I had a tissue in my jacket, but I left it in the… in the room.”

‘Banquet hall’ was not coming to him as she gave an unconcerned shrug and tossed her loosely braided hair over her shoulder before catching him head-on with brown eyes that were even more brilliant for their shininess. She made do by swiping away the fullest tears and patting beneath her eyes with her thumbs.

“I’m fine,” she said and he felt bad for not asking.

While she sniffled and angled her head back to keep any remaining tears at bay, Peter glanced down, taking in the length of her dark copper dress. It would probably photograph stunningly outside, against all those red and gold leaves on the trees lining the hotel’s drive. Damn Ned for dragging him into the wedding photographer conversation. Everywhere Peter looked at this place, he saw lighting opportunities and reflections of the couple’s autumnal colour scheme. Stupid scenic, postcard-town venue. He looked quickly back up to the woman’s face, which was now more composed.

“I’m Peter.” He cleared his throat. “By the way.”

She nodded and said, “MJ. Betty’s mentioned you.”

“So you’re… bride’s side?” That term came to him.

“Oh yeah, she and I go way back, or as far as you can go back when people get married in their early twenties.”

“Right.” Peter laughed. “Me and Ned too.” But the small talk was bothering him. He met MJ’s eyes seriously. “I’m sorry, but I really need to know what the fuck that guy’s problem was.”

She laughed in what looked like surprise.

“How do you know I didn’t cause the problem?”

“Did you?” he asked to humour her.

MJ shrugged, appearing genuinely thoughtful.

“Sort of. You want details?”

“Nah, it’s none of my business.” He was just quietly pissed off that some dick could breeze out and leave this woman crying. At a wedding. This was, like, the exact opposite of what May had warned him about. No romance in sight.

She leaned sideways into the wall, crossed her arms, and sighed. He copied her, minus the sigh.

“First, I want to note that someone’s ability to cite George Orwell is not a strong enough reason to stay in a relationship with them. You got that, Peter?”

“Noted.”

She sighed again and rubbed more aggressively at the tear tracks drying on her cheeks.

“Would you believe the fight started with a proposal?”

Peter was usually more of a listener, but he could tell MJ needed him to contribute. Maybe she wasn’t a natural conversation-hog either.

“Isn’t proposing at somebody else’s wedding, like, bad manners?”

“Really bad,” she agreed with such vehemence that he understood why she and Betty were good friends. “It’s rude as fuck to take attention away from the bride and groom, but Brad’s a self-centered shithead like that, so I probably should have seen this coming.”

“That’s the problem with the Brads of the world,” Peter observed with sarcastic faux-wisdom. “You’re so focused on how self-centered they are and how much of a shithead they’re being that you forget the unpredictability factor. That’s the killer.”

MJ snorted.

“Right? Anyway, so I pulled him out here, because he started fucking whipping out that ring box while Betty and Ned were still dancing―” Peter shook his head in disgust. “―and while we were getting into it, I had this moment where I just stared at him and felt zero desire to keep talking, or hearing him talk. And, I guess, if I felt like that right after he tried to propose… I mean, that should be one of the emotional highlights of my life. Like, forget that his timing was shitty and selfish, I still should’ve been thrilled, on some level, that this guy I’d been with for the past two and a half years wanted to marry me. And I wasn’t. I think that’s why I started crying.”

She breathed deeply and Peter was staggered that he’d heard someone exorcise their feelings so well and so wastelessly. He admired her. Abruptly, MJ laughed.

“So that was a lot to unload on a stranger.”

“I’m not a stranger, I’m your friend’s husband’s best friend!” he joked. “And I’m glad you explained. Otherwise, my plan was to assume that you were crying for Brad, because he doesn’t get to spend any more time with you.”

“You know, I’m impressed that you picked that up so quickly.”

“Well,” Peter shrugged, referencing Ned’s recent vows, “I’ve heard that sometimes you just know.”

They laughed until the front doors opening (not Brad―they both turned to look) shoved a wave of chilly air into the hotel. Peter wished he had his jacket to give her. He felt a little unbalanced, accidentally pairing up with this stranger after actively running away from the potential for that same thing down the hall. Instead of wading in, testing the waters, he’d shot down into a sinkhole. That wasn’t exactly what he’d been hoping to find either. Because he hadn’t been hoping to find anything. Yet he really wanted to be around her; attraction wasn’t something he’d closed himself off to.

“We should get out of this hallway,” MJ suggested.

“Do you want to…” Peter jerked his thumb back towards the banquet hall. “…dance?” He winced. “Or is that a terrible thing to ask because, shithead or not, you were just almost engaged?”

She tilted her head side to side, considering.

“Pretty terrible. On a related note, do you want to come hang out in my room?”

His mouth fell open slowly and he straightened up. Saying ‘yes’ too fast… that would be another example of bad manners, wouldn’t it? If she asked though, he’d be lying to say that wondering how the fabric of her dress would feel sliding through his hands as he removed it hadn’t been taking up half his brain power since the second he saw her.

“We’ll go back to the reception in a bit,” MJ assured him. “I just need to take my shoes off and be blissfully alone for a few minutes.”

“I’m flattered that you can already feel alone when I’m in a room with you,” he said sarcastically, smiling to take the edge off. “This conversation is way better for my ego than dancing with one of Ned’s cousins.”

She laughed, easy, and reached out to grab Peter’s forearm. It shot a tingle through him probably even less appropriate than contemplating going back to MJ’s room with her. Unconsciously, he pushed his tongue against the inside of his lip as he watched her mouth.

“Dude, they were talking about your thighs through the whole ceremony. I was sitting in front of them.”

“You probably started it,” he teased, brushing a strand of hair away from her face like he was also a casual toucher. It was tough to tell whether she was blushing or just flushed from her argument.

“Nah, I was too busy looking at your arms. That jacket could only hide so much.” Her gaze dropped pointedly to one of his biceps. With his arms crossed, his dress shirt strained.

They were joking around, right? People flirted at weddings. All people. Including determined bachelors and brand-new singletons.

“Look who’s talking,” Peter countered, sweeping his eyes down her silky dress. The hug and drape of it.

Harmless flirting. Totally harmless. MJ gave him a thorough once-over.

“So… yes or no?”

Her hotel room had only her things in it and he wondered how he would’ve felt to encounter the heavily ridiculed Brad’s luggage.

“He left his bag in the car,” MJ explained, tossing the key card onto a table with an elegant flick. She flung her small purse to land at the head of the bed on a pillow. “He didn’t want us to stay overnight. Figured we could make the drive back into the city when things were winding down.”

“At what time? Three in the morning? Not a great plan.” Peter was puffing himself up every time he cut a slice off the absent Brad. He was aware of it, but he also couldn’t stop himself.

She sat on the edge of the queen-size bed, then changed her mind, crouching down at the mini-fridge and extracting a teeny bottle. Peter stood by as she unscrewed and sniffed it.

“No,” she gasped, quickly returning it to the fridge.

“You’re ok, right?” he asked tentatively.

MJ sat back and turned her head to look at him.

“I wasn’t going to drink myself into a stupor, I’m just curious. I like to explore my surroundings.”

Not quite an answer, but whatever.

She stood and glanced at the blank screen of the TV.

“You want to watch something?”

“Uh, no, that’s ok. We can just talk,” Peter said. Talk about how people hooked up at weddings. Right.

“Talk.” MJ nodded and sat beside him. “Sure. That’s a good idea. I think we skipped some of the general stuff when I dove straight into my drama. We could cover something a little less personal.”

“For sure.”

He caught her looking at him from the corner of her eye, just like he was doing to her. In a second, they were kissing fiercely, his hands on her shoulder and the back of her neck, hers clutching the front of his shirt. They twisted towards each other and her far knee nudged his thigh.

“Are impulsive decisions ever right?” MJ wondered, eyes closed, as he nipped her lip and kissed messily over to her ear.

“Don’t ask me that,” Peter mumbled into her ear. His hand played with the strap of her dress, dragging it over her shoulder and back up. Suspending himself in that place of temptation.

“What would Brad think―”

“Don’t ask me that either,” he requested before she could finish the question.

He felt for her knee and tucked his fingers behind it, wrinkling the fabric of her dress between his warm hand and the hot place at the back of her knee. Such a little tug, he thought as they kissed again, to bring her right into his lap. Peter gripped the back of her neck and stroked his tongue into her mouth. MJ’s head was practically lolling, she was so turned on. Ok, he could concede that this was something he missed during his careful state of singlehood. But it wouldn’t have been like this with a Leeds cousin, hadn’t been like this in Peter’s last actual relationship (sorry, Liz) or his handful of Tinder nights.

This wasn’t supposed to happen―his cock thickening in his black suit trousers, MJ’s long fingers undoing the tiny buttons of his shirt―but it could. They’d collided while fleeing in two different directions and now, maybe, they could run parallel for a while. If…

“Actually,” Peter continued, their noses bumping as he shook his head, “could you not say that name again?”

“I could do that.”

His fingers flexed and she swung onto his lap, dress slipping and sliding under his hand. He pressed a palm to the small of her back until she lowered her hips to his, then, as soon as they touched, Peter grew restless and flipped them, hauling MJ up the bed on her back. Her heart was racing, he could see. Her hands were hungry as they roamed his chest where his shirt hung open. She shuffled her dress until she was able to bend her knees on either side of his hips, kicking her high heels to the floor. They (Peter and MJ) had probably damaged her braid.

Propped over her, Peter pushed the delicate straps from her shoulders, one at a time, while she watched him. He peeled the front of her loose dress down with the slight dampness of his palm, caressing along her sternum. No bra underneath. There was a zipper at the side that he hadn’t noticed; she undid it for him.

He dipped his face to kiss the center of her chest, then lifted his head again, looking seriously into MJ’s receptive, unswerving stare.

“I’m gonna fuck you so hard that you forget you ever even met that asshole. You realize that, right?”

Slowly, he felt her hook her feet securely behind his calves, neck lifting gracefully from the bed as she did so. Always watching his eyes.

“Works for me,” MJ said. “Though that is going to make it a lot more difficult to feel like I’m alone in this hotel room.”

She grinned and he dove into it, kissing her enthusiastically and rocking his hips into hers. Peter shoved his shiny black shoes off with the toes of his opposite feet while using his hands to wriggle the top of her dress down to her waist. With a tremulous breath he hoped wasn’t the beginnings of regret, MJ helped him out of his dress shirt and tossed it unceremoniously aside. He didn’t look away to see if the article even made it over the edge of the bed.

And that was as far as they got, the both of them topless, when MJ felt around for her clutch and extracted a condom that had been intended for another guy’s erection. His excitement was momentarily quelled. As she passed it to him, chucking her purse away, Peter glanced at the wrapper before tearing it open. Good news: it wasn’t some inferiority-complex-inducing jumbo size. He exhaled slowly through his nose in relief and gazed at the peaked nipples of her bare breasts as he unzipped himself, pushed his boxers out of the way, and rolled the condom on. MJ hiked the hem of her dress up her thighs, the entire swishy length now just a fold of fabric around her hips, shimmering softly in the yellow light of the hotel room.

Peter dug his nose beneath her jaw and felt between her thighs with an eager hand. The room was snugly still around them, the sound of his own breathing in his ears. MJ gave a little gasp and dropped her legs wider at his touch. Her underwear felt lacy and―more germane―wet. He groaned and hauled the lingerie down her legs, stretching and wrenching instead of patiently asking for her to lift her hips, unbend her knees.

His fingers returned to her, dipping into her wetness and rubbing it up over her clit until her thighs gave a tremble. He kissed gradually down her throat. Laying her hands on his shoulders, MJ ran them across to the back of his neck. Peter traced a teasing circle around her entrance with the tip of his middle finger and, abruptly, her hand was gripping his hair.

“This isn’t a slow dance, Peter,” she told him, chin tipped up to unconsciously mirror how she’d pulled his head back. Her other hand wove down and found Peter’s wrist, forcing his finger inside her. “We aren’t making memories.”

He laughed, appreciating her bluntness, and raked a hand through his dishevelled hair the second she released it.

“I guess I just normally―”

“I don’t care.” MJ smiled. “Just be the hot Best Man and I’ll be a friend of the bride, ‘cause that’s what it seems like we both need. If you can’t do that, then get on your back and I’ll do it for you.”

Peter laughed again and bit at her neck―lightly, then harder as he felt her sink into the plush comforter they hadn’t bothered to turn down. When she moaned and bucked slightly to get his finger (positioned by her) moving, Peter curled it inside her and kissed her mouth to swallow some of the sound that was making his blood so hot.

“No, you’re definitely staying on your back,” he muttered against her lips.

MJ just nodded lazily, eyes shut, when he added another finger and pumped them faster. Her grip twisted gently around his wrist and Peter’s eyes nearly rolled back imagining the same motion on his dick. He didn’t know her―not ‘that well,’ but know her, period―but he was sure it was exactly what she wanted him to imagine.

He watched her stretch a hand over her head and grasp the edge of the mattress, fingers sneaking between it and the headboard. Kissing her hard, Peter hooked his fingers into her twice more, then withdrew his hand (she moved hers to the back of his neck). Arousal smeared her thigh as he clutched it and nudged his cock against her entrance, pressing inside when the angle felt right.

A little while for him and, for her, the first time in years with a new partner. They both had something to get used to and they both started off gasping, quickly rearranging their limbs to hold each other closer as Peter sunk deeper. A quick squeeze from MJ’s legs tangling around the back of his jerked him all the way inside her and she immediately bore down with her hips like she could pin him there from underneath. The forcefulness of it was hot. Liz had never been very… but no, they weren’t bringing their exes into this. Not into this hotel room, not into this bed.

Peter wrapped his arm all the way around MJ, stretching beneath her back to grasp her ribcage with firm fingers. He resisted slipping his other hand into her hair because it would demolish whatever remained of the braid that suited her so well; instead, he braced his forearm on the bed and cupped her bare shoulder in his palm. The heat and friction of the two of them moving against each other was raising the scent of whatever MJ had massaged into her skin to make it so soft. He inhaled deeply, tracing his lips down to her collarbone to leave a lingering kiss. With his arms bound up by her body and his legs increasingly swayed by the guiding action of hers, Peter went to rapid work with his hips.

Panting and groaning, MJ was as collaborative as she was combative―dragging him in with her legs and rocking her hips fiercely in pursuit of pleasure―and he wasn’t sure at all that she’d really surrendered, despite remaining on her back. But that wasn’t really what he wanted, was it? Wedding hookups, by whatever definition of them existed, were supposed to be easy, and yet Peter wanted a second go-round. Wanted to see her lotion lined up with her hair products and her makeup by the sink in the en suite when he brushed his teeth.

He inhaled and gave his head a small shake. This wasn’t his hotel room and MJ wasn’t his girlfriend. She wasn’t looking for that. He wasn’t looking for that. Ugh, he couldn’t think about this anymore.

Peter struggled to find a good moment to change positions and ended up just flipping them while she continued to writhe. He thought it was reluctance to put too much space between their groins, but, on his back and tossing a curl of hair off his forehead, he was staggered when MJ progressed to torturously drawn-out rises and falls of her hips. Obviously unembarrassed to be suddenly astride a near-stranger, she’d pressed her palms to his chest for leverage as she eased herself up and down.

“Not a slow dance,” he groaned, hips bucking pleadingly each time she withdrew. But it felt deliriously good and Peter smoothed his hands somewhat possessively up her thighs.

“What,” she panted, tugging the pooling skirt of her dress out of the way as she rode him, “do you have to give a speech or something?”

Peter laughed, just once―it was all he could spare the oxygen for, huffing to thrust up into her.

“I do, actually. But Betty scheduled everything to the minute. The speeches don’t start until nine.”

“Lots of time,” MJ decided, jerking forward and back on his lap, so incredibly tight around him after months of his fingers and palm.

“Mmm,” Peter agreed. He slid his hands a little higher and started trying to intertwine their fingers.

She shook him off, returning her hands to his chest, and glanced briefly down and away.

“Not that we’re going to take long.”

“No.”

What could he do but agree? He exhaled, chest falling beneath her hands, wanting to tumble MJ down on top of him. She gave him a look and he thought it might’ve been because he wasn’t totally convincing (spending the night with her would be nice!) and he held her gaze until her eyes appeared panicked. Too intense, he told himself. Then Peter elbowed her wrists aside to collapse her onto his body, rolling them to land on top of her again.

“You’ve got good form,” he joked, slamming his hips forward so he struck deep, making her mouth open in a silent scream, “but you just take too goddamn long.”

“Show me how it’s done then, Best Man,” MJ shot back when she could get the words out.

With an eager grin, Peter pounded into her like he’d warned her he would. She didn’t try to trade places, or even voice a request to do so, too busy sucking in air each time he drove forward. Keeping himself on his elbows, he groped her breasts. Pinching her nipples made MJ speak his name in a high whine―“Peter”― that exhilarated him into a faster pace with his hips. He slid easily in and out of her slick channel, beginning to tremble with the feeling.

Meeting his wild thrusts, MJ reached up again, planting her palm against the headboard. Peter had to move one hand off her chest just to stroke down the underside of her arm. Her mouth quirked up in an unfamiliar expression; he realized what he’d done tickled her. To distract himself from wanting things he couldn’t, shouldn’t, have, Peter dropped his mouth to the center of her chest. He kissed her sternum before tracing his tongue over to her nipple and sucking it into his mouth. She let out a small scream and clenched fleetingly around his dick.

“Can you get off like this?” he mumbled, barely lifting his mouth from her, hips hastening.

MJ just nodded rapidly and closed her eyes. Maybe Peter watched her expression a second too long, because the question of whether she was imagining that he was Brad right now entered his mind. He still moved his hips, but he was numb until her free hand suddenly gripped his hair (fair, for her to wreck his carefully gelled down hair after his actions had made a mess of her braid). He almost laughed in relief and lowered his head to bite her nipple. He’d only seen the jerk for a few seconds, but Peter remembered Brad’s straight hair, shorter than his own. MJ could only be thinking of him, Peter, as her fingers loosened the curls he’d flattened with product to look more… what? Sophisticated or something, for the bridal party.

For these seconds, as her back arched, trapping his hand between them (not that he minded in the slightest), and MJ called out Peter’s name, she’d forgotten. Like he’d promised her. Fulfilling that promise was so monumental in his mind as his thrusts turned sloppy and he lost himself in her, that he nearly repeated the thought aloud. Luckily, he managed to turn it into a gravelly grunt, delivering forceful final thrusts that shook her beneath him; MJ’s arm had gone limp in her bliss, no longer bracing her against the headboard. Those arms folded around the back of his neck as he slowed to a stop and let himself―just for a minute―rest on top of her.

“My hair is totally fucked,” she murmured against his forehead.

Peter laughed weakly and kissed MJ’s neck, then, with a crease between his eyebrows, drew himself out of her.

“Not to mention my dress,” she sighed as he stumbled a bit on jellified legs into the bathroom to toss the condom.

He fumbled with hitching his boxers and dress pants up and swung the door partly shut for a minute to splash cool water on his face before confronting his expression. Dazed. But would the guests―would Ned and Betty―suspect sex dazed? His gaze shifted up to his hair. Oh right. Yeah, that was probably a giveaway. Peter gave fixing his hair a half-hearted attempt, then left the bathroom, stretching his arms back and his chest forward.

MJ’s gaze was waiting for him. Probably not waiting for the proudly (if accidentally) displayed flex of his stomach and arms, but it seemed like it went over well; her mouth fell open. It had to be retaliation when she raised her hips from the mattress and pushed her bunched up dress down her legs to lie there totally nude. Then, she sat up, stood, and strode past him into the bathroom, wearing nothing more than a I know exactly what I’m doing to you smirk. She shut the door and Peter had to mentally get a hold of himself so he wouldn’t walk straight into it like a lovesick idiot and break his nose.

He found his shirt on the floor, looking like a used tissue―it was riddled with an impossible number of creases. Peter sighed and went to the hall closet where hotels always tucked the iron and ironing board. The wrinkles came out easily and he hung it on the back of the chair at the neat, untouched desk, pacing unhurriedly as he waited for MJ to emerge from the bathroom. She was probably trying to salvage her braid. No point in throwing his shirt on until they were ready to go. Assuming she’d want to head back at the same time. Shit, he was overthinking this again.

Peter caught sight of MJ’s crumpled ball of an outfit as he turned and figured he might as well iron her dress while he had the stuff out. His gaze also fell on her lacy black underwear, which he did not approach, for fear of sneaking them into his pants pocket (she’d know―one look and she’d know). He assessed the fabric, letting it slip sweetly between his fingers, then laid it across the ironing board and draped a clean towel (also in the hall closet) on top to protect it from the iron.

Exiting the bathroom as casually as she’d entered it, MJ went first to the bed; she collected and stepped into her underwear. Which was not really dressed enough for Peter’s dick not to care. His jaw tensed. The moment she spun towards him, the situation (his situation) was diffused. She laughed.

“You’re ironing?”

Peter shrugged, continuing to smooth the iron across the towel.

“You were right about your dress. It was pretty fucked and I wanted you to feel good walking back in there.”

She appeared taken aback, but maybe in a good way, a surprised way, dropping her eyes to the floor and smiling to herself. When she glanced up again, she was trying to conceal the softened expression, rubbing a thumb over her eyebrow. Her hair looked good, he noticed. Not as tidy as it had been, but the escaped strands that waved around her face… they looked… well, then looked… Peter swallowed and quit staring.

“I steamed the dress at home and changed into it here,” she offered, crossing her arms over her naked chest. With her wide stance, she looked way more at ease than he felt. “The material’s kind of delicate, so you have to be caref―”

“I’m being careful,” Peter assured her. “My aunt taught me to iron, like, a decade ago.”

“Oh.”

“You’re surprised,” he noted with a grin.

He watched her back up and sit on the end of the bed.

“I’ve never had a man iron my clothes.” She snorted. “I would’ve been so shocked if Brad had ever…” MJ’s expression fell and her eyes flicked to his. “Is it ok if I say his name?”

Peter gave an awkward shrug and shifted the dress to iron the last foot or so. Too awkward. She sighed heavily.

“Peter, we should talk.”

“Hey,” he interrupted in a cheerful tone, “I’m just the Best Man and you’re a friend of the bride.”

“It’s too soon.” MJ laughed humourlessly. “It’s way too soon. Neither of us needs… this.”

Which instantly made him feel like he needed this. Because he’d forgotten everything with one glimpse of the woman in the dress like melted copper.

“I think this is just about done,” Peter said, shamelessly trying to divert her from speaking any harsher truths by drawing attention back to the dress. He set the iron aside, unplugged it, whisked away the towel. Everything was fine.

“I don’t mean this to be condescending,” she said, gently and absolutely not distracted, “but you might not know what it’s like to end a serious relationship. I don’t regret what you and I just did, but I know that, after ending things with Brad, having time to be by myself is vital, Peter. I don’t want you to feel―”

“I was engaged.”

The room was quiet, apart from the faint hiss of the cooling iron.

“Yeah,” Peter confirmed, though she hadn’t said anything. “I was engaged to my last serious girlfriend. Maybe you know Liz Allan?” He met her eye and MJ didn’t say anything. “She’s friends with Betty too. Obviously RSVPed ‘no’ to this particular occasion. It’s been more than a year since we were together, but… There were a lot of reasons.”

“For me and Brad too.” She sighed and he felt like it had come from his own lungs, releasing some tension. “Though it always feels like just one in the moment you break up.”

He nodded and glanced at the dress, then at her. MJ stood and walked over to him. Peter held her dress out to her, zipping it up along her side with intimate care as she got the straps to lie where she wanted them.

“You did an incredible job,” she said, inspecting the length of fabric once again draping her body. “Thank you.” The strength of his desire to tell her she deserved to be taken care of ached in his chest. “Come here,” MJ insisted. Peter was powerless.

With a wry smile, she lifted her hands to his hair, combing the sides between her fingers and pushing the front off his forehead.

“That’s better.”

He chuckled.

“Well, it couldn’t get any worse.”

They went back to the reception together, MJ holding the door open for him with an, “After you, Best Man.” She looked absolutely stunning and, if there were any Leeds cousins around, Peter didn’t notice them.

The two of them danced once or twice, then more when the less committed wedding guests headed to bed. Somehow, Peter and MJ weren’t among them and, with fewer partners in the room and on the floor, it was easy to drift together over and over. Eventually, they just stayed that way, exchanging calm smiles with Betty and Ned until the happy couple left too.

“I didn’t mean never,” MJ whispered when it was just them in the empty banquet hall.

The DJ was off the clock and they’d switched over to music from their combined playlists. Heart thudding, Peter held her closer.

“I know. I can wait.” After a minute, he added, “I’m pretty sure you’re what I was waiting for anyway.”

MJ leaned her head into his as he swayed them.

“You wanna go back to my room? We might as well sleep together in the less exciting sense and I’ll count today as one big exception.”

Peter grinned, leaning into her in turn and settling in for a little while longer.

“Come on, MJ. Give me one more slow dance.”

[thoughts-and-travel]

The Bonds That Tie Us Together

I accidentally deleted my first version of this (because I can’t computer) so I decided to re-write it. I couldn’t get this scene out of my head and really wanted to see where it went.  

Summary: Post KH3, Sea-salt family is now living in Twilight Town. Roxas decides to enter a Struggle Tournament when a heartless attacks and Xion is badly injured.  

Today was the first day of the Struggle Tournament and truth be told, Xion and Isa had no idea what the fuss was all about. A week before when the posters were up, Roxas would not stop gushing about the whole event, explaining what needed to be done to win. Axel, Isa and Xion decided to go to cheer and support their friend, but Xion and Isa were still confused about the sport.

“So, the competitors need to beat each other with a bat in hopes for their ball to fall?” Isa asked as he sat down next to Axel. Xion sat on Axel’s opposite side and waited for an answer.

“Well, not really. They use their bats to distract their opponent and then try to get them to drop the ball. If they catch it, then the other person loses.” Axel explained.

“Distract them? How?” Xion asked.

Axel chuckled and leaned back against his chair. “Just you watch.”

Roxas was making his way towards the center staged as the referee got them ready for the first round. He turned to look at his friends and gave them a huge smile with a thumbs up. Xion returned his smile with one of her own, Axel gave a thumbs up, and Isa responded with a smirk and a short nod.

Before the tournament could begin, a loud scream caused everyone to panic as a huge Darkside heartless emerged. The crowd began running hectically as the heartless took its first swing towards the stage.

“Roxas!” Axel yelled as he and Xion summoned their Keyblades. 

Roxas dodge the attack and summoned his Oblivion and Oathkeeper blade, suddenly grateful that Hayner, Pence and Olette had work today and couldn’t make it. The last thing he needed was to worry about their safety. 

Axel, Xion and isa were trying their best to make their way towards the stage, but with the amount of people around it was proving to be difficult. In her time with the Organization, Xion had to learn about every heartless that she had to eliminate, and a Darkside likes open but empty spaces. So why would it attack when so many people were around?

The three of them reached the stage just as Roxas dodged another attack. Before any of them had a chance to counter, one of the Darksides fist slammed against the ground and a bunch of Shadow heartless began to appear. 

“Xion!” Roxas called as one of his blades took out a nearby Shadow. Xion was a few feet away taking out nearby Shadows, and because of the angle of her body she was unaware of the dark orbs the Darkside started to throw at her. 

Her body flew a few feet as the orbs hit her and she landed with a strong impact. Stunned, she tried making it to her feet, but the Darkside took another swing at her. This time her head connected with the ground as her body smacked against the pavement, her Keyblade disappearing. 

Before the Darkside can land another critical blow, Isa was in front of Xion’s body, using his Claymore as a shield.

“Roxas, together!” Axel said, and the two of them jumped and defeated the Darkside with a powerful blow and all the remaining Shadows disappeared. 

“Is she okay?” Roxas asked, not wasting time before running towards Xion. Isa was hunched over and lifted her limp body securely in his arms.

“We should head back home,” Isa responded, glancing down at Xion with a distressed look. 

“Yeah,” Axel agreed, holding out his arms. “Here, I’ll carry her.”

To his surprised, Isa’s grip on Xion tighten and his body moved slightly away from Axel, almost shielding Xion from him. This caught Axel off guard because if he was being honest with himself, he still couldn’t figure out what Isa thought of her. He respected her, that much was clear from their time living together, but sometimes he would catch his friend looking at her with a weird expression.

“I got her.” Isa said firmly before walking towards their apartment, Roxas close at his heels.

Once they’ve made it to their four-bedroom home, Isa took Xion into her warmly lit room. It was a simple room, with a single bed, a dresser and a desk with her computer, which Chip and Dale gifted to her since she and Isa were the few tech-savvy members in the group. 

Isa gently laid Xion on her bed and placed a blanket over her.

“She just hit her head, but she should be okay,” Axel reassured, knowing that Roxas would need the comfort. As much time as they spend together, watching anything happen to Xion was still tough on Roxas. He was terrified that something would happen again that would cause him to forget her.  

“We should still watch over her, just in case,” Roxas pressed, the worry strong in his voice. 

“I’ll go first.” Isa responded, his tone leaving no room for arguments. He grabbed the chair by the desk and sat down, crossing his arms.

Roxas and Axel shared a glance before looking back at Isa. 

“Uh, okay, we’ll switch in a few hours,” Axel said.

A small nod was the only retort Isa gave them. They shared a look again before leaving the room. 

The rise and fall of Xion’s chest were the only movement she made, not a twitch or nothing. Isa watched over the girl that managed to change the fate of everyone in this apartment. This girl, who managed to touch the heart of not just Roxas, but Axel too. Axel, who never showed a hint of caring about anything as his time as a Nobody, sacrificed everything for her. If Xion never existed, things might have been so different.

Living with her, and noticing how she interacted with the world, Isa realized that his past opinion of her was based on ignorant and false information. Roxas was right, Xion was never a puppet. The way she joked and laughed with her friends, the smile that graced her face when she learned a new code on her computer, the joy she felt every time she brought a sea-salt ice cream. Isa couldn’t help but smile as he watched her. 

Seeing how she was caused this warmth over his heart that he hasn’t felt in a long time. Even when he was re-completed, he got his heart and emotions back, but this warmth? This feeling? He’s only ever felt once before with his best friend Axel.

Even looking at her now, that warmth over his heart looms strong, but another feeling is there as well. This gnawing need to protect Xion at all cost is just as powerful. He was surprised when he first felt this, but today, watching her get hurt, that feeling simply overwhelmed him. He acted purely on instinct, wanting nothing more than to protect her with all his heart.

Is this what Axel felt when they were in the Organization and Isa told him he had to choose between saving Roxas or Xion? Back then, Isa couldn’t understand why Axel would ever considered saving Xion. Isa couldn’t understand why Axel was even friends with her. But had he known then what he knew now, he would never have treated her like he did. 

He was a lot of things, but to treat a child so badly was something he could never forgive himself for.

Isa closed his eyes as the grief overwhelmed him, his hands balling into fists as the memories came crashing back. He took a deep breath to focus his mind at the task at hand.

For now, he will watch over Xion. 

A small tap woke Isa from his slumber and as he opened his eyes, he looked around the now dark room. His eyes immediately went to Xion, who was still unconscious in her bed.

“Hey,” Axel whispered. “Go get some rest, I’ll watch her tonight.”

Isa stretched on his chair before crossing his arms again and leaning back. “I’m fine.”

Axel frowned. “You’ve been here for hours-”

“I said I’m fine.” His tone was curt and hard, again leaving no room for arguments.

Axel scratched the back of his head, wondering what was going on with his friend. He had never seen Isa like this, and as always he couldn’t read the expression on his face.  

“Okay,” Axel sighed, deciding not to argue. “Roxas is asleep, but he’d want the next watch when he wakes up.”

Isa nodded, his eyes focused on Xion. Axel thought about staying to keep him company, but if he was going to properly look after Xion he’d need his rest too. Without saying another word, Axel left.

As much as Isa wanted to stay awake, as the hours went by his eyelids felt heavier and heavier. Eventually, his fell back asleep in the same position as before. His arms were crossed and his head had fallen forward slightly, but he made no sound as he slept. He was always a light sleeper, the slighted sounds being about to wake him up.

Honestly, one look at him and anyone would have thought he was simply sitting with his head down and arms crossed. At least, that’s what Xion thought when she finally awoke. She recognized her dark room instantly and felt the comfort of her mattress. As she sat up, her head started spinning, which immediately brought memories of what happened before she was in her room. She remembered the heartless that attacked the town square.

She must’ve been hit pretty badly because she couldn’t remember anything after that. The guys must have been taking turns to watch over her, but she was especially surprised to find Saïx here instead of Axel or Roxas.

Her and Saïx haven’t had much of a chance to talk after they’ve both been back. Honestly, Xion was still wary of what he thought of her. Although she’s never admitted this to anyone, her time living with Saïx has caused her to care deeply about him. She noticed the way he takes care of Axel and Roxas. Saïx would clean the whole apartment, bring extra sea-salt ice cream for everyone, and always made sure there was food around. He loved in a subtle way. 

She often wondered if he still saw her as nothing more than a puppet and there have been times when she desperately wanted to ask, but was too afraid of the answer. She just wasn’t sure what she’d do if his opinion of her remained the same. She’d be crushed, of course, but she wasn’t sure she’d be able to live with someone who saw her as nothing.

Taking an extra blanket, Xion slowly made her way towards Saïx, trying to be as quiet as possible. She knew how light of a sleeper he was and wanted to make sure he remained warmed during the night.

As she placed the blanket on him, Saïx stirred, slowly opening his eyes. Xion froze, surprised that she actually awoke him. 

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Xion admitted, smiling sheepishly at him. 

Isa stared at Xion’s blue eyes, astounded to find her awake and on her feet. He could feel that warmth creeping over his heart at seeing her up, and he felt a crushing sense of joy at hearing her voice. 

Xion continued. “Thank you for watching over me, Saïx.”

Without saying a word, Isa gently grabbed Xion and pulled her towards his chest in a tight embrace, smiling at overwhelming bliss of having her be okay. 

“Call me Isa.”

[narkinafive]

THE 5K WORD UPDATE

WOO

i always forget that 5k words is actually like. 20 pp double spaced. that’s weird and wack. anyway

as always read and critique as u will 🎈

Few franchises can match the breadth of Star Wars, and fewer still can claim to be as iconic. Not only have the characters, dialogues, settings, and aesthetics been directly referenced and lovingly parodied across all genres, so too has John Williams’ music. Yet Williams’ music is perhaps most referenced, riffed on, and remixed within the franchise itself; it is difficult to find a piece of Star Wars media which does not contain any number of Williams’ leitmotifs, such as the bombastic “Main Title” fanfare, the sweeping majesty of the Force theme, or the foreboding, villainous “Imperial March.” Within the many, many Star Wars related properties that require the use of music, composers for the franchise’s “lower tier” [properties], i.e. any property outside of the nine-film “Skywalker Saga,” are presented with a difficult challenge: how does one emulate and reference Williams’ original, titanic score, keeping a coherent sonic aesthetic, without copying him directly, and allowing space for the composer’s own musical language? 

[Williams score vs typical scifi musical conventions recap]

“Traditionally, music for the sci-fi genre would use a language inspired by twentieth-century musical modernism-atonalism, twelve-tone technique, aleatoric music, and so forth-or would use electronic instruments, timbres, or even musique concrete to provide the musical equivalent of futuristic or hyper technological worlds… Stanley Kubrick in [2001: A Space Odyssey] chose to combine images of deep space and unseen worlds with a compilation of repertoire orchestral pieces--after having rudely rejected Alex North’s original score. The selection spanned from classic pieces like Richard Strauss’ Thus Spoke Zarathustra (Also sprach Zarathustra, op. 30, 1896) and Johann Strauss Jr.’s The Blue Danube (An der schonen blauen Donau, op. 314, 1866) to contemporary art music like Gyorgy Ligeti’s Lux Aeterna (1966), Atmospheres (1961), Requiem (1963-65), and Adventures (1962)... Yet Kubrick’s choice was also the consequence of a lack of trust in film composers. ‘However good our best film composers may be, they are not a Beethoven, a Mozart or a Brhams. Why use music which is less good when there is such a multitude of great orchestral music from the past and from our own time?’ Lucas rejected the modernist and electronic options and chose Kubrick’s approach. He wrote the script while listening to the late romantic symphony repertoire…”

[cont’d]

The larger Star Wars chronology can be broken into three general eras: the Original Trilogy era (OT), which focuses on the time represented by the films A New Hope, Empire Strikes Back, Return of the Jedi, and Rogue One, the Sequel Trilogy era (ST), which is comprised of the films The Force Awakens, The Last Jedi, and The Rise of Skywalker, as well as the TV series Star Wars: Resistance, and the Prequel Trilogy era (PT), as represented by the films The Phantom Menace, Attack of the Clones, Revenge of the Sith, and Solo, as well as the TV series The Clone Wars. Of these properties, Williams has obviously scored the lion’s share of the films; Rogue One’s soundtrack was composed by Michael Giacchino, Resistance by Michael Tavera, Solo by John Powell, and The Clone Wars by Kevin Kiner. Kiner’s other work for Star Wars was the score of another TV series, Star Wars Rebels. Rebels occupies an interesting place within the greater Star Wars chronology, qualifying as a prequel due to taking place before the events of A New Hope, yet both aesthetically and narratively more aligned with the OT, rather than the PT. Though Rebels is nominally a prequel, Kiner’s musical language sets it firmly within the OT era, with frequent sonic callbacks to Williams’ score, with each aesthetic connection serving not only to link the viewer to the OT era, but also, through its absences and deviations, highlight the narrative differences between Rebels and the original films. This is particularly exemplified in the parallels and contrasts between the heroes of Rebels and the OT, Ezra Bridger, and Luke Skywalker.

From the outset, several contrasts and parallels can be drawn between Ezra Bridger and Luke Skywalker: both are orphans from provincial areas of the galaxy, both are accidentally caught up in insurrectionist rebel activity against the Empire, and both discover that they can wield the powers of the Force. They are even roughly the same age, born within days of each other. Contrasts do abound, however. Ezra receives several years of Jedi training from a former Jedi, while Luke receives very little; Ezra is actively involved with the Rebellion from the beginning, while Luke steps in at the last second to secure one of the Alliance’s largest victories; Ezra’s primary motif is connected to the twin moons of his home planet of Lothal - this, in contrast to the famous scene of Luke Skywalker gazing into the twin sunset of his planet of Tatooine; and so on. Even their character designs are oppositional; Luke is very white, blond-haired and blue-eyed, an exceptional pilot, but somewhat naive when it comes to the rougher parts of the galaxy, while Ezra is coded as Jewish or Middle Eastern (his parents’ names are Ephraim and Mira--this, along with his large nose, points to a certain ethnic origin. Mira, in flashbacks, even wears a headscarf, and is one of the few human women in the larger Star Wars universe to do so), with dark hair and darker skin, has never flown in a ship in his entire life, and is well-acquainted with the less savory aspects of growing up homeless and alone in the Empire. When it comes to their roles in the Rebellion, though, both Luke and Ezra initially start their adventures with the promise of Jedi training, and find themselves drawn in to the major political and martial action of the Galactic Civil War. 

Set five years before the events of A New Hope, the backdrop of Rebels depicts the formal declaration of the Galactic Alliance, the establishment of the famous rebel base on the planet of Yavin IV, and numerous references to the secret construction of the Death Star, alongside several integral character cameos, including Lando Calrissian, Princess Leia, and Obi-wan Kenobi, while the main thrust of the story centers on the crew of the Ghost, an early rebel cell, and the journey of its newest crew member, Ezra Bridger. Described by Dave Filoni, Executive Producer and creator of Rebels, as a con artist, and Taylor Gray, the character’s actor, as a [street smart thief], Ezra happens upon the crew of the Ghost as they commit a minor act of terrorism against the Galactic Empire, stealing several crates of supplies. Rather than pick a side in the conflict, Ezra elects to steal a crate of the same supplies for himself, outrunning the comedically incompetent Imperial police force, and dodging the members of the Ghost crew as they try to get the supplies back, until Ezra is forced to seek refuge on the Ghost to escape the marginally more competent TIE figher pilots. After helping the crew in distributing the supplies - namely, food - to a nearby refugee camp, Ezra is convinced by the Ghost’s pilot and leader, Hera Syndulla, to assist in a rescue mission. Despite his initial capture and subsequent escape from Imperial custody, Ezra chooses to see the rescue mission through to the end, and witnesses the Ghost’s second-in-command, Kanan Jarrus, wield a lightsaber, revealing himself as a survivor of the presumed-extinct and quasi-legendary Jedi Order. Recognizing that Ezra has the same gift as him, Kanan offers to train him to wield the Force in order to continue fighting against the Empire, dispelling any notion that the Jedi are gone with a triumphant declaration, “Not all of us.” Ezra agrees, and thus begins their partnership which will last for the next four years, as Kanan, who never technically made it past the rank of apprentice, passes on his fragmented training, and they both become more and more deeply entwined with the Rebellion. 

Luke’s introduction to the Rebel Alliance is equally accidental, though one can argue that it was ordained by the Force, or a similar higher power. When his uncle and adoptive father Owen purchases a pair of droids for the farm, Luke discovers a secret message hidden within one of them: Princess Leia’s plea to a mysterious Obi-wan Kenobi for aid. Luke’s first instinct is to help her, seeking out the reclusive loner Ben Kenobi for more information--with the added gratification of disobeying his uncle, who is currently keeping him tied to the family farm, and will not let him leave the planet. When the Empire, inevitably, comes looking for its stolen property--stolen Imperial secrets hidden within one of the droids--Luke is too late to warn his aunt and uncle, and finds his homestead burned to the ground. Grief stricken and alone, Luke begs Obi-wan to take him with him to Alderaan, in order to learn how to be a Jedi like his mysterious father. After hiring smuggler Han Solo to take them to Alderaan, they instead find the Death Star, and Luke convinces Han to mount a daring, ill-planned rescue of the Princess. While they do rescue Leia, they lose Obi-wan as he stalls the Imperials, buying them time to escape. Thoughts of becoming a Jedi are pushed to the background as Luke volunteers to be a part of the attack on the Death Star, despite Han’s insistence that he should take his cut of the money and run. Up against a behemoth of a killing machine, it is Luke and his superhuman abilities which allow him to fire the shot which destroys the Death Star and everybody on it, immediately cementing him as not only a hero, but the hero, from both a Doylist and a Watsonian perspective. 

These parallels are further underscored by their respective musical motifs. Consider Luke’s theme, the “Main Title” fanfare. In the words of Williams himself, from the liner notes of the original 1977 LP release: 

When I thought of a theme for Luke and his adventures, I composed a melody that reflected the brassy, bold, masculine, and noble qualities I saw in the character. When the theme is played softly, I tended towards a softer brass sound. But I used fanfarish horns for the more heraldic passages. This theme, in particular, brings out the full glow of the glorious brass section of the London Symphony Orchestra.

Comprised primarily of perfect intervals, the theme begins with an ascending fifth, an opening salvo so famous that music students everywhere, yours truly included, use it to identify perfect fifths in other contexts. As Lucas notes, the principal instrumentation is in the brass section, immediately conferring an old-world heroic air to Luke. [SWO hero’s journey quote]. [insert sheet music here, recap] As a theme, it is punchy, energetic, deliberately and intrinsically tied up in the “Rebel Fanfare,” and generally underscores moments of onscreen heroism and valiant derring-do. 

By contrast, while Ezra’s theme is also played by the horns, they are muted, thinner, ringing out more softly over shimmering, sustained strings. [insert sheet music here, recap] Ezra’s theme mostly serves to underscore the character’s moments of emotional reflection, rather than his superhuman action, which is usually accompanied by the “Force” theme, the “Rebel Fanfare,” or the Ghost’s musical motif. 

Luke’s theme in its first non-diegetic appearance, that is, its first appearance outside of the main titles, is a little different than one would expect; the melody is still a solo, but played in the horns rather than the trumpets, with a lighter, less brash underlying harmonization. Instead of an alternating [rest - quarter - rest - quarter - triplet - triplet] pattern, the rhythm is much simpler, with chord bursts on the second and fourth beats. [insert sheet music] Steven Galipeau, in his analysis of Luke Skywalker as a modern myth, writes of this narrative moment, “We meet [Luke] as a discouraged, frustrated young man stuck on his uncle’s farm, dreaming of going to the galaxy space academy with many of his friends. As he goes with his uncle to meet the Jawa sand trawler and the droids they bring, his aunt calls out his name: ‘Luke! Luke!’ The music and sequence immediately set him apart.” Simple, full of youthful energy, this moment is an aural demonstration of Luke at the beginning of his journey. He is not yet the hero of the Rebellion, nor the famed last of the Jedi; he is simply Luke, whose primary goal at this moment in the narrative is to leave his little hometown, by any means possible. Furthermore, beyond being the first narrative iteration of the title fanfare, it is the first recognizable melody in quite some time. While the audience is treated to several recognizable motifs in the opening sequence, such as Princess Leia’s theme, the Rebel Fanfare, and the original theme for Darth Vader and the Empire (the Imperial March would not be introduced until the next film in the sequence, Empire Strikes Back), the music of the sequence of the droids wandering across the desert is highly reminiscent of Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring; Lucas even used Stravinsky as a temporary score during the editing process. Famous for inciting a riot in the streets of Paris at its premiere, the Rite of Spring, and by extension, Williams’ scoring of this scene, is strange and almost frightening, meandering and unmoored--perfect for representing the precarious journey of the droids, but difficult to recognize as a melody in the traditional sense. The return to standard melodic form also functions as an auditory notice, as it were, to the audience, politely calling attention to the arrival of the protagonist. 

The first iteration of Ezra’s theme plays as he observes the crew of the Ghost handing out food supplies to a group of poverty-stricken refugees who live in a small cluster of ramshackle tents, named “Tarkintown” in universe, clearly a reference to the Hoovervilles of the 1930s. One refugee thanks Ezra directly for his efforts, putting a hand on his shoulder, but walks off before Ezra can weakly admit that he actually had no part in this. Deeply affected by this refugee’s actions, he retreats out of the village, and watches the Ghost crew and the villagers from afar. His whole world has clearly been shaken by the events of the day so far, and he is taking time to process them all; rather than abscond with the supplies stolen from Imperials, the crew of the Ghost chooses to give most of them away (though a crate of weapons is sold to a shady businessman for income). Ezra’s first instinct had been to sell them himself, to any number of the black market dealers with which he has become familiar growing up. Of the many confusing aspects of this situation, one thing which must be puzzling him is why the crew had even offered him refuge on their ship. Surely if they were like any other thief or smuggler, they would have left him behind to be killed by the TIE Fighter pilot, either as a punishment for stealing the crates in the first place, or simply to get him out of the way. (Later, he will be even more shocked that they turn around to rescue him from an Imperial Star Destroyer, one of the Empire’s largest and most heavily guarded space vessels, despite having accidentally left him behind earlier in their haste to escape.) Now, however, this emotional confusion, coupled with a handy tug from the Force, compels him to sneak aboard the Ghost and snoop, where he stumbles on Kanan’s lightsaber and holocron, a treasure trove of Jedi information that only Jedi can open, which he promptly steals. 

Similarly to the example above, this moment cements Ezra’s place as the protagonist of the series. It arrives more than fifteen minutes into the episode, the bulk of which had been taken up by instances of Williams’ motifs; the Imperial March, the TIE Fighter theme, and the Rebel Fanfare are quite prominent in the first fifteen minutes, while Kiner’s most prominent theme is his theme for the Ghost crew, as its old members size up its eventual new one. In a flurry of exciting motifs that recall the thrilling spaceflight chases of the OT, the slowness and pensiveness of Ezra’s theme, in contrast to the previous ones, also brings the audience’s attention to the forefront. The musical change signals a similar change in mood, content, and focus, from heroic action to emotional reflection. Indeed, this is the first truly character driven moment of the series, and the first moment of an onscreen character struggle, as Ezra tries to reconcile the altruism he has just seen with the cynicism he has known for his entire life. 

[better setup] In the middle of his rescue of Princess Leia, Luke and Leia, separated from Han and Obi-wan and on the run from a pack of Stormtroopers, nearly run off the edge of a platform into a bottomless pit. With a genius move straight from a swashbuckling pirate film, Luke throws a rope across and swings him and Leia to the safety of the other ledge of the hallway. The accompanying motif is appropriately heroic, 

Ezra was born on “Empire Day,” the day that the Clone Wars were ended and the Galactic Empire was declared by Palpatine, formerly Senator, then Chancellor, and now Emperor. (It was that same day that the Emperor launched his assault on the Jedi Order, wiping nearly all of them out in one overwhelming blow. Incidentally, Luke Skywalker and Leia Organa were born two days later.) For Ezra, Empire Day comes with its own baggage--this day is also the anniversary of his parents’ arrest for treason, which left him homeless and alone. This Empire Day, however, Ezra is not alone, but instead has joined up with a rebel cell determined to cause some mayhem and headaches for the Imperial occupiers. With Imperials distracted by preparations for a local parade, and their search for a particular Imperial data-worker named Tseebo, Ezra and the rebels happily ruin the parade, and, while hiding in the abandoned apartment which used to be Ezra’s childhood home, discover Tseebo already there. Tseebo was, by Ezra’s admission, a friend of his parents, though Ezra himself wants nothing to do with Tseebo now, who “went to work for the Empire, after they took my parents away.” (While it is left intentionally vague, there is a distinct possibility that Tseebo had a hand in his parents’ arrest and imprisonment.) In the years since, Tseebo has allowed himself to be implanted with cybernetic enhancements by the Empire in order to increase his productivity, before downloading several caches of Imperial secrets, and attempting to flee. With all of the information in his head, Tseebo is little more than catatonic, able to walk and spout random information, but not truly understanding what is going on around him--until some turbulence aboard the Ghost appears to knock him back into consciousness. Seeing and recognizing Ezra, and perhaps knowing that he has a limited amount of time, Tseebo frantically tries to tell Ezra that he knows what happened to his parents, who he had presumed to be dead all this time. Sadly, Tseebo cannot remain lucid for very long, and Ezra must go and help draw the pursuing Imperials off of their tail, in order to get Tseebo to Hera’s rebel operative, the mysterious Fulcrum. Ezra will not discover the true fate of his parents for some time; at this point, however, he claims it is merely a moot point, telling crewmate Sabine, “I've been on my own since I was seven, okay? If I'd let myself believe my folks were alive, if I let myself believe they'd come back and save me, I'd never have learned how to survive.” 

The arrest of his parents was clearly a traumatic event for Ezra, one he, truthfully, hasn’t processed until the events of this episode. Part of a Jedi’s training is learning to deal with one’s emotions in a healthy manner; Ezra, who refused to believe the possibility that his parents were alive, finds himself blocked, unable to tap into or use the Force beyond small bursts of instinctual panic, until he tearfully admits his fear that they may still be out there, and have been for all these years, to Kanan. Open to the Force, in battle with the Imperials, Ezra demonstrates the beginnings of his remarkable skill in connection, particularly with animals and other creatures, until, backed into a corner, he uses the Dark Side in order to summon a monster. With the Imperials beaten back, and Tseebo safely in the hands of the rebels, Sabine finds Ezra ruminating over the days’ events in one of the ship’s turrets, events which have shifted the galaxy on its axis, upping the stakes and changing the characters’ views of each other permanently. Sabine, who had previously treated Ezra as something of an irritating stranger with a misplaced crush, finds a kindred spirit in him as someone who has had their family torn apart by the Empire. For his belated birthday present, she gives him a data-disc which she had picked up while hiding in his childhood home; on it, amidst all the other corrupted data, is an old family photo of his. Too grateful for words, Ezra barely even notices her leave, his attention fixed on the image, as the camera exits the ship, zooming away as the Ghost heads off towards parts unknown, and his musical motif resounding in a full, stately, horn chorus. [insert sheet music]

In a pair of episodes chock full of this motif, [insert count here], this iteration in particular stands out from the rest. Firstly, it is clear that this final iteration is meant to be louder than the others, at least a mezzo-forte rather than a mezzo-piano; secondly, all the voices are working together in a moment of greater homophony, instead of a single voice over an aesthetic accompaniment. These changes, in part, reflect Ezra’s newfound awareness of his own feelings regarding the disappearance of his parents. Rather than shame, which causes him to hide and suppress his emotions as he has done his entire life, he admits his fear and overcomes it, and he lets his joy and happiness at seeing the photo come out fully, rather than trying to save face in front of his peers and continue to keep playing the part of carefree, scrappy, ne’er-do-well. It is a turning point in several ways, both narratively and musically; from this moment on, Ezra will begin making leaps and bounds in his Jedi education, going on to construct his own weapon in the next episode. 

[Luke example - death star run?]

[fix this part lmao] Sadly, Ezra’s quest to find his parents ends in tragedy. When a Force-inspired dream pushes him [find his parents again?], Kanan and Hera reveal that they have been trying to do the same for months. Ezra’s parents, according to Tseebo, were arrested and taken to an Imperial prison--one of thousands--somewhere in the galaxy, though soon after, news comes from the Rebel leadership of a prison break; guided by the Force, Ezra is certain that the prison break was orchestrated by his parents. Brimming with excitement and pursuing this new lead with a mildly alarming doggedness, Ezra returns to Lothal to find Ryder Azadi, the former governor of the planet, and friend of his parents. Azadi, a Rebel sympathizer, allowed the Bridgers to make their anti-Imperial broadcasts, and was subsequently arrested and imprisoned with them. Ezra, again, perhaps guided by the Force, seems to know what has happened before it is even said; though Mira and Ephraim did orchestrate the prison break, they perished in the attempt. His mourning spills into the next episode, where he and Kanan have to devise a way to get new supplies to the Rebellion without alerting the Empire to their covert benefactor’s identity--who is none other than Leia Organa, in a cameo appearance. Leia finds Ezra quietly crying over the photo of his parents that Sabine had saved for him. His musical motif this time is in the strings, not the horns, and loops repeatedly. 

[Ezra’s journey from start to finish recap] Initially, Ezra joins the Rebellion not because it is the right thing to do, but because it is convenient to him at the time; the Ghost functions as a roof over his head, its crew members as a new set of parents and siblings, and its missions as a source of food and income, along with the added bonus of learning how to use an incredibly powerful, specialized weapon, despite the target it paints on his back. Filoni himself states [need src] that Ezra decides to join the Ghost not only to learn how to use a lightsaber, but because he is in need of a family, having lost his own parents at the age of seven, when they were arrested for their underground, anti-establishment radio broadcasts. Ezra’s larger journey over the course of Rebels is re-learning how to think beyond himself, and learning what needs to be done for the greater good of this fight against tyranny to which he has dedicated himself, not just the good of his family and friends--but, as one would expect, at the very beginning of his story, he is far more selfish than selfless. It is more than halfway into the first season before Ezra begins to truly comprehend the Jedi lessons Kanan has attempted to teach him, beyond lifting rocks with his mind, as he finally admits and begins to face his fears while in the middle of a vision quest (presided over by the disembodied voice of Master Yoda). Over the course of the series, Ezra has frequent, deep brushes with the “Dark Side” of the Force, becoming more inclined to fight, hurt, or even kill in the name of pragmatism and gaining victories for the Rebel Alliance. [more]

This is not to say that Kiner never chooses to use Ezra’s theme in a heroic context. Most notably, in the series finale, Ezra’s theme plays triumphantly over his great sacrifice, as Ezra summons enormous, semi-legendary whale creatures called the Purrgil, to destroy the Imperial blockade over Lothal, and spirit away the remaining ships to the furthest reaches of the galaxy, with both Thrawn and Ezra still on board. From a Doylist perspective, Ezra, of course, would have to sacrifice himself in some manner, to explain his absence in the events of the original trilogy; Yoda on his deathbed tells Luke, “When gone am I, the last of the Jedi you will be,” leaving, unfortunately, no room for any other scrappy young Jedi in the galaxy, lest the entire narrative of the OT fall apart. It was inevitable that both Kanan and Ezra would have to vanish, though while Kanan died, Ezra merely disappeared, with Filoni confirming that both he and Thrawn are alive, somewhere off the edge of the map. It’s a fitting moment for his theme to return; a far cry from his introduction to the viewer as a scrappy street rat, Ezra has fully come into his own as a Jedi, and understands the role that he plays in the greater drama of the Rebellion, happily and willingly letting himself be taken out of the game in order to save his planet, and the victorious music confirms it. His journey has transformed him, and his music, from shy and unsure to confident and powerful, though the core remains the same.

In the latter half of 2019, several new Star Wars properties are set to launch, including the video game Jedi: Fallen Order, the seventh season of the revived Star Wars: The Clone Wars animated show, and, of course, the ninth and final film in the so-called “Skywalker Saga,” Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker. Each of the listed properties’ accompanying trailers, with music scored by Gordy Haab, Stephen Barton, and BLAKUS, composers for the video game Star Wars: Battlefront II, Kiner, and Williams, respectively, have one shocking thing in common: the “Main Fanfare” theme is nowhere to be found. In the trailer for Jedi: Fallen Order, Haab’s score is much more reminiscent of Alan Silvestre’s Marvel’s Avengers in its melody and harmony than anything else. 

[sheet music examples]

Though there are two instances of Williams’ themes in the score, they are both short and incomplete; we hear a somber and foreboding four notes of “The Imperial March” as the protagonist gazes anxiously at his broken weapon, and we hear just the beginnings of the Force theme as the title of the game is revealed, though the theme is reharmonized in order to blend with what will doubtless become the protagonist’s own leitmotif. Similarly, in the trailer for The Rise of Skywalker, Williams chooses to only incorporate one of his themes, “Princess Leia’s Theme,” with splendid, yearning sixth intervals over long, drawn out horn crashes, partially as an homage to the late Carrie Fisher, and partially due to Leia Organa’s rumored key role in the film itself. For The Clone Wars season seven trailer, Kiner does not use any of Williams’ original score; instead, the trailer begins with the theme he created for the breakout character of the show, Ahsoka Tano, before moving into entirely his own new material. 

Though the so-called “Skywalker Saga” is ending, Disney has planned nearly another decade’s worth of Star Wars content in the form of spin-off titles, television series, games, books, comics - any and every medium imaginable, and there are currently no signs that production is slowing down. Perhaps it is inevitable, then, that all traces of Luke Skywalker, visual, narrative, and musical, are disappearing from the greater Star Wars landscape as the universe continues to expand and include new protagonists and stories. Die-hard fans will of course decry this as an attack on a precious childhood memory, as they do for any piece of Star Wars media released after 1998. [Kiner demonstrates it’s possible to have the best of both worlds] 

****SWIV “Imperial Attack” repurposed for SWR “Gathering Forces”

“Ezra’a Theme” “The Desert and the Robot Auction”

https://www.syfy.com/syfywire/star-wars-composer-kevin-kiner-on-following-in-john-williams-galactic-footsteps

[lordnochybaty]

mcnozzo + 8

Unexpected filling of old prompts is unexpected but this fic was stuck on my drive for a while. :) Thank you for being my enabler and giving me prompts :*

Also on A03. :)

“Wait, you’re still playing the game?” McGee suddenly asked, as always focusing on what was totally not the point of the story.

In fact, it was barely in the story at all and if it was not an absolutely crucial part of the introduction, Tony would have skipped it altogether. For the integrity of his tale, he powered through and vaguely mentioned in the beginning while skillfully and speedily making his way to the point which was: he had cool friends.

And not only the ones back from the day! Oh no! New ones. He was making new friends. Outside of the office! And they. were. cool.

Fair enough Eliot was, technically speaking, just one friend and yes, okay, so Tony did meet him via the stupid game he started playing in the first place to prank McGee, but he was still cool.

“Occasionally!” admitted Tony and McGee squinted at him. “When I’m bored!”

McGee kept giving him a suspicious look so he caved: “Okay, fine, it’s sort of fun and painfully addictive and I’ve indulged a bit more when I was stuck home with a twisted ankle, okay?”

Some people said that the way to hide a lie was to tie it up with enough of the truth. That was one way. The other was to tie it up with plenty of other lies and letting people think they caught you easily. Throw them a bone. Burry your actual lies under ten tons of other lies. No one cares to dig that deep.

Certainly not McGee who turned away with a self-satisfied smirk.

Probably because he never rejoined the game after the whole Claire fiasco. Not that Tony was checking, because he wasn’t.

“Anyway, you were telling us how you went for a date with a geeky boy you met through a game,” reminded Abbie and Ziva snorted into her coffee.

Tony glared at Abbie and her bright smile. Why was she even in the bullpen? Didn’t she have anything to do in the lab? Sure, they didn’t have a case on, but this story-telling time was planned to let everyone know Tony had a varied social circle and was doing fine. It did not account for the extra level of sass from the Queen of Darkness.

“His name is Eliot,” Ziva supplied. “And he’s not a geek, he’s a firefighter.”

Her tone suggested she was mocking Tony but he clicked his fingers, pointing at her, acknowledging her point and also the fact that at least she was listening.

“Exactly! Thank you, Ziva!”

McGee frowned. “You do realize she did not negate the fact that it was a date, right?”

“She sure didn’t!” agreed Abby fast. “So? How was your date?”

“It wasn’t a date!”

“Wait, you actually met him?” Tim suddenly jumped in.

“Yes, that’s what this story is all about. Keep up, Mcconfused. Ziva accused me of not having any friends, and I contradicted her by starting this thrilling tale that got highly derailed, about a cool new friend I recently made, whose name is Eliot and who is a firefighter. I admit the way we first spoke was pretty nerdy, but we both have pretty decent excuses of being injured and bored at the time, so I’ve decided to let it slide.”

“And when you met him he turned out to be a 13-year-old pimpled nerd?” Tim asked hopefully.

“No, McSpoilFun. He turned out to be a super cool guy and we’ve had a blast and we’re going out to watch a game at the bar this week because unlike some judgy Mossad ladies, I do have friends.”

“I do have -”

“A dead marine to see, as you all do. Grab your gear!”

They all rushed away, jumping to comply with Gibbs’ order.

The case took their minds away from Tony’s new cool friend for few days until it was a week later and Tony was bored out of his skull and decided to log into the game for a bit.

After their meeting last night he expected a message from Eliot - and he got one because he was not the one to be ignored - but he never expected his very own Elflord to chat him up the moment he logged in.

elflord: wow, you really do play this game, huh?

Tony considered not replying, letting his dignified silence be the answer enough, but decided it would only backfire in the end.

claire69: I’m bored, probie. and slightly hungover. what can I say?

elflord: Rough night?

claire69: Eliot can drink me under the table. it does make him cooler, but also more painful to hang out with. also, my team lost :(

elflord: You really met this guy? elflord: twice?

claire69: told you already, probie

elflord: It’s just hard for me to believe you would meet someone while playing an online game. You always claim how nerdy it is and how there are no redeeming qualities for people who play it and then suddenly this guy supposedly hanged all the stars as far you’re concerned!

Tony frowned. Probie sounded really pissed about that, blowing it way out of proportion. Tony felt he should probably stop the conversation or derail it entirely, but as always he just could never resist an opportunity to poke his probie. Especially not when he already somehow accidentally managed to get under Tim’s skin. It was a compulsion, really.

claire69: Well, probie, he is also a firefighter. I think that makes him cooler than the game makes him nerdier. It’s a careful balance you see.

elflord: I AM AN NCIS AGENT!

claire69: …claire69: Really, since when?

elflord: Fuck you, tony

claire69: LANGUAGE, McSweary! claire69: seriously, why you’re so mad? are you jealous or something?

A few times an icon of typing showed up but no actual words and Tony bit his lip. He probably overplayed it waaay too much. He really should have backed off quietly, cover it all with jokes so they could move on.

Or he could press the issue like the hopeful moron that he was.

claire69: Why are you so jealous, McGreen?

elflord: God you’re such a painelflord: I guess, it’s just so annoying that you only ever see me as the nerdy, uncool friend but are happy to dismiss all nerdy things about this guy for some reason.

/ claire69: He actually only played the game while stuck at home with a broken leg. His friend recommended it. He’s not nerdier than I am, Probie. / Tony deleted his answer.

/ claire69: I do not just see you as a nerd. I let you in further than any / he deleted the last word / than other friends and / he deleted it all.

Tony scratched his unshaved chin. This was getting potentially sticky. The “you might still joke your way out of here and they might pretend to buy it, but you’re not going back to easy friendship ever again” kind of sticky. Been there, done that. Usually not worth the bother.

Usually.

claire69: Well, I never went out on a date with you. ;)

He stood up suddenly, walking away from the computer. He used a smiley face! Still could be a joke! Totally a joke! Hahaha, us dating, how funny is it, McGee, huh? How funny?! Hahaha! Oh dear god, he was so screwed.

He grabbed a beer from the fridge, ignoring the fact that it was way too early to start on that. Special circumstances and all that shit.

He sat back heavily before his computer, anxiously checking the chat window.

elflord: *eyeroll* You didn’t go on a date with Eliot.

Tony took a gulp of the beer.

“Remember Red, hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies,” he murmured, finding some comfort in a familiar game of finding the right movie quote even as his heart pounded nervously.

claire69: Nah, he’s painfully straight.

The pause was getting a bit long and Tony’s fingers took up the role of his usually rambling mouth.

claire69: Met his wife even. Kinda killed the mood.

He breathed carefully, drinking his beer and keeping his hands away from the keyboard. Stop digging your grave, DiNozzo, he thought firmly, it’s deep enough already. Suddenly he felt sick, the beer swishing unpleasantly in his empty stomach. He stood up slowly and made his way to the kitchen, pouring the beer into the sink and putting away the empty bottle. He pressed his forehead against the fridge and then thumped it a few times against the hard surface for a good measure. He was an absolute idiot.

He vaguely wondered if this will be the reason he will end up quitting NCIS. He already worked there way longer than he was usually able to stick with one jig. He was wondering what will finally make him crack. Until now his bet was more on getting a permanent brain damage from Gibbs’ headslaps than finally more openly flirting with McGee and creeping him the fuck out. Smooth, really smooth, he mocked himself. He should’ve saved himself some worry and just pass probie a note while in the bullpen “Hey, wanna break rule 12? Circle yes or no. xoxoxo, Tony.”

He dragged his feet back to the computer. From afar he saw Tim finally did reply and it was nothing really long. He sighed, sitting back and reading the message.

elflord: … Tony, would you go on a date with me?elflord: … Tony?

Tony realized he was grinning like a loon when the next, slightly lengthier message appeared.

elflord: Tony, I swear to god, if this is one of your pranks and you’re going to mock me for this, I will kill you. Abbie will help me. No one will find your body.

Tony chuckled and finally typed out his response.

claire69: Tonight at 7? claire69: I’ll pick you up. :*

[inquisitivewordsmith]

Action/Adventure Streaming Cartoons!

Hey, so Voltron: Legendary Defender recently ended. Want to watch some more animated shows in the similar genre of action and adventure? 

The following is a recommendation list of some you can try out. Unlike my last “recommendation list”, (now renamed) this is an actual selected list of shows I either recommend or think look intriguing. So, not as comprehensive as that, but much more personal. 

For this list, I’ll be focusing specifically on streaming ORIGINALS, so no shows that aired on TV first. Also, again, I’m specifically focusing on action and adventure cartoons. So, no live action shows or cartoon comedies. There is one example that blurs the line at the end, but I’ll deal with that when we get there. ;)

Let’s begin after the cut!

Hilda (Netflix)

One of the surprise hits of this year (at least for me), Hilda is a series based on Luke Pearson’s series of children’s books of the same name. It follows the adventures of Hilda, a brave little girl who goes on adventures and meets up with magical creatures before having to move to the city of Trolberg. This cartoon is delightful, charming, and has this sense of mystery and mystique without actually setting up a mystery. I had a blast watching it with my younger brother, who was a fan of the books. 

Season one is out, with a season two scheduled for 2020.  

She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (Netflix)

After Adora finds a mysterious sword in the forest, she begins to question the Horde, the empire she’s been working for in her whole life, and joins the opposing Rebellion as the legendary warrior, She-Ra. I don’t think I really need to recommend this one, considering how big it got. But yes, it lives up to the hype, some minor tonal issues aside. It’s a creative re-imagining of a beloved 80s cartoon classic. It’s very inclusive, has a great cast of likable and memorable characters, and hey, I’m actually a fan of the art style.

Season two is coming out soon, with at least a total of 52 episodes planned. 

Castlevania (Netflix)

Again, another cartoon I don’t think I need to recommend. This is an adaptation of the video game series that follows the efforts of Trevor Belmont, Sypha, and Alucard as they try to stop Dracula’s murderous rampage. The plot isn’t something too deep or exciting, but the gorgeous animation and art style, as well as the bloody, gory, fun, make it an exciting watch. I’m actually going to go against the grain and say that the shorter runs are much better. I don’t think this is the kind of show that should deal with a “full” season run, but that’s just me. 

Seasons one and two are out now, with a season three of 10 episodes on the way. 

Tales of Arcadia: Trollhunters and 3Below (Netflix)

Executive produced by Guillermo del Toro, Trollhunters follows the adventures of Jim Lake Jr. and friends as they are embark in a journey to save mankind, as well as the magical community underneath their town, from evil forces. Trollhunters admittedly starts out as a bit of a cliche storm, but it finds its footing along the way into something more earnest. It probably has one of the best series finales I’ve seen this year. I haven’t seen 3Below yet, but it looks fun. I’ll make some time for it.  

Seasons one to three of Trollhunters are out now, season one of 3Below is out now, and another spin-off, Wizards, is scheduled for 2019. 

The Dragon Prince (Netflix)

From Aaron Ehasz and Giancarlo Volpe, this series follows Callum, his brother Ezran, and elf assassin Rayla as they protect the egg of the Dragon Prince and try to bring peace between the humans, elves, and dragons. The animation is not everyone’s cup of tea, but it wasn’t an issue with me. The art style and designs are gorgeous and the characters are pretty likable. It does hit some of the tone issues She-Ra does, but that’s an area I think the show may improve on as we get deeper into the story and conflict. 

Season one is out now, with season two arriving some time in 2019. 

Stretch Armstrong and the Flex Fighters (Netflix)

Three teenagers develop superpowers after accidentally becoming exposed to experimental chemicals. The CEO of Rook Unlimited takes them on as corporated-sponsored superheroes as they fight a conspiracy in their futuristic city. Are you feeling nostalgic for 2000s teen hero cartoons? This show is pretty much a throwback to that. Some of the strengths in this show include the likable protagonists, some creative fight scenes, the occasional plot twist, the best plot pacing I’ve seen in a Netflix series, and the amount of effort put into the world building for what essentially started out as a novelty toy from the 70s. It also assembles one of my favorite voice casts out there, including my favorite of Steven Yeun’s voice roles. 

Seasons one and two are out now, with the interactive special, The Breakout, taking place in-between the seasons. I genuinely don’t know if there’s more episodes coming, but I’d like a couple more seasons, at least. 

All Hail King Julien: Exiled (Netflix)

This is a weird example because this is season five of what is a largely comedic series. In this special season, after season four’s cliffhanger, King Julien loses his kingdom, and he and his friends go on their own separate quests to put things back to normal. The season takes on a different genre than usual and is more of a big, epic adventure that parodies other adventures like Lord of the Rings, Game of Thrones, and The Chronicles of Narnia. It’s ambitious and VERY bizarre towards the end, but it’s a fun ride. 

This season is out now, while the main series it comes from has five seasons out as well. This season takes place between seasons four and six. 

Kung Fu Panda: The Paws of Destiny (Amazon Prime)

A continuation from the film series, Po must teach four young pandas to harness their newfound powers to fight an evil, ancient master. If you’re a fan of the series, it’s worth checking out. The CGI is pretty good considering it’s for a TV series, the fights are decent, and the kids are actually pretty likable. The show does a good job keeping the tone of the movies, Plus, you get to hear Steve Blum ham it up as the main villain. That’s always fun. 

Season one is out now, with a season two heavily hinted to be on the way. 

Kulipari (Netflix)

A passion project from NFL player Trevor Pryce and based on his novels, it’s the tale of Darel, a young frog who sets out to rescue his village from an army of warmongering scorpions by recruiting back his idols, the legendary warriors known as the Kulipari. Yeah, the animation is...not great and the pacing and dialogue falter a bit, but I love the art and designs, how much it's inspired by Aboriginal culture, and just the grand ambition of it all. Also, another show that has a pretty great voice cast. 

Seasons one (Army of Frogs) and two (Dream Walker) are out now, with season three a strong possibility. There’s also a comic mini-series (Heritage) and an upcoming graphic novel (Warflower) that take place between the seasons. 

Niko and the Sword of Light (Amazon Prime)

Niko is a young warrior that is accidentally awakened too early. Despite their young age, he and Princess Lyra must defeat the sorcerer Nar Est and save the kingdom from the darkness that infects it. This Emmy-winning series skews a bit younger, but it’s still pretty entertaining. Niko is endearing as a brave, bold warrior of sorts in the body of a young boy. The art style and Titmouse’s animation look great, and once again, we’ve got Steve Blum as the main villain. 

Season one is out now, with season two coming in VERY soon. There is a one-shot comic based on the show. 

The Hollow (Netflix)

This is a show I haven’t seen myself, but the little I’ve seen and heard of intrigues me. The show is about three teenagers who wake up inside a shack in the middle of the forest, with no memories of how they got there or of each other. They work together to dig deeper into the mystery and escape their predicament. The premise sounds pretty interesting and I love the art style by Robert Valley. 

Season one is out now, with season two on the way for an unknown release date. 

Legend Quest (Netflix)

Based on the Mexican animated movies Las Leyendas, this series features Leo, a teenage boy who can communicate with ghosts, and works together with ghosts and other allies to uncover supernatural mysteries and stop the Aztec god Quetzalcoatl from destroying the world in a fit of rage. These past few years have seen Mexican-produced animation become more prominent, and I’m personally happy about that. The show itself is pretty amusing, especially once you get past the first episode that can’t decide if the show is reboot or a continuation from the movies. The myth arc takes place after that, and things gets more interesting from there. 

Season one is out now, with season two confirmed for an unknown release date. US Netflix USED to have the Las Leyendas movies it’s based from, but they don’t anymore, which is disappointing. They weren’t great, but they had a unique charm to them. They deal more with Mexican mythology, as opposed to the show’s globetrotting approach. 

Young Justice: Outsiders (DC Universe)

Yeah, this is one show that blurs the line. This is the third season of Young Justice, produced and available exclusively for streaming (at this time). However, the previous two seasons were made for cable before Cartoon Network cancelled it (and all action cartoons at the time). This show deals with the sidekicks and students of DC comics’s most famous superheroes, who decide to form their own group and surpass the expectations set by their mentors. This show has the perfect combination of great art, animation, plot, and writing. It manages to be serious without being depressing and is essentially a massive love letter to the DC Comics Universe as a whole. 

Seasons one and two, as well as the tie-in comic, are available now, with Outsiders coming out next month (as of writing). There is also a prequel one-shot comic to Outsiders coming out next month to DC Universe as well. 

[merigreenleaf]

Short Story: “A Glimpse of the Past”

(This is the story I was talking about this week, where I wasn’t sure if I wanted to share it or not. This started as a flashback scene in an early draft of book 2 that I discarded in the next draft, so it’s no longer canon to the series, but I think it’s cute and sweet and romantic and I’m glad I edited it to turn it into a story. :) You can find the masterpost with links to read all of the short stories in this series here.)

————————————— 

Blythe scrubbed at the soil caught under her nails until they were as clean and neat as she could get them in the poor light. She hadn’t intended to work in her window garden, but she needed the familiar comfort of cool dirt and growing life beneath her hands. Etri had left to do… something tonight, something he’d kept vague, and she was alternating between annoyance at being told just enough to make her fret and aggravation that if it was that important, he should have taken her with him. If Etri wasn’t telling her, it was because it was dangerous, and if it was dangerous, it was her job to watch his back. He’d done his horribly annoying vanishing thing where she looked away for five seconds to check her watch and when she turned back to ask him a question, he was out of sight. One of these days she was going to tie a length of string around his wrist and keep him near her like he was an ill-trained puppy. Try to see him slip away when he was connected to her! 

Gardening had calmed her as it always did, yet a strange feeling still fogged her mind. She could have sworn she’d been somewhere different a moment ago. At the same time it was so right to be repotting her aloe in the new yellow pot Sol had bought her to replace the cracked one he’d accidentally knocked over. As she reached for a towel to dry her hands, she glanced out the window above the sink. Lantern light glimmered off a thin layer of freshly-fallen snow. It was pretty and it probably brightened up the wagon considering she’d been too stupid to remember to light a lamp. 

Snow… that couldn’t be right. There hadn't been snow for months...

A knock on her door echoed loudly in the dark even though it was hardly louder than a tap. Everything always seemed so muffled and quiet in winter… or was it spring? She tried to ignore the lingering disorientation and walked over to see who needed her at this hour. Etri stood on her doorstep, his head bowed as he wrung his hands together. “I need your help, Blade. I have been poisoned.”

Blythe was about to chew him out for disappearing earlier when his words stopped her cold, half out of fear and half out of recognition. She’d heard this before. She could remember standing here with fear eating at her heart, she could remember taking him by the arm and tugging him inside out of weather, she could remember the way he looked at her with faith in his pale eyes when she began to heal him. She tried to take a few deep breaths to clear her mind and found her body wouldn’t listen. Instead she watched herself lead Etri into the wagon and hang his wet coat to dry by the stove, just as she knew she would. She knew she would because she already had.

She had no idea how it happened, but somehow she’d inadvertently managed to read her own memories. Wonderful. She knew from her training that she could only sit back and let this play out until she snapped out of it or the memory ran its course, so she hunkered down in her own head to watch. When she was back in her current time, she was going to give herself a stern talking to because this was not okay for a fully trained healer to do. This was an amateur mistake. She hadn’t screwed up telepathy and memory reading in years and never her own.

“What do you mean you've been poisoned?” past-Blythe asked, oblivious to her later self being carried along for the ride.

“I touched a trapped window while I was attempting to break into the home of a merchant. Normally I avoid such things, but this was a type I had not previously come across. It contained two kinds of needles instead of one. I caught sight of the other and disabled that which I recognized. Too late I realized it had a secondary mechanism. It was not the paralyzing type, which was the one I disabled. I believe that one was intended to incapacitate a thief long enough for the authorities to arrive, in which case the needle which pricked me would have allowed the thief to give away why they were there. I did not spring the first trap, so I was able to get in and then out again with the information I needed. The house did in fact belong to-”

Past-Blythe interrupted him mid-sentence. “I thought you didn't do that kind of thing anymore.”

Blythe, both past and present, could have immediately guessed something was wrong even without his reveal about triggering a rigged window. Etri never chattered, even to her. On occasion he would get talkative about books he'd recently read, but not about something that was supposed to be a secret, and never in a way that was an unceasing string of sentences spoken in one breath. Rambling was something Adair did. At the time they hadn’t known Adair, so past-Blythe didn’t make a comment about the two of them rubbing off on each other. Pity, because now-Etri would have calmed and smiled at the mention of his boyfriend.

If this memory was going where she thought it was going, though, Adair definitely hadn’t been in the picture. All the more a pity because he would have liked this.

As Etri spoke he strode back and forth across the floor, his long legs only managing to squeeze in four strides before he was forced to turn around again. This, at least, was familiar to both Blythes. He always paced when he was agitated and it was something she was sure he’d picked up from her, unless it was the other way around. “I usually do not, but I acquired information of a potential member of the syndicate living in this town. I wished to investigate so I could send word to Sapphire in order to alert her of merchants in this location who could pose a problem.”

“Uhh... great.” Past-Blythe’s only concern was Etri getting to the point so he would stop pacing and chattering. “Can you stand still for a minute so I can check about this poison?”

Etri did as he was instructed and stood still in front of her, but he continued to chatter. “It is a toxicant, not truly a poison… It is silly for me to say this, of course you would be able to determine that as you are a healer. Are you going to see if it remains inside me to determine the exact type? I know you can deduce this, because you are very good at healing. I did not wish to go to Wysta because I prefer you as a healer. I do not like other people touching me, but your touch I do not mind. I also did not wish to tell Wysta this information, so you were the better choice for that, as well.

“If this was supposed to be a secret, you do realize you’re still blathering all this to me.” Past-Blythe ignored the first part of his reason considering she had already unbuttoned Etri's shirt so she could slide her hand inside to place it on his chest. Obviously she was going to check him. Under the layer of soft hair, his chest was cold, as his body always was, but his heartbeat ran faster than usual. Past-Blythe found this worrisome while Blythe possessed hindsight and wondered if it truly was the toxicant causing it-- or if it was something else entirely. She would place her bet on the something else. 

“That is different. You are my best friend and I trust you. You do not cause me fear or discomfort. The opposite, perhaps. I enjoy being near you. You care for me. You may act gruff on occasion, but you are quite sweet.”

Etri was normally nothing like this and it was disconcerting to hear him voice every thought crossing his mind. It was making past-Blythe uncomfortable and Blythe wasn’t exactly put at ease by it, either.

To Blythe's relief, which was dumb because a memory could only play out one way, her past self did what she herself had done and distracted Etri with a question. “What's the syndicate you were talking about?”

As he began to blather, past-Blythe listened with half an ear. Most of her attention was spent on focusing her thoughts on Etri so she could determine how thoroughly he was affected by the toxicant and what kind of healing pattern would be needed to eliminate it. The real Blythe, however, realized Etri had said more than she previously remembered. Likely now it had more relevancy since she had met Sapphire and some of Etri's previous carnival troupe-slash-thieving crew. She also lacked the worry of her past self. She knew Etri was going to be fine, although she kind of wished she could move this body so she could smack him in the back of the head. It wouldn’t be a hard hit, just enough to make her feel better about the five months of stress he’d caused her before he finally made another move.

“You are aware that merchants are the people responsible for buying and selling art created by the artists, yes?” Past-Blythe rolled her eyes, which was good because Blythe wanted to do exactly the same thing. It wasn’t like she’d spent her life living under a rock. For Petra’s sake, she was the Concordian here, not Etri. He didn’t seem to notice her reaction and continued, “Under normal circumstances this works properly and the sentinels have a selection of merchants to whom they can sell in order to attain a reasonable price for their artists’ creations. A portion of the merchants have banded together to form a group under the leadership of a few corrupt individuals. The members of this group all offer the sentinels less than acceptable values and force them to sell only to this group or not at all. The corrupt merchants then turn around and sell this art to buyers, usually foreign, who pay their regular price for it. This means the artists earn less while the merchants are padding their own pockets with ill gained profits.”

This, though, Blythe hadn’t known-- or at least hadn’t remembered-- and she was interested in hearing more about it now that it was relevant to her current situation with Adair. Unfortunately her past self hadn’t cared and stayed true to her memory by speaking when Etri stopped to catch his breath. “There’s definitely a toxicant still inside you. I think I know what to do to nullify it, but I've never done this on my own before. You'd do better seeing Wysta.”

Blythe mentally winced, the only way of wincing she could do at the moment. Had she really been so unsure of herself? Removing a foreign substance was easy-peasy compared to when she’d removed harmful weaving from Adair’s mind. That had been difficult and even then she’d managed it.

Etri shook his head so rapidly that both Blythes hoped dizziness wasn’t a symptom of his poisoning. “I cannot tell her this! I have faith that you can help me. You have healed me many times before without complication.”

Past-Blythe fought to keep herself from pacing, which amused her later self. She and Etri really were pretty damn compatible. “Those were colds and stuff. This is poison!”

“As I have said, this is not poison in the true sense of the word since in my experience it is made simply to incapacitate and not leave long-lasting harm.”

“Tomayto, tomahto, this is a foreign chemical in your body, Etch! You need more help than an assistant healer.”

Blythe silently scoffed at herself as Etri took her hands and stared into her eyes. That shut her up, even if it was directed at a different version of her. His pupils were tiny, a result of what was coursing through his body, and in the lamplight his blue eyes seemed almost amber. Blythe felt a rush of affection her past self hadn’t experienced. Amber was Adair’s eye color. “And I know you can do this. Trust me that I trust you.”

Past-Blythe, who didn’t know Adair and certainly didn’t go soft at that intense yet tender look he and Etri had both perfected, simply nodded. Blythe could remember her mind racing as she’d struggled to remember the antidote. While she could feel this body moving and listen to it speak, she couldn't hear her own original thoughts, which was probably for the best. Her head was crowded enough with her own thoughts. 

After a few moments, her past self recalled what she needed to do to clear away something like poison. “Okay. Let me mix together a paste and I'll try.”

Etri smiled at her with a grin full of dimples that had once been few and far between. Now his smile was as familiar as those eyes and the cool touch of his hands in hers. He gave her hands a squeeze and let go so he could return to pacing across the narrow wagon. Blythe allowed herself a few moments of fond later memories about his touch while her past self began sorting through her herbs. 

Blythe brought her attention back to this moment when Etri began to speak again. “The corrupt merchants are running an illicit scheme where artists are no longer making a proper income off their creations. My previous troupe works to help the artists in such a situation. Often we will steal back the ill-gained art and clandestinely return it to the home of the original artist. Most of the time, however, we sneak into the homes and offices of the merchants to attempt to locate records of who is responsible. Once we have proof a merchant has joined the syndicate, we set it up so they are caught by the authorities. As a result they have put more effort into guarding their homes and offices. The troupe must avoid the sentinels to return their art, but generally their homes are not trapped in any way. The merchants, on the other hand, occasionally have hired guards and inevitably have traps, especially since they are beginning to suspect that someone is working against them and that it is no longer coincidence when they are caught.”

Past-Blythe still wasn’t paying much attention since art-related issues had nothing to do with her. Blythe wished she could shake her by the shoulders because this was important. Past-Blythe was going to end up in a relationship with an artist and this would have been something useful to know in advance. 

With no way to communicate with her former self, she could only watch as her hands finished mixing the paste she had no contribution in concocting. If she had, she would have added more tarragon. What was past her thinking? “I'm ready. I'll need you to lie down for this. There's another reason Wysta would have made more sense, you know. She’s got low cots in her wagon specifically for patients.”

“I am not an invalid. The bed is fine even though it is high.”

Etri was so tall he was able to hoist himself up into the loft without needing to use the rungs built into the cabinet below. Past-Blythe used the ladder and climbed up after him. Her bed was a kind of alcove built into the wall and she had to squeeze in to get past Etri. This was the one and only time she ever shared this space with someone else because later they’d moved to the floor. Adair’s fear of heights apparently included beds, but she loved him too much to complain that a loft really wasn’t that high off the ground.

Past-Blythe positioned herself with her back to the wall so she could place the bowl of healing paste she held on the shelf. Later it would be claimed by Adair’s cat who liked looking out the tiny window. For now it held only a book and the bowl. “Take off your shirt.

As she dipped her fingers into the bowl to stir the contents, Etri obeyed without comment. This was another sign that he was under the influence of something. Normally he delayed removing articles of clothing by complaining about the cold, although she knew it was also because his upbringing left him terribly self-conscious about showing skin. 

...which he wasn't this time. When past-Blythe looked over again, he was sprawled on his back with his arms behind his head, his dark hair in disarray against her pillow. In the lamplight his pale skin seemed to shine with a deceptive inner fire, as though he had gained his twin's lightweaving. The glow on his skin shifted into a new pattern every time the lamp's flame danced.

Blythe felt her past self's heart skip a beat as she stared at her friend laying in front of her. Past-Blythe quickly looked away and back at the bowl, much to the annoyance of the person reliving this who appreciated the view, thank you very much.

Past-Blythe brought her fingertips to Etri's chest and begun tracing a pattern onto his skin. She was only as far as the first vertical line when he reached up to touch her braid. It had fallen over her shoulder and Blythe remembered thinking at the time that he was going to push it back for her, but this wasn't his intention. Instead he tugged away the ribbon securing the bottom and started to unbraid it with his deft fingers. “You would look pretty with your hair down. I mean, your hair would look nice framing your face. You are already very pretty.”

Past-Blythe's breath hitched and only partly from the affectionate words he spoke. At the time he had no idea of the intimacy he was implying with that deceptively simple action. She caught his wrist before he could finish freeing her hair. Blythe wished she hadn’t been so keen to follow tradition because she loved when Etri played with her hair. Her past self was missing out. “Please stop. Protectorates don't go out in public with their hair loose. Only their muses and immediate family can see them with their hair unbraided.”

Etri slid his hand into hers and entwined their fingers so she was holding this instead of his wrist. “I would be your muse if you asked.”

“You're delirious, Etch. This is the toxicant talking.” Past-Blythe's voice came out little more than a whisper. This was something she’d half-wanted for a very long time, although in hindsight Blythe knew she’d always wanted it entirely. Being neck-deep in denial really hadn’t done her any favors.

With his free hand, Etri reached up to bury his fingers in her loosened hair before letting go to gently pull her down to him. Past-Blythe didn’t resist and when Etri lifted his shoulders off the bed, she met him halfway. His kiss was everything her past self had hoped for. Even her current self, who, along with the help of a certain artist, had given Etri a lot more practice, couldn’t find any fault with it. Etri was gentle yet passionate. Firm, then letting her lead, then pulling her closer as he deepened the kiss. It was as they were in their relationship and in their role as sentinels: equal, balanced, and ever in tune with each other. While his lips and mouth were cold, his chill was something she had long grown accustomed to even back then and experiencing it in this unfamiliar way had only made her crave more of it. Her current self certainly wanted more.

Except past-Blythe came to her senses and realized it wasn't something that was hers to take. As Etri nuzzled against her neck, she pulled away. “No, Etch. We can't. The toxicant-”

Etri’s face went even more ashen than its usual pale hue. “Please tell me I did not cause it to harm you. I do not wish to hurt you. I never wish to hurt you.”

His concern, even while under the influence of something other than himself, tugged at Blythe's heart both in the past and in the present. Creators, she loved him so much. “No, it’s not that. Something like this can usually only be transferred by injection into the blood and my body could probably nullify it anyway. Healer, remember? What I meant was we can't do this. It wouldn't be right. I'm not going to take advantage of you.”

Etri’s disappointment was all but tangible and Blythe wished she could assure him that things would work out fine. Better than fine. Still, he was her friend and even in this state knew she wanted to protect him. He nodded and brushed her cheek with his hand, then tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. When he spoke, it was with a small, kind smile that both past and present Blythe found comforting. “Do as you think is best. I trust you. I always will.”

Past-Blythe smiled with relief and went back to tracing the healing pattern on his chest. Blythe, meanwhile, was caught between affection and the returning urge to smack him with the book sitting under the bowl of paste. The toxicant driving his actions had left Etri with no memory of this day and he’d waited months to make any kind of move again. Blythe had been too embarrassed to do this herself and if it hadn’t been for Adair blundering his way into their lives, they’d likely still be ignoring the elephant in the room. Granted it would have been a rather small elephant because the wagon could barely hold three people and a cat, and it was possible she might have just given in and kissed Etri senseless one day regardless of said elephant, but all-in-all, Blythe was quite thankful for Adair’s inadvertent nudging of the situation.

Whenever she landed in her own time again, she was going to show him how thankful she was. Then she would probably hit Etri with a book. Five months. Sheesh.

————— 

I’m going to tag people who expressed interest in being tagged in stories. If you don’t want to be on this list, let me know. And if you do want to be on this list, also let me know and I’ll add you. It’s all good. :) @ageekyreader @lynnafred @the-gay-hufflepuff @firewritten @joshuaorrizonte @writtenhastily @writerlydays @ava-burton-writing @josephmxa @megan-cutler @dragonscanbeplantstoo @alittle-writer @elliot-orion @perringcentral @an-author-in-progress @aceduchessdragoness @madmooninc @thatwriternamedvolk

[satireknight]

TMNT S02E13 - Return of the Technodrome

It’s been a whole season - not a long one, but a season - since the Technodrome went sailing into Dimension X, and Shredder had to spend several episodes trying desperately to impress Krang into helping him.

So whatcha say that giant white ball cause more trouble?

It’s a slow day at Channel 6, which basically means that there hasn’t been a world-threatening crisis in the past six hours, and Burne Thompson is probably threatening to fire everything in the building, including his potted plant. You know, the staff at this building must have pure Valium running through their veins, or they’d constantly be on the verge of nervous collapse.

Burne demands that April go out and “make” news, whatever that means. Should she somehow produce a natural disaster? Commit a crime?

Irma reeeeeaaally wants to see the Turtles again, implicitly because they’re male and didn’t run at the sight of her. April tries to brush her off despite Irma having actually collaborated with them in the last episode. “Irma, the Turtles are NOT the most exciting thing in my life!” Yes, they are. 

Meanwhile, Splinter is going off on a retreat, and Donatello is wearing pink for some reason.

April pops in to ask if there’s anything interesting happening that she can exploit, and she’s so desperate that she even asks if Splinter leaving is something newsworthy.

Meanwhile, Krang has finally had enough of Shredder’s screwups, and is preparing to invade Earth. Wait, why does he want to invade Earth? I thought his priority at the end of last season was to conquer Dimension X, and it was SHREDDER who wanted to conquer Earth. Did Krang already do that, and now he wants a fresh challenge?

He sends Shredder a gadget intended to direct Niagara Falls’ energy towards opening a dimensional portal. And despite whining for one more chance to kill the Turtles a few minutes ago, Shredder is now ecstatic about the Technodrome’s return.

Shredder, Bebop and Rocksteady all arrive at the power station, and the portal starts opening in the sky.

Meanwhile, the Turtles say goodbye to Master Splinter for the next few days, and it’s hard not to notice something odd about Donatello.

Yep, for most of this episode he doesn’t have his wristbands on. No reason is ever given, and it’s more consistent than just an occasional animation error; it’s almost all the time. So we should just assume that he’s shamelessly flaunting his naked wrists at us.

But just as they’re about to head home, two things happen: April calls, and Leonardo gains fifty pounds in his gut.

They immediately deduce that the massive power outage in New York is actually the work of Shredder... which really doesn’t take much effort, since he is the main villain of the series. 

The Technodrome is rapidly charging up, and Krang decides to be uncharacteristically nice and send Shredder some Foot Soldiers and Rock Soldiers. Did someone slip him some antidepressants?

Meanwhile, Donatello apparently hacks into Shredder’s communicator at long-distance with one little knob. If you need proof of technical genius, this is it. Also, no wristbands.

And despite saying he can’t make out the transmission, he manages to hear EVERYTHING they say. They charge out of there on the Turtle Blimp, and Leonardo argues that they shouldn’t disturb Splinter because he’s been training them for this sort of crisis. True, but considering the importance of what’s going on, methinks he wouldn’t mind THAT much.

And it’s all moot anyway, as Splinter senses the whole mess and sets out to investigate.

And since the Turtles use the stealthiest of means to sneak in - a blimp with their name on it - Bebop spots them and shoots down the glider. 

They land right near the falls and are about to go over when Donatello uses a remote control function to lower the blimp towards them.

They manage to grab the one rope dangling from it, and be deposited on the shore. Bebop and the Foot Soldiers are completely missing from the shore now, which is a little weird. But that’s so Splinter can pop out of nowhere and greet them, and point out the giant glowy portal in mid-air.

Donatello comes up with a plan to cut off the power from the river/falls, and April’s idea for distracting the rock/Foot soldiers is... the sexy lady gambit. I’m not even kidding.

Even they look baffled by the idea. Donatello and Michelangelo attack and almost get squelched, but April manages to distract the easily redirected enemies. Again. For the second time in a minute.

Meanwhile, Leonardo and Raphael take on Rocksteady and yet more Foot/Rock Soldiers,

And this is Leonardo in full “you’re my bitch now” mode. Rocksteady throws him off and charges at the two Turtles, only to get a faceful of insta-sleep-stuff from Splinter.

And a layering issue too.

Donatello somehow manages to shut down the entire river... don’t ask me how... which cuts off the power to the portal. Krang has to compensate with extra power from his end, and the Technodrome heads right through towards Earth.

Krang immediately deploys more soldiers and vehicles to attack and surround the Turtles, who don’t have the faintest idea what they can do to save themselves.

Krang decides he wants to shoot the Turtles himself, using the Technodrome’s weaponry, and aims a giant laser at them... only for it to putter out without firing. While Krang swears that this has never happened before and he definitely doesn’t need pills, it turns out that he’s drained the Technodrome to the point where the weapons don’t work.

Also, that army there a few minutes ago? Gone now.

As they’re chased down by Bebop and Co, Leonardo (or Donatello, it’s hard to tell when the voices get switched) summons the blimp yet again.

And remember how earlier Bebop was able to bring down the glider with one shot? Now he and the Foot Soldiers can’t shoot the ENTIRE BLIMP with multiple shots.

“They’ve escaped again! Oh, this is getting VERY monotonous!” Shredder really calmed down fast there. Krang sucks in more of that sweet hydroelectric power, and reveals that he’s planning to create seismic events that will lead to New York being evacuated, then taking over it when everyone is gone and using it as a base of operations to conquer everything else.

He broadcasts a message commanding everyone to leave the city, and threatens a stronger quake that will level every building. As the Turtles rush out, Splinter says portentously, “And so begins the final battle.” Oh, you wish, Splinter. This show has six more seasons of battling these guys, plus a vacation side-season.

The Turtles track down the Technodrome once again, and we get an idea of just how huge it is.

Donatello blasts a hole in the Technodrome’s armor (after another I-swear-this-has-never-happened-before moment) and they head inside. Donatello is focused on stopping the earthquakes, but Splinter is busy having a Jedi moment.

Shredder also senses Splinter, and the two of them head off to fight. 

Donatello finds the control center and starts rewiring everything in it, while the other Turtles have to fight Rocksteady, Bebop and a bunch of Foot Soldiers.

“Hamato Yoshi is no longer. There is only Splinter.” I love consistent characterization. That wasn’t sarcasm; I love this moment. 

Back in the control room, the lights go out and there’s a bunch of fighting in the dark, and Donatello isn’t entirely sure he managed to fix the problem. Of course, he should have had plenty of time based on what happened to their foes.

Why did they tie up the Foot Soldiers? They’re robots. Just smash ‘em.

The city hasn’t been evacuated, so Krang tries to set off another earthquake. All that happens is that a giant laser blasts the bridge that Splinter and Shredder are standing on... 

... which forces Splinter to crawl up the platform vertically, and leaves Shredder hanging by his cape. That is the worst place for a laser EVER.

The Turtles have just escaped from the Technodrome when they realize that Splinter is still inside... how do they keep forgetting that?... just as their master comes springing out.

It turns out that Donatello’s rewiring has led to the Technodrome sinking right through the Earth’s crust, and Krang has no way to actually stop it.

I’m pretty sure landing in lava would melt it, but who cares? Krang is busy screaming that this is all Shredder’s fault (though I’m not sure how) as they float downstream on the magma.

VERDICT:

This is a nice solid episode with a heavy emphasis on action. It basically does what its title promises, returning the Technodrome while focusing on the Turtles’ efforts to stop it from conquering the Earth. So there’s a good failure/success balance for the Turtles here, with them encountering obstacles along the way that they aren’t entirely successful in dealing with - they don’t stop the Technodrome’s return, but they do manage to keep it from conquering the world.

So it’s a good episode for lots of fighting, lots of confrontations with Rocksteady and Bebop (who are actually pretty intimidating here), and Donatello doing techie stuff. I felt a little let down by the lack of a real fight between Splinter and Shredder at the end, but I guess there wasn’t really time for that.

It also establishes the new status quo for the series. After Shredder being on his own and the Technodrome and Krang being safely off in another dimension, now it’s immobilized down in the depths of the Earth, and Shredder has Krang in the same general area... you know, despite Krang not being very happy with him, but what else is new? From now on, these two are a package deal, wherever the Technodrome happens to be located (and it’s going to get complicated). 

One thing that was a little distracting was the animation flubs. I only touched on those, but certain scenes made the Turtles look either tubby or kinda childish. I’m still not sure why Donatello’s frequently-missing wristbands are an issue too, since this is rarely an issue in other episodes. Let’s just assume he accidentally splashed tomato sauce on them, and they’re in the wash.

Grade: B+

[buttercup-of-kaer-morhen]

Of Thorns and Buttercups

~Ch 6/?~

(Beauty and the Beast AU, Kiiiinda. It has definite elements of the original story cause I’m a sap for Fairytale AUs. I hope you enjoy. Also shout out to @sophiakuso1 for being my beta. Here you can find Beginning or Previous) Jaskier makes more progress into unraveling secrets and chipping away at Geralt's heart. Please enjoy this chaotic bard's adventures!

Note: Lew is still pronounced Lef because it is polish just as a heads up.

Primary Tags: Beast! Geralt, Belle! Jaskier, Memory Alteration Via Curse, It really only affects Jaskier right now Also on AO3!

————————-

Jaskier awoke with a start. His dream was... odd. Straight out of a fairy tale or romantic ballad if he were to describe it. His heart so desperate for a knight, metaphorical or literal, to come into his life to love him like in every sappy poem and song he ever dealt read or sang, it went to the extent of affecting his dreams. He could feel a flush of embarrassment rushing to his face as he remembered his own mind even put him in the place of a maiden who met a dashing silver haired knight in a picturesque autumn forest. The traitor! Jaskier couldn't help thrashing his arms and legs about in the bed before finally sitting back up with a huff. He would have liked to scream in embarrassment but thought better of it seeing as it would be rude and potentially more humiliating if the Beast were to hear him and come check what was wrong. But now that he paused and thought about the hair color of his knight in shining armor in his dream, it looked very similar to the Beast’s fur. It was a wintery soft looking white that appeared as striking and fluffy as fresh fallen snow. Focusing more on it made his heart ache pitifully while also making him yearn for the company of the Beast simultaneously. He decided then that it would be better to shrug off the odd painful emotion, however, and latch onto his desire for fluffy company instead. Whatever had occurred in the past had happened, and he doubted he could change that right then, so he might as well focus on helping his hopefully new found friend... or, well, he would dearly love to make friends with the Beast. They could both really use a friend right about now. Invigorated by his new goal, Jaskier climbed out of bed ready to face the day. Whether it meant getting to spend quality time with the fellow or him filling his day dutifully studying the flowers for any hint of a connection to the curse… all by himself... He would be completely fine either way, at least he would be helping! Honestly, he didn’t mind the idea of being completely and utterly alone all day again! It’ll be great, just like his days just after Oxenfurt, except he wasn’t on the road obviously. 

He stretched in the warmth of his room, thanking whatever gods were above for granting him the luxury of having a magical fireplace to keep him warm in this cursed winter as he was setting about readying himself to face the day. Before he could even think about what to wear, he spotted another set of clothes on the trunk in front of his bed. It was almost scary how the great Beast could sneak into his room to leave gifts without disturbing Jaskier’s sleep with how big he appeared to be. The bard also couldn’t decide if it was sweet or creepy that he kept doing it, but he settled on sweet for now since he found all that fur rather endearing compared to a regular human stranger. The doublet and trousers, which were more bloomers this time, were a rich amber with burgundy accents which reminded him of the forest from his dream. The delicate embroidery on it even had a leaf motif as well. It may have been a coincidence, but he couldn’t help but smile nonetheless. The soft gauzy chemise and stockings to match the ensemble were a lovely cream color which seemed to tie it all together with soft dark brown boots that were set to the side. He gently put the garments on after he finished his usual morning routine--the importance of moisturizing, children--and when he turned to make the bed everything was already done just like the day prior. “You know you don’t have to be shy. You can do things in front of me just as you do with the Beast.” He spoke aloud into the empty room, not expecting any form of answer, but the curtains on the bed fluttered slightly. He took that as a yes and enjoyed another small victory. 

For a moment, he considered going in search of the Beast, but that hadn’t worked out well yesterday, so he decided to just finish what he had started last night. After a short whole of skimming through his select few books that he had collected, he decided the Herbarium and Antidotarium were far too academically written for him to really understand. Besides, they both seemed to not really focus on flora at all. Plants in general, yes, flowers not so much. He set them aside to put back later, but the small stool he placed them on trotted out of the room with the books. “...Thank you!” He called after the silly thing, after his initial shock, realizing that the stool had most likely gone to return them for him. How kind! The Botanist's Companion to the Identification of Flora had proved quite useful for, well, identifying the flowers he didn’t know of course, but it didn’t go much further then that. So he then turned his sights on the homemade Alchemy text and the Assasination guide book. If the flowers had any use for magic or medicine, Jaskier was sure these would have it all there for him in black and white… Except after searching through the neat penmanship for a couple of hours-- pity these didn’t have an index--and jotting down notes as he went, he found there was no correlation. Some were poisonous, some were medicinal, some were magical, some were a combination of the three, and although he assumed magic and alchemy were practically the same thing, none of the four flowers had any use in the same potions or spells he found. Bottom line was that the flowers and their associated parts had no practical use as a whole together. 

Changing his line of thought, he kept his notes, but turned to his final book and opened it. Symbolism was always the way to a bard’s heart, but he hadn’t expected a sorceress or sorcerer to pay much heed to it. Although, perhaps whoever it was to cast the spell was just adding insult to injury. It was like adding some kind of reminder or petty jab to taunt the Beast in his magical prison in the form of flowers. Odd, but not outside the realm of possibility really. He had once gone to such petty lengths as to bribe the laundress at Oxenfurt to “accidentally” dye all of Valdo Marx’s white linens and bed dressings to a color Jaskier knew he particularly hated for weeks just to drive the insufferable prat up the wall. Then to top it all off with a bow, he convinced the lady Valdo was courting at the time, that said color was his favorite and really got him going in the bedroom. He graciously assisted the fine lady to decorate her room in it, as well as oh-so-helpfully assisted her with picking out a stunning outfit to surprise and delight the odious weasel. It all proved to be worth it when the other man had been suspended for a week after he hollered at and practically mauled everyone who crossed his path. Now, many would think Jaskier was being unduly cruel, but in his defense, it was well and truly deserved. He only committed the act of vengeance after the vile piece of shit had stolen one of Jaskier’s early compositions which he had slaved over for months to complete and proceeded to present it as his own for the final examinations. It was butchered and Jaskier couldn’t bring himself to sing it ever again. So if whoever really disliked this Beast was petty enough, Jaskier wouldn’t put it past them to add a small detail of insulting foliage to the whole shabang. 

Upon opening the small journal filled with a ladies delicate crisp script, he set to work. To his confusion, they didn’t all come together as a whole that meant fuck you or something as equally aggressive. It was more mournful and sad. Thistle carried the heavy tones of pain, anger, and pride, which was not at all surprising of the devilish little thing, from what the text said. The Zinnia spoke of an absence while the cyclamens implied a separation that led to the absence. The worst and most heart wrenching of them all were the little purple hyacinths that pleadingly asked for forgiveness. Jaskier didn’t really get the whole picture yet, but he did understand that, as beautiful as the back garden was, it was a reminder. It was a symbol of regret, and something was undoubtedly hidden in the center of the maze. Hopefully a major clue or, if he was lucky enough, the key to breaking the curse. Regardless, the bard was even more determined to unravel what it all meant now than ever. First, however, he needed to gather more flowers and try to pick his way through the maze to its center. 

He set the sad blossoms to the side with the other materials and the journal before pulling on his bright cloak, ready to press on now that he had more stable footing underneath him. A glance to the windows showed that it was practically midday and he had skipped breakfast… again. Whoopsies. Not wanting to take too long though, he popped into the dining room and tucked some apples into his cloak pockets, also managing to remember to grab a couple for the mare--as he promised to do--from the table that was slowly clearing itself for dinner later in the evening. He left through the front entrance and made his way to the stables so he wouldn’t forget to give the lady her treat. 

He stopped short upon entering, however, because the horse was not alone this time. It seemed he was her second visitor of the day. Standing at her side was the Beast, brush in hand, lovingly grooming her while whispering words Jaskier sadly could not hear. The bard couldn’t help but feel elated that he had such good fortune that day. He did, however, war with himself on whether or not he should disturb the tranquil, domestic scene, but the decision was made for him as the lady huffed in Jaskier’s direction, which had the Beast’s gaze snapping up to him. The troubadour’s bright smile was met with an annoyed scowl however, and had Jaskier regretting his mistake of accidentally interrupting. Before he could think of an excuse to quickly get out of the Beast’s hair, the rough baritone called out, halting his thoughts. “What?” It was demanding and clipped but not angry at least.

Jaskier licked his lips nervously as he stepped forward, trying to remember what he had come to do all of a sudden. Thankfully, the gentle knock of the apples against his knee, concealed in his cape, jolted his memory . “Ah! Oh, I just came to bring a treat to the lady. She helped me in a way yesterday and I wanted to thank her.” He could feel his cheeks warm with embarrassment as the words left his mouth. He realized how ridiculous it sounded, but at least it was the truth. 

He expected a scoff or a growl to follow his ridiculous statement, but he was met with wide surprised eyes before the Beast’s face was back to its usual flat stare in the blink of an eye. The Beast said nothing further, but he did hum in acceptance, or at least that’s what Jaskier was going to assume it meant. When the Beast turned back to tending to the horse, Jaskier felt some of the tension leave him. He could do this, he could talk to the intriguing fellow and possibly convince the other to spend time with Jaskier in the day, not just at dinner. 

Jaskier quietly moved towards the two in the stall and cautiously caught the horse’s attention, not wanting to startle her.  “Hello, Madam! It’s lovely to see you again!” His mouth moved of its own accord, prattling on at the horse rather than the Beast to hopefully disperse his sudden onset nerves. “I have brought you a treat, as promised.” He continued as he stepped into the stall, putting him rather close to the great mass of fur. The space felt smaller than the other day with all three of them in it, and the bard felt his heart hammering in his throat, ready to run away with itself. He didn’t quite understand his own reaction, but he was tempted to blame it on the strange dream and how the Beast’s fur reminded him of the knight’s hair. He supposed he was needier for companionship then he thought, a matter he usually dealt with by finding some one night stand that gave him the physical if not emotional comfort he longed for. As he tried to quell his racing heart, the Beast shifted further away. The troubadour almost felt like an idiot as he realized the Beast could most likely hear the offending organ and it made him uncomfortable. Hell, if Jaskier could hear someone’s heartbeat race just by stepping into a horse stall which put them in close proximity to one another, he would think them strange too. All in all he was not making a good impression on the other who had already wanted to get rid of him. Mentally shoving down all the weird feelings, he fed the darling mare her treat. 

He needed to act as charming and likable as he usually was, but he couldn’t understand why none of his usual demeanor came out around the other man. He cleared his throat, glancing over at the other. “I apologise for if I offended you in some way last night during dinner. I thought things were going well, but I suppose I must have crossed a line somewhere that upset you, and for that I am remorseful. I didn’t intend to be rude.” He began speaking to fill the silence. It was not anywhere near what he had intended to say, but it also wasn’t the worst way to start. Besides, it was the truth. He felt like it had been his fault that everything was abruptly cut short. An apology was far better than glossing over what had happened, acting like it hadn’t occurred, and talking about the weather. The Beast only hummed in response to Jaskier’s apology, so the bard continued on. “By the way, whose horse is this? She’s an absolute peach! Did she get trapped here as well?”

The Beast grunted slightly in reply, very articulate, and Jaskier assumed that was all he was going to get out of him until finally the low rumbling tone graced the bard’s ears again. “She’s mine. Had her for years, and yes, she is most likely trapped here by the same curse that traps us.” The stoic individual explained, and it was so very sweet how fond he sounded when speaking of his horse.

Except it was as clear as mud. The Beast hadn’t really given him anything but sparse details that told him nothing except for some reason, a Beast in a cursed castle required a horse that he most likely couldn’t ride with his size being what it was. Jaskier would just have to take solace in the fact that he had gotten more words to come out of him than the short, clipped responses… Also that did confirm he was most likely a man before all this if he had had a horse, but it still didn’t tell him anything of the Beast’s status, class, or profession. Anyone could have a horse as long as they could make enough coin to care for it. “Well she’s a darling. May I- Is there any way I can help?” He tried to offer but the Beast shook his head with a happy huff. Jaskier sighed softly in disappointment. Well this wasn’t going very far… Jaskier decided to try another angle. “So, Beast, I really do mean it when I say-”

“Don’t” The deep growl cut him off and Jaskier’s confusion was met with a deep glower before the Beast’s eyes looked anywhere but at him. He didn’t look just annoyed this time but outright angry.

“What?” Jaskier could only ask dumbly because  he didn’t know where he had yet again misstepped. 

“Don’t call me that.” He growled, looking genuinely distressed and the bard felt rather bad for it… “Beast..” He spit out the word like it tasted foul on his tongue, muttering mostly to himself. 

“Well…” Jaskier started gently, taking a tentative step forward and laying a hand lightly on the Beast’s arm. He counted it as a win when it was not shaken off. “What should I call you? I--You have yet to give a name, but I apologize for the callous insensitivity I have displayed…” He asked, deciding that he should’ve at least apologized for putting his foot in his mouth again. Just because the Beast knew who he was didn’t mean he shouldn’t have asked the other for his. 

The Beast seemed to consider him critically for a moment while deciding whether or not to answer. “Geralt.”

Jaskier couldn’t help but smile, finally knowing the Beast’s name. “It’s nice to make your acquaintance, Geralt.” He spoke with a flourish and a bow, smiling playfully at the Beast, who rolled his eyes at the bard’s antics, but it felt fond in a way. “Now, as I was trying to say, I really do wish to help break the curse… If you’ll allow, that is.” He offered and amended, fully planning to continue helping regardless but it’d be easier if Geralt consented and provided information. 

The Beast sighed in annoyance, but Jaskier could tell that he was considering whether or not to trust the bard to help, so Jaskier waited patiently. “...The curse changes and shifts according to the person apparently.”  He relented vaguely.  

Jaskier was starting to think he and Geralt were going to need a little sit down to have a nice long chat about a thing called details. Really! It was a familiar exasperation that he felt, but didn’t dwell on it since the conversation seemed more pressing. “Sounds rather annoying and rather unfair of the caster to not even give you a hint on how to break it.” 

Geralt nodded stoically, a word that was rather fitting of the cursed man, as he ushered the bard out of the stall. Both said goodbye to the mare before stepping out into the crisp winter scene. It almost felt like the Beast didn’t want the horse to hear their discussion and the thought nearly had him giggling, but he refrained. Must maintain a serious professional demeanor and all that to get any details. “Don’t know much else yet except that the spell provides anything I need to break the curse… And there’s a time limit.” His tone was grave and the notion sent chills up the troubadour’s spine. 

“What happens if time runs out…” He couldn’t help asking as fear creeped into his mind. He may not know the Beast well, but he got a good feeling from him, and he didn’t want to lose yet another companion if he could help it. There was also the matter of what would happen to him if the curse’s time limit ran out since he was now stuck there. It was just as likely that he’d be freed as it was that he’d die with the Beast. 

Geralt didn’t respond however. He shrugged and shook his head, not meeting Jaskier’s eye, telling the bard that even he didn’t know what fate awaited him, but it was most likely very grim. Jaskier didn’t like the somber air that had enveloped them after the conversation lapsed, so he tried to reassure them both with false bravado he didn’t quite feel in the moment. “Well, nothing to fear really. I’m sure with my help, we’ll be able to break this curse in no time.”

The Beast, however, snorted at his cheerful tone. “Oh?  What could some bard do that I couldn’t already?” Now Jaskier could tell he was teasing, especially since there was an amused glint in the star like eyes, but he still wound up sputtering indignantly. 

“Some bard!?” He nearly shrieked as the other openly openly chuckled at his flustered state. “How dare you!” Jaskier quickly stooped down, gathering snow into a ball and threw it at the highly amused Beast. He had been mistaken, the Beast had a lack of refinement and taste! “I’ll show you!” He threw another ball of snow to punctuate his sentence before continuing his rant. “I’ll break the damned curse just so I can shove it in your furry handsome face!” 

He continued to pelt Geralt with snow, but now the other was returning fire, and Jaskier was scrambling to dodge while giving little shrieks of delight because as upset as he was, it was rather fun. “If your curse breaking is as bad as your aim bard, I shall fear for my life!” The other called out as they exchanged blows, his tone open and friendly. The man was apparently finding humor in ruffling Jaskier’s feathers, the insufferably gruff, intriguing bastard!

“In fact, I bet the curse brought me here because you were too busy brooding to figure it out!” His shrieks slowly morphed into delighted little laughs as they traded powdery blows. “An answer to your prayers!”

He ducked and ran through the front garden boasting as he tried to hit the agile Beast as the Beast chased after him. “More likely an added punishment brought to torment me.” The Beast countered, which rustled the bard more, most likely an attempt to get Jaskier to falter, which he almost gave into. 

After a little while of cat and mouse in their little snowball game, he was tackled into the fluffy snow by his pursuer. He giggled looking up at the Beast. Jaskier was pulling in deep breaths to sate his burning lungs while Geralt seemed unperturbed by the exercise, but they were both unmistakably smiling in their own ways, Jaskier grinning broadly while Geralt smirked. “The solution to all your woes…” He breathed out softly between them which Geralt rolled his eyes at fondly at before standing up, breaking whatever small moment that had appeared between them. He was kind enough to help the smaller man up, however, so chivalrous he was. 

Jaskier couldn’t help the soft, giddy giggles that sporadically slipped out from his lips, but as fun as everything had been, Geralt turned towards the castle. “I’ll, uh… I’ll see you at dinner.” Geralt offered before quickly going off and disappearing. 

Jaskier was left standing outside once again, damp, but genuinely happy for the first time in a while. He would have felt like he had scared the Beast off again had Geralt not just confirmed they’d be dining together. A part of him wanted to hop around in victory, but instead he buried his blushing face in his hands and squealed softly in delight. Things may have started off rocky but now things were finally looking up. Wanting to press his good fortune, Jaskier quickly made his way to the back gardens to collect a few more flowers to look up. He may or may not have been skipping, but he was too happy to care. He collected three more, wanting to take his time and not misidentify anything, since they dried slightly in the time he looked each one up. This time he collected a small, delicate little flower, a larger yellow flower that looked like the ruffled layers of a ladies petticoats, and a vivid purple flower with lots of long thin petals and a bright yellow center. Spending time searching for and picking buds had left him feeling rather chilled, however, so he hurried around the keep and went back inside.

By the time Jaskier was back in his chamber, he realized just how frigidly cold he actually was. Frost has actually stiffened the damper part of his clothes.  He shivered from the snow-dampened clothes, and a part of him knew it would be best to go take a nice hot bath, but he was suddenly very tired. So he stripped off his wet clothing, setting them to thaw and dry by the fire, and he set his newly collected blossoms with the others on his desk before dressing in the shirt he had slept in. Thankfully, from the position of the sun in the sky, Jaskier could tell he had a couple of hours until dinner. Which was just perfect! He’d take a nap for a little while, warm up, and then get all nice and freshened up for dinner. As he settled into bed, he wondered if Geralt would sneak him another outfit that he’d wish Jaskier to wear for dinner or not. The idea made him smile and laugh slightly before sleep pulled him into its sweet embrace. 

When he opened his eyes, he found himself standing before the same lake he had been at in his dream before. This time however, most of the trees were waning in the late autumn fashion, and the sun was slowly setting on the horizon behind him. However, he was not filled with awe and the delight of meeting a handsome mysterious stranger in the woods this time. In fact, he felt rather heart broken, a feeling he knew all too well at this point, and was not thrilled to be feeling it again. Worst of all, he felt like he could do nothing to remedy the situation which brought the sting of hot tears welling up and overflowing. He tried brushing them away, but the fat tears continued to flow. His soft hiccuping sobs that had forced their way passed his lips were halted by Lew emerging out of the trees. His sharp features were softened by the solemn concern that he wore openly on his face. His piercing yellow eyes held Jasekier captive as the man-- no, Knight apparently-- approached slowly.

“I should’ve told you…” His voice was full of regret and Jaskier knew he had already forgiven him. 

“It shouldn’t matter... “ Jaskier tried to offer, fully believing in what he said. It shouldn't have, whatever the drama was that his brain concocted, but it did. 

“But she’s your only family and it made me appear to be dishonest.” The silver haired knight finished for him. “...I think she just needed an excuse to deny the proposal. You only have one another and I understand her fear of losing you.” He added, a deep misery settled in his topaz gaze. It seemed to be one of his overly dramatic nights where he put too much poetic flare on his observations.

“I know…” Was all Jaskier could offer pitifully, feeling more tears welling up and burning the back of his throat. He couldn’t hide his little hitched sobs in the silent evening that veiled them from the world they would eventually have to go back to. Lew stepped closer, taking Jaskier’s hand in his, tentatively checking if the touch was welcome. The bard couldn’t help himself as he buried himself in the larger man’s arms, modesty be damned. Lew instinctively tightened the embrace as he ran his gloved hand through his hair and down his back soothingly. The knight’s thick cloak shielded them from the rest of the night and kept the chill at bay. It was only when the other’s heat seeped into his bones that Jaskier realized how cold he had become. Jaskier had forgotten that he had run out into the night without his own cloak, and the long trailing jacket he wore was not enough to buffer the late autumn weather.

“I promise, I will fix this, dear heart. I will do anything to prove to her that my feelings are genuine and that I only wish to care and provide for you. I do not mean to whisk you away or disappear with you.” His voice was even as he murmured to the bard. Jaskier pressed further into the other, not caring about the cool armor between them. He knew his heart already belonged to this man, and it was terrifying, but it brought him comfort to hear the other’s feelings. “I must tell you that the only reason I kept my title from you was because I wanted to know you without any status or title coming between us… It was selfish, I know, but I wanted to be free by your side, even if only for as long as you’d let me. I should have told you sooner.” Lew’s voice was remorseful as he cradled Jaskier so gently in his hold. 

The bard couldn’t help the small wet laugh that bubbled up in him as he looked up into his knight’s startled gaze. “I know, my dear. I know and I wouldn’t change even a second of the time we stole together.” Jaskier found himself declaring before he could second guess himself, but once the words were out, he knew they were true in his heart. Although his chest ached pleasantly compared to the heartache he had been feeling, something still felt false. This was all just a beautiful dream that he’d never have, and it made him want to weep, but he didn’t. He knew he was a cad and a flirt who played with one to many skirts, drawing the ire of husbands and other men. He knew with all his dishonesty, gallivanting, and cowardice he didn’t deserve such a sweet, faithful lover. He would not have such a fulfilling love unless the gods took pity and gifted him one last chance, but if he ever had a love in the waking world that felt like this, he’d follow them to the ends of the earth and back. He would faithfully love them and only them if he were just given a chance… But hadn’t he already had that chance? Wasn’t that why he felt as though there was a hole where his heart was that threatened to swallow him whole if he wasn’t distracting himself with other thoughts? It was why he felt jagged around the edges, something had been broken inside and hadn’t fit back together just right. He had wasted his one shot. 

“I will make this right.” The knights rumbled softly, like a summer storm, and Jaskier was pulled back into the present of the dream even though the realization lingered in his thoughts. As much as the gentle treatment broke his already fragile heart more, the bard found himself smiling lightly as the man stepped away. A strong hand wiped away the last of his tears before bidding him farewell. 

As Jaskier watched the knight disappear into the dark woods, he felt lighter and heavier at the same time. As he closed his eyes to savor the fleeting moment, he found himself blinking awake in his too warm bed. He tried to push down the regret welling up inside, but soon it was spilling out as he cried mutedly into his pillow. He felt so upset, and angry, and overwhelmed at the realization that he had somehow lost his love. To add salt to the gaping wound, he couldn’t even remember why or how! He couldn’t remember their face! Or their voice! All he wanted to do now was find them and fix everything, but he was here. He supposed the memory loss was also most likely his fault… An ill conceived memory spell undoubtedly procured from a backwater hag, presumably in an attempt to forget the pain after he got roaringly drunk. It definitely sounded on par with the foolish shit he had done in his lifetime, but it only served to wipe the man from his world, not the pain. The mind may forget, but the heart will always remember. As he felt entirely too warm and morose, as though this was the bed he would die in, he spotted a bundle of clothes left on the side table by his side of the bed. The thought of the Beast leaving them there after creeping carefully in to surprise him with the gift managed to quell his tears and bring a tiny hint of a smile to his lips. Although he had messed his life up somehow and he felt lost, adrift in a sea he no longer knew how to navigate, he was at least not alone. He had his dreams filled with lovely views and a darling knight, but more importantly, he had the company of his Beast. He very much preferred his Beast to imaginary knights if he was to get through this whole comedy of tragedies that was his life. 

So regardless of how his body protested and how his head swam with sleep, he hauled himself up and out of the bed that remade itself. The light outside was almost completely gone which meant he had slept longer than he had intended. He’d have to hurry if he wanted to be on time. Jaskier found himself quickly freshening up in the wash basin to rid himself of the sweat he somehow drenched himself in as he slept while chiding the fireplace for stoking itself so high… and then he consoled the poor thing because he felt bad for being too harsh with it as he put on kohl to match the dark garments still neatly folded and waiting. When he picked them up, however, he finally noticed they were a deep purple velvet that brightened as the fabric shifted. The long doublet was trimmed with emerald braiding, and near the collar, emeralds were studded in a way to appear as though he were wearing an extravagant necklace. The simple velvet trousers were well fitted and clung to him like a second skin. His new chemise that went with the ensemble was lilac, and so delicate in his hands that it could only be made of silk. This outfit seemed terribly grand compared to the past outfits he had been given, and for the first time in his life, he was nervous to put on such finery, but it would be rude not to. So he dressed carefully, realizing then just how warm velvet was to wear, but he’d just bare it for the sake of his Beast. He also decided to wear the few silver rings he had to add a little touch of his own. As the bard was pulling on his new over the knee black boots, a knock came at his door and he realized with a small smile that Geralt had come to fetch him again. Muzzy headed with excitement, he quickly finished and strode to the door, pulling it open with a flourish and a big delighted smile. As he suspected, the Beast was truly there, hunched over to look less threatening, and he had changed out of his usual armor into clothes that seemed dressier, which had Jaskier’s woefully soft heart bubbling happily in his chest. Geralt had made an effort this time and, if Jaskier may be so bold as to wish, it was for his sake. “Geralt! Shall we?” He asked cheerily, looping his arm around the crook of the other’s elbow and waited for the other to lead the way.