#people have already made this but here i am throwing my jester's hat into the ring

[sunnysssol]

Alfred’s tits got me thinking about “cover them up slut” meme

yeah it does doesn't it 😭 he captions this with "bro is mad i'm stacking dough and gainsmaxxing and he's at home being a bookpilled tumblrcel 🗿" like anyone knows what the fuck those words even mean. alfred f jones big naturals or whatever

[princessamericachavez]

jes did that exact same thing to beau. not to mention pushing both of them towards other romantic relationships with b/y and s/g

This is regarding my F/J/C dynamic post. And before I answer, I want to reiterate like I did in that one that this is not meant in any way or form as a ship attack or criticism, just as an analysis of dynamics between several people. 

That being said, I’d say that —while we did see a similar kind of rising tension in eps 70-98 between this trio— I think it was a very different kind of push and pull. 

What do I mean? It’s kinda weird to explain without sounding judgy (which is not my intention) but Beau had a tendency to insert herself in moments between Fjord and Jester during the time her crush was at its strongest. 

It wasn’t necessarily ill-intended, though some of her comments were a little crude for me and I admit that as a mainly FJ shipper, I found it a little frustrating. 

For example, Jester mentioning how Fjord would have been disappointed in her accent, and Beau insisting she Does Not Need Fjord’s Approval (a very valid point that any friend would make, btw). But then, there’s Fjord talking to Marion about how, yes, he has been looking after Jester and Beau jumping in to say he doesn’t have to (when, like, we knew but the point isn’t Fjord thinks she needs protecting but that Marion asked him to look after her and he’s trying to keep his word)... even going as far as interrupting Marion’s description of a two-way-supportive friendship and call it “unhealthy” and codependent. When, clearly, that wasn’t the tone any of the parties was going for. Fjord telling Jester “by all means, come with me” inside the Fun Ball, when she chastises his tendency to get in trouble because of his curiosity, and Beau immediately jumping in to volunteer to go with Fjord. Or Fjord putting a hand on Jester’s shoulder after her conversation with the Gentleman gone wrong and Beau immediately leaning against her other arm. Or Fjord trying to reassure Marion about The Traveler and Beau jumping in to call the relationship abusive. 

You get my meaning. 

Do I think any of these things were done with ill intent? No! On the contrary, I guess it stands out because we know that Beau thinks super fucking highly of Fjord, looks up to him a lot, and loves him like a brother. But they did read like Beau constantly trying to throw her hat into the ring, trying to yell “Hey! I am here too! I am an option too!”. Which, I will say, is a totally normal and natural way to act around a crush. (Heavens know the things I’ve done in an attempt to just earn a little bit of attention from a crush). 

Where this dynamic intersects with the former F/J/C analysis I made, is that Jester never did seem to read it like that. (You can disagree with me, if you saw it differently, that’s fine, this is my reading). Maybe, if she hadn’t been as busy with other things —her worry over Yasha, her concern over Fjord’s patron and class-change, her issues with the Traveler/Artagan situation— she might have even noticed. Gods know Beau was always much more forward than Caleb about her crush on her... but the point is Jester didn’t notice. So much that she kept pushing B/Y actively, especially once Yasha returned. 

Anyway, I think that whole push and pull was fascinating to watch. I did wonder for a while whether Fjord noticed... but given his surprise when Beau admitted to her former crush in Rumblecusp, I guess he didn’t. (Boy barely came to terms with his own feelings, bless his unperceptive ass). But I do think that Beau bringing up her crush during that conversation was the last flash of that tension we saw, at least for the time being, and her, in some way, pulling back from a competition that only she noticed. 

And I would say that’s just as sad as Caleb’s unnoticed attempts at acts of love, if I didn’t think that Beau is much happier with Yasha and actually found someone who, when Beau reached out, was already paying attention to her and “seeing her a lot”. Exactly what Beau needed, to be honest. Someone she didn’t have to “fight for” attention with, someone who was just as eager to receive and give her that love... so I think she’ll be more than alright. 

[thefantasygirl3]

Negaverse stories: Quakerjack's backstory

Genre/warnings: Comedy, Slice of life, Action, Drama.

Word count: 3 080

Summary: After the events of Darkwing Duck coming to the Negaverse and helping the now called “Darkwing Ducks” save st. Canard, the four heroes decided to adopt the adorable little Gosalyn, buy a house and start a life together. But the little duckling is curious over how all her dads became heroes to start with, so she asks them to tell her that story.

Notes: The second story out of four, featuring the friendly four. This one came out a little later than expected, but it’s finally here now. Link to other parts of the story: 1 - Megavolt. 3 - Bushroot. 4 - Liquidator.  

Gosalyn let out a heavy sigh as she stepped off the school bus, standing by the bus stop as it drove off. "Haaaaaa… camping… never again" she muttered grumpily as she began trudging along down the road towards her house. The duck had just made it home from her field trip, where they had been camping out in the forest for one night. It was AWFUL! It was cold and wet and the boys kept throwing mud everywhere. Plus there were bugs crawling everywhere, even inside the tent as she tried to sleep. She could have sworn she saw Honkers try to eat one. Made both her and Tank want to throw up.

She soon reached the door to her house, turning the door handle and dragging herself inside with a big pout on her face. As soon as she made it inside, she was suddenly swept up off the ground and quickly placed onto the shoulders of her kooky dad, Quackerjack. "My little doll! Welcome back home!" he cheered as he then started running into the living room with her, not bothering to let her remove her shoes before starting to run around the couch with her. 

Gosalyn just giggled at her daddy's excitement, feeling much better already. 

Quackerjack pulled his daughter off of his shoulders and plopped her down onto the couch, falling down right beside her with a small chuckle. "So! How was the school trip? Did you have fun TOUGHING it out in the forest and surviving on only berries and beaver meat?!" he questioned her as he made gestures with his hands, as if struggling to choke out a snake or something.

"Daddyyyy! It was just one night! We had lunches with us! YOU were the one who snuck those cookies into my lunch box!" she answered him back with a whine and laugh, giving him a weak shove. The colorful duck started giggling softly as he muttered a small "Oh, that's right". "You did what...?" A quiet growl was heard from behind the two. They looked up and saw Liquidator towering over them, holding a stack of papers while wearing a suit, hat and a sour face. 

"Um… nothing, bud" the duck said nervously while sinking down into his seat. As the dog made out of water glared him down, Megavolt put a hand on his shoulder and pulled him back. "Come on, Bud. One cookie isn't going to kill her. Now weren't you and your fedora going on an online meeting for your ad thing?" he commented with an obviously self-aware tone, knowing exactly what the so-called thing was. "It's a homburg! Not a fedora!" the dog corrected before storming off upstairs to his online meeting.

As Gosalyn watched her rat dad walk off, she remembered what he had said two nights ago, after telling his backstory. It made her shoot up in her seat hop onto the jester beside her, yelling excitedly. "Hey, daddy! Can you tell me your backstory?! Tell me why you and the other Darkwing Ducks decided to be heroes!" she kept demanding answers, overwhelming the poor, confused dad underneath her. 

He was flabbergasted by her request and just stammered nervously. "U-umm… I-I-I'm not sure it would be a very interesting story to tell! It would be very boring for a kid…" he explained anxiously as his eyes drifted away to the side, soon thereafter adding on a quiet "and I… rather not dig up all that stuff again…".

"Huh? Why?" the little duckling asked confused as she moved off of him, tilting her head curiously. "Well… it's the lowest point of my life, so I'm kinda touchy about it. Plus it involves a lot of complicated business talk" he explained to her as he sat back up, rubbing his neck awkwardly. She just tilted her head more with a confused look, not understanding how business problems could lead to someone fighting crime. Quackerjack noticed the look on her face and gave away a sigh. "I guess I could try to tell it in a way that you can understand, if you really wanna hear it" he murmured softly and smiled an awkward smile. She nodded excitedly, and he pulled his legs up, taking a moment to recollect his memories again.

I used to be the owner of one of the largest toy companies. It was called QuackWerks! We were big in the classic, retro toy market, making a lot of simple little playthings. Dolls, action figures, rocking horses, building blocks, board games! Anything and everything! We were a pretty close-knit company. All of my workers enjoyed working for me and cared about our business. I even considered them my friends, always being so nice to me and complimenting me! They used to say things like "Nice work, Boss! Today's toy ideas were great" and "This is the best company I've ever worked for!". 

We were giants for some time. But then things started to change as the times did. Toys started to advance and become more complicated than we had been prepared for. But our company wasn't willing to get with the times. We stuck with our old-timey toys, as of the rest of the employees' wishes. 

They were all very adamant about not changing our products and to keep them the same as we always had. I, being a nostalgia lover, was more than happy to obey their wishes. They all seemed to appreciate that decision, a lot of them saying things such as "it's so great that you're keeping it simple and not selling your soul to the mainstream". I'd always respond with something like "Well we don't want to… conform to the norm, now do we?", just joking around and such. 

But… things started to get really rough for us during the years, as our sales started to drop. Not a lot of people wanted regular toys anymore, not when there were moving and talking action figures and video games. Video games… the beginning of our downfall.

"What's wrong with video games? I like video games! I play Pet Town and Fertile Farm, and they are a lot of fun!" Gosalyn interrupted his story, seemingly offended by his tone of voice when talking about games. Quackerjack snapped himself out of his little daze and realized how emotional he had probably gotten already without realizing it earlier. "Oh! Well… I didn't mean to say anything bad about them. The games you play are very cute! But at the time, I really hated them because of what it did to my company" he explained with an embarrassed look on his face, attempting to save the slip up. He just gets a suspicious pout from his daughter as she crosses her arms in front of her. "... A-anyways!" the duck said abruptly, so he could return to the story. 

As video games started to get more and more popular, we just kept losing money. No one was interested in boring toys that didn't do anything special when they could be going on an adventure in the virtual world. It was starting to take a toll on me. Our products weren't selling, and we would soon have no more money to buy new products or keep QuackWerks up and running. I had to do something in order to not lose everything!

Then it happened. One day when I was looking through our mail, I found a fascinating one. It was from the Wiffle Boy company, the one that made those Wiffle Boy games the kids were so into. It came as a shock to me, that they would be sending me a letter. So of course I had to see what they wanted. Their message read something like "Hello sir! We heard that you made some nice quality toys. We here are a big fan of your G.I. Melvin toys and were hoping you could make us some Wiffle boy merchandise. Please respond as soon as possible". I couldn't believe it. A game company wanted to join a partnership with us, a well-known old-school toy company that hasn't upgraded their products for years. But despite my dislike for video games, the offer was very tempting. It would boost our sales quite a bit, so I was completely onboard and decided to call everyone to a meeting to announce the news.

I gathered everyone into the meeting room, having this big grin plastered on my face. I thought they were all going to be happy to hear that we were finally going to up our numbers again, so I was feeling very excited.

"Everyone! I am so glad you all came here today. I have very exciting news for all of you!" I told my staff happily. My employees seemed to all be delighted to hear me say that, one of them saying "Well spill it then, boss! What's the news?". "Glad you asked! Because I just found a way for us to increase our sales! We can finally make money again!" I explained to the room while trying my best to not start bouncing in my seat. They were all interested by then, listening very closely to what I had to say. "See, I just received a letter from the Wiffle Boy company, saying they want US to make their new merchandise! The most popular game company in st. Canard wants OUR business to make them toys of their little game character! This is amazing! We will definitely be making loads of money from this!". 

The room got completely silent after that, you could hear a pin drop in that packed meeting room. The tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife. One of the employees finally broke the silence by saying "You're kidding, right? Tell me this is a joke". I was so confused. I didn't understand why they were acting so on edge when I thought this was wonderful news. "You're serious?! You're going to be business partners with people who make mindless dribble for a living?! I thought we had standards in QuackWerks!" Another of the guys yelled at me, scaring me pale. All I could do was stutter and stare in shock. But another one of the employees spoke up, shouting "I thought we weren't like the modern garbage business owners! We didn't conform to the mainstream trash!". "B-but… I thought… it would help us earn more money…" I tried to explain while shrinking together in my chair.

"OH! So you're also a sellout?! I thought you were different…" this other girl said while turning her head away from me angrily. I just sat there stunned, trying to figure out what I should do. "I… come on! If we don't do something about this, I will lose my company. All I worked for, my hopes and dreams, completely gone! I gotta do something if I wanna stay afloat!" I pleaded with my now furious workers, but they didn't seem to care at all. "That's a lot of me and I. What happened to us? Tsk. You know what? I'm out! I'd rather work somewhere that got higher standards than this!" the first guy barked as he slammed down his nameplate and stormed out. Not long thereafter, the rest of my employees did the same, leaving me to sit all alone in the meeting room. No workers, no partnership, no company.

"Wow… that's so sad. They just left you because you needed money" the little duckling sighed sadly as she was laying against her daddy's side, giving him a comforting hug. "Yeah…" was all the jester had to say, his head hanging low and his bells jingling somberly. Gosalyn then tilted back, asking "Theeeen… you decided to turn to crime fighting to stop their injustice?". "Um… no. Not exactly… I actually got very sad and had to give up the company" he muttered softly, avoiding using the word "depressed". The girl's smile turned back to a frown as she gave him another hug. 

After I had done the paperwork to sell the company, I decided to head down to our product storage. I couldn't stand the thought of all my wonderful, lovely toys going to waste. I couldn't leave that building without bringing some of my treasures with me. There was one in particular I just couldn't leave behind. It was a prototype doll I would consider my favorite creation. I would have long conversations with him while I worked in my office. Mr. Banana brain. There was only one of him and I would not leave him behind. I packed up all my favorite toys into a bag, including Mr. Banana brain, and headed out the front doors. I said goodbye to the building and headed out.

But I couldn't bring myself to go home, I just wandered around the streets aimlessly, suitcase and paper bag in hand. I just couldn't believe I just lost everything. My brain was swarming with all the things I could have done to stop it. But after a while, my legs were feeling tired. So I just sat down on the curb of the sidewalk, letting out the saddest sigh ever. I just sat there for a while, beak in my hands and a sad frown on my face. After a while of doing nothing but sitting, I looked over at the bag and saw Banana brain peeking out. So I started talking with him. 

"What now? I just lost everything. I'm ruined!" I cried out and covered my eyes with my hands. "Hey, come on! Don't cry, pal. I'm sure you'll be able to fix this!" he tried to comfort me while I was bawling my eyes out. "How?! How am I supposed to fix this?! Mr. Banana brain! I have no employees, almost no money and no one would want to work for a business that's as outdated as mine! It's… it's over" I muttered quietly and hung my head with a soft sob. "You're a creative guy! I'm sure you can figure out something! You started that company all on your own, so fixing it should be no issue for someone like you!" he kept encouraging me, making me feel a bit better. "Yeah… I'm sure I can… think of something. Maybe I can do something with this offer" I tried to reason as I pulled out the letter from the game company.

As I did so, this random cat guy suddenly ran right past me, grabbing my suitcase and bag before continuing to run. "H-hey! Give that back!" I yelled after him, but he just shouted back "Take it back yourself, if you can!". I was panicking, sprinting after to catch up with him. "Mr. Banana brain!!! MR. BANANA BR-Oof!!!" I shouted as I ran, until I tripped on the sidewalk and landed on my face. I looked up and saw him disappear around the corner. All I could do was watch as I had lost pretty much everything. I felt completely defeated. I felt like nothing. So of course I started crying on the ground.

But only a few seconds later, I heard a scuffle from where he had run. Then I heard a loud ZAP, followed by a thud. Though I was confused, I started feeling scared when I heard footsteps coming closer to the turn. I could only yelp and hide myself under my arms, probably shaking in fear. I soon heard the steps stop right beside me. I couldn't bring myself to look and see what or who was there, until I heard a voice. "Hey, Don't be scared. I'm back!". I lifted my arm and peeked out to see Mr. Banana brain right there in front of me. Immediately, I shot up and shouted "MR. BANANA BRAIN!!!" in relief. I then saw ha was being held by this weirdly dressed rat man. He was wearing yellow overalls and what looked like a plug on his head. He was smiling at me while holding all my stuff that that other guy had stolen. "Don't worry, This guy just saved me!" Banana brain told me before the rat guy handed over all my things. I held Banana brain close while staring at my savior. "Who are you? I mean- thank you! Thank you so much! Um… what's your name?" I asked him before wiping away my tears. "I'm Megavolt! St. Canard's hero!" he announced in this heroic way. I was stunned. A hero? In st. Canard? Seemed impossible to me. 

"Hey… how about I'll help you home? It's not safe to wander around alone this late" he suggested to me and then offered me his hand. I didn't even hesitate, I grabbed it immediately and squeezed as close as I could, saying "yes please!". So Megavolt helped me home and on the way I explained everything. I explained my current situation and how bad everything was for me. So he offered me some help, saying that he could need some help to cleansh the streets of crime. It was a wonderful offer. I could use my creativity and craftsmanship for good! I could help people! So I started working together with Megavolt, forming a great crime fighting duo.

"So that's what dad meant? You started fighting criminals because of him?" Gosalyn asked while looking up at Quackerjack with expectant eyes, having listened intently while he told his story. "Yes, he did. If he hadn't shown up, I would have probably ended up either in a boring desk job or as another thug on the streets. So I have to thank him for what he did for me" he sighed while looking over at the stairs, seeing Megavolt walk down them and heading over to the kitchen where Bushroot was. He had been listening in on the story, forgetting the food that was set on fire. Megavolt helped him put it out. "So… what happened after that? How did papa and father join?" the little girl asked while watching the disaster go down in the kitchen. "I think you will have to ask them about that. I'm sure they know the details and can tell it better than me. But how about we forget about that now and play with Mr. Banana brain instead?" Quackerjack said excitedly while pulling out the banana toy. "Yeah!" she cheered happily as they both ran off towards the backyard, ignoring the two men who had finally put out the fire.

[spnwriter]

I got the better end of the deal

A/N: trigger warning, verbal abuse is mentioned. 

When I met Cas, he was human. I didn't know he was an angle. In fact, I was looking into April at the time, wherever she goes death follows.  I found out she was a reaper but, had something to do with the angles. She's killing people they want her to so she needs to be stopped. Reapers don't kill, it's not in their job description. As creepy as it sounds when Cas showed up at her apartment I knew something was up. She never brought anyone back to her place. I spent the night listening for any sounds out of the ordinary. It wasn't until I heard him screaming that I decided to bust in. I knew the difference between pleasure and pain screams. I busted in just in time for April to stab him with an angle blade. I quickly grabbed my very own blade, that I had melted down and recast as a regular knife. Just as I had killed her a very tall man comes running in. I quickly take him down, the large man rather easy to knock out. I stand walk over to the blue-eyed beauty sat in the chair. I put pressure on his wound trying to calm him down. I didn't notice the tall man had gotten up until it was too late.

When I woke up I was handcuffed to a chair in some concrete room. A large devil's trap on the floor. I look down noticing all my usual weapons gone, I'm covered in blood and god does my head hurt. Don't panic, I think looking around the room. The wall of files before me is on wheels so there's a way out. I need to get out of the cuffs...find a weapon of some sort. One thing at a time Y/N. The hairpin! I have a hairpin in my hair, holding my bangs back. If I can bend down enough to get to it, I can pick the lock on the cuffs. I start to slump in the chair trying to bring my head to my fingers. Right as I almost get it, a voice clears its throat. I look up to see a guy in flannel, a t-shirt under it, well-fitted jeans, boots. His short dirty blond hair messy and his green eyes watching me with amusement.

“What are you doing?” He asks

I sit up looking at the green-eyed man before me, not saying anything. He walks over to me observing me.

“Oh, trying to get the hairpin to pick the lock?” He inquires, reaching for the pin taking it out of my hair.

Well there goes that plan, I huff leaning back in the chair.

“So we can do this the easy way or the hard way. I ask questions you answer that's the deal.” The man says sitting in a chair in front of me.

“Ask me anything you want, the answers gonna be the same. Fuck you.” I spat

The man chuckles standing “You see sweetheart, you don't have the upper hand here. So I suggest you tell me what I want to know.”

“Fuck you.” I utter watching him circle me.

“Feisty, cute.” he utters stopping in front of me. He holds up my angle knife “What's this?” When I don't answer he sighs ��How did you know what April was?”

“How did you know what Cas was?”

I give him a questioning look. I assume he's referring to the guy who got skewered...but he's a human right?

“So you didn't know.” He scoffs “But you did know that April was a reaper...so that makes you a hunter. The question is, why were you after her in the first place?”

He looks at me expectantly, I'm so not answering this ass hat.

“Fuck.” I start as the taller guy that knocked me out came into the room.

The shorter one turns to him.

“Dean.” The tall one says before whispering something to him.

So his name is Dean. It fits him, I think as they whisper back and forth to each other. Dean glances at me before turning back to the taller one. It's the taller one's turn to glance at me before looking back at Dean. I hear words here and there. The words 'hunter' 'reaper' 'Angle blade' is all I hear. They both stop talking as the taller one walks in front of me, he offers an apologetic smile before speaking.

“I'm Sam that is Dean...I'm sorry about this.” He jesters to the room “We just had to be sure that you were in fact just a hunter. I um...I looked through your apartment. Sorry about that by the way. I'm going to let you go just please don't fight either of us.” Sam says with pleading eyes as he gently unlocks my cuffs.

I rub my wrists as I sit up. I look at the tall hunter before me and whisper “Is the guy okay?”

He nods “Yeah Cas is fine, thanks to you.”

I stand up asking “Am I free to leave?”

“No.” Comes Dean's voice from behind Sam “I told you I had questions.”

“And I told you, the answers going to be the same.” I say walking towards him “Fuck you.” I say as I brush past him.

I hear Sam laugh as I walk out of the door. I stop observing my surroundings...where the hell am I? Seconds later Sam is beside me.

“Let me get you something to eat and we can talk...I do have questions.” Sam says gently looking down at me with a soft smile and puppy dog eyes.

God, how can anyone say no to those eyes? He seems genuinely curious and like less of a dick than the other guy.

“Okay, I'll talk to you.” I sigh as he leads me to what I assume is the kitchen. Sam ends up making a salad for us. He sits in front of me.

“Okay, what do you want to know?” I ask before taking a bite of the salad.

“How did you know what April was?”

“In the beginning I didn't. I noticed that death followed wherever she went.” I explain taking a drink of the beer in front of me “I did some research and found out she was a reaper, which I thought was normal until I heard some whispers of a reaper doing angles dirty work..naturally I thought of April. The number of deaths around her was abnormal even for a reaper...so I thought I'd look into her. Even if I was wrong at least I'd done the research to know for sure.”

“Okay but that doesn't explain how you knew about Cas.”

“I didn't. I saw him go into April's apartment. I thought it was weird, she doesn't bring anyone home.”

“So you what? Listened?”

“As creepy as it sounds but, I knew something was up.”

“And the knife?”

“Angle blade melted down and recast. Easier to use.” I smirk taking another drink of my beer. “Now I have a question...what is Cas?”

“He use to be an angle.”

“Hum...hey I saved an angle.” I smile.

Sam laughs lightly shaking his head.

And like that, my odd relationship with Winchester's began. Dean and I got off on the wrong foot in the beginning but it got worse when he kicked Cas out of the bunker. And the truth came out and it all made sense. Dean had allowed an angle to possess Sam to heal him. Sam was pissed but, I kind of see Dean's side. As much as I dislike agreeing with him, I see why he did it. I never traveled with the brothers but, occasionally I'd run into them on cases and we'd work together. The longer I was around Dean the more annoying he became. Sam and I always got along, him I'd consider a friend. Dean however always treated me like I was less than. I was always the bait if it was needed, I was the one doing research while they were doing fieldwork, and he always put up a fight about me coming on hunts. I figure in the beginning I brought it on myself by being the way I was but, after time passed I didn't know why Dean hated me so much. I tried to be nice to him. Hell, I'd even get him pie as a bribe to like me and it didn't work. The more I saw the boys the more Dean's cruel words stung. I tried to brush it off like it didn't bother me but I won 't lie I've spent my fair share of nights crying because he had said something that hurt me. I didn't say anything to Sam about it but I can tell he noticed.

I was working a hunt with the boys right now. There was only one hotel room available, two queens and a pull-out mattress. I said I'd take the pull out since I'm the shortest, trying to be nice but Sam suggested that maybe Dean take it to be a gentleman. Dean, of course, didn't like the idea.

“Why should I have to be uncomfortable? She shouldn't even be on this hunt we don't need her.” Dean complains

“Dean, she's an expert on the kind of magic this coven is using.” Sam explains before sighing.

“No, really it's fine. I can take the pull out.” I cut in just wanting the arguing to stop. “I'd be more comfortable than Dean would be, it's okay Sammy.”

Dean scoffs throwing the hotel door open. The three of us walk in to see just two queen-sized beds...there isn't a pull-out. I look over at Sam who's already looking down at me with a sympathetic smile.

“Oh hell no, there isn't even a pull-out.” Dean snarls “Where's that going to sleep?”

I freeze at the name. I've heard the name before. I can feel a lump in my throat, tears welling in my eyes. No, no I can't cry. Not in front of Dean.

“Dean.” Sam warns.

“No, Sam, I put up with that for a while because you liked her. She isn't useful and just annoying. We don't need her for this hunt. She's making things harder.” Dean snaps turning to look at me.

Just like that, I'm a kid again. Standing in the kitchen of my childhood home, my dad before me. He's yelling at me about being useless. Waste of space was one of his favorites but he much preferred to call me what I was really was...a thing. The words cut like knives reminding me of a terrible past. The tears I tried to stop before break lose. I feel hot tears pouring down my face before I turn and run out of the room. I run to my car jumping in trying to start it but it won't turn over. Of all times for my car to give me issues. I scream hitting the steering wheel allowing the sob to take over my body. My body shaking as I try to calm myself down, feeling my breathing become erratic. I feel the familiar feeling of grace wash over me, calming me. My anxiety stops as I turn to the seat beside me. Lucifer sat there. I'd met the angle working with the boys. While they were less than fond of the archangel I was very fond of him. He stayed at the bunker while possessing Cas. I was around helping in any way I could with the whole Amara thing so Lucifer and I got close. He was hurt by the way his dad was acting, I had a lot of experience with this. We bonded over the fact that both of our dads were awful people. He doesn't ask what happened or why  I was crying. It's almost like he knew. He silently asks me to step out of the car. Lucifer walks over to my side of the car before wrapping his arms around me tightly. I melt into his cool touch allowing my sadness to take over.

“Dean said something that my dad used to say to me.” I inform nuzzling my head into his neck.

Before Lucifer saw the way Dean treated me, the Winchester's were so not his favorite people but after the fact, he really really didn't like Dean. He's offered many times to smite him but I just smile and tell him no. My feelings for the fallen angle grew the more protective he became. I knew I shouldn't feel this way for him but I couldn't help it.

“And before you ask no I don't want you to smite him.” I grin knowing he was going to ask

“What can I do to that flannel wrapped nightmare?”

I snort before letting him go.

“All I ask is for you to take me away from here.” I frown

“That I can do, hold tight kitten.” Lucifer says grabbing my hips.

Suddenly We were in a very nice hotel room. King size bed made up with red silk sheets and a red bedspread. The room was absolutely gorgeous.

“Lucifer...where are we?” I ask taking in the fancy room around me.

“Hell.” He answers walking behind me.

“Didn't think it'd be so nice.” I tease leaning into his chest. He wraps his arms around me from behind.

“Thought you'd like it.”

Before I could answer my phone rings. I groan pulling it out of my pocket. Hum, Hell has great cell reception who woulda thought? Sam's calling. Probably wondering where I am. Lucifer takes my phone from my hand and answers the call.

“Hi ya, Sammy. She's with me and she won't be coming back.” he hangs up tossing my phone over his shoulder.

“Lucifer!”

“You won't need that for a while.” He says pressing a kiss to the base of my neck. I freeze. Lucifer and I have never had this kind of interaction. Obviously, he's touched me before but innocently. A hug, cuddles, the time he carried me to my room after a rough hunt. He's never insinuated that he wanted me in any way besides friendship.

“I have insinuated that I want you many times.” Lucifer starts before turning me to face him. “You were kind to me when no one else was, you treated me with compassion that no one ever has...I've wanted you for more than friendship for a very long time.”

The only thought that crosses my mind is why? I can't even be happy that he wants me the same way I want him.

“I know I promised to not read your thoughts but, I can't help it with you so close. I want you Y/N because you showed me kindness I've never been shown. You treat me as Lucifer, not as the devil. You don't care about my past and never held it against me. Same as I don't care about yours nor do I hold it against you.”

“But, Luc, I don't deserve love.” I utter “I'm broken.”

“If anyone between us two doesn't deserve love it's me.” Lucifer frowns “I've done awful things...”

“You deserve love Lucifer. And I don't care about your past you know that.” I smile cupping his jaw.

“Then let me love you and I'll let you love me.” Lucifer says leaning into my touch.

“Deal.” I smile before gigging “I just made a deal with the Devil.”

Lucifer rolls his eyes before pressing his lips to mine. I smile into the kiss. This is all I've ever wanted. Kissing him is amazing, it feels like I was made for him. He pulls back resting his forehead on mine.

“I got the better end of the deal.” Lucifer whispers.

[daily-capaldi]

The Big Read – Lewis Capaldi: “I make jokes because I’m comfortable with who I am”

The breakout star of 2019, Lewis Capaldi has the midas touch and the world at his feet – but he still likes talking about his pubes and dreams of meeting a girl who'll break his heart for real. NME Deputy Editor Dan Stubbs meets the cocksure 23-year-old in Dublin for a Buckfast sesh and quickly discovers a legitimately hilarious talent who's far from the “big fucking annoying cunt” he thinks he is.

Lewis Capaldi is miming a range of sporting activities. He bounces an invisible basketball around the stage. He boots an imaginary football into the crowd. And after some minutes of this, he poses with an imaginary dart in his hand. Every time he mimes pulling back to throw it, he changes his mind and walks over to take a sip of Guinness instead – to the delight of the crowd. When he finally throws the thing, they roar with approval, before goading him into downing the rest of his pint. And of course: he does. 

It’s November 21 at the Olympia Theatre, Dublin. So far Capaldi has spent 10 minutes playing three songs and 15 minutes doing what, in the most affectionate terms, can only be described as dicking about. It shouldn’t be this funny to watch, but it really is. And the price of witnessing this spectacle? Depends when you got your tickets. A tout offered to take NME’s off our hands for €500 outside the venue. 

A year ago this may have sounded like madness, a sign that the world was heading to hell in a handcart and we’d be closing out the decade in a post-apocalyptic new reality, eating boot leather and watching jesters for entertainment. But in 2019, Lewis Capaldi has proved, conclusively, that what the world was waiting for was a pasty-faced, pasty-loving, 23-year-old Scot with an act that’s 50 percent heartbroken balladry and 50 percent improv comedy. And it is a worldwide thing – Capaldi is a global hit, a bona fide phenomenon. A superstar whose first encounter with NME is backstage, hurtling along the corridor clutching a handful of items. “Got my passport, my acid reflux tablets and my water – and that’s all I need!” he says, whizzing past. “And now, I’m off for a small pish.”

When listing Capaldi’s many 2019 achievements, they start to lose meaning, like contemplating distances in space, or making sense of the costings in the Labour manifesto. But here are a few: The Brits’ Critics Choice award. A Number One album with ‘Divinely Uninspired To A Hellish Extent’. A Number One single with ‘Someone You Loved’ in much of Europe, the US and the UK, where it spent seven weeks at the top. The hardest touring artist of the year, playing over 250 shows. A scene-stealing Glastonbury appearance.

If you’re to believe the stories in the Scottish tabloid press, Capaldi’s music can practically cure leprosy. He’s even had a beef with Noel Gallagher, once a mark of honour, but now a tussle with adversary so easily shot down it’s a bit like watching the moment someone first beats their dad in an arm wrestle. 

Yesterday brought news that Capaldi been nominated for Best Song at The Grammys, which in early career terms is the equivalent of being up for the Best Actor Oscar for your school production of Macbeth. “I’m up against Billie Eilish, Lady Gaga, Lizzo, H.E.R., Lana Del Rey, Taylor Swift…” he says. So he’s in there representing the men? “Yes, at long last!” he jokes. “At long last, straight white men finally have representation.”

“If I’m being honest, I did think ‘Old Town Road’ would be nominated,” he says, being serious now. “Maybe if I win I’ll Kanye myself. ‘This should have gone to ‘Old Town Road’! (But I am going to keep it)…’”

Capaldi is an expert at shrugging off his achievements. His unfaltering humility is a huge part of his appeal but even he concedes it’s starting to seem a bit forced. “When I read my interviews back, I always think if I wasn’t me I’d think: ‘you’re full of shite’,” he says. “Like, stop saying you can’t believe it. You can believe it! But it is so surreal and it seems like almost quarterly it kicks up a notch. Like, yesterday with the Grammys, yet again all this shit’s getting more and more mental, more beyond belief.”

Capaldi watched the Grammy nominations on his laptop, which was resting on his chest with the screen close to his face – a set-up he describes as his “home cinema” – and he admits he did get properly excited at the news. Mostly, though, he tends to find himself reacting to things how he thinks he should. 

“I’ve got a very bad way of being like, So you’re supposed to feel this way in this moment,” he says. Like when someone passes away? “Exactly, yeah. Like, four months after my grandma passed away, I’m like, ‘Fuck, my grandma’s died,’ and I’m in Somerfield or something. I mean, not in Somerfield, because it’s not been open for fucking years.”

Capaldi even plays down the success of ‘Someone You Loved’, the song that scored him the Grammy nod. In his eyes, it’s just “one of my songs that’s doing a little bit better than the rest”, but it’s already become a popular standard to sit alongside Robbie Williams’s ‘Angels’ or Adele’s ‘Someone Like You’, one of those tracks that will be soundtracking marriages and burials for years to come. Which of those would he prefer it be used for? “Burials,” he says, with no hesitation. “Don’t start falling in love to my fucking music, right? See if I see people kissing at my shows, fucking stop that! These are sad songs, you bastards.”

Like Lewis himself, a large part of the charm of ‘Someone You Loved’ is its absolute universality, which is not to say it’s banal, more that everyone who has lost someone at some point in their lives – which is most of us – can identify with it. For Lewis, it was the aforementioned loss of his grandmother that proved the catalyst for the song, but he made it more open to romantic interpretation because it felt “too morbid” to write explicitly about. 

And it didn’t come easily. Where other songwriters boast about dashing off huge hits in barely the time it takes to play them, Capaldi admits to labouring over his compositions. Writing songs, he says, is “a massive pain in the fucking arse sometimes”.

“Growing up I read interviews with people like Paul Weller, Paul McCartney – all the Pauls – and they’d say the best songs just sort of fall in your lap,” he says. “After six months at the piano writing ‘Someone You Loved’ I’m like, ‘You fucking lying bastards, that’s taken me fucking ages.’”

Many of Capaldi’s songs, which he endearingly describes as ranging from “big piano ballads to bigger piano ballads” draw on his first major relationship which – you may have guessed – is no longer a going concern. But it wasn’t a dramatic event. “Adele wrote her album about a relationship breaking up in a bad way, being jilted I think,” he says. “I wrote mine about a relationship that just ended, just fizzled out. I’d love to be jilted by someone, then I could be as successful as Adele.”

I ask if he worries that – at 23 – he doesn’t have a great deal of life experience to draw on. “I spent my entire life writing this first album,” he says, “but the stuff I’ve experienced in the last year has been much more of a growing experience than living in my mum and dad’s house in fucking West Lothian.”

How about the fact that his next girlfriend, whoever she may be, will be on different terms, it being impossible for her not to know she’s dating Lewis Capaldi the world famous pop star? “Well, I don’t know. It’s not like I’m Justin Bieber,” he says. “Today was the first time I’ve ever got out of the car at a venue and someone screamed. Normally people just shout something at me that I’ve said on Instagram about my pubes. I guess, at worst, my next partner would think I’m one way because they’ll hear the songs and think I seem very nice and level headed, but then find out I’m not.”

What’s the reality?

“Big fucking annoying cunt.”

It’s slightly unfair to question the depth of Capaldi’s life experience, because at the age most of us were familiarising ourselves with yo-yos, pogs or fidget spinners (delete as appropriate), Lewis was embarking on his music career. He began performing at 11, largely in pubs and clubs in the conurbation between Glasgow and Edinburgh where he grew up. The experience of having to hold his own in intimidating spaces at such a young age probably explains much about his easiness around people. 

“I found that at 11 it was, ‘Oh he’s quite cute, he came and stood up here and he’s doing very well.’ When I got to 14, 15 and my voice changed and I lost any remnants of cuteness – which as you can tell have not returned to me – that’s when I started to pick up a bit of the patter. You get to know your way about how to speak to people.” 

Around that time, Capaldi actively worked on changing his vocal style to something more like the wolfy howl we hear today. What was once a ”high and smooth” voice had broken. Inspired by Paolo Nutini and Joe Cocker, Capaldi added some gravel. “I thought it would be a good idea to put a bit of rasp in, to make it sound even more terrible,” he says.

For years we’ve been force-fed sensitive young men-next-door with beanie hats, beards or lumberjack shirts singing to us about their problems. In a quest for authenticity, they’ve presented themselves as troubled, serious souls. Capaldi, meanwhile, has given us the sensitive songs with a side order of toilet humour and the kind of prolific, creative swearing worthy of The Thick Of It‘s Malcolm Tucker, as played by his distant cousin Peter Capaldi. 

Stand-up comedians often make a point of referring to the most funny-looking thing about themselves as an icebreaker with the audience, a way of getting them on side. Capaldi has the same trick – there’s not a single thing about his looks or his music you could say that he hasn’t beaten you to. Try and come up something better than saying he looks like “a melting hippo”, we dare you. 

He has zero pretence – he’s a guy who can literally piss himself on stage and laugh it off. “That only happened once,” he says. “And I’ve always been like that, even back in school. If I was meeting someone for the first time I’d be like, ‘Hello, how are you? I’ve got diarrhoea and I could spew or I could blow at any moment. It puts me at ease, being honest.’”

“People think I make jokes because I’m uncomfortable,” he adds. “Actually, it’s the opposite – I make jokes because I’m comfortable with who I am. I say that I’m a chubby bastard because I am a chubby bastard.”

I put it to him that, possibly, he may be the first body-positive male icon – an important thing given Capaldi is part of a generation of young men who feel under enormous pressure to have an Insta-chiselled body. “I don’t know if I can accept that, because I probably don’t use the correct vernacular,” he says. “It’s probably not good to call yourself a chubby cunt, but it’s never been something that’s bothered me. I’ve been a very slim man, I’ve been a man who’s gone to the gym, but even when I’ve done that someone calls you fat anyway, whether it’s your ma, your da, your best pal.”

Capaldi hasn’t, as of yet, had any sort of pop star makeover. He still looks like a kid who’s moved out of home for the first time and is stacking up the washing to take to mum’s. He does, however, have a personal trainer on tour and has been exercising every day. “It’s more of a mental health thing,” he says. “It gives me energy and keeps me happy. I mean, when I’m actually doing it I fucking hate it so much, but it feels better after.”

I ask how his mental health is bearing up to his new everyday reality, an extraordinary experience for anyone to process. “That’s what I think about taking the piss out of things,” he says. “I take the piss out of doing things on stage and how mental it is because you have to, because it stops you getting caught up in it. Summer last year I started having massive panic attacks. I was supposed to do Austin City Limits but I had to cancel because I was just having panic attack after panic attack, and I thought I had something seriously wrong with me, because I’m a bit of a hypochondriac. And I went and got a fucking MRI scan. But they said I was just anxious, just recalibrating to this new fucking lifestyle. So I said, right, cancel everything for three weeks, and no one gave me any shit for it.”

At showtime, the atmosphere at tonight’s gig offers a glimpse of the bubble Capaldi is living in these days. The Olympia is a grand old theatre and Capaldi could probably have sold it out 50 times over; the reaction from the crowd is something like Lewmania. 

Afterwards, we head backstage again, where I’m ushered into a room containing about a dozen members of Capaldi’s family. I’m plonked on a chair right in the middle, handed a massive wine glass full of Buckfast by his cousin and grilled by his dad, a fishmonger and the very driest of wits, about my intentions for this article. He’s seriously proud of his boy, having supported him since the very beginning, even playing the supportive parent role when Lewis auditioned for Britain’s Got Talent aged 12. 

The afterparty moves to a private room at a nearby pub. Lewis’s hulking great cousin – the one who brought the Buckfast – is getting the shots in. His auntie is looking on, concerned, as two girls chat him up at the same time. “He’s only a wee one,” she mutters. While his friends and family enjoy the party and a certain NME journalist accidentally smashes the first of a series of glasses, feeling the effects of downing that Buckfast in an ill-advised attempt to curry favour with the family, Lewis makes his final rounds then politely excuses himself, looking a bit hangdog about it. He has another big show tomorrow. Sad to leave your own party, you imagine.

At points in the interview, Capaldi had been making a short, forced coughing noise, which he shrugged off as nothing. But the next week, he cancels a number of shows on health grounds, having been warned by his doctor that he risks losing his voice altogether if he doesn’t take action. In the end, he plays just four more gigs of the UK leg of the tour – in London, Edinburgh and twice in Glasgow for the homecoming finale. All further activities are cancelled by management, including a follow-up NME interview, but he is sent to complete the year’s touring commitments in the States before heading home for a well-earned few days celebrating Christmas with his family, which he says typically involves plenty of booze and lots of piss-taking. If you think you’re feeling ready for the break today, spare a thought for Lewis.

Next year looks to be just as busy as this one. He is, right now, just about the most in-demand young man in the world. At some point, he’ll have to start thinking about his next album too. “I don’t know what the fuck it’s going to sound like, I don’t know what the fuck it’s going to be,” he says. “Ballads, havin’-it tunes, I don’t know. I’ve got voice notes, melodies, stuff like that, but that’s just me and an acoustic guitar.” 

Considering what he said about his hypochondria, it’s likely the idea of losing his voice is weighing heavily on Capaldi’s mind. But he’s already decided there’s a backlash coming anyway. “You do get warned, as you’re coming up: ‘By the way, everyone’s gonna turn on you pretty soon’,” he says. “I guess I’m always just kind of waiting for it. I’m very doomsday. Like, if it’s not happened yet, it’s gonna come. And I can’t wait for the downfall!”

He might be surprised. People have plenty of different reactions to Capaldi’s music, but it’s pretty much impossible to find someone who doesn’t think he seems like a bloody great bloke.

And besides – if he ever finds he can’t sing, he’d make a killing at The Fringe as a physical comic. 

The extended edition of ‘Divinely Uninspired To A Hellish Extent’ is out now

[sockablock]

• (start) (prev) (next) •

Chapter 9: Tinsel on the Awnings

“No, no,” said Caleb, reaching for his pencil. “You have to account for Reichden’s Law of Opposing Forces. Otherwise you will just make the lightning even worse. Here, the glyph should look like this.”

Fjord, on his stool across the library counter, sighed. “I knew there was something wrong. I guess I just couldn’t put my finger on it.”

Caleb hummed his agreement as he worked. “No offense meant, but I am surprised you would make this mistake. It is...Spellcasting 101, you might say. Did your teachers never show this to you before?”

“Er, no,” Fjord admitted. “But I’ve also never exactly taken a magic class before, so I guess it makes sense that I’d fuck up like this.”

“You’ve…” Caleb’s hand paused over the page. “You’ve never been taught this in a formal setting?”

Fjord shrugged. “Is that hard to believe? I mean, you know how shitty I am at this. You’ve watched me fuck up for two weeks, now.”

“Yes," Caleb blinked, "but…to be perfectly honest, I thought you would at least know the basics. After all, Fjord, I saw you do magic that night at the Moondrop. You have arcane capabilities, you cast spells that I could not even name.”

Something flickered behind Fjord's eyes, but he tamped it down quickly. “Well…yeah,” he said slowly. “But that’s, um…”

He sighed and leaned in, lowering his voice. “Caleb, I’ve never really talked about this before, not even with Jes. So, you’ve gotta promise me that you’ll be discrete, alright?”

Caleb raised an eyebrow, but nodded. “Ja, okay. Sure.”

Fjord took a deep breath. “I, um…I’ve never actually learned magic before. And those spells you saw…I don’t think they were the wizardly kind—”

“—they certainly did not appear to be—”

“—right. So, what I’m saying is, I think my powers are...I didn't get 'em out of books. I just sorta…wish really hard for something to happen, and then it does. Is that, is that weird? Is that normal?”

Caleb suddenly burst into laughter, catching Fjord completely by surprise. “I just spilled my guts out there a bit,” he said with mild reproach. “Was there something funny about it?”

Caleb wiped at the corner of his eyes and shook his head. “Nein, no, well…maybe a little bit funny. Oh, you should have told me that in the first place! Now I understand.”

He met Fjord’s bewildered gaze and smiled faintly. “You are just a sorcerer, Fjord. There is nothing wrong with that. Your abilities are inborn, and natural to you.” Then he waved his hand dismissively over their notes, and the rough sketches of arcane symbols and circles across the pages. “You do not need any of this, my friend. You just need to practice your own skills. Mein gott, I cannot believe I was trying to teach magic to a sorcerer.”

Fjord found himself grinning as well, despite his confusion. “Oh,” he said. “Oh, uh…I didn’t realize there was somethin’ different about…uh…wait, are you sayin’ that your magic isn’t coming from you?”

“Oh, of course not,” Caleb chuckled. “I channel the raw arcana that exists in this world around us, in every living thing, in every thought and idea and emotion and et cetera. That is what all this chicken-scratch is,” he added, pointing at the notes. “But you get your magic from yourself. Whether it be because your ancestors were cursed, or blessed, or maybe one of them was a dragon, I don’t know, were your parents dragons, by any chance?”

Fjord’s smile faded slightly. “Uh…probably not,” he said. “I never, uh, knew them.”

Caleb’s jovial air immediately vanished. “Scheiss,” he said, “I am sorry. That was tasteless—”

Fjord shook his head. “No, no, don’t worry about it. But, uh…just checking, are those the only kinds of people who do magic? There aren’t, I dunno, there aren’t any individuals who just kind of picked it up along the way, or maybe they found something that granted them powers, or anything? It’s, it’s great to know I’m a sorcerer, that’s so cool, but you know, since we’re on the subject, is there anything…else?”

“Oh, ja, there are all sorts out there in the world. Warlocks, most of them, who tie themselves to unspeakable evils in exchange for a bit of power, sure.”

“Oh,” Fjord squeaked. “Uh…unspeakable evils, huh?”

Caleb shrugged. “Well, not always evil. Sometimes they’re gods, or they’re wandering spirits with nothing better to do. But I was always taught that more often than not, otherworldly patrons have otherworldly agendas that usually spell disaster. Then again, I was taught many things that today, I do not necessarily agree with.”

Caleb picked up his pencil again, and nodded to Fjord. “Now that we have established my uselessness as a magical tutor, then, perhaps we should spend the next hour on something else.”

“What?” Fjord asked, jolting out of his daze.

“What else do you need assistance with?” Caleb repeated. “Jester stopped by a few days ago asking about the Ratio Test, and your study guide says it will be on the final exam soon. Would you like to go over that?”

Fjord blinked, and then nodded quickly and reached for his math binder. “Yeah, yeah, sure,” he said. “Yeah, that’d be great.”

"How do you feel, so far? Do you understand it?"

Fjord rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "Uh...actually, I kind of don't. Sorry, I really haven't had time to study lately, what with all the craziness at work, and everythin' that goes into moving apartments."

“No worries, I am here to help. That is what you are, under my protest, paying me for, yes?”

“Gods, Caleb, I’m not gonna extort free labor from you. Not even if you insist.”

“I told you, it was more than enough for you advertise my services to your classmates. I am fully booked for this week, Fjord! That is…truly, that is an incredible gift you have given me.”

Fjord grinned. “Don't thank me, thank reading week," he said. "But, I mean...yeah. Of course. That’s what friends are for, right?”

Caleb chuckled softly. “You know, Jester has been sneaking envelopes of cash into my bags before she leaves from her lessons as well, now. Do you…do you have anything to do with that?”

“I dunno,” Fjord said, though it sounded like he did. “It doesn’t ring a bell.”

Caleb snorted. “I still haven’t figured out what rate she is paying me,” he said. “Sometimes it looks like ten cents an hour, sometimes thirty dollars. Does she understand how much money is worth?”

Fjord sighed, and flipped open to his notes. “I’ve seen the size of her trust fund,” he said. “She hasn’t got a clue.”

“Well,” Caleb said, reaching for his own papers, “let us hope she never has to learn.”

•

At this time of year, the Pentamarket Square was in full holiday swing. Storefronts burst with gold and silver lights, tinsel glittered along the awnings, and colorful wreaths adorned their doors. The usual wide tents of the street vendors had been replaced with wooden booths, their four walls covered in more sparkling lights, and their space heaters spilling warmth over the open counters and into the brisk winter air. Children wrapped in parkas and woolen hats ran through the cobbled plaza, and young couples window-shopped hand-in-hand. Cheery music played from a number of outdoor speakers, and the smell of hot baked goods, wisps of cinnamon, sugar, and chocolate syrup, drifted up and over the crowd.

This was the Winter Market, and it would last up until the week after New Dawn.

Nott the Brave, skipping cheerfully through the crowd at knee-height, was here to take advantage of that. Her pockets were already rather heavier than they had been this morning.

But just as she spotted a particularly promising-looking old woman with a shiny polished cane, she heard something that made her stop dead in her tracks and look around wildly.

“—ah, you look like someone who’d like to know their future, how about it? No? Well then, how about you, miss? Yes, I can see you’ve got something very important happening soon! What’s that? Well, you’d have to sit down for a reading to find out, eh?”

Nott immediately abandoned her search for loose wallets and jewelry and began shoving her way through, weaving around legs and ducking under shopping bags, until she arrived at a tented stall selling warm apple cider.

Next to it, sitting cross-legged on a thick, navy-blue carpet, was none other than Mollymauk Tealeaf himself. He was wearing his full makeup, glittering eyeshadow and all, and had his crimson performer’s coat on. A white cardboard sign by his knee read, FORTUNES TOLD FOR GENEROUS TIPPERS, and he was shuffling a thick stack of blue-and-gold cards between his fingers as he beamed widely at passing shoppers, winked to small children, even tipped an imaginary hat to an old woman walking by.

And then he caught sight of Nott, her face poking out from behind a young couple’s shins. His eyebrows shot up, and he smirked all the way until she had finally managed to throw herself onto his carpet, the small rectangular island of peace in this sea of people.

“Well, well, well,” Molly grinned, setting his cards aside and gesturing for her to sit. “Look at what the cat dragged in! Nott the Brave, how are you, dear?”

Nott took the seat opposite him. “I’m fine, I guess, but what’s up with you? Why are you here?”

Molly shrugged. “It’s the holiday season, dear. No better time for attracting customers! Well, it’s not quite as good as Midsummer or Merryfrond’s Day, or Harvest’s Close, but it’s best you can do in the winter, eh?”

“Winter sucks,” Nott grumbled. “Aren’t you freezing, out here? Most people bundle up so much there’s nothing I can pickpocket.”

Molly snorted. “Is that why you’re here?” he asked.

Nott crossed her arms. “You can’t prove anything,” she said. “But seriously, isn’t it cold? You’re going to get sick.”

“I won’t,” he reassured her, “tieflings run hot.”

“You’re not running now. How is that supposed to help?”

Molly opened his mouth as if to respond, then paused, and sighed. “Nevermind, dear. But hey, since you’re already here, how about a reading? I’d be willing to do it free of charge, for a friend as delightful as you.”

Nott rubbed her chin. “Are we even friends? I mean, I know we hang out with the same people, I think, but the two of us have never exactly…bonded.”

Molly waved a hand dismissively. “Let’s make this our bonding experience, then! Let me read your fortune.”

She responded with a suspicious glare. “This isn’t your way of buttering me up because you want to get to Caleb, is it?”

Molly lowered his hand. “Of course not!” he said. “But, er, he hasn’t mentioned me at all, has he? It’s been a couple weeks but, uh, I was just curious,” he added hastily.

“Ha! I knew it.”

“Come on, Nott, you can’t blame me for just asking. Besides, I am genuinely invested in getting to know you, now. Jester likes you plenty, and Yasha seems to have taken a shine to you, and you insult Beau just as much as I do, so really, we’re just best friends waiting to happen.”

She eyed him over carefully. Then she sighed and nodded. “Alright, alright, performer boy—”

“—mmm, not boy.”

“Performer person?”

“That’s sort of better—”

“Performer fey-being?”

“...sure, alright. Yeah, let's go with that.”

Nott nodded and leaned in. “Show me what you’ve got.”

Molly deftly scooped his cards back up and began to toss them from hand to hand, effortlessly forming a gleaming bridge between his fingers. He laughed cheekily as Nott rolled her eyes at the extravagance of it all. Then he made a few more passes, flicked his wrist elegantly, and let three cards fall onto the carpet between them. They landed face-down, lined up evenly next to one another, and Nott genuinely couldn’t tell if that was dumb luck, or pure skill.

“Would you like to flip them over yourself?” he asked generously.

“Why?” she asked. “Is that part of the trick?”

Molly scoffed. “It’s not a trick. It’s fortune-telling.”

Nott raised her eyebrow. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

•

“Hey, Beau?” Jester asked, lowering her magazine. “I know I don’t usually ask about this kind of stuff, but…shouldn’t you be looking for a job?”

Beau, who had been furiously doing chin-ups on a rod jammed into the doorway leading into the living room, paused. Arms raised, bare feet brushing the ground, she gave Jester a suspicious look.

“Why’re you so interested, all of a sudden?” she asked. “You’re not worried about money, are you?”

“No, no,” Jester said, and set aside her issue of Iva’s Secrets. “Well, okay, kind of a little bit. But I’m worried about your money. What are you going to do when I move out? Are, are you going to, to find a super-rich roommate, or something?”

Beau dropped off the bar and sighed. “It’s sort of a long story, but I don’t really…I’m actually good, financially speaking.”

Jester blinked. “Good? What do you mean by that?”

“I just mean…it’s not a concern. I found a way to get cash.” She leaned against the wall and crossed her arms. “It’s not even illegal, so don’t worry about that either.”

“You just found some way to make money like that, not illegally, where you don’t have to work for it?”

“Yup.”

Jester considered this. Then she reached for her magazine and nodded. “You should write an article or something about that for Iva. That sounds just like the sort of thing that she likes to put on the cover.”

“I’m really concerned about what that rag is teaching you, Jes.”

“I’m not.”

Beau snorted. “Fair enough,” she said. Then she added, under her breath, “It wouldn’t really work for everyone, anyways.”

•

“—and then I told him that his fortunes aren’t right, because I’ve never even owned that many swords before.”

Caleb paused in his whiteboard calculations, bit the end of his dry-erase marker, and stared at Nott. She was sitting at the edge of the kitchen table, swinging her legs off the side and peacefully decimating family-sized pack of chips.

“Are you…aware of how tarot cards work?” he asked slowly.

She waved a hand dismissively, sending Xtreme BBQ flavoring scattering through the ar. “Not really. But I also wasn’t paying too much attention, because while he was talking, I saw a woman passing by with some really nice buttons, so I was busy trying to Mage Hand them off of her.”

“Ah,” Caleb said weakly. “I see. And did you get those buttons that you wanted?”

She beamed, wiped her hand off, and fished around in her hoodie. She produced three glittering, gold baubles the size of her fingernails.

“Got ‘em. Look, look, they’re in the shapes of flowers, I think.”

Caleb did not in fact look very closely, but his slightly-weary, mildly-amused smile was good enough for Nott.

“How’s the accountant stuff going?” she asked after the buttons had been safely stowed back into her pockets. “Are we looking good for the month?”

“More than good,” Caleb grinned, and swiveled the whiteboard around for her to see. “We are looking the best that we ever had, spatz, thanks to Fjord and Jester for getting their classmates to hire me. Movie night tomorrow will go off without a hitch, I am sure. We even have money for extra pizzas! We can even go to a bookstore, can you imagine?”

“I can,” Nott said happily. “I can imagine it real well. Thanks, Caleb.”

He scoffed. “Do not thank me, I am just riding on a wave of good luck and kind people.”

“No, no,” Nott shook her head. “I meant, thanks for keeping me around. And for, um, buying me stuff, and letting me live here. And for not kicking me out even though you’re rich now.”

“I am not rich, far from it,” he laughed. “But…” he added in a more somber tone, “well, of course. Of course. It is a pleasure and an honor that you are my friend, and I wouldn’t exchange that for anything else.”

Nott cracked a small smile. “Thanks, Caleb,” she said. “I wouldn’t, either. Here, have some chips.”

After that lull in the conversation, he went back to checking over his math, then set on memorizing the contents of their budget. But just as the thought crossed his mind that, actually, I could just buy paper now to do this on, there was a loud cough from across the table. He looked up, and saw and Nott eyeing him over nervously, the snacks discarded at her side.

“Er…yes?” He blinked a few times. “Is everything alright?”

Nott sighed, and pulled out her phone. “That depends,” she said, and handed it over to Caleb. “That depends on whether or not you’d be willing to ask a specific purple bastard out for some more coffee.”

Caleb lowered his marker and frowned. “Er…what?” he asked.

She rolled her eyes. “When was the last time you spoke to Molly?” she asked. “Alone I mean, not at movie night. I know you don’t use your phone, and I bet you haven’t gone out together since.”

“Well, no,” Caleb frowned, “I have not. But…do I need to?”

“Didn’t you have fun on your last coffee-not-a-date?”

“Yes? I did?”

“So don’t you want to do it again?”

Caleb hesitated. He fidgeted with his marker. “No? Er…yes. Wait, no, that’s…” He sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes, I had fun,” he said. “But that does not mean…that does not mean I want to ask Molly to do it once more. I mean, what reason would we even have to meet up? He does not have any of my possessions, at the moment, and I do not have any of his.”

Nott stared at him incredulously. “Caleb…you don’t need an excuse to see him.”

He bit his lip. “Yes, I do.”

“What? Why’s that?”

Caleb sighed, and put his forehead against the kitchen table. “I…I can’t just ask him. He’s probably busy, and probably has much better things to do.”

“Now, that’s just a lie,” Nott countered. “Both of us know pretty well that he’s been bored out of his mind ever since the Moondrop shut down.”

“Ja, alright, but he would probably be offended if I asked him to coffee out of pity.”

“But it’s not out of pity, it’s because you’re friends and you want to hang out!”

“Are we…friends?”

Nott leaned over, and prodded Caleb between the eyes. “You won’t be for long, if you keep avoiding him! Come on, it’s easy! Just pick up the phone, ask him if he’s busy. I don’t know why you’re so freaked out.”

Caleb considered this. He thought about telling the truth, telling Nott that he couldn’t do it, that he was afraid to ask, that if he initiated things, then he would be acknowledging his own feelings, that he would be indulging in something he shouldn’t, that he would be making things real, that he didn’t deserve this happiness, and that worst of all, above everything else, he would be betraying her—

But then he thought about how much he didn’t want to say any of that. He thought about how excited Nott was for him, how supportive she had become, and really, how nervous and excited and elated he felt at the prospect of seeing…

Caleb sighed, and reached for Nott’s cell phone.

“Fine, fine. But you’re going to help me compose the message, spatz. I…I really don’t remember how to do this sort of thing.”

Nott grinned. “Oh, I know exactly what to do! I’ve been reading that magazine Jester showed me, ever since you got back from the last date."

“You’ve-wait, what?”

“Shhh. Don’t worry about it. Okay now, type this out—”

•

Today 6:22PM

Nott TB: good evening Mister Mollymauk Nott TB: it has been some time since we last spoke Nott TB: how are you doing? Molly Tealeaf: … Molly Tealeaf: nott what the fuck Molly Tealeaf: I just saw you today Molly Tealeaf: why are you talking like that

Molly, sprawled across his bed and back in his silk pajamas—at six in the evening, no less—watched the tiny dots appear at the bottom of his phone. He had a glass of wine in one hand, and an appropriately bewildered expression across his face.

Nott TB: schmid Nott TB: *scheiss Nott TB: I am so sorry this is Caleb, actually Nott TB: sorry

Molly spat his wine out. He practically threw the glass onto the nightstand in an effort to free both his thumbs.

Molly Tealeaf: CALEB Molly Tealeaf: GODS I THOUGHT THIS WAS NOTT Molly Tealeaf: CALEB???

There was a brief pause. And then the words:

Nott TB: yes, caleb Nott TB: Caleb Widogast? We went on that double date once Nott TB: and we fought a really big toad together a couple weeks ago Nott TB: I think you told nott a fortune this morning, I am her roommate

Molly snorted, and shook his head.

Molly Tealeaf: yes yes dear I know who you are! Molly Tealeaf: I was just surprised!! Molly Tealeaf: I didn’t think you knew how to text

Another pause.

Nott TB: nott says that youre joking and also that this is a common theme in our group chats Molly Tealeaf: shes absolutely correct Molly Tealeaf: now, how have YOU been? and how can I help you?’

Molly was not too proud to admit that he waited, with baited breath, for the answer.

Nott TB: oh Nott TB: actually I have been well Nott TB: and I was wondering Nott TB: if you were free any time this week? Nott TB: id like to get some coffee together, if you also would Nott TB: my treat this time

Molly felt his soul burst into song.

Molly Tealeaf: that sounds lovely!! Molly Tealeaf: and I would never say no to such a gentleman Molly Tealeaf: Wednesday or Thursday works for me! Nott TB: thursday it is

Then there was a long pause, and the “…” icon appeared on the screen for almost a minute, before one last text came through.

Nott TB: I have missed spending time with you Nott TB: see you then.

Then this was followed by another message.

Nott TB: im back Nott TB: I hope your happy Nott TB: im deleting this conversation off my phone

Molly rolled his eyes, and waited a few more beats, just in case there was more on the way. When nothing else happened, he sighed deeply, screenshotted the entire exchange—for posterity’s sake. Then got up and waltzed out into the kitchen for more wine.

As he closed the refrigerator door, his eye caught the calendar that Fjord had hung up ten months ago. They had used it for about a week, before promptly abandoning it in favor of never knowing what day it was.

He flipped all the way to the last page, and found at this coming Thursday.

Soon.

•

“Oh, but then he confesses his love for her!” Jester sighed, leaning flush against the brick wall behind their building and pressing a hand to her forehead. “He tells her that no matter what, he would stay true to her forever, and then she starts crying because no man has ever been that open and loving to her in her entire life!”

“Uh-huh,” Beau mumbled. She was only half-listening to Jester’s account of Guard of My Heart, instead directing most of her energy towards trying to open the lid of the dumpster—which had sealed itself shut with a thin layer of frozen trash slime—as fast as possible, so they could get back inside. The weather forecast had predicted heavy snowfall tonight.

“But then in the second act, her family finds out about it!” Jester continued. “And of course they don’t approve, she’s a high-ranking member of the Crownsguard! And he’s only a lowly butler, but they’re so in love, and—”

“Uh-huh,” Beau muttered. She had almost lost her thumb to jagged ice, and was now trying to figure out a different angle of attack.

“Beau, are you even listening?” Jester asked, crossing her arms. “You just cut me off.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.” Maybe if she wedged a stick under the hinges, yes, that could work—

“Beau! Beauuuuuu, are you sure you’re listening?”

“Yeah, yeah, Jester, their…families suck?”

“Oh. Oh, you were paying attention! Right, okay, so, basically what happens next is that her dad forces him to a duel for her favor, and the conditions are that he has to duel a member of their family. And that sucks, because all of them are such badasses, you know? But then, oh my gosh, I didn’t even see this coming, she’s also in the family! And so now it’s two lovers forced to fight, one to prove his love and one to defend hers, and…”

Beau finally gave up, and took a deep breath, and slammed her shoulder as hard as she could into the tiny gap between the top of the lid and the dumpster itself. It flew open, leaving a rank trail of festering garbage-stink through the air as it went, and Beau was so relieved that she almost immediately threw the trash bag over the edge to call it a day.

But she didn’t.

Which was fortunate, because if not for that split second of hesitation, if not for the quick pause she had afforded this errand, Beau would have completely missed the tiny black bundle huddled in the corner of the bin, draped in dirty, wet fabric, and shivering in the cold.

She dropped the garbage bag onto the pavement. She threw her face closer to take a better look, ignoring the smell.

“What’s wrong?” Jester asked, and joined her at the edge of the dumpster. “What is it?”

“Do you see that?” Beau asked. “I…I can’t really see in the dark, but…there’s something in here? I think it’s moving?”

Jester peered in. “Ugh, it's so gross, what are—”

Her eyes, glowing a faint purple and built for low light, immediately latched on to what Beau was talking about.

“Oh, shit,” Jester breathed. “Oh my gods, what should we do?”

•

TUSK LOVE 2: ELECTRIC BOOGALOO Today 7:09PM

(ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*: heyyyyyyyyyy guys? (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*: uh (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*: I think maybe whoever is free right now might want to come over (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*: beau and i sort of found something???? (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*: and we need a little help Lavender Thunder: of course, I’ll come now Lavender Thunder: what kind of help? NottSoBrave: and what kind of something??? Seaman: fuck, im at work Jes Seaman: is everything alright? Drunkmonk: we're fine but like Drunkmonk: just Dunkmonk: you have to come and see alright? we don’t know what the fuck to do NottSoBrave: caleb says “don’t worry” NottSoBrave: caleb says “we’re on the way”

Today 7:14PM

NottSoBrave: caleb says “help we don’t have a car” DrunkMonk: good gods Lavender Thunder: im stealing Fjord’s station wagon, i’ll get you two NottSoBrave: caleb says “tell Molly I said thanks” Lavender Thunder: (o^-')b Lavender Thunder: be there in a flash

• • •

💚 ☕ ☕ 💚

[misssophiachase]

NikMik: so i watched Leap Year...& there were some major klaroline vibes. i know you're not taking prompts but i just wanted to throw that out there for your "Crossroads" series, should you feel inspired :P is it sad that i see klaroline in everything? lol.

Hey luv! So sorry for the delay, this kind of fusion takes some time : ) And yes, Klaroline vibes all round for sure. Hope you like it! And no, it’s not sad that you see Klaroline in everything, I do too! Words in italics from the movie so too the song/drabble title.

Dream a Little Dream of Me

Dingle, Ireland - February 27, 2020

“Stars shining bright above you, night breezes seem to whisper I love…”

“You fried my iPhone!”  

Klaus Mikaelson was broken from his song mid lyric and given the look on her face, he was certain that it didn’t lend itself to the soundtrack of the current situation.

He stopped short of finishing the sentence registering her pursed lips, furrowed brow and the distracting fact her pyjama shorts were incredibly short showcasing a set of long, delectable creamy legs underneath that her jeans had annoyingly hid from him earlier in the day.  

“You fried the whole village, idiot!”

“Are you calling me the village idiot?” Her eyes narrowed in his direction. “Is that insult popular among the locals here?”

“Yes, because we are stuck in the Middle Ages and you are, in fact, the court jester in this scenario. Albeit without the silly hat, but I’m sure we can find you one or put you in the stocks and throw vegetables at you instead. Your choice, love.”

“I’m so glad I found myself stranded in this delightful town,” she mused. “But back to my broken cell and the fact you’re hanging out in this bar and singing to yourself at 2am.”

“It’s called closing up and this isn’t New York City, sweetheart, there’s only so much power available in Dingle.”

“Dingle?”

“Wow, even those legs aren’t enough to make me like you right now,” he growled, even if his eyes were betraying his attraction. “That’s the name of this delightful town you’ve come to love in the seven hours you’ve been here.”

“I knew that,” she lied. “But can we just get back to the fact I have no working phone and it’s kind of urgent given the reason for my impromptu visit.”

“Your impromptu visit? Something you’ve mentioned multiple times since we unfortunately crossed paths at the waterfront this afternoon.”

“I’m assuming with that charm you don’t have a girlfriend?”

“Pretty sure I could say the same about you, Forbes,” he noticed her expression fall briefly before sending him a determined gaze.

“Not that it’s any of your business but I came here to propose to my boyfriend on the Leap Year like Irish tradition,” she insisted.

“Now, isn’t that romantic,” he joked. “So, if that’s the case, where is the lucky guy? I’d really like to congratulate him on being able to stand your whinging.”

Klaus wasn’t expecting to suddenly feel so weird given he’d known her seven hours and she’d managed to cause him a headache and the whole village a power outage. He decided to blame it on those legs and hopefully move on but after taking a seat at the bar Klaus knew she wasn’t going anywhere yet.

“Just shut up and give me a vodka, neat,” she growled. “It’s the least you could do after completely failing me in the amenities department.”

“I think it’s void when you are responsible for killing the power, princess,” he shot back. “And it’s no surprise you drink vodka.”

“Well, if it’s good enough for the Russians,” she bit back. 

“Exactly,” he muttered, producing a shot glass and pouring in some whiskey. “But here in Ireland we drink this.” He half expected her to complain but she downed it in one go.

“Is that the best you’ve got?”

“You’re really challenging me?”

“Do I need to spell it out?” She shot back. Klaus loved a challenge and this was no exception. 

“Not at all, love, I just hope you’ve brought your A game.” She nodded and a flood of shots followed. Caroline to her credit was impressive but not enough to topple Klaus who’d been doing this a while.

He’d lifted her bridal style and laid her carefully in bed upstairs, not missing just how cute she looked mumbling the words to the Star Spangled Banner. They’d made a bet during rounds that they could sing all words to their national anthem. True to her inebriated form she obliged even close to passing out.

He turned off the lights and shut the door quietly. Klaus wasn’t expecting to learn much but a drunken Caroline had poured out her heart and he wasn’t quite sure what to do or say when he saw her next. 

7 hours later….  

She woke with one eye open unsure of her foreign surroundings, the fact her mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton balls was enough to kill the usual shriek the situation would evoke.  

She sat up quickly, regretting it immediately as the room began to spin and also threatening never to stop. At least in the Wizard of Oz a house fell down and righted the situation but not here unfortunately. There weren’t even a few cows flying past to keep her entertained just the thought that there was no bucket to capture her stomach proceeds. 

Before she could spread them far and wide, a bucket appeared from nowhere. Caroline didn’t look up, just glad she had it and proceeded to make use of it. She barely noticed when he laid her back, wiping her mouth with a wet cloth and placing aspirin and water bedside before leaving again.

9 hours later…   

Waking up again, Caroline felt slightly less sick and more so embarrassed about her behaviour. She was just lucky he hadn’t seen her like this, why she cared was a mystery.

Caroline attempted to move from the bed, only noticing him seated in the corner of the room and with just enough time to grab the sheet and wrap it around her pyjama clad body.  

“I’ve seen it all before, if that’s any consolation,” he offered standing up, his indifference not lost on Caroline. “You felt the need to come downstairs and complain about the lack of electricity in that early this morning.”

Suddenly it all came back. The power outage, their argument, the incessant drinking and whatever came after that. Given she had some clothing on was a good sign she hadn’t cheated on her fiance-to-be with some village idiot. But why was he in her room?

“And why are here in my room?” She demanded. She half expected him to split but he held his ground.

“I like to keep the rooms tidy, wouldn’t want the guests to think that we take their amenities for granted.”

“Of course you wouldn’t,” she muttered, desperate for some water until he held out a bottle. Was this weird guy psychic? Sure he was kind of handsome in those dark jeans and a navy henley that hugged his toned chest but she had a fiance. Well, almost. 

“Thank you,” she murmured, screwing the cap on the bottle. “I suppose I should be going then.”

“Yeah, can’t keep lover boy waiting,” he mumbled without much sound.

“Excuse me?” 

“Well, Dublin is over four hours away but I can drive you,” he offered. “If you’d like?”

“And why would you do that exactly? After…”

“The blackout, the whinging, the drinking and the aftermath you mean?”

“Yeah, I guess?”

“I’m a glutton for punishment I suppose,” he growled. “I’ll meet you outside in twenty minutes.”

“No breakfast in this establishment then?” She called after his retreating form down the stairs.

“I’d rather you don’t vomit in my car like you have everywhere else in my establishment, Forbes.”

“Charming,” she groaned. Partly annoyed that she threw up and partly annoyed she had to do it in front of him, of all frustrating people. She was surprised he hadn’t chanted ‘I told you so’ yet.  

But why was he so willing to take her to Dublin without question? Most guys would run in the opposite direction, especially one so rude and uptight. Maybe he was just making sure she left his precious village of Dingle? These types were protective of their hometowns so Caroline decided to put it down to that and pack her bags.

2 hours later….

“No car sickness?” He asked a few miles into their journey, passing a water bottle over the passenger seat. She’d been asleep for the most part but Klaus had noticed her rousing as they drove through a neighbouring village. 

“Wow, you really take this whole doctor thing seriously, are you sure you didn’t miss your calling?” She asked gruffly, rubbing her eyes from sleep and taking the bottle from his outstretched hand.

“No need to miss anything, I am a Doctor.” 

“But you own that inn with poor electricity?”

“Funnily enough we can multi-task over here, not sure what goes on in that warped country of yours, love. And that whole electricity debacle was your fault.”

“But yet you have time to drive me to Dublin?” She asked ignoring his last comment, no doubt on purpose.

“What can I say, I’m obviously extremely bored with my life and need something to poke my eyes out and tell me I’m not dreaming.”

“Wow, someone obviously screwed you over,” she insisted. “I can tell a jilted lover a mile off.”

“Says the person who promised me unlimited Bon Jovi and Nickelback on this road trip.” 

“Liar, stop trying to change the subject with bad music choices I never agreed upon.” 

“Says the girl about to propose to some guy in Dublin?” Klaus couldn’t help himself, it just came out. She didn’t hear him last time but this time he wasn’t so lucky.

“I tend to say way too much when I’m drunk obviously.”

“No kidding,” Klaus shot back. 

“You have this way of telling me my most insecure thoughts without much feeling. I’m a little concerned about your bedside matter to be honest.”

“My bedside manner is fine but I’m concerned about your taste in men,” he shot back. 

“Because you are perfect right?”

“Not at all,” he murmured. “My ex-girlfriend thought I was inept and it never really changed in her eyes. You called your boyfriend last night and a girl answered. You laughed it off but we both know that…”

“He’s an ass.”

“You can do so much better than him and if you don’t pick a letter I’m going to beat you at the Eye Spy Championships.”

“You’re such a competitive ass…”

“You already said that, and okay Eye Spy with my little eye beginning with…”

“X”

“Is that a kiss?”

“You wish Mikaelson,” she shot back. “It will take more than that…”

[nega-aria]

In Sickness and in Health (a Quackervolt sap story)

Experimenting with posting story stuff here. Just a short little thing with Megavolt and Quackerjack which also happens to be one of the first fanfictions I ever wrote. Or rather, started writing. Finally finished it recently and @doktorgirlfriend was kind enough to help me edit in an attempt to improve my silly fangirl writing skills. Thanks lady! I appreciate it lots ♥

Enjoy the floof ♥

A rainy night in St. Canard: bleak, cold and miserable. There was very little Megavolt hated more than the rain. The smell was somewhat nice, but his sinuses were so messed up at that point he could barely enjoy it anymore. Or had they always been messed up? At least his makeshift residence was warm despite that pesky draft that whistled through the bayside window. The resident space heater took care of him very well in that regard. Megavolt made a mental note to thank him later, but it was quickly filed away among the many other bits of information doomed to be forgotten.

The lighthouse was dingy, slightly dilapidated and rather musky, but it was well lit as always, and Megavolt felt comfortable there even if there was that one leak in the roof that he was too paranoid to go anywhere near. The dripping of it mocked him constantly on days like this, but the melody of static that played in his head did pretty well to block it out. Still, he really should get that leak fixed someday. It was yet another forgotten memory, quickly reduced to a black haze in the back of his mind when the thought was replaced by a sharp rapping at his window.  

He lifted an eyebrow in confusion. Not that confusion was an unusual state for him, but this was definitely something curious. Lilith told him clearly that it was almost 11:30, and although she often disagreed with Henry and Hank, she was usually right about these things. Not that most people would take the word of an often ornery alarm clock over the sound advice of a rather level headed oven and his microwave sidekick, but Megavolt did believe it was that late. If the hours he had spent sitting on the couch and stewing were any indication, it was definitely that late, and that would mean only one someone would be anywhere near the lighthouse. Sure, there was only one person that ever was around generally, but he had made it very clear earlier that he was far too busy for his boyfriend tonight. Megavolt still wasn’t entirely sure what Quackerjack’s frustrated ramblings had meant exactly, but it was hardly unusual for him to be confused by the man. Chances were he had just been trying to end the conversation so he could pout as he usually did when they argued.

Megavolt scowled at the sound of Quackerjack’s voice in his ear, the recollection of that earlier phone call dislodged in that moment to replay in his head in a somewhat altered fashion from how it went down in reality. Not that he was aware of that little detail. Quackerjack had definitely been trying to get him to go on some silly heist; he was sure of that. Pretty sure. Maybe? Or it was just that thing about adopting a puppy? Either way, it ended with the man child irrationally mad at him. That he was sure of.

Tap, tap, tap.

There was that sound again. Megavolt had forgotten there had been a sound. The string of lights around the window urged him to investigate. He did so begrudgingly, but not without a soft grumble to express his annoyance. Whoever it was, they had better be looking for some free electroshock therapy. How did they get to the top of the lighthouse anyway?

Megavolt was already sparking by the time he reached the window, throwing the curtain back with so much force that the lights above nearly fell. His mouth was already open to let forth a mini explosion of vulgar content, but the words quickly scattered and were forgotten as soon as he saw who it was.

“Quacky?”

“You know it, sugah! Miss meh?”

The drenched clown giggled at the shocked look on Megavolt’s face, the customary sound of amusement quickly devolving into a hacking cough. Megavolt was so mesmerized by the way the rain was making his entire body shimmer beneath the lights that he jumped at the shock of the obtrusive sounds. It was then that he truly began to study the other man, noting his overly pale and obviously shuddering body. Combine that with the snot he was struggling to keep contained in his nose, and it was obvious why exactly he had been in such a grumpy mood earlier.

Quackerjack always did hate being sick.

“Come play wit me, Megs!” Quackerjack said, mustering as much of his usual enthusiasm as he could.

Despite the effort, Megavolt’s theory was quickly proven right as the sound of the duck’s stuffed sinuses and raw throat echoed in his voice. He sighed heavily at the rather pathetic display. “You’re sick, Quackerjack! And it’s raining. I am NOT getting drenched and letting you catch your death just so you can get some new toys,” Megavolt replied.

The crossed arms and stubborn look on his face clearly said that was not open for debate, but Quackerjack wasn’t exactly one to take a hint.

“M’ nod sick!”

“Yes, you are, and I don’t want you getting sicker, so just—”

The words were rudely stopped in their tracks when an annoyingly familiar face invaded his personal space, grinning that annoying grin and mocking him with that over-stuffed head of his.

“He said he’s not sick, Dick.”

Megavolt scowled at the high-pitched voice. “Oh, reeeal mature, Fruit-face,” he grumbled at the inanimate doll.

He didn’t have a chance to respond further before Quackerjack was climbing through the window, bringing a disconcerting amount of the outdoors with him. Megavolt backed nervously away from the growing puddle before scampering off and leaving a rather crestfallen Quackerjack behind.

Quackerjack gave the fidgety rodent a moment to make his motives clearer rather than tracking more of the terrifying fluid through his living space. He took the moment of frustrating isolation to wipe some of the water from his feathers, cringing as he removed his hat to ring out some of the excess moisture while sniffing more mucus into his throat. Quackerjack was barely given the time to look up before he was wrapped in a very warm and very fluffy blanket. Megavolt’s favorite blanket to be precise. The fact that he would sacrifice the comforter on such a cold night for the literal task of comforting his friend made Quackerjack feel far warmer than he already did. For a moment everything was sparkles and love-stained light as the sight of Megavolt standing there, backlit and fussing over him, held him captive. It was obvious by the way his mouth was moving that he was saying something, but all Quackerjack could manage in that moment was to watch those lips dance and whiskers twitch from the action.

“Wha?” Quackerjack slurred distantly.

“I said you need to lie down! You’re burning up, Quacky!” Megavolt said as he ran his fingers through the feathers on Quackerjack’s forehead with only a light wince to show how the moist plumage hurt him.

“M’ not sick, damnit!”

Quackerjack immediately paled, his plumage turning an unnatural, sickly hue as his body mocked him in that moment. Try though it might, his mouth could not repress the determination of his stomach to torment him. He produced little more than a stifled sound of discomfort before rushing from the room and trailing the now damp blanket behind him.

It took a moment for Megavolt’s brain to catch up, as it often did, but the second that telltale sound of vomiting came from the small bathroom down the hall, he was quickly up to speed on what was happening. Megavolt sighed heavily at the retching, slipping into the bathroom behind his friend. He bent over slightly so he could rub the jester’s heaving back gently. “So, ready to admit it yet?”  

Quackerjack grumbled miserably as he swatted at the hand currently attempting to offer comfort. “Dis doesn mean andythingh,”he insisted, still trying to convince himself more than Megavolt that he wasn’t sick. “I’m jus doingh this for fudn.”

“Riiight. Well, when you’re done having fun I’ll be in the living room.”

Really, Megavolt hated to leave him when he was so miserable, but he also knew how stubborn his other half could be, and he wasn’t going to stand in the now unpleasantly scented bathroom while Quackerjack tried to convince him that it meant nothing. Experience told him that if left alone long enough to wallow in his own gloom, he would seek out Megavolt’s company eventually.

Megavolt stretched out on the couch, kicking his boots off and fidgeting his fingers against the rough fabric. He supposed it was past time to steal a new sofa, but this one had so many memories attached to it he was afraid to let it go. There weren’t many things in his life that recalled any sort of past occurrence, so he was hesitant to abandon anything that reminded him of so many fond memories of his beloved partner.  It hadn’t even been that long since the mallard had become a partner to him in more ways than one, but memory in the short term was often even harder for him to deal with. Still, those moments remained tied to that piece of furniture as if they had been weaved into the worn fibers, and it made Megavolt smile at the various forms of playtime that had taken place there.

The grin on his face morphed into a roll of his eyes when more retching filtered from his bathroom. Quackerjack was nothing if not stubborn, and being sick was definitely one of his least favorite things to do.

“What? Don’t look at me like that. HE’S the one being all bitchy. He knows where to find me when he’s willing to admit it,” Megavolt muttered in reply to the unasked question from the light beside him.  “Don’t get your filaments in a twist.”

The toilet flushed, the sink ran, and before Megavolt knew it he could hear the soft creaking of the floorboards as Quackerjack slowly returned. He was wrapped tightly in the oversized blanket, bundled up as though trying to hide completely in its comforting warmth. His hat was clenched in trembling fingers, which might have meant nothing to most people, but to Megavolt it was an obvious sign that he wasn’t in a normal state of mind.

“Megsy,” the miserable jester whined with a sniffle, “I’m siiiiick.”

Megavolt couldn’t keep the small smirk off his face at the adorable condition his friend was in. It just wasn’t very often that he saw Quackerjack needing comfort in quite such a way. “Oooh, you don’t say,” he replied sarcastically.

Quackerjack nodded as though oblivious to the fact that the other man wasn’t being serious. He frowned, sniffing his dripping snot back into his nose and groaning unhappily at the way it made his abused throat hurt even more. He sighed dramatically, making his way over to the worn couch and dropping himself into the cushions face down so he could lay his head in Megavolt’s lap.

Megavolt tried not to cringe at the snot that was being smeared on his legs, but was only slightly successful. At least the thick blanket was enough to keep any hint of moisture off of his body. That slight comfort made him happy for sure, but the sight of the softly shivering mallard currently snuggled against him was somewhat heartbreaking. He stroked at the disheveled feathers on Quackerjack’s head, running his fingers gently through the sweat-slicked plumage. No matter how many times he saw the other man without his hat he would never get used to the sight. It was rare that the jester ever removed the beloved item. In fact, the only times Megavolt had ever seen it absent in the past was when Quackerjack was forced to wash it or wash his head.

Quackerjack snuggled closer to the other man’s ministrations, already falling prey to his exhaustion. “Soodn as I’m betta, yo owe me soooo mush playtime,” he mumbled nasally.

Megavolt snorted, undeniably amused by his friend’s insistence. “Only if you do everything I say until you’re better,” he said, taking the opportunity to make a deal with the dejected clown.

“Eveythingh?”

“Everything.”

Quackerjack grumbled at the response, displeased pout settling on his face; he just knew Megavolt was going to make him take nasty tasting medicine and rest all the time. He was pretty sure being stationary for more than five minutes was literally detrimental to his health. “Fiiine,” he finally responded, “but dyou gotta wear the nurse’s outfit.”

“I am not wearing your nurse outfit.”

“Awww, why not?”

“Because I still can’t believe you talked me into it the first time!”

“Bu I wasn even really sick that time!”

“Too bad. You used up your… Megsy nurse… privileges. Besides, the oven was laughing at me for months after that.”

“Oh, who cares what Henry thinks. Dude’s got an attidude problem.”

“Stop trying to make me wear dresses!”

“Poo, you’re no fud.”

“And yet you keep knocking on my door at four in the morning wanting to play hide and seek.”

Quackerjack blew a raspberry at him, the action causing another coughing fit. "Fdine, Mr. Boring." He paused for a moment. "Megs?"

“Yes, Quacky?”

“Watch cardoons wid me?”

Megavolt smiled at the request, pulling Quackerjack closer so he could snuggle into the sofa with him. “That I think I can handle.”

[onceuponamirror]

heart rise above

///// CHAPTER 1

summary: It wasn't an experiment with freedom borne of some Americana fantasy; rather, a road trip of purely logistical intentions. The plan was simple. Drive from Boston to Chicago for his sister's college graduation. That's it.

Or, he drives a Ford Pickup Named Desire.

Mechanic!AU

fandom: riverdale

ship: betty x jughead

words: 4.5k

chapters: 1/?

[read on ao3]

I took my love, I took it down I climbed a mountain and I turned around

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He will later regret saying anything. And he will want to blame Archie, desperately. Will want to throw him out of his moving car—if the car was capable of moving at all.

But really, he will blame himself. He was the one who wanted to stop. He was the one who listened to Archie in the first place.

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It starts innocuously enough; he and Archie are in his living room, frantically pressing away at their video game controllers, his large floor fan blowing cool air straight onto their flushed faces. It’s still May, but the heat came early to Boston this year, and with a vengeance.

However, Jughead is too broke to touch his A/C—or, too uncomfortable with the fact that he is no longer too broke to justify the frugality that makes his life more difficult than it has to be—so he convinces himself the fan is satisfactory.

(He will also later blame the fan. And the heat. It made him delirious. Susceptible to terrible ideas.)

Archie cries out as Jughead’s character delivers a last, fateful blow. The screen turns to victory credits and the redhead throws down his controller. “Damn,” he mutters, as Jughead flashes him a smug grin and cracks his neck.

“I win. You’re buying the pizza,” Jughead grins, stretching his arms out.

“Yeah, yeah,” Archie mumbles, getting out his phone. While Archie places their delivery order, Jughead untangles himself from his fortress of pillows on the ground to check his own phone. JB has called and left a voicemail requesting that he bring an extra, empty suitcase because she may or may not have accumulated more clothes than she realized and whoops!

He sighs, and goes to his hall closet, where he pulls a duffle bag from the pile of things JB has already left in her wake. He’s not leaving for a few weeks, but he knows he’ll forget if he doesn’t put it right in front of himself. He throws it onto his bed to be dealt with later, and as he’s quietly closing the door behind him, he looks up and realizes Archie is watching him.

“What are you doing?” He asks, big eyebrows wrinkling. “Are you going somewhere?”

“Oh,” Jughead says distractedly, pulling his beanie from his head and using it to fan himself. Why does he always wear this stupid wool hat? It’s 90 degrees out with what feels like 99.99% humidity and he’s starting to suspect he’s got a problem with masochism. “Remember that JB is graduating this year? I’m driving out to Chicago for the ceremony and to help her move back to Boston.”

“Wow,” Archie says. “Is she really graduating college already? Damn bro, we’re getting old.”

“I’ve been old my whole life,” Jughead sighs wearily, hopping over the back of his couch to rejoin Archie, who is still on the floor in front of him. His friend grins up at him, and then, with a gasp, scuffles away to face Jughead head on.

“Dude, I’ve got a great idea,” he says, and that’s the moment that Jughead will later curse as he bangs his head against his steering wheel. “Why don’t I come? We’ll do the road trip we always talked about. We’ll camp, or stay in weird towns, go to all the stupid kitschy stuff you love to hate—it’ll be hella fun. My mom has been bugging me about visiting her in Chicago anyway, and I’ll just fly back when you meet up with JB. Come on. It’ll be so fun.”

Jughead wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead, watching the big floor fan chug along. “I don’t know,” he says slowly. “I was just planning on driving there and back.”

Archie raises an eyebrow. “What’s the point of two best friends both having freelance jobs if we don’t take spontaneous road trips?”

He throws his hands in the air. “I don’t know, why do we pay rent anywhere either? Why do we bother working on this mortal plane? Why don’t I astral project my manuscripts? Why don’t we work from the fucking moon?”

Archie looks exasperated. “Dude, what else are you gonna do for the next month? I know you’re in a writer’s block.”

Jughead responds with an annoyed glare; he is a bit stuck on his latest novel, but he’s not about to admit it out loud. Somewhere in his inbox, an email from his editor is sitting and waiting, almost accusatorially, to be opened, and he’s doing his damn best not to think about it.

He settles for a shrug. “I will neither confirm nor deny.”

“Look, what’s that book you were obsessed with in high school? On the Road Again, or something?”

“Just On the Road,” Jughead corrects with a sigh. “And I’ve long shed my preoccupations with that kind of faux, ritualistic idea of American masculinity.”

Archie gives him the look he usually gets when said something beyond his vocabulary. “Whatever. My point is—you need it. I need it. I could write a few road songs. I bet it would help shake you out of your rut.”

He may have a point. Jughead stares at the fan again. He probably will need to get out of this swamp masquerading as an apartment if he’s going to get anywhere on his sequel, anyway, and he and Archie have been making vague plans for a road trip since childhood…

“Once again, not confirming I am in any said rut,” Jughead says in a bored voice, “but it doesn’t sound completely terrible. I guess.”

Famous last words, he’ll realize.

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They made plans to leave that weekend, deciding neither of them (read: Jughead) could come up with any reason not to start sooner than later. Archie had happily announced he would take care of the schedule, and although Jughead thought he maybe sounded too happy to be in charge of the itinerary, he also couldn’t muster up the energy to protest.

The trip starts innocently, and even with the potential for fun. They load up Jughead’s ancient mint green Ford truck with snacks and strap down their bags (and JB’s extra duffle) and first head to the cape for a couple of days at their friend Reggie’s beach house.

Reggie is more Archie’s friend than Jughead’s, but he still greets them both with open, drunken arms. “Bros!” He hollers, grabbing both of them in a crushing hug. He’s wearing a tank top that says Y’ALL READY FOR THIS? and Jughead thinks plainly that he’s not, but returns the hug all the same. “Welcome, welcome, to Casa de Partay.”

“Is that the formal Spanish translation?” Jughead mutters under his breath, but it goes unnoticed.

“Glad you two bachelors are here,” Reggie says cheerfully, “because Moose and Midge have been all coupley and it’s been fucking boring. Let’s shotgun a beer and head down to the water.”

Archie happily complies, although he shoots a worried look at Jughead beforehand. Jughead shakes his head and reaches for a Heineken of his own. He always appreciates the concern, but at 26, he’s long been around enough casual drinking that it no longer makes him feel small and alone in a trailer park every time he sees someone with a beer.

After they polish off their drinks, Reggie leads them down to the sand, where Moose and Midge are waiting for them. Despite also being people that know Archie better than they know Jughead, they’re still friendly towards him.

But they’ve always reminded him of Archie’s popular friends in high school, so it almost makes him more uncomfortable than if they’d been outright rude. He tries to tell himself that he is a damn adult now and the cliquey social judgments that plagued his adolescence are behind him.

They all want to head into the water, while Jughead volunteers to watch the stuff. Archie shoots him a look, but Jughead repeatedly insists he wants to read and will join them later. He settles onto a beach chair, sheds down to his undershirt (and spares Archie a lecture on calling it a wife-beater) and pulls his battered copy of Howl out of his back pocket.

He’d meant what he’d said about Kerouac, but as far as Beat writers go, Allen Ginsberg had always spoken to him. He leafs through it, and tries to focus on the poems, but his mind is elsewhere and after a few moments on the same paragraph, he accepts he’s not going to get anywhere.

He presses it against his chest and sighs, watching Archie and his friends frolic amongst the waves.

Truthfully, he doesn’t want to swim. He’s not a beach guy. The water’s always a little too cold. Sand just gets everywhere and stays everywhere for days. The idea of swimming out so far you can’t touch the ground terrifies him, and not just on a metaphorical level. And he’s definitely never gotten the point of getting thrashed around by 5ft waves for fun.

But seeing the four of them leap and duck under the water, Jughead feels annoyingly like a teenager again, watching awkwardly from the sidelines. You’re an adult. You don’t care. He rubs his temples and closes his eyes, tugging on his hat until it covers his whole face.

About half an hour later, he snaps to attention when something hits him gently across the chest. He pulls the hat above his eyes and sees Reggie standing over him and toweling off his hair.

“Sup, Infinite Jester,” he says, and Jughead has to admit that joke is a little more than clever. “You’re getting a little red. Lube up.”

Jughead realizes the object that had been dropped into his lap is a bottle of sunscreen. “Thanks, Reggie,” Jughead says slowly, still waiting to see if this is a trap; if the bottle is filled with actual lube or something worse. But with a concealed sniff, Jughead determines it to actually be benign and starts spreading it over his forearms and neck.

“No prob,” Reggie says easily, joining him on the neighboring beach chair. “I’m nothing if not a damn perfect host. You having a good time?”

He gives his book a little shake. “Just catching up on some reading.”

Reggie fixes him with a studying look. “Speaking of, I liked your book, man,” he says finally.

This surprises Jughead immensely. Despite having known Reggie for years as one of Archie’s college friends, he realizes he doesn’t know much about him other than that he works in finance and was already rich anyway. “You read my book?”

If he didn’t know any better, he might say Reggie looks somewhat self-conscious. “Yeah. I’m not all bros and beer 24/7, Juggalo. It was good. I mean, fucking sad. But good. Archie says you’re working on the sequel?”

Trying to, he thinks bitterly. Would be, if he had any idea where to start. “Yeah,” he says instead.

“Nice. Well, when I read the first one I was like, mad depressed for a week after. So give the guy a happy ending this time,” Reggie says, closing his eyes and settling back into his chair. He twists his arms up to the sun, as if beckoning it towards him.

Jughead pulls his hat back over his eyes.

A happy ending. What a concept.

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The next few days follow in a similar pattern: Reggie, Archie, and a fluctuating company of beautiful people having a rumpus, drunken time, while Jughead ruminates on the poor life decisions that led to him sitting alone by a bonfire and assuring himself that he’s beyond such hedonistic pursuits.

If this wasn’t such a common occurrence—following after Archie’s plans and finding himself wishing he hadn’t when it always ends with him at the edge of a party, alone—he might actually be annoyed with his friend.

But he wonders if he’s lying to himself when he says that it doesn’t bother him. He and Archie don’t have as much in common as adults as they did as children, and Jughead sometimes speculates whether nostalgia alone is enough to keep their friendship going.

Not that they don’t still have things in common—they both like to write (if albeit in totally different forms), they both like video games…Jughead wracks his brain for an embarrassingly long moment before also deciding they have similar senses of humor.

Sort of. Archie likes his sense of humor, anyway, which is usually the thing that wards most people off.

But none of their differences mean shit, at the end of the day. Archie is like a brother to him, and so if that means he has to be a fringe element at the edge of a beach party for a night, so be it.

Besides, he’s always teetered at the edge of things his whole life. Teetered on the edge of childhood abandonment, on the edge of foster care, on the edge of his family’s addiction, on the edge of his peers, his schools, his life.

Looking in from the outside is an easy place to be; that’s what got him his New York Times starred review, anyway.

So quite literally, no good will come of questioning his comfort zone, and that’s that.

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But once they hit the four-day mark, Jughead is itching to get back on the road, so they both pile back into the truck after long and surprisingly emotional bro hugs from a completely stoned Reggie.

The truck squeals a bit as he turns the ignition. “Did you hear that?” He asks Archie, though the engine is purring fine now.

Clearly also still a little stoned from Reggie’s wake-and-bake breakfast, Archie looks over at him, red eyed. “Hear what?”

“When you drove the car into town last night, did it make a weird noise?” Jughead presses.

“Nah,” Archie says, his head falling against the seat. He closes his eyes. “Man, I’m beat.”

“Good road trip, then,” Jughead says wryly. “Ready to go home to Boston?”

That gets Archie’s attention; he opens one bleary eye at him. “Don’t you fucking dare,” he says firmly. “I’ve got a lot more planned for us.”

Jughead snorts. He hadn’t expected it to be that easy anyway. “Where to next?” Jughead asks, as they pull out of Reggie’s driveway and into the morning light.

“Not telling,” Archie says, pulling up his phone map. “Take a left here.”

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It turns out that Archie has led them back across the state to something called the Basketball Hall of Fame, which Jughead couldn’t find more boring if he’d tried. Archie loves it, and spends the whole time wondering aloud if he’d chosen the wrong sport in high school. But Jughead can’t stand it much longer, and wanders off to find a place to read until Archie’s ready to go.

“Got you an ice cream cone, buddy,” Archie says soothingly, finding the bench Jughead has long since camped out on.

“Great, because I’m twelve,” he mutters, though he eats it anyway.

“Sorry, I know this place isn’t your cup of tea, but the next thing is for you. You’ll like it, promise, or I’ll buy you two dinners.”

“Here’s hoping I hate it, then,” Jughead says dryly, as they make for the car. It makes that weird sound again, but it’s gone in an instant, and the Ford roars to life, so Jughead doesn’t have time to dwell on it before Archie starts feeding him new directions.

When they cross the border into New York state, Jughead gets nervous, but Archie is practically bouncing in his seat with excitement, which appeases him a bit. But if it turns out to be the Football Hall of Fame or the Baseball Hall of Fame or, hell, even the Racquetball Hall of Fame, he swears he’s turning around and going straight back to Boston.

But they turn into a parking lot with a sign reads Welcome to the Motorcyclepedia Museum! and Jughead is awash with relief. Motorcycles. This might actually be good. 

They pay for their tickets and head on in; the experience is completely wacky, and just as kitschy as Archie promised it would be, but actually kind of cool. There are famous motorcycles from history, including one that road in the motorcade the day JFK was shot, and even some from movies, which he particularly geeks out over.

Granted, the bar was pretty low after Archie dragged him to a weekend long beach party of self-indulgence and then the fucking Basketball Hall of Fame, but Jughead has to it to him: this one was pretty fun.

Especially because Jughead always wanted a motorcycle, like his dad, and he’d even learned to ride and gotten as far as the special program certificate as required by the state of Massachusetts. He’d been all set to get one—but then life got in the way, as it does, and the motorcycle suddenly seemed like such a silly idea. He had responsibilities thrust upon him and he wasn’t gonna drop his sister off at school from the back of a bike. So he turned to the truck, and it hasn’t proved him wrong yet.

“Knew you’d like this place,” Archie grins as they head back towards the parking lot. Dusk is settling low over their heads. “So you’re buying dinner.”

“That was not the deal, so, no,” Jughead chuckles, sliding into the driver’s seat. “Alright, I propose we drive a little more, grab some grub, and then find a motel to crash for the night.”

“Sounds good, dude,” Archie says, pulling out his map. “Alright…we wanna get on 90, so we should take highway 87 up the state. Let’s head towards Hudson and stop there for food and beds. Midge told me about how cute it is up there and said we should check it out. Apparently she and Moose went antiquing there once.”

“Golly, Archie,” Jughead drawls, “I didn’t realize this was an elaborate excuse to go looking for the perfect shabby chic bedroom set of our dreams.”

“Shut up,” Archie laughs. “Just drive. It’s getting late and I’m a growing boy. Need to eat.”

“Hate to break it to you pal, but you’re 26. Officially, you’re done growing,” Jughead says, as he puts the key in the ignition. It squeaks at him again, but once again starts without any other issue. He stares at his steering wheel. “Why does it keep doing that?”

“Dunno,” his friend yawns. “I’m sure it’s fine. Come on. Food. Archie hungry. Archie want to eat.”

“Ugh, don’t get all caveman on me. I’m hungry constantly and I still manage to use all my grammatical articles,” Jughead sighs, pulling out of the parking lot. The ride upstate is quiet and twinkling as the stars come out to greet them. Even on the road, the further upstate they get, the brighter the stars become.

However, also the further upstate they get, the hungrier Jughead gets. He realizes he hasn’t eaten much all day and, with an audible growl from his stomach, he decides he might not make it all the way to Hudson.

“What are you doing?” Archie asks, as Jughead starts to cross lanes towards an exit.

“Taking the first exit I see,” Jughead says grouchily, his appetite making him grumpy. “I’m suddenly starving.”

“Dude, it’s not far left to Hudson, just keep going,” Archie says.

But a bright neon sign is visible from the far right lane and Jughead gives a triumphant, “A-ha! A diner. I want a damn small-town-diner burger and I want it now. We’re going there.”

Shrugging, Archie doesn’t argue. That’s another thing that Jughead likes about his best friend: he’s as impulsive as he is go-with-the-flow. It sometimes makes for a disastrous combination of attitudes, as Archie tends to believe following the yen to make a ridiculously sudden 180 in his life will just “work out” but right now, Jughead appreciates the hell out of it. His stomach howls at him.

They pull off the highway and follow the massive neon sign, which just reads Pop’s in bold red letters. Jughead might’ve expected some kind of truck stop diner, given it’s proximity to the road and the set of train cars ambling along a track behind the restaurant, but it seems quaintly doo-wop and almost straight out of time.

He and Archie throw a tarp over their bags in the bed of the truck and hustle inside. Soft, ambient music welcomes them and the crowd is mostly families and teenagers. It just might be a wholesome as it appears.

A round-faced man meets them at the door. “Two?” He asks amiably.

Jughead nods, taking in his surroundings. Something in his chest unlocks to the tune of a jukebox, and the soft red light falling gently over the restaurant sets him at a peace he didn’t know he was missing. It’s quiet. Safe. Calm. Everything a small town diner should be.

Something pokes his shoulder, and he realizes it’s Archie gesturing to follow after him to their table. He slides into his booth and heaves a deep sigh. “This looks good,” Archie says lightly, glancing over his menu.

Good doesn’t begin to cover it, Jughead thinks, gears whirring in his mind. The character in his first book would love a place like this. He’d been planning on setting the sequel in the same city as the first, but now he’s wondering if plopping the hero in a completely new setting is what the manuscript has been missing.

But then what? Move him for what reason? What is he looking for? What would be his motivation?

Jughead wishes he had his laptop, or a pen and paper at least, because this is the first burst of inspiration he’s had in months and he doesn’t want to lose it. But his computer is locked away in the car and he’s too hungry to properly focus anyway.

Their waitress appears at their table expectantly, and she’s very pretty, so Jughead waits for the inevitable drooling and clumsiness from Archie. True to form, the redhead tries to rest his elbow on his menu, but it slips under him and he practically hits his forehead on the table.

She watches with mirth. “Hi,” she says, in a cool, sophisticated voice. “I’m Veronica, and I’ll be your server tonight. Do you need another minute, or do you boys know what you want?”

Jughead thinks that Archie certainly does.

So with a sigh, he folds himself over his menu. “Double cheeseburger. The works. Fries. Pickles. Chips might be good too, actually. Vanilla milkshake. And a black coffee.”

Veronica raises an arched eyebrow. “That’s all for you? Or is there a tapeworm in there somewhere paying rent?”

Archie laughs loudly at her joke—a little too loudly, because she turns to him with a curious, amused look. But, Jughead notes, not an uninterested look either. He’s not surprised. This is the perpetual riddle of Archie Andrews—makes a total clumsy buffoon of himself, yet somehow still gets a date anyway.

He assumes it must have something to do with Archie’s looks and gym schedule, but it’s still always been a bit of a mystery to him. He knows he’s not completely without positive traits, but if he slipped on his own menu and then guffawed loudly at a girl’s joke, she’d look at him like a piece of old gum under a shoe.

Archie ends up ordering a regular cheeseburger and just fries, and Veronica whisks away. As soon as she’s out of earshot, Archie gets a star struck look in his eye and says, “Man, I’m glad you picked this place.”

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Dinner is good—quite good, actually—and surprisingly not too greasy given it’s a small town diner off the side of the highway. Jughead is bereft to go, but he orders a burger for the road, and it’ll have to do.

They load up into the truck; Archie has been sighing for the past ten minutes, like some tortured Shakespearean lover. “Why didn’t I try to get her number?” He asks, for the third time.

Jughead puts the keys in the ignition. “Because we’re going to Chicago, you live in Boston, and she lives in some random small town in upstate New York. I’ll get you a fishing rod when we get home so you can see how many fish there are in the sea.”

Archie just sighs moonily again.

Jughead turns the keys, the now familiar squeaking and clicking sound greeting him. Only this time, it doesn’t immediately stop. In fact, it doesn’t stop at all.

Jughead curses, and tries to turn the keys again. The engine makes a terrible whirring sound and, to Jughead’s horror, smoke starts to rise from the hood of the truck. He immediately pulls the keys out of the ignition and stares, jaw-slacked, as Archie rushes out to open up the hood. He steps back and waves the smoke out of his face. “This looks bad, Jug,” he coughs. “Uh, I think we're stuck.” 

Jughead bangs his forehead against the steering wheel. Hits it once, hits it twice. Repeats it again for good measure.

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