#//like with the part when he's like parading around in that really silly costume? with the felt wings on his head? | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

sanzu-sanzu-sanzu · 3 years

Text

she’s the killer and i’m the sweetheart

Haitani Ran X Fem!Reader / one-shot

your boyfriend invites you to a halloween party downtown

/ bonten!ran but set before the present, somewhere in his early to mid 20s / suggestive, established relationship, ran pov and he is a simp, above all: crack

Out in the open patio of the cafe, the sunlit all-white stone floors illuminate your approaching figure in a brightness that has Ran’s eyes flickering like light bulbs, rendering your face as if to be that of an angel, or a corpse, he can’t quite decide—the kind that’s ascending up to heaven, which just about makes him laugh; he knows, of course, that you wouldn’t want to spend an eternity with some righteous god if it means you can’t be together with him—“So quit calling me ‘angel.’”—and so he keeps the little joke to himself even though he knows you’ll find it funny, too.

Not that he gives himself time for a silly line or two between his taking of your hand and your genial greetings to Rindou and Sanzu—who could pass off as the grim reaper himself; not yours, though, he hopes—and the quick kiss he presses on your lips. He keeps his hand around yours and he knows you’ve caught the humor in his eyes, as you’re smiling now, too, in a way that makes his mind go Well, fuck angels, because you could just as well be the deity yourself.

“You down for a costume party tomorrow night?” he asks before you can even take a proper seat. Your smile turns thoughtful, maybe a little surprised, though he gets it; he’s never really been one for Halloween celebrations before.

It’s for a job—Ran clarifies over your brief pause—yet doesn’t further elaborate, and understandably so, because you only know enough about the things he does in the shadows and it’s for everyone’s best interest to keep it that way. He does part the standard, safe-to-share details, though: it’s in Shibuya at around 10 and his task is really no more than a simple ocular of the area, and you know enough to get that, in his vernacular, ‘ocular’ carries with it so much more meaning than its layman equivalent, just as much as a simple phrase like ‘painting houses’ does. It’s a loosely tied event though everyone has to be in costume and there will be a bit of a parade, too, maybe and Would he need to be in disguise? No, love, he’s quick to cut you off, a gentle blow to dissipate what he detects is a flake of hope glinting in your eyes before it snowballs into actual enthusiasm.

Beside him, Rindou chuckles into his drink, and Ran wonders which part his brother finds amusing.

You roll your eyes, now in mid-thought, fingers coming together in your version of thinking with your hands—as opposed to when he lets his knuckles do the quick thinking for him, and sometimes also the talking, a striking contrast he finds cute—your face the most serious he’s seen ever since…this morning, just before he left you in his kitchen, concentrating hard as you tried to make sense of his coffee-maker, and you hardly would’ve noticed his goodbye kiss if he didn’t bring a hand around to lightly squeeze your ass; or was it last night with his face hovering above yours, while he watched you stare in awe as he kept up his painstakingly slow plunge inside you, while your chest heaved in anticipation and panic? Eyes dazed, face pained, and senses hyperaware of every ridge and throbbing vein and length of him, like you don’t get to feel all of him every single night, and there was so much, Too much, Ran heard you mewl against his neck, in a voice so small his hand automatically shot up to ease the lines on your forehead, swiping the pooling tears off the concaves of your eyes, take the hair out of your mouth and seal your shivering breaths with his and you were so beautiful, just for him, and god, he better get the image out of his head before he lets himself go fully hard.

“So, you wanna do matching themed costumes, or something?” there goes that smile, and he lets the arm that he’s draped over the back of your seat rest on your shoulder instead, because he thinks he might go crazy if he doesn’t get to feel your skin or what little of you he can manage at the moment, out here in the open air, in whichever way he can.

He licks his lips in anticipation. “Okay, give me ideas.”

When the girl carrying your order arrives, your eyes flicker to catch the mechanical smile on her face, to which you respond with one of yours, true and earnest and so unlike hers that has the girl’s features softening to something more real and just a tad bashful, and though Ran doesn’t normally dwell on people’s nonchalance—if not downright rudeness—towards customer service, he thinks you probably would. You always look at people’s eyes when you thank them, a gesture he can easily attribute to your friendly nature but also now to your genuine, utmost gratitude over the cup of coffee you apparently failed to contrive out of his silly little machine this morning—your first cup of the day—and he thinks maybe it’s thanks to all the cups as well as the number of pastries you got along—

“How about Alice in Wonderland? I think you’d look great as the Mad Hatter, Ran.”

—that your eyes light up in that distinct way he knows how when you’re struck with an idea.

Whatever kind of idea.

Ran hums in genuine wonder. It’s not bad, though he is gunning for something more exciting, more risqué, more…he settles for ‘exciting,’ except he bites his tongue before he says what he thinks and narrows his eyes into slits instead, because you and him have vastly varying notions of exciting, after all, so he ought to be careful. He decides he’ll ride along.

“Sure. You can be Alice with the maid outfit.”

His sloppy grin could melt your heart but just not right now when you got a better idea in mind, and he knows because you only peer at him once from under your lashes without so much as pausing your buttering of your toast . “I was thinking more like the rabbit.”

For a moment, Ran forgets the story ever having a rabbit character, or any animal, really, but there was the cat—he remembers now—and was it a caterpillar who smoked? And—oh, but then, of course, there was that rabbit who never could stay still. And you can’t blame him if he can’t help his nature but his mind instantly goes to wonder whether is it sex that rabbits have a shit-ton of, or simply lots of babies? Whichever the case—and, not that any of this is relevant—bunnies are sexy in his book and, of course, why not?

He spots a nick of butter on the side of your mouth and he mindlessly reaches out to swipe it off with his thumb. “I think you’d look good in a bunny suit, the sexy bunny suit.”

You miss the way his eyes survey you up and down, and when you do turn to face him it’s to level him with a frown and a look that is both curious and, frankly, mildly insulting. “Silly, I meant Mr. Rabbit in a waistcoat and the giant watch and all.”

As much as he loves your charming ass he isn’t so blind as to miss the silliness of the image—Do you plan on borrowing one of his suits? Do you think he’d let you just because you know how much he enjoys seeing you in his clothes? And, mind you, waistcoats are only hot when you’ve got nothing else underneath—but before he can verbally shoot the idea down, you’re already clasping both hands in actual excitement.

“Oh, my god, I can come as No-Face.”

This time, Rindou does laugh and Ran doesn’t have to bust a nerve figuring out over which part; even stoic, no-nonsense Sanzu, who affords you his civility, and no more, on his post-hungover morning, cracks a grin from ear to ear—oh, there’s a Cheshire grin—and Ran realizes he himself is gaping at you.

“Wow, that is not sexy at all.”

You place your toast down gently so you can punch him on the shoulder, a dainty little push, really, that fails to wipe the smile off of his face. “Listen, I already have a black curtain at home and I’ll just have to put on the all-white makeup, and then done! Easy. I can even get prepared in an hour.”

He loves you, more than you’ll ever know, but he scrunches his nose. “What’s so fun about that?”

You huff out a pout. “I think all the makeup would be fun, Ran. Plus, I think I could pull it off.”

Ran holds back from saying that, no, you actually don’t have an oversized kaonashi-shaped head—and who wouldn’t be able to pull a black curtain off?—not when your eyes are glazed in that genuine glow that he, begrudgingly, admits always stirs something inside of him. You’re grinning at him so wide he almost, almost relents. Upon a soft breeze, a bit of hair flies across your face and he brushes them away so he can clearly see your eyes.

“Okay, you want all the make-up? Fine. How about a corpse’s bride, or a vampire, you know, with all the blood and corset? Or even the Addams’ mother? You got one of those long, black dresses with the deep neck plunges, right?”

The sweet little smile that tugs at your lips still does not, in any way, disclose where your loyalties lie, and Ran has to peer in much more closely because you would love fangs and a fancy, frilly dress, and some fake blood, right? But then, he also doesn’t miss the moment mischief flashes behind those eyes, eyes that are watching his reactions just as closely, and Ran inwardly groans before you even say your next words; is this what it’s like being at the receiving end of a smile that you know is simply up to no good?

(Silently, he sends a prayer of thanks to his dear friend Kaku for his constant patience, and who is not dead, just fed up with his and Rindou’s shit.)

“I got it. I’ll just come as Fiona from Shrek.”

It’s a disaster until it’s not because there should be two Fionas, right? So he holds on to the sliver of hope. “Yes, yes. Alright, so I can come as Prince Charming.”

Your mouth drops. “No way, I meant the ogre Fiona, of course. Shrek’s Fiona. I want her green skin.”

At this, Rindou finally bursts out in an uncharacteristic, unattractive laugh that sends him to the floor. Sanzu would’ve choked on his drink if he hasn’t immediately set it down, although he raises a hand to his head at the strain of having to laugh his maniacal laugh.

Ran looks at you, hurt. “Babe, what the fuck?”

With Rindou’s delighted fits in the background, he can only stare at your eyes, now set wide in genuine wonder as you gaze up at him, your fingers soft when you brush the bangs out of his face. “Hm, though you would have to do a whole lot to achieve Shrek’s appearance, I think..”

—as if you don’t? He wants to scream.

So, no, you won’t get to go to any Halloween party tomorrow night. It’s for a job, he’d said, so it must be better he does it himself, on second thought, so Cool, thanks for your time. And what did Ran do as trade-off for squashing your hopes of having an exciting night with all the make-up on your face? He had to pick the scariest movie he could find and would absolutely loathe just for you for an unplanned horror movie at your place at 7; and if there’s one silver lining out of all this—the one reason why it’s Ran who still gets to smile in the end—it’s that you give in to holding him wrapped around your arms for the whole duration of the movie, his face snugged safely in your chest and under your neck and away from all the horror.

So, maybe it isn’t so bad.

a/n: the title is a line from the irishman

tag: @yukihime-mikeys-girl !

@sanzu-sanzu-sanzu 🕷

171 notes · View notes

mercurygray · 2 years

Note

TGM, cheesy 40s-themed gala fundraiser, go

Jake Seresin x OFC (Laura "Honda" Simpson)

It's like the 1940s au, but...not. This was fun.

The dance was a family tradition.

The Navy, as Laura had been told often as a child, was big on traditions, like rum and learning knots and silly parties when you crossed the equator, and the annual Hangar Dance at the Miramar Air Museum was one of those traditions for the Simpsons. Laura couldn't remember a year when she hadn't come, except for a few times at the academy when she hadn't been able to make it home. It was just …a part of the calendar, like Fleet Week and birthdays and the 13th of October.

So when Jake asked if they had any plans the next weekend, the answer had been obvious, but it had seemed so silly, trying to explain it to him - "My father's on the board, and we go every year. It's a fundraiser. It's in one of the museum hangars; People get dressed up, and there's a band playing swing music."

"Dressed up, huh?" He'd taken that news in stride. "What time should I meet you?"

It was still light out, at seven, and the view of the setting sun across the tarmac of the museum's slightly weedy airfield was something to behold. It was like stepping back in time, somehow, staring at the dying light with a breeze blowing her dress around her legs a little and threatening to flip her skirt if she wasn't careful. Her stockings were straight, and the gardenia in her hair would probably last the whole evening, if Hank Genovesi wasn't here to try and do any fast dancing. The old hangar behind her had the doors open slightly, and there was a steady stream of guests heading inside, women in rockabilly wide skirts and men trying to look like MacArthur in aviators and leather jackets - a familiar crowd. "What, no uniform, Lieutenant Simpson?"

Laura turned towards the sound of her name and almost let her jaw drop at the sight of the man coming in from the parking lot. "Jake. You look…really good."

And he did. Hair combed just so, shirt pressed, tie neat, the edge on his trousers and the shine on his shoes ready for parade review. Even his jacket was period, as were the sunglasses he had casually tucked into the front pocket. He had gone all in, and it was …working. He looked like he'd just stepped off one of the photographs on the walls of the museum, a young man stepping off to become a naval cadet in the wake of Pearl Harbor. It was a good look -- especially on him.

Jake himself, however, seemed to think this was nothing. "What, did you expect me to half-ass this? I half-ass nothing. The Seresins take parties very seriously."

"Even costume parties?" she asked, walking inside the half- open doors so they could find a place to sit and enjoy the music. (The band was only just getting started, and there were only a few couples on the floor.)

"Especially costume parties. My sister was all over it. Sent me links for, like, an hour - found a nice vintage shop downtown. They were very excited to hear it was for this - the owner must be a fan." But Laura didn't get a chance to ask about the elusive sister before he gestured across the room. "This looks nice. Your dad looks like he ought to be in a corner office drinking a whiskey and telling them to hurry up production."

She looked over and nearly snorted. He was right. "Jake!"

"What? It looks good on him. Watch, he's going to come over here and ask if I'm going to have you home by ten."

Laura wanted to chide him, but it was no use - her father had seen them, and broke away from the conversation he was in to come and greet them, crusher cap under one arm and rank insignia absolutely gleaming under the string lights roped over the dance floor. "Lieutenant Seresin."

Both men seemed to stand up a little straighter. "Sir."

"I see you got the memo about dressing up. No dress whites?" he asked, looking the obviously civilian attire over with a careful eye, trying to find some flaw in the clothing or the man.

"Maybe we could say I'm shipping out next week, sir," Jake offered, just this side of insubordinate. "Should I have her home by ten?" he asked, and Laura nearly died, watching her father's frown quiver for a moment.

"I trust Laura can tell you when she wants to go home," Beau Simpson said, looking Jake dead in the eye and daring him to try something smart. "And that you're the kind of man who can listen. Enjoy the dance," he said, heading back to the knot of board members in an odd mix of uniform choices.

Laura waited until he was far enough away to turn on her date and hit him in the arm with her purse. "I can't believe you actually said that."

"I can't believe you would doubt me. Well, Miss Simpson, shall we find a place for your coat and handbag and find an ice cold coca cola?" he asked, exaggerating his voice just so like he was playing an especially perky date in an old-time radio show.

"You need to stop," Laura begged, so ready to laugh as she followed him into the crowd.

"I refuse," he said, more of his own voice now than before, threading in between tables looking for an empty seat. "I …didn't get a chance to tell you I think you look very pretty," he added, finding an empty space and pulling out a chair. He sounded more sincere now, less brash - and seeing him standing there, with the chair, and the table, like this really was 1940 and they really were out to dance, left her…confused. "The…flower in the hair's a nice touch."

She didn't know why, but it made her blush, a little. "Thank you. I have a lot of practice dressing for this."

"Well, I'd paint you on my plane," he declared with a grin, and she sighed. There was the old Hangman she knew too well. "So what counts as racy in this decade? Is my hand around your waist gonna turn some heads or do I have to take you out back for that?"

"Let's start with seeing if you don't step on my toes, Lieutenant Seresin, and we'll go from there," Laura compromised. "And before you feel me up in the middle of Glenn Miller, please remember most of the men in this room know my father."

#i have written a thing #laura honda simpson #jake hangman seresin #yes this is about those promo stills from devotion #and what of it #mercurygraypresents

19 notes · View notes

homoose · 4 years

Text

Teach Me Something I Don’t Know: Part IV

Summary: The Halloween parade. Will and JJ are adorable. Anita suggests that Spencer become a classroom volunteer. Reader has a rough week.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: fluff, a smidge of angst

Warnings/Includes: none

Word count: 4.4k

a/n: I wish we’d seen more of Will and JJ as parents because I imagine it would be adorable and hilarious. Let’s see if you can guess all of their costumes before the reveal lmao. Your only clue is that Spencer loves keeping with a theme and the brown vest (I literally learned how to make my own shitty gif bc I couldn’t find the right one in the search and I do not understand embedding lmao) makes an appearance.

Series Masterlist

———

“Did you grab the bags?” JJ swept the pleated, platinum braid out of her face as she bent over to zip up her boots.

“No, I thought you did,” Will called, bouncing down the stairs.

“I put them in the car already,” Spencer informed them, popping his head back in the front door. “There was just the one box, right?”

“Yeah, that was it,” Will confirmed. “Shit— where’s Michael’s sword?”

“Should be on the counter,” JJ huffed, standing up and adjusting the bodice of the blue dress.

“Got it.” Will came around the corner of the kitchen, patting his hips where his pockets would be— if he weren’t wearing an adult-sized onesie. “Keys?” Spencer held them up. “All right then, let’s get this show on the road.”

The trio headed to the waiting SUV, Spencer climbing into the backseat as Will and JJ got into the front. Will and JJ chattered on about dinner plans and schedules for the following week, and Spencer smoothed down the brown wool vest layered over his white linen shirt. He’d spent entirely too long putting together the costume over the last week (with a little help from Penelope). He’d scrapped the Spock getup he’d been working on since September— he could always wear that next year. But he’d only get one chance to attend the Room 105 Halloween parade, and once the idea had wormed its way into his brain, he had to make it happen.

“Spence?” JJ’s voice pulled him from his thoughts.

“Hmm?”

“Would you be able to pick Michael up on Monday?”

He ran his hands down his thighs over the mint green cropped trousers. “Sure, as long as we don’t have a case.”

Will smirked at him in the rear view mirror. “How’s Ms. Y/L/N?”

“You’re about to see her yourself, so you can ask,” Spencer replied.

Will laughed, and JJ turned in her seat. “Whoa, coming in hot with the snark. You really do like her.”

Spencer fought and failed to keep the blush from rising, irritation at being teased blooming sharp inside his chest. He tried to shrug as nonchalantly as possible. “She’s a great teacher.”

“That’s not a no,” JJ noted, eyebrows raised.

“She’s Michael’s teacher,” Spencer said, like it meant something.

“Yeah, so?” Will shrugged his shoulders. “You’re his godfather. Technically, you’re not related, so it wouldn’t be breakin’ any rules.”

“Well, it’s not like that, so it doesn’t really matter,” Spencer insisted.

Will hummed and JJ turned back around in her seat. Spencer drummed his fingers on his knees and watched DC roll past through the SUV window. It really wasn’t like that. Y/N was just… very nice. A nice, beautiful, sweet, silly kindergarten teacher that he couldn’t stop thinking about no matter how many books he read or coffees he drank or chess games he played.

Monday was the last day of his sabbatical, and he was even more relieved to be headed back than usual— grateful that he’d have something to occupy his mind other than her. Because his mind was, indeed, occupied. The way her smile beamed like the spotlight on a stage, illuminating whoever happened to be on the receiving end. The way her hands moved in unbound, buoyant illustrations of her thoughts. The way her laugh felt like the first warm sip of tea or the wrap of his favorite scarf. It was getting out of hand, to say the least.

Will pulled into the parking lot, and instantly Spencer’s palms began to sweat. He glanced at the headband on the seat beside him and felt the mortification clawing at his insides. The costume was ridiculous; he was ridiculous. He should have just worn the Spock outfit.

Maybe he could just wait in the car and pretend like he hadn’t been able to make it. Or he could just leave the headband in the car. But then he’d just be in mint green capris with a sweater vest and platform sandals, and she’d have absolutely no idea who he was supposed to be. Then he’d have to explain it, and it would be even worse.

Will parked the car, and he and JJ immediately stepped out. Spencer watched them near the hood of the SUV, enjoying a rare moment of co-parenting without work hovering right out of frame. Will pulled the hood of the onesie up and JJ laughed, brushing her hand over the brown fabric twigs sticking out of the top. He supposed that if Will Lamontagne, Jr. could strut his stuff in adult footie pajamas, his handmade costume was probably all right.

With one last resigned sigh, Spencer slid the headband on. He grabbed the box of Halloween treats, opened the door, and hauled himself out of the vehicle. He pushed the door closed and looked in the reflection of the window, adjusting the headband around his curls and blowing out a breath.

“Ready?” JJ called, peering around the side of the SUV.

“Yeah—yeah,” Spencer agreed. He moved around the vehicle to join them, the three of them walking to find a spot in the crowd of parents standing around the carpool loop.

When they found a suitable spot, Will looked up at him and shook his head. The sandals added three extra inches to Spencer’s height, putting him a good six inches taller than Will. “Those shoes make you look like an actual giant,” Will chuckled. “I know that’s the point, but I feel like even more of a shrimp next to ya now.”

Spencer set the box of candy bags on the ground and would have shoved his hands into his pockets if the linen trousers had any. Before he could respond, JJ pointed to the door of the school, cooing, “Oh my god, look. Remember when the boys were that small?”

The PreK classes came out first, and Spencer could acknowledge that they were very cute, barely out of the toddler stage and holding hands with a line buddy. But he was waiting on a very specific cutie.

He’d barely had the thought when the kindergarten classes started to emerge from the door. He almost didn’t recognize her at first— just an orange blob and green shrubbery. But the converse gave her away.

“How is she so cute?” JJ threaded her arm through Will’s. “Even when she’s dressed as a giant orange blob.”

“It’s a gift,” Will agreed. He glanced up at Spencer. “Right, doc?”

Spencer nodded but didn’t take his eyes off Y/N. “I think so, yeah.” Will grinned and bumped JJ’s shoulder, but Spencer barely even registered his own response.

Thankfully they’d picked a spot near the very end of the loop, so he had plenty of time to get himself together before she was in front of him. While Will and JJ waved at all the tiny superheroes and princesses, he watched Y/N. She was all orange fabric from her shoulders to her knees, with bright orange Chucks to match. On her head was a strange variation on a party hat, bright green ferns sprouting from the tip of the cone and falling into her face. She looked absolutely ridiculous and entirely adorable, and he was in so much trouble.

When the class finally approached the final curve of the loop, Will nudged Spencer and gestured to the box of goodie bags. Spencer crouched down and lifted the box, standing back up to see Y/N laughing at Will and JJ. “Very cute, Lamontagne Family.”

Her gaze traveled across, then up, and then her eyes went wide and her mouth fell open. Spencer wondered if maybe the earth could just open up and swallow him whole.

“Oh my god, are you—?” She stepped forward and ran her hand lightly over the vest, and he didn’t dare breathe. “Are you the BFG?!” Her hand dropped from his torso, and he didn’t have time to be disappointed before her face split into quite possibly the biggest smile he’d seen from her yet.

A tiny Superman shouted, “Ms. Y/L/N, we’re making a gap!”

Y/N came back to herself, gesturing to all three of them. “Don’t go anywhere.” She accepted the offered box of treats from Spencer and then turned to help her class catch up.

Will gave him a look. “It’s not like that, huh?”

“Oh my god, she likes you.” JJ clapped her hands together. “This is amazing.”

“I’m takin’ credit for this,” Will bragged. “I’m a regular ol’ matchmaker.”

Spencer couldn’t even be bothered to attempt a denial. He was still thinking about the feel of her palm on his chest, how it might feel to hold her hand, the way her eyes practically sparkled when she saw his ridiculous headband. He was in so much trouble.

Fifteen minutes later, the classes filed back out into the parking lot for dismissal. Y/N led the class down the sidewalk, grinning at the excitement coursing through her line. As they approached the end of the loop, Y/N caught sight of them and waved. The kids lined up in their normal spot, chatting excitedly about their costumes and candy bags.

“Lord, Ms. Y/L/N, you’re something else,” Will laughed.

“Is it not the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever seen?” She laughed and tapped the green shrubbery hanging in her face. “I have the kids do a little persuasive writing thing every year. They draw a picture and write a sentence about what they think Ms. Y/L/N should be for Halloween, and then we take a vote.”

She waved her hands in that way Spencer loved, the way that was so similar to his own. “Usually the options are pretty tame, you know—ghost, witch, bumblebee. This year was a near tie between runner-up Jojo Siwa and well,” she gestured at herself, “carrot.” Y/N cackled, and the leaves on top of her head shook with the action.

They all laughed along with her, and then JJ added, “The details are truly incredible. Is this an actual plant on your head?”

“I really thought about it,” Y/N laughed, “but no, it’s just fake ferns stuffed into a cardstock funnel.” She gestured at Will and JJ. “But also, excuse me— this family costume is ridiculously cute. Mr. Lamontagne, loving this onesie. Mrs. Jareau, I didn’t even know it was possible to look prettier than you usually do, but here you are. And Michael’s Anna costume?” She held her hands up. “Incredible. Show stopping. I wish I had an aunt Penelope to enlist the help of, because that cape is the actual height of fashion.”

“She helped Spence, too,” JJ prompted, stealing a glance in his direction.

“Oh yeah?” Y/N asked, turning to smile at Spencer.

“We um, 3D printed the ears,” he clarified.

“No way!” She took a step closer to him, peering up at the detail on the headband. He leaned down a little for her to get a closer look. “That is so cool. I’ve never actually seen anything 3D printed up close before— did you design them yourself?”

She met his eyes briefly, and he realized how close they were— close enough that he caught the faintest whiff of sandalwood and cardamom. Of course she even smelled like warmth and home. “Well. I, um— I drew a sort of sketch, I guess. And then Penelope did the software coding. I— I’m not very good with technology, honestly.”

She ran her fingers lightly over the plastic, and he decided she was really trying to kill him. “Yeah, I’m not sure I really understand how it works.”

“Well, first you create a blueprint file of the design you want to print, which you can do through modeling software or three-dimensional scanning. Then you convert the file into an STL file— named for Stereolithography which was the first ever 3D printing process. The STL file is made up of triangular mesh polygons, which is the data that describes the surface of a three-dimensional object. After that, you use a software program to complete the process of slicing— essentially dividing or chopping the 3D model into hundreds or thousands of horizontal layers that the printer can print one at a time to create the 3D object. And then the printer prints each layer until you have your finished product.”

Y/N was quiet, and he pulled back to see her grinning at him. “I thought you said you weren’t very good with technology?”

“I’m not good with using technology,” he clarified.

She nodded. “Gotcha. So you just know everything about it.”

Her joking tone had a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I read a lot.”

“How much is a lot?”

“I can read at a rate of 20,000 words per minute, so… a lot.”

Her eyebrows shot up into the tangle of ferns on her head, and he was just so overwhelmed by how adorable she was. “Well, if I ever have a question about anything, I know who I’m coming to.”

He was sure he was blushing, but he couldn’t really bring himself to care. “I’m happy to answer any and all of your questions.”

She let her gaze travel over the rest of the costume. “Oh my god, the sandals! Man, you really nailed it. I’m very impressed.”

“Thank you.” He cleared his throat. “I thought about being Trunchbull, but I couldn’t find the sweatshirt,” he joked.

She laughed, and he wanted to bottle it up to keep forever. “As much as I would have loved to see your hair in a bun… you’re much too sweet to have been able to pull that off.” She smiled softly at him. “Much more suited to our friend the BFG.”

He rubbed a hand down the back of his neck, and it was only then that he realized Will and JJ had gone to the car. He looked back to Y/N, opening his mouth but unsure of what he was going to say.

“Y/L/N!” He turned his head to see Anita jogging toward them. “Did you—” The giant cardboard box she was wearing knocked into one of the few kindergarteners left in Y/N’s line, nearly sending them to the ground. “Oh my gosh, sorry sweetheart!” She righted the startled child, and Spencer gave her a once over, completely at a loss as to what her costume could be.

“What in the world are you supposed to be?” Y/N asked, choking out a laugh.

Anita looked at her deadpan. “A monopoly piece. Remind me that I’m never participating in team costumes ever again.” She rolled her eyes and gestured at Y/N. “Next year I’m gonna wear an orange t-shirt, call myself a carrot, and be much more comfortable.”

“I’ll have you know this costume was a lot of work,” Y/N remarked, crossing her arms.

“I’m sure it was. You could have put on an orange dress, stuck a green pipe cleaner in your hair, and called it a day, but that’s not the Y/L/N way.” Anita’s eyes slid across to where Spencer stood. “Well, hello, doctor. I have absolutely no idea what you’re supposed to be, but I love everything about it.”

“Spencer’s the BFG,” Y/N said, and Spencer could have sworn she sounded almost proud.

“Ah, Roald Dahl, of course.” Anita smirked. “I see you, Spencer. I see you.” She put her hands on her hips— or rather where her hips would have been if they weren’t covered by a ridiculously large box. “So, when are you going to volunteer?”

“Sorry?” he asked.

“Like, when are you going to volunteer in Y/L/N’s classroom?” She held up her hand, palm down, and made a circular motion between the two of them. “You know, hang out, but professionally.”

“Oh my god, did you need something?” Y/N’s squeaked, eyes wide.

Anita ignored her. “You just have to do a background check, but I’m sure you’ll pass it.”

“Lopez,” Y/N said, staring her down. “Do you need something?”

“Oh, I was just going to ask if you got the email about the PD after school on Tuesday. But this was much more fun.” She winked at Spencer. “Bye, Spencer.”

They both stared after her as she nearly skipped across the grass to the building. Y/N turned to him. “I’m— so sorry.”

He met her eyes and took the leap. “Volunteering could be fun.”

He watched her press her lips together to contain her smile. “It could be.”

He didn’t bother containing his own. “I’ll um— I’ll shoot you an email.”

“I’ll respond to your email.”

…

When he walked in the door, Spencer made a beeline for his desk. He opened his laptop and pulled up his email account, writing as fast as his one-finger typing would allow.

Spencer Reid Re: Volunteering

Hi!

I’m just following up about volunteering. Anita mentioned a form that I needed to fill out? Now that I’ll be back to work, I’ll just need to plan around the BAU schedule. Could you give me a list of days that would work for you?

Really looking forward to seeing you in action.

Spencer

He checked his two other email messages, and then left the browser up while he thumbed through his most recent reading material.

He sat at his desk for the remainder of the afternoon, distractedly perusing his book and glancing at his empty inbox every minute or so. His gaze flew up to the screen at the ding of a new message at 6:30, only to find a promotional email from one of his favorite indie bookstores.

He closed his laptop with a sigh. It was a Friday night. Y/N probably just didn’t check her email on the weekend. He could wait until Monday. He’d see her on Monday.

He limited himself to checking his laptop twice a day on Saturday and Sunday. When Monday rolled around, he checked it in the morning. He leaned back against the leather of his chair, staring at the empty inbox. He had some errands to run, and for the first time in his life, he wished he had a phone that had email on it.

He ran his last-day-of-sabbatical errands and stopped in at his favorite coffee shop for most likely the last midday, sit-down coffee he’d have for a while. Before he realized, it was 2:30. He brought his empty mug to the counter and waved to the barista. Then he walked to the car and prepped his conversation starters.

“Did you get my email? I sent you an email, just wondering if you saw it? Hey— Hello— Hi, I wasn’t sure if you got my email.” He blew out a breath. “Hi. How are you?” He waved his hand. “I’m great. Did you get my email?” He laughed into the empty car. “Ridiculous, Spencer. You’re ridiculous.”

When he pulled into the parking lot, his heart was racing and his palms were slipping against the steering wheel. He pulled around the loop, looking with a furrowed brow at the area where Y/N should be. In her place was a short woman with cropped grey hair. She held a clipboard and looked generally overwhelmed.

Michael sprinted to the car as soon as he saw it. He pulled open the door and let out a world weary sigh. Spencer turned in his seat. “Everything all right?”

“No, everything is terrible,” he huffed dramatically. “Ms. Y/L/N was sick today. Mrs. Franklin was our substitute, and she smells weird.”

Spencer looked through the window at Mrs. Franklin, struggling to keep a few rowdy boys in the line. “I’m sorry, buddy. I’m sure Ms. Y/L/N will be back soon.” He was secretly relieved that he had a potential explanation for the unanswered email.

“I can’t take another day of Mrs. Franklin,” Michael sighed, buckling his seatbelt. “I hope Ms. Y/L/N’s back tomorrow.”

Spencer let out a breath and pulled away from the curb. “Me, too.”

…

JJ huffed out a breath, glaring at the stack of paperwork in front of her. Spencer was nose deep in a book, but he glanced up at the sound. “I can take a few of those if you want,” he offered.

“No, it’s fine,” she sighed. “I’ve really only got six left.”

He looked at his watch. “Each report takes you approximately 37 minutes. With eight minute breaks in between, you’re not going to be out of here until almost 6:00.”

JJ laughed. “I can’t believe I missed out on these scathing performance reviews for thirty days.”

“Suit yourself.” Spencer dropped his gaze back to his reading.

His first week back from sabbatical had been uneventful to say the least. The team had just wrapped a local case, and they’d spent the better part of the week going over consultations and potentials. It was finally Friday, and Spencer was finished with his stack of backlogged reports.

He was finishing the last chapter of the book when JJ dropped a string of quiet curses. He continued reading, waiting for her to ask. She was quiet for another minute.

“I forgot I’m on duty to pick Michael up today.” Spencer looked up at her, slight panic coming over him.

“I really don’t mind finishing your reports,” he offered.

JJ raised her eyebrows. “What, no offering to visit Ms. Y/L/N?”

Spencer closed his book. “I, um. I sent her an email a week ago, and she hasn’t responded.”

“So?”

“So…” Spencer ran a hand through his hair. “That’s weird, right?”

JJ laughed. “You don’t really use email, so I’d imagine your inbox is pretty orderly. But if you use it a lot, it can be easy for messages to get lost.” She looked at him pointedly. “I can almost guarantee that she’s not ignoring you, Spence.”

He sighed. “I guess there’s a quick way to find out.”

...

Spencer drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, watching the door of the school. He glanced at the clock, noting the class was later than they’d ever been. Without really understanding why, he pulled out of the loop and swung back around to park in the lot. He exited the car, and as he rounded the hood, he spotted them.

Y/N was at the front of the line, hands stuffed in the pockets of her jacket and mouth pressed into a thin line. The line behind her was unlike he’d ever seen it. No waving arms, no smiles, no giggles. Twenty small bodies followed behind her with absolute and total solemnity, and he felt uncomfortable just watching them. It would have almost been funny if it wasn’t so dramatically out of character.

The line weaved around the more rambunctious classes, maintaining their grave expressions and quiet pace. They reached their spot on the sidewalk, and Y/N didn’t even have to say anything. Spencer watched as the line took their spots behind her. She held one hand up to acknowledge parents as they pulled up, murmuring stoic goodbyes to students as they headed to their vehicles.

He hung back at the hood of the car until the majority of the class was gone, slowly making his way across the parking lot. Y/N’s line of sight was pointed in his direction, but her eyes were unfocused in the afternoon sun. He could see the moment that she registered his presence, her eyes widening slightly and bottom lip releasing from the place she’d been absentmindedly chewing. She shifted her weight as he closed the final few feet between them.

“Hi.” She held a silent hand up in greeting. He clenched and unclenched his fingers. “Rough day?”

“It’s not always sunshine and rainbows, despite what everyone thinks,” she snapped. She blew out a breath and rolled her eyes up to the perfectly blue sky, mocking her mood. “I’m sorry. Yes, it was a rough day.”

“You don’t need to apologize.”

“You don’t deserve my wrath.” She gestured vaguely in the direction of the students. “They didn’t either, but— too late for that.”

He watched as she lowered her head back down, rubbing a hand over her face. He desperately wanted to slay whatever dragons had given her normally brilliant eyes such a grey cast. “You have strong relationships with them, and kids are resilient. I’m sure they know you—”

“Please— don’t.” Her voice was thick, and she looked at him with desperate eyes. “I— I appreciate the thought, but I’m— I’m a frustrated crier.” Her shining irises proved her point. “And I’m just— I’m really just trying to keep it together for the last four minutes of my contract time.” Her words were practically a whisper, and she swallowed thickly and glanced down the line, just Michael and one classmate left, eyes downcast.

“I understand.” Spencer shoved his hands in his pockets to keep them from reaching out and touching her. “I’m sorry. I— I hope your weekend is better than today.”

Michael slowly left the line, murmuring a quiet goodbye to Y/N. Spencer put a hand on his shoulder and steered him toward the car, stealing one last glance at a crushed Y/N.

...

Y/N Y/L/N

Re: Re: Volunteering

Hi,

I meant to respond to this email, and then a bunch of things happened, and then I was out all week.

I don’t know if you even still want to volunteer after this afternoon, but it felt rude to not respond at all.

I’ve attached the background check form to this email in case you’re still interested.

Y/N

1 Attachment: Background Check

—

Hi,

I meant what I said this afternoon. Your students love you, and they know you love them. If my conversation with Michael in the car was any indication, they’re feeling rightfully embarrassed and guilty about their behavior while you were out.

Regardless of what happened today, your relationships with your students are strong enough that they will come to school tomorrow knowing that you still care about them. Children don’t hold onto things nearly as much as adults.

It would be a privilege to volunteer in your classroom, even on the worst day.

Spencer

1 Attachment: Background Check - Spencer Reid

—

If I wasn’t already crying, I would be now.

Thanks for that.

No sarcasm intended. Really. Thank you.

—

This might be inappropriate, and if it is, please just pretend like this email doesn’t exist.

I have a favorite cafe in the DuPont circle area, Soho Tea & Coffee. They have an excellent tea drink made with honey and milk that I like to order whenever I’ve had a particularly difficult day.

If you’re up for it, it’s on me.

———

Tags: @spacedikut @uhuhuh @itsametaphorbriansblog @90spumkin @blameitonthenight21 @magenta145 @annesauriol @watermelongubler @ampal98 @rainsong01 @meowiemari @mrsmyaweasley @mggsprettygirl @ceeellewrites @coffeeandendlesswords @daybabyx @joalsglasses @chevyimpala00067 @misshale21 @sapphic-prentiss @danifaithkae @saspencereid @heyitssomegirl101

Permanent tags: @andiebeaword @averyhotchner @pinkdiamond1016 @shadyladyperfection @coffeeandendlesswords @justanothetfangirl @no-honey-no @ajeff855

#spencer x reader #spencer x y/n #spencer x you #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid imagine #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds self insert #homoose writes #TMSIDK

672 notes · View notes

fallout-drabbles-n-stuff · 4 years

Note

Hey! How would the companions react is sole just casually stole and wore their hat or their clothes? (Also I really love how you include X6! There are a lot of people that write the dlc companions but not him? Anyway i love him and I love your writing!)

Cait:

•At first she tends to get more annoyed with it than anything. Don't get me wrong, she wouldn't ever be truly mad over something so stupid, but..well, her upbringing has made her rather territorial over her belongings.

•Actually, this annoyance may just prove to persist. On the bright side, she'll just roll her eyes at you and tell you to stop instead of getting pissed.

•Sorry

Curie:

•Curie thinks it's a strange behavior, but she's fascinated nonetheless.

• "Why are you doing this, cheri? Do you wish to be closer to Curie?"

• Once she figures out that it's apparently just something couples do, she'll kind of smile to herself each time she catches you swiping her stuff. Go right ahead. It makes her happy to know that you love her so much.

Danse:

(For the love of everything good don't steal the power armour)

•Although Danse is usually the "no nonsense" type of man, he finds your antics rather cute....so long as it isn't hindering his routine.

•I'm going to go off on a limb and assume you aren't stealing his uniform, you have one for yourself. As such, perhaps you've stolen a shirt of his? If so, Danse is more than pleased. Nothing quite makes him happier and more prideful than waking up after an eventful night to the sight of you bustling around wearing his shirt.

Deacon:

•I guess you've chosen war.

•As soon as you kick off the "steal yo stuff" campaign, he will retaliate tenfold.

•Sure honey, you may have his shades..but he's now parading around wearing your bra over his shirt like a jackass.

Gage:

•Oh, he is happy.

•He takes you wearing his stuff as your way of saying "yep, I'm your's!" Not that he really needed the reassurance, but hell, it sure didn't hurt anything.

•Sometimes you'll even find his stuff conveniently placed where you can get to it...and your clothes mysteriously missing at all the same time.

•Just do it. Make his little possessive ass happy.

Hancock:

•He gets an absolute kick out of it. You go ahead, steal his hat, boots, anything! He'll just sit back and laugh as you do it, amused by how silly you look.

•The costume he wears already looked silly on himself, so seeing you masquerading around as him only makes him chuckle. However his satisfaction isn't purely due to the goofiness of your actions, he also finds happiness in the fact that you're "that" comfortable with him and your relationship.

•If he thinks about it hard enough, he may even tear up a little.

Macready:

•Out of all honestly? Mac thinks it's rather endearing. It could be his hat or maybe even his jacket, regardless- he thinks it's adorable.

•He'll jokingly scold you, telling you that it isn't nice to take what isn't your's before proceeding to adjust his hat on your head and kiss your nose.

Maxson:

•Arthur is completely taken aback at first. It isn't like he has ever had someone be so free with him, much less someone he cared about so much.

•At first he'll just sort of take it all in, noting the smug look on your face and the undeniably wonderful way his coat looked draped around your shoulders. He wouldn't even think to be annoyed by you stealing the essential piece of his uniform, as a matter of fact.

•Actually, the only thing he'll do is playfully chase you around his quarters until he eventually catches you and "punishes" you for being so ridiculous.!

Nick:

•True, Nick hadn't dreamt of parting with his horrid trenchcoat ever before, he might just consider it whenever you playfully steal it.

•And no, it isn't because of how raggedy it looks. The way your face lit up as caught you putting it on, it made his mechanical heart skip a beat.

•He wouldn't have the heart to tell you he needed it back. So instead he'll just settle for coming up besides you and eyeing you up and down.. "You like that old thing? I don't think it's ever looked any better.."

Piper:

•Okay, there are two ways this can go down.

•One way, the good way, being that she is aware of what you're doing and thinks it's sweet and funny.

•Or! She's aware and gets pissed when she can't find her matching gloves....

•I wouldn't advise doing this with her.

Preston:

•His heart just melts when he happens upon you wearing his hat. He had been looking for it all over, but seeing where it ended up..he wasn't in too much of a rush to get it back.

• "This is what we do now, babe? Alright, I see how it is.."

•Be fair warned, he may be tempted to get matching cowboy hats.

X6-88:

"I completely understand why you feel the need to confiscate my attire. The material it is made of provides superior stealth without sacrificing damage resistance. In addition to this, you look quite nice..I believe we should acquire a pair of your own..then we will match. Doesn't that sound nice?"

205 notes · View notes

lfcology · 3 years

Text

you’ll float too | fred weasley

summary: another part of the phobia series. FRED LIVES AU! two years after the war, victoire weasley is turning 1 year old! hermione plans the party with muggle surprises including a clown -- something you’ve had a crippling fear of since you were a child. fred is a bit insecure.

pairing: Fem!Reader x Fred.

word count: 1.7k

warnings: None besides the fear of the clowns.

When the war was over, and all the rubble was gone, everyone in the Wizarding World did their best to return to any sense of normality they could. For Hermione and Ron that meant finally exploring a relationship together. For Fred and George, it meant opening up the shop again. Bill and Fleur however had arguably the most exciting change of all.

A year after so many lives were lost, little Victoire Weasley was brought into the world. Molly and Arthur made it their goal to spoil the first Weasley grandchild like no other and all of the siblings were enamoured by the tiny angel. Her hair was a gorgeous blonde that matched her mother’s, but her eyes held the Weasley mischief inherited from her father.

Charlie made it a point to move closer after the war and being away for so long and Percy made sure to stop by every Sunday after he made amends (Molly welcomed her boy back with open arms). Fred was one of the only constants in your life over the years so when he asked for you to move into the flat above the shop with him and George, it was a no brainer. Family time was at an all-time high for the Weasleys so with Victoire's first birthday approaching it was going to be a monumental celebration.

Hermione suggested she plan the party so Bill and Fleur could finally have some much-needed rest (for once). As expected, she was an excellent party planner. Everything was mapped out but the most exciting part for her was her plan to incorporate some muggle traditions into the party. With the Weasleys having never experienced muggle treats like blowing out candles, pinãtas, or (your least favourite) clowns. You were over the moon to be part of this special day, however, when she mentioned bringing a clown you knew you couldn't go. Without thinking, you made up a quick apology as to why you couldn't attend – something about needing to work, covering a shift for someone on short notice.

Being muggle-born meant you were exposed to clowns at a fairly young age through carnivals, parades and parties. You were never overly fond of them, always finding them quite strange but when a friend of yours suggested you read Stephen Kings It, you despised them. They scared you in a way you could barely put into words. From their laughs to their makeup and wigs, it made your skin crawl. As much as you hated them, however, you knew how excited everyone else was to have this muggle experience: Fred and George specifically.

Once Hermione had explained to them that the whole purpose was to tell jokes and make people laugh, the twins were hooked. Much to your dismay, this meant they didn't stop talking about it around the flat and both had quite the pouts when you said you couldn't go (they were almost convincing enough to make you change your mind).

"You've never worked a Saturday until now," Fred said as he crossed his arms. "Can't someone else cover? Why does it have to be you?"

You sighed from your spot in the bath. You'd set up a lovely spa evening for yourself as Fred was supposed to be working late like he did every Friday. However, 10 minutes into your bubble bath and champagne time, he was home and questioning you. You two had been dating for 2 years and friends for even longer so it wasn't hard for him to tell you were hiding something.

"It's a scheduling mistake I made." You shrugged. "It's too late to get someone to cover."

His only reply was a not so intimidating scowl. Which made you sigh and sit up from the tub a bit more (the bubbles hiding all the important stuff). "Everyone else will be there Freddie, it'll be okay." Fred sat on the closed toilet seat and undid his tie from around his neck. He was tired from a busy work week and didn't feel like arguing with you but he wanted answers.

"Georgie and I are closing the shop for it.... 'Mione is getting time off from the Ministry too. Even Harry ended an Auror mission early!" You rubbed your temples and sighed: if there was one thing about Fred Weasley, it was that he was stubborn as hell. What you didn't expect however, was what he said next.

"Listen, George thinks it's something else but you're hiding something and avoiding me and-" He sighed looking away from you as his shoulders sagged. "Are you cheating on me?"

You stared at him with your mouth agape. Did he have so little faith in you? You needed to make sure he knew the truth ASAP – you never meant your white lie to lead to this. "I never meant to-" You began.

"Who is it?" He asked, jaw clenching.

"Fred-" You said getting up and wrapping yourself in a towel. "I would-" He tried to cut you off again but you'd had enough of him pointing fingers. "I'm scared of clowns!" You all but shouted at him.

He was confused, to say the least.

"What?"

"I'm scared of clowns." You repeated more firmly as you walked closer to him. He was still quite speechless, to be honest, he'd prepared himself for the worst after all. Fred, despite many thinking he was incredibly carefree, overthought absolutely everything. George tried to be a voice of reason and calm him down but once the idea of you hiding something from him entered his mind – it spiralled.

"Freddie, I would never ever cheat on you. You're the only one I'll ever want." You reassured as you stroked his shoulders. He sat up straight and looked up at you from where you stood between his legs. "I knew you and Georgie were excited about the clown coming so I didn't want to ruin the mood and mention that they scared me." You said softly.

His hands found their way to your hips and he ducked his head in embarrassment. "I-I'm sorry... I didn't mean to assume the worst but you know how I can be sometimes." He chuckled sheepishly. "You wouldn't have ruined the fun love, I'm sure if we mention it to Hermione she can cancel the clown."

"No!" You interjected. "Victoire will probably love it and I don't plan on ruining even more peoples fun..."

"Victoire also loves you," Fred reassured and squeezed your hips gently. "And she may not remember her first birthday but I'm sure she'd rather see you in the photos than a grown man dressed up in a silly costume."

You leaned down and kissed his softly feeling relieved for the first time in a while – he always had a way with words. "Why don't we change into some PJs then talk about why you're scared of them?"

Fred, having so many siblings, was extremely good when it came to being open and communicating one's fears and dreams. The pair of you got into comfier clothes (you donned in one of his old quidditch sweaters for an extra sense of comfort when discussing such a daunting subject). Once you two were settled on the double bed you shared, you reached under and pulled out a worn down box. Inside you found a few knickknacks that never found a place when you moved in with Fred and a tattered copy of It. Despite being the bane of your existence it looked well-loved from being lent out to friends, cried on and thrown around over the years.

"This is It." You said laying the book in your lap. Fred quirked his eyebrow in confusion and took the book as you explained more. "When I was younger, my friend suggested I read this. It's about an evil killer clown named Pennywise."

Fred nodded along and read the description on the back of the book. His brows furrowed in concentration as he looked through the worn-out pages.

"This does seem rather frightening." He said after you looked at him expectantly. "Especially if you read this as a kid!" You nodded and felt relief wash over you when he didn't laugh or make fun. You'd always thought it was a stupid fear to have – something that was meant to bring joy to people ended up terrifying you.

"What really got me was the film." You began. "There's a muggle adaptation and seeing the clown made it so much more real." You shivered as you explained.

"I reckon I could take him." He said puffing his chest out proudly. It wasn't what you expected him to say but when has Fred Weasley ever been one that someone can easily read? Your hand came up to your mouth and you stifled a giggle.

"In what way?" You teased.

"Well, in terms of comedy I've got him beat hands down! Eating kids isn't funny so I reckon he's a terrible clown." He replied not quite understanding that you were egging him on. He was more focused on proving his superiority over Pennywise. "And phyically! I'm 6'4" and even though I don't play Quidditch as regularly anymore I don't doubt I'm still more fit than some old cannibal git."

You couldn't hold back your booming chuckles anymore and leaned back in bed laughing as he stood up. "I'll give him the one-two Weasley special!" He continued as he adjusted his PJs more comfortably. The contagious smile on your face was enough to tell him that his plan was working.

"He'd try to-" He took a bite of the air as if Pennywise was biting at him. "And I'd-" He followed up with a swing of his arm and a kick of his leg.

"My hero..." You said climbing off the bed and hugging him around his middle. He gave you a dimply smile and pressed his lips to yours quickly. "'M the only clown allowed in your life. I promise to fight off all the others."

"You have got the red hair and pale skin after all." You chuckled poking him in the side.

"Don't act like you wouldn't let me bite you." He replied cheekily.

By the time the next day came you felt much more at ease with Fred knowing how you felt. The icing on the cake was that the clown wasn't funny at all. Fred and George stepped in to do their own show after the comedy flop and the finale was Fred challenging the other clown to a brawl before sending a wink your way. Victoire had the time of her life and unanimously everyone agreed that the twins were a much more fitting form of entertainment.

Maybe clowns aren’t so bad after all.

#fred weasley #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley fanfic #fred weasley oneshot #harry potter #weasley family x reader #phobia series

56 notes · View notes

lumosandnoxwriting · 4 years

Note

Can I request 🍂 and prompt 9 “Just trust me” with Fred Weasley please? 😊 happy Halloween!

Happy Halloween!! Thanks for the request!!

Title: Come Catch Me. Pairing: Fred x Fem!Reader Prompt: Showing off a spicy costume / Just trust me

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

There’s something about Halloween that makes Y/N feel adventurous. Whether it’s watching a new scary movie, entering a haunted house or going all out with her costume, Y/N craves doing it all. Usually she and Fred try and do some funny couple’s costume, last year they had gone as Dumbledore and McGonagall, which had left their friends in hysterics and landed them first place in the costume contest at Lee Jordan’s annual party.

In early September Fred and suggested that he go as Harry, while Y/N dressed as a golden snitch, something she quickly agreed to. It would be hilarious and fluster Harry, two of her favorite things. Fred had been disappointed when Y/N told him she wanted to put together her own costume to surprise him, but she had assured him it would be worth it.

“What are you getting up to in there?” Fred calls from the living room.

“You’ll see in a second!” Y/N calls back, trying to hold back her giggles.

Y/N had worn far less clothing in front of Fred before, but the thought of parading around in what was basically lingerie in front of Fred and their friends all night excited her. The gold bra she put on accentuated her breasts and was just thin enough that her nipples could barely be seen through the fabric. The tight gold skirt she picked out clung to her hips and thighs in a way that she knew would drive Fred wild. She chose to pair the outfit with thigh high heeled boots that made her legs look like they went on for miles. Y/N had charmed a pair of delicate gold wings to flap lightly and cascade a golden dust around her and gold dust fell from her long hair as it moved.

“Okay Freddie I’m ready,” she shouts, fixing her skirt one last time. “Close your eyes.”

Y/N laughs as she hears Fred groan from his spot on the couch. “Alright woman, I’m ready!”

Y/N tiptoes out into the living room, not wanting the sounds of her heels clicking on the floor to give away her costume. She makes sure that Fred’s eyes really are close before stepping out into the open. She places a hand on her hip and points one leg out, wanting to make Fred drool from his first look.

“How are you feeling?” she asks, finding too much pleasure in the way Fred is fidgeting.

“I’m nervous,” he answers honestly. “You know I take my costumes very seriously Y/N and I will not let Ron and Hermione beat us this year because you wanted to be a prankster.”

Y/N rolls her eyes at Fred’s dramatics, but she can’t help but smile at how cute her boyfriend is. “Just trust me, Freddie.” She adjusts herself one last time, before taking a deep breath. “Alright, open your eyes.”

“Fuck,” Fred curses as his eyes open, his jaw practically hitting the floor. His eyes rake up and down Y/N’s body, a groan falling from his lips as he takes in her appearance. “Are you trying to kill me?” he asks, his eyes trained on the curve of her breasts.

Y/N giggles, taking a few steps forward so she’s standing right in front of Fred. “I told you to trust me,” she teases. She leans forward, watching as Fred’s eyes drag down her cleavage. “You know what you’re supposed to do with a snitch, right?” When Fred just gapes up at her, Y/N licks her lips and grabs his hand, placing it on one of her breasts. “You’re supposed to firmly grasp it.”

Fred massages Y/N’s breast as he crashes their lips together, using her moan as an opportunity to shove his tongue into her mouth. Y/N kisses Fred back passionately for a few moments before pulling away, not wanting to get too distracted. She fully stands up, causing Fred to lose the grip he had on her body.

“That’s not fair,” he pouts, causing Y/N to giggle.

“Well if we sit here any longer we’ll miss the start of the contest, and if I recall you take it very seriously,” she teases with a wink. “So, we better get moving. There will be plenty of time for you to wrap your fingers around other parts of my body later, if you earn it.”

Fred groans, willing his erection to go away. “And how do I do that?

“Well you’re a seeker, silly,” she says, grinning at him wickedly. “You’ve gotta come catch me.”

#fred weasley #Fred Weasley imagine #Fred Weasley fic #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley fanfiction #hsd

220 notes · View notes

quickspinner · 4 years

Text

Month of Miracles - The Longest Night

Find the prompt list here!

Luka played assistant while Marinette got the kids all garbed in their costumes, making little final adjustments and snipping hanging threads and acting for all the world as if this was just as serious as any fashion show she’d ever worked, instead of the dress rehearsal for a small town library Christmas pageant. He followed her around, holding things, handing her what she needed, and trying not to get caught mooning over her like the lovesick sap he was. The kids already had plenty of ammo to use against him, so he tried to keep a professional demeanor—but that really probably only made them snicker harder.

Mostly, though, they were too excited about their outfits to care. Marinette had found a way to interpret the costumes that felt true to who these kids were, and that was probably rarer than it should be.

The angels in particular were a masterpiece, especially given how little white there was in his rock star wardrobe. They glittered and shimmered with all of the hardware and rhinestones, and their wings were dangerous-looking concoctions made of wire and trailing fabric and dangling crystals and beads. They looked like the kinds of beings who would have to announce their presence with “Fear not!” and it was awesome.

The angels weren’t actually his favorite part, though. Marinette had gotten quickly flustered in the face of Rose’s eager excitement, and started making excuses to leave. She’d snatched his notebook out of his pocket, pulled the pen out of the coil and scribbled her phone number on the back, babbling only semi-coherently as she did so. Then she’d snatched up the lighted jacket, kissed him quickly, and fled. Luka had been too busy fending off Rose’s interrogation to even think to question why she had taken the jacket, until she brought out the costumes for Mary and Joseph. The holy family were now softly illuminated with cleverly concealed fiber optic lights in their hoods. Somehow Marinette had managed to turn off the flashing and camouflage the lights enough to give the children a soft glow, like a renaissance painting come to life (if renaissance madonnas had punk haircuts).

That wasn’t really why he liked it, though. Marinette had removed the lights so carefully, and repaired the jacket so cleverly, that it was now as good as new, if a bit smaller than it had been, and she had taken to wearing it all the time. Catching a glimpse of his jacket under her big pink puffy winter coat made him grin like a fool every time.

She was wearing it even now, and he felt his grin turn dopey and soft again as he watched Marinette get down on the floor without a second thought to fix a hem that had come loose. She was so amazing, and the last few days had been wonderful, whether they were just driving aimlessly around town and chatting while they admired the lights, or lost in tender looks and touches, or just sharing space while they worked on their own projects. Luka knew without doubt that he was utterly in love with her. It might shatter him when she left, but they had four precious days left and Luka planned to make the most of them. Besides, who knew what could happen? It was the modern age, and long distance relationships were a thing, and surely there was something they could work out—

Luka quashed those thoughts as quickly as he could. It wasn’t a good idea to be thinking that way, and he didn’t even know if Marinette would welcome anything of the kind from him. Better to stay in the moment. Something would work out; if she felt anything close to what he felt for her, she couldn’t leave him totally behind...and if she didn’t, then it was just as well for things to end now. He’d get over it. Somehow.

In the meantime, he’d enjoy every conversation, every soft look, every touch and kiss and sigh of his name from her lips.

Yep, he was absolutely basking in the knowledge of how completely hopeless he was.

Marinette stood up and backed away, looking at her handiwork with satisfaction as Rose began rounding up the kids to start the actual rehearsal. Luka sidled casually to Marinette’s side, letting his hand brush against hers. She wiggled her fingers in between his absently, and Luka grinned that stupid grin again, aiming it at the floor.

Teenage giggling suggested that he wasn’t at all successful in hiding it. He rolled his eyes, but the grin remained. Beat it , he mouthed at the kid who was snickering, raising his eyebrows threateningly, but instead the kid burst into outright laughter and a chorus of juvenile “ooooohs,” suddenly filled the air. Confused, they followed the pointing fingers and looked up to find one of the youngsters sitting on the bookshelf behind them, holding a piece of mistletoe out over their heads.

Luka rolled his eyes. “Oh, very funny, Rowan,” he scoffed, but then he turned and caught Marinette’s face in his hands and kissed her. Without lifting his lips from hers, he hooked one arm around her neck and the other around her waist and bent her backwards. The liplock itself wasn’t anything special—he wasn’t about to ravish her in front of a bunch of schoolkids, particularly since he knew all of their parents personally and did not need the earful they would give him—but it didn’t matter; the utterly cliche dip was as gross to them as a real kiss would have been.

“EW!” screamed the younger children, while the older ones either whooped or groaned, and Luka sent them a wicked grin as he set Marinette back up on her feet.

“Never bluff a Couffaine,” he told them, reaching out to ruffle Rowan’s multicolored head as he dropped down frm the bookshelf. Rose gave him a smug look as she came to retrieve the delinquents, and Luka couldn’t even make himself glare at her.

Marinette smacked his chest and he just winked at her, catching her hand and holding it to his heart. He got a little charge from the way her stern face twitched and then melted into a smile almost as silly as his own. He bent down as if drawn by a magnet and their lips met for a softer, more genuine kiss, and then she shoved his face away and turned back to watch the wise men start their parade to Bethlehem from the back of the library.

Luka looped his arms around Marinette’s waist and shook his head slightly as he watched the shepherds, decked in shredded leather and ripped denim and artistically mussed as though they really had been lounging around a field, cower before the rhinestone-studded angel glittering brilliantly in the light of the old spot Rose had bullied or begged from somewhere. “You’re a genius,” he murmured in her ear.

She tensed a little, but snuggled back in his arms. Luka sighed softly and nuzzled her temple, wishing he could help her, but whatever she was going through in her creative life, she was going to have to figure out for herself. He found her hand with his again and laced her slender, hard-working fingers through his own.

They both jumped when the library doors flew open with a bang. Everyone jumped or stiffened, and a room full of wide eyes turned to look at the tall, blond woman wearing an absurdly large hat and a fur stole stomp into the library like it was a fashion runway.

Luka felt Marinette gasp, and tightened his hold on her.

The woman looked around, and demanded in a voice that echoed off the walls. “Well, where is she? Marinette Dupain-Cheng, get out here this instant or you’re fired .”

Marinette pushed him away, and walked toward the tall woman, who spun on her heels to face her. “A-Audrey,” Marinette stammered. “What are you doing here?”

“My dear, the question is, what are you doing here?” Audrey replied with a sniff, looking around the little library. “No wonder you haven’t been able to get any work done in this dismal place.”

“Audrey, I’m on leave,” Marinette began, and Audrey flapped a hand dismissively.

“Leave, schmeave. We have deadlines , Marinette. Deadlines you are appallingly behind on.”

“B-behind?” Marinette stuttered, looking taken aback. “We were on schedule! I left very specific instructions!” Luka came up behind her and put a hand on her back in silent support.

“Those instructions were ridiculous ,” Audrey sneered. “The products were completely unacceptable. And since you didn’t deign to answer my calls, I came to fetch you myself. If you weren’t so talented I would have just fired you on the spot for abandoning things in such a state.”

He felt Marinette tense under his hand, and her fists clenched. “Unacceptable—Audrey, you approved those designs! If the production team—”

“ You are the designer,” Audrey accused, pointing an immaculately manicured finger in Marinette’s face. She flinched, and Luka had to fight every instinct in his body to keep still. “This is your failure. Now come along. You have a lot to make up for. Get in the car, we’ll stop and pick up your things on the way.” She turned and stalked to the door, clearly expecting Marinette to follow.

Marinette stared after her with her mouth open. Then she closed it, swallowed, and straightened her shoulders—and moved to follow Audrey.

Luka caught her hand without meaning to. “Marinette,” he said, and she turned her face to look up at him. For a moment they just stared at each other, and cold dread coiled in the pit of Luka’s stomach.

“I guess this is it,” she said softly. “I’m sorry, Luka. Goodbye.”

Luka stared at her as her hand slipped out of his. She picked up her pink coat as she passed the chair where he had placed it earlier. She dug in the pocket a moment, and took out a box, putting it on the table. She took one look back at him, and then followed Audrey out, catching the door so that it closed with a quiet click instead of a slam.

“Luka,” Rose whispered at his side, and he barely even felt her touch on his arm. He watched through the windows of the library door as Marinette, head down, shoulders bowed, got into Audrey’s limo.

Only when the car pulled away down the street could he move. He closed his mouth, and swallowed. Then he went quietly to his own coat, and put it on slowly, aware of the eyes on him the entire time.

He emerged into the sun and cold, fresh air, and looked around. The street was as it always was this time of year, with families and couples and individuals meandering through. Tinsel decorations sparkled on the streetlights, and the storefronts all had fake snow frosting the corners of their windows.

Luka blinked against the glare, so bright it brought tears to his eyes, put his hands in his pockets, and turned for home.

***

Marinette didn’t even hear most of Audrey’s chatter on the ride back to the city. She couldn’t stop thinking about that look on Luka’s face.

I should never have kissed him , she thought, staring out of the window. I knew better, and I let him make me believe .

She sighed—silently, so as not to draw Audrey’s notice. She wasn’t being fair. Of course it was a shock, what happened. Neither of them had been expecting it. There had been no bittersweet farewell, no moment of closure. No last kiss goodbye, no one last diamond moment to hold on to as the sands began to flow again.

He would get over it, once the shock passed, she thought mournfully, running an absent finger over the leather wrap on the door handle. He’d send her a text later, she was sure, something sweet and thoughtful, to let her know he was alright and that he was sorry things happened the way they had, but good luck and have a good life and oh, thanks for the present, that was really sweet.

And then he’d go back to his cozy life and forget her like he intended to all along.

She was so stupid , letting him talk her into living that little fantasy for even a day, let alone—

She shook her head slightly. This was better. It only would have been worse if she’d stayed longer.

...at least she had the memories to hold in her heart, though. He’d been right about that. She could remember what it was like to feel like he loved her, his affection and pride and unwavering support, his warm, sweet kisses, and the way that he looked at her…the way everyone giggled at them in the cafe. The quiet, private times when she’d curled in the hollow of his body as he held his guitar around her and played just for her, and she hadn’t had to do anything or be anything. The time he’d taken her up on the hill and they’d stood amongst the young trees, cuddled close against the chill as they looked up at the stars and for once she felt like the universe was big enough to let her breathe...

She fingered the lapel of his jacket beneath her own. Okay, maybe he’d been right too. Maybe the memories were worth having.

If only she could have stayed.

She gave another small shake of her head, blinking back tears, keeping her face averted from Audrey slightly.

“And the colors were atrocious —”

“I told you the color scheme was wrong,” Marinette said before she could think the better of it.

“It’s your job to make it work,” Audrey snapped. “ You sourced those fabrics.”

“According to your specifications,” Marinette shot back, her tone even but unyielding. “If you want to overrule me, that’s your prerogative, but don’t blame me for the outcome.”

Audrey pulled off her ever-present sunglasses and looked at Marinette with narrowed eyes. “If you don’t want this opportunity,” she said coldly, “then say so and stop wasting my time.”

Marinette shrank slightly. “Of course I do,” she sighed miserably, looking back out of the window. “It’s the opportunity of a lifetime.”

“And don’t you forget it,” Audrey sneered, sliding her sunglasses back on. “Or I’ll find someone else to clean up your mess.”

Marinette gritted her teeth and clenched her fists in her lap, willing herself to stay silent.

Speaking up wouldn’t do any good anyway.

***

He was still sitting at the kitchen table, staring blankly into space, when Rose got home. Luka didn’t even hear the door open, but he did hear Rose’s footsteps approaching over the wood floor.

“Luka,” Rose said softly, but he didn’t look at her. She set a small box on the table in front of him. “I’m pretty sure this was meant for you.” When he didn’t move, she slid it over until it touched his fingers. “You should open it.”

She waited a moment longer, and when he didn’t move, she sighed. “I’m sorry, Luka.” He listened to her retreat, leaving him alone again.

Sometime later he felt fingers slide through his hair, and the familiar song of his mother’s jangling jewelry was quickly followed by her scent surrounding him as she bent and pressed her lips to his forehead. “I’m proud of ye, son,” she told him. “Take as long as ye need.”

He sat there until it was dark outside, without really thinking about anything in particular. He just felt...numb.

Finally he looked at the box Rose had left him. He contemplated it for a moment, and then drew himself up with a sigh, and picked up the box. It was a nice box, lined in silver ribbon. Trust Marinette to pay attention to every detail. He fumbled it a little before he managed to slide the top off.

There was a pair of black leather gloves inside. Luka frowned slightly, picking them up. The leather was buttery soft, like it was already broken in, and...he slid one on his hand and flexed his fingers.

It fit perfectly, with none of the tightness or resistance that had always bothered him in the past. “You little sneak,” he murmured, tears stinging his eyes even as he smiled. “How’d you pull this off, hmm?”

Luka remembered suddenly how they’d been talking at Sally’s, and she had walked her little fingers over each finger of his hand, like it was something completely idle. He’d thought it was cute at the time. He’d thought she was just teasing him, since she pulled her hand away every time he tried to take it, but…

He’d be willing to put money on it that she had used some of the leather from his wardrobe to make these, and she’d chosen something he’d worn enough to take the stiffness out of the leather. And the accents around the cuffs and along the darts at the back of the hands...those were from the jacket she’d kept. The one she’d had to cut down when she took the lights out.The one she’d still been wearing, when she walked out today.

Luka swallowed a lump in his throat. All that work that she’d done, on the children’s costumes, and she’d found time to do this for him as well. Because she cared about him, and she loved his music, and she wanted him to take care of his hands.

“Marinette,” he sighed, letting his head fall on the table. “You’re killing me here.”

He didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there after that before Juleka’s hand rested lightly on his back. She didn’t say anything, just stayed there, and after a minute, he lifted his head and leaned it back on her. She stroked his hair just like his mother had.

“You need a ride to the bus station in the morning?” Juleka asked.

Luka closed his eyes. “Yeah.”

Fiction Master Post | Month of Miracles

#quickspins #monthofmiracles2020 #hallmark au #lukanette #endgame lukanette #lukanette endgame #luka couffaine #marinette dupain-cheng #miraculousladybug #miraculous ladybug

60 notes · View notes

writeroutoftime · 4 years

Text

13 days of halloween - day seven

pairing: jack thompson x reader

summary: “I picked it out especially with you in mind. You’re hurting my feelings.”

words: 858

oOoOo

“Sorry, doll,” Jack began with a pained expression on his face as he looked between the piles clothes in your hand and your eyes. “but I can’t wear that to the office.”

“Come on, Jack, don’t be such a drip. Besides, I picked it out especially with you in mind. You’re hurting my feelings.” you said as you tried to convince him, even going as far as to pull out the ‘sad eyes’ you reserved for when you really wanted Jack to do something.

There was a moment of hesitation, as though the word yes was about to roll off of Jack’s tongue, but he shook his head and kept his resolve. “Maybe next year we can do a couples costume. One that won’t have the fellas laughing their asses off at me.” he said with a slight chuckle followed by a peck on the lips to make sure that everything was alright between the two of you.

“Okay, just let me finish getting ready.” you told him, the smile you held falling, though you tried not to let your disappointment shine through to Jack.

Once Jack left the room, you looked in the mirror and smoothed down your blue and white checked dress while wiping the stray tears that had began to make their way down your cheek. You had spent weeks working on your costume, transforming into Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz. When the idea popped in your head, you had thought it would be swell for Jack to dress up with you as the Scarecrow. Everyone at the SSR dressed up in costume, and you thought Jack would at least dress up for you. Although, you were you kidding? He was the chief and had more important things to worry about than something as trivial as a costume.

Fixing your hair and makeup one last time, you slipped in your ruby red slippers, and let Jack know you were ready to leave. He complemented your outfit, but he noticed that your smile didn’t reach your eyes. In fact, the entire commute to the SSR agency, you weren’t you usual self. Even seeing the fully decorated office didn’t pull the smile it usually would from you, but before Jack could say anything, Peggy and Daniel

“You look marvelous, y/n.” Peggy told you as she hugged you before stepping back to readjust her own costume.

“All you need now is a Scarecrow to match.” Daniel chuckled, though stopped immediately when Jack elbowed him in the side on the way to his office.

Daniel looked at you in confusion and as an apology, but you shrugged it off, silently telling both he and Peggy that you just wanted to forget about it. Both of them look skeptical, but respected your wishes and moved on with their day.

By the time lunch rolled around, you still hadn’t spoken to Jack, and when you went to his office, it was empty, and you found yourself even more upset. Not in the mood to be around other people, you decided to eat lunch in Jack’s office while you waited for him. Nearly thirty minutes had gone by without any sign of New York’s SSR Chief, and it wasn’t until you hard a commotion out in the bullpen that you opened the door and gasped out loud.

Is there a Dorothy anywhere here?” Jack called out, fully decked out in the Scarecrow costume you had made for him.

The entire office was in shock as they watched Jack parade around the bullpen looking for you. He had even gone as far as to dig into your makeup collection to color in his nose. Jack’s hazel eyes locked onto your y/e/c eyes and you could see the apology written all over his face. Slowly, you walked towards him and he did the same with you, meeting you in the middle while the rest of the office parted like the Red Sea to allow the two of you to have your moment.

“You wore the costume.” you whispered, tears of happiness in your eyes as you wrapped your arms around Jack’s neck.

“Well, I knew how important it was to you.” he admitted, looking down at the ground before glancing back up. “Besides, there’s no place like home.” he said and kissed you, softly but passionately, all the while ignoring the whistles and shouts from your co-workers.

“Does that mean you don’t got a brain, Chief?” Johnson shouted, sending the rest of the agents into a fit of laughter as you hid your face in Jack’s chest.

“Watch it, Johnson.” Jack warned, but everyone could tell he didn’t really mean it. The rest of the fellas and Marge could poke and tease all they wanted, but he couldn’t care less. Jack would do anything for you, and he hated that it had taken him so long to realize that. If you wanted him to pull the moon and stars out of the sky, he would. And if you wanted him to don this silly costume for a few hours, then so be it. As long as his girl was happy, Jack was too.

#13 days of halloween #jack thompson x reader #jack thompson imagine #agent carter imagine #agent carter x reader #jack thompson imagines

127 notes · View notes

mxbbadperson · 3 years

Text

kamen rider revice: unsatisfied, i skip my pridе

ship: KAGEROU/IKKI, DAIJI/IKKI (by implication) rating: TEEN notes: subtle digs ft. kagerou

'Ikki! Ikki! What's that one?' Vice asked excitedly. Ikki looked at what he was pointing at. It was a man wearing a white mask with holes across it. 'Ah! That's a killer, I think? I don't really know that many,' Ikki answered. He was at the counter, Vice floating beside him. 'Oh! That's one a demon.' It was a surprise to see. With the Deadmans around, Ikki thought that people wouldn't dress up as demons. 'Bah! No it isn’t! That doesn't look like me or any demon at all!' Vice said. Ikki looked closer. But the costume wasn't of a Deadmans, just of a demon with brightly colored hair, horns and claws. No, not like a Deadmans at all.

'What are you doing?' someone asked. Ikki turned around. He beamed. 'Welcome home, Daiji! We're just looking through pictures.' 'Why?' 'It was Halloween yesterday!' Ikki lifted his phone. He was looking through Shibuya's Halloween parade. 'It's nice to look at everyone's costumes.' 'Hey Ikki! What's that one?' Vice asked. Ikki looked at what he was pointing at. 'Oh, that's a zombie.' 'What's that?' 'Ah, it's something-' Ikki stopped. Should he say it? 'I'm not telling you.' 'Wah! Why?! Why not?!' Ikki turned to Daiji. He was by the counter now. 'Don't ignore me!' Vice shouted. 'What would you dress up as?' Ikki asked. 'Dress up?' Daiji wondered. 'You know I don't do that, nii-chan.' 'I know! But what if you do? It looks fun!' Ikki looked at a picture. 'I wonder what I would dress up as?' Not a demon because that was much too close. 'Maybe a werewolf?' 'A dog?' Daiji asked. Ikki looked up at him. 'Woof,' he said playfully. 'Woof,' Daiji repeated. Ikki grinned. 'Well, if I did dress up,' Ikki's grin widened, 'I guess I’d dress up as a demon.' Ikki's smile fell and he frowned. 'Or something with a bat.' Ikki blinked. 'A bat? Why a bat?'

'Why not?' Daiji asked. 'That's true! Oh! So you're gonna dress up as a vampire?' Ikki asked excitedly. 'What's a vampire?' Vice asked. 'I guess I am.' Ikki turned to Vice. 'It's a monster that turns into a bat,' he turned to Daiji, 'are you gonna wear the fangs and the cape? You'd look cute!' he teased. 'Nii-chan,' Daiji muttered. 'Sorry, sorry!' Ikki laughed. He looked through at a picture. 'It really does look fun,' he mused. He sounded wistful. Daiji tilted his head slightly. 'You can go there next year,' he said. Ikki blinked then looked up at him in surprise. 'What? No, I can't. I have to stay here,' he said. 'Dressing as a werewolf is right. You are like a dog aren't you, nii-chan,' Daiji said. There was something strange in his voice, part fondness and part something else. 'Am I?' Ikki asked. What's going on? 'And if I dress up, dressing up as a vampire would be right,' Daiji grabbed Ikki's wrist. Ikki looked up at him confused. Daiji brought Ikki's hand to his mouth. 'Vampires eat people don't they?' he bit down on Ikki's curled finger. Ikki's eyes widened. 'Daiji! Don't do that!' he cried out, 'my hand is dirty!' He pulled his hand away. It moved but Daiji held on. What was going on? 'And that's silly. Vampires don't eat people! They just drink blood,' he managed to say. 'So there's a monster that eats people? Which one is it?!' Vice asked excitedly. 'I'm not telling you!' Ikki said. 'Then just drinking blood is fine,' Daiji said. He leaned down. Ikki met his eyes. 'I might drink from you.' Ikki wrinkled his nose. 'But that's gross. Blood doesn't taste good you know!' 'I guess,' Daiji said. Ikki looked down at his phone. Daiji's gaze was piercing. When did that happen? He breathed in. Why did it feel like he was bracing himself for a fight? He looked up at Daiji. 'Hey, Daiji,' he said, 'can I have my hand back?' Daiji released his wrist. 'Sorry,' he said. It sounded insincere. 'If you really want to go, we can together.' Ikki beamed. 'But that means that you have to go there first, nii-chan,' Daiji finished. Ikki's smile dimmed. That was true. 'Have fun looking at pictures.' Daiji walked away. Ikki looked at his back. 'Sakura made food and it's in the fridge!' he managed to say a moment later, rising up from his seat. 'Okay,' Dajii said. Ikki sat back down. Vice had floated in front of him. Ikki jumped. 'How can a monster eat people but I can't?' Vice asked petulant. 'It doesn't really eat people! Because it’s not real!' Ikki answered. 'But if it was, you'd let it eat people!' 'Wha-no I won't! Now let me look at the rest!' Ikki lifted his phone to his face, his other hand curling around it. His eyes flicked to the finger Daiji bit. He pulled his eyes away from it. There was no use thinking about it. 'Hey, hey! What's that one?' Vice asked, pointing at someone's costume. Ikki breathed out. He felt strangely relieved. 'That's a witch,' he answered.

#ship: a demon for you #kamen rider revice #revice spoilers #kagerou x ikki #kagerou/ikki #kagero x ikki #kagero/ikki #my writing #i write #igarashi ikki #ikki igarashi #kagero (kamen rider revice)#kagerou (kamen rider revice)

3 notes · View notes

fallen029 · 4 years

Text

Festive

Laxus boots crunched under the snow and he regarded the same as he did every year, a slight snarl on his lips as he spied not only the accumulation, but the godawful snowmen that people liked to roll up in their front lawns. It was all he'd been welcomed to, the second he stepped off the train at the city station, as well as annoying kids pelting one another with snowballs or adults skidding around as they tried to navigate the hellscape that was wintertime in Magnolia.

"You're a downer," Mirajane told him more than once when this yearly attitude of his whipped up, a sentiment that was echoed bravely by her siblings now, knowing that now counted among his siblings as well (at least by marriage), they were above reproach. "And one day you're going to regret that."

"What you gonna do?" he'd retort back, not only in those instances, but when the woman complained about his attitude in similar situations. While there were many things she loved her dragon for, his inability to not easily play into a situation was not one of them. "Curse me, demon?"

"Maybe," she toy back and if he wasn't really feeling so lowly, just annoyed or purposely up playing his attitude, he might give her a grin back for that one, but during the winter?

Under these situations?

No fucking way.

"You're a realist," Freed offered him more than once. And he said it in such an admiring way. With a sharp nod and such honest insistence that it was hard to combat him. "You have difficulty placating the easily amused. Your interests are not swayed by the fanciful and bright. It is not a blight; rather a mark of a true, serious mage. If you are not that, then what are you?"

A sourpuss. Crank. Hardass.

"A jerk," Lisanna offered him, in a way only she could, as though he hated it so much, maybe she was his younger sister now, poking at his cheek one night when she was drunk and so was he. She pressed her finger deeply into his cheek, leaning over the table they were at to do so, much to the wide eyes of the nearby (and sober) Lucy and excitement of Natsu. But Lisanna held none of the fear or exhilaration of her friends, rather sneering in the guildhall she'd grown up, at the man who knew it still much better than she, "You're a jerk, Laxus Dreyar."

This was hardly a revelation.

He'd been one his entire life.

Save the few short years in the beginning there, perhaps the crux of why he, in the end, did become a flat out jerk, Laxus had pretty always encompassed that stigma. His family name bared heavy weight and he shoulder it best he could, but that meant sacrificing a huge part of himself in the process. He liked to think of himself as a mostly changed man now, but his stick in the mud, aversion to (others) nonsense had followed him into his later years and now, a fully grown married man, he found it too hard to shake.

It was his shtick, maybe, his placement in his family and friend groups, and it hardly bothered him most of the time. A sense of pride. Like Freed had insisted to him. He was a serious man and there was something to be said for that. The rune mage himself could be classified as one at times.

And yet, Freed also knew when to turn it off.

He could don a silly costume for the Fantasia Parade. Drink coco and reminisce towards the end of the year, trade gifts on sentimental holidays. Turn it on. When he needed to. In a way that Laxus had never learned to.

They all could. All of them. In the hall. Even the gruffest among them, with the most tragic and horrific of backstories, could squash their traumas and beefs for their friends and guild in the rare times of true kinship. Celebrations of the important things in life, holy events observed by even outsiders to their intended recipients, they could all get a teary eye out of the most seasoned wizard.

Laxus though, he always found these emotions too far out of his grasp. He'd done well to wiggle away from his natural aggravation toward these events, hoping for anything more from the man was shitting away desires. He never had those hopes for himself and, for the most part, others didn't have them for him either.

The demon though…

She was always and optimist.

Or at least she was now.

She'd gone through her own trials and tribulations, only to come out not a buried person, but rather a different one. And Laxus respected that. Fuck, he loved that. He loved her. But sometimes...he just couldn't indulge her in the way she wanted.

And that was fine. Maybe. Other than throwing around threats of curses or humorous jabs, Mira mostly left him alone in his misery. It was what Makarov instructed her to do, that first Winter Festival that she was dating his grandson and had come to him, dismayed over his lack of interest in the festivities.

"Master told me all about it, Laxus," she'd come to him, all weepy and shit, launching herself at him the second he opened his apartment door to her urgent knocking. Sniffling as she nuzzled her head into his chest and the man just tried to figure out what the hell was going on, Mira said, "About your father and mother and how they treated you, you know, during that terrible winter when they were getting a divorce and I just-"

"Mira," he complained, patting awkwardly at her head. "Why the hell were you talking about that with Gramps?"

"Because you're miserable, Laxus." Blinking back her tears, she stared up at him then with her bright blue eyes uncharacteristically clouded with concern. "I always thought you were just distant around this time because you didn't have someone in your life to force you to be better. And then I thought I was failing or something, at making you happy. But now I know that you're just sad and hurt and-"

"My parents were fucking shit all the time, Mira."

"L-Laxus." She frowned then, pulling away from him some. "Don't be vulgar."

"They're my parents," he pointed out. Shrugging some as he only moved to pull the woman further into the apartment, he questioned, "What'd the old man tell you, huh? 'bout the time my mom locked me outta the house? In the snow? And Gramps was outta town and I sat outside the locked house cryin', all fuckin' nigh, in the snow? Or no, I bet he told you 'bout the time that my father decided to fuck with me, because I was a shitty little kid, and used his magic to trick me into thinking the snowman I built came to life? Attacked me? That was fucked up. Or how about the Winter Festival where they-"

"Laxus-"

"Let's talk about the Fantasia Parade. All the times they promised to be in it, to be there, even, just fucking be there, for the Harvest Festival, but never showing up. Never being around. Or oh, you wanna get into birthdays, demon?"

"I-I mean if you need to-"

"I don't." And he told her this flatly, frowning as he spoke. "And you don't need to go and talk to Makarov about it. About me. To find out why I'm the way I am. I just fucking am. Just like you just fucking are the way you are. And I don't ever want to have this fucking conversation again, alright?"

Mira nodded then, in agreement, but he didn't rightly mean it as much as he thought he did, after only a few months of dating. As the years waged on and the relationship deepened, it was his grandfather telling all of his darkest secrets, but rather the man mentioning them, either in passing or bearing his soul, openly, whenever they lounged together.

It was a lot.

Sometimes.

The things that made his shoulders tense all these years or his jaw clench so heavily, sometimes, when he got to thinking too much, got too quiet, and she knew how to get it out of him. Or she learned. Eventually.

She was able to drag most things from her dragon, the demon was, and yet…

He just wasn't someone who had the spirit. For the season. For any season. Time was elusive to the traveling mage and he was around more now, a married man, settled down all he could, but that didn't mean that he'd adjusted fully. Given up fully.

But...if it meant so much to her, he'd be around. For the important things. Maybe not enjoying them, but he'd be there. He came to the parades and the festivals when he could, always around for the demon's birthday and his own, if only because she seemed to enjoy it so much more, when it was about him. He spent time with her family and brought them into the fold with his own, Gramps and the Thunder Legion.

Holidays had meaning again. In a weird way.

Just not enough for him to get over his...hangups.

So no.

Laxus wasn't in a jolly mood, as he walked through the city that afternoon, observing in passing the sights and sounds of the approaching Winter Festival, thoughts of his own drifting to the presents he'd have to get and even dreading, perhaps more, the ones he'd receive in return. The long parade and the huge jobs he'd be passing over, just to stay at home.

All while dealing with the frigid temperatures, threat of blizzards, and, every fucking year, snowmen.

Fucking snowmen.

The years had been kind to the S-Class wizard and it wasn't a tiny apartment anymore, that he had eventually asked the demon to move into him with, but rather a rather nice home they owned together, he liked to think, with a big tree in the yard for climbing and a nice front porch for a dog to lounge.

A home of an S-Class wizard.

"Papa!"

But also a family.

Laxus smiled some, as he came up the shoveled walk of his home, being greeted by a loud call of his name as well as someone rushing right over to toss their arms around his waist and he was still getting used to it. The feeling. His daughter was only three and was growing every single day. While the warmth of her hug was something he was accustomed to, it was still refreshing, every time he was away for a week or more, to see how her speech had grown or notice she'd grown a bit a more.

And she had a lot to tell him that day, as Laxus ruffled her white locks, the little girl abandoning the piles of snow she'd been pushing together, as she tugged at his hand to finish tugging him up to the house.

Mirajane was with her, of course, as well as Lisanna, both giggling at the girl's action, but following all the same, the old dog up on the porch, who did find that he loved to lounge there, stretching before rushing to get in just as the door to the house closed.

Everyone told Laxus that he took to being a father better than they thought he would.

This was something that was mostly said in pretend awe, but he could tell it was actually absolute mystification. People that he'd known in his former life, the one before he settled, had never pictured him as more, he imagined, than his stupid deadbeat father and hey, he'd fucking give it to them.

There was still time.

He'd always taken it for fucking granted. How easy it must be. To fucking leave your kid behind. Just walk out the door. Forget about them. Put them away. Like he did all his memories or the people that used to work in the bar, used to be a part of the guild, when he was a kid. His fucking parents both walked out at him, at different points, his mother before he knew what it him, when he was still cute and lovable, his father when he had a chance to know him, really know him, and hate him.

Laxus couldn't imagine either now though.

He thought, sometimes, when he was drunk and reflective, that his father had it easiest. He knew his son was a shithead and took off. Okay. But other times, when he was sad and remorseful, he thought about how his mother must've had it the easiest, right? She must've. Because she could still keep him there, he figured she still kept him there, wherever she was all these decades later, imaging him as whatever she needed, whenever she needed, and he was still a kid probably, in her mind. A little boy waiting for her. Sitting up for her. Thinking of her often.

He didn't imagine either of them slept well, when they thought of him, but then, he didn't imagine either did often enough for it to give them any real problems.

But it was so fucking weird.

So fucking weird.

The first time he looked down at his daughter, all covered in gunk from birth, a disgusting, distorted version of a little human, an aliens, really, that was breathing and crying and...his.

None of it made sense any more.

And it made even less as time went on.

He'd been able to rationalize his childhood, all of it, as just something that happened. His life in the guildhall was filled with kids who had parents that just didn't given enough of a fuck about them. It was a tale as old as time. He'd normalized this type of thing so easily due to his upbringing and yet…

Yet…

It killed him to go away on jobs, knowing he was coming back, that he was certainly, without a doubt coming back. And one day, he imagined, when she was strong enough to keep up on her own, when she had her own magic, he wouldn't be without her.

She'd be out there with him.

On jobs.

Probably.

He liked to think anyways.

"I think someone missed you," Mira giggled to him as they all ditched their snowy coats and boots by the door, Lisanna bending down to help her niece out of her own. "Dragon."

"Yeah, well," he grumbled a bit as he looked over his wife, taking in how she'd changed too, even just in that a few days, her form had changed, just a bit, as she edged deeper into her second pregnancy. "Maybe I missed someone too."

He was down for the month, at least, as they cycled through the ceremonial events of the Winter Festival and it's accompanying celebrations. Laxus was welcomed to all that coco drinking and reminiscing, but now with his daughter as they traded her usual bedtime stories in for winter themed ones, him even donning the matching set of pajama pants that his demon had purchased, to go along with hers and the girl's.

Family time was all he had time for, it seemed, as the Thunder Legion was around most days, alternating ones they weren't with Mira's siblings, and Laxus bared it all with ease.

He'd had a few years now of learning to do so.

The morning of the Winter Festival, Mira had to get down to the bar to prep for things there and Laxus made a big breakfast for his daughter, back at home, as she dreamed so heavily then, so close then, of the gifts her aunts and uncles would be presenting her with, for being so good all year long. He played along, even playing coy as to what he and her mother had gotten her.

"What do you think you got?" she asked him over their food, staring at him with the same deep, blue eyes of her mother. "Papa?"

"Mmm," he hummed, "I dunno."

She giggled at that, as she had the past few days, when she asked the same thing, and he imagined she'd gotten him something nice. Err, well, that her mother had and she knew about it. That was how it had been, after all, the other two years. Mira was such a sap, when she'd get him something, she'd put the baby's name as well and last year, even, she'd drawn a little picture on his card.

It was cute.

He was a father now, he could admit when things should be classified in such a way.

Mira was busy all festival. She was for all of them. They saw her at the parade, at least, and their daughter clung in her arms until it started before being sat on her father's shoulder, and it snowed that night.

Something that his wife thought made it special, as it hadn't on that specific night in years, and Laxus was glad to leave everyone else behind at the bar that night, him carrying the gifts his daughter had scored, while she stayed snuggled up in her mother's arms, nearly asleep by the time they arrived home.

"I'd almost just wanna put her to bed," Mira remarked softly as their faithful mutt didn't even rise to greet them, as they entered their home, "but still need to give her-"

"Wanna give Papa his present," came a soft, muffled protest from Mira's shoulder where the girl's head was still pressed, but her eyes were open now, bleary and tired. "Mama."

"Well-"

"Here, let's do it then, huh?" Laxus dropped her other little trinkets and toys by the couch before going to snag his daughter from Mira's arm. Helping her out of her coat, he said, "Let's all trade our gifts. You won't believe what I got ya, demon."

Considering with her strong snooping skills, this was probably false, he knew, as she had a tendency to spoil such things for herself long before the suspenseful date. As she feigned surprise at the earrings that her husband and daughter had gifted her (because fine, Laxus was a sap too and signed her name as well), his wasn't so put on as he found himself presented with not one, but two gifts.

Mira had gotten him some nice, new boots she'd seen him eye for a long time, but would never justify buying, but while he was thankful for them, it wasn't what would capture his full attention that night.

"You bought this for me?" he asked his daughter from his chair as, when she presented him with a wrapped gift, it was with bright eyes and a snuggle, when he pulled her into his lap. "Huh?"

Shaking her sleepy head, she only yawned some as she informed her father, "Made it."

"You?" He nuzzled his head into hers as she yawned, heavily, and nodded.

"Me," she assured him. "Papa."

"How did I know," Mira was musing over at the mirror in the hall, where she was looking over where her earrings now were placed, in her lobes, "to wear this exact dress? To match these? Must have been meant to be."

"Yeah, must've," Laxus retorted with a roll of his eyes, but he was busy then, ripping at the haphazard wrapping job his daughter had done, still uncertain as to what he was expecting to find.

It was strange.

Laxus didn't particularly like gifts. Even things he needed or wanted. There was something false about it, to him, a disconnect. Saving up something for someone for some specific date that only had as much meaning as you could manage to give it. And, as mentioned previously, he struggled to scrounge much up at all. He went along because other people did and that was good and well, but…

"Wow," he whispered as he was presented with children's construction paper, stapled together neatly (no doubt by her mother) to form a little book with a title of 'Me and Papa' written, also, in her mother's handwriting, and this would be true of the other few sentences he'd find inside. But the pictures were the main draw. "You drew all of these?"

"Yep!" And she was forcing some excitement then, fighting back a yawn as he flipped very slowly through the pages. "Me!"

It wasn't like it was a story or anything. Just pictures that she'd drawn, hard to decipher to an untrained eye, but Laxus was becoming well-versed in the world of toddler art. And...Mira's sentences helped a bit. They described the scene, in most cases.

They were drawings of things they'd done. Him and his daughter. Together. Going to get ice cream. Going to the store. Playing with the dog. Reading books. Drinking coco. Nothing special. He'd gotten drawings from her before, frequently, her scribbling going to something (only slightly) more substantial recently, and while he treasured them in one sense, he knew that it really didn't mean much.

But this…

It wasn't about the little book, which Laxus would now carry with him, when he traveled out on jobs, placing it in the waterproof pocket of his pack, to look over when he was far from home and missing his baby. It was about something much greater. Something he thought he was void of. Hadn't experienced in a long time.

She'd been young.

The first winter. Oblivious. And the last, though she was old enough to at least some what enjoy it, there was still a bit distance in this.

Now was different. Not really one that she'd remember, necessarily, but certainly part of the beginning of her memories. A piece of understanding. A start.

For the entire day, Laxus had had this...bubbling in his stomach, like when he was a little kid, seeing it all again. The parade and the games. The party at the hall. And now, at home, trading gifts, her actively doing so with him…

He laughed, shoulder dropping as he openly smiled down at his grinning daughter. She leaned up to kiss him and his smiled brighter, if it was possible, his clear joy causing Mira to come over finally. It wasn't lost on the slayer either, as she leaned over his chair, that by this time next year, he'd be able to start the process all over again, only with more knowledge this time.

"It's cute," Mira agreed, thinking his interest was mainly in the gift itself and while Laxus could agree, it was something much more that was causing him to nod his head as he beamed down at his daughter.

"Yeah," he agreed. "It is."

#Miraxus #Mirajane Strauss #Mira #Mirajane #Laxus #Laxus Dreyar #Fairy Tail #Fanfiction

16 notes · View notes

marvella15 · 4 years

Text

Astaire & Rogers Rewatch Part 10: The Barkleys of Broadway

• So here’s the story. Fred Astaire tried to retire. He’d been performing his entire life and he was ready to finally retire. In 1946, he did Blue Skies, which was meant to be his farewell picture. Then two years went by. Meanwhile, Gene Kelly was on the rise. He was booked to do a film with Judy Garland. Then he broke his ankle.

Kelly was extremely competitive and he and his wife often hosted volleyball games at their house. He either broke his ankle while playing or, as one story goes, he was so mad at having lost, he stamped his foot on the doorstep and injured himself.

• Kelly couldn’t do Easter Parade with Garland. So he called up Astaire and basically was like, please help me. Astaire agreed and had such a fabulous time with Garland and the film was such a success that the studio immediately wanted to pair them up again. But then, Garland’s health precluded her from doing The Barkleys of Broadway.

• So Astaire called up Ginger Rogers and said, hey how about we reunite for the first time on screen in ten years? And although she’d essentially stopped doing musicals at all, she agreed. And so we have The Barkleys of Broadway as the final Astaire/Rogers film and their only one in color.

• Our characters/actor: Josh Barkley (Fred Astaire), Dinah Barkley (Ginger Rogers), Ezra Miller (Oscar Levant), Jacques Barredout (Jacques François)

• Right off the bat, this movie makes a dumb decision. They put the credits over Astaire and Rogers dancing. (You can see this routine minus the credits as part of That’s Entertainment 3.)

• One of the critiques of this film is that Rogers was no longer the lithe young dancer from her and Astaire’s heyday. And to that I say: shut up. Heaven forbid she have, quite frankly, a healthier and stronger look to her than she did ten years prior when she was working herself to the bone and routinely losing 10-15 pounds from all of the dancing. I support her healthier look, lifestyle, and the ice cream she was surely enjoying from her custom home bar.

• The main tension of the story is that Josh is essentially credited with all of Dinah’s success because he “made her what she was.” This was a real-life argument reporters of the day made about the Astaire/Rogers partnership, casting her as the brainless actress whom Astaire molded into the perfect dance partner. Which is incorrect in every sense, as we’ve seen in these past nine films.

The bickering between the Barkleys is also likely poking fun at another frequent and false report about Astaire and Rogers, which is that they hated each other and regularly fought while making their films. They had their squabbles, of course, such as the feather dress affair, but from all first-hand accounts, they got along extremely well and spent most of their time during rehearsal and filming having an incredible amount of fun.

• I adore how they cuddle up in the car. There’s so little physical affection in Astaire/Rogers films outside of the dancing that every moment of it feels like a treat. It’s slightly ruined by a rough cut, which includes the magical appearance of a lit cigarette in Josh’s hand.

• Josh doesn’t fight fair at all. While Dinah insists on knowing what “detail” wasn’t perfect in the show, Josh doesn’t allow her to respond to his criticism. So she’s left simply to stew in anger and hurt feelings.

He does apologize to her soon after and they seem to make up. But as we know, the same issues will resurface again and again for them because if you don’t ever have a fair, honest conversation about your problems, they don’t ever go away.

• I have to point out how Astaire looks at her adoringly after Josh’s apology. I also love the way she hooks her fingers into the lapels of his suit. It’s a small gesture of affection only borne out of being comfortable with someone. I’d be surprised to learn that action was in the script.

• See, when you don’t have an actual conversation with your partner you end up freezing and starving out on the balcony at a party while a snobby, elitist playwright gives them the attention and thoughtful feedback they crave.

• Oscar Levant always plays a version of himself in every film and he does a great job of it. When you can play piano that well, there’s no need to do a lot of heavy lifting in your acting.

• Astaire and Rogers do a really fabulous job of portraying a married couple famous for their dancing but who are also major drama queens. For example, this line from Josh, “What with walking pneumonia and concussion a fine performance I’ll give tomorrow night.”

• Some light domestic violence humor here in 1949. 😒

• Dinah hums in pleasure after Josh surprises her with a kiss and I just can’t say for sure whether that’s acting or not…

• "You'd Be Hard to Replace" is another lovely song that I really enjoy hearing Astaire sing. I also really like how Rogers caresses his elbow when they hold each other’s arms. When he wraps her in his arms from behind, their hands knead one another’s.

They kiss again at the end of this song. There are so, so many kisses in this movie.

• "Bouncin' the Blues" is a great tap number and they both look excellent in it. The only thing that I find a tad grating is Astaire’s exclamations, which seem too manufactured (maybe because some of them are dubbed in?). Far better is the moment when they reach out to link hands and both look like they’re having a blast. For that instant, there’s a hint of that special Astaire/Rogers magic.

• The artwork in tribute to Josh and Dinah is atrocious, misogynistic, and rude. The artist calls her a ball of shapeless dough only formed into being by her husband, the frying pan.

• "My One and Only Highland Fling" is… an interesting choice. Was anyone looking for Astaire and Rogers to sing in Scottish accents or dance in kilts?? The kisses on the cheek are cute though and so is their interaction after the number in their dressing room.

• They look pretty fab while playing tennis during their weekend in the country. When they make plans to meet up for dinner, they say goodbye with kisses on the cheek. To me, those natural moments between them are the best parts of the movie.

• Omg I totally forgot about the part where Dinah pretends to be faint so Josh sends Ezra to bring her some brandy and Ezra returns with the ENTIRE drink tray with four massive bottles and glasses hahahaha

• Not to be outdone, Dinah hurriedly correcting Josh when he thinks she’s faint because she’s pregnant is also hilarious.

• Dinah does the worst possible job hiding her script from Josh. He’s angry for a lot of reasons but the note from Jacques, which implies an ongoing secret relationship between him and Dinah, is what really ticks Josh off.

• "Shoes with Wings On" is another example of Astaire’s continued interest in special effects. Green screen technology was used to make the shoes appear to dance on their own. The finished product was one of Astaire’s enduring creations and probably what The Barkleys of Broadway is best known for outside of being a reunion picture for Astaire and Rogers. He does a convincing job of making it seem as though his shoes are dancing despite his own ability or effort.

• Unsurprisingly, Jacques is revealed to be an even bigger pompous dick as a director than he’s been on social occasions. It’s also even more glaringly obvious that his intention the whole time has not been solely to nurture Dinah’s dramatic career but to steal her away from her husband.

• It was Rogers’ idea to have them dance to "They Can't Take That Away From Me" rather than a new original piece. Astaire didn’t like repeating himself, and that included songs from previous films, but he made an exception. It’s a nice dance and is certainly the closest thing this film has to offer of the OG Astaire and Rogers duets. But as I said in my Shall We Dance rewatch, it’s just not the same as if they’d danced to this song the first time around.

The use of the song made sense since Ira Gershwin was the lyricist for The Barkleys of Broadway.

• Considering it’s 1949, Dinah does a remarkable job of standing up for herself and getting to the root of the couple’s issues. He’s been taking her for granted and stifling her own creative interests and she’s been smothering her frustrations as best she can but they hit the breaking point. Something needs to change or their relationship can’t continue. But that doesn’t mean she’s happy about it.

• Dinah’s terrible acting in the play had to HAD TO be intentional on someone’s part but I can’t for the life of me think who or why.

• Love and support are what we all want from our partners. Dinah is still in love with Josh but it’s only once she knows that Josh has been helping her despite the fact that she ended their relationship and it didn’t benefit him at all that she goes back to him. Though, she does also take a bit of pleasure in making him agonize a little while.

I like the little whistle she does upon entering their apartment. It must be something they did to alert the other they’d come home. Wish we’d gotten to see it some other time in the movie.

• The truth is, Dinah and Josh enjoy being dramatic together and I get that. When you’re with the right person, it’s fun to play around.

• "Manhattan Down Beat" is wasted as an ending song. It could’ve been a good lively number, perhaps instead of "My One and Only Highland Fling.” I’d say that Astaire was just trying to avoid being in a top hat and tails more than necessary but he also reportedly hated being in silly costumes like the Scottish getup so 🤷‍♀️

• And that’s how the greatest on-screen dancing partnership ends. The Barkleys of Broadway is a more interesting and somewhat better film than The Story of Vernon and Irene Castle so it functions as a better finale for Astaire and Rogers. While their dancing isn’t quite the same, the chemistry between them is still very evident, which speaks to their enduring personal relationship. But that probably deserves its own post, which is what I’ll do next and how I’ll end this rewatch.

#fred astaire #ginger rogers #the barkleys of broadway #classic hollywood #old hollywood #astaire and rogers rewatch

22 notes · View notes

ask-de-writer · 4 years

Text

THE LUCK OF BLACK CATS : MLP Fan Fiction

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to MLP Fan Fiction

Return to Tales to Read AFTER the Lights are OUT!

THE LUCK OF BLACK CATS

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

1441 words

Writing begun 10/21/17

//////////////

Users of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights. They may reblog the story provided that all author and copyright information remains intact. They may use the characters or original characters in my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical compositions.

All sorts of fan art, cosplay, music or fiction is actively encouraged.

///////////////////////

It is well known that Black Cats bring bad luck. It may be that it is not QUITE true.

Sugar Maple was playing outside, in her Grandmare's neatly fenced yard. Sugar loved to visit Grandmare but her mom really didn't like to bring her this far into the Everfree Forest.

Sugar climbed onto the platform of Grandmare's swing set and began to shift her weight to make the swing swoop back and forth! It was fun! The wind made her light brown mane and tail fly about as the butter colored foal swept from one end of the swing to the other and back!

The swing was almost as much fun as playing with Grandmare's cats! They were all pure, silky black and over half of them had wings like a bat! They could fly really well, too! Sugar bailed off the swing at the top of its swoop and spread her own young wings! Her glide was inexpert but enthusiastic, as she sailed about Grandmare's cottage! She almost made it all the way around, back to the swing set! Her hooves hit the lawn sod only about ten feet short of her goal!

Little hooves clattering on the stone of the front steps, Sugar dashed into Grandmare's little house! “Mom! Grandmare! I glided almost all the way around the house! I made it almost all the way back to the swing!”

Her mother set her teacup down firmly and began, “SUGAR MAPLE, what have I told you about unsupervised flying!?”

Grandmare raised an admonitory black furred wing and used the other to scoop Sugar into a welcoming hug! Taking a moment to preen a few small tangles from Sugar's mane with her razor sharp fangs, Grandmare said gently, “You did very well. Did you flap at all or was it a pure glide?”

Giving her leaf brown mother a slightly fearful glance, Sugar replied, “I glided the whole way! I did cup my wings up to land! I came down real gentle.”

The hug was pulled tighter as Grandmare smiled, showing her fangs. Shifting her voice up, beyond the hearing of most ponies, Grandmare asked, “[How is your chirping coming along?]”

Answering the same way, Sugar replied, “[It is going really good! Mom can't hear it, so I practice it a lot!]”

“[Tell me, Sugar, what you chirp in my bedroom?]”

Excitedly, Sugar exclaimed, “You got a dress horse with a costume on it! It is too small for Mom or you, so it must be for me!”

Nodding, Grandmare agreed, “It is, Dear. Go and try it on. Later, we will practice flying our way.”

Sugar dashed for the back room!

Granmare returned her attention to Sugar's mom. “Hazel, I thought that I made it perfectly clear that Sugar must be allowed to develop! Look at you! You play the part of a crippled pegasus! You do it so well that you have lost the ability to fly or even hear chirping!

“THAT is too high a price to pay for 'fitting in'!”

Hazel looked down and fiddled with her teacup before trying, “If anypony ever saw my extended wing, or Sugar's for that matter, they would scream THESTRAL! There could be a mob! I don't want Sugar hurt!”

Grandmare softened, “In that, we are agreed. Caramel Treat's is always a safe place. Those Werewolves do understand the problem and will protect us. So will Reverend Smallflower at the Assembly.”

Their discussion was ended by the return of Sugar. She was wearing the costume as a thestral witch! Two of Grandmare's cats were riding her shoulders, purring happily. One casually lifted a furry, bat like wing to scratch under it.

Grandmare was delighted. Hazel was less so, but agreed that it was a great costume.

Grandmare led Sugar outside, the cats following. Soon Sugar was fluttering short distances and landing properly. The cats were 'helping.' They thought that the fluttering filly was a great toy! Conversely, Sugar, dodging their mock attacks thought that the cats were great teachers! It only took a few hours before she was swooping and dodging with them in a game of aerial tag! Happy foal's laughter pealed down from the October sky.

Grandmare nodded serenely, “She takes to the sky as naturally as breathing. A true thestral if ever there was one.”

Hazel agreed sadly, “I know. I hope that Ponyville will be better to her than it was to me.”

Grandmare turned Sympathetic eyes to Hazel. “I do know what you mean, dear. You half breeds have it rougher than we full bloods. The unicorns have never forgiven our service to the Nightmare Throne, 2000 years ago, in the Nightmare Wars. The only thing that shows Maple to be a partial breed is her color.”

Sighing, Hazel glanced at the sun's angle and suggested, “We must return home, Grandmare. It has actually been a good visit.”

Hazel and Sugar Maple trotted back along the nearly overgrown trail that led from Grandmare's to behind the Duchess O' Red Hoof's land. It joined the trail leading from Brightmane's cottage. It became far better and more traveled after that.

They reached Ponyville proper and went into their snug little cottage home without incident. The two cats that had ridden Sugar's shoulder all the way, immediately flew from her shoulder, circling about the room, high and low. They perched on the sofa back and began to preen.

Evening fell and with it began Nightmare Night. Gathering together her loot bag and a “Witch's Staff”, Maple set out. Both cats riding her shoulders.

She joined a group making the rounds of homes and small businesses.

“Wow! That is a neat thestral witch costume! How did you turn your fur black, Sugar?”

She smiled and replied, “Just a cheap brush in dye. It will wash out.”

“Gee, I wish that I had a cat like yours to go with my witch costume! Aren't you afraid of bad luck? Yours are pure black.”

The mare in charge of the small herd was in a silly looking deer costume with phony horns on a spring gripper across her head!

Of course, they dropped in on Caramel Treat's Sweets for their famous Nightmare Night display and fabulous foal bowl! It did not disappoint! There were the very real Werewolves, Caramel and Fangrin in their Everfree Ridgeback Wolf forms, a black gryphon, several games and the foal bowl hidden under mists in a big cauldron.

The party went on toward the more residential parts of town, followed by a pegasus in a skull like mask and a costume of bones painted onto black cloth. His wings could slide out through reinforced cuts in the fabric. It hid his cutie mark.

Sugar chirped to the cats in a voice too high for ponies to hear, “[Dark Sky, New Moon, could you go back and cross his path a few times? I do not like him following us!]”

In answer, both cats hopped from her shoulder, gliding to the ground and scampering back! They paraded across his path repeatedly. Undeterred, he continued to follow the herd of foals.

The cats returned to Sugar's shoulder. The foal herd was approaching Drastin Park and its big unobstructed hoof ball pitch. He charged toward the hapless foals!

He tripped over two cats that had been watching him for any such stunt! He faceplanted, in a most embarrassing way! The whole herd of foals heard him fall and stopped to watch!

Climbing back to his hooves, he charged again! Bowling the foals over like ninepins, he grabbed two foal loot bags and leaped for the night sky!

Two cats and Sugar were on his tail, almost immediately! The cats snagged his left wing, causing him to spiral out of control! Before he could do anything to get rid of the cats, Sugar slammed her head in between his hind legs from above and power dived, flipping him over onto his back!

Fluttering and flailing helplessly, he hit the ground with a crunch! Sugar landed lightly beside him and gathered up the stolen loot bags. She was still picking up spilled treats when the rest of the group swarmed around her!

As Sugar was returning the stolen bags, one of the colts said admiringly, “We could see the whole thing! The moon lit up those thin clouds and we saw it all!! You really are a thestral! That was so neat how you took him down!”

One of the fillies came and got her loot bag. She petted the cats and said, “I guess that the thing about black cats and bad luck is true!” Giggling, she pointed to the fallen pegasus thief. “It sure was for him!”

~THE END~

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to MLP Fan Fiction

Return to Tales to Read AFTER the Lights are OUT!

#THE LUCK OF BLACK CATS #MLP Fan Fiction #Tales to read AFTER the Lights are OUT #Written by De Writer

7 notes · View notes

recurring-polynya · 4 years

Text

Bollywood Review Time!

Today, I am going to talk about Om Shanty Om, a very good movie that was Not For Me.

Let me back up. People recommend stuff to me a lot and I try to watch it and talk about it, and I always feel bad when I don’t like it. This one was recommended to me by my friend @serene-faerie I want to make it very clear that you, reader, may like this film very much! It was a strange perfect storm of Things I Don’t Care For, and I actually rather enjoyed the experience of picking apart what I didn’t like about from what I did, because honestly, I am always interested in the ways stories are told and what stories say about themselves.

Cut for spoilers and also length

First off the bat-- this is not a film for the Bollywood beginner. It’s sort of a meta-narrative, with a ton of cameos from famous stars and jokes about Bollywood tropes and directors and such. There’s a ten-minute dance number in the middle that’s just famous people showing up to get down and everybody cheers every time someone new rolls in. I have only actually seen a handful of Bollywood films, mostly made after this one (it was made in 2007), and I could tell that there were a ton of gags and references that flew over my head. I got the sense, both from watching it, and from reading reviews, that this was all very well done and funny, I just didn’t have the proper frame of reference to appreciate it.

The main character, Om, is played by Shah Rukh Khan, an incredibly famous Bollywood star whom I had never heard of before watching this film. In the beginning, Om is a somewhat-bumbling movie extra, dreaming of stardom, flipping his hair, and falling in love with a beautiful starlet on a billboard. I… was not taken in by his charms. I feel like I really missed out by not knowing who Shah Rukh Khan was ahead of time. That was sort of an interesting thought to me-- that a famous actor brings the good will of all his previous roles to a movie with him, and that it was very interesting to me to watch a film stripped of that context. I was literally shocked when halfway through the film, he rips off his shirt and had killer abs, I was absolutely not expecting it.

The deal of the movie is that, through a series of coincidences, Om meets Shanti, the actress of his dreams (from the billboard). She is played by Deepika Padukone, who I fell for immediately. She is gorgeous and had a ton of charisma. This movie seems like it’s going to be a love story, but it really isn’t. Shanti is charmed by Om’s sweetness, but she’s already in a doomed secret marriage with a scumbag director, Mukesh, who ends up murdering her when she wants him to publicly acknowledge her, which is kinda time sensitive, because she is pregnant. Mukesh had planned to have her star in a lavish movie spectacle called Om Shanti Om, but when she forces his hand, he burns the set down with her locked inside. Om witnesses all this; he tries to save her and dies in the process.

Om happens to die in the same hospital where a famous director’s child is being born, and he is reincarnated as the baby, and grows up to have the life he always wanted-- that of a Bollywood superstar. His name is still Om, but his nickname is O.K., so I am going to call him that to distinguish between 1977 Om and 2007 Om. He meets Mukesh again who is now a super-successful Hollywood producer. O.K. gets all the memories of his past life back, and decides to Get Revenge by proposing to do a remake of Om Shanti Om. He finds a wanna-be actress, Sandy, who looks exactly like Shanti, and has her haunt the set in order to make Mukesh think he is going crazy (and maybe also confess? It’s not a terribly clear-cut plan). You might think that Sandy is the reincarnation of Shanti, but Shanti’s ghost shows up in the grand finale of the film, so I guess she wasn’t?? You also might expect O.K. and Sandy to have some romantic feelings, but they really don’t, and in fact, O.K. is actually pretty mean to Sandy, even though she is extremely sweet and I don’t see how anyone could possibly be mean to her.

The movie is lush. The costumes are elaborate, the sets are lavish, the dance numbers are many and long. There is not a single scene without an off-screen fan to dramatically tousle the actors’ hair. I actually rather liked the last act of the movie where they were gaslighting Mukesh and it was over-the-top, scenery-chewing, Hamlet--play-with-in-a-play madness. A chandelier falls on someone. A lot of the end doesn’t even make a lot of sense or exist in any sort of linear time, cutting between the film-within-a-film and dance numbers and what’s “really happening” and I really had no problem with any of this. I actually really liked the amount of meta that was happening and the breakdown of boundaries, and I found the end to be reasonably satisfying.

So what didn’t I like about it?

The entire film relies on you being charmed by Om and I did not care for him. We all have this set of trope personality types that we enjoy and fall for, and “young person who dreams of making it big on the stage/screen” is a huge swipe left for me. Give me a stolid second-in-command who has been stationed at an ice wall for 30 years to protect his homeland. A incredibly tired dude muttering “fuck” as he wades into a swamp to fight a bog zombie, because who else is gonna? My dude turn-ons include duty and self-sacrifice and really good posture. I couldn’t watch Naruto because everyone spouted off about “their dreams” too much, and I thought Om should have cut his losses and gotten a real job. I am who I am.

There’s a weird fine line between “meta,” that is, stories about storytelling and presentation and media, and movies about being in love with making movies. I like the former a lot and I do not care for the latter one bit. I did stage crew for a high school production of 42nd Street and I have a very distinct memory of thinking “this is a play about putting on a play. Why on earth would anyone who is not an actor want to watch this?” I also hate books where the main character is a writer (yes, Stephen King, this is a call-out). I also hate biopics about musicians and actors. I honestly do not care about the craft, and the “magic of cinema” has never been a thing I have found remotely compelling.

What I love about reincarnation storylines is the period where the characters recognize the feelings and memories that are tied to their previous lives-- where they see someone and can feel their old emotions for this person, but without knowing why. This is where I live. I eat this with a spoon. I want this to prolong the emotional burn, because the characters don't know what are their own feelings and what comes from their past lives, and that there are conflicts that must be resolved for both lifetimes. Alternatively, you can also use a reincarnation storyline to skip the emotional burn entirely, by just having the character “get all their memories back in one fell swoop.” This is… the opposite of what I want. This is what Om Shanty Om does. I felt deeply cheated.

Relatedly, the entire theme of the movie was "When you want something badly, the whole universe conspires to give to you", a sentiment I wholeheartedly disagree with. I love stories about the conflict between agency and destiny, I think this is a really meaty subject, but once again, the movie used it as an excuse to let the characters sit back and do nothing and have a solution to their problems drop into their laps. I am sure you could make an argument for the charm of this viewpoint, but it is not for me.

I like dance numbers all right, but they are not why I watch Bollywood films. This movie is over two hours long and a lot of it was dance numbers. I was very tired of dance numbers by the end. That being said, the titular song was a bop and I had it stuck in my head for days. “Disco of Distress” was my second favorite.

I do not really feel a lot of nostalgia for the late 1970s, which is when the first half of the film takes place. If noisy patterns and kitsch and big winks and goofy hair is your period aesthetic, you will enjoy this part a lot!

Here’s what I did like!

Sunglasses. There were so many good sunnies in this film. So many. A parade of excellent shades.

Deepika Padukone. She is so adorable, for one, and she charmed me in every way that Shah Rukh Khan did not. I loved her both as the melancholy starlet Shanti and the doofy, gum-chewing Sandy, and also the Angry Revenge Ghost at the end. I would say this movie is 75% Om and 25% Shanti, and I would have liked it a lot better if it were the other way around. Sandy had basically no agency whatsoever; the second half of the plot was basically about O.K. getting revenge on Mukush... mostly for himself? I liked that the first half of the movie didn’t make Shanti fall in love with the puppy-like Om just because he was devoted to her, but it would have been a nice reversal if the jaded O.K. had softened toward Sandy more in the second act, and that there had been a bit of a love story to temper the revenge plot.

The idea of the plot. The plot described in words is very cool to me, and there was a period of about 3 minutes in the film when O.K. recognizes Om’s mother when I got real excited about where this was going, and then I realized it wasn’t going where I wanted and was sad again. I think I might have liked it better if the movie started out with O.K. and revealed Om’s story slowly, through flashback, but nothing about this movie catered to my narrative aesthetic, so I eventually gave up with ways of trying to fix it.

Anyway, as I said, I can definitely see how someone could love this movie! If you are a big Bollywood buff and you love dance numbers and silliness and Shah Rukh Khan, I would recommend it in a second! It was strangely almost tailor-made to hit some of my pet peeves, and I was mad because I wanted to like it more than I did.

That’s my review! @serene-faerie I hope you still love me even though I didn’t like your movie. I am always trying to expand my movie knowledge and I learned a lot watching this one, and I don’t regret watching it, even though it wasn’t my fave.

#bollywood #om shanti om #reincarnation stories

11 notes · View notes

hamlets-ghost-zaddy · 5 years

Text

he’s a funny man (that man of mine)

George Luz x Reader

Summary: At the tail end of your USO-tour, and staring down the reality of returning to Hollywood and the studio-controlled life you’ve always known, you meet a man who makes you break all your rules of starlet survival.

You realize that chucking the magazine at your agent, Douglass Weil, entirely undermines your point, but the immediate (if short-lived) relief of sending that rag and its lies spiraling toward the man who contrived it feels, well, almost worth it. You’ll regret it later, you know, but when it smacks his rectangular nose and flops limply into his lap, a swell of satisfaction balloons your chest and straightens your back, squaring your shoulder as if you aren’t wearing a gauzy silk dressing gown.

“Darling,” he drawls, his Californian accent the latest borrowed detail about him: his padded-shouldered suit, his jauntily slanted fedora, hell, his name is a fabrication; another Hollywood illusion schemed up in the backlots of Burbank. Not that I’m any better, you think, darkly. He reaches to cradle your hands but you jerk away, turning resolutely back to your mirror to finish your mascara. Not to be deterred, he tries: “Darling, it’s no skin off your nose; it’ll look good for the kid’s new picture and Mr. Warner promised, if you’re a good girl, he’s got a part all lined up. A movie musical with Freddy Astaire—they’ll wrestle him away from Ginger for you! All you need to do is go on a few dates with this boy when you get back from this silly tour.”

Your shoulders stiffen: the USO tour—base hoping around northern France—had been a lifeline, a ticket out from Los Angeles and underneath the thumb of Jack Warner, and your stomach churns to think that here, little, grimy Mourmelon, would be your last stop before Douglass frog-marches you to staged dates with your ‘boyfriend,’ Alexander Blake. You realize there’s a war on here in Europe, sure, but it’s the closest to peace you’ve known in, well, years.

But Douglass promised—threatened, more like, you think—to join you for the last performance way back in August when you set off for Paris, and ‘accompany’ you home. And, arrive he did, right on schedule, here to end your brief flirtation with a normal life.

You return the mascara wand to its tube before snatching up a powder puff, applying a thick layer to withstand the grueling stage lights. Through the mirror, you cock an eyebrow at Douglass. “What happened to that promise of more serious parts? Roles with substance?”

Douglass spreads his heads, as if asking what he could possibly do, and you bite the inside of your cheek to keep from snapping, or worse, crying. As a little girl, filling the bit parts and making the audience melt, you witnessed starlets—pretty things with shining blonde curls and tiny waists—throw tantrums with the full water works. Men bent and scraped, if only to stop the tears, and you swore to yourself then you’d never cry for what you wanted—never cry for anything. You’d never cry and allow a man to see you. If you can help it, showing any kind of emotion isn’t preferable. Emotions can be manipulated; emotions are weapons of mass destruction, and your war is against Douglass—Mr. Warner—hell, all of Hollywood. Or, at least, a war against letting them swallow you up and spit you out as someone you don’t recognize (with a pitting stomach, you wonder how throwing the magazine at Douglass might be twisted against you; yes, you knew you’d regret it).

Putting aside the puff, you shuck off the dressing gown, taking a moment to arrange the red cocktail dress underneath. “I’ll see you after the show,” you throw over your shoulder, slamming the dressing room door behind you before Douglass can think to follow.

Heat burns the inside of your chest, razing your throat, and you want to pound your firsts against the hallway walls—you want to scream and cry—but you know it won’t help. It won’t make you feel any better and, anyway, it’ll leave you with bruises when you go onstage.

Damn Douglass and damn Alexander Blake, though you have no idea who the kid is: another youngster in the parade of youngsters the studios want to make into the next Cary Grant, or Clark Gable—make into someone desirable, someone who a beloved movie-musical actress like yourself would be interested in taking to lunch here, to dinner there, perhaps even to an aperitif, too. Because why not rub it in my face that I’m just some silly girl who’s only allowed to flutter her eyelashes and do the Charleston?

Sucking down a breath, you decide to go check in on your dancers—the girls who piled into transport trucks and traversed France with you—and set off towards their shared dressing room. They chatter incessantly, true, and sometimes about silly things like ‘making it big’ and ‘catching a break,’ but Mary-Frances also reads all about this new thing called insulin, and Joyce keeps up with the stock market with her subscription of The Wall Street Journal, and Betty is teaching herself how to fix up automobile engines. They’re interesting girls—allowed to be interesting and multitalented and alive—and you’d never tell them how horribly you wish to be them; they’d never believe you, anyway. So, you go for the second-best thing: to sit and listen to their overlapping babble.

Or, you thought you were going to them. But, as you continue, taking one right, then a left, then another, the hastily-constructed plaster walls, pocked by wooden doors, seem to stretch into a uniformly unfamiliar infinity. Frowning, you mulishly continue on, the click of your heels ricocheting through the deserted corridors of the military compound. Your dressing room is situated near the stage, the familiar pre-performance hubbub of gaffers, stage boys, lighting crew, and costumers offering an ambient noise to tickle your ears, but their calls had been left behind at the second turn. Silence reigns over you now.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” you mutter, the echo of your voice the only reply.

Then: “Sorry, doll, the name’s George, not Pete.”

A door, you hadn’t noticed it was ajar earlier, swings in, allowing a crooked smile to appear. The man wearing it has an angular jaw, hair insistent on flying away at all angles, and eyes apparently jealous of his smile—they crinkle into crescents, contributing their own amusement to shine brighter than a mere crook of a grin. “Uh, hello,” you greet.

“Hello yourself,” he replies, leaning a shoulder against the doorjamb. “Who’s Pete?”

“Oh, no, I meant it as—” you begin to clarify, interrupting yourself as you watch his smile widening: “Oh, you were joking.”

“Call it a character defect: I’m chronically joking,” the man—George?—says, pushing off from the doorjamb. “But, uh, and I’m not trying to be rude, here, but you’re not supposed to be wandering around here.” His eyes sweep over your red dress, the artificial flower pinning your hair back, and you brace yourself for recognition: the mystified expression, the garbled, tripping words. You love your fans—they’re better than Judy Garland or Marlene Dietrich’s, you know—but you always wonder why being in movies calls for fans to take leave of their common sense. Yet, all he says is: “You in the show? A dancer?”

Relief eases your shoulders and you cling to his handy excuse: “Yes, a dancer, that’s exactly right.” Ignoring his raised brow, you hurry on: “A very lost dancer, unfortunately. I meant to go down the hall to another dressing room and, well, here I am.”

Sliding his hands into his trouser pockets, he replies, “You’re lucky they got me tinkering with radios back here. It’s an absolute maze; you would’ve been hopelessly lost. Could’ve wasted away and no one would be the wiser. We would’ve found your skeleton in about seventy years, all shriveled up and just your big flower there left.” He points to the artificial flower.

Biting your lip to stifle a laugh—you don’t notice his small, little disappointed frown—you return: “I don’t love the idea of wasting away, honestly; would you mind pointing me in the right direction, preferably the one that doesn’t lead to any wasting?”

He shrugs, pulling an exaggerated expression, all jut-out lips and lifted eyebrows. “Sure thing, but, I can do you one better: I’ll personally escort you back to them show people.” Setting off down the hall, slowing his steps to oblige your slower steps in your heels, he adds, “Stick with ol’ Georgie Porgie, and he’ll look after you.”

“‘Georgie Porgie?’” you repeat, another laugh threatening to bubble up.

George feigns a blanche. “Did I say that out loud? Silly me, I say the darnest things.” He flaps his hand in embarrassment, and it’s harder to keep your laughter down. Still, you manage. George tacks on after a beat: “It’s what the fellas in my company like to call me, ‘Georgie Porgie;’ they’ve got a whole song that goes—uh, well, maybe it’s not appropriate for present, polite company.”

“What? Is it crass?” you ask, innocently. It’s suddenly immensely intriguing to study the faint shading of pink seeping from his ears and across his cheeks. “Lots of swearing and vulgarity?”

Grinning in acknowledgement of your teasing, but agreeing with gravity, George warns: “Enough to make your ears absolutely bleed. I’m protecting you here; you should thank me—and it’s a right here.”

“Really?” you ask, glancing around as George turns right and you follow. “And not a left? Are you sure?”

“Yep.” He pops the ‘p’ sound. “Sure as sure; why? You interested in wasting away all of a sudden?”

“Oh, no. Decidedly not.”

“Or getting us lost together, huh?” His eyebrows climb in scandalized implication. “I’ve got to warn you: I’m not that kind of fella; I’m classy, and you’d have to at least buy me dinner first.”

You snort. “What kind of dinner are we talking here? At the Ritz with desert, appetizers, and vintage wine, or at a burger stand with a side of extra fries?”

George seems to genuinely consider the question. “Is there chance of getting fries at the Ritz? The convenience of it being at a hotel is something to consider—” it’s such a mild innuendo, not even accompanied with the winks and leers you’ve grown accustomed to from parties in Beverly Hills mansions, but it still scalds your skin, snagging your breath, “—but the fries . . .”

Valiantly, you ignore your blush, hoping your foundation is thick enough to disguise it. “If memory serves, there’s a scarcity of fries at the Ritz.”

“Whoa, we’ve got a class-act dame over here,” George bursts, clutching one hand to his chest, fanning himself with the other. “You’ve been to the Ritz? Geez; how fancy would you say you are? On a scale from ‘eating jars of caviar’ to ‘bathing in money?’ Like—what, a solid ‘wears diamonds once and then throws them away?’ That’s pretty fancy, you know.”

And you can’t help it this time: the laughter bubbling in your stomach, before at a low simmering, boils over and bursts from your mouth. You have to stop walking, George continuing on a few steps before your faint wheezes materialize into proper laughs. He stills, observing you with a slow-spreading elation. A hand covers your mouth, as if trying to shove the giggles back into your mouth, but it does nothing—not even mutes your snort. Snorting! You hold up a finger as you laugh and manage a chopped: “First of all, money is extremely unsanitary; I’d never bathe in it—”

George folds his arms. Before content to watch your laughter, his smile threatening to shatter his face in two, he can’t help interjecting: “Alright, well what’s your scale of fanciness then, huh? If money is so dirty?”

“You sound like the Lone Ranger, or something; all holier-than-thou,” you reply, dabbing delicately at your eyes as you subside into hiccups. You hope your mascara isn’t running, hope you don’t look entirely like a deranged raccoon. Putting on a John Wayne impression, voice gravelly and low, you say, “‘I don’t want your di-rt-y, blood money.”

He sniffs. “I prefer a Wyatt Earp-type character.”

Tilting your head, you squint at him and he puffs under your scrutiny, squaring his shoulders and planting his feet. His hands go to his hips, giving him the illusion of having a broader chest. Carefully you keep your face neutral, neutral to your teeming mind noting the hint of muscles under his uniform sleeves, hard pectorals pulling at his shirtfront, and offer, “I see it just a little bit.”

Deflating dramatically, he shrugs. “I guess that’s the best I can hope for, huh?”

Patting his chest as you start off again—yes, just as toned as they appear—you assure, “Absolutely. Now, come on—is this still the right way?”

. . .

George delivers you to the corridor connecting to the wings of the stage, the tour’s frazzled stage manager swooping in on you with preternatural speed. “There you are!” he says, jabbing an accusatory finger, and you offer a weak smile of apology. You’d broken your golden rule: don’t make the technical staff lose hair over you. “Do you know we’re on in two minutes? Where have you been? Never mind, I don’t want to know; who’s this?”

The stage manager’s eyes swing to George.

Finding your voice out of necessity to protect the innocent—though you doubted that’s an adjective often ascribed to George—you hastily explain: “He’s a friend; he helped me find my way back here. Can we get him a front row seat?”

The stage manager’s mouth hinges open, ready to protest, before he tosses his hands. “Sure, why not? Let’s add one more thing to my plate!” He pivots sharply, wrenching the door to the darkened backstage, striding into the gloom.

“What a nice guy,” George observes as a troop of brass players, the opening number for your tour’s line-up, hurries past. Turning to you, he asks, “What kind of dancer are you that you can ask for front row seats for little old me, though, huh? Not that I don’t appreciate it, mind, but—”

“It’s my way of saying ‘thank you;’ we’ll be square for you helping me,” you interrupt. Though he coaxed a smile and laughter from you, you weren’t about to go owing George—you don’t owe anyone anything. You’ve heard the horror stories of actresses taking out one too many favors; you couldn’t let yourself get into the habit.

George’s eyebrows scrunch at the word ‘square,’ and you can see an argument brewing on his face—something about favors without recompression, and not being any trouble at all—but the stage manager bursts from backstage, trumpeting: “I have exactly thirty seconds to get this man into his requested front row seat and you, Miss y/n, have exactly sixty seconds before you’re on stage.”

“Got it, thank you so, so much.” You flash a smile, a smile that pays your bills with its brilliance, and the stage manager softens. He gives a stiff nod, as much forgiveness as he’s willing to dole out just then, and sweeps backstage once more.

“Alright, you’ve got to go grab your seat . . . ” you begin, the words shriveling on your tongue when you see George’s slackened expression, color drained from his skin. You cough, and try for a joke: “What? What is it? Is something on my face?”

“What do you mean ‘what?’” George squawks. “Y-you’re—? Why didn’t you—?”

Say something? You mentally fill in, placing a hand on George’s shoulder. “Because I didn’t want you to react like this, Georgie Porgie.” You pause, tracking how his lips press into a line—a line that crams all his questions and flustered annoyances back in—before leaning in to him. “Thank you for not letting me waste away.” And, you do something you’ve never done—despite coaching from the film studio executives, from Douglass, from every publicist; always deriding it as cheap and tawdry, serpentine women’s ploy to pull over on susceptible men—you kiss his cheek.

(When you slid into the darkness of backstage, stealing into the wings to bump shoulders and trade smiles with your dancers, you leave behind a gaping George Luz. He collects himself just as the brass band files off, taking his seat as the lights come up on your opening number. You feel his eyes on you—tracing the smooth skin of your neck exposed in a great expanse by the dress’ plunging neckline—feel his smile returning your cellophane, ready-made grins shot ambiguously out at the faceless crowd. You feel him leaning into your voice, inhabiting it as if to live there forever, as you sing into the microphone of a fictitious ‘sweet darling love’—a darling love you never would have thought existed for you, in your Hollywood-saturated world.)

(But why even dwell on it? you scold yourself, it’s not like I’ll ever see him again.)

Tags: @maiden-of-gondor @gottapenny @wexhappyxfew

#band of brothers #band of brothers fic #band of brothers imagine #band of brothers imagines #george luz #george luz x reader #george luz imagine #my writing

71 notes · View notes

jamlally · 5 years

Text

Christmas Parade

This was written for the 25 days of Christmas Challenge that is hosted by @panicfob . The Day 17 Challenge prompt was Christmas Parade

Warnings: Stupidity and Fluff

Pairing: None - it’s just some silliness with some of the Avengers team.

Summary: Is it Christmas without a parade.? Sometimes being the popular Avenger isn’t as great as it seems, but you have to do your duty.

Authors note: This one is just fun and silliness.

“Come on and do it they said, it will be fun they said. I guess my definition of fun is somewhat different and didn’t include cleaning vomit from the inside of my stealth suit”. Steve groused as he ran more water down the body

“I’m pretty sure I’m never gonna be able to smell mint and enjoy it again punk” Bucky agreed with a shudder. “I figured they would at least leave me alone. I’m supposed to be the scary one.”

“I don’t know what you’re all complaining about. I had an awesome time” Clint added

“That’s because you stood on the top of a float and shot out treats for the kids which is how I ended up in this mess to start with “ Steve continued to grouse

“Look it’s not my fault that the kids ate their own body weight in candy and then wanted to take pictures with the great Captain America. I did warn you not to jiggle them around, but no one listens to Clint do they. No they just bitch when they get covered in vomit”

“I know you warned me but really I didn’t know kids could hold that much puke in their small bodies I mean I don’t think it should be physically possible” Steve gave the suit a sniff and then grimaced. “God I think this suit may be done for good”

“Tony will be pissed” Bucky commented glad that he had finally got the smell off his arm. He was still going to run it through the cleaning system that Tony had devised fo him but at least it didn’t stink any more

“Tony can be pissed, he’s the one that agreed to it in the first place”

“You were the one who said it was a great idea if I remember correctly” Clint pointed out

“Are you all still complaining” Natasha called through from her side of the locker room

“They are, Rogers still smells of puke” Clint called back

“Really? Man how much did that kid eat?”

“Too much. God this is gross” Steve started to make a gagging noise

“You know It was kinda fun to be a part of the parade. It’s nice to have people cheering for us, you know rather than running and screaming” Natasha continued “I know Wanda loved making those sculptures”

“You had fun because you sat on that chair and waved and then you weren’t vomited on” Steve grumbled

“I think we can all agree that the vomiting was awful, but until that bit you have to admit you had a good time. You certainly didn’t seem disappointed when those cheerleaders were asking for pictures” Bucky bumped his shoulder in to Steve

“Yeah” Steve gave a bit of smile “That was kinda awesome, did you know that Lacey - the blond one is studying to be a nurse”

“I wasn’t really asking about their study habits when I was chatting with them” Bucky gave a shrug “I do know that they were very flexible though. One of them offered to show me her stretching routine”

“You do know that means something else right?” Sam asked

“Of course I do you idiot. Things aren’t that different now” Bucky gave Sam the middle finger

“Hello hello” Tony waked into the changing room “and how are we all doing?” Steve scowled over “Fucking miserable, thanks for asking”.

“He still smells of puke” Clint added

“Look at the state of my suit” Steve thrust the offending item out for Tony to see, the smaller man backing up hands raised

“Yeah no thanks. I have no interest in being anywhere near that. In fact I’m inclined to just burn it. In fact I am sure that is what we will do”. Tony gave a visible shudder. “So the Mayor called, he said thank you for coming to the parade and making it such a memorable occasion and he wanted to let us know he was grateful that we didn’t destroy anything”

“Well maybe he can consider this our good deed. Merry Christmas and all that” Bucky added “I mean it was nice of him to call and all though”

“Yep he thought that we added flair and excitement”

“The Fireworks were cool” Steve added begrudgingly “ and the floats were fun. It was kinda like back in the old days, when we were putting on the shows” Bucky clapped his friend on the shoulder remembering how for a long time Steve had been embarrassed about his role after the serum. He was coming round to seeing it in a more positive light now.

“The Mayor was in fact so impressed that we’ve been invited back next year and I said we would be happy to do it” He watched as the others nodded “He also wanted me to tell you that he’s sorry his kid puked on you Cap. Turns out the wee tike had a little too much to eat and all his nervous excitement had to escape some how. I let him know it’s all a part of the job and that when you see them at New Years you would be happy to take a new picture”

Tony hid a smile as he watched Steves face pale a little “He said that the lad was most excited about the New Years Party. I’ll leave you guys to it - I’m sure I should be doing something else that doesn’t involve smelling what ever that is”.

“You told him WHAT?” Steve chased after Tony “You can’t be serious Tony, the kid puked so much it got inside my suit. Come on man I said I was sorry about the snowball fight”

Natasha stuck her head around from the other side of the wall “Man that’s rough on Steve. So are you guys gonna deal with that” She waved her hand towards to still stinking costume

“Um nope” both men answered

“ I’ve got an arm to clean” Bucky gathered his stuff and headed to the door

“I just don't want too” Clint added following behind him.

Natasha shrugged and followed on behind with Sam. She wasn’t about to clean up after them.

#panic's 25 days of christmas #silly #fluff

6 notes · View notes