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staysaneathome · 3 years

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This Was Not A Dare, Reigen

Jon glares at each of the— the suspects traitors in front of him, tape recorder clutched tight in one hand.

Martin, wringing his hands uselessly, eyes wide and beseeching. Tim, fists clenched hard enough for his knuckles to go white and returning his gaze with a death stare of his own. Sasha, arms folded to form a barrier between Jon and herself, expression a perfect mask of concern. Reigen, radiating disappointment in every one of his gestures and quips. Elias, eyes weary, fingers rubbing the bridge of his nose.

Some intervention this is turning out to be.

Jon wants to scream. Wants to reach out and shake someone, anyone, until they admit he’s making sense and it’s the rest of the world that’s gone mad.

Every single one of them (except Martin) could’ve killed Gertrude. He knows he has no proof that they did, but he has no proof that they didn’t either, can’t they see that? If they don’t want him to suspect them, it should be easy for them to actually give him proof of their innocence (like Martin did), instead of just repeating platitudes of “you know this isn’t acceptable adult behavior, Jon” and “you’re better than this, Jon”.

Who cares about knowing better or acceptable behavior when it’s your very life on the line? He’s half tempted to throttle the con artist, see how dignified or adult he is when he’s the one with a murderer on his tail!

…Not that Jon is a murderer. It’s just the principle of the thing, is all.

“Jon,” Elias says, tone soothing in all the ways he doesn’t want it to be. “This is absurd. This goes far beyond an unhealthy work environment. I’ll admit it’s partly my fault for letting it get this bad, I should have intervened earlier.”

Reigen cuts in with a hand gesture that is as effusive as it is dismissive. “That doesn’t make his behavior okay, Bouchard-san. It may be bad here, but Jon chose to follow me, Tim and Sasha, and yell at Martin, rather than going to the police or paying a detective, like Herlock Sholmes or something.”

Jon sputters. “Wh- It’s Sherlock Holmes, not—and he’s fictional!”

Reigen blinks sleepily, one eyebrow raised. “Oh? That doesn’t sound right. Are you sure?”

“Yes!” Jon all but shouts, rapidly reconsidering his stance on braining the sardonic little git with his tape recorder. “Don’t you even—an-and you’re deflecting again! Just like with your ridiculous ‘haunted gun’ nonsense!”

“I’m not!” Reigen says, clearly deflecting. “I’ve seen this kind of thing loads of times as the number one psychic. When a weapon kills lots of people over 100 years, the bad energy gets bigger and bigger until the gun grows an evil spirit and is hungry—”

“I refuse to believe Gertrude Robinson was murdered by a sentient blunderbuss!!”

“Be that as it may,” Elias interrupts, shooting them both a stern frown. “This is exactly the kind of thing I was talking about, Jon. Given how badly it’s affected your work ethic, I will be taking direct action to ensure it does not continue.”

Jon can feel his shoulders hunch almost against his will, dread pooling in his stomach at the thought of whatever punishment is about to be unjustly inflicted on him.

Only Martin looks half as worried as he feels, glancing between him and Elias nervously. By contrast, Tim looks downright triumphant, smirk nasty and vindictive. Sasha’s somewhere between those two, not openly celebrating his soon-to-be-downfall, but not acting like she’d lift a finger on his behalf either, though he’s unsure why that feels like it should surprise him. She’s always been as neutral as Switzerland.

Reigen, oddly enough, has more in common with Martin than with Tim. He’s staring at Elias like he’s waiting for a bit of news he knows he won’t like.

Jon thinks he’d appreciate that more if he wasn’t about to be unfairly lambasted simply for trying to stop a murderer and bring justice for an old woman who probably died frightened and alone. Much like Jon probably will once he’s been hobbled by whatever Elias is about to say next.

“Such as by restricting access to the archives from members of the public who are ultimately doing you more harm than good.”

…Wait.

What?

“What?!” Tim, Martin, and Sasha echo.

Reigen glances between them all, blinking in confusion.

Jon shares the sentiment entirely. His punishment is…for someone else to be removed from the archives? Someone he doesn’t employ or even like that much, no less?

He must have misheard, surely.

Though maybe not, given how Tim looks aghast, glancing between Elias and Reigen. “Okay, no, Reigen’s clearly not the problem here—”

“I’m very sorry, Tim, but Jon has made several remarks about the disruptive nature of Mr. Arataka’s presence in the archives.” Elias sighs. “From the arguments like the one we just witnessed to the nonsensical purchases of oddities inspired by his presence, such as Duolingo subscriptions,” Meaningful glare at Jon who resists the urge to clutch his phone guiltily, “That are now billed on the Archives’ expenses, it unfortunately seems as though he is dragging down productivity for all of you as an active stressor.”

“But we’re much better equipped to take statements from people who don’t speak English because of that!” Martin protests, stepping forward. “Isn’t it an advantage to have a more, more international perspective for our work?”

“One positive in a sea of negatives does not an advantage make.” Elias says, sounding infuriatingly like he’s misquoting something. “And really Martin, how realistic is it that this would help in more than a few isolated cases? I expected better from you.”

Martin’s face crumples, and his shoulders hunch, making himself smaller.

Jon finds his own mouth opening to—what? Say something? What would he even say?

Luckily, Sasha intervenes before he can dig his own grave further. “That’s as may be, but he’s a wonder for morale. He and Jon are funny, not anything serious, and I don’t think we’d have come to you about Jon‘s behavior unless he encouraged us to—”

“Which only fits into the delusion where Jon feels an outsider is rallying his subordinates against him, which is not good for his paranoid outlook.” Elias replies calmly. “And it’s never a healthy work environment when one employee feels the others are making them the butt of a joke.”

“I’d say that’s not as bad as when the boss feels he has the right to violate everyone’s privacy whenever he wants to just ’cause he’s feeling sad!” Tim growls.

Elias begins to answer, before Reigen finally speaks up.

“Sorry,” The con artist says carefully. “But you are…«I know this one…» banning me from the Archives? Yes?”

“That is the long and short of it, yes.” Elias says, grudgingly

“Why?” Reigen challenges, eyes hard and searching. “What have I, personally, done that’s wrong here? What behavior do I need to correct?”

There’s a moment of silence. The whirring of the tape recorder sounds uncomfortably loud.

“Mr. Arataka, are you currently under the employ of the Magnus Institute?” Elias asks, brow furrowed.

“Ah, no, no, but—”

“Are you looking to become employed by the Institute at this point in time, as a prospective member of the Archival Staff?” He fires off rapidly.

“Su-Sorry, but if you could just go a little slower—”

“Then I am afraid that unless you’re looking to fill out an employment contract or a Statement form, we cannot help you, Mr. Arataka.” Elias spreads his hands wide. “We are an academic institution, a place of research and learning. The Institute cannot allow for social dalliances on company time, especially not when those visits are negatively contributing to the work environment and the wellbeing of our staff.”

Tim throws up his hands, “I-I cannot believe this!”

Reigen’s mouth works soundlessly for a moment.

“Arataka is my…what do you call it? First name?” He says, at last. “Using it in this context is…inappropriate. Please call me Reigen, if you would, Bouchard-san.”

“Of course. My mistake, Mr. Reigen.” Elias does have the decency to look somewhat abashed. “Though, regrettably, I am going to have to ask you to leave the premises within the next twenty minutes, or I will be forced to call security.”

Reigen nods, jerkily, hands stuffed in his pockets.

Jon almost wants to call out to the fraud as he turns to go, grab him by the shoulder, pick another argument, something. He knows he should be happy, be glad that this thorn in his side will finally stop bothering him, but instead he just feels—befuddled. Off-kilter.

What happened to the man who once spent three hours arguing for the “spiritual effectiveness” of entirely performative and useless rituals, saying that ensuring his clients left his office fooled and contented was better than actually uncovering genuine supernatural forces and learning all there was to know about them? Why is he going so-so easily now, when he’s made Jon fight tooth and nail in every debate he’s had with the so-called psychic?

At the door, the con man pauses.

“Bouchard-san. You said I could come back if I had a statement to give?”

Elias shifts in his seat, looking bemused. “W-well, yes. That is a service we do provide. Of course, the statement would have to be genuine, and verifiable as such before we let you back into the Archives.”

“We don’t even do that for most of the rubbish we do take,” Tim mutters under his breath, and though Jon is glad he’s not the one being shot a quelling look, he does have to agree.

The con man turns back.

He’s got that smirk on his face that immediately puts Jon’s hackles up on instinct, prepared to argue against whatever inane point he’s come up with now to defend his phony psychic title.

“Gotcha.” Reigen says, far too cheerfully. «Ja ne.»

Then he strolls out of the office, as cool as a cucumber.

Jon could even swear he hears him whistling as he makes his way down the stairs.

There’s a moment of stunned silence.

“I’d do him.” Sasha pipes up, unhelpfully.

“Sasha!” Martin hisses, scandalized. “D-don’t you have a, a—”

“Oh, I don’t have to worry about that.” She remarks, far too blasé for someone in a newly committed relationship. “Tom’s heard about him too, and he agreed he’s just our type.”

“And I’m not?” Tim jokes, but there’s a hard edge to it that Jon’s found himself increasingly familiar with in the past few weeks.

Sasha shrugs with a mischievous little smile, as if that mattered very little to her.

Elias coughs. “Right. Well. Whatever your relations to Mr. Reigen are, please try to limit them to outside the workplace in future.”

The rest of the intervention is surprisingly subdued. Elias gives Jon access to the footage from the cameras in the rest of the Institute, and Tim bodychecks him on the way out of the office, muttering about how nice it must be to never face any consequences for his actions. Sasha follows, the way she won’t meet his eyes a condemnation in its own right.

Even Martin doesn’t say anything to him, just bites his lip and hurries past back down to the Archives. It doesn’t sting. It doesn’t.

Even as he settles in to watch and rewatch the CCTV records of Gertrude’s last week alive, Jon can’t shake the ridiculous feeling of foreboding that’s dogged him since Reigen left.

Most of him wants to say it comes from the fact that despite the fact that Reigen has not appeared in any of the camera records for the Magnus Institute before he started his term as Head Archivist in 2016, isn’t banning him from the Archives just letting the con man run around London with impunity, with no way for Jon to ascertain his movements or motives? That instead of solving a problem, Elias has just given a potential murderer free reign to escape?

But a small part of Jon, one that never could deny the sensation of being watched, that is frozen in second-hand terror whenever he reads a Statement, knows, Knows that it this stems more from the idea that the fraud will actually accomplish what Elias has unwittingly challenged him to do.

The illogical but pervasive surety that he will do so.

Jon’s not sure if he’s more afraid that Reigen Arataka will vanish entirely, another unfortunate victim become an unsolved mystery.

Or that he’ll come back, and bring whatever he’s managed to unearth on his insane quest with him.

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fae-fucker · 3 years

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Zenith: Chapter 76-79

Chapter 76

Andi has a nice little poetic nightmare. It’s irrelevant. The next morning has the girls preparing for the ball, complete with dresses and makeup.

Some things to note include Lira saying that in Adhiran religion (which is global, I guess), one has to mourn for three days before “letting” the souls of the dead pass on into ... everything.

Andi tries to say that it’ll take time to heal from it all, but Lira is having none of it.

“It will take time to move past what happened on Adhira,” Andi started, but Lira held up a hand.

“My three days of mourning have passed. Lon’s and my aunt’s, too. Now we, and the others who lost loved ones during the attack, must give the lost spirits to the stars, to the trees, to the wind.”

Which basically means that she’s done feeling bad about the unexpected and brutal attack on her home planet, so that’s convenient. Well, if one of our main characters doesn’t care about her people getting senselessly murdered, then why should we?

She also lets us know that her aunt has fixed up the Marauder and brought it here, because of course. Lira wants to arrange for Lon to be transferred to the Marauder, and though she has a logical reason for it (taking him home personally), it’s only a setup so we know why he’s on there at the end of the book when Andi’s bleeding out and needs a universal donor.

Spoilers, I guess.

Andi’s mother, Glorya, intercepts Andi as she tries to leave her crew to their makeover montages, just so we can move into a scene where her mom is brushing her hair and babbling on about gossip and vapid high society stuff.

But Andi, of course, gets lost in a flashback that’s so amateurishly written it’s honestly embarrassing and only highlights Shinsay’s helpless reliance on flashbacks as a storytelling device.

Observe:

Her words faded away as memories took their place. Andi lost herself to them.

The whole flashback is written in italics for some inexplicable reason, even though it would’ve been fine as just regular text since we’re clearly told what’s happening now and what’s a memory.

Also, there’s one bit where the memory “fast-forwards” to a different one. Shinsay, this isn’t a fucking movie. This isn’t a screenplay. What the fuck are you DOING.

The flashback and the mother’s inane babbling are all there to illustrate how vapid and brainless Glorya is and how she only ever cared about her status and not about her kid. Glorya pretends that everything is back to the way it was but Andi curses her out for abandoning her when she needed them most and how “the way it was” was actually always shit.

I mean it’s fine. It’s all right. I see what they’re going for, it’s melodramatic as all fuck but it works for what they’re trying to do? I can see this as being a realistic way for an emotionally neglectful family to look like. I wish it was more nuanced and wasn’t just shoe-horned in here (Glorya doesn’t show up before or after this bit, this is the only time she’s ever present or even mentioned in this book in any meaningful capacity) for the sake of making Andi’s friends look better and for her to not have anything that anchors her to Arcardius, but like, I won’t say this isn’t realistic.

And then Shinsay can’t stop themselves and it’s back to silly time:

“Really, Androma...”

[...]

“That is not my name,” Andi whispered. She allowed the darkness to come up into her voice, the mask of shadow and steel to sweep across her face. “My name is the Bloody Baroness. And if you or Commander Racella ever so much as utter a single word toward me or my crew again, I will personally strip the skin from your body and wave it like a flag from my starship.”

Glorya let out a soft squeak. Andi snarled with all of her teeth.

Guys I can’t breathe this is too fucking funny. And not in a good “woo vindication!” sort of way, but in a “they really put this right after an emotional confrontation about parental emotional neglect/abuse huh?” way. They really thought this was ... badass? Revenge? Andi, sweetie, you’re, like, traumatized? Presumably? I can’t really tell. But maybe get some therapy?

Do Shinsay think this is somehow a win and that Andi’s threat means she’s fully released from the hurt and pain her parents have caused her through their neglect? It’s honestly written as if Andi just confronted her mother and her own hopes of coming back to her family in this one short scene, and then upon realizing her parents never loved her, she scares her mom a little and then is all smug and satisfied at the end.

That ain’t how it works, darlings.

Then the annoying Marketable Space Pet runs in and starts biting Glorya’s toes and she runs away shrieking like a defeated Disney villain.

Way to undercut your own drama, Shinsay.

The chapter ends with Andi thinking about how her crew is her True Family for the bajillionth time. Because we’re all idiots and Shinsay wants us to remember that.

Chapter 77

It’s the evening of the ball and Andi thinks about how she missed Bavista, which is apparently your generic coming-of-age ball held at Arcardius for every 16-year-old. I’m guessing it’s a yearly thing? The book never clarifies. Not sure why the fuck it’s here tbh.

Actually, it’s a pretty good demonstration of how the worldbuilding in this book is presented so here, have at thee:

She could still remember seeing the otherworldly dresses and suits float by her on the feeds as she watched the girls and boys glide into the A’Vianna House in the Glass Sector. They seemed light as air, full of pride, bursting at the seams with excitement. Once inside, they would be greeted by members of the Priest Guild, who would award each young person three items.

The first was a vial of water from the Northern Ocean, symbolizing strength. For growth, they accepted a single leaf from the oldest tree on Arcardius, known as The Mother, which was said to have been planted when the Ancients first arrived. Lastly, they were given a single floating pebble, no larger than a child’s fingernail, chiseled from the very gravarock where the Cortas estate was. It represented the wisdom of rising above.

Is this relevant to anything? Does this help you understand this world or its inhabitants? Does it tell you anything of the culture of Arcardius or its youth and what’s expected of them? No? It’s just a really generic list of things thrown together using Mystical Proper Nouns as glue? Weeell heeell.

Also what does “it represented the wisdom of rising above” mean? This is utterly generic and means fuck-all, that’s what.

Anyway, Andi’s admiring herself in the mirror. Her dress is very sexy, trust me, I can’t be bothered to include it so just imagine your favorite My Immortal outfit description. It does include sword holsters at the back, which are Andi’s favorite part, because she’s a strong independent woman who don’t need no man. She never actually uses them or brings the swords to the ball so ... Idk what the point of this was.

We also get some shit about how Andi actually LOVES dresses and being pretty but she never admitted it to anyone. But don’t you worry, this badass space criminal LOVES all things girly, because that’s feminism! Can someone check in on Shinsay? I’m not sure they’re getting enough air with their heads so far up Sarah J Maas’ asshole.

Admitting to herself that she looked pretty was something Andi kept private. She didn’t want to give her crew the satisfaction of knowing her true thoughts about fashion. How even though she was a fierce, hardened criminal, she could still appreciate the joy of a beautiful, impractical ball gown.

Huh. And here I thought they were your family. That’s weird that you’d keep this information from them, especially considering all of them seemed pretty excited to be prettied up in the last chapter. I guess they’d really just haaate the idea of sharing this joy with their captain, huh? Why aren’t you admitting this to them, Andi?

You’re saying shit about how “even though” you’re a hardened criminal, you can “still” appreciate beautiful gowns, like those two are somehow contradictory. Are you, mayhaps, ashamed of having this traditionally girly interest? Hmm! Interesting. Why could that be, I wonder? Why would having traditionally feminine interests or even caring about one’s appearance be seen as something inherently shameful or embarrassing, as inherently contradictory to being fierce and “hardened?”

This is all just so *clenches fist* feminist.

Forreal though, somehow Shinsay managed to take their entire made up GALAXY and make it subtly and not-so-subtly sexist. Good job, morons. Really girlbossed that one, huh?

The only bit I like about this whole mess is this:

The dressmaker had also accented her gown with a sparkling necklace full of jewels that Andi didn’t plan on giving back.

This is the one and only space pirate-y thing Andi does -- sorry, considers doing -- in the whole book and honestly could’ve been used to build her character more, but it’s just a one-off joke here. Wasted.

Valen comes to fetch her and we get some subtle foreshadowing.

“Valen the Resurrected.”

He stopped to look at her, brows raised. “What?”

She shrugged. “It’s what the press is calling you in all the feeds.” Valen let out a deep chuckle.

[...]

“Something tells me things are about to change for the better,” he said. “I’m ready to see it all happen.”

Andi wondered what he would do now that he was home with a whole planet at his disposal.

He deserved to have some fun.

Is it bad that I’m rooting for Valen to destroy everything? And this isn’t my villain-fucker coming out, I just want this poor bastard to absolutely annihilate Andi and her gang of acolytes.

Chapter 78

Andi and Valen arrive at the ball. It’s all very pretty and space-y and aesthetic. There’s a bunch of aliens everywhere. Andi sees a woman with funky eyes and assumes it’s a body mod, because I guess she knows the genetic characteristics of every species by heart and can tell when something is real or not.

An old classmate of theirs comes up to talk to Valen and congratulate him on being alive, then Andi reminds him of who she is just to be a smug asshole and the guy fucks off in a panic. She’s just so cool and badass, you guys.

Then it’s time for Valen and Andi to dance, and of course General Cortas looks like he’s about to lose his marbles because these darn kids! >:(

The chapter ends on Andi noticing Dex pouting in the distance.

“Relax,” Andi whispered. “Let’s give them something to talk about.”

She flashed him a wicked grin as the music began.

And as Valen spun her into the first move of the dance, Andi saw Dex standing on the fringes of the crowd, an expression of longing clear on his face.

Chapter 79

This chapter is exactly 298 words of Dex moping around about how he’s actually not over Andi at all when he thought he’d done such a good job of repressing his feelings, and how he should be the one dancing with Andi instead of Valen. If you’re surprised, you’re clinically dead.

#eff reads: zenith

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doshmanziari · 3 years

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Architectural Criticism in 2021/2022 || Part 1.5

Before writing a fuller continuation of my previous essay on architectural criticism, I’m inserting a mini-essay that focuses on a particular piece of criticism. Let me be clear: I don’t see Kate Wagner, the person behind @mcmansionhell, as an enemy; I’m just using one of her articles as an example because I had, in my essay, already linked two articles of hers (more accurately, one article and an image from another), and I’d rather elaborate on what I mean when I write “...a vapid buildup to a politically convenient takeaway” than bring in an entirely different item. Wagner, in my view, represents a sort of destabilizing criticism that takes pleasure in tackling “dry” subject matter with breathless, Meme-heavy sarcasm. I find the tone off-putting, but I appreciate it as one attempt to invigorate and broaden the audiences of architectural appraisal. My issue is that by now the joke has overestimated its capacity for judgmental clarity. Really anything can be made fun of if you’re determined enough, and the more of an unquestioning audience you have the easier it is to believe everything you say is true or coherent.

The image was from this 2018 Vox article: “Betsy DeVos’ summer home deserves a special place in McMansion Hell” (a title likely devised by the editor; given the other residences Wagner has lambasted, I would be surprised if she truly believes this is among the worst). My observations won’t make sense unless anyone who is reading this reads her article as well, so please do that if you’d like to follow along. It should take only a couple of minutes.

What I’d first draw readers’ attention to is that Wagner spends the first four paragraphs on the United States’ beyond-vast inequality of wealth. Two of these paragraphs are the article’s largest, and the article is twelve-paragraphs-long, meaning that 1/3 of it is devoted to establishing a socio-economic context -- at least, that is the pretense. Once Wagner writes “...getting paid to make fun of DeVos’s tacky seaside decor is one of few ways to both feed myself and make myself feel better”, it is clear that her personal intent is a kind of vengeful mocking, and that her intent for readers is to prime them to associatively, knee-jerkingly despise anything which could come next with flat-affect “lmao”s. It’s hardly irrelevant to mention economic realities when examining luxury items (and what else is a mansion?), but Wagner’s subsequent analysis is not really architectural or even artistic: it is rather about looking at several photographs of a building, knowing who lives there and hating that person (and also imagining that they were responsible for all design decisions), and then mocking this-and-that in whatever ways one can devise. These grievances are understandable, but understandable grievances do not automatically lead to perceptive criticism.

Please look (perhaps again) at the first image. Note that only four, maybe, of the fourteen details Wagner chooses to focus on -- “no wry comment needed”, “these look like playdoh stamps”, “when you love consistency”, and “oh my god is this a shutter” -- approach anything vaguely resembling coherent criticism; and the other four images fare even worse (with the exception of the highlighting of an apparently absurd interior balcony). The rest are inane attempts at saying anything at all. Writing “hell portal” by an upper porch area may be funny for a moment, but what does it actually express? Well, nothing, except the author’s own irritation which will find whatever it can to announce its contemptuous sarcasm. Wagner’s captions will land only to the degree that the reader is humorously sympathetic.

The aforementioned remarks, excepting the one about the embedded chubby Tuscan columns’ Play-Doh-likeness, suggest that the worst thing a building can do is be formally heterogeneous. The implicative corollary here is that good architecture is eminently justifiable in all of its parts -- consistent, unified, rational. This is as fine a personal belief as anything else, but when it is wielded as dogma against architecture which has no interest in being a Petit Trianon it can only reveal its intellectual self-limitations. Wagner writes that “there is a difference between architectural complexity and a mess”, yet what that difference may be is hand-waved away. We just have to believe that thirteen different windows styles is too much. What’s the threshold? Does it depend on the size of the building? The types of styles used? Who knows.

Now of course bad architecture exists, and sometimes the failure indeed points to deficient editorial acumen; for architecture, like any other art, is as much about what’s included as what’s excluded. But in saying so little about the shingle style itself, Wagner seems to have given no thought to readers concluding that all shingle style houses are freakish -- more specifically, concluding that this freakishness is a damning transgression, and that no self-respecting, punching-up class-warrior would ever be caught dead sincerely enjoying their geometric, “exquisite corpse” escapades. In fact, the freakish tendencies of shingle style houses are just what make them such great fun to see, visit, or reside in. Wagner’s article, as far as I can tell, omits this possibility. When she writes, “Betsy likely went with this style because it is very popular in New England and in coastal enclaves of the rich and famous in general”, one is being pushed to presume that the only probable reason the shingle style exists or could be preferred over another style is to signal élite solidarity.

The photograph right above is of Kragsyde, a Massachusetts shingle style mansion, designed by the US-Northeast-oriented firm of Peabody & Stearns, completed in the 1880s. It was demolished almost a century ago, but the few exterior images of it which remain are, I think, fascinating -- maybe most of all for its enormous archway, possibly a porte-cochère, which has a thin, overextending keystone bizarrely driven into the top like a nail puncturing a petrified rainbow. I bring the building up because Wagner gives us no reason to consider why Kragsyde may have been a genuine architectonic accomplishment and not merely an oversized farce of contiguous pretensions. To the layperson hot off of the Vox piece, there may be no artistic difference between it and DeVos’ place, except that perhaps Kragsyde has a more consistent fenestrative application (would that make it better? if so, why?).

I appreciate that only so much can be said when you’re limited to less than a thousand words, especially when the issue is “complicated” (as the byline for Vox’s First-person series advertises). But the problem I keep coming back to is how DeVos’ mansion is treated as a stand-in for DeVos herself. This makes any architectural critique, no matter how pressed it is for size, flimsily presentist: its durability starts and ends with how alive the architecture’s resident(s) and political presence are. On some emotional level, this is pretty sensible: if we despise monarchical institution, we can find a sort of loophole to enjoying Versailles palace on the basis of it no longer being the residence of royalty. Our awe over its decadence and scope is intersectionally “admissible” on the basis of its having become a UNESCO World Heritage site. Similarly, one can imagine DeVos’ mansion being appreciated in a hundred years (should it still exist then) because the passage of time will have rendered DeVos’ person a historical fact, and perhaps more separable, and then tolerable, in that regard -- even if the building remains private.

But if architecture is, as a craft, critically whittled down to nothing more or less than inorganic expressions of social disparities, with every aesthetic decision a reflection of politically explicable taste, then we must assume that a great deal of the world’s most remarkable architecture is equally ridiculous and despicable, since so much of it was born out of great privilege and required specialized resources. I doubt Wagner actually believes this, because it would betray the entire premise of her McMansion Hell project, which is to demonstrate how so many modern day mansions are deeply unpleasant mounds of visual illiteracy, and cannot hold even a stump of a candle to the luminously learned and eclectic talents of prior great architects such as Mackintosh, Norman Shaw, Lutyens, or Ledoux. So what’s the takeaway here? As far as I can tell, it’s simply that if you hate Betsy DeVos, and if you care about class, you should hate her house too. And I do not think that that is architectural criticism.

#Architecture #architectural criticism #mcmansion #shingle style

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rumandtimes · 3 years

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“Bossypants” by Tina Fey: A pre-view

Luigina Cecchina-Tarquina

Assoc. Lifestyle Contributor

When I picked up Tina Fey’s book, I knew little more of her reputation than as a female comedian. I expected a chuckle and some depiction of a woman’s take on the world of hollywood success — I would not have expected to come across a racist book that struggles to relay a single joke while recounting the life of a southern woman’s bygone teenage years, but then, what would one expect from a cast member of “saturday night live”.

For those who are even aware of Saturday Night: Live (SNL), it is common knowledge that Tina Fey, and saturday night live for that matter, are controversial figures in american media. It seems to be a split right down american society: people who find Tina Fey “L-O-L” funny, and people who find her humour unsufferable; people who tolerate the blatant racism of snl and 30rock as “satire,” and those who have had enough of the denigration, minstrels, slurs, and tropes for cheap comedic effect.

I know Tina Fey is a comedian — a clown — and sets out to prick peoples ears and widen people’s eyes. To quote another comedy critic, I do not seek to come off as someone wilfully misunderstanding humour and repeatedly not getting the joke.

Yet the illusion of that decision is for those who do not remember that Bill Murray had a sketch on snl, where he dreamed about “turning from ‘brown’ to ‘white’”, and the more recent habit of snl writers hiring minorities as comedians to attack themselves on the show with slurs, because it would look less objectionable than if the writers denigrated those actors or people themselves. In Tina Fey’s book, she states that “As a Greek,” she would “only date a ‘white’ man, such as a redneck” inexplicably fond of camouflage.

But to quote that same critic again, humour has a goal; It has an audience. When engineered to subvert expectations and play to the common denominator, jokes have a base which they are founded upon. If that baseline for the comedian or writer, like Fey, is a bedrock of deep-seated racism, which the comedian exploits rather than lampoons, it is no longer a humorous observation, but a cheap, racist ploy servicing an already receptive racist base.

Tina Fey saying she would only date in a certain imaginarily-defined group is racist. Full stop.

Fey going on to say she would date even the lowest, “redneck,” in that category, before anyone else in the world is not less racist — as Fey probably expected her statement to be received (by deprecating people of European-descent with ethnic slurs like “redneck” or “hillbilly” or “honche”, rather than solely praising their racist memes) — but it is more racist, as Fey is simultaneously using racism to make fun of her suitors, and again using racism to elevate even them above anyone and everyone else.

Not to “belabour the point,” as Fey would appreciate, or focus on one bad joke: but Fey’s joke is playing to long-festered notions of racism, colonialism, and rogue supremacism, which Fey buys into rather than challenges, where Fey herself puts (1) any “Aryans” above (2) rich Europeans, (3) Greeks above poor Europeans, and (4) poor Europeans above (5) the rest of the living world. It is inane — and stupid — but a strongly held delusion among groups (1) through (5), and probably strongest among groups (2) to (4).

Fey happily plays with this unholy flame of racism, undergirded by genocide in her native South, fuelled by the segregation in Fey’s own high school, and leaving embers of anti-marriage laws across the American East.

That is not to say racism, colonialism, genocide, holocaust, mob rule, political repression, et alia, are not to be joked about — they are the most popular comedic material in the United States (even if only in the United States). But these topics are deadly serious, and not as distant and abstract as we would like them to be.

There is a real possibility, given their frequency and recency, that anyone who read the first edition of Fey’s book, or attended same secondary school, committed a hate crime, using the exact same rhetoric Fey employs as a “joke.” Not only that, Fey never says it is a joke — there is no punchline.

The only reason I give Tina Fey the benefit-of-the-doubt and assume she was not serious about what she said is because the statements where so outrageous and absurd that someone would have to be insane to print them in sincerity, and equally as ungracious to print them even in jest.

Nonetheless, it was never expected to have to wrestle with these issues, which Fey has ill-managed, in a comedy memoir. Maybe if it had to do with Fey’s experiences or personal identity (as “German–Greek”?) it would have a more natural place. That is, if Fey had been the victim of racism, and condemned it, even through humour, that would be expected, cool, and fine. Fey calls herself “Greek,” but only tongue-in-cheek, and it’s apparent she doesn’t speak Greek. Fey calls herself “German,” but only in relation to being American, and it’s apparent she doesn’t speak German.

What we learn is not how Tina Fey suffered racism, but her experience in adopting racism itself. It offends the senses, and anchors the book.

While hardly intended to win over the intellectual crowd, some of Fey’s items over the years cannot be ignored. Conventional culture, and Fey herself, would seem to agree, after the firing of certain snl comedians and the pulling of certain 30rock episodes, that just went too damn far.

This puts Fey in the precarious position of defending her legacy of racist and baiting comedy, and that of her colleagues, as now she has been outed as admitting herself that she has crossed the line on several, several occasions. But does that mean that Fey is accommodated now that she has made a partial apology? Or is that the mere beginning of scrutiny now that critics have gotten their first concrete admission of her failure?

Fey, and many of her cultivation, say such racist things in order to just have meaningless fun, or in order to make fun of the racist. While Fey and the others may consider this to be in good fun, and an inclusive way to overcome racism, at the end of the day you have subtly racist comedians repeating the words of violently racist hate-mongers for the entertainment of an audience often apathetic to the realities of racism. That is to say, with such willingness to commonly, repeatedly, and recklessly embrace such a serious topic, they can miss the mark.

The impulse may be that racism is so at the heart of American culture and popular life that it is expected that a pop culture figure embrace it (similar to why comedians talk so much of ornery subjects such as politics), and that they should not be taken seriously as comedic plays on the feelings of the populace.

However, comedy is nothing if it does not play to the sentiments of the crowd, and the cover of the clown mask is a poor excuse for crude thinking. In Fey’s apology for racist comedy sketches on her show 30rock, she echoed a previous comedians apology, David Letterman, when she said that intent is less important than perception when that perception causes innocent people pain. In Letterman’s statement (on a different subject), Letterman also says it is not about intent but perception that forced his apology and goes so far to say that if you must explain a joke, it wasn’t that funny anyway, so there is no sense in defending it.

Elizabeth Xenakes Fey, or Tina, has been a supporter of progressive movements in the country, but it should not be overstated to what extent, nor should the virtue of this support be overstated. Fey’s famous endorsements of Barack Obama versus John McCain, and of Hilary Clinton versus Donald Trump, and moreover her critical statements of Sarah Palin’s alliance to both McCain and Trump, have been definitive to her identity as a good liberal and progressive person who supports women’s advancements.

Yet, so too did the majority or Americans. It is not a controversial stance to support the candidate that won the popular vote of a national election — and, sadly, many racist people, both aware and unwitting, also vote for so-called “progressive” candidates for different reasons, despite their problematic stances. That is to say, being a Democrat is not exculpatory of anything. It should also be noted that Fey endorsed Clinton over Obama in the primary, and refused to endorse Bernie Sanders (or Clinton) in the next primary, and Fey describes herself and her works as “neutral,” rather than progressive.

Fey’s most famous work in comedy, the impersonation of Sarah Palin wasn’t as scathing as one might expect of a true critic, but was in many cases humanising, and even flattering. Fey was not kind in undermining the Tea Party spokesperson, but Palin was made out to be an odd yet loveable figure, rather than a contemptible one: she was written off. As Fey’s alter ego said herself, ‘it would be egotistical for saturday night live (or anyone else) to believe that a couple of jokes swung the 2008 election.’

Tina Fey has many hard questions to answer for racist depictions in her sketches, television series, and book — and it is not so easy a dodge to say that she once ‘made fun of Sarah Palin.’ Another reviewer stated, “I don’t think Fey comes off as a bad person, I just don’t think she’s funny.” Tina Fey doesn’t come off as a good person, or a bad person, but just presents as an ordinary person, and whether you find Tina Fey (or mor importantly, any of her jokes) funny is a personal and indeterminable matter.

I watched a few of Fey’s “world-famous” skits for this review, and I admit I did mistake Sarah Palin for Fey in their cross-over cameo skit; And the moment I laughed the hardest (in fact the only moment I laughed through the skits) was during the VP Debate Sketch with her fellow southerner, Jason Sudeikis, where “Biden” repeatedly attacked Scranton, Pennsylvania as “the worst place on Earth” — so again, people react to comedy in an unpredictable way, as a basis of personal experience. I don’t think all of Fey’s jokes make it, yet no one can singularly define anything as “funny,” or not, but I do see her as a professional on screen. I don’t give a pass however on bad interest jokes, especially on the mere basis of not liking Donald Trump (who, remember, is also a television celebrity who has worked in comedy, and made jokes that were blatantly racist — and sexist).

Entering Fey’s book, “Bossypants”, with this pre-review (re-preview?) in mind, it introduces to me that this memoir may turn to places unexpected, and that just because it is a celebrity-text does not mean it will be a simple, casual, or homey, ride.

#Book Review #Bossypants #Greek Culture #Sarah Palin #Tina Fey

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antiquecompass · 4 years

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Untamed Fall Fest Day Four

Yale was lonely.

Zizhen expected to be lonely during the first year. That was logical. It made sense. New school. New city. Few friends from Lan Academy. The first time in his life--that he could remember--where he hadn’t spent most of his year in the Berkshires. Of course the first year would leave him feeling lonely and somewhat isolated. He’d adjusted, of course. He’d made friends throughout his freshman year. He’d joined the chess team and a knitting club. He’d attended various sporting events. He’d met with various other young up and coming members of society. He’d dodged all the invitations to the secret fraternities, wanting to be far away from that entire mess as possible while still maintaining a generally pleasant relationship with students who would surely be some of his business partners in the future. He’d established himself here.

And yet he just felt out of place. Still. Always.

The second year almost felt more lonely than the first. Two of his best friends were already engaged, and while he knew Jingyi and Sizhui were a special case, it still felt like everyone around him was figuring things out while he was still struggling, keeping his head just above the water. He missed the days when life felt simpler. When his future wasn’t such a heavy weight on his shoulders.

He had planned to go home for Fall Break, to see his parents and sort his head out. His plans changed, of course, when an invitation to attend an important fundraiser in New York city arrived in Zizhen’s mailbox, in all its gilded ink and heavy card stock glory. Zizhen couldn’t--and wouldn’t--turn it down. His father’s health was holding steady. Neither of his parents needed to go to New York City for the weekend. Zizhen would make the drive down, would stay at the family home in the Upper East Side, and would be the best representative for the Ouyangs he could be. This was his duty. This would be part of his career.

“Going home?”

Zizhen set his suitcase down and shifted the garment bag in his hands as he stood in the hallway of his apartment building. He plastered a smile on his face as he turned to his neighbor, Jay, a fellow sophomore. Jay was nice enough, another pampered son of a wealthy family, but he’d come from California, and they apparently did things differently there--had a different set of priorities. Jay was almost too friendly, overly familiar. Always with a smile and small talk and attempts to appear genuine in humble even as he walked around in thousand dollar outfits. He wasn’t a bad person, not at all, just a little out of touch. He was also the closest thing to a friend in Zizhen’s building, and they both watched out for each other.

“Business dinner,” Zizhen said.

“Still, Autumn in New York,” Jay said. “Can’t be too bad.”

“Yeah,” Zizhen said as he locked his door. “You’re staying here?”

“Not worth it to take the flight back just to turn around,” Jay said. “I’ve got a schedule packed full of gaming.”

“Have fun,” Zizhen said. “Remember to sleep. And eat. And drink. And shower.”

“We’ll see,” Jay joked.

***********

Zizhen was most definitely one of the youngest attendees at this fundraiser. He recognized some of the other guests. Some celebrities, others politicians, and a few he knew as his family’s business associates.

He felt that lonely isolation creeping up on him again. Just now under some glittering lights and surrounded by some truly inane conversations.

“Don’t slouch where they can see you.”

Zizhen nearly dropped his glass of sparkling water in surprise.

“Mr. Jin,” Zizhen said, quickly bowing. “I wasn’t aware you were attending tonight.”

Jin Zixuan looked like a king among a crowd of peasants. There would always be a natural arrogance to him, even if Zizhen knew he was quite kind under that air of superiority. The attitude was its own sort of armor, keeping away the hanger-ons and protecting the real person who existed beyond the reputation. He’d rarely seen this side of Jin Ling’s father--the well-known socialite, the true Peacock King of East Coast Society. He was much more familiar with him in his designer sweatpants, chasing after one of his many children, or in the kitchen baking up masterpieces. Or proudly standing on the sidelines in his ‘Team Jin’ track jacket as he cheered Jin Ling to victory.

“My brother-in-law was supposed to attend, but even the mighty Jiang Cheng falls victim to the occasional cold. So I offered to attend in his place,” Mr. Jin said.

“Madame Jiang made you, didn’t she?” Zizhen asked.

Mr. Jin nodded. “My wife is very convincing, but truly, all she had to do was ask. No, it was another member of my family who insisted to the point of aggravation when we heard you’d also be attending. While I know it’s not good to give into spoilt children, he made a few fair points.”

Zizhen smiled as he perfectly pictured Jin Ling demanding his father attend.

“I am thankful you’re here,” Zizhen said. “You must thank him for me.”

“Thank him yourself,” Mr. Jin said, a smirk on his face, as he glanced somewhere over Zizhen’s shoulder.

Zizhen whipped around to find Jin Ling walking through the crowd. His hair was down, completely loose, and while it should’ve made him look even younger than his soon-to-be seventeen years, it gave him that quiet gravitas the members of his family carried so well.

“You’re too thin,” Jin Ling said as he tugged on Zizhen’s suit. “They’re clearly not feeding you well at Yale.”

“I missed you too,” Zizhen said.

“Obviously,” Jin Ling said. “Who wouldn’t miss me.”

Mr. Jin didn’t bother to hide his amused snort as he watched them.

“And you’ll be staying with us tonight, of course,” Jin Ling said. “You should’ve called one of us the second you accepted the invitation. There’s always someone in the family available. You can’t go to these things by yourself. They’ll devour you.”

“As much as I would like to disagree,” Mr. Jin said, “my son does raise some valid points.” He gripped Zizhen’s shoulder. “Despite what you may think, you’re not alone in any of this. Obviously we can’t and won’t meddle with your family’s business--”

“Unless you ask us to. Uncle Yao probably already is, if we’re being completely transparent here,” Jin Ling said.

“Yes, possibly,” Mr. Jin agreed. “I don’t ask what my brother gets up to in his boredom. Still, we can help you--support you--at these events. Never hesitate to ask, Zizhen. Everyone here, everyone, has a support base. No one needs to or should do this alone. We’re all just a simple call away.”

“Thank you,” Zizhen said. It was all he could say, not willing to show more emotion here. It wasn’t the right time or place. “I didn’t think--just--thank you.”

“Of course,” Mr. Jin said. He smiled at them. “I’ll leave you two for now. I’m sure you have much to catch up on. I’ll see you at dinner.”

“Thank you again, Mr. Jin,” Zizhen said.

“You’re welcome,” Jin Ling answered for him. “Now, what in the hell were you thinking? You’re already pulling that lone wolf bullshit at Yale. It’s New York City. There’s always a reason for one of my uncles to come here. How in the hell do you just not mention it. I had to find out from one of my Jin cousins and that was just embarrassing for all of us.”

Zizhen wanted to laugh as Jin Ling continued on. He couldn’t help but smile at him. He reached out and patted the top of his head.

“I’ve missed you.”

“I will bite your hand off,” Jin Ling threatened.

Zizhen did laugh at that, feeling more content than he had in months. He’d still have to go back to Yale in a few days. Back to the different version of himself that lived there, building up the image he’d uphold for years to come as he grew into his future role. But it was nice to be reminded that he had another family waiting for him--hopefully still waiting for him--even if he knew they had a long way to go before he could truly call them his own.

#untamed fall fest #day four #ouyang zizhen #verse: lahl #fic: now the leaves are falling fast #fandom: the untamed #my ridic writing

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squeeneyart · 4 years

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Breathe in the Salt - Chapter 13

AO3

Beta reader is @thesnadger!

Jon walks Martin home.

As expected, it's still cold outside.

By 11:30, Martin had locked up the lighthouse and walked out into the night with the others. It was a nice walk to start. Tim was set on distracting them both by having Martin guess between real and made-up work stories, with a few of them even involving the supernatural. It was almost enough to settle the anxiety bubbling in Martin’s stomach, but every time his eye caught on Jon the feeling would surge and keep him from being more pleasantly occupied.

Eventually, the group split for their separate destinations and said their goodnights. Tim warned Jon to get Martin home safe like a parody of a television father, and all too quickly Martin and Jon were the only ones left on the road home.

Whatever confidence or wishful thinking had possessed him to let Jon walk him home, it had abandoned Martin entirely.

Several blocks went by without conversation. Martin refused to look at anything but the ground, because how else would he avoid a fall? That was the whole point, right? Forcing his eyes down and away from anything else was obviously the safest way forward. So was keeping his mouth closed, can’t go wasting his breath, and if he just kept quiet for long enough-

Jon cleared his throat “So. You came up to get some air?”

Martin squeezed his eyes closed. “Yeah, I did.”

“Is there any particular reason or-”

“Okay, I know what you’re getting at so, yes, I- what we talked about, I did it.” Martin opened his eyes and focused on the road. “It’s done.”

“Oh,” Jon breathed out, as if he’d been holding it in. “Good. You, um, you did the right thing.”

With Jon apparently satisfied, or at least with nothing else to say, a more companionable silence stretched between them. Well, that was nothing, he thought. He’d worked himself up for what ended up being a simple transaction. Of course Jon wouldn’t need to dig into the emotional details of the event when his interests lay elsewhere.

Martin’s relief was short-lived as his foot snagged on a pothole. He only just managed to stop himself from plummeting face-first into the pavement. “Shit! That was-”

“Are you okay?” Jon asked, grabbing Martin’s elbow. “Was it the-”

“N-No, no, I’m fine! There was a hole in the street.” His heart pounded from the adrenaline. He shook his head, trying not to think too hard about Jon’s hand tugging him upright. “Just zoned out and didn’t see it.”

Jon frowned, releasing his grip. “You’ll want to ice your head when you get home. Probably should have before we left.” The last part he muttered to himself like a curse.

“My head is fine. No fuzziness or anything, I swear.”

“Hmph.” Jon eyeballed the mark on Martin’s forehead, unconvinced.

They resumed their walk, and Jon began to sweep his eyes across the street ahead of them. The turn of his profile was stern, almost comically absorbed by this new preventative measure. His fingers laced and unlaced themselves with a strange energy, most likely to keep warm.

The corner of Martin’s mouth twitched upward. The man so ridiculously, unintentionally endearing. It really was unfair of him.

Finally, Martin’s heart returned to its normal speed. He laughed, the day’s events settling into his bones. “I hope this was the last of the excitement for today.”

Jon smirked. “Sure you wouldn't like to run a marathon tonight? Maybe hunt down a local vampire.”

“No, I’m completely exhausted,” Martin replied. He wasn’t ready to do anything until he got a good night’s rest.

Jon’s face fell slightly. “I was- Right, no, I’m sure it’s been a lot.” He scratched at his neck.

Ah. Martin had missed something, hadn’t he? Whatever it was, there was no figuring it out now. In front of them was the end of the road and the start of the cliff side descent.

“I think I’m feeling all right. It’s been long enough,” Martin said. “You should head back to your hotel. It would be-”

“A long way back up, yes. I recall from this morning.” Jon glanced into the trees with disdain. “But that would go against the whole point of me being here. If anything is going to give you trouble, it’s a twisting downward slope.”

Martin opened his mouth to argue, then reconsidered. With Jon’s stubborn posture, all folded arms and rigid shoulders, arguing would just mean forcing an ill-equipped man to stand outside longer.

Seeing he’d won, Jon nodded. “Let’s continue on, then.”

Down they went, the gentle curve leading to the main path. Jon held his phone out in front of him to light the way. Every once in a while, he would point out some obstruction and give warning. This, paired with Jon only seeing the way once in the light of day, made for an incredibly slow process. Eventually Martin had to beg him to just please keep walking.

However, without Jon’s interruptions there were only the sounds of crunching footsteps and whistling wind, hollow whispers through the trees that Martin’s ears couldn’t parse. The ground sloped down into the waiting dark like a tongue dipping into the throat of a beast. Martin was no longer moored by the view around his feet as it swerved and sloped ahead of him. Instead he clung to the visual of Jon’s outline, glowing in the phone light, steady and consistent.

Halfway down Jon paused again, but before Martin could urge him forward, he turned around and asked, “Is everything all right?”

Martin braced himself for whatever this was. “...Yes?”

“Are you sure there isn’t something you’d like to discuss?” With the phone illuminating their feet, Jon’s face hidden save for the flash of his eyes and outline of his jaw, but his voice gave away his frustration. “When you showed up earlier, I thought maybe-”

“Like I said, I just-”

Jon talked on, running his fingers through his hair. “Because if something happened that you’re confused or worried about I can try to-”

“Jon?”

“-help, given I was the one who told you to do it in the first place. If there’s-”

“Jon.”

Jon clamped his mouth shut, waiting.

Martin dragged a hand down his face. “It’s… It was a lot for her. She needed some space, that’s all.”

With some hesitation, Jon asked, “But she… did she know about it?”

“Yeah.” Martin stuffed his hands into his pockets and kicked at a rock. “Yeah, she knew.”

“Oh.” Wrapping his arms around himself, Jon stared at his feet. It was almost imperceptible, but a shiver passed through his shoulders. “That wasn’t the scenario I’d expected. I’m sure it was an intense moment for both of you. If I’ve... pried too much, I apologize.”

“It’s… it’s okay.” Martin exhaled. “If you hadn’t pried, she wouldn’t have it now. That’s worth something, I think, but at this point, it’s just… it’s family stuff.”

“Right. I understand.” Jon rubbed his forearm. “If there’s anything you’d like to know or talk about, though...”

“You’ll be the first and probably only person I’ll ask.” With nothing left to add, Martin began to walk ahead. Jon seemed to get the message and was quick to put himself back in front, dutifully shining his light ahead onto the dirt. “Jon?”

“Yes?” Jon didn’t turn or stop walking, keeping to his task with renewed determination. Stupidly endearing.

Martin opened his mouth and then closed it again. He smiled to himself. “You really should get a thicker coat.”

His reward was slumped shoulders and crotchety grumbling about Tim’s bad influence.

They reached the treeline without any problems. Perhaps low light had helped, or having Jon’s back to fixate on. Whatever the case may have been, Martin was blessedly close to being off his feet and in his own bed without further incident.

Jon, however, would have a long, lonely walk back to his hotel. Despite the reassurance that it had all been no trouble, Jon’s hunched posture betrayed how poorly he was doing in the night air. At least his head was covered.

Tapping his foot, Martin stared at his home. There was… a lot, there. On any other night his mother would be fast asleep. There was no light on in her bedroom window, but that didn’t necessarily mean things were the same as usual.

From Martin’s left, Jon coughed. “I should get going. If anything happens, be sure to text the details to Tim so we’ll all be aware.”

“Sure. Thanks for walking me down. I think it helped,” Martin said, his mind already halfway up the stairs.

Jon nodded. “Good. Glad to hear it.” There was an extended, empty moment before Jon moved to leave.

At the sound of Jon’s steps, Martin shook himself to the present. “Wait a minute. You should at least warm up inside.”

With a scowl, Jon said, “Listen, while I understand you’re part of this inane inside joke-”

“No! No, it’s not like that. You’re just… you’re shivering, as we speak.” As he spoke, Martin saw Jon stiffen. “As long as we’re quiet, it should be fine. Frostbite isn’t a joke.”

Jon glared at the rocky beach, where the fog had already settled in thick. “...Fine.”

Martin raised his eyebrows. It had been much less of a fight than he had expected. A small grin spread across his face. “Great! Let me just make sure everything is okay first.”

He led Jon to the front door, then stepped inside. Keeping his steps light, Martin inched over to his mother’s slightly open door, just as he had left it. Through the crack he could see the rising and falling outline of his sleeping mother still tucked into bed. Martin carefully closed the door and exhaled.

Like nothing had happened, he thought, ignoring the jelly sensation in his knees. What would he have done if she had been awake? What would she have said about him leaving the house so late? Would she have said anything?

There were other things to think about. He walked back to the door and let Jon inside, leading him to the kitchen. Neither of them spoke, but the tension seemed to seep out of Jon’s shoulders as warmth returned to them.

Jon kept his hands tucked under his arms, eyeing one of the kitchen chairs. He kept his voice to a low whisper. “Thank you for inviting me inside. I won’t need to stay long.”

A pity. Martin bit his tongue at the thought. “You’re welcome. Feel free to sit down.” With some reluctance, Jon took the offer and sank into one of the wooden chairs. In spite of himself, he relaxed just a little.

With that out of the way, Martin glanced at the doorway and asked, “Actually, could you wait here a moment?”

Before he got an answer, he slipped back into the hall, toeing off his shoes before making the climb up the wooden stairs. Once he’d crept into his room, he faced his skinny chest of drawers with a sudden determination. There had to be something.

The first articles of clothing were definitely wrong, both too big and not the right material. Everything would be too big, really, but he could at least figure out the best options for blocking out the cold.

After some sifting, Martin fished out an old thing of stretchy fleece that had managed to retain its size better than some of his other pullovers. Still very Martin-sized, but that meant it would fit over other clothing just fine. On top of that, it was a dark grey material, nothing so bright as some of his other windbreakers. He could at least spare Jon from his own very retro fashion choices.

When he returned, Jon was standing near the kitchen window and staring out into the night. Without looking away from it, he said quietly, “The fog is much thicker down here. Is it always like this?”

“Not always, but it’s pretty normal? Mum likes it.” Martin fidgeted with the pullover in his hands. With every passing second, he was losing time to throw it out of sight and forget the idea ever came to mind. “Makes it sort of eerie, sometimes, like it’s just the house.”

“Hm. My phone light should still be fine, I suppose.” Jon pivoted away from the window, and his eyes landed on the thing in Martin’s hands.

Just get it over with, his mind desperately hissed. “I found this upstairs and figured it might be helpful. It’s, um, it’s a bit big, but it should slip over what you’re wearing just fine.”

Instead of responding, Jon stared at the pullover, sparing a single glance for Martin’s face before returning to the object in question.

“You don’t have to use it, obviously,” Martin said, squeezing the fabric. “I just thought, since you came down here because of me, it was the least I could do. But, yeah, it’s probably too much? I’ll-”

“Okay.”

Jon seemed as surprised by this was Martin, whose feet were now rooted to the spot on the kitchen floor.

“Um. Good? Good.” Martin held the pullover out in front of himself, his elbows locking him into a position that begged Jon to just take the damn thing.

Jon walked over and pulled it to himself. With almost robotic motions, he slid the garment over his jacket, pushing up the sleeves so they weren’t flopping over his hands. Gosh, it absolutely swamped him. It reached down to his mid-thigh in a way that might’ve been considered fashionable when worn with something other than work trousers and scuffed formal shoes. If Martin hadn’t been stricken with a lead tongue he would’ve let out an inappropriate giggle.

“Well. It’s not as if Tim is going to see me,” Jon sighed. “Thank you. Now I really should get going.”

Though attempting to put on a veneer of calm formality, Jon was clearly distracted by some thought as they walked to the front door. He couldn’t seem to stop pulling at his sleeves. Martin should’ve been thankful for the silence considering the awkwardness of the whole exchange. If Jon never brought it up again, it would be a boon to them both.

Once Jon had exited the house, Martin held the door halfway open. “Careful on the way up. Maybe have Tim text me when you get there?” Or Jon could just text him, if they exchanged numbers. Martin stomped that thought out of existence. No, there was no way he’d be able to ask for that when he’d just barely survived the pullover situation.

Before replying, a weird look crossed Jon’s face. Something between irritation and intense concentration. “Yes, I’ll let him know to do so. Good night, Martin.” And he was off, shoving his hands into his new pockets.

Martin shut the door. That was that, he thought. Jon wouldn’t freeze to death, and the day was finally over. As if a string above him was snipped, Martin slid against the front entryway and sat on the floor. What a familiar location. Who needed chairs?

It was a few minutes before he could will himself up and forward, his legs barely cooperating. As he passed his mother’s door, the urge to check inside, to see if she still clutched the skin to her chest or if she’d thrown it aside for reasons beyond him, it itched in his hand and begged him to turn the knob. The door stayed shut, and with the last of his energy he reached the top of the stairs and stumbled into his room.

His bed was before him. Without changing, he flopped forward onto the mattress, ready for sleep to take him, but it came so achingly slow he was still awake to see the flash of a notification on his phone.

Tim: boss said to tell you he made it back

Tim: at this rate youll have him wearing long johns by friday

Ah. He pressed his face into his pillow. Tim had caught Jon in the pullover after all.

At least he’d kept it on. With that thought, Martin’s mind finally showed mercy, and he slept.

No dreams made for a quick jump to morning, and Martin was unfortunately awake.

Checking his phone, he found that his barely awake self from the night before had responded to Tim’s text.

Martin: just in time for you all to run from the cold weather

Tim: i wouldnt say its much warmer in the city

Tim: and hey were still here

Tim: so i hope youve got some oversized fuzzy socks to complete the set for our brave leader

With a snort, Martin pushed himself upright. It hadn’t been enough sleep, not for the day he’d had, but there was no helping it. He got ready and began collecting his things together, including his work contract and the sketchbook buried in his bedside drawer.

If nothing else worked out, he would make sure this thing was out of his hands with Peter none the wiser.

#tma #the magnus archives #breathe in the salt #martin blackwood #jonathan sims #sasha james #timothy stoker #peter lukas #fanfic #au fanfic #selkie au #jonmartin

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nightingiall · 4 years

Text

head in the clouds: part iii

{story page}

“You know,” says Rory through a mouthful of popcorn, picking a stray kernel out of Spike’s fur. “I don’t think it’s healthy for Spike to be this large.”

She doesn’t remember how exactly Niall Horan convinced her to come to his place to spend some time with Spike, especially after she’s been adamant on wanting nothing to do with this. They’d bumped into each other at, of course, a party, somewhere at the Residences, somehow ending up alone on someone’s balcony. They shared a joint and he said something that made her laugh so hard tears sprang to her eyes. And after he showed her some photos of his very large, stolen, perpetually frowning cat, it wasn’t long until she caved.

And, now, here she is, two bottles of beer and a whole bowl of popcorn in, curled up into Spike on his couch with some true crime show playing on his television.

“How do you mean?” Niall is three bottles of beer in and is still going quite strong. Rory can’t deny that she’s impressed.

She runs her fingers through Spike’s fur, smiling at the resulting purr the gesture elicits out of him. “Like, I’m pretty sure it’s not normal for him to be this size. And he drags his paws when he walks sometimes, like it’s a struggle for him.”

When she looks up at Niall, he’s quirking an eyebrow at her, that stupid grin of his threatening to break through his features, and Rory just knows he’s about to say something that’ll have her rolling her eyes. “Rory Bhatt,” he draws out, and his voice is low and slow as he leans forward to narrow his eyes at her. She tries to ignore the swoop in her tummy at the way his accent lilts through her name, at the way the blue in his eyes appear brighter than she’s ever seen. “Are you fat shaming Spike?”

She doesn’t know why she does it. Doesn’t even want to do it. But a laugh bubbles out of her so abruptly that Spike moves away from her and starts slithering towards Niall, clearly not appreciating being disrupted as he’s trying to take a nap. “No!” She has to clutch her stomach she’s laughing so hard, and she’d blame the beer but she’s not even drunk.

Niall joins in regardless, scooping up Spike into his arms as he cradles him. “Did ol’ Rory offend you, Spikey boy?” he coos at him. He leans back into the armchair and the cat curls into his lap, purring contentedly the whole time.

“I’m just saying!” she attempts to continue, swiping at the moisture that’s collected beneath her lashes, and Niall’s full-on grinning at her now. “How many cats do you know have grown to that size? Maybe Dreyfuss wasn’t taking care of him properly.”

Niall hums, looking at her thoughtfully now. Spike has already made himself comfortable, tail flicking once against Niall’s chest, and Rory has to hold back a laugh at the thought of Spike falling asleep and Niall not being able to move for the next hour or so. “Suppose you have a point,” is what he finally says, looking at Spike fondly. Rory startles for a moment at how tender the moment is, how gently his fingers skim across Spike’s fur, how closely he holds him. It’s a side of him she’s never seen. “But what should we do? We can’t exactly take him to a vet right now.”

Rory ignores the we in his statement, figuring that she’s in way too deep now to be insisting that she doesn’t want to be a part of this. She wonders where his head is, though. He’s always annoyingly optimistic and preppy, but she also hopes that he understands the gravity of the situation he’s gotten himself into. “Well, what’s your long-term plan for Spike? Are you going to keep him once the summer’s over?”

“Of course!” Niall gives her a look like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I didn’t rescue him from Dreyfuss for no reason ya know. Just because she’s rich and owns shit or whatever doesn’t mean she gets to treat her pets like shit.” There’s a fire in those blue eyes, lit up into the most electric hue, accent thickened significantly. He’s hypnotizing. Rory can’t tear her eyes away. “He’s mine now. Aren’t ya buddy?” he murmurs, voice all gentle and sweet now, like it always gets when he talks to Spike. “I won’t treat ya like ol’ Dreyfuss did. We’ll get you healthy in no time.” He looks up at Rory, smile intact. “Won’t we?”

Rory finds herself smiling back. For the first time, she feels as though she and Niall Horan might just get along. After all, he’s shown her nothing but kindness. And he may be annoying sometimes, with his loud, obnoxious laugh and terrible jokes, but his positive attributes are among the rare finds at Hightstown, especially with people their age. He’s incredibly attentive, has always been respectful of her boundaries, thoughtful, and overwhelmingly empathetic, even to a fault. Most of all, he has made her laugh in a way she hasn’t in a long time. So maybe, she thinks now, looking into those big blue eyes that always seem to reflect whatever light that gets thrown into them, helping him keep this cat a secret isn’t such a bad idea after all.

“Yeah,” is what she ends up saying, more conviction in her voice than she’s ever heard. “We will.”

***

This is how it starts. Fiery hot summer days melting into cool, breezy nights. Racing to Niall’s place after their lifeguard shifts, giggling the entire way. Sharing beers and laughs over figuring out the best cat diet and getting Spike to be more active.

This is how it starts, and there are only 42 days of summer left.

***

Rory is kind of drunk.

Chester from the kitchen, an older man with kind eyes and a big personality who’s worked at Hightstown for as long as Rory can remember, had given her two bottles of wine that were from an extra shipment that came in by accident. She’d gone there to snag some extra meat and other scraps they could use to make something healthier for Spike to eat and ended up with an interesting tidbit of gossip from one of the assistant chefs. Apparently, Mrs. Dreyfuss was going crazy searching for her missing cat. She’d laughed it off then but quickly detoured to Niall’s place to let him know that he’d have to be more careful now that people may actually be keeping an eye out for a stray wandering around.

Somehow, that turned into them sharing a few beers, then chasing Spike around the apartment for a while, luring him through the obstacle course Niall built for him before giving him his food and letting him rest. They’d learnt the hard way that Spike got impossibly irritated with them after they made him exercise, so they always give him some alone time afterwards so he can enjoy his food in peace.

Now, they’re sprawled out on his floor, one bottle of wine already drained by the both of them, stomachs full from the chocolate-peanut butter cupcakes Niall made—another thing she’s learned about him, he’s an excellent baker. Her limbs feel all lax and sated. They’d fully intended only to drink a glass or two each, but the wine went down so smoothly, a burst of sweet tartness on her tongue, and before she knew it, the entire bottle was empty.

“That was,” Niall slurs, and she can see from her peripheral that he’s rolling onto his side to face her, “the best wine I’ve ever had.”

She finds herself giggling at his words. Stupidly, inanely, happily. “Agreed.” The ceiling looks as though it’s rippling like waves in an ocean above her, all long, fluid lines, the muted colors of white and brown swirling together. She rolls her head over only to find Niall looking at her already, that stupid grin plastered onto his face. His lips are stained cherry red from the wine, chocolate, brown hair looking incredibly soft as it sticks up in every direction, cheeks tinged a perpetual bubblegum pink, presumably from the alcohol thrumming through his system. It appears that she’s so drunk that she can look at him and only think of sweets. “You look ridiculous by the way,” is what ends up coming out of her mouth, even though she’s gone enough to admit to herself that she thinks anything but.

Niall laughs at that, a loud, guttural cackle that reverberates off the walls and bounces around the entire apartment. It’s resounding and vibrant and it has the alcohol in her veins feeling like champagne bubbles instead of the velvety wine she actually consumed. She finds herself laughing too. “What do I look like?”

She simply stares at him for a moment, lower lips worried between her teeth, and she nearly wonders why she’s unable to formulate words before she’s realizing that she can’t tear her eyes away from that magnificent blue. They’re intoxicating, magnetizing, and if Rory weren’t already drunk she’d think that those eyes alone could get her wasted. She’d never looked close enough before, but there’s a ring of gold, right around his pupils, blending up into a bright, sapphire blue. Brilliant, soulful eyes that somehow sparkle in the light, that somehow look as though they held the entire universe, constellations of stars orbiting around in those deep pools of blue.

“Rory.” He’s still laughing, waving his hands in front of her face, snapping her out of her thoughts and she blushes, wondering dumbly if he could somehow read her mind, skin tingling in mortification at the idea. “Don’t pass out on me now.”

She rolls her eyes but giggles at the way he unwittingly hits his hand against the couch. “You look like…” She feels around for her phone so she could snap a photo and show him but she can’t find it anywhere. “Where’s my phone?” She shifts around to sit up and her head immediately starts to spin. She is so drunk. “I’ll just,” she mumbles, spotting the notebook and pen on his coffee table they’d been using to write down a recipe for Spike’s food and grabs it, “I’ll just draw you.”

“Ooohh.” Niall sits up too, limbs flailing around clumsily as he laughs at himself. He accidentally knocks over the empty bottle of wine that had been sitting between them, the action sending them into another fit of giggles. “Draw me like a French girl,” he slurs out through his amusement, grinning wildly at her as he shifts into a ridiculous pose, “or however that saying goes.”

Rory can’t breathe from the way the laughter escapes her at the way he tries to pout seductively, tears springing to her eyes as she tries and fails to control it. “You’re such a dumbass.” Her fingers find the pen, dragging it across a clean sheet of notebook paper in short, quick strokes. It’s a hasty and slightly sloppy sketch of a boy who seems to have her laughing more than she ever has in her entire life. Of a boy who has a bright smile and a raucous laugh and a big, kind heart. “There,” she declares once she’s done, flipping the book around so he can see her creation, and it’s only when she’s paying attention again that she finds that they’ve unknowingly moved closer to one another.

“I think I look quite good actually.” He’s still laughing. Rory wonders how he still has oxygen in his lungs left to do that, how he manages to make it take up the entire room. “But I think your hands can make anything look good.” He’s grinning at her but then his eyes go impossibly wide. “Because you’re a good artist!” he quickly clarifies. “Not anything dirty! That sounded like it could be dirty. But I just meant—”

He can’t finish because he’s curled up on the floor again, overtaken by another round of the giggles, and Rory’s sucked right into it, dropping the notebook because she’s laughing so hard. Niall’s all sprawled out, limbs knocking into hers, hand over his chest as a tear rolls down the side of his face, and Rory reaches out to swipe at it. But she’s drunk and is lacking coordination so she accidentally pokes him in the eye, falling into another bout of laughter because of the way he yelps.

And they laugh and laugh until, somehow, his hands are in hers. Until, somehow, she’s falling into his limbs, warm, gangly legs tangled within hers. Until, somehow, they’re not laughing anymore, just looking at one another, all soft smiles and flushed cheeks, the spiral of the notebook poking into her side. Niall is still working through a giggle, the sound knocking around in his throat as he rubs his eye, leaning onto his elbow as he looks down at her, and it’s happening again, her getting lost in the wonder of his eyes. Until, somehow, he’s saying, “Is this the part where you kiss me?”

Her eyes widen at him, heart skipping a beat in her chest. “What?”

There’s that grin again, wide and bright and blinding. “Isn’t that what happens in the movie?”

Another laugh threatens to break out of her throat. “What movie?”

“The ‘draw me like a French girl’ movie,” he says simply, shrugging. But he leans closer regardless.

This time, she actually does laugh again. “Titanic?”

“That was Titanic?” He sounds skeptical, eyes going out of focus as he tries to remember the scene he’s talking about. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, Niall, I’m pretty sure.” She rolls her eyes at him again. “And I’m pretty sure you’re getting the quote all wrong.”

He makes a face at her. “That’s not even the point, Rory.”

She almost rolls her eyes again, a retort already sitting on her tongue. But it disappears when suddenly, her eyes are zeroing in on those wine-stained lips, and all she can think of now is how sugary and delicious they must taste, like the wine they just drank, like California grapes and chocolate-peanut butter cupcakes and whatever else he must taste like. “Your lips look like they taste like all the sweets in the world,” she blurts out, and immediately blushes at the sound of her own voice.

Niall raises a brow at her, eyeing her a bit coyly as he unconsciously runs his tongue across his lower lip. Rory watches the action in a daze, humiliation at her drunken admission simmering away into a hot ball of desire, melting down her throat and into the pit of her stomach. When he speaks again, his voice is low and deep, a smirk slowly spreading across his face. “Wanna come over here and find out?”

And, god, she does want to lean over and find out. She really, really does. Because he’s so close and he smells clean, like lemongrass and lavender. Because it’s all she’s been thinking about the whole night. Because he’s joking around but is looking at her like he absolutely wouldn’t mind kissing her if she wants it too.

But she can’t. She can’t let last summer happen again.

So she forces a chuckle and shoves his face away and slyly says, “In your dreams, Horan.” Niall shoves her back and suddenly she’s actually laughing. “Wanna open the other bottle?” she asks, waggling her eyebrows at him.

“You know I do.” He winks at her, already getting up to go find it, and Rory only allows herself to watch him go for a moment before following after him. “We should watch Titanic while we’re at it because now I need to know how that scene actually goes.”

Rory starts laughing at that, wondering if he’s ever actually seen the movie because she figures that any guy would remember a scene where Kate Winslet stripped her clothes off so Leo DiCaprio could sketch her wearing only the fancy necklace that everyone in that movie was obsessed about. When she gets to the kitchen, Spike is still curled up in his food corner, licking at his paw, clearly still mad at them. She frowns at him for a moment, wondering if perhaps they were going about this the wrong way.

Niall must see her face because he says, “Don’t worry about Spike, he’s just being pissy.” He smiles at her when gets closer, reaching out to playfully nudge at her chin. “I FaceTime’d my cousin who’s a vet and she said that a little exercise won’t hurt and to not let him guilt us into letting him get out of it. Turns out cats are smart little buggers.”

As if replying to Niall, Spike meows lowly from his corner, and the two of them burst into a fit of giggles again. “Hey, have you seen my phone by the way?” she asks, suddenly remembering its absence earlier.

He twists the wine opener into the cork, looking around before gesturing behind him. “Is that it on the counter over there?”

Sure enough, when she looks over, there it is. She’s surprised to see how late it’s gotten when she turns it on. The surprise quickly melts away into dread at the notification telling her that she missed four calls from her mother, one voicemail waiting for her. She sighs as she opens it up, forgetting how annoyed her mom always got whenever she didn’t answer the phone. The past few weeks have been good because Rory actually remembered to call her every night. And if she was too tired to call then she’d send a text saying as much. But with radio silence tonight, her mom must have been pissed.

Rory opens the voicemail and presses the phone to her ear to hear it, but her mom always talks irritatingly low on the phone so she has to turn the volume up and start it over. “Hey, sweetheart,” comes her mom’s voice through the speaker, and to Rory’s surprise, she actually doesn’t sound upset. “Nani came over today and wanted to talk to you, hence the many calls. You’re probably busy but she’s here for the next day or so, so call me back whenever you’re free. Love you, Aurora.” There’s a rustle of movement before she speaks again. “Nani says she loves you too. Talk soon.”

The message ends and Rory figures that she’ll call back tomorrow when she’s sober and actually has time to talk. So she shoots her mom a text telling her as much, apologizing for good measure. She knows she didn’t get yelled at because her Nani was around.

“Aurora?” comes Niall’s voice from behind her. When she turns around to face him, he’s looking at her all surprised. She’d forgotten they were standing in the same room before she played the message out loud. “I’m learning so much about you today.” The beginnings of a laugh are threaded into the seams of his voice, and Rory can’t even find it in herself to be annoyed that he now knows her actual name. Harry and Leslie don’t even know, and they’re some of her best friends. He smirks at her, sending her a wink, saying, “Beautiful name for a beautiful girl.”

Her skin begins to burn at his words, and she’s glad that her hair is down because she knows even her ears are turning bright red. “I don’t go by that name,” she mumbles out, pocketing her phone and moving towards him to grab the now opened wine bottle, pouring a generous amount of the deep red liquid into their glasses.

Niall’s looking at her curiously, but it’s not the judgemental kind that Rory nearly expects from everyone. “Why not?”

She shrugs, but can’t come up with an answer. There isn’t really a big story behind why she prefers to be called Rory. She’s just always thought that it fit her better. “Aurora was always too prim and proper for me I guess.”

At that, Niall laughs, taking his glass and leaning against the kitchen island where they’re standing. “Why, because it’s a Disney princess name?”

She laughs back, leaning against the island as well, flipping her hair back over her shoulder just for something to do. “Well that definitely didn’t help. But, I don’t know.” Her mind searches for a memory of having a bad experience with the name and none comes up. Everyone’s just always called her Rory except for her mom. But that was always because she’d told them to. “I just never felt like an Aurora. I always wanted people to call me Rory.”

When she looks up at him again, his face is softened up around the edges and he’s smiling that fond sort of smile at her that he usually reserves for Spike. Or maybe she’s imagining it. Maybe she’s too drunk. “Well,” he starts, voice a mere whisper in the already quiet kitchen, and it makes her lean in just to hear him. He leans in too, hand coming around to rest on the island ledge beside her, and she’s suddenly thinking about kissing him again. “I think ‘Rory’ is beautiful too.” And the way he says it makes her heart stop, makes her mind go blank as she gets lost in those eyes again, wide open pools of honesty and sweetness and what also looks like affection. But then he clinks his glass against hers and the spell, once again, is broken, and she’s crash landing back to earth. “Cheers,” he murmurs, still smiling at her, still leaning into her space ever so slightly.

Rory smiles back, but she doesn’t make a move, knows she won’t. Not after last year. Not after falling for a boy who made her feel like she could float up into the sky only to turn around and break her heart. So she simply says, “Cheers” back and they quietly sip their wine before somehow finding their way back to the living room.

They end up finishing off the second bottle, wine glasses abandoned on the table in favor of passing the bottle itself between them, and getting way too drunk to even get through Titanic, instead sprawling out on the couch, Rory on one end and Niall on the other, sharing stories they’ve accumulated over the course of the summer and laughing their heads off. At one point, Niall nearly falls off the couch and Rory nearly spits wine into his face so, yeah, they’re wasted.

They’re currently dying over an impression by Niall of Mrs. Dreyfuss when she realized Spike went missing, and Rory doesn’t know how she still has the energy or lung power to laugh as hard as she has. She’s wiping streaks of tears from her eyes when Spike finally crawls in next to them, curling up into their tangled feet in the middle of the couch, and both she and Niall start cooing affectionately at him before they realize how stupid they sound and start giggling again.

“I really love it when you laugh,” Niall says suddenly, and when she looks up at him, he’s leaning his head against the back of the couch and watching her with a soft smile. “You, like, light up.” He makes a gesture with his hands to mimic sparks and Spike makes a sound that, to Rory’s drunken mind, sounds almost like agreement. “This whole summer, all I wanted to do was make you laugh.”

She doesn’t know what to do except roll her eyes and toss a pillow from the ground at him. Her skin always feels impossibly warm whenever he throws a compliment at her, and she’s starting to think that he’s just doing it to watch her go red. “You’re drunk,” she says, still laughing a bit.

Niall tosses it right back at her, and it hits her square in the chest. “But it’s true! You and Spike could have been twins with the way you were always frowning.”

Rory looks at Spike, who is indeed frowning, and she gasps, feigning offense. “That’s so mean!” She throws the pillow at him again, narrowly missing Spike, who watches her almost warily. “But also probably true.” They laugh again, and every time Rory thinks she simply cannot laugh anymore, something happens and it just bubbles right out of her. Once they’ve finally settled down, silence overtaking them for a few moments, Rory slides down to make herself more comfortable on the couch, eyes trained up at the ceiling, which once again looks like fragments in her drunken vision.

She closes her eyes and just feels the alcohol pumping through her system. Just feels the way she’s light and airy and carefree. Just feels how good it is to be here, laughing away at everything and nothing with Niall, like there isn’t anything else that matters. Just feels how Spike’s warm fur is curled up against one of her legs and Niall’s fingers are tracing circles along her ankle on the other and smiles to herself because it all just feels so right.

“You know,” she starts, voice slightly slurred but also slow and quiet in the sudden calmness that’s enveloped the living room. “I wasn’t going to come back this summer.” The words flow out of her naturally, and once she starts talking, she realizes that it’s something she should get off her chest, once and for all. “Which is actually crazy now that I think about it because I’ve been working here for as long as I can remember, and everyone here is like family.” She thinks of Gigi and Harry and Leslie and Chester and all the other staff who have basically seen her grow up. Summer would not have been the same without them. It wouldn’t have felt right. “I was afraid...that things would be different. After last summer.” But she stops herself before she says too much.

Niall is apparently very perceptive though, because he says, “Someone hurt you, didn’t they?” His voice is hushed and gentle, and when she shifts her head to look at him, he’s watching her carefully.

“Why?” she asks back, feeling wary all of a sudden. “What have you heard?” She feels like she’s been asking him that a lot lately.

He shrugs, looking down at Spike, who seems to have fallen fast asleep. “Nothing. It’s just,” he’s shrugging again, as though attempting to fill up the space between his thoughts and his words, trying to get them right. And when he looks at her, there’s something in his eyes that she recognizes, even though the space is dimly lit, the only light coming from the lamp at the far side of the room. “I see it, sometimes. In the way you carry it, in your shoulders.” At his words, she suddenly realizes how tense she’s become and relaxes into the pillows slightly, but not tearing her eyes away from him. “You get this look sometimes. When someone says something and you want to laugh but then don’t, as if realizing you shouldn’t. Or when we’re at a party or event and you tense up because you start to realize you’re having fun.”

Rory doesn’t know how Niall Horan has noticed all these things about her. Doesn’t realize all these things about her even existed. But it’s sort of eye-opening. She’s spent this entire summer feeling sorry for herself, feeling insecure over what others might have thought of her after last year, that she’s forgotten how to have fun. Forgotten why she even loves this place.

“Sorry,” Niall’s suddenly saying, eyes widening as though he regrets the words that just left his mouth. Rory realizes that silence has stretched between them for minutes and she was too lost in her thoughts to notice. “I didn’t mean to cross a line or anything just—”

“No,” she says, and tries to sound reassuring but instead it sounds sluggish and slurred, her tongue heavy in her mouth. “No, you’re right. I—” She sighs, looking up at the ceiling again, hands folded over her tummy. “I guess I just didn’t realize that I became this person that...I didn’t even want to become.”

Niall gives her a moment to mull over her thoughts before he says, “I don’t think you realize how much of an impact you have on people.” His fingers are tracing random shapes into her ankle now. Rory wonders if he even realizes he’s doing that or if the gesture is just absentminded. “Everyone here loves you.”

And for once, she allows his words to take on the meaning he intends, allows them to wash over her bones and settle into that Shack boy-sized hole in her heart left from the summer before. She is more than her heartbreak. She can rise from it and move on.

“Thanks, Niall,” she murmurs after a moment, and as she smiles up at the ceiling now, she can feel herself being pulled into sleep, limbs feeling lethargic and heavy from the day’s events and the silky smooth wine buzzing through her. “Tonight was fun. I needed that.”

She doesn’t have to look at him to know that he’s smiling too. “Good night, Rory.”

And silence blankets them for a final time that night, wrapping around them snug and warm. Just two people and a cat, all tangled together, slow, deep breaths lulling them into a state of calm until they listen to sleep’s call and drift off to dreamland.

***

“When are you going to tell me about what’s happening between you and Niall Horan?”

Gigi’s waggling her eyebrows at Rory from where she’s sitting at their kitchen table the next day, sipping on a cup of coffee, and it reminds her too much of a similar conversation they had at the beginning of the summer.

Except this time, a searing heat cascades across her skin, her cheeks prickling with the telltale signs of a blush, and she’s glad to be holding up a book so Gigi can’t see the way her skin is undoubtedly turning red. “Nothing is going on between me and Niall Horan.”

There are 40 days of summer left, and that feels like the biggest lie Rory’s ever told.

tell me what you think! :)

#this one's all giggly and stupid lol hope u enjoy #head in the clouds #niall horan fanfiction #1dff #writings #one direction fanfiction #niall horan fanfic #niall horan x ofc

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leonkennedystuff · 5 years

Text

green-eyed (leon kennedy x reader)

[REmake!Leon]

Summary: Wherein jealousy takes its toll on both reader and Leon

Warnings: swearing

For what felt like the umpteenth time tonight, your dissatisfaction towards the evening presents itself as another gruff sigh escaping your lips. You weave your fingers together, thumbs fidgeting to cope with your current irked state.

From under the polished mahogany of the bar, you swing your exposed legs to cross them, not caring for the tight space or that the fitted navy-blue dress you wore rode up with your movement.

No, you were too bothered by other things.

You rest your arms on the wooden counter-top, leaning on it before cupping your fifth or sixth glass of whiskey in the last two hours. You rotate the drink, watching the rust-colored liquid swivel with your indolent gesture; it was nearly empty and you keep a mental note to order another round after finishing this one.

Although there was a buzz starting at the back of your head, you were not drunk or the least bit tipsy – it was the blessing and the curse of having a high tolerance for alcohol.

One thing was for certain though, right now was one of the rare occasions you wished you were shit-faced.

The temptation to look over was strong and sprang from your carper side but you will it down with force, knowing no good was going to come out of doing so. Besides, hearing their voices albeit being a number of addled bodies away was enough to get you all grouchy the way you currently were.

You hate how much of a wet blanket you’ve turned in just a few hours of arriving; you hate even more these ill-emotions because you should be celebratory and smiles – this was a very special day after all and it shouldn’t matter that you were feeling like the complete opposite at present. It’s not about you – tonight is not about you.

You rub the rim of your glass deprecatorily, head hanging low, your curled (H/C) hair draping over your shoulders like a curtain.

You felt bad for isolating yourself when you should be socializing – it took you weeks to plan this surprise graduation party, to invite the people here and getting other people to invite those you might have forgotten or not know - but you didn’t want to talk to anyone only to rub off the wrong way.

Despite the whole praise being honest gets, you wish you knew how to mask your true sentiments, to lie through your teeth about how you were really feeling.

This was not how you wanted to spend your remaining days with Leon Kennedy, a very special man in your life, before he leaves for his duties as a cop in Raccoon City.

Leon wasn’t your boyfriend, not yet at least - but the both of you were basically already together. Where you and him stood in terms of what you feel for one another and your dynamic for the last eight months suggested that, even with the lack of an official title, you were very serious and committed.

You huff softly, your hostility still not easing up.

Unfortunately, it seems as though these female friends of his flocking around him, giggling his name and – Dear God, for the life of you – “subtlety” trying to grab his attention by practically pushing their breasts towards his line of sight, haven’t got the memo.

Another irritated sigh, this time accompanied by a hair tuck.

You were a secure person; maybe it didn’t show tonight but you were. You knew you had nothing to be overcritical or nit-picky about because he wasn’t doing anything – but, ironically enough, that was where the situation made you itch.

Leon was completely oblivious to their obvious flirtation, probably passing it off as intoxicated friendliness despite them practically giving him lust eyes the whole duration of their interactions.

“Ken!”

You hear one girl giggle a pet name for him, exaggerated, her pitch almost sonic and making you turn your head without realizing so. You automatically wish you hadn’t because your earlier crossed demeanor mutated into an irate state.

A blonde girl wearing a purple cropped halter top was leaned dangerously close to Leon, her hands suggestively brushing up his denim jacket’s sleeve to his shoulders before finally stopping at his chest, giving it a slight push but hovering over it a second longer than needed.

She lets out another amused laugh, complimenting him for being ‘such a funny guy’.

If her suggestive behavior wasn’t already so apparent, this would have been the icing on the cake. Leon wasn’t funny – he was corny. There’s a big difference. You roll your eyes; of course, flattery was going to be their first line of attack.

As much as you ached to go up there and steal Leon away from the harpies, the last thing you wanted to do was keep him for yourself and look like the overbearing ‘girlfriend.’ Your hands were pretty much tied in this one thus why you were in an ever-growing bad mood.

With a deep breath, you return your hands on your drink, grasping it swiftly but a sharp ‘clink’ sounds from when you made contact with the glass. Your (E/C) eyes trail downwards to see the thin silver band on your left hand’s ring finger.

Gingerly, you run the pad of your thumb over the smooth metal before stopping at the center - a knot with a tiny diamond nestled in the middle of it. Your heart flutters at the promise ring Leon had given you just a few days prior, something to ‘remember him by’ when he left for the city hours away from you.

The stinging in your chest grows as the not-so-sweet reminder of his departure reappears. You had maybe a week left with him and here you were brooding in a beautiful dress and a goal in mind of getting absolutely hammered.

“Trouble in paradise?”

You almost gasp in surprise.

In nearly half an hour, this was the first time someone had tried talking to you – probably someone drunk enough not to notice your whole gloomy aura.

Turning your head, you see a man with light brown hair. He pulls out the barstool next to you, his drink – scotch like yours - in hand and he sighs when he plops down on his seat.

When he finally looks up, you were greeted with a kind and handsome face - bright hazel eyes and full, pink lips stretched in a perceptive smile. He looked to be just about your age but you couldn’t match a name to him- so you assumed that he was one of Leon’s friends.

“Leon’s girlfriend, right?” The nameless but seemingly buzzed man asks you with a curious cock of his dark eyebrow, leaning to his side so he could languidly prop his arm on the bar top.

“No,” You answer with a soft shake of your head, setting your glass away as you watch his expression turn into a mildly surprised one. “Not yet at least,” You finish with an exhale and his countenance shifts into amused understanding.

“Leon’s friend?” You return, reciprocating the same interest in knowing his relationship with the man you were dating.

He laughs at that, like your question was some sort of inside joke to him. You couldn’t help but smile at how inane this guy was being; the power of alcohol is truly amazing as it is destructive.

Bringing his drink to his lips, he takes a long sip while some drops of condensation falls on his light grey shirt. The small splatters turn the area it hit dark.

“That’s how the girls in the police academy knew me as too,” He shares thoughtfully, grinning at you. “’Are you Leon Kennedy’s friend?’” He imitates, changing the naturally low pitch of his voice to octaves higher in attempt to mimic a feminine one.

You try to stifle in a giggle, putting a hand up and waving it to get him to stop. “That’s a terrible impression,” You tell him, reaching for your glass as well, your glumness fading a bit. He tilts his head in acknowledgement, huffing, “Trust me, it was more annoying when they did it,” He juts a thumb forward.

“I believe you,” You nod, your small smile falling slightly as you shift in your seat to steal a glance. You didn’t know if Leon was still drinking from the same beer bottle in his hand from a while ago but he was taking a long swig, nodding his head with piqued interest at a story one of the harpies was telling him.

He didn’t and hasn’t looked your way for some time now so you avert your attention. You try to push aside the feeling of disappointment brewing in your chest.

“I’m (Y/N) (L/N),” You introduce yourself, trying to grow your smile although noticeably in half-hearted attempt, and stretching a hand for him to shake. The man may be borderline drunk but he could tell the blues you were trying to downplay – it wasn’t hard to see what you were trying to hide.

“Brody Jackson,” He takes your soft hand in his larger, rougher one, holding your gaze in a comforting manner before reclining in his seat. “I was Leon’s roommate and buddy,”

You raise an eyebrow. “Roommate, huh?” You tuck a hand under your chin attentively, attracted to the new information. “What was he like?”

Brody grins, “Really cool guy, I’ll miss the times sneaking beers into our room and staying up talking about the dumbest shit,” He reminisces, a nostalgic look crossing his face. You smile with him, even chuckling a bit imagining Leon in that scenario.

Brody takes a breath, like he was in thought, before looking back at you. “Time really flies, I guess. His request to be assigned to Raccoon City was granted, right?”

You nod, uncrossing your legs that were beginning to fall asleep and placing your hands on your lap. “Yeah,” You affirm, “He’s over the moon,”

“Well, I hope being a policeman in DC isn’t too much of a problem so I could catch up with you guys in the future,” He winks, picking his drink up from the table and gesturing for you to do the same. You oblige happily, taking your glass and clinking it with his. “To Leon and the great cop he’s destined to be,” He cheers.

You grin wide, knowing what he said will be true. “To Leon and you, and the great cops you’re both destined to be,” You echo with some corrections, making him beam.

Closing your eyes, you finally finish your alcohol in one go. You nearly gag at how awful warm whiskey tastes like. You make a disgusted sound, shaking your hands as if it will make the bitter tones invading your mouth subside faster.

Brody catches your repulsed expression and laughs, making you chortle with him. After calming down, he simpers, leaning a little. “Now I see why he can’t stop talking about you,” He says with a nod. “You’re cool,”

A little surprised with what he said, you blink at the man, “So set on your statement already? You’ve only known me for-“ Teasing, you look at the silver watch on your wrist. “- five minutes?”

“You had me at ‘Leon’s friend?’” He joshers with a good-natured mock.

You scoff at his jest, chuckling, “That’s unfair!”

“Hey guys, what’s going on here?”

Suddenly – so suddenly that it made you jolt in surprise - a pair of arms drapes over your body, one around your waist and the other around your chest.

Your back presses against Leon’s front as he pulls you to him, his hair tickling the side of your left cheek as he rests his head on the crook between your neck and your shoulder.

Despite the situation, the skin of your face heats up in a blush as your stomach tumbles with sensation – every time Leon does things like this, your body goes berserk. Granted, it was a bit embarrassing at your grown age but it is what it is. You were smitten over the guy, after all.

“Brody,” Leon greets easily, but there was something in the way he said the other man’s name and how his hold on you tightened slightly that made him seem clipped.

“Leon,” Brody smiles, looking from him to you. “Great party,” He comments with a nod, but you notice as clear as day how drastically his witty behavior toned down.

“Yeah, all thanks to my wonderful girlfriend here,” Leon says, pressing a tender kiss to your cheek. Although your heart skips at the affectionate gesture and him calling you his girlfriend, you knew right then and there that something was definitely up.

Leon was not one for public affection like this.

“So, you’ve met (Y/N) then, of course,” He continues, his breath fanning your neck with each word leaving his mouth. He smelled strongly of beer.

“Yup, she’s a gem, just like you’ve told me,” Brody agrees, giving you a kind smile which you return in appreciation. Leon hums, his sapphire eyes still not leaving the man in front of you both. “Yeah, she is and I’m very lucky to have her,”

Shifting uneasily, you turn your head so you could face Leon. He quickly looks at you, smiling lopsidedly. He was tomato red and from the way he kept moving from feet-to-feet, your suspicion of him being intoxicated was confirmed.

“Brody was just telling me about your dorm room shenanigans,” You share for him to understand, so he could ease up, combing away some stray strands falling over his eyes. He catches your hand and gives it a kiss, failing to pay attention to what you just said.

You frown slightly, never seeing him act this way before. You’ve seen him drunk a number of times, but he was never imperious, flashy or rude like this. It didn’t sit well with you how he was being with Brody, a supposed close friend of his.

Brody clears his throat, breaking your reverie. “Well, it was nice chatting with you both, but I think I’ll go on over to the other cadets there,” He says, pointing to a group and standing from his seat next to you.

“It was nice to finally meet you, (Y/N),” He says genuinely before walking away, Leon and him giving each other pats on the back.

Leon occupies the now-vacant chair and, upon doing so, he grins at you widely and reaches out to hold your hand. “Hey, babe,”

“Hey,” You return the smile, albeit softly. You were pretty upset – because of how long he left you alone for the girls and because of how impolite he kind of was to his friend. You weren’t sure whether or not to bring it up though, not wanting to ruin his vibe, but Leon beats you to it.

“Hope I wasn’t interrupting anything,” He says thoughtfully, licking his lips as he reaches over for your empty glass and toying with it. He avoids your eyes, “Finding a new potential boyfriend before I leave for Raccoon?”

Immediately, your brows furrow, disapproving of his joke. You realize, though, when he looks at you, that he actually was upset.

“What’s the matter?” You ask him, your face softening at his change of mood.

“Hm?” He hums, still not looking at you, and you sigh with resignation. “You were being rude to Brody, Leon,” You finally tell him, addressing one of your elephants in the room, hoping that if you instigate something, he’ll tell you what was bothering him as well.

A disagreeable expression flashes across his face and you knew he was peeved with what you said. “Was I? Oh, my bad – guess I just didn’t appreciate him getting too cozy with you,” He shrugs.

With that, you couldn’t help but feel a little irritated also.

Running a hand through your hair, you pause for a moment to think of what to say, “He was just talking to me,” You state, “There’s nothing wrong with that, especially considering I was alone almost the whole night,” You went on, turning away for a second. You quickly regret your words since he didn’t do anything wrong, but you didn’t know how to recover from it.

“Then you could have went to me, (Y/N), I would have gladly stayed by you all evening,”

“I’m sure those girl friends of yours wouldn’t have been happy with that, though,” You grumble, cracking your knuckles – an unconscious thing you do when you were annoyed.

Leon’s face knits with confusion, leaning away slightly. “Ashley? Jordan? Sam?” He lists – names, you assumed, belonged to the harpies who practically undressed him with their eyes. “They’re my friends from academy,”

You shake your head, acquiescent, knowing there was no point in arguing about it – you weren’t going to see eye-to-eye on this one. “Maybe,” You simply say, itching to call the bartender over to have your drink refilled.

Leon huffs, his leg bouncing under the bar top.

A cloud of tense silence passes over you both and you hate the ugly feeling festering in the pit of your stomach. Out of all the rare times you and him could have these less-than wonderful moments, it had to be here and now – in a bar with his drunk friends and classmates a week away before he leaves for another city.

“Excuse me,” You pardon yourself, the pang in your chest needing some nursing with a moment alone. Your eyes stick to the ground as you get up from where you were sitting.

You wobbled as you did so and you weren’t sure if it was because of how long you were seated or if the copious amount of whiskey in your system was finally catching up to you.

Regardless, you head towards the restroom, squeezing between jubilant bodies that blocked your path. You were able to make it inside of your destination just as the first round of tears came knocking.

Disconsolate, you lean on the porcelain white sink and grip its sides for support, letting whatever needed to fall, fall. You take some breaths.

You felt really bad – you shouldn’t have let your emotions take over because now you’ve ruined not only yours, but Leon’s night. Especially Leon’s night.

Your face creases at a new thought.

If you were already so affected by things like this, were you really prepared for a relationship? Especially one that would entail the difficulties of that of a long-distance one?

You shake your head with opposition, killing the idea as fast as you can. You stand upright and look at your flushed self in the large, square mirror, wanting to believe it was the alcohol in your body talking for you were beginning to feel the effects of it taking its toll.

Wiping at your eyes, you try to recompose yourself, taking one big gulp of air before deciding to head out and look for Leon, to apologize and to try turning the night around.

You weren’t going to let this evening end with you and him upset with another, you resolve with renewed purpose.

The moment you exit the restroom, you were greeted with Leon in front of you – Leon who had a look of unease and worry on his handsome face. Your heart skips at the sight of him and his does too when his gaze finally falls on you.

Not a moment later, you were both wrapped tightly in each other’s arms. You melt into him, your face buried in his broad chest and, despite the music, all you could focus on was his strong heartbeat. You close your eyes, leaning into him more, wanting to be in this moment as long as fate and time would allow you to. You hoped forever.

Leon holds onto your petite body with devotion, his taller frame towering over yours but finally at ease to have you where he wanted you all night. With the utmost affectionate, he kisses the top of your head, letting his soft lips linger for a while before breaking away a tiny bit so he can look at you.

“I’m sorry for being such an idiot tonight,” He starts but you shake your head, knowing you were at the wrong.

“No, I should be apologizing. I was being petty, I shouldn’t have gone ‘moody Judy’ on you, I’m sorry for that,” You say with genuine remorse for this evening was not filled with the best happenings.

One of Leon’s large hands falls to your neck, rubbing comfortingly your bare skin. “I shouldn’t have given you a reason to go ‘moody Judy’ then. Maybe I don’t recognize why you were upset with me being with the girls, but I promise to be more sensitive,” He tells you.

You sigh with content as he cups your cheek, leaning into his touch that you loved so much. You hold it there, basking in the moment before speaking. This time, you grin a bit, definitely feeling better knowing that you two were okay.

“I turned into a green-eyed monster of jealousy,” You joke although speaking the truth, tucking your hair behind your right ear. He chuckles, tilting his head. “I did too,” He admits, and you understand what he meant.

Playful, he looks around, his beautiful blue eyes still bright even if where you both were, the corner outside of the bathroom, was dark.

“I should go find Brody later and apologize,” He thinks out loud and you giggle with a nod of approval, enveloping yourself around his body again for it was home to you.

“But before that-“ He pauses, holding your shoulders and creating a distance between you both. You pout at the loss of contact but seeing Leon now looking a little nervous made your brows furrow.

“-I’ve got to ask you something,” He finishes. Leon smiles at you tenderly but the underlying jitters in his tone was palpable, “I was, uh, actually planning to ask you this after tonight,” He confesses, “But I think right now is the best moment to do it,”

You remain mute, wanting him continue, but your heart had already started to hammer against your warm chest.

“Will you be my girlfriend?”

Your eyes widen but so did the smile you were wearing - practically reaching from ear-to-ear. With your breath hitching in your throat, your joy and giddiness erupts, unable to be controlled or concealed.

It was an indescribable feeling of bliss, really. You were elated, this moment right here definitely going down as one of the happiest ones you’ll remember in years.

Instead of a verbal answer, you move towards your boyfriend, wholeheartedly laughing as you take his smooth face in your hands and kissing him with all the love your overjoyed heart can muster.

Leon smiles into it, holding you very close, his whole being feeling like it was floating. “I take it as a yes then?” He teases you and you bite down on his bottom lip alluringly, making his pulse jump.

Despite all that’s happened tonight, your evening just turned perfect.

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runnfromtheak · 4 years

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fanfic author’s tagging game (yay!)

Thank ya darling for tagging me!!!! @boyblunder-thedarkheir!!!!!

AO3 Name(s): LostandLonelyBirds aka RUNNFROMTHEAK

Fandom(s): Primarily Batfamily (so, Dick Grayson) and Young Justice (along with DCU obviously, but I also dabble into Miralculous Ladybug, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Harry Potter, and MCU (none of which I will ever seriously write for? Idk man).

Number of fics: 22 I will admit to (how do you have so many, my dear @boyblunder-thedarkheir? What is your secret?)

1. Fic you spent the most time on: Are we talking writing or thinking about writing, cause those are two very different answers. I spent the most time writing this bitch of a fic I’m working on right now, and the most time thinking about the two latest installments of my main series, Death is But An Illusion (aka How Could He and How Could It Be). I agonize over every goddamn detail with Dick’s anger, Jason’s Jason-ness, and every person’s every move and word. I am a mess, and I’m going to be murdered if I don’t update them soon. I am not sorry about that XD

2. Fic you spent the least time on: You Came Behind Me Secretly and Shattered Every Piece of Me (There's Blood On My Hands) aka my pick-your-own-canon clusterfuck of Dark!Dick Grayson and Dick Grayson being traumatized and tortured with no comfort (Some of them are so fucked up I question my own mind). I take less than an hour to write 80% of them, cause they’re short, and they very rarely take any time to plan. Fun and easy!

3. Longest Fic: At present, he had a chest full of heart and a body full of scars (pain became the only way that he could ever learn) is my longest, but the fic I’ve been hinting at on my other tumblr, @lostandlonelybirds is easily double the length (why do I do this to myself? Why am I like this?) the long boi (named one, not the one I won’t shut up about) is easily my best fic at the moment, and I’m so excited to write a sequel whenever I get the chance.

4. Shortest Fic: With Bated Breath and Pain You See (We're Nothing More Than Memories) technically, I have one shorter than that, but it’s a collab that wasn’t my original idea so I’m not counting it :)

5. Most Hits: You Came Behind Me Secretly and Shattered Every Piece of Me (There's Blood On My Hands) why do you people like this trash-fire so much? I don’t understand

6. Most Kudos: How Could He which does not surprise me.

7. Most Comment Threads: Technically, How Could He followed by the trash-fire AU title thing I’m too lazy to type again, but I’m gonna love on this one: Just Close Your Eyes (No One Can Hurt You Now) because it’s my baby, and it deserves it okay?

8. Fave Fic You Wrote: Ooo we are doing a top five.

5. How Could It Be (Jason is precious and sad and Dick is oblivious, and I love one-sided pining wayyyy too much)

4. How Could He (I put my life force into this stupid fic, so ofc it’s here)

3. I'm Scared to Live But I'm Scared to Die (I'm Numb Inside) (the suicidal boy, major trigger warning)

2. I See Things That Nobody Else Sees (And It's Slowly Killing Me) (the only fic I’ve ever written from Cass’s perspective, and definitely one of the creepiest and most fucked up. Bruce does not look good here)

1. he had a chest full of heart and a body full of scars (pain became the only way that he could ever learn) (so ummm Bruce doesn’t look good here either? RHATO #25 if DC wasn’t cowardly and let Dick react how he actually would, aka fuck Batman is the new motto)

9. Rewrites?: Fuck. All my older ones? Everything? Who knows.

10. Share a bit of your WIP or share a story idea that you’re planning:

Let’s do two. I’m nice.

First comes from How Could It Be:

“You loved him,” Donna says, ignoring his barb. “You loved him, and no one’s seen you or heard from you and I’m concerned, damnit.”

She punches his shoulder roughly, and he’s reminded of her strength, no matter how small she seems in her dead best friend’s sweater.

“I’m fine. Peachy-keen. Couldn’t be fuckin’ better. Honestly, you should be more concerned with Replacement, don’t think he’s slept in—”

“Jason.” Her voice is firm, even as her eyes swim with tears and she holds her arms tight to herself, breathing in the well-loved item’s scent. Jason wonders when Dick wore it last, if Donna had taken it from his abandoned Gotham Penthouse or his Chicago Apartment. He wonders if he’d left it draped over the couch, like the natural disaster he was, or if it had been folded neatly in a drawer.

For someone who prides himself on not being sentimental, Jason suddenly wishes he had something of Dick’s too.

“I’m here because I care, and because if Dick was here, he’d be doing the same thing I am.”

“But he ain’t here,” Jason snaps, “Is he?”

Donna’s head falls, and he feels like a giant jerk. He just… reacts poorly to that name, hasn’t heard it spoken since the transmission and subsequent funeral, since the guy he’d had the hots for since wearing the scaly panties had his mask ripped away and his life taken in front of Bruce’s eyes (who, to absolutely no one’s surprise, failed to save his son).

In the aftermath, no one said Dick Grayson’s name, always Nightwing, or some inane nickname the superhero community had for him. Last time he said it was to Damian, a failed attempt at comfort. But even Jason’s form of mutual grieving had been better than any of Bruce’s shit ideas. Bastard immortalized the ripped costume from his own son’s corpse (not that it had been the first time) and hadn’t even had the decency to give it a plaque (No ‘Good Soldier’ or ‘Good Son’, just a bare glass case with a bloody suit). Which… was weird. Jason was far from B’s best friend, but even he noticed something seemed strange, off, just not quite right. Like the funeral he didn’t speak at, like the breakdown none of them had witnessed beyond a one-off rage fit

“B, what the fuck happened down here?”

The Batcave was a disaster, dents glaringly obvious in several vehicles and a large spiderweb crack across the Batcomputer. Bruce closes the screen down, but Jason manages to catch a spiraling eye.

“Nothing, just…”

Bruce looks at the spare Nightwing costume none of them had taken down yet, still clean and ready for use (too bad its owner died and would never wear it again).

“Dick?” Jason questions, and the way Bruce’s eyes snap to his face is almost suspicious, almost enough to arouse concern.

“Yes. I—”

Jason sits next to Bruce on the desk, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I miss him too, Old Man. Don’t mean you need to be an ass about it.”

A memorial next to Jason’s own, but Dickhead’s is empty and broken from Damian’s fists and grief, and Jason’s is just gone. No one told him why, it was just gone.

Kind of like Dick.

He wonders if Bruce would have told him if the video hadn’t been broadcast, if he would’ve told anyone. B did love his fuckin’ secrets.

“No,” she whispers, and he can hear the tears in her voice, can feel her grief as keenly as his own. It’s palpable, tangible, “He’s dead, and I’m alive, and I don’t know how to handle it.”

And then, to Jason’s mounting horror, she starts crying openly.

…..

Second comes from my one I’m working on rn with Stray!Dick called I See Sunset In Your Eyes (I Hate This Part Right Here)

“Come on,” Wally says with a pout, dragging an overly amused Jason and Dick with him through the karaoke bar doors. “Donna and Roy are waiting for us, and Dick had to take forever to primp.”

Dick shrugs with a grin.

“Beauty takes time, time I can tell you did not take.”

Jason snorts, and Wally glares at him.

“At least I don’t take five hours to finish getting ready.”

“At least I can last longer than five minutes.”

“Ouch!” Roy butts in, throwing an arm around Jason and Dick’s shoulders. “Claws are out tonight!”

“Speaking from experience?” Jason asks, eyebrow raised.

Dick smirks without comment, sauntering past the group towards the table Donna’s lounging at.

“Hey gorgeous twin of mine,” He greets with a kiss to her eyes. She smirks, rolling her eyes at him.

“You’re just stroking your own ego with the twin tacked on, Wonder Boy.”

Dick bumps his shoulder against hers.

“Can’t I stroke both our egos?”

“You can stroke mine,” Wally mutters, turning red when Stray winks at his phrasing. Jason and Roy both facepalm, groaning. “Not what I meant guys!”

“Why Kid Idiot,” Dick replies, hand on his heart, “I had no idea you could be so forward~!”

Wally glares, waving over the waitress.

“Round of shots, on this dick,” he jerks his thumb at Stray, offering up his fake ID. She doesn’t bother checking it, probably because this is Gotham, and they were all in uniform. “Whisky, please.”

“Trying to get me drunk?” Jason jokes. It is, after all, his first big outing with the Titans for non-mission reasons. Stray had practically dragged him out of the Manor with a wink at Alfred and a middle finger for Bruce, saying that Jason needed to have fun outside of books.

Jason knows better than arguing with Dick Grayson-Kyle when he wants something, Stray trained him well.

“Of course, Batboy,” Roy replies, “It’s not a Titans outing if Stray is fully dressed and everyone’s sober.”

Dick shrugs.

“You’ll have to get some real liquor in me if you want me to do anything like last time.”

“Last time?” Jason asks, looking to Donna for an answer. Dick snorts. You get near naked one time…

“Boy Blunder ended up in just his boxers in a dancing cage drunk of his ass. Everyone thought he was one of the strippers, and he made, what, three-hundred dollars in bills?”

“Five-hundred,” Dick replies proudly, offering the waitress a twenty as she came back with their drinks. “Keep the change, darlin’!” He adds with a wink.

She flushes, making Jason frown.

Stray, of course, notices this and elbows Jason.

“Don’t get jealous, Blue Jay, it’s not becoming.”

Jason does not blush. He doesn’t, and that’s the hill he will die on.

“I’m not. On an unrelated note, pass me a shot.”

Jason is the master of changing the subject, Stray thinks sarcastically, passing him a shot and downing one of his own.

“Five bucks says alley cat blacks out,” Roy says smugly as Dick makes a face, the way he always did with heavier liquors. He glares at the redhead, who shrugs unapologetically.

Donna eyes them both speculatively, taking a sip of her own drink.

“Twenty says he gives a lap dance before he blacks out.”

Roy snorts.

“I’ll take it,” and to Dick, “Don’t do it, for me.”

Dick bats his eyes innocently.

“Lil’ old me? I would never do something so…” He trails a finger down Roy’s chest, making him swallow roughly. “Scandalous.”

Donna grins victoriously as Roy groans, trying and failing to hide his excitement.

“I hate you. I hate you both.”

Tagging whoever sees this, I suppose?

#dcu #dick grayson #my writing #stray!dick

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musingsofaperpetualdaydreamer · 5 years

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I don’t think it’s okay to threaten someone’s children and family with death threats but Scooter trying to spin this in his favour and paint her as a villain is so gross.

Unquestionably, Scott played a big part in this. How you can know someone for over half their lifetime, watch them grow up and be a big part of their journey and life and to only then exploit and betray them in such a way is just...wow. But that’s another story.

They don’t really want to have fair conversationsns behind close doors, if that was their true intentions, we wouldn’t be in this situation to begin with. Taylor was right, they just want her to be a ‘good little girl and shut up’; effectively bullying her into silence. This isn’t just purely about money or business, it’s clear at this point that they’re just being malicious, spiteful and trying to tear her down.

Just look at the statement Scooter released:

Oh what a suprise that truly must’ve been, you know seeing as he’s been a part of bullying her for years. Remember promoting that disgusting revenge porn music video and heralding it as a ‘must see’? Wow, as a husband and father I’m sure he’d love it if someone disgustingly violated his wife or children or someone he loved in such a way. He really showed such concern for Taylor’s wellbeing and the message that sent out; that that sort of bullying vile behaviour is ok, in fact it’s cool and ‘art’ and you should just accept it. You really don’t even have to imagine it being someone you’re close to to know that that’s wrong. He loved riding the Taylor hate wagon, he relished it. Respectful? You have to be joking.

Taylor’s music is so personal and close to her. She’s inanely talented and has a rare gift as songwriter. She pours her heart and soul into her music and she’s sacrificed and dedicated so much in order to make her art and perfect her craft. It shows. You can hear her in her music, it has a magical quality to it because you don’t just listen to her songs, you feel them and become immersed in the worlds that she creates. It resonates with so many of us. It’s value doesn’t just lie in the money it generates. And yet, despite her astronomical success, she remains so kind and grounded. It’s not just the people that meet her and are close to her that see that in her. The special bond and trust and love she has with us as fans, means that she doesn’t just feel like this superstar celebrity, in a way she feels like a friend. She’s so special. She doesn’t deserve what’s happening to her. No artist does.

Kanye tried to take credit for her success and downplay all her hard work and I can see how Scooter got along so well with him. To not only take part and relish in bullying her, it’s like he also finds great joy in being able to manipulate and control her. He knew full well what he meant when he proudly reposted that post, insinuating that in buying her masters he now somehow owned her. That doesn’t really sound like someone who respects and cares for her. He was taunting her.

Taylor has said herself she’s made efforts to work things out privately with her team but that hasn’t worked out. It’s so obvious that they really did back her into a corner. I think she has a right to speak up about what was happening to her and the injustices she’s facing. Like she said before: “There is a time for silence. There is a time waiting your turn. But if you know how you feel, and you so clearly know what you need to say, you’ll know it.”

Taylor’s situation sadly isn’t something completely novel. Artists being exploited in the music industry is a big problem and one that’s been happening for years, no matter how big their following is. It’s something that should have more light shed on, so that real coneversations and change can happen and that those involved can be held accountable. Again, I’m not condoning anyone sending out death threats or threatening violence but to villainize her for standing up for herself is so toxic. Bullies like to keep their victims silent and make them feel bad for them and how they feel, in order to make them easier to manipulate. I’m proud of Taylor for being brave enough to take a stand against what’s happening.

To further insult her he then says:

If he really is about peace and resolutions why on earth would you throw that jab in? I am so sick and tired of people trying to silence Taylor and gaslight her by saying she always wants to play ‘victim’ instead of actually acknowledging the truth, that she’s actually a human being who’s suffered a crazy amount of unjustified hate and unfairness to the point where bullying her is seen as a ‘cool’ thing to do. And yet she remains incredibly resilient and handles herself with such grace. Every time people try to tear her down, she picks herself back up, grows and comes back stronger than ever. She inspires me every day. I am so blessed to be able to love and support her and I am so damn proud of the woman she has become today.

She’s damned if she does, damned she doesn’t. She can’t win. There’s always something they’re going to flip just so they can hate on her. Remember when she tried to just say she wants to be excluded from the whole Kanye narrative and everyone came at her. Then when she channeled her pain into her music she was just looking for attention, playing victim and should somehow get overherself? Isn’t she allowed to just be human? She’s allowed to justifiably be angry and hurt and feel however she does. Is she not allowed emotions or only allowed what the hate train deems is acceptable for her? I am sorry for her and so done with this. She’s had a lifetime of this bs and she doesn’t deserve a second more.

Scooter never deserved the chance of ever owning her masters. Instead of just being able to enjoy this chapter of life and her new album which SHE RIGHTFULLY OWNS, she has to deal with this. She deserves to be happy, to own her music, do what she loves and live her life. I really hope things change for the better for her soon.

#taylor swift #taylurking #scooter braun #i stand with taylor #let her live

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spn-ficfanatic · 5 years

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F*ck Cancer- Ch 6: The Vow

SERIES MASTERLIST - CHAPTER ONE - CHAPTER TWO - CHAPTER THREE - CHAPTER FOUR - CHAPTER FIVE - CHAPTER SEVEN

Summary: The happiest moment of your short-remaining life is upon you

Genre: Angst, fluff

Characters: Sam x Reader, Dean x Platonic!Reader*, Bobby x Platonic!Reader *For the Dean ladies/lads: it may not be romantic between him and the reader, but it’s a very close brotherly/sisterly relationship and I still think y’all will really enjoy it :)

Words: 2176

Warnings: None for this chapter!

A/N: Please be sure to comment if you’re enjoying it! 2 chapters to go from here

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When the back door opened your eyes widened in amazement. Flowers adorned every nook and every cranny, with fairy lights still twinkling under the cloudy skies despite the fact it was still morning. White silk tulle draped either side of the aisle, extending across the garden, and an arch filled with white and yellow roses stood at the end of a white satin aisle. Just a few chairs were situated at the front, and as you lifted your eyes they fell onto the man you were there to see.

Sam stood under the aisle in his fed suit, his smile wider than you’d ever seen. You smiled broadly back, all of a sudden wishing you could run down the aisle to kiss him. Graciously the music started, your favourite song, as Dean and Bobby gripped your arms tightly and helped you down the aisle. You noticed Sam’s smile falter slightly as he noticed your tight grip on them, and Bobby asked quietly how you were doing. You couldn’t answer, you were too focused on reaching your destination as quickly as possible. You nodded slightly and hmmed in an affirmative response, and he patted your hand. Neither man spoke as they led you down to Sam, and as you reached him they guided you into his arms. He hugged you and held you tightly, and you melted into his chest and sighed contently.

“Missed you,” you mumbled, and he chuckled in agreement.

“Is everything ok?” he asked you, his tone turning serious, holding you at arms length to see your face. “You were holding onto Dean and Bobby’s arms for dear life.”

“It’s all fine,” you assured him, and you moved to sit on the chair someone had graciously sat behind you while Sam did the same. You were close enough together that you could keep holding his hand, and you rubbed your thumb across his knuckles lightly. He smiled at the motion and lifted your hand to his mouth to plant a kiss on yours.

The celebrant had initially been standing, but upon seeing the height difference he decided to pull up a chair himself.

“I feel this might be less intimidating,” he joked with a chuckle as he took his seat in front of the two of you, and everyone smiled. “Ladies an… well, lady and gentleman. We are gathered here today to see these two friends who became lovers, finally become husband and wife.”

Dean and Bobby cheered from the crowd of two and you laughed along with Sam.

“Now Dean wanted me to stress that this will be quick and painless. As per the request by both you and Sam there will be none of that holy matrimony crap because regardless of how much time you have left together in the coming weeks, as hunters we know all too well that life is too short to mess around.”

You raised a surprised eyebrow and Dean shrugged. “Met him at Ellen’s bar one day and we got talking. Figured he might come in handy one day.”

“He’s held onto my card for 5 years,” the celebrant told you with a wink before extending his hand. “I’m Greg, and it’s an honour to meet you both.”

You and Sam each shook his hand with a warm smile before he cleared his throat and returned to his notes.

“OK gang, let’s get this show on the road. Sam and Y/N, Dean tells me that you’ve written your own vows so let’s start with the groom shall we?”

Sam nodded once in affirmation, taking your hand before taking a deep breath.

“Y/N. The very moment you walked through Bobby’s door all those years ago you took my breath away. I remember that you said hello, to this scared 13-something year old kid who had no idea what love meant before, only to have me run to my room and remain there until you left with your dad a couple of hours later.”

You chuckled at the memory, as did Dean and Bobby.

“I wish I could go back to that kid and tell him he was an idiot, that knowing you would be the best part of his life and that he should cherish every second he had with you. And now, here we are with both the best and worst time of our lives looming over us, and I should be scared but I’m not. Because I’m spending it with you. And while I would give anything to have a long, full life together, I will gladly and gratefully take whatever time I have left with you. You will ALWAYS be my wife, in life and death, and one day I know we’ll be together again.”

You nodded with a sad smile as tears fell down your cheeks, and with a shaky hand you wiped them away. Sam lifted your chin so you were looking into his eyes, and with his thumb he brushed a tear away before kissing your cheek. You licked your lips, salty from the tears that had fallen there, and cleared your throat.

“Well shit, how can I follow that?” you asked with a huff, and Sam laughed. “I uh, I thought pretty hard about what I would say when I got here but I could never come up with the words I needed. I have a lot of wishes of course, but unless Greg here is a wish-granting genie on top of celebrant we’re shit outta luck. So I guess I just wanna say… I wanna say thank you. To Bobby, for raising us right, and Dean for making today possible. But mostly to you Sam. For keeping me sane when my dad drove me mad, and for looking after me when he died. For listening to me crap on about the most inane things to the most deep. For not giving up on me when I kept the cancer from you, or when it was so bad I could barely remember my own name. You and Dean, you've kept me alive for the last 2 months. And I'm so grateful. And I'm so so in love with you,” you told him with a wide smile. “Oh and I think you’re nuts for doing this by the way, but it’s honestly the most selfless thing I think a person has ever done for me. And even if I wake up tomorrow with no memory of who I am, I will still carry this with me for the rest of my days. However short they may be.”

Sam nodded, looking down to hide the fact he had tears rolling down his cheeks. You tutted and lifted his face to yours as he had one to you only moments ago, wiping away his tears with your thumbs as you placed a hand either side of his face. You kissed him lightly on the lips, and he leaned forward to deepen it.

“Erm, you may now kiss the bride?” Greg instructed with a laugh, and Dean and Bobby followed suit. “We do still have the rings though guys, if you think you can hold on just a few more minutes.”

You pulled back with a grin, licking your lips to try and savour the moment. “Yep, sorry Greg, do your thing.”

“Alright,” he continued, gesturing to Dean. “I take it you have the rings?”

Dean patted his pocket with a nod, then patted his chest pocket. Frowning he reached into his jacket before his eyes widened and he furiously checked his pant pockets.

“Dude, don’t do the shtick,” Sam interrupted.

Dean rolled his eyes and removed the rings from the first pocket, walking over to give them to you. “Party pooper,” he sulked in jest, dropping them into your hand before returning to his place next to Bobby.

“OK, Sam and Y/N, we’re going to do this nice and simple-like. I want you to repeat after me, together, as you slide on the rings: With this ring, I thee wed.”

You handed your ring to Sam, holding his in your fingers. He took your hand first, sliding it on with ease before giving you his hand to do the same. “With this ring, I thee wed,” you repeated together, looking into each others eyes and committing this moment to memory.

You weren’t sure what Greg said after that, you assumed it was the whole “kiss the bride” thing but for all you knew you jumped the gun yet again. Once you saw Sam’s eyes you were overcome with the urge to kiss him, and kiss him you did. If you’d had the strength you would have romantically leapt into his arms but instead he lifted you, bridal-style of course, and spun you around. Dean and Bobby were cheering in the background you could hear, but they sounded underwater. The only thing that mattered in that moment, the only two people sharing this particular moment, were you and your new husband.

-----------

The rest of the day was simple but perfect. You shared cake, sat around with beers sharing stories from both hunts and the adventures on the road together. You drifted off a couple of times, waking up each time in Sam’s warm and loving arms as if you’d never left. By 7pm you and Sam were getting antsy to spend some “alone” time together.

“Sam,” you told him quietly while Dean collected the next round of beers. “I think I’m ready to head out.”

With a wiggle of your eyebrows Sam picked up the signal you were dropping, and he held up a hand for his brother.

“Not for us man, we’re gonna get going,” he explained, sliding you off his lap and standing with a stretch.

“Yer fair enough guys, have a good night. Enjoy the room.” he told you both with a wink, and he gave his brother a hug. Bobby came over and leaned down to hug you also.

“See you tomorrow pumpkin,” he told you, and you felt a lump rise to your throat. “I’m so proud of the botha ya.”

“Thanks Uncle Bobby,” you whispered, kissing him on the cheek and pulling back to recieve Dean’s hug next.

“This was amazing Dean, thank you so much for everything,” you told him, a tear sliding down your cheek.

“S’what family’s for,” he replied, squeezing you tighter. “Now go enjoy my little brother, and never ever tell me about it.”

You laughed and reached out your hand to meet Sam’s. You swallowed thickly, a little nervous given you hadn’t walked for several hours, and let out a smile sigh of relief when he picked you up again bridal-style.

“Will you let me walk today?” you asked with a laugh.

“Oh I’m never letting you go again,” he replied seriously, and as he walked you to the Impala out the front you glanced back to see Dean wink at you and give a small wave.

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

“Dean told you, didn’t he?”

You were laying in bed, fingers intertwined with Sam’s as you stared into each others eyes. It was corny you knew, but you couldn’t stop looking at the guy. Almost as if he might disappear if you did, even for a moment.

“About your legs?” he replied with a frown, and you nodded. “I asked him actually, I knew something was up the second you walked down the aisle. Dean suggested I carry you here instead, I didn’t want to dampen the mood before you got your surprise.”

You looked around the room, which was not the 3-star motel you were expecting but the 5-star Hilton in the city. Sam had carried you the entire way, only stopping at the desk to rest you against him and sign the papers. There was champagne and even rose petals on the bed when you arrived; you’d needed a girly moment upon that discovery and had shed a few tears at the gesture.

“This is incredible,” you told him. “I never thought I’d get to stay in a place like this in all my life.”

“List Item 13: Live like a princess for a day,” Sam recited as he brushed a hair out of your face, and you blushed as you remembered 13yr old you writing that one. “I’m going to spend the rest of our time together making sure you feel like a princess every day, so hopefully this was a good start.”

You chuckled and rested your head on Sam’s bare chest, hearing his heartbeat against your ear.

“This was more than I could ever have dreamed,” you assured him.

A comfortable silence fell as you listened to each other breathing, enjoying the peace from your 11th floor room. There was no traffic noise, no voices from the other rooms, and a cool breeze drifting through the open window lightly brushed against your skin. You knew you should have talked about your legs, and the situation at hand, but you couldn’t bring yourself to break the silence again. Instead, you stayed as you were and allowed sleep to take you.

CONT.

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SERIES MASTERLIST - CHAPTER ONE - CHAPTER TWO - CHAPTER THREE - CHAPTER FOUR - CHAPTER FIVE - CHAPTER SEVEN

MY MASTERLIST

Tag Lists (Open)

Series Taglist: @deghostyboi , @dreaminemz , @spence-rreid, @almostelegantfire , @ericaprice2008 @mirandaaustin93

“Dean/Jensen” taglist: @mrsambroserollinsacklesmgk, @perpetualabsurdity, @mlovesstories

“Everything” taglist: @angelsandwinchesters, @grace-for-sale, @growningupgeek, @iamnotsaneatall, @nanie5, @waywardasfudge, @im-dead-inside05, @julzdec, @adoptdontshoppets, @meghanbeinghappy, @sleepylunarwolf , @sammysgirl1997, @imaginationisgrowth, @screechingartisancashbailiff , @flamencodiva

People who requested tags, that I cannot tag (but will still mention because I feel bad :( ): @ronja-uebrick, @lilydarcy, @cabbagewithissues

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dyslexicsquirrel · 5 years

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark Characters: Steve Rogers, Tony Stark, Darcy Lewis, Pepper Potts, Happy Hogan Additional Tags: Romantic Fluff, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, technically I guess, Steve is an oblivious dumpling, Darcy Lewis Is a Good Bro Summary:“I left my wallet in my other suit,” the man in line in front of him said, patting down his pockets like it would mysteriously appear if he kept checking enough.

I wrote more fluff while I should be sleeping. Someone TAKE AWAY MY

PHONE. Except don’t cause I needs it.

Stony bingo prompt fill (square N2)

Prompt: “Left my wallet in my other suit.”

Read here 👇🏻 or on AO3 👆🏻

“I left my wallet in my other suit,” the man in line in front of him said, patting down his pockets like it would mysteriously appear if he kept checking enough.

Steve hadn’t ever seen him in the coffee shop before and he came here every morning like clockwork after his run. He worked from home so he made his own hours and, yeah, he could make coffee at home, it this place had the best muffins in Manhattan and the baristas always had his order waiting at the counter when he got up there no matter how long the line was. He could see his cup sitting there, next to the register Darcy wasn’t using. She caught his and shrugged.

Steve didn’t mind waiting, the guy just looked so embarrassed for having forgotten his wallet, and that was why he found himself stepping next to him and telling Darcy, “ring his up with mine.” It wasn’t because the man was gorgeous and wore a suit like he was born in it.

“Sure thing, Steve-o,” she said with her trademark exuberance. She slid the paper bag with his muffin in it and his latter over and rang up the man’s triple shot.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know,” Steve said, giving him a smile and trying not to be flirty. Should he be flirty? Maybe he should be flirty. He wished he were wearing something else other than a sweaty t-shirt and a pair of sweats. “I’m considering it my good act for the day.”

“I’ll consider you my knight in shining,” he paused, giving Steve a once over that was anything but casual. When those gorgeous brown eyes of his met Steve’s again they were crinkling at the edges from the smile that played on his lips. Something about that smile and the very distinctive facial hair sparked recognition, but the feeling was half formed. “Athlesiure,” he finished, looking amused and interested. In Steve.

Steve hadn’t been on a date since his last relationship ended. He hadn’t even thought about flirting with anyone, not wanting to get sucked into some rebound, but risking a rebound, one-night stand would be worth it for this man.

Feeling the blush on his cheeks, Steve turned away to scan the Apple pay on his phone. Steve picked up his latte and his muffin and Handsome Interested Stranger grabbed his cup and put his other hand in the pocket of his obviously expensive suit.

“Thanks for the coffee,” he murmured, casting a glance at the impatient people standing behind them. With a half smile that was hard to decipher, the other man said, “Maybe I’ll see you around sometime,” raised his to-go cup in a like he was giving a toast, and left.

Steve stepped to the side so the woman talking into a bluetooth headset could give her order to Darcy. He gave her a nod and went home, feeling disappointed.

The next morning, Steve went out for his run in Central Park, earbuds in, dodging pedestrians and other people out for a morning walk or jog. He ran tracked his distance on his smartwatch and once it hit three miles (even though he knew how far he’d run already), he stopped and braced his hands on his knees to catch his breath for a second. He took his time walking to the coffee shop, not in any hurry. He was ahead on work since he’d needed the distraction yesterday to take his mind off a certain someone.

And certain someone he noticed was standing outside the coffee shop when he rounded the corner. He was dressed in a different, but still amazing suit today, phone pressed to his ear, gesturing expressively with his free hand.

Steve pulled his earbuds out when he got closer, pausing his music. The other man turned slightly when Steve was a few feet away, catching sight of him. “Hold on, Pep, I gotta go. No, no, I’ll be there soon. Just… tell them to sit tight. I pay them enough,” he said to the person on the other end of his phone call, hanging up once he was finished, and sliding the phone into the inside pocket of his blazer. He hadn’t taken his eyes off Steve the entire time and he stopped walking once he was an arm’s length away, close enough to touch if he wanted to. “Hi,” he said to Steve, posture easy, lips not quite smiling but close.

“Hey.” Steve, on the other hand, was playing with the cord to his earbuds, feeling unaccountably nervous. He tried for a joke. “Did you leave your wallet in your other, other suit?”

The man laughed, at least, even though it hadn’t been all that funny. “No, I remember that today,” he said, chagrined. “I did forget to give you my number though.”

“What?”

“Yesterday.” He took a step closer, making the scant distance between them even less. “I should have given you my number.”

“Oh,” Steve said inanely. “I’d like that.” God, he sounded like an idiot. The man held his hand out and Steve stared at it, brow furrowed.

“Gimme your phone,” Tony prompted, wiggling his fingers.

“Oh. Right.” He pulled the earbuds out, shoving them into the pocket of his shorts in a jumbled mess, and handed his phone to him after unlocking it.

“Iphone,” he muttered, tsking as his fingers flew over the screen. Maybe he was an android guy? “There you go, Steve.”

Steve took his phone back, mouth open to ask how he knew his name, but remembered that Darcy had said it yesterday when she rang him up. “Thanks,” he said instead for lack of anything better.

“I’m late for work, so I need to go, but…” he looked up at Steve with that same amused, interested look from yesterday that might have fueled a couple fantasies last night. “You should definitely call me.”

Steve nodded before the man turned and started to walk away. He glanced down at his phone, saw that he’d entered himself under ‘Coffee Shop Guy’ and called after him, “What’s your name?”

Several people turned to stare, but whatever it got the guy’s attention. He looked a bit bemused. “Ask Darcy,” was all he said before continuing a little ways down the street, where a car idled by the curb. A guy in a black suit leaning against the car pulled the door open for Coffee Shop Guy. Steve shook his head and walked inside, feeling a little unsteady. Who was that guy? Who just had a chauffeur?

The line wasn’t too bad when he got in and it was only about five minutes later when he got to the counter. Darcy had a bigger smile than normal on her face. “You lucky dog, you,” she said, leaning over to give his shoulder a good natured above.

He frowned at her. “The hell are you talking about?”

“The guy.” She was so excited, she was practically vibrating.

“Yeah, he told me to ask you what his name is. I got his number, but he didn’t tell me.” Which was weird. The guy was eccentric to say the least.

“You seriously don’t know?” Steve school his head and she rolled her eyes, pulling his latter and muffin over to ring him up. “You’re so oblivious. Do you live under a rock?”

“I guess?”

“Good grief.” She picked up something from beside her register and handed it to him.

“What’s this?”

“Just read it.”

He looked down and saw that it was a business card. Snowy white paper, embossed type. His brows popped up, this thing was nice. Then he read the name and his mouth fell open. “Holy shit.”

“Yup.” Darcy plucked his phone out of his hands and scanned his Apple pay app for him.

“That was Tony Stark? Tony Stark of Stark Tech Tony Stark?”

“Uh-huh.”

“How the hell did I get Tony Stark’s number?” He looked up at Darcy helplessly. Tony Stark has been on Forbes 30 under 30 list for… as long as someone could be on that list. He’d been on their Richest People in America list, too. Probably still was. And Steve had met him because the guy forgot his wallet and couldn’t buy coffee? He owned an entire freaking building in midtown.

“Have you looked in a mirror lately?”

“Oh, come on,” Steve said, taking his phone back and stepping to the side to finish their conversation because a line was starting behind him. “He’s dated models and royalty. I design book covers. I grew up in Brooklyn!”

“So?” Darcy looked at him like he was crazy and maybe he was. A rich, attractive guy gave Steve his number and he was busy thinking up reasons not to call? He was being ridiculous and he knew it.

He blew out a harsh breath. “You’re right. You’re right.”

“Of course I am,” Darcy told him with a cheeky grin. “Now, go call the hot millionaire so you can have amazing sex with him!”

Steve blushed, glaring at her when she laughed, and left. Out on the sidewalk, he looked down at his phone, biting his lip in indecision. Ah, fuck it. Steve pulled up Coffee Shop Guy and sent him a text instead of calling since it had sounded like there were people waiting for him from the call he—Tony—has been on before Steve walked up.

Steve: Hi. It’s Steve. Just wanted to make sure you had my number. Don’t want to bother you at work.

His phone vibrated almost immediately.

Tony: You could never be a bother. I’m in a shareholders meeting and it’s super boring anyway.

Tony: Entertain me.

Steve chuckled and shook his head, texting back as he climbed the steps to the front door of his building.

Steve: Afraid I have work to do myself. But I can entertain you later if you want.

Steve rolled his eyes at himself. That had sounded a lot more suggestive than he’d meant it to. He stopped to grab his mail and headed up to his apartment.

Tony: What did you have on your mind?

… Okay, he could play this a couple of different ways. What did he want here was the question. Steve dropped his mail on the kitchen table once he was inside his apartment and sat down, sipping at his latter and staring at the phone.

Steve: Dinner?

He left it as a question, then thought that he should have been more decisive. Tony texted him back really fast.

Tony: Yes

Just that. One word. Steve felt a smile breaking over his face.

He was going to have dinner with Tony Stark.

#Cap-Ironman bingo fill #stonybingo #stony #stevetony #stony fic #more fluff

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therapisttothedevil · 5 years

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Good & Bad || Linda & Lucifer

When: Before The Riots Where: District X - Linda’s Office With: @apollyon-morningstar - Lucifer

Lucifer has another stumbling block with Billy and decides to consult Linda on the matter...

Lucifer: Being in a fight with Linda was tiresome. Lucifer relied on her to help him tease out the introspection that he just refused to do. He had said to her that he was going to use a failsafe. That he would leave the moment Lucifer began to feel unsettled by the whole thing. But now he was in a predicament because he felt unsettled and wouldn't leave. And why not? He had just met the other. It was driving him half mad trying to work it out. The fight they had had ended badly, and now Lucifer was relatively sure that he would have to apologize--which, ugh. However, what Billy had been saying about him and being Good and all that... He didn't bother to make an appointment--he rarely did anymore--instead just showing up and pushing into Linda's office. "I've hit a snag," he told her. "In the failsafe."

Linda: There were moments of downtime, even for her, despite the large client list of people in District X. So, Linda had decided to enjoy her salad and green tea at her desk, listening to a podcast about female authors. Given the craziness she’d experienced not so long ago (which she was managing to ignore and get by without examining thank you very much) a sedate experience like this was exactly what she needed to feel better about things. And she was ten minutes and four bites in when the door opened without knocking and one of the biggest pains in her ass showed up. Much as she still considered him a friend, despite his behaviour, Lucifer was very difficult at times. “A snag?“ she repeated, turning off her podcast and eyeing him for a moment. She put her fork down and sighed, biting back any other comment in favour of, “Come in, sit down, tell me what’s happened.”

Lucifer: Lucifer moved into the office, settling down on the couch where he usually sat. Or at least, he had usually sat on the couch in LA. He looked over at Linda before quirking a brow. “Are we trying to watch our figure, darling?” He asked her, nodding to the salad. “There’s no need. All that hot yoga does you a world of good.“ Lucifer couldn’t help but joke a little bit. It was his go to initial line of defense when he felt uncomfortable. “I took your advice,“ he said simply. “I decided I was going to explore the new experience which would come from being—“ he paused, giving a playful little shiver before finishing. “—monogamous.” He wondered if Linda had actually thought he could do it. Because Lucifer hadn’t really thought he could. And maybe he couldn’t. After all, he had only seen Billy four times before having to come find Linda once more. “I got mixed results. On the one hand, I really did enjoy some of the time we spent together. But on the other… I cooked dinner. Me. I cooked. And then the first thing out of his mouth when he got to the club, which I had set up with the whole revolting checklist of ‘romantic’, was ‘is this kosher?’.” Lucifer shook his head. “Everyone knows that Judaism is a load of bollocks. I’m the devil. It’s like he missed the memo. Obviously the lamb wasn’t kosher. I am blamed for all of the corruption in the natural state of human history. No I’m not going to humanely slay a lamb.” The moment he started talking, there wasn’t really much stopping Lucifer. “And it’s not as if I’m not trying. I took him to Disneyland. An amusement park. Filled with children.“

He had sat down initially, but then ended up back on his feet. Perhaps he would just forget that he and Linda were fighting. Because talking to her always felt… Better. Even if it took a little while for it to settle in. After all, after a few of her more insistent sessions, Lucifer was always prone to personal attack. But now, he needed her help. Her insight. “And then he gets on a lark about how I couldn’t’ve been a detective with Chloe unless I was a good person. He’s looking for some sort of Saint Lucifer. But I’ve been there, I’ve done that. It was boring, and it was a waste of time. If Good exists, it doesn’t necessarily mean that justice does. And really what’s the point of one without the other? I’d rather just have fun.“ It was a load of bullshit spilling from his mouth, but Lucifer would be offended to be told such. “And where does he get off? What right does he have to give me his assessment of me when he barely knows me? He’s not you, though for all he seems to think he is. So I got angry. And really, I should just be considering leaving him, right?. But it’s not just the way I feel around him. There’s something else. Something magical. I don’t know if I can describe it to you because you’re just a human but the point remains that when I’m around him something happens. I erase matter. I destroy it. That isn’t supposed to be possible.“ It was an overload of information, and Lucifer was just getting started. Still, he allowed himself to pause if only because he knew that Linda would need to speak or at least need to think about what he just said.

Linda: Usually, when she didn’t need to speak a great deal it was an indicator that a session as going well. Or at least, that the patient she was seeing felt comfortable enough to open up. As it was, Lucifer seemed to have forgotten he was even angry with her (or was simply foregoing the rage momentarily) to spin what was rapidly becoming a convoluted tale of many different events. Luckily, she’d been doing this for a long time and as Lucifer talked she plucked the important threads from his rant and began unravelling them. “Lucifer. Did you ask Billy if he had any dietary requirements before you went ahead and cooked a dinner?” Which, wow to that little revelation. “Because in a relationship cooking for someone is an intimate gesture, it’s showing your desire to care for and please a partner. But it’s usually something one person does for another when they know each other a little better.” She wondered if he was rushing ahead, trying to get to the end of the road more quickly (which would be a very Lucifer thing to do come to think of it) “Billy didn’t set out to reject your hard work or your gesture. You have to respect that his religion is a part of who he is, how he identifies. That includes the way he eats. Even if you may not agree with it.“ Which it seemed he certainly didn’t, “Also, is there not even a little truth to the events that founded the Judaism faith?“ She asked, “You’re in that one after all.” She couldn’t help but be a little curious about these things. And if he was pretending there was nothing wrong then why couldn’t she? “My point being, if you put the incident regarding the food you made aside, how did Billy react to the gesture itself? Was he pleased you cooked for him? Took your space and made if something for just the two of you?“ Everything she knew about Billy was second-hand of course but it seemed like he would react well to the whole thing.

Again, she waited a few moments before continuing, giving Lucifer time to digest her words, even if she wasn’t sure he would. “Disneyland?” She couldn’t help but deadpan, “Honestly?” What an awful place for a date. But maybe that was just her. “So, to your understanding, Billy made an assumption about you that was inaccurate and you didn’t like that?” She asked, pausing a moment, “Quite similar to you assuming he’d be happy to eat whatever you cooked?“ She waited and then smiled slightly, “Lucifer, this is how people get to know one another. It will never be perfect at first try. You’re both discovering who the other is. You’re testing boundaries, crossing lines you don’t know are there. Neither of you are setting out to hurt the other. It’s simply how we get closer. When you have a conflict like that you don’t walk away. Not if you’re invested.“ “Though perhaps, you should consider thinking about why what Billy said bothered you so much.“ She looked at him carefully, “He saw good in you. Believed there to be good in you… Why did that upset you? You said yourself that you’re blamed for humanities darker impulses but that you’ve never had a hand in causing them. You don’t lie. You punish people who deserve it. None of thing make you objectively evil. So why the resistance, the push back, when you’re confronted with the idea of being good?”2 February 2020

Lucifer: Lucifer felt his temper flare. “No, I didn’t perform the oh-so-vital interrogation which includes: can you eat a perfectly prepared rack of lamb?” He shook his head. “It’s exhausting, honestly. He asked me for romance and I find the notion of romance to be a colossal waste of time.” He shook his head. “Just because the events aren’t wrong doesn’t mean that the Presence gives a flying fuck how you eat animals. Ridiculous.” He shook his head. “What is it with you and identifies, Linda?” She had lingered on that with him for so long. “And we’ve fucked, we’ve done four of the inane ‘dates’. How well do I have to know him?” He shook his head. “And all he said was ‘is this kosher?’. And like Hell I was going to tell him I had prepared the meal after it was deemed unsuitable to his worthless dogma. He’s with me. How could he think I observed any of that silly human fairytale?” “Don’t say it like that. That’s what he asked me for. I went and got to employ the sin of Gluttony. The amount of food they have there is utterly appalling but also fascinating.” He never would have selected Disneyland in his own right. He narrowed his eyes. “I think trying to define who I am is quite a bit different to not eating something delicious from someone who has been around since they started eating the stuff.” “Weren’t you listening? I tried Good. After you left I did charity, philanthropy, and all that garbage. And then I met—“ He paused before shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter. You once told me that you thought I was enchanted with Justice. And maybe I am. But Good and Just aren’t connected and I’m quite beginning to believe that the latter doesn’t exist.”

Linda: “Lucifer. You do know that a relationship only progresses well if it works as a give and take?” She asked, certain she’d made this point before, “If you’re uncomfortable with traditional ideas of romance then discuss that with Billy. Compromise, good partnerships of any kind romantic, business, familial, they revolve around compromise. Instead of trying to present yourself in a way you aren’t comfortable with think, how would I ‘Lucifer Morningstar’ show someone I value their feelings without bedding them. What about Maze?” She asked abruptly, “The two of you have an intensely close relationship that isn’t at this point physical. What sort of things did you both do that you feel Billy might enjoy? Has it occurred to you that perhaps you thinking you need to be so utterly unlike yourself to be close to this man is causing you some distress?” “And that was an example of a compromise. You went where he wanted and found the food got you through it. Now, try and flip that, what or where would you enjoy and feeling comfortable doing that may have something for Billy to partake in?” She shrugged, “You’d be surprised Lucifer. When it comes to our psyche’s understanding ourselves is the best way to understand our actions and reactions to different situations.“ Linda tilted her head and not unlike a shark scenting blood moved in on that slight pause, “You met who?“ She asked, “Because I think it might matter.“ Linda paused a moment, “Good exists, without it how could measure evil? Justice is something dependent on context Lucifer. It can’t be nailed down simply. Like a relationship can’t. Like an identity can’t.”

Lucifer: Lucifer stared at her blankly for a long moment. How would he, Lucifer Morningstar, show someone he valued their feelings without bedding them? He had no idea. Though her question about Maze had him sighing. "Well, Maze has gone off and left," he remarked. "And somehow I don't think that Billy would enjoy punishing the...wicked." He very nearly trailed off at the thought. Because Billy did punish the wicked. In a sense. He was a superhero. Insofar as humans defined them. "Wait. He is an Avenger. Do you know about them? That team of humans with powers?" He considered. "But I'm not going to be an Avenger. How would I... share that with him? All of the things Maze loved to do with me beyond that aren't really his cup of tea. He won't even do orgies." A shame really. Lucifer remembered the Britneys. He looked up. "Well, that's it, isn't it? Because he is trying to--" But he wasn't, was he? He paused again before humming once. "Okay. I'll even give you a point on that one. Enjoy it, you know I don't give them out often." Normally, he had to argue. All the time. If he didn't, Lucifer was relatively sure he would perish. So now his mind had begun to work. There had to be other ways to be romantic without rose petals and candles and other things. "We kissed," he said simply. "For a long time. It... Because I wanted to. Because the thing he's got... it makes me feel... strange." He looked up at Linda. "Okay... another point." How the Hell had he lived without her for so long?[21:49]He knew she'd lock on. Or he should have known. Sighing, he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Just someone I worked a case for. He's... dead now." Your Father has a plan. No he didn't. More and more, Lucifer had begun to believe that the Presence was just a mean kid with a magnifying glass burning the wings of of the little insects here on earth. "You're right. It exists. It's just completely inconsequential. Whether Good or Evil means nothing. Changes nothing. If it didn't, the man I met wouldn't be dead right now."

Linda: She took a quiet satisfaction in herself when she managed to bring the other to a momentary standstill. It was rare but Lucifer had and did make progresses when he came to see her, he was already so much better than he’d first been. “I’m sure she’ll be back Lucifer. Maze is a much more independent demon now. Like you maybe she wants some time to see how she fits into the world.” But that was a conversation for another day, even if she missed Maze too. She waited as Lucifer talked through things that Billy enjoyed, he was an avenger? Superpowers, trust Lucifer to find this connection in a hero, it was an interesting comparison. “Well, you shared helping Chloe with her investigations. Perhaps Billy and his avengers sometimes need to investigate things as well? Even if you and she may not be the same kind of thing you and Billy are, you still enjoyed the experience.“[18:16]Linda lent back with a little smile on her face when even Lucifer Morningstar had to admit she was right, she often was but getting him to say it was a much rarer event. “Kissing is an initiate thing lots of couples do, it can lead to more or sometimes it’s just about that contact and showing someone you feel deeply for them.” She paused then continued, “Or, maybe it’s sharing a favourite place of yours, a night of dancing, a few drinks, maybe a certain someone showing off their piano skills and voice.” She trailed off. Lucifer loved his clubs, and just because they were sexy places didn’t mean he and Billy couldn’t spend intimate time there that wasn’t physical.

“You’ve worked a lot of cases when you were in LA Lucifer, seems to me that someone sticking in your mind must’ve made quite an impact.” She said, tilting her head slightly. “Lucifer, good, evil, they’re abstract terms. They exist on the meaning we give them and even then, what’s against the law isn’t necessarily evil. And what’s right isn’t necessarily good. But, we still do our best to protect what we hold dear. In the end, that’s all that we can do. It may not be how we’d like the world to exist but it still matters to me, even if not to others.”

Lucifer: "Okay, so say you're right," which he had said but would not say again. "I suppose I'm meant to apologize for the way I reacted? Or do I just... you humans take conflict so deeply." Not just a human thing. Lucifer was showing his hypocrisy again. He was the King of taking things personally. And Linda was probably going to say yes. The idea of saying he was sorry gave him hives, but he had done it for Chloe before. He could do it for Billy. "What's right isn't necessarily good?" Lucifer repeated. "Then what is the point of 'right' or 'good' at all?" He shook his head. "Frank Lawrence's death wasn't right even though he was good." He shook his head. "He was a priest, which usually leaves a bad taste in my mouth but for once I met one that actually practiced what he preached and... he knew me. He knew what I was as he was dying and the person he died for wasn't worth his time. 'No one is beyond saving'. You know, except him."

Linda: “And you’ve never felt an apology necessary from a person you felt had wronged you?” Linda asked, if he didn’t expect her to put that one forward he had another thing coming. “You’ve lived among people for a long time now Lucifer, you know you need to apologise. And then you should explain to Billy how attempting to fit into preconceived notions of romance made you uncomfortable. If he cares about you then I think you’ll find him very willing to compromise.“ “It helps with cohesiveness. We wouldn’t be as successful a species as we are if we didn’t try to hold ourselves to the same standards out of respect for one another. Some do not do that and are punished for it. But that doesn’t lessen the pain of damage they cause.” She narrowed her eyes only slightly as Lucifer opened up about Frank, “Did he think that?“ She asked after a brief pause, “Did he die angry that it was in exchange for another person? Or is that your belief, your pain, quite justifiably, colouring over what he may have thought? It seems to me that, of this man thought no one was beyond saving then he would have been at peace giving his life to save another.“ She paused, “But then, death isn’t for the dying, not really.“ Linda watched him carefully, “Death is for those who’re left behind.”

Lucifer: Lucifer narrowed his eyes. "Now don't get petty, Linda darling." Or he would be forced to be petty back. And Linda knew that Lucifer's petty was most people's mean. And he didn't want to be mean to her. Not when she was helping him. He gave a comical sigh. "I will attempt to find some semblance of apology to muster forth." "I'm not a member of your species," he reminded. "Only trying to navigate your funny little minds. And yes. He did think that. He was an idiot. But a good man. And now he's dead and my Father did nothing at all to save him. We are all surprised exactly none." He shook his head before pushing to his feet. "Now, I suppose I'll leave you to your salad, doctor. Mustn't let it wilt."

Linda: “Wouldn’t dream of it.” She said idly, taking a sip of her water. Being the bigger woman in every conversation was exhausting and frankly she’d deserved that dig. “Lucifer, it isn’t a difficult thing. You just need to be honest. Admit it hurt your pride when he rejected your dinner and you lashed out in response, likely a touch more than was necessary.” And by ‘a touch’ she meant a lot. “No but you live amongst us. You’ve been around humanity long enough now to know how apologies work.” She reminded him in kind, “He was an idiot by your standards. Not his own.” Linda was quiet for a moment, “Lucifer, I don’t think your father gets involved anymore.“ He brought ‘absentee’ to a whole new level. She raised a brow once more, “Treat Billy to a night in Opulence. Sing for him, ask about his family, maybe share some of your detective adventures. Who knows, you might enjoy a date if you make it a Lucifer-Date.”

#Discord #Discord: Good & Bad #apollyon-morningstar #Good & Bad

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