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there-must-be-a-lock · 3 years

Text

Three (Bad Ideas) - Part 3 of 3

Jared x Jensen ( x Reader, but mostly J2)

Word Count: ~6720

Warnings: The most explicit guy-on-guy scene I’ve written so far in this series, I think. Rom-com-style miscommunication shenanigans, excessive fluff, bossy!Jensen and his dirty dirty mouth, Jared’s exhibitionist tendencies, polyamory negotiations, anxiety and the way it can fuck with relationships, no seriously so much fluff, boys being idiots, boys in a non-figurative closet, boys in love, boys in bed, and more fucking fluff.

A/N: I cannot believe I finally finished this, holy shit. Credit to @fangirlxwritesx67! Most of this series wouldn’t exist without her neverending J2 gif spams.

Catch up here: Part 1 / Part 2

This is the prequel to the original Everything story, which you can only read on Amazon these days; it actually overlaps a bit, and retells a few scenes from Jared’s POV, but this fic stands on its own. The original is thoroughly plotless, tbh. It’s like 18k of pure smut. Read it over here if you’re interested. More standalones/headcanons/ficlets in this ‘verse can be found here.

“Come on,” Jared pants, “Hurry up already.”

“Somebody’s fuckin demanding,” Jensen growls.

“Please, just — fuck, so close, come on.” He tries to buck forward but Jensen’s got him pinned, shoving him against the wall of the dark, cramped little closet while his hand moves in a maddeningly even rhythm, working him with long rough perfect strokes.

“Door’s not locked. If you don’t keep your voice down somebody’s gonna walk right in.”

He twists his wrist just right, and Jared groans, slumping back against the wall, trying not to let his knees buckle.

“Please,” he says again.

“Is that what you want? You want someone to walk in?”

“Shit, come on, stop teasing.”

“What would you do if she walked in?” Jensen says, practically purring, his voice deep and suggestive in the dark, close air. “God, I bet you’d love that.”

Jared wants to protest, but the image of it, the thought of her opening that door, thrills him like a thousand fucking volts. He whimpers, and Jensen just laughs. The guilt hits a split-second later.

“I wouldn’t stop, either,” Jensen continues. “I’d let her hear you begging, let her watch while I make you come...”

Jared’s so close he can barely breathe. He can feel it, building everywhere, from his toes and his fingers, up through his spine, coiling tight and hot and —

“So fuckin’ dirty, admit it, you want her to see you come all over yourself. Think she’d lick it off my fingers when you’re done?”

“Asshole,” Jared gasps, and his cheeks are burning but he can’t help it, he’s imagining her face and then his hips are jerking forward as he comes, so bright and sharp in his gut that he’s doubling over, clutching at the back of Jensen’s shirt and trying to stifle a shout.

Jared’s been waiting for the other shoe to drop, if he’s being honest with himself. Everything has gone so smoothly with them. It’s been over a year, and he’s still convinced he’s going to fuck this up; it can’t possibly be this easy.

Jared’s pretty sure the shoe hit the ground today, when Jensen mentioned someone else and Jared just — well. That.

Jensen has a territorial streak a mile wide. He’s quick to move in when he feels like someone’s too close to Jared, asserting himself with a hand on the back of Jared’s neck, fingers in his hair, something quietly possessive. Dirty talk is one thing; the way Jared reacted to it must have been more than enough to set off a red alert in that jealous corner of Jensen’s brain.

He’s already steeling himself as Jensen slides into the bed, turns the light off, and spoons up behind him to kiss the curve of his neck.

“We gonna talk about that?” Jensen murmurs. Jensen doesn’t sound mad, but he’s a good fucking actor.

“I don’t know what you’re—”

“Don’t.” His huff of a laugh tickles Jared’s neck.

Jared’s not sure what the fuck is wrong with him, because he finally has what he’s wanted for so many years, finally, and he’s so ridiculously, breathtakingly, head-over-heels in love with Jensen that he can barely see straight sometimes. It’s hard to take his eyes off Jensen, and it definitely gets in the way of things like eating or sleeping or remembering his lines, and so it’s kind of amazing to him that his brain even has space to notice another person, but… he notices her. He can’t help it.

Jensen slides a palm over his hip, tracing the shape of bone and muscle with the tips of his fingers and then dipping down to cup his cock.

Fuck.

Jared tries to ignore the feeling that he’s walking into a trap, somehow.

“It was hot,” he admits softly.

“Fuckin’ right it was,” Jensen says, low and suggestive against his ear. “Ever thought about that? Somebody watching?”

He’s getting hard embarrassingly fast and he knows Jensen can feel it. Jared squirms back against him. For a second it’s easy to forget what they were talking about, and by the time he remembers, he doesn’t particularly care any more.

“Can you—” he breathes, and Jensen nips the round of his shoulder before rolling away for a second. When he comes back, there’s the click of a bottle opening and closing, and then Jensen’s teasing with one slick finger, grazing sensitive skin in little circles until Jared’s gritting his teeth against the urge to beg.

“You never answered my question,” Jensen whispers. One finger sinks in slow, and Jared shudders.

Right. That.

“It’s not a thing or whatever. I was close, and your voice — you could recite a grocery list in that fucking voice and I’d get hard.”

“Oh yeah?”

Jared can hear the smirk.

“It was just… in the moment,” he insists. “I’d never — hearing you talk about it was hot, but... I’ve never — not seriously.” He’s glad Jensen can’t see the way he blushes.

The second finger feels like a stretch, a burn that streaks up his spine and dissolves quickly into sparks, discomfort easing into a wash of pleasure.

“But you like talking about it,” Jensen rasps, and for a second Jared has no fucking idea what they were just saying. Jensen curls his fingers just right and white fireworks dance behind Jared’s eyelids.

“Maybe,” he gasps. He tries to brace himself against the mattress, pushing back, arching shamelessly. Jensen kisses the nape of his neck, dragging an open-mouthed kiss down the knobs of Jared’s spine.

“So let’s talk about it,” Jensen says, lips still touching, smearing the words across his skin. He kisses the curve of his neck, bites it, a bright grounding point of sensation as he pulls his hand away.

“More?” Jared whispers, just as Jensen’s fingers slide in again, three this time, slow, overwhelming.

There’s a prickle of heat all over his skin. Jared focuses on breathing. Jensen matches him so that they’re inhaling and exhaling in sync, and it’s deafening in the dark, silent, still room.

Jensen’s fingers fuck him open slowly, twisting, brushing up against the spot that makes Jared whimper, again and again and —

“Was it because you imagined somebody walking it? Or because you imagined her walking in?” Jensen asks.

Jared goes cold all over for a second, cold and then fever-hot again as pure panic zings up his spine. He can’t answer, but it doesn’t matter; if Jensen’s asking that question, it’s because he already knows the answer.

He bites back a whimper, torn between shame and arousal. He’s frozen.

“Whoa, no,” Jensen says, obviously alarmed. “That’s not — Jesus, I’m sorry, I would never — I don’t care.” He pulls his fingers away and curls himself around Jared, kissing the hollow behind Jared’s ear, making soft shushing sounds, crooning reassurances until Jared starts to relax. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Okay? Why would you even think that?”

Jared knows him, knows how he sounds when he’s angry, knows that this isn’t that, and he’s not really sure why he panicked, now; Jensen wouldn’t set him up like that. He just wouldn’t.

It’s Jared’s own fault, anxiety and guilt and relentless fucking insecurities. He should know better.

“Sorry,” is all he can manage, in a rough strangled voice. He doesn’t know what to do with the leftover adrenaline fizzing in his veins.

“Hey, listen to me,” Jensen whispers, with just enough steel in his tone that Jared can’t help but pay attention. “I just —I don’t care who you’re attracted to, because… you love me, right?”

“Of course. Why would you even—”

“So it doesn’t matter who you’re thinking about, because you’re still mine. Right?”

“Right,” Jared mumbles. He’s still not entirely sure why Jensen brought her up in the first place, if not out of jealousy, but Jensen’s fingers are sliding in again, thick knuckles opening him up. It’s distracting.

“If I was there too — if it was something we could do together — ” Jensen says, hesitant. “I wouldn’t mind sharing you.”

“Oh,” Jared breathes.

This is so not how he expected this conversation to go.

“If I was telling you what to do…” Jared groans, ragged and drawn-out, and Jensen lets out a shaky exhale before he continues: “You’re so good for me. So good at doing what you’re told.”

“Holy shit.”

Before Jensen, Jared would’ve considered himself thoroughly fucking vanilla, but Jensen has this way of pushing buttons that Jared never knew existed. Inventing new buttons, maybe. They’re, like, Jensen-specific buttons, and fuck, Jared’s not making sense even to himself, and he’s about to lose his goddamn mind here.

“On your stomach,” Jensen orders. He urges Jared forward and moves with him, sliding on top of him, hot soft skin and sinewy strength blanketing him and grounding him and holding him in place.

“Come on, just—.”

The words turn into a sigh as Jensen sinks into him. He grabs Jared’s wrists, squeezing almost too tight, pinning him down. He rocks his hips, pushing in deeper, inch by inch, until Jared’s shaking and full and so tense he feels like he’s vibrating.

“So good,” Jensen croons again. “I should show you off, let everybody see how well trained you are… is that what you want?”

Jared twitches under him, hips jerking, fingers flexing, uncoordinated and involuntary.

“Yeah. Yes. Fuck.”

He’s never imagined anything like that in his life, but the image sears itself into his brain, and he knows he’ll be thinking about that for a long goddamn time. His cock is uncomfortably hard, trapped between his stomach and the mattress, and every thrust has him rubbing against the sheets, too rough and nowhere near enough.

Jensen grinds in with this long undulating snaky movement that drags like a match being struck, and the friction ignites inside him, sparkling hot. He tries to muffle the raw ugly cry in the back of his throat by pressing his face down into the mattress. A few more of those rolling sinuous thrusts and Jared’s burning up, not really sure if those are words coming out of his mouth or just nonsense, but he thinks he’s begging, stuttering out curses and pleas.

“I’ve imagined the two of you together,” Jensen says, gravelly and shredded. “What you’d look like… what I’d tell you to do to her.”

“Fuck,” Jared slurs, and tries to bite down on the sheet. He’s so close, too close, just needs something —

Then Jensen slides a hand from Jared’s wrist to his hair, and he grabs, twists, forces Jared’s head to one side so that the next wild sound rings out loud.

“Mine,” he growls, close and hot and everywhere. He fucks in deep, pulls Jared’s hair hard, and that sting is exactly the catalyst Jared needed; he lets go, goes under, with Jensen repeating it like an echo: “Mine.”

“We can protect you,” Sam declares.

“It’s not your job to take care of me,” she says defiantly.

“I want to help. I can—”

“Because you don’t have enough to deal with?” she scoffs, but she’s blinking back tears. “What about you?”

Sam shrugs. “I won’t let anything happen to you. I can’t. I’d rather have you safe than—”

She practically throws herself at him, hugging him so hard it knocks the air out of his lungs, and Sam closes his eyes, holding her tight.

“Cut!” Rich yells.

For a moment, Jared’s frozen, caught in the scene, and he has to forcefully wrench himself back out. Her arms are still wrapped around him, her face buried in his chest, and he can feel the way she inhales, shaky, before pulling away.

“You okay?” he asks. His voice cracks. She gives him a watery smile.

“That was… wow,” Rich says, grinning from ear to ear. “Nailed it. That’s a wrap for today. Get some rest, you deserve it.”

Jared’s stuck in Sam’s skin, and it sucks. He’s never been good at keeping his own emotions neat and tidy; add Sam’s weight-of-the-world mess on top of that, and he’s a wreck.

Jared looks around automatically for Jensen, but Jensen’s been in production meetings all day, doing important director things. He texts instead:

Done soon? Duckin weird heavy day

Meant fuckin obv, no ducks involved

Ugh miss you

He heads back to his chair and starts gathering up his stuff, and she comes up next to him without a word, slipping an arm around his waist and giving him a sideways squeeze. He sighs and turns into it, bundling her up in his arms, softer and sweeter than the hug their characters just shared. She doesn’t let go, and after a moment he can feel the tension starting to drain away. He still doesn’t feel like him, not quite re-settled in his own skin, but… it’s getting better.

He kisses the top of her head, getting a whiff of the unmistakable scent of her shampoo, or whatever that fruity shit is that Jared has come to know as her smell.

“Walk over to wardrobe with me?” he asks.

“I need a minute,” she says, the words muffled in flannel. He hates the tremor in her voice. “Before I have to walk through all the chaos. Y’know?”

“Yeah. Want to just… sit with me, for a sec?”

She scoots her chair over to face his, close enough that their knees are touching. For a second she just looks at him, like she’s about to ask if he’s okay and does he want to talk about it, but the answer is a resounding no and she must read that on his face.

Jared’s always had that problem; everything he feels shows on his face. The only reason he managed to hide his feelings for Jensen for so long is that he never even acknowledged them to himself. He fidgets uncomfortably, self-conscious, and makes himself stop messing with his hair. He doesn’t really want to know what she’s seeing as she looks at him.

She grabs his hands and holds them, palm to palm, and it takes Jared a minute to catch on; she’s playing that stupid game where she’s trying to slap the tops of his hands before he can pull them away.

“I haven’t done this since middle school,” he says, flustered, trying to focus. “Dork.”

“Gotcha!”

He tries and fails an embarrassing number of times to get her back.

“No fair. My hands are like five times the size of yours, they make a bigger target,” he protests.

She giggles. “It’s true, you’ve got the bigass moose hands.”

She takes one of his hands in both of hers, laying it palm-up and leaning in closely to inspect it. Jared smells that fruity sweet scent again, and he has to fight the urge to run his fingers through her hair.

“Can you read palms?” he asks.

“Mmmhmm.” She frowns down at his hand.

“What?”

“See this super faint line right here?” She traces one with the very tip of her finger; it tickles.

Jared shivers. He’s paying attention to the feel of her soft hands more than her words, but he nods and says, “Yeah.”

“That’s your grace line. The way it’s all fragmented and faint means you’re clumsy as fuck.”

“Huh.”

“This one around your middle finger is the ring of the bird. Means you’re really bad at staying angry. This one is the line of the doofus, means—”

“Wait a second,” Jared says, laughing as the words sink in. “You’re so full of shit. I’ll give you a ring of the bird.”

He shoves his middle finger right up in her face and uses it to poke her forehead, and she giggles, swatting his hand away. It devolves rapidly into a sort of childish slap fight.

“Wow,” comes a low, teasing drawl, and Jared starts in his seat, turning to Jensen weirdly fast. He’s not sure why he feels like a kid caught with his hand in a cookie jar. They weren’t doing anything wrong.

“Hey,” Jared says, breathless, and pushes his chair back awkwardly so that he’s not quite so close to her.

He expects jealousy, but Jensen’s not doing his usual steely jaw-clench-y thing. He looks uncertain, like he’s not even sure how he feels, but his smile is genuine and warm and crinkle-eyed.

“Feeling better?” he asks.

“Oh! Right. I’m… yeah, actually. I’m fine.” He’s stunned by how true it is.

“Thanks for that,” Jensen tells her quietly.

Jared frowns. “I don’t need someone to—”

“It was mutual,” she interrupts.

The sweet little half-smile on her face makes Jared forget his ruffled feathers. He looks between the two of them.

“Um… to wardrobe?” he asks Jensen.

Jensen nods and asks her, “You coming?”

She shrugs and gives Jensen another tentative smile, and they all fall into step. Jared can’t really accept how easy it feels, but he doesn’t want to question it, at least not now.

Jared’s used to the way Jensen shuts down sometimes, the way he curls into his shell when he’s anxious or stressed, but it feels different now that they’re together. They’ve been together for a fucking year. He feels like he should know how to deal with this.

For someone who’s remarkably direct in almost every part of his life, Jensen is a champion at stonewalling people when he really wants to; the more Jared pokes and prods, the higher the walls get. Jensen’s been edgy all day, and it’s bad enough that everyone has noticed. Jared’s pretty sure this is about him, so he’s determined to fix it; Jensen said he wasn’t threatened, but… yeah. It’s the only explanation, and it’s making Jared second-guess everything he says and does and fucking thinks, and he’s just pissing Jensen off more.

“Are you sure there’s nothing I can do to help?” Jared asks.

“You can stop bouncing your knee like that, for starters,” Jensen grumbles. “And then you can stop asking me that fucking question.”

“Sorry.”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Jensen insists stubbornly. “Okay? I just need some space.”

Jared sighs and knuckles at his eyes. This is fucking exhausting.

“Fine.”

Just as he’s about to stand up, there’s a loud knock on the trailer door.

“It’s open,” Jensen shouts reluctantly, already trying to control his own scowl. The door slams open.

“Hey,” she says cheerfully, juggling a large paper bag and a tray of coffee cups as she tries to shut the door behind herself.

“I got it,” Jared says, jumping up to help. She gives him a grateful smile and shoves the coffee tray at him. One of them has his name scrawled on the side. “Wait, really? For me?”

“Your favorite.”

“You’re my favorite,” he says, and immediately wants to smack himself in the forehead. “I mean—”

“S’okay, she’s my favorite right now too,” Jensen admits dryly.

“You mentioned wanting to try that new place, right?” She plops the bag down on the table and makes herself at home next to Jensen on the couch. Jared’s still standing awkwardly, hovering, not sure what to do with himself.

“The bakery?” Jensen asks. She caught him off-guard before he could fully put on his polite mask with the camera-ready smile. He doesn’t seem to know how to feel about that.

“Yeah! I got a little of everything, figured we should taste test.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” Jensen protests. She just waves a macaron at him until he caves, biting it right out of her hand and making a deliriously happy noise.

“Don’t get me wrong, this was not a purely altruistic gesture,” she laughs, taking a bite of her own. “Plenty to go around.”

She offers one to Jared, but he shakes his head ruefully. “I was just about to go.”

Jensen glances up again, and something softens in his expression. His smile looks like an apology.

“Stay,” he says quietly. He holds up a mini lemon tart as a peace offering. Jared takes a bite, letting out an obscene moan that’s only kinda exaggerated, before taking a seat on Jensen’s other side.

“Okay, let’s get down to business,” she says, straight-faced as she gestures to the spread. “We have our work cut out for us.”

“With great power comes great responsibility,” Jensen deadpans. They dig in.

Jared’s still not entirely sure what just happened, but he doesn’t care as long as Jensen’s smiling.

By the time they’re down to the last few cookies, Jared’s sugar-high and over-caffeinated and happier than he’s been all week. He’s also starting to suspect that maybe he’s not the cause of Jensen’s mood after all.

Jared sucks a smudge of icing off his own thumb, and there’s a flicker of heat in Jensen’s eyes as he tracks the movement. Then he shakes his head like he’s laughing at himself.

“Be right back,” he tells them, and heads for the bathroom.

As soon as the door closes behind him, Jared turns to look at her, wide-eyed. Her smile falters.

“Is this okay? I know he’s been… off.”

“That’s a nice way of saying it,” Jared laughs.

“I wanted to see if I could cheer him up.” She looks self-conscious now, which was really not the point.

“You did. This is awesome, but — I’m just surprised he let you,” Jared admits. “I’ve known him for a long fucking time and there are still days… I don’t know.”

“Figured if I asked, he’d just say no, so… didn’t bother asking.” She shrugs like it’s nothing. “Sometimes it’s easier to get out of your head when you’re with someone you don’t know as well, right?”

There are about a million things Jared wants to say, but he hears the toilet flush, so he just whispers, “Thanks,” and hopes she knows how much he means it.

“Jesus, I’m stuffed,” Jensen says, flopping back down between them. He reaches for the last raspberry puff-thing anyway and eats it in one bite, making a goofy face that’s 100% Dean, and they both laugh. He swallows and wipes his mouth, somehow managing to leave a streak of confectioner’s sugar from the corner of his lips down to his jaw.

“You’ve got a—” Jared says, but he just leans in and licks it off.

Jensen angles his head for a real kiss. He’s smiling, and he tastes like raspberries, and Jared really doesn’t want to stop kissing him.

When they break apart, she looks away quickly enough to make it obvious that she was staring. Her cheeks go pink as she bites her lip.

“I’m gonna go,” she says, fumbling for her bag.

“Don’t,” Jared says. “Sorry, didn’t mean to go all PDA on you, just—”

She’s already heading for the door.

“Stay?” Jensen asks softly. He clearly means it, and that makes her pause.

“It’s almost time for me to be back on set anyway,” she says, still blushing. “I should—”

“If you’re sure, but… thank you,” Jensen says sincerely.

“Any time!”

She grins over her shoulder and then she’s gone before either of them can get up to hug her goodbye. Jared watches the door close behind her, disappointed, and he’s almost embarrassed to be caught staring until he realizes Jensen’s doing the same thing.

“She’s… yeah,” Jensen muses. “Of all the people you could be crushing on? I like her.”

Jared’s kinda mystified, because if that’s not what Jensen was upset about, he has no idea what the issue was, but he also feels a thousand pounds lighter.

“Love you,” he blurts out.

“Love you too,” Jensen says, pulling him in for another sugary kiss.

There are a few moments in the next couple days when Jared can see that black cloud hovering over Jensen’s head again, but they’re shooting his episode, so Jared writes it off as director-stress. Instead of worrying, Jared just tries to distract him, and he’s amazed by how well it works.

Of course, as soon as he’s stopped fixating on it, Jensen brings it up. All these years and it never occurred to Jared that avoiding the issue entirely would be the best way to get Jensen to talk about something he doesn’t want to fucking talk about.

“I’m sorry for being a dick this week,” he says bluntly, sitting down on the couch next to Jared and passing him a beer.

Jared laughs, still channel-surfing. “It’s fine. Honestly. At first I thought — I don’t know. Whatever. It’s fine.”

Jensen grabs the remote out of his hand and mutes the TV, and Jared shifts, curling a little closer so he can take in the abruptly serious expression on Jensen’s face.

“I got a call… there’s this developer who wants to buy my property,” Jensen says. “And they’re offering a lot of money, but —”

“Isn’t that a good thing?” Jared asks. “You were gonna sell it eventually anyway, right?”

The tips of Jensen’s ears are pink.

“I wanted to look at my options, and… you know. Talk to you about it.”

Jared shrugs. “Okay. Will all your shit even fit in my house? Maybe we should get a storage unit.”

Jensen stares at him blankly for a second. His mouth opens and closes a few times before he asks, “Seriously? That’s it?”

“You’re talking about moving in, right?” Jared asks. “You’re always at my house anyway, it’s not — wait. Is that what you were stressing about?”

Jensen actually glares as Jared starts to laugh. Jared gestures vaguely around at the Vancouver apartment they’ve shared for fucking years, and eventually Jensen starts laughing too, burying his face in his palms. The back of his neck is flushed, and Jared can’t fucking believe him, or this, or… the whole situation, really.

Of all the absurd shit.

“It just felt like a big deal,” Jensen says sheepishly. “I thought… I didn’t want to assume, and I didn’t know how long I had to decide, and I wanted to go through all my options and have it all laid out for you, because I didn’t want you to think — I don’t fucking know. Jesus. Asking someone to move in with you is generally a big deal! I was just freaking out a little.”

“You pulled a me, in other words?” Jared asks, laughing again. Jensen jokingly tries to push him away and Jared scoots closer.

Jensen always seems so sure about things. Jared forgets, sometimes, that he worries too.

“It was a busy week, and I didn’t want to just jump into it, because if you said no and it turned into a whole big thing I worried it would get in the way when I was directing, and — fucking hell. You hate it when I say ‘we need to have a conversation about something but not right now.’”

“Well, yeah,” Jared huffs. “That’s the worst. But you could’ve at least told me it wasn’t my fault!”

Jensen makes a dismissive sound. “Why the fuck would it be your fault?”

“Seriously?”

“I mean… yeah, nothing happened, why would you —”

“This is fucking ridiculous,” Jared half-shouts, torn between exasperation and laughter. “I thought you were jealous! I told you I was attracted to somebody else, and — for fuck’s sake.”

“Did something happen with her, since we talked about that?” Jensen asks. Jared has a momentary urge to smack him.

“No. Obviously not. I just thought…”

They both just stare at each other, and then Jensen starts shaking his head slowly as realization dawns. Jared laughs, giddy and almost hysterical, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes.

“Did you think I was just going to sulk about it for a few days without telling you, and then… what, end it?” Jensen asks, as if it’s insane.

Jared shrugs helplessly. “I mean… yeah, I guess.”

Jensen sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as he chooses his words. For a moment Jared thinks he’s angry, but when Jensen looks at him again, there’s nothing but this raw tenderness all over his face.

“Look,” he says, slow and deliberate. “I know I go all caveman when other people try to flirt with you, but it’s not because I don’t trust you. Okay?”

“That’s not —”

“Hang on. Hear me out here. You can’t beat yourself up for looking at someone, Jared. Or for pheromones, or what-fucking-ever. You can’t. I don’t care who else you look at, as long as you still want me, at the end of the day. Relax, okay?”

Jensen’s hands curl around his upper arms, holding him firmly, until Jared rests his forehead against Jensen’s and takes a deep breath.

“You really don’t mind?”

“I don’t. I’m fucking seriously in love with you, and I need you to know that you can tell me anything. It’s not going to change the way I feel about you. Just fucking tell me, and then we can deal with it together. As long as you’re honest.”

Jared can’t help but ask, “Do I need to point out how hypocritical —”

“Don’t even start,” Jensen laughs. “That’s different. Asking someone to make a huge fucking life change with you is different from… feeling guilty for thinking a girl is cute, or whatever. She’s fucking cute. You’re not blind.”

“You don’t think I’m an asshole?” His voice cracks.

“What? Why would I?”

“I feel like… I feel like the luckiest person in the fucking world, Jay, you’ve gotta know that.” Jared’s tearing up, because of course he is, and the intensity in Jensen’s expression isn’t helping, but the words start to spill out faster: “I never thought I could have this. This — us — it’s better than anything I ever fucking imagined, and it’s not like you’re not enough for me. You’re… this is everything to me. So how the fuck do I still want more? I don’t deserve this, let alone —”

He bites his lip to cut himself off. He didn’t realize he was going to say that out loud. It’s a little too true.

“Look at me,” Jensen growls, fierce and almost angry.

“Sorry,” Jared half-laughs, wiping away tears.

“First of all, you deserve the fucking universe,” Jensen says flatly, like it’s a very simple fact. “And even if you didn’t, I don’t give a shit, I’d still do anything to make you happy.” He brings his hands to Jared’s face, holding him so that he can’t look away. “But also? You feel more than anyone else I’ve ever met. If anybody’s got enough love for two people, it’d be you.”

Jared snorts. “It’s not like it could actually happen, it’s just —”

“Why not? As much as you like to think you’re a goddamn trailblazer, this isn’t revolutionary,” Jensen retorts, all snark. “Polyamory is a thing that people do. You can date her while you’re with me. Everybody can get what they want here.”

“Even if it was that simple—” Jared knows it’s not that simple. “—she’s not interested in me, so—”

Jensen cuts him off: “You’re an idiot. She’s fucking crazy about you.”

He looks fond and exasperated and very sure of himself, and for a moment, Jared wonders if maybe he’s right. Then he shakes his head, trying to articulate how he feels.

“I think… I’d feel weird if it wasn’t something I could share with you,” he says honestly. “I like sharing things with you. I want to share everything with you.”

Jensen’s expression goes soft and painfully sweet. “Sap.”

Jared shrugs. He can’t really deny that one. He leans in and kisses Jensen instead.

Jensen grabs him and physically hauls him closer, until they’re all tangled together, and kisses him again, hard enough to bruise.

“Is there anything else we need to get out in the open?” Jared asks wryly, when they finally break for air. “Now that we’ve established we’re both fucking morons who need to talk to each other?”

“Fuck it, while we’re on the subject of sharing.” Jensen looks at him intently. His lips are all red and swollen. “The whole threesome thing? Just for the record, I was dead fuckin’ serious about being into that idea.”

“Oh,” Jared says blankly. “But what if —”

Jensen curls a hand around the back of his neck, pulling him closer, smirking. “Stop thinking. Not right fucking now. Not when we’re filming with her for a week solid,” he says, because he can read Jared’s mind. “Someday.”

“Someday,” Jared agrees.

“You ate those cookies,” Jensen says.

Oh.

Fuck.

Jared’s stomach swoops. He recognizes it now, the way she’s holding herself rigid, the panic that shows around her dark dilated pupils; he can feel it like it was yesterday, overwhelming and out of control and fucking humiliating.

“Fuck,” he says, shaking his head. What the fuck else can he say?

She stammers, squeezing her eyes shut like she’s refusing to think about it: “Drugs? Were the cookies drugged? Why do I feel…”

“Like if you don’t get some dick you’re gonna die?” he says bluntly. Her eyes go wide. “Been there.”

“What did you — um.”

It’s so fucking strange, thinking back to that night, just like it’s strange thinking about anything that happened before they were together. He remembers the electricity between them, the intensity of it, the way it felt to touch Jensen for the first time… he looks sideways at Jensen and knows he’s remembering it too.

“I’ll go back to my room,” she says, her voice strained and scared.

“Needs to be another person,” Jared says. His throat feels clogged, and the words come out thick and clumsy. “Believe me, I tried. But if you’re okay with it…”

His voice falters as he realizes what he’s actually offering. For a split-second, Jared feels guilty, like he brought this on somehow by sheer force of wishful thinking. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, though. Jared looks at Jensen helplessly, but Jensen’s watching her, brow furrowed with concern, and Jared is reminded (forcefully) that this isn’t about him.

“We’ve got you,” Jensen finishes, warm and sure.

She shakes her head. “I can’t ask —”

“You’re not asking.”

She looks so scared. Jared remembers that part, too: he didn’t want to look Jensen in the eyes, because he was so fucking certain he’d see disgust there, or pity, or something fucking awful like that.

Jared empathizes so intensely that he feels sick for a second. He flounders, wondering what he can say to put her at ease, make her feel wanted, and then he chuckles to himself, realizing that the truth is probably his best option here.

“It’s not like it’s a fucking hardship, y’know? Have you seen you?”

It shocks a laugh out of her, at least. Jared counts it as a win.

Then she squeezes her eyes closed again, face screwed-up and anguished, and all Jared can think about is getting rid of that pained expression. He settles on the bed next to her, takes the cool washcloth off her forehead and strokes her hair carefully, hating the way she’s frowning. She turns to look at him, and he feels like he’s about to burst with the urge to just bundle her up in a bear hug and protect her.

“Yeah, okay,” she says abruptly, soft but sure. “Yes.”

“C’mere then.”

Jared slides closer, resting a hand ever-so-gently on the curve of her waist, and she rolls onto her side to face him, eyes huge and desperate. Jensen is settling at her back. She fits so neatly between the two of them. She’s trembling, but it’s okay; Jared’s pretty sure he is too. He glances over her shoulder at Jensen.

Jensen just smiles, saying without words it’s okay and I’ve got you and together, and the last of Jared’s worries evaporate.

“You’re gonna have to stop thinking so hard,” he tells her gently, because he knows that expression a little too well. Jensen lets out a quiet snort of laughter, which is fair, because Jared saying that to someone else is like the pot telling the kettle to stop being black.

Then he’s cupping her cheek, tilting her chin, kissing her, and the noise in his head goes silent, for once; everything goes silent, just evaporates the fuck away, and all Jared can feel is the sweet soft shape of her lips as they part, the slick slide of her tongue, the way she sighs… he can feel her just melting into it, and there’s something about it that takes his breath away. She goes pliant in his arms, relaxing completely, like every muscle in her body is showing him: I trust you. The enormity of that trust is what has him spinning with need, rocketing from zero to sixty in five seconds flat.

There’s a warmth blossoming in Jared’s chest that is so far beyond a crush it’s not even funny. He’s pretty sure he’s fucked, but he can’t think about that, not now, not with the way she’s responding, surging up to meet him and draw him in deeper. The only thing that matters right now is taking care of her. He just wants to make her feel good; the rest can wait. He’ll deal with his own cracked-open heart tomorrow.

For a moment Jared’s convinced it was all a dream, but when he opens his eyes, she’s the first thing he sees. She’s curled up with her hands tucked under her chin, oddly childlike, and her face is totally serene.

She’s beautiful in a way that still takes him by surprise every time he looks at her.

Jesus pogo-jumping Christ. Jared is fucked.

Before he can really spiral out about it, though, Jensen is stirring at his back. Jared rolls over, muscles complaining about last night’s exertion, and he sprawls out half on top of Jensen, trying to keep his breathing even. Jensen runs a hand through Jared’s tangled hair, finger-combing gently.

“So that was… pretty amazing,” Jensen whispers, so quiet Jared barely catches the words.

“Yeah.”

There’s a question on the tip of his tongue and he’s burning to hear the answer, but he’s pretty sure it’s a bad idea to just spit it out like this.

Because he’s apparently a mind reader now, Jensen answers the question anyway: “I would really love to do that again.”

Jared exhales slowly. “Same.”

“But… I think it’s going to be complicated. Emotionally.”

Apparently they’re just diving the fuck into this.

Jared closes his eyes, trying to ignore the ache in his chest. He shifts, sliding on top of Jensen, propped up on his elbows. He pauses like that for a moment, taking in the pillow creases on Jensen’s cheek and the concern in his eyes.

Jensen hesitates, lips twitching down into a nervous frown before he continues: “I knew how you felt about her, but — well, I guess you’re not the only one.”

Jared blinks down at him. “What are you saying?”

Jensen reaches up and traces the line of Jared’s jaw, then his lower lip, and Jared brushes a clumsy kiss to the side of his knuckle. Jensen smiles, looking a little more sure of himself.

“Watching the two of you — I think it could be more. The three of us could be… something. It felt right.” He frowns. “Tell me that wasn’t just me?”

There’s this crazy swell of emotion happening in Jared’s chest, and he’s afraid he might choke on it for a moment. He kisses Jensen, smiling into it, and Jensen’s hands slide up his back, making his skin tingle in their wake.

Jared hesitates. “What if she — I don’t think she feels —”

“I think she’s been almost as deep in denial about this as you have,” Jensen says gently. “I don’t think she’s allowed herself to consider it, because of me, and if she knew…”

“What if —” Jared sneaks a glance at her; she’s still sleeping peacefully. He doesn’t know how to finish that sentence.

“If this is gonna work, we need to lay it all out for her,” Jensen says, so quiet that Jared feels the vibration of the words more than he hears them. “Even if it’s just sex for her, or… if this was a one-time deal. We gotta be honest with her.”

“That sounds like a terrible fucking idea,” Jared says honestly. “How does that not scare the shit out of you?”

Jensen just shrugs. “It does, a little bit. But… you’re the only thing that matters, when it comes down to it. As long as we’re in this together, the rest doesn’t seem too scary.”

It sounds so fucking simple when he puts it like that.

“Yeah, okay,” Jared whispers, leaning down to kiss him again. “Together.”

If you enjoyed this, please reblog or leave a message over here!

#j2 #j2 fic #jensen ackles x jared padalecki #j2 smut #jared padalecki x reader x jensen ackles

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thequibblah · 4 years

Note

Fic prompt 27 in fluff or 20 in angst. 😘

lmao sorry this is 3853847 years late but i wrote #20 here. no more prompts please!

“Don’t fuck up the plan,” are the first words James hears when he walks into the room.

“Hello to you too,” he tells Trevor, taking his seat on the far side of the table, fourth from the head.

Trevor shrugs. “Just passing on the message.”

“The message came from me. It was my bloody message.”

Trevor obviously doesn’t believe it. “You?”

“This is a comic relief venture,” Sirius informs him, one seat down from James. (God, he really did oversleep, if Sirius made it in before him. Start of term tends to do that to James, though he’s otherwise very much a morning person.)

“It’s a comic relief venture to throw the president a surprise welcome-back party?” says Trevor, still incredulous. “I thought this was Dorcas’s doing.”

“If it goes well, I helped,” Dorcas chirps. “If not, it was all them.”

To be fair, James understands, even though Trevor must be the only one complaining about a surprise party in the first week of the new term. He and Sirius are the comic relief on their student council, so their schemes tend to be dubious.

That’s not a metaphor or anything. While others were elected to specific positions, such as Dorcas the freshers liaison or Trevor the secretary, the two of them were specifically elected to keep things fun. In James’s opinion, though, this is one of the most beautiful time-honoured traditions of Gryffindor College, and he would never, ever violate it. Most importantly he would never, ever violate it and fuck with Lily Evans, Gryffindor College JCR president, at the same time.

Truthfully, the point is just to have a day-drinking event, but that’s far too simple for James and Sirius. Also, James might be twenty years old, but he’s well aware that he hasn’t outgrown his desire to impress Lily. Remus calls it near-pathological.

Whatever. It’s a character flaw he’s working on.

So they’ve staged this elaborate tableau: a meeting called not by Lily but by the vice president, the alcohol hidden underneath the famed JCR table (with the Gryffindor lion carved onto its surface, allegedly so that students can’t use it for beer pong), the other students told to stand by for the sound of confetti cannons.

The confetti cannons were James’s idea. He’s proud of that.

“Abigail, did you bring the food?” Peter’s asking, frowning down the length of the table.

“Shit, I forgot them in the kitchen—”

“The food, of all things,” says Dorcas, exasperated. She jumps to her feet. “Right, come on, all hands on deck. I’m not ferrying trays back and forth.”

“I believe in one-trip shopping bag runs,” says Sirius, following her out the door.

“Don’t start without us,” says Remus.

“I’ll hold down the fort,” James says belatedly. Everyone’s already left.

Restless, he too stands and paces around the table. He picks up a stray confetti cannon, juggling it between his hands as he walks. Shopping for the cannons was a trip — they’re advertised bizarrely, with the most detailed descriptions of what the confetti within them will be like. Perfectly-shaped strips of fine crepe paper, weird shit like that. James can’t pinpoint why they make him vaguely uncomfortable. These cannons are called glitter bombs. That’s weird in and of itself, but he’s too preoccupied to consider it.

It’s their final year at Hogwarts, which means he and his mates have a to-do list longer than his tutorial syllabi. But between all the Gryffindor College bucketlist items is one that’s a touch more personal. This is the year he’ll finally untangle his feelings for Lily Evans.

It’s not as though he’s ever been particularly subtle. Subtle isn’t really in his vocabulary. But, well, Lily doesn’t really pick up what he puts down, so to speak. Whether that’s because of what’s happened in the past, he can’t say.

Then again, he doesn’t want to be that guy — the guy who awkwardly comes on to a girl he saw in school, years later, only to discover that she cares not a whit for him after all and any residual awkwardness is from the fact that she cares not a whit for him after all rather than lingering romantic tension.

He really hopes it’s lingering romantic tension, though.

James is never uncertain. He’s not a second-guesser; rarely does he even think before he speaks or acts. But given his history with Lily, overthinking is absolutely the play.

“Am I early?”

He whirls around, the confetti cannon still in hands. It’s Lily in the doorway, because of course, and he is holding the confetti cannon. James is certain he looks like he’s been caught red-handed mid-heist, not just because that’s fairly accurate, but because a small, amused smile is playing at her lips.

“Er,” James says, “Dorcas wanted everyone’s help bringing in meeting snacks.”

“That’d be a lot of meeting snacks,” says Lily, walking over to the throne-like chair at the head of the table and taking her seat. “James?”

He turns to face her, his heart thumping as wildly and as stupidly as though he’s seventeen again. “Yep?”

“Why do you have a confetti cannon?”

“Oh, this.” James looks down at it like he hadn’t realised he had it at all. “It’s a glitter bomb, actually.”

Her smile widens. That has been the best thing about this week, in his opinion. It’s her first week as JCR president, and she’s so bloody thrilled, the sort of upbeat envied by cartoon princesses everywhere. It’s impossible not to be buoyed just by her presence.

“Why do you have a glitter bomb?” Lily says.

“We’ve got a big prank planned,” says James. He sits down in the chair next to her, which is several seats closer to her than he usually is at meetings.

“Oh?”

“Oh, yes. We’ll set off this...glitter bomb.”

This is it, James thinks. This is the day he finally tells his mother she’s right for saying he ought to have learned impulse control and how to filter his thoughts.

Lily motions for him to hand it over. “Give it here.”

“What? No. It’s my glitter bomb.”

“Come on, you’ve got a whole stash over there.” She motions to the mantel, on which some absolutely idiotic motherfucker has left the entire bag of confetti cannons and-or glitter bombs. That definitely was not James’s doing. (It was.)

“It’s very important that the glitter bombs only go off when, er, when everyone’s in the room,” James says. There, he’s fixed his own derailment of the plan.

“Well, why not?” And to his dismay — but, simultaneously, his delight — Lily skips over to the mantel and grabs a confetti cannon of her own.

She’s just retaken her seat when the others troop back in, party snacks in hand. If James was worried that his own poker face was too transparent, theirs are a thousand times worse. Everyone freezes at the sight of Lily. Peter’s mouth falls open as though he’s never seen her before. Abigail looks as though she might cry at the spoiled surprise.

Sirius strolls through the lot of them and collapses into his seat, setting down his tray of crisps.

“You don’t have to wait for my invitation,” Lily says to the rest.

James doesn’t move, because surely there’s some way to salvage the situation. That is, he can salvage it from right here, with Lily leaning forward next to him, her flowery perfume filling the air. Apparently everyone else is so unsure how to act that he’s allowed to keep this seat.

“Dorcas is on the way,” says Trevor, which James takes to mean Dorcas is on the way and will kill you if this goes wrong.

“Is she,” says Lily mildly, shooting James a conspiratorial look.

Oh, no.

Awkward conversation finally breaks out among the others. Lily kicks him under the table. “Count us down when she walks in,” she whispers.

“That’s...not a very...” But his voice dries up. How can he say it’s a bad idea, when she’s obviously so excited by something as small as a confetti cannon? Lily Evans loves being JCR president. And James Potter, as elected comic relief, isn’t there to spoil anyone’s fun.

Dorcas arrives carrying an entire stack of trays. What, James wonders, was the point of taking the whole room with her if she was going to haul all of that herself? Her eyes go wide as saucers as soon as she spots her friend.

When Lily kicks James under the table again, it’s less of a kick and more of a nudge. His resolve, worn down as it is, vanishes altogether.

She nudges him again. He sets off the glitter bomb perfectly on cue. The sound of both cannons going off at once is deafening.

“Surprise!” says Lily.

Dorcas shrieks. The JCR doors — which she’s left open — are suddenly full of whooping students, speakers already blasting music. James is honestly impressed. The council members are on their feet at once, Trevor included.

Well, that might be because of the glitter just as much as the music.

“So they weren’t confetti cannons,” says James, frowning. “Bloody Amazon scammers.”

Over the sound of a thrumming aughties hit, he vaguely hears Dorcas wail, “Why the hell is there glitter everywhere?!”

But James isn’t paying attention at all, because Lily — speckled with said glitter — is laughing beside him, one hand on his arm (how and when did that happen?). Emboldened by this bizarre turn of events, he ducks his head to shout in her ear, “Save me a dance for later, will you?”

Her grin turns sly. “Why not right now?”

#jily #jily fanfiction #jily fanfic #jily fic #constancezin #me: why write a drabble when you can write exposition with a side of fluff instead #i hope this is remotely enjoyable #ask me

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stevenbasic · 4 years

Photo

”...Here, let's go for a walk,” Melissa said, as she stood from our dinner table at the resort’s outdoor restaurant.

I couldn’t help but stare as she rose, and rose, and rose. I’d noticed before, while at the bar with Rich watching her arrive, that she was wearing big heels, crazy tall. It made me nervous. In fact - just so I wouldn’t have had to walk next to her, surely a head shorter than her, past the other diners - I had let her get to our table first, before me, and only left the bar when I’d be sure she was already seated. But now...my moment of reckoning, such as it was, had come...

From my seat I stared up at her, and swallowed dryly.

“What..? What is it?” she asked, smiling down at me as I sat, still frozen in place.

“It’s...it’s just sort of..dramatic,” I found myself saying, before I could think.

Her eyes took on an excited shine. “What? Watching me stand up?” she smiled, “Because I’m tall?”

“Uh...y-yeah…” was all I could manage, causing her to giggle. It was not lost on me that it was just yesterday, on the plane, that we were talking about my lost height, how I’d somehow become (if I’m being honest) nearly four inches shorter over time. She knew how I felt about it, how emasculating it was. And yet here she was tonight, at our dinner together, wearing six inch heels...

“C’mon…” she said, offering me her hand, “...I want to go look at the moon on the beach.”

Without another word I pushed back my chair, placed my napkin on the table, and stood up. I had taken her help in standing and she’d urged me towards her with a subtle pull, so when I was finally up we were face to face. Or rather...I faced her, uh...

She must be a foot taller than me.

“Th-those are the heels you bought on Friday, hm?” I asked, trying to look anywhere but at her plunging neckline, which hovered just below my line of sight. It took every ounce of my will not to look into her cleavage, which beckoned my eyes with it’s overfilled, swollen ripeness.

“Mmhm,” she confirmed, raising her chin a fraction, peering down at me mischievously, “couldn’t wait to wear all six inches of them for you…”

“Grrreat, thanks...” I replied, causing her to laugh and start tugging me away from our seats.

She lead the way, holding my hand and pulling me in tow through the maze of tables, and I felt each and every person in the restaurant watching the busty, Amazon beauty and her smaller, reticent charge. Blood rushed to my face and I smiled wanly, trying to look relaxed and not like the simp I was. We must have made quite the couple.

But soon we were alone, finding ourselves the only ones on the low boardwalk among the thick palms, on a dimly-lit path leading down to the resort’s beach. A light breeze had picked up. By the time we made it to the sand, moonlight was our only guide.

“So...this is where you were this afternoon?” I asked as, at her suggestion, I was removing my leather docksiders and stepping onto the sand, carrying them in my right hand.

“Mmhm, it was nice,” Melissa replied, likewise stepping out of her tall heels, “I had my water, got myself an umbrella...sat right over there…”

Looking out over the darkened, nearly abandoned beach, I saw where the rows and rows of lounge chairs had been lined up, all facing the water. In truth, most had been pulled back, stacked away nearer the trees by the staff for the night. But some remained. A lone couple sat together on one chair, down far to our right. Another beach walker was drifting towards them, feet in the quiet surf.

“But here, let’s walk this way…” Melissa suggested, taking my hand again and leading me out to the left onto the beach, away from the boardwalk, the last lights, and any other people. Soon we were at the water’s edge, strolling in the soft sand in the moonlight. She had kept my left hand in her right one, her high-heel shoes dangling casually from the other. The lights of the resort, though still visible above the trees, disappeared slowly behind us.

“This is much more fun with some company,” she finally remarked, eyes glittering down into mine as we caught each other’s gaze for a second. Even without her heels, she was taller than me by a good six inches; that the shore was sloped and I walked closer to the water than her didn’t help my situation, either.

She swung my hand playfully.

“H-how was your afternoon down here?” I asked, remembering her Instagram bikini-shot from earlier today, imagining the spectacle of her sunbathing, the sight she must have been.

”Omigod I have to tell you…”

...

...She has just set herself down, towel arranged on her beach chaise just right, big bottle of springwater already beading up with moisture in the sand beside her. She was looking forward to some sunbathing in the mid-afternoon sun, but had not even taken off her cover-up or unwrapped her sarong when she was approached. “Heyyyy remember me?” the man said, boldly stepping right up alongside her chair, looking down at the fox he had met at his table in the vendor hall yesterday, “Max, from Marshville Medical Supply.” Jesus, the bod that had been strutting around in that smart skirt and tight top was here, he thought, now’s my chance. Maybe away from everybody else she’ll warm up a little. From below, and from behind a big pair of dark plastic sunglasses, she gazed up at him. Inwardly she sighed, and attempted a smile. “Oh, hi.” She remembered this guy, a salesman here representing his company at the conference. Not in his suit and tie at the moment, and behind a loud pair of wrap Oakley’s she couldn’t see his eyes, but the shaved head was the same. Her smile crooked a touch as she remembered further. Oh yeah, she recalled, the short guy. He was short, kind of comically so. But he obviously had confidence to spare. “So, enjoying the conference?” he asked, brazenly crouching down aside her chaise, near her left hip. Shirtless and in swim trunks, he held a green beer bottle, nearly empty. “Mmhmm…” she replied noncommitally, laying her head back and closing her eyes, hoping he’d get the hint. He’d been over-friendly yesterday, like an eager puppy, and the last thing she wanted to do was encourage him here today when all she wanted was to relax and get some sun before her big dinner with her boss. That she was looking forward too. “Well, when are you gonna let me buy you that drink?” he asked, undaunted by the shade and smiling big, giving the brunette beaut an unseen wink. “You said you were busy last night, how ‘bout tonight?” She knew his type, a guy who held himself a little too confidently for her tastes. Too belligerent to take a polite ‘no’ for an answer. And a serious case of little-dog syndrome to boot. This is the type of man she knew the speakers at Evolution meetings were talking about, entitled from countless years of patriarchy, audacious in his cluelessness. And she knew that, unless she put an end to it, he wouldn’t stop talking to her. “Cool shades,” she finally replied, turning her head just enough to regard him, where he nervously bounced and twitched aside her, crouched on the balls of his feet, “Take them off.” She actually wanted to watch this, see his reaction. Predictably, the bald little sales-rep guy did exactly as he was told, pushing his sunglasses up atop his pate and fixing her with a shit-eating grin that made her skin crawl. He nodded, and chewed something, maybe some gum. His grin changed, his eyes left her placid face as slowly, she began to pull the diaphanous fabric of her sarong off her lap, parting it so as to reveal her thighs. His eyes bulged as he looked down now onto her bare, powerful legs, and began to try to grasp what he was seeing. She fought back a smile as she slowly started to flex the muscles in her thigh, making it bigger. At the same time she subtly tilted her hips towards him and allowed herself to release her perfume; not the ones she used so often at the office, but...one of the others, a darker sister. Almost immediately she saw the frightened look on his face as it took hold and he realized that her fully flexed thigh is, like, nearly the size of his whole upper body. And then she flexed the other, filling the space alongside its twin and completely overwhelming the poor man with this casual display of her strength. “I have more muscle in one leg than you have in your entire body,” she finally said, with cool detachment, “So why don’t you just run away, little man...” ...

“You scared him away?!?” I marveled, half-incredulous but...why would she make this up? “With your legs?!?”

“Yeah,” Melissa giggled, still swinging our arms between us playfully as we walked the water’s edge. We really were far away from everything, now. “I have a way of making people feel the way I want,” she added, which gave me temporary pause, “I have since I was a girl…” She was quiet for a moment, thoughtful. “Well, maybe I was 13 or 14…”

Probably a D-cup even then, I found myself thinking.

“Here let’s sit - “ she finally said, returning from her reverie and leading me a few yards up the dark beach towards a lone group of lounge chairs. I was, I knew, allowing myself to be pulled into more and more intimate situations, and felt helpless to resist. Her smile, her perfume, her dress - I was powerless to do anything but follow. I knew I was being too passive, but the promise of what might happen here, alone with her if I let her do what she wanted, was a dark, illicit thrill.

But still, I took another pause as she sat sideways on a chaise - fully reclined, without armrests - and looked up at me, expectantly. She’d left enough room for me to sit aside her. The beach was dark, the beach was empty. Her smile was big, full of excitement. Her eyes reflected the bright light of the moon back at me.

Bare feet in the sand and seeing my hesitation, she tossed her shoes aside and adjusted the skirt of her dress, pulling it away from her thighs. “They don’t scare you do they?” she said with good humor, as she slowly flexed them. Then crossing them, accentuating their musculature even more, posing them for my approval. Jesus, they were huge. Long and thick and muscular, rippling with strength and yet her lap - bare nearly to her hip - looked so soft. Maybe she saw my reaction, as best as I tried to hide it, because she giggled and then took the opportunity to reach up again for my hands and guide me down to sit next to her, on her left. “Big huh?” she said with obvious pride, seeing my eyes still plastered to her thighs.

“y-y-yeah…” I agreed, clearly awed and basically speechless. Of course I knew I - a married man - shouldn’t be sitting, alone in the dark and half-tipsy, with a woman more than ten years my junior and looking at her legs. I tossed my shoes onto the sand and sat.

“You haven’t lived,” she quipped, smoothing her dress again away from her, “‘til you’ve been with a girl that can squat you.” She took my hands in hers again, squeezed them playfully.

At her little joke I tried to laugh. “y-yeah…” I felt her watching my face, studying me as, finally, I was able to tear my eyes away. I began to struggle with myself, knowing I should say something, do something more appropriate than let this twentysomething girl lead me around with her drop-dead figure like a worshipful pinhead. “H-hey, uhh…” I began.

“Shhhh…” she stopped me, one of her hands leaving mine and snaking up behind my shoulders, “You’ve had a long day, you look tired. Lay your head down, here on my lap...”

!!!

“C’mon,” she continued, brightly, already readjusting herself, shifting herself on the chaise to accommodate me, “remember what we said - it’s just you and me. Friends, together, here. It’s okay…” Already she was easing me down, gently but firmly urging me to recline, sideways onto her. “...I can be very comfortable <giggle!>”

Before I knew it, I had my head down, resting on her soft, bare lap. Her big thigh was warm and silky smooth against my right cheek

“See? This isn’t so bad, is it?” she cooed, stroking my hair with tender fingers, “Finally a good use for these thighs.”

“y-y-yeah…” I admitted, eyes fluttering as I breathed in and took a deep lungful of air, full of her scent. “B-But, Melissa…” I began, but soon found my voice failing as her hand stroked my cheek.

“Shhhh….it's alright...”

I looked at her knees, and closed my eyes. This was a new level of intimacy between Melissa and me, and as innocent as she maybe thought it was I knew it couldn’t be anything but trouble. But I was impotent against my own weaknesses to do anything about it.

“That’s right, gooooood…let me help you relax,” she whispered, still slowly stroking my face, petting my hair, “I’ve always had a way of making people forget about their problems, and I want to help you forget yours.”

My eyes opened again. “wh-what sort of pr-pr-?“

“Shhhhhhhhh….” she hushed me again. While one hand stroked my head, the other had come to rest on my arm. It was then that I noticed I had begun to harden, in my pressed khaki shorts. Jesus, this was too much. “I want you to relax, listen to me, listen to the sound of my voice…”

I was in no position to disagree. “oh-...okay…” I peeped, frozen motionless, the rest of me laid out on my right side, supported by the rubbery, plastic webbing of the chaise. My hands were gathered up by my chest. I waited for her to speak again, losing myself more by the second in the soft pleasure of her lap.

“We’re okay here, we’re fine, you and me…we’re good together like this,” she began, “you hired me to organize things, take the load off of you, make life easier for you.” She stroked my arm slowly, soothingly. “You hired me to watch out for you, protect you, take care of you,” she continued, her voice quiet and even, “isn't that right?”

I, uh...I’d hired her as an administrator for my practice, an Office Manager. And though I wouldn’t have put any of that in a job description, I...god…”y-yes…”

That was what she wanted to hear.

“Yes, that’s right, good,” she praised, “I’m here for you, for you…” She continued to pet my hair. “And I want you to feel totally comfortable around me. I know your life at home is tough, you have so much stress. I want to be the shoulder for you if you need. I’m strong if you need support, I’m soft if life gets too hard.” Jesus her thighs are like heaven. “I’m warm if it gets too cold.”

The thoughts that whirled around me confused me. What is she saying?? What sort of invitation was this?! What would happen if I…turned towards her, into her lap, buried my face into her lap, kissing her legs? Christ I was getting harder and harder by the second, the outsized thing swelling uncomfortably in my shorts; it was pushing up my hip, making it even more impossible to think clearly. Between it, the booze, the ocean air, her perfumed skin and abundant lap I was not only made motionless but passively mindless.

She took my meek silence as a cue; I felt our congress here settle into a new level with a change in her voice. “Sweetheart,” she said, “I’m here, Melissa’s here, and she’s going to take such...good...care…” She shifted her legs, readjusting me on her lap. “...of her...little...man.”

Urk. Wait what? What was that?? Did I…did I hear that right? And worse...did I just shudder?

I needed to say something.

“u-uhhh, M-Melissa,” I found the strength to say, “y-you don’t have to talk to me like I’m a...a…”

”A beta?” she answered, when my voice failed.

”A w-what?” I stammered, shocked. I had been expecting ‘child’ but...not that.

“Oh, sweetie,” she cooed, “relax. You are totally a Beta.” She paused, let that sink in. She knew I must have heard the term before, recently. It was something that the media had picked up on, had started to use when addressing these new changes and movements in society, in gender relations - usually describing men. “Beta”: a man acquiescent to a power shift between himself and a woman, yielding if she was looking to get ahead, become more than him. And it was not just used as a term to label the submissive personality in a relationship. It was also a word describing those who’d been passive and unresistant to these changes happening in the world, and by their inaction be complicit in them.

“But that’s a good thing,” she soothed, continuing, “Betas are great. Betas help us, help us get this equality they know we deserve. They don’t get in the way of changes, they understand the way things should be.”

Where was this coming from?? I felt like I should say something, speak up, defend the male race - a sad lot that’s been taking hits recently. But the last thing I wanted to do right now was bring argument to the moment. I was too enthralled with being humiliated.

“Besides,” she went on, giggling, “Betas are adorable.” At that she shifted me again, urging me to turn towards her so I was now on my back, her hand moving my head such that I was looking up at her, and held it there. I could see the glitter of eyes as she peeked down at me over the imposing swell of bosom. “And, sweetie, you don’t have to worry. I know it’s hard, that there’s so much pressure on you to be strong and smart and in charge. But it’s okay, I know what’s natural for you.” She smiled down on me generously. “You can be beta with me.”

She sat back a bit, her face all but disappearing behind her breasts. My hands were still clasped tensely at my sternum. My heart raced as my cock grew, plastered against my left hip and now threatening to push up and up further past the waistband of my shorts. “I-I-I…” I stammered, struck mute. Why couldn’t I speak?? Was I actually this sheepish??

“Shhhhh it’s okay,” she told me, “You can still be yourself. You can be a doctor, our boss, a man. But you can also be someone who realizes that others, women sometimes, just have stronger personalities.”

“uhhh…” I had to stop this. “I…”

“A lot of the girls in the office have strong personalities, don’t they?” she said playfully, while at the same time her left hand - trying to get me to relax - lifted my balled fists from off my chest.

“Do some of them make you uncomfortable?” she asked now, laying my left arm, and then my right, down by my sides. “Hm? Am I hiring girls with too much personality? Surrounding you with too many alpha females?” She giggled, considering my plight. “It’s like they’re everywhere, huh?”

She looked down at me curiously, regarding me, waiting for my reaction, maybe some input. None came; I could barely breathe let alone speak.

“Well, what if that’s the way the world is becoming?” she continued, as if musing to herself, “If they really are everywhere? If roles are reversing, if women are becoming more alpha? Getting better education, getting better jobs? Getting smarter than men? Bigger than men?”

“B-bigger?” That took me aback. Her statement about women’s advances had struck a bit of a chord, but it was true. I’d seen the statistics, read and been told recently about college degrees, income levels, women’s greater successes. But the physical stuff? That seemed...unlikely, right?

But, I started to think, what would the world be like if the traditional size relationship between men and women started to flip? I looked up at her and - with her huge, muscular thighs below me, her fit, shapely torso towering above me up into the night sky - I suddenly, acutely, felt in my fragile bones just how much physically bigger Melissa was than me. How would men deal with this if...if this was the way it was? How would society deal with it? What would change? What would become of us?

My cock throbbed, insistent and still growing.

“I hadn’t thought about it too much before,” she continued, “but I kinda like the idea, this...what do they say? ‘Role-reversal’?” Her left hand had found its way to my middle, casually playing with the fabric of my pique-cotton polo. “We talk all about it at these seminars I go to.”

“S-seminars?” I asked dumbly.

“Oh, well, maybe they’re more support meetings? Focus groups? Organizational things?” she began to explain, “At Abby’s work, a couple evenings a month. Just a bunch of girls, ladies, getting together…helping one another, talking about ways we can help ourselves, further the cause. Keeping us up to date on everything going on.” The breeze had just started to pick up more, off the water. “I’m kinda new to it but I love it. You’ve maybe heard about some of these meetings, happening all over the place, not just at Evolution. I think Sheryl’s been to a few?”

These things with Olivia? That’s what they’ve been doing?

“It’s so very cool recently. They talk about changing the world, making it a better place, more equal, getting women out of the shadows,” she said, a strange excitement in her voice, “I think it’s wonderful…”

Her left hand took one of mine in hers, held it, held it up. Showed me how much smaller than her own it was.

“And just…just look at you…” she marveled, her tone thickening, queen’s honey, “you’re like the perfect guy for it all. You’re not just a beta, you’re actually getting, like, actually, physically...smaller.”

She wrapped her hand over mine.

“M-M-Melissa…?”

“Oh, sweetie, it’s nothing to be ashamed of,” she clucked, “Like we were saying yesterday- we love it, girls love it. It’s kind of a fad now, shorter guys, taller girls...” She put my hand down - oh my god, too close - on my hip, near the undeniable swell of my erection. “...weaker men, stronger women.”

Lightning flashed, out of the clouds, over the water. Something, brewing.

“How do my legs feel? Still okay?” she asked. On cue, muscles rippled powerfully below me, cradling my head and neck.

“y-y-yeah…” was all I could manage. I saw a gust bring her hair to life.

Her free left hand rested itself on my bare, thin thigh, just above my left knee. She squeezed it, tenderly, feeling out what meager mass I had. “I mean, you hear what people are saying, right?” she continued, as a gentle roll of thunder settled over us, “Why the New Woman party is getting so popular? Why they’re thinking they’re going to win some elections next month?”

“I...I hadn’t been really k-keeping up...” I admitted.

“It’s the same thing,” she explained, “People are starting to like seeing women big, bigger than men, not just physically. They like to see women occupying bigger jobs, bigger positions. They like to see them taking them from men. It’s empowering to women and, face it...guys secretly find it sexy. A lot of them won’t admit it but they like it, seeing women doing this. Don’t you? Hm? Don’t you like seeing women finally getting what they deserve?”

“Uh, well, y-yeah, of c-cour-” I agreed, not wanting to sound like a jerk.

“And then sweetie, what better way than to beat the men in elections? Take their offices?” she continued. Yes, she seemed to be repeating some mantra, some doctrine she’d been fed. But she honestly seemed to believe it. “People want to see women have, like, a stronger place in government, start to be able to make some real changes...”

More lightning, a violent flash. Melissa seemed unperturbed.

“People want to see women grow and succeed...it’s just the thing these days…” she spoke, her hand now just inches away from...

“Oh...uhh...I dont…”

Thunder, closer.

“I think a storm is coming,” she finally said.

As if on cue, rain. A spattering at first…

“I...I think you’re right,” I agreed, as I watched Melissa look up into the night, into the inky blackness. The stars had disappeared.

...and then, water. A deluge.

“Eeeek!!!” she squealed, suddenly, as instantly we were being pelted, the heavens having opened up with an onslaught from the dark sky. “Oh my god!!!” she laughed, as I rose from her lap, as I sat and she grabbed her heels and me my docksiders, as we both moved quickly to stand, and to run.

We were getting soaked. More lightning over the water, more thunder in the distance.

“Run, run!!” she called as, taking my hand now in hers, she lead me over the beach towards the trees. Water came down in buckets. I had stumbled at first but with her help finally found my footing, and we ran together through the rain until we reached the shelter of the palms, both of us now laughing and drenched. Winded, from the short run, I pressed my back against a trunk, seeking its protection from the storm. Light from the resort filtered through the trees; it was less dark, here.

My chest heaved, “Oh man..!” I hooted, “that is some r- urk!”

Laughing, Melissa had come up to me, also taking cover, all but pressing herself face-to-face against me to stay under the palm’s umbrella. She was breathing heavy, giddy with excitement from our mad dash across the sand through the rain, her dress - like my shirt, my shorts - soaked through. Looking down at me, her face was scant inches from mine. Her hair hung wetly; she pushed it behind her.

She smiled, dangerously playful. Body heat, our wet life, intermingled, intimate.

“Are you okay?” she purred, obviously amused by the position in which we found ourselves.

“y-y-yeah,” I replied, “j-just a little...w-wet.” She was so close. So warm. So big. I tried to ignore how her dress was now plastered to her like a second skin.

“Wet? Look at you, you poor thing. You’re soaked,” she pouted. It’s true, I looked like a drowned rat, my clothes plastered to me as well. “We’ll have to get you a towel later.” If anything, she inched in closer, bringing the warmth of her bigger body towards my smaller one. I was shivering, and not just from the rain. “Are you cold?”

“n-no…” I managed, “I’m fine..”

She looked down on me, watched me struggling with my thoughts. I knew I shouldn’t be here, I knew I shouldn’t be allowing this to happen. But I was helpless, still. Helpless because she was just so...nnngh…so close.

“Without Sheryl around I’ll have to take care of you, keep you warm, hm?” Melissa giggled while the rain continued to pour down around us. The palm was shielding us, mostly, from the heavens. “So…” she began, choosing her words carefully, “she takes good care of you, right?”

Whether she saw or felt me shudder I don’t know. What did she mean? “W-well…”

“C’mon- Sheryl has a great job, so successful. She’s an attorney, a powerful woman, right?” Melissa asked, reaching up to push wet hair off my forehead, “Isn’t it nice having someone so...capable, taking care of you?” Her left hand came to rest on the trunk of the tree, aside my head. “Don’t you find that...sexy?”

“Uhhh..”

“Doesn’t that kinda...turn you on?” she asked, smiling mischievously, “I mean, she makes more than you, right? I hear her salary just got, like, astronomical. The girls in the office talk about it all the time. Plus all the company boards she’s on?”

“Uhhh…” I struggled. I couldn’t say anything...and I certainly couldn’t deny it. But…’the girls in the office’? What were they all saying about me??

“It’s very empowering for a woman, you know,” Melissa continued, “to have a man financially dependent on her.”

At that, my male ego, shrunken and beset as it was, raised its head and bristled. “I’m n-not..’financially dependent’ on her…” I said, hearing the uncertainty myself in my voice.

“She owns the building the practice is in, doesn’t she?” Melissa asked, innocently.

“Well, yes, but..” I started to explain. Sheryl did keep separate accounts from me, handling our household and mingling some of our finances...but holding many of her own assets, too. Stocks, funds, real estate. It had seemed only fair, I’d always figured, seeing what she came to the marriage with, versus what I did. “I-it’s complicated.”

“Mmm…” she acknowledged, her free hand straightening the wet collar of my shirt, smoothing it out, “I’m sure. But...she owns a majority share in the practice, now, right?”

How much do these girls know?? I marveled in shocked indignity, mortified. It was true, though. Sheryl and I did start as partners, 50/50 shareholders in the business - she had the money, I had just gotten done with med school and residency. As her income grew and mine trailed, she bought the building, a few years in, and leased the office space back to the practice. She always paid herself rent with stock options, slowly owning more and more of it herself and paying me my salary. Initially I had my doubts, maybe thought it wasn’t the best idea, but she'd always been the one with the business sense, told me it was the best thing, saving cash for the practice to reinvest in itself. But..it’s mortifying. She owns the lion’s share of it all, now, and I realize my mistake. And, with the way our relationship at home is...I…

Jesus I felt small. Small and afraid.

Melissa looked down at me, her right hand now also on the trunk of the tree aside my head. I felt trapped. I was trapped. “I want to be like that someday, be the breadwinner, bring home the bacon,” she mused, eyes glittering in the semi-dark, looking at me, “I so want to have a guy need me like that, tied to my apron strings.”

What few words I had were caught in my throat. I swallowed them down, dryly.

“Sheryl is so lucky, to have a guy like you,” she continued, pondering me as she bit her lip in thought. Her smile curled a little bit. “What would it be like if she was as tall as me? How would things change, be different between you two?”

I have to admit, by this point I had gone beyond feeling just aroused, the evening had passed the point of being just titillating. Secretly I was becoming a bit...scared.

And that just turned me on more.

“If Sheryl was six feet tall...taller…” Melissa continued, making me consider the thought, the possibility, as she drew in closer, stood up a bit taller, “if she was bigger, stronger than you? What would that be like?” She watched my face twitching, me struggling with myself. “...I think you might kinda like it.”

I craned my neck to look up into her face, rather than let my gaze fall to what approached from below: her soft, inviting cleavage. “I, uh….”

“Does she like you being beta?” she asked.

“d-does she wh-wh-what?”

“Does Sheryl like you being beta?” she repeated, “Does she like having you be...this way?”

I thought for a moment, about Sheryl and I, about what our marriage had become, before answering. “I...I dunno...I th-think she finds it kinda...pathetic,” I answered, knowing immediately I should have thought a moment longer, should have held my tongue. Jesus I just admitted it didn’t I? What my relationship with Sheryl is really like?

“Oh, that’s too bad…” Melissa cooed, pouting again but eyes alive and excited, both hands coming down to once again play with my collar. “Well, I think it’s cute…” she said, her hands now resting possessively on my shoulders, “little Dr. J...my little beta boss...”

Again, my beleaguered ego. “H-hey, c’mon, Melissa-”

“Shhhhh...like I said…” she stopped me, massaging my thin shoulders with firm, gentle hands, “You can be beta with me.” Another roll of thunder, this time further away. The rain still came down into the sand all around us, and the tropical air was heavy, full of her perfume. “In fact I can help you, especially if you like women being strong and taking care of things for you. Just think. I can hire more alpha girls, we can do more around the office. You can take a backseat, watch us run things...I think you’ll like it.”

“b-b-but…” This, of course, was already out of hand. And I felt powerless to stop it from getting worse.

“Shh, remember...I want you to be comfortable with me. Be yourself, let me take care of you and don’t worry about how others see you,” she insisted, “And always know you can tell me anything you want…” She giggled. “No judgies.”

“I...I d-don’t...” I looked up at her, at her perfectly strong jaw, her divine cheekbones.

“Is there something you’d like to tell me?” she asked, curiously. She saw my eyes admiring her face and gave me a dazzling smile, causing me to take a full, deep breath of her perfume. I felt my tongue loosening, my ego wilting.

“I-I, uh,” I began, unable to help myself, “I like how you’ve...been taking care of things...a-at the office.” My erection was straining painfully in my shorts, pressing straight up towards my belly.

“See, I’m glad you said that….that’s a start,” she said, encouraging me with her smile, now petting my cheek, “Tell me more…”

Wh-what else could I say? I knew I should stay quiet, but found my cock talking for me, wanting to please her. “I l-like how you’ve been, like, making a lot of decisions for me…” My shame welled in my throat, heated my face, but I couldn’t stop.

“Mmhmm…” she purred, “and..?”

“I’d like you to...do that more…” I continued.

“There you go,” she praised, rewarding me with a tender smile. The rain, it seemed, had suddenly stopped. “Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

She waited for my answer.

“n-no…”

“Good boy…huh, now, it looks like the rain’s done. Why don’t you put your shoes on and we’ll get you home?”

“O-okay…” I conceded, already finding myself leaning over, awkwardly slipping my docksiders back onto my feet. Thoughts and shame swirled around me, through me, thoughts of what had just occurred. But mostly, suddenly, I was thinking about my shoes.

...jeez these seem big. Didn’t they fit better earlier?

============================================================

Had some help from DoubleBurger on this one - thanks to him and everyone reading

#Growing Into the Job

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why-this-kolaveri-machi · 5 years

Text

what more can you do?

WOO! this week’s episode was sad and weird and badly paced and startlingly, unevenly mature in true titans fashion. i loved it (with reservations)! let’s talk about it in excruciating detail:

SPOILERS ahead.

1. i can’t say that i’m awfully thrilled about the show following up on a character’s literal suicide attempt by... not addressing said suicide attempt at all. maybe it’s the awkward way an entire episode’s worth of flashback was shoehorned in between the end of 2.07--where dick literally talked jason off the ledge while in the throes of a psychotic break of his own--and the beginning of this one, but it’s honestly not just bad storytelling, but irresponsible storytelling.

1.5. in a general sense, tho, the tableau at the beginning of the episode is so egregiously unfair--so shockingly, plainly one-sided, with a slump shouldered dick facing the world, only kory on his side, that it’s quite apparent that it’s the lowest these heroes can go. and i do think their individual reactions to dick’s confession provide an interesting insight into their characters. hank and dawn have been operating alone for so long, each a reminder of their traumas and losses and very human frailty to the other, without even the resources that dick and the batman enjoy. it’s been them v the world for so goddamn long; is it any wonder that they were looking for the first excuse to bail out of there, to not Deal with the idea that what they were doing to deal with their traumas and guilt was clearly not working, and dick was--and has been always--so willing to be the scapegoat? hank punching dick was utterly unwarranted--but i can accept that as part of the unaddressed emotional outbursts arising out of years of accumulated head injuries from both college football and vigilantism. (this isn’t to excuse what he did but to contextualise it within hank’s history and personality.) their instinct when facing ugly truths is to retreat to what they think is familiar and what they need--except, as hank realises later in the episode, that’s exactly what’s fucking them up further.

rose is understandably upset at being lied to about her brother’s death and the titans being complicit in the same--but i’m curious that her reaction was to merely leave and not try and fight them. maybe after being defeated by dick while sparring and nearly being killed by rachel she was sensible enough to realise that she couldn’t take them on all at once? i don’t know--she’s curiously been a bit of a cipher this season. jason leaving with her made sense tho--unburdened of the weight of being the team’s scapegoat, understandably miffed at dick for keeping a secret that nearly cost him his life and left him with a great deal of trauma, just Angry at the world in general, he gravitates towards rose, the only other outsider/rebel who tried to reach out to him when everybody else shunned him or looked at him like an impostor. i think the decision was more impulsive than anything--they still look confused and uncertain in the taxi as they leave the tower behind. but--i don’t know. theirs is the storyline that i’m the most perplexed about. we just don’t have a lot of information about either of them, rose especially.

(a part of me still thinks she’s slade’s mole in the tower. but why would she leave if she is? to keep up appearances bc to react in any other way to the news of her brother’s death would be suspicious? maybe she left because her job is done and the titans were splitting up? maybe she was part of the long game to seduce jason over to slade’s side--seeking revenge for dick swaying jericho over to the titans’? am i going to stop asking myself questions in this post? am i ever going to write a review that’s not just stream-of-consciousness nonsense? only time will tell.)

DONNA. oh, donna. her decision to leave seems to me a logical continuation of her s2 arc that i’d talked about in a previous review--paranoid, insecure, retraumatised, and taking out her frustrations on jason and dick. it’s also very interesting to me that she complained to rachel about dick treating them like “soldiers” and only told them things that he deemed that they “need[ed] to know.” it was because of jillian and whatever mysterious business that themyscira was conducting in sf that she and garth and slade ever landed up in that airport at all; even worse, jillian deemed it was something that donna didn’t need to know until it was too late. donna lost so much in that fiasco--the man she loved, her friends, several members of her amazon family, and her sense of purpose, her belief in her strength and her destiny and her faith that other people trusted her as a warrior and as a leader. she’s projecting all that pain onto dick--who again, doesn’t deserve all this shit but takes it anyway because of his own issues.

1.8. and, like. as much as jericho’s death became the Traumatic Event that overshadowed almost everything else in dick’s life for the last five years and helps explain a lot of his hang-ups right from s1, it just doesn’t have the same significance for the others. don’t get me wrong--i’m sure hank, donna and dawn are devastated and guilty about the part that they had to play in manipulating jericho and his eventual death. but their issues with each other, with the titans tower and with their past run deeper and in different directions, and i think all of that came into play when they each decided to go their separate ways.

1.95. idek what the fuck is going on with rachel. i felt every ounce of dick’s heartbreak and devastation when she got up to leave with donna. for all that she saved dick in the first episode of this season, she still hasn’t reached the point where she’s willing to unburden her emotions and issues on him. it must be frustrating and sad for her to realise just how much dick didn’t trust her either. but there’s something else going on as well: maybe she’s realised she has no real control over her re-emerging powers, and, carrying on with the fatalistic attitude she had at the end of 2.05, she wants to spare the titans the chaos and darkness that she carries around with her. (she’s used to running away at this point, after all.) she goes with donna bc donna knows her the least: it would therefore be easy to fool her and escape.

2. more faddei! and kory backstory! \o/

it’s curious that they never once bring up trigon, because s1 gave the impression that she’d come to earth with a specific mission to seek his portal out and destroy it before he could, y’know, Fuck The Universe Up. faddei makes it sound like kory just went on this fun little sabbatical before taking up royal duties, which kiiinda undercuts a lot of what was cool about her s1 arc. i realise you aren’t entirely happy with your freshman season, titans, and s2 looks like it might be a soft reboot, but you don’t have to mutilate it like this!

but seriously. the stakes just got upped exponentially for kory, and it would be really interesting to see where she goes from here. apart from a promise to rachel, she doesn’t really owe the rest of the titans anything--not that i think she views relationships in such transactional terms, of course. on the other hand, abandoning her responsibilities on tamaran has led to its takeover by an unfit leader and the deaths of several of her family and friends. the choice shouldn’t be a choice at all. she should go back home. and yet--she waited too long, and the choice has been taken away from her. faddei is dead, both of their ships are destroyed, and she is stuck on earth, grieving and frustrated and furious. kory is usually very clear headed about exactly where she stands emotionally, but after such a big event, she must be feeling so much pain, guilt, sorrow, anger, even resentment. it’s so easy to look at kory’s level-headedness and open, empathetic personality and use her to prop up other characters, but i hope that this isn’t always the case, and that she’ll be allowed to really work through these emotions while somebody else looks out for her.

2.35. (the little snippets of faddei and kory just enjoying the shit out of the Little Things that humanity has to offer is just... it filled me with so much warmth. i wouldn’t mind an entire episode of them just chilling and exploring and annoying each other with badly-applied out-of-context pop culture references)

2.5. blackfire! i don’t know much about comics!blackfire beyond “she was starfire’s sister, Evil, and possibly sold her sister into slavery??? yikes” so i’m just going purely off what the show has revealed about her so far. it was honestly disconcerting to see so many references to her possible disability (?) and to see both that and the efforts to accommodate her spoken about in... i want to say mocking way? i don’t know. i just saw a murder mystery/thriller movie today where the serial killer was revealed to have been both disabled from birth and mentally ill, and maybe i’m just feeling extra sensitive to the truly disturbing and pervasive trope of having disabled characters be Evil--and tying their Evil to their disability.

2.8. anyhow, blackfire appears to have accumulated a fair bit of power in the time that kory’s been gone: not only can she remotely possess other tamaraneans but she can blow up their ships too. (and didn’t faddei say that she had goons on the ground, looking for starfire?)

2.9. it’s a Lot to deal with this late in the season. maybe kory will leave for tamaran to deal with blackfire once and for all at the end of the season. and if titans ends up cancelled, wouldn’t that be a bittersweet ending.

(wherein ‘bittersweet’ translates to ‘devastating’ ofc)

3. oh where do i even start with dick

his worst fears came true. after his confession, not only did his old friends up and leave, but so did rachel and jason, which he found more heartbreaking than anything else. utterly consumed by guilt and convinced more than ever before of his culpability, he actively seeks out ways to self-flagellate, first by going to adeline to apologise, then by banishing himself, then by making sure he is punished (tho i have my doubts on that last one; will elaborate a little later). after watching him have an extended psychotic break and dash into not one but two suicide missions, watching dick grayson do this to himself feels like watching an extended feature on human suffering. it’s not fun, or pretty, and i can feel it reaching its nadir so that dick can bounce back up again, but i hope it happens soon.

(dick’s natural tendency to internalise guilt and responsibility into a hard little diamond core at his centre and his long training with batman with all the emphasis on secrets and subterfuge with a healthy underpinning of paranoia ironically means that he does so much goddamn emotional labour for this team. he’s the glue that keeps them together, that gives them purpose. he’s trying so hard to do good by everybody that he isn’t really able to achieve it with any of them, which leads to another self-flagellating spiral and him determining to try harder and the cycle just keeps going on. only kory seems to have ever broken this cycle, because she’s never demanded anything of him, nor he of her. it’s really sad to think how bereft dick feels right now, and more than that, how it’s stopping him from being there for the people who really do need him and trust him, like gar and rachel.)

3.25. adeline makes a very good point about how merely apologising doesn’t mean you’re owed forgiveness, and that seeking it out after all these years is a self-serving exercise in itself. but i can see dick taking it hard, especially after discovering that she’s letting slade--the man who actually killed her son--recuperate at her home. (and let’s be clear: however good her intentions, she participated in lying to her child about the truth of what his father actually does. wow, jericho was really just fucked over by pretty much every one he loved, wasn’t he?)

but i am glad to see dick isn’t so far gone that he takes the blame for jericho’s death in front of slade. he’s very aware that slade has permanently broken the team and very aware of the threat slade poses if they ever try to get back together again, but he’s not going to completely surrender every last shred of his self-worth and dignity to this man, and that was refreshing to see.

3.5. so he banishes himself to the farthest place he can think of with nothing more than the shirt on his back and a single duffel bag. it’s so over-the-top yet so... dick grayson.

3.8. BUT WAIT! ~PLOT TWIST~

ok so here’s what’s happening, all right? strap in:

a) jericho is one hundred percent inside slade. i have no doubts about this. adeline knows this too. it’s why she was so even-keeled while talking to dick, why she confidently said that jericho loved dick, and why she said “they” might be willing to forgive him. i’m thinking when slade crawled back home, jericho took advantage of his father’s momentary weakness to tell what was happening to his mother.

b) jericho tried to communicate to dick. i saw something somewhere which said that slade had gestured something very specific in asl while conversing with dick? i’m willing to believe that was intentional.

c) when dick was turning to leave and slade called him one last time and gave his “banishment sentence” jericho likely jumped bodies from slade to dick

d) so why did dick get himself arrested at the airport?

- dick was going through, as others have speculated, a dissociative episode. given how he’s exhibited signs of mental illness throughout this season this isn’t that far out of the realm of possibility, but it’s a weak and redundant narrative bridge and wasn’t shot in a way that suggested that it was a mental break. so i’m ruling this out.

- jericho took over. maybe he felt that this was the only way he could force dick to stay in sf. maybe some of his father’s anger/resentment leeched into him and he wanted to dick to experience some actual punishment instead of scarpering again. maybe he was overwhelmed by dick’s own self-flagellating tendencies and chose the shortest route to maximum pain. maybe it’s a combination of all three.

- dick finally got his brain into gear and realised at the last minute that jericho had possessed slade and was trying to tell him something. why he then proceeded to get himself arrested instead of running out of the airport is a mystery.

personally, i’m leaning towards the ‘jericho possessed dick’ possibility.

4. gar is such a sweetheart and i am so glad that he took centrestage this episode, even though, like always, it was to support another character and ended up with him crying and begging for help from an unresponsive dick. *sighs*

4.5. much like dick himself, he’s trying to do good by everybody, only to end up badly misjudging a situation, and all alone.

5. oof. this has gone on for far too long and i am Tired. more thoughts to come later, because right now my brain is as disorganised as... as disorganised as a titans episode. hah! self-burn!!!

#titans #titans spoilers #dick grayson #koriand'r #garfield logan #hank hall #dawn granger #donna troy #rachel roth #slade wilson #meta #aaaah this is 2.6k+ words long I'M SORRY

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your-worst-knightmare · 4 years

Text

Hoist the Colours

“Yo ho, all together Hoist the colours high. Heave, ho, thieves and beggars Never shall we die.”

The docks were noisy. They always were, during this time of year at least. The clamour of the people coupled with the pounding rain made for a strange melody. Calming, almost, if you were accustomed to it. Fishermen hauled barrels of fish off their boat, proud of their catch for the day. School upon school of fish swam through these waters this season, and with their bounty came people. And so, the docks were noisy.

Noisy docks meant good business for barkeeps and innkeepers. It also meant good business for thieves and pickpockets, who took advantage of the lackadaisical wealthy who happened to wander too far into the Narrows. But if you had enough sense in your head, you knew better than to wander. Roy liked to think he had sense. His most perilous adventures were the immeasurable stack of dishes in the kitchen. Except for the influx of barfights newcomers brought with them, there was only one thing he had to worry about: Pirates.

Oh, they were thieves of a higher breed and more ambitious in nature. They also possessed a strange sense of nobility, one that no particular barkeep could classify. Roy could, to an extent at least. But that was only because he had considered himself one in his youth. He had hung up the title long since, now spending his days mopping up spills or refilling some ruffian’s drink. Mundane tasks, but it was honest work at least. Unlike one of his oldest friends, he preferred an honest life to one of trickery and adventure.

Jay Todd. The Damned Prince. The surname ‘Todd’ never stuck after he joined his first crew and insisted he was nobody. It almost made Roy laugh. Jay and Jay Todd were two different people completely. They did have one obnoxious trait in common though: they were both always ready to go for a round, them against the world. He was a captain now, in charge of a ghost ship, as they called it. A pseudo captain, if you will, because the captain was the only one on the ship. It wasn’t hard to imagine Jay out there, lonely as Lady Lune, with only memories for company.

Despite his conviction of loneliness, Jay always made his adventures seem wonderous. Tales of glory and swashbuckling, tales which seemed too tall to be true. Roy knew there was more to Jay’s life than emprise and endeavour, but he sometimes wondered: was a pirate’s life really all it was cut out to be?

––––––––––––––––

Damn. A pirate’s life was really not all it was cut out to be. Jason had just finished a job for an anonymous employer, and though the pay was good, he could use a break. Perhaps he’d pay Roy a visit. He wouldn’t be noticed much anyway, not with the amount of sailors that passed through that port this time of year.

Jason set his course north, hoisted the sails and climbed the shroud to watch the endless waves. He made himself comfortable for the journey, an old sea shanty playing on his lips. It was funny, how much he sang to himself now. Roy would tease him endlessly if he found out, Jason could all but hear it right now. “‘Ey, look ‘ere boys, the old bird’s finally singin’ for us!”

Despite the time that had passed, he still knew exactly where to find Roy. Only the side of town with a raging infamy for brawls of the most dramatic kind would house Roy. It was always wise to enter town with some sort of concealed weapon, but especially when one entered the place Roy called home. It was as if he used his circumstances of living to satisfy his thirst for adventure.

The bar was busy, and so Jason wasn’t noticed when he stepped inside. All the attention the bar could hold was directed on one individual: a woman challenging sailor after sailor to fistfights. She had a captain’s hat on over her russet hair, merely to show her rank. It was braided back on one side of her head, a clever combination of style and practicality. She looked familiar, and Jason kept trying and failing to place her. He would have thought about it all day if Roy hadn’t found him first.

“ Hey, ‘ya finally come ‘ta visit and ‘ya don’t even stop for a hello.”

“I came here to find you, ‘ya big crybaby. I’m here now, so stop whining,” Jason said, giving Roy a hearty clap on the back. Roy brought out some food and they sat down, as far as they could from the commotion.

“So, Jaybird, how’s life been treatin’ ‘ya?”

“Not bad. Finished a job in the Southern Isles. Came ‘ere for a little break before my next job.”

Roy slammed his mug on the table wiping his mouth. “Where’s all the charisma gone? The adventure? The next thrilling tale in the saga?”

“Aw, Roy, not every job is exciting. Some o’ them are jes’ messy an’ tiring.”

“‘Ol captain ready to hang up the hat then, eh? Ready to settle down with some nice lady?” Roy raised his eyebrows, mocking.

“I won’t hang up the hat ‘till I go down to Davy Jones’ locker or Angel comes ‘ta take me. Can’t, rather. My mistress will have to live with it then, won’t she?”

Roy let out a good-natured snort. “Unless you plan on wooing the Red Amazon herself,” Roy said, gesturing to the red-haired pirate in the middle of the bar, “ you’re goin’ ‘ta spend your days alone, mate.”

“Is that what her name is?”

“Aye. Loud as a pistol and twice as destructive, she is. Had to drag at least five folks out jes’ today.” Jason kept staring, his intent clear in his eyes. “Oh no, you’re not going to. She’s knocked every ol’ seadog here into sharkbait. ‘Ya don’t stand a chance.”

Jason got up, heedless of Roy’s words. The latest challenger stumbled out of the Red Amazon’s reach, yielding before he was hurt too badly. She smoothed her hair, annoyingly, before pausing to look Jason up and down. “Pray, sir, who might you be? Another challenger?” Her accent suggested a respectable upbringing, which caught Jason off guard.

“If ‘ya wish me to be, miss. I ask for a conversation if I do win.”

She thought for a moment, watching him twist a gold ring on his finger. “When you lose, I’d like your ring.”

He looked down at it. It was an intricate thing, and probably held quite some value. Alas, he could find another ring, not another conversation. “Fine. Draw your cutlass.”

She raised her eyebrows. “A duel? If that’s what you want, then.” She held a hand out, reaching towards thin air. “To me, Mistress.” When called, a huge, polished sword came flying to the Amazon’s hand. A magical item, then.

Jason drew his own cutlass, quite modest in comparison. The Amazon smirked, a mischievous light burning in her eyes. Green eyes, he realized. Her first strike was so fast that Jason struggled to meet it. The clang of metal against metal echoed in the now quiet bar while the audience held their breath.

The blows were so rapid that the fight quickly became a show of instinct and muscle memory. Jason was proud to say that he held his own quite well, albeit a nick he had sustained to the arm. She held no wounds, as of yet, but if Jason couldn’t prove his skills, he’d prove his spirit.

The Amazon deflected Jason’s latest strike onto the ground.” Really, I’d like to know who you are.”

Jason thrust another strike towards her breathlessly. “ The Prince, miss,” he said, stepping back, tipping his head. “ The Damned Prince.”

“Well,” she began, taking the opportunity to disarm Jason of his weapon. It clattered to the ground loudly and he grimaced as she pressed her blade against his throat. “I’ve ne’er seen a prince so ragged as you.”

Discreetly, he unsheathed his concealed knife, pressing it to her side. “Looks aren’t everything, mate,” he smiled. “A draw, then?”

The Amazon bared her teeth, sneering. She sheathed her sword, but not before giving Jason another small taste of its blade. “ A dirty rapscallion, y’ are.”

He handed her the ring as Roy found seats for them and drove their audience away. “ A good duel, wasn’t it?”

“Tell me what your business is before I find you a dance with Jack Ketch.”

“I heard news that you was lookin’ for a bow. My ol’ employer wanted it too. What’s the fuss wi’ it?”

“It’s a calamitous weapon. Lord knows what would happen if it were taken by th’ wrong buccaneer.” She pushed her chair back, ready to leave. “I’m not looking for any hands. You may go.”

“I know where ‘ta start lookin’.”

She stopped, now interested. “ Pray, then, where?”

He told her what he knew, from the gossip he had heard in the Southern Isles. The journey would be long, but work was what he had come looking for. “All I ask is that I accompany you.”

“Fine. No prey, no pay, Prince. We leave at dawn.”

A share of any loot was fine by him. He’d leave his ship for Roy to take care of until he came back. He just needed to make sure his old employer, whoever he was, didn’t get his hands onto the bow. Jason took off his hat and extended his hand. “Jay Peter Todd.”

The Amazon returned the gesture. “Artemis Grace. Don’t be late.”

Should I do a part two??

#rhato 2016 #red hood #artemis grace #jaytemis #au #pirate au #dc comics #fanfic #pirate #roy harper #arsenal #jaytemis pirate au

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preraphaelitepunk · 5 years

Text

Fictober19 Day 18: The Tea Is Hellishly Hot

Prompt #18: Secrets? I love secrets.

Fandom: Good Omens

Characters: Aziraphale, Crowley, Eric the Disposable Demon

Rating: Teen (a little bit of cursing, mention of canoodling, mention of enjoying being smacked around a bit)

Warnings: None

On AO3 at https://archiveofourown.org/works/20843936/chapters/50149631

After all that bother with the failed assassinations, Heaven and Hell had promised to leave them alone. However, Aziraphale had been an angel for a long time — since before time technically began, in fact — and he knew exactly how trustworthy Upper Management could be over the long run. Sensible as always, he’d rigged the bookshop with sensors that would alert him to any other celestial or occult being who breached their perimeter. Forewarned is forearmed, and Aziraphale was sure it was only a matter of time.

The alarms were ringing in his head now.

“That’s far enough,” Aziraphale commanded, tossing his curls dramatically and brandishing his spray bottle. If Hell thought they could hurt Crowley on his watch, they were in for a nasty surprise: under all his outer softness was a fierce, blazing protectiveness, and messing with Crowley was just the way to rouse him. It was all a little thrilling, and part of him regretted that Crowley was in the back room and not able to witness his derring-do. “This bottle is filled with holy water. Hands in the air where I can see them, and no funny business.”

The demon widened his already big, extravagantly lashed eyes and backed against the door, raising his hands. “Hey, I come in peace. Just here to ask you guys to lunch.”

“I beg your pardon?” Not what Aziraphale had expected, but perhaps it was a cunning ploy to lower his guard.

“Lunch. You know, get together, have a curry, a few pints, have a bit of a natter. Catch up.”

“I know what lunch is, you fiend. It’s why you’re here asking me to it that’s confusing me. I had rather been under the impression Hell would leave Crowley and me alone.”

“Well, yeah, Hell, sure. But I’m not Hell, I’m just Eric. I work there, ‘course, but you know how it is. Me and Crowley go way back. The invite’s for both of you.” Eric gave a shaky grin. “Can I put my hands down now?”

Frankly, the demon did not seem particularly threatening, but Aziraphale did not lower the spray bottle. “Oh, very well, just keep them where I can see them,” he said testily. “Crowley?”

“What is it, angel?” Crowley’s voice came from the back room of the shop, where he’d been messing about with his computer phone or something.

“There is a horned gentleman here inviting us to lunch.”

“Wut?” After a few seconds Crowley emerged, and his face lit up in a smile. It even seemed genuine. “Hey, Eric, my dude, my compadre, my droog. How’s it going?”

“Frankly, it’s been better.” Eric batted his remarkable lashes at the spray bottle.

Crowley seemed to notice the deadly weapon for the first time, and leapt forward. “It’s okay, angel. Put it away. Eric’s not one of them.”

“Are you quite sure? He certainly seems to be a demon.”

“Oh, he’s a demon all right, but that’s not his fault. He was just born that way.”

Aziraphale noted the fact that demons apparently could be born as well as Fall, but filed this aside as a discussion for another time. “So you trust him?”

Crowley shrugged. “As much as I’d trust anyone who isn’t you. He’s one of the good ones.”

“Oi!”

“Sorry. One of the likable ones,” Crowley amended.

“That’s better. Er, worse. Whatever — that’s more like it, ’swhat I mean.”

Crowley turned his lopsided grin back to Aziraphale. “Blaming him for all of Hell’s doing would be like, dunno, blaming the Amazon warehouse worker for Jeff Bezos’ policies. He just works there, ordinary demon, gets by the best he can. Not his fault Lower Management are pricks. And he’s not a threat.”

“To you guys? Nah. And even if you weren’t invincible, I’d, like, never go up against you, Crowlers. If they told me to, I’d botch the job on purpose. You’re cool. Never discorporated me even once, all the years we’ve known each other.”

“Well, if you’re sure, dear.” Reluctantly, Aziraphale lowered the spray bottle and returned it to storage its pocket dimension; if Crowley was wrong about this demon, at least the holy water was no farther away than a snap.

Eric relaxed, his shoulders dropping. “Thanks. I really just came by to ask you guys to lunch. Wanted to catch you up on all the hot goss. Got some top-secret stuff.”

“Secrets? I love secrets.” Crowley’s eyes flashed just a smidge yellower, and he smirked. “Let me grab my coat. Angel, you coming?”

There was no way Aziraphale was leaving him alone with this demon, no matter how confident Crowley seemed. “Most definitely, darling.”

*** ***

Now that Aziraphale could examine Eric more calmly, he realized the horns were actually hair sculpted into twin points. His corporation looked young, almost anime-like with his luminous eyes, flashing grin, and heart-shaped face. As yet, he had entirely failed to attack either him or Crowley, but that could just be some clever demonic ruse.

“So what’s the tea?” Crowley said through a mouthful of veggie samosa. Evidently the trick to getting him to eat was to offer him fried savory cakes with potatoes in.

Aziraphale shot him a puzzled look. “We don’t have tea, darling. It’s lager.”

“Means gossip, angel.”

“Oh. I expect they’re all wondering how you survived the holy water, dear,” Aziraphale said tartly, dabbing at his chicken makhani sauce with a roti. He was slightly put out about how nice the food was; he’d prided himself on knowing all the best restaurants in Soho, and here he was, being shown up by a whippersnapper of a demon.

Eric rolled his eyes. “Oh, that gossip is so fourteenth century. Nobody even cares about that any more.”

“Mmmrrph?” Mouth too full now to even try talking, Crowley shot a perplexed glance at Aziraphale.

“No, what everyone is talking about is,” Eric put down his spoon and leaned forward conspiratorially, “Lord Beelzebub and Gabriel.”

There was a long, confused moment of silence. “What about them, exactly?” Aziraphale finally asked, not sure he wanted to know.

Eric looked smug around his spoonful of chole chawal, letting the tension build until he swallowed. “They’ve been spotted sneaking around together. On Earth. Being all furtive-like.”

“Well.” Aziraphale shook his head, trying to resettle his brain. “Perhaps Heaven and Hell have simply decided to open diplomatic relations?”

“Relations, maybe, but definitely not diplomatic,” Eric smirked, dark eyes sparkling. “Word is, they’ve been seen holding hands.”

Crowley choked, bits of peas flying. “What?”

“And canoodling. Earth Observation was passing around photos, and there’s one where Lord Beelzebub is swatting Gabriel over the head with a newspaper.”

“That’s practically foreplay for them.” Crowley looked a bit ill. “Are you sure? Was it really a newspaper? Maybe it was a lead pipe, just magicked to look like a newspaper. That would be more their style.”

“Definitely a newspaper. And,” Eric dropped his voice again, “rumor has it that there’s one of them kissing.”

Suddenly Aziraphale was no longer hungry. He pushed his plate away, half eaten. “That is, er, remarkable news. Isn’t it, Crowley?”

“Er, yeah. Remarkable.” Crowley’s eyes were unfocused, and he was chewing his lip. “They were kissing?”

“That’s what I’ve heard.”

Crowley tilted his head thoughtfully. “That’s quite a height difference they’ve got there. Was Beelzebub standing on a box or something?”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale admonished, giving his demon’s hand a light swat. “Such speculation is entirely improper.” And even worse, he now had that image in his own head.

“Were there tongues involved? Hands? Over or under —” Crowley jumped as Aziraphale kicked him under the table. “Sorry, angel. It’s just, it’s like a train wreck: you can’t stop looking at it in your head.”

“Indeed. But kindly knock it off, darling.”

“Ooh, slang from within living human memory! I’m impressed, angel.”

Eric seemed to be enjoying their exchange immensely. “See, I knew you guys would want to hear this.”

They spent the rest of their meal analyzing the potential reasons behind Beelzebub and Gabriel’s assignations. Aziraphale, who’d recovered his appetite once kissing was off the conversational menu, was sure it was a ruse of some sort, possibly to lure him and Crowley into a confrontation. Crowley thought Gabriel just had a bit of a kink and enjoyed being smacked around by a short, cranky demon. “Nothing wrong with that, and I bet Beelzie wields a mean rolled-up newspaper.” Eric, surprisingly, voted for love. Grudging and embarrassed and slightly weirded-out love, but love nonetheless.

After Eric paid the tab (“I insist; I invited you. Just because I’m a demon doesn’t mean I can’t have manners”), after the shuffle of putting coats back on, Eric said, “So, Aziraphale, is it okay if I come back sometimes to see you guys?”

Aziraphale blinked. “Why ask me?”

“Well, I know you don’t really trust me. That’s cool and all, and I don’t really blame you. I don’t trust most demons, either. But it’s been cool hanging out with people who haven’t tried to discorporate me at all for an entire meal. I’d like to do it again. Not too often, don’t want to get all up in your hair or anything.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and staring at his shoes as if they were the most fascinating things in existence.

Aziraphale glanced at Crowley, hesitating. Crowley nodded and leaned in to whisper, “He’s lonely, poor sod.”

Eric had been true to his word about not attacking them; he’d been lively company, funny, thoughtful, nice. And what kind of treatment was he accustomed to, when his standard for a good meal was not being discorporated?

“That would be lovely, Eric,” Aziraphale said gently. “Perhaps next month, first Saturday? But I must insist you let us pick up the tab next time.”

#fictober19 #good omens #good omens fanfic #ineffable spouses #ineffable husbands #my fanfic #fluff #aziraphale/crowley #disposable demon #eric the disposable demon

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phonaesthemes · 4 years

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a list of asks

@padawanyugi tagged me in this, but Tumblr decided to eat any notification that I got tagged, so I’m glad I saw it on my dash because I like filling these things out. Thanks for tagging me! I may have typed A Lot.

Favorites: What types of books do you enjoy? Tell about what you’ve read recently (Or maybe about a book you hated recently!)I like spec-fic and sci-fi, although less “hard” science fiction, and I also enjoy fantasy. I read a lot of YA even though I’m in my 30s just because it seems easy to find a story I want to read and I’m not usually in the mood for dense prose.

I’ve been rereading the Wheel of Time series since it’s getting an Amazon TV show; it was my first non-LOTR fantasy series and I love it to death, warts and all, although I love joking about the weak points with other people who’ve read it. I think the last other thing I read was A Gentleman’s Guide to Vice and Virtue, which was a queer YA historical fiction, and it was a lot of fun. I wish I’d had access to all these queer stories when I was an actual teenager, but better late than never.

What types of music do you like to listen to? Share five songs from your music library. I really do like a bit of everything, although I gravitate towards certain genres more often depending on the season or time of day, so I’m going to cheat and pick 5 per season. Summer for me is lots of peppy pop (pride playlists!), punk and rock and punk-adjacent stuff, just upbeat stuff in general. -Weekender, by The Royal They -Break My Heart, by Dua Lipa -Toutes les femmes savent danser, by Loud -Ruby Soho, by Rancid -Womanarchist, by Bad Cop, Bad Cop

In the fall, my inner goth kid craves darkwave, goth rock, dramatic folk, roots rock, and also anything that reminds me of Halloween. -Iuka, by the Secret Sisters -Bela Lugosi’s Dead, by Bauhaus -How’s It Gonna End, by Tom Waits -Under the Milky Way, by The Church -I Put a Spell on You, by Screamin’ Jay Hawkins I could go on about the Christmas music I like at length (Boney M’s Christmas album slaps, ngl) but I’ll just skip that and say that I listen to more classical and piano pieces in the winter. I’m terrible at remembering names, so artists only: -Ludovico Einaudi -Chopin -Debussy -Saint-Saëns -Dvořák And in spring I’m usually just depressed af and listen to whatever. -FML, by K.Flay -Weird Part of the Night, by Louis Cole -Juodaan Viinaa, by Korpiklaani -P.O.H.U.I., by Carla’s Dreams -Marryuna, by Baker Boy

Do you have a show or movie that you can just put on anytime and it’s your comfort? Definitely Star Trek. I’ve rewatched the various iterations (except TOS) so many times. Also Mean Girls and Bring It On, idk why.

Do you have a favorite dessert? Tiramisu or creme brulée! Or macarons. I don’t eat dessert really unless I’m at a restaurant.

Do you have a favorite cold drink? Sparkling water, hands down.

Do you have a favorite game? The hours I have put into the SIms in my lifetime is probably shameful, although I haven’t played in a while. Don’t Starve is another contender for hours played, but I am also really fond everything by Amanita Design

Do you have a favorite part of your self care/beauty/health routine? I haven’t been doing it much lately since I’ve been dealing with some uncertain health issues with my joints (actually have a rheumatologist appointment later today), but savasana after a long yoga workout is borderline ecstasy.

Do you have a favorite type of take-out food? Indian for sure.

What’s your favorite type of exercise/physical activity? I have a love-hate relationship with running. I don’t actually love it but I love how I feel after. I really enjoy yoga. I love playing in the water at the beach, bodyboarding and swimming.

Pick between: (you choose the context)

Cook or bake? (I love cooking A Lot)

Space or ocean? (Hard to pick, but I grew up by the ocean and it’s 100% my happy place)

Chocolate or vanilla?

City or suburb or rural? (I grew up in an isolated rural village and I miss the quiet and the slower pace of life, but I do not miss the lack of amenities and opportunities, or the smalltown gossip. I also don’t drive bc of epilepsy, so I’m fucked as far as transport in rural settings.)

Past or future?

Shower in the morning or evening?

Mac/Apple or PC/Android? (Linux in general!)

Sing or dance? (I don’t have an amazing voice but I can carry a tune without it being painful, and I love singing along with songs.)

Get up early or sleep in? (I actually love sleeping in but with two kids, early morning is my only time to myself, so I wake up before 6 most days AGGH.)

Shoes, socks, or bare feet? (Hate socks. I’m barefoot at home all year round.)

Marker, crayon, or pencil? Pen!

Tea, coffee, or hot chocolate? (Coffee in the morning, tea later on.)

Random questions:

Have you ever had any pets? (Had dogs and a cat as a kid, and as an adult I’ve had betta fish and cats, and I have a cat currently.)

What is your academic background/job field? I did my undergrad in linguistics, and I am currently a stay-at-home dad lol. I do freelance editing and transcription on the side. I don’t think I’ll ever work in my field bc I really don’t have the energy to go to grad school.

What’s something random that you’re into (even if you aren’t good at it)? I signed up for a Cape Breton step dancing class in university and I loved it.

Are you good at putting away your clean laundry right away? It depends on the day, but generally yes. Mine and everyone else’s. When I lived alone? Absolutely not.

What’s one of your pet peeves? Someone trying to have a conversation with me when they have the radio or TV on. I can’t follow what you’re saying if someone else is speaking! I hate having that stuff on as background noise in general.

What’s something you’re pretty good at? I’m a great cook.

What’s the most recent nice thing you bought for yourself? A new conditioner ig? lol

Can you sew? I can mend a small tear or sew on a button, but it’s been years since I did more than that.

What’s a chore you hate (or a chore you enjoy)? I hate vacuuming so much. So much. Maybe if I had a better vaccuum cleaner I wouldn’t mind it, but I just feel like I’m fighting with the stupid thing, getting caught up on its own cords, caught on furniture, can’t quiiiite reach a spot... HATE IT. I like shoveling snow sometimes, though.

Tell us a fun fact about yourself. I am 20 years older than my youngest sibling, and five minutes younger than my “oldest” sibling.

Never have I ever... Gone fishing, even though I’m from a fishing community.

What extracurriculars did/do you do in school? In high school, I played trumpet in band until the band got dissolved from lack of funding. I played soccer one year, was in a play another year. We had an art club for like a semester that I was in. In university the first time round, I did step dancing and intramural hide and seek Second time around, I was in the linguistics club to help with assignments. (We were very much encouraged to work in pairs or groups for a lot of different classes. The only thing was that you did need to list your group members on the assignment so the prof knew who you worked with. My first morphology class in particular, we had a whole homework club where a huge portion of the class got together to work through assignments and help each other understand, and the prof would quite often show up. </tangent>

Deeper questions:

How’s your quarantine/last few months been? The cabin fever was really bad before the weather warmed up. I struggle with seasonal depression every spring, and it’s gotten much worse since we moved to Edmonton because of how long the winters are. (Snow from September to May/June? Fucccck.) It’s frankly horrifying to look at what’s going on in the US, but even though we have far fewer cases here, I’m really anxious that we’ll see another wave soon. Otherwise, I think I’ve adjusted. Home-schooling, hand-sanitizing, social distancing, masks...All feels kind of normal now, which should maybe concern me.

What do you think of human nature/society/etc.? I am like the least philosophical person you will meet so I don’t think I really have many thoughts.

What’s something you are insecure about? Writing my L2 if a native speaker is gonna read it.

What do you think is the meaning of life/reason that humans exist in the universe? I don’t think there is one, and that doesn’t bother me.

Do you think you’re better (whatever that means to you) than you used to be? Definitely. My adolescence and early adulthood was rough. I was dealing with a lot of trauma, untreated bipolar disorder, and I self-harmed for a very long time. I could not imagine making it to 30, let alone being stable and happy. I actively avoided thinking about the future because it made me spiral. But I was lucky enough to get help, consistent help from a doctor I clicked with, and it made a world of difference. I think younger me would be disappointed at how mundane my life is, but I’m thrilled to be boring because boring means no life-upending mood episodes. I have a happy partnership and two delightful kids and I couldn’t ask for more.

What are your thoughts on religion? I’m not religious and my own experience being raised in the Catholic church was frankly traumatic, but I know that it’s a source of comfort and community for many others and I think that’s awesome for them.

Do you think that there are aliens out there? I think so, although I think that we may not even know what other kinds of life to look for and may not recognize it even if we find it.

What’s something that’s been on your mind recently? We’re moving cross-country in less than a month (driving, no less, nearly 5000 km) and I still have so much to do to get ready aosjdoajdoasijdoaijsd

#personal #long post #in which i ramble about myself a great deal #@padawanyugi

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zombiesbecrazy · 5 years

Text

battle wounds, young and old

Summary: “Batman.” He paused at her words, but didn’t turn, instead choosing to continue to key his report into the computer. “You are injured.”

AO3

Now that the battle was over and they were back in the Hall of Justice, Diana could see that Bruce was walking more stiff and slowly than he had been before they had left on the mission, beyond the point of just normal fatigue. He had taken some hard strikes from their adversary, a strange creature that had somehow managed to be half gelatinous blob and half sharp knives and she had wondered at the time if he was hurt, but had pushed it out of her mind while they were still in the thick of things. Now she had the opportunity to inquire. “Batman.” He paused at her words, but didn’t turn, instead choosing to continue to key his report into the computer. “You are injured.”

“I’m fine, Diana.” The typing started up again, but she saw the way that his shoulders tightened under the scrutiny. She turned to Clark with a raised eyebrow. It wasn’t often these days that it was just the three of them on a mission which meant that old familiar routines could be fallen into with a comfortable ease. She watched as Clark methodically observed up and down before frowning to himself.

“He’s not,” Clark said, wiping the frown from his face and chugging down half of his bottle of water. He had ended up with some of the blob creature in his mouth and according to him, the taste was terrible. He spat into the sink with a grimace before wiping his lips. “He’s bleeding.”

The glare that Bruce shot at Clark was so intense that if it had been the other way around Diana was sure that it would have melted steel. It was close enough without the power of Superman behind it. “I have asked you repeatedly to not use your x-ray vision on me”

“And I’ve asked you not to lie about your injuries, so I guess we’re square.” Clark paid no attention to the venom coming from Bruce and drank more of his bottle, swishing the water around in his mouth in an attempt to get rid of the foul flavour. “He’s got a pretty deep gash on his lower back, Di.”

“Mind your own business, Clark.” Bruce growled and it sounded like he was trying to rile Clark up into an argument, but Clark ignored him, which just seemed to make Bruce more agitated and stubborn. “I’m fine.”

Diana sighed. It wasn’t anything new, it had just been awhile since this particular disagreement. “Don’t be foolish. Remove your armor and I’ll help you tend to it.”

“I can take care of it myself.”

“You can’t reach it.”

Bruce said nothing and continued to type, making no indication that he was going to listen to them anytime soon. Diana stared at Clark and tilted her head in the way that she had, the way that she said ‘let me handle it this time’, and without even a hint of argument Clark nodded and walked out of the room, presumably under the guise that he was going to shower, but more to give Diana and Bruce some privacy.

The typing continued for a few moments until Bruce abruptly stood up and walked over to the cot in the room, stripping off his armor as he went, and laid down on his stomach without a word.

His back was covered in scars, and she knew the rest of him was the same way. Twisted, blotchy, stretched and taut, everything inch of him told a story of pain and violence and toughness. He didn’t normally seem to mind Clark and Diana seeing the marks, but when there was a new one, something fresh and raw, was when he shied away, especially in the harsh, bright lights of the Hall or Watchtower.

“Are you ashamed for some reason, Bruce?” She carefully inspected the cut in question. It was two inches in length, just lower than his left kidney, and it was quite deep. Beneath her fingers, she could feel him tremble, but he said nothing, not giving any indication that it was due to the wound or her words. She decided, as she often did, to keep talking as if he had given her a response. “You shouldn’t be. These are the marks of a warrior who has seen many battles and preserved. I was always jealous of my sisters’ scars.”

“They don’t all heal like you?” His voice was muffled, face down in the bed. He had never said the words, but she knew it was something that he was jealous of; the near invincibility that she and Clark shared. It was something that he couldn’t train to be better at and was limited to the abilities of his humanity.

“A few do,” she murmured, examining the site further, and she heard him hiss quietly at the touch and she lifted her hands quickly. “Most do not.” Diana considered her options for treatment, but the answer was obvious. “This is deep. You need stitches.” He stayed quiet quiet as she gathered the supplies and put gloves on. “I’m going to place the lasso on your back as it will work as a numbing agent. It won’t compel to speak if you don’t choose to, but if you do, it will be truthful.”

He flinched as she laid it across his back, draping it in a carefully placed pattern, and once it was in place she could see his muscles relax beneath it. “It’s warm.”

Diana hummed in agreement and set to work. The room was quiet, with only the hum of the computers and lights to accompany them. She knew that Bruce liked the quiet, but she also knew that he liked to listen, and had someone how filled his life with people who enjoyed talking and sharing. “On Themyscira we believe that each scar tells a story of honour and valour of its host.” Diana tied off a stitch and smiled, thinking about how excited they would be, showing their battle scars off to one another, proof of their bravery and sacrifice. “My sister in arms, Hessia, has one of the most impressive ones that I have seen in all my years. It stretches from the top of her left shoulder, crosses her back and continues down her right hip and to her knee from a sword that was blessed by Artemis. It is wide and angry and beautiful to behold.”

Bruce lifted his head, resting his head on his hands, thinking about her words. “How did she get it?”

“It was in a battle with some of Heracles’ men. This was long ago, before Themyscira was a secret, when we were still at accessible among the Greek islands, when we could all travel freely and without restriction from our home between Santorini and Crete.” She smiled, knowing what he probably was thinking about it. “Before you look for it, it is no longer there.”

“Why were the Amazons in a battle with Heracles? Our myths always make him out to be a hero.”

“Yes, but sometimes heroes, gods and Amazons alike can be blinded by their own agendas. None are infallible, even if they say that they are.” She went back to her sutures as she told her story. “He was attempting to capture the Erymanthian Boar, one of his Labours, but crossed a pack of centaurs who were feasting with Amazonian emissaries. What happens next depends on who is telling the story, so I am uncertain what the trigger was for sure, but someone insulted someone else, and battle broke out.”

There was a snort from Bruce. “Just because someone was insulted? That seems rather petty.”

“War has raged through the ages for lesser reasons, Bruce,” she said wisely, “but yes. For three days they battled, blood spilling over the beach, bodies falling on both sides, until Heracles and his men conceded and withdrew.”

“Why?”

Diana laughed, because the reason was ridiculous. “They realised that they were on the wrong island all along and these weren’t the same centaurs that were rumoured to be guarding the Boar.” It was a legendary story among the centaurs and the Amazons. The time that the great and noble Heracles had almost failed in one of his Twelve Labours purely because he couldn’t find where he was supposed to be going. Her half brother had always been embarrassed when it was brought up.

Bruce turned back to look at her momentarily before straightening out again, shaking his head. “All those people were hurt or killed just because someone couldn’t read a map properly.”

Diana cut the thread, and started taping down gauze to cover the wound. “Indeed. I did say the entire situation was rather ludicrous, and that was far from the strangest battle I’ve heard tale of. Or participated in.” Her history, the mythology that humans studied with interest, always sounded so strange when retelling it, even if it were true. “Anyway, Hessia claims that it was Heracles himself swinging the blessed blade that caused her wound, but she is prone to exaggeration. She’s quite thrilled by it.” She gathered up the lasso into its coil, and tapped Bruce on the shoulder. “I’m done.”

He sat up, and quickly pulled his shirt over his head, covering all the marks on his torso again. “Thank you. I didn’t feel a thing.”

“I am very skilled. Athena taught me how to do stitches when I was young.” It wasn’t easy to surprise Batman, so she got a thrill out of the way that his eyebrows flew up and laughed. “I’m teasing you Bruce. It was the lasso.”

He held out his hand in a questioning way and she placed the coil in his hand, and as he had done many times, he inspected it carefully, running his fingers over the smooth glowing strand. “That’s fascinating,” he said more to himself before handing it back. “I’d love to study it some day and figure out how it works.”

“I don’t think that your science will be able to explain it, but you are more than welcome to borrow it some time.”

Bruce nodded and climbed off the bed, still moving slowly, but less rigid than he had been before. He picked up the pieces of his abandoned armour and started to head to the door to take it to his room, but Diana held up her hand to stop him, needing to finish up the intent of her story and say the words that she had said to him before, hoping that this was the time that he took them to heart. “I know you don’t like to show or speak of them, especially with Clark and myself, but,” she gestured towards him. "all those marks? They just tell me off all the wars you've fought in. You have won and lost, but been a valiant warrior throughout." Bruce’s face was blank, but she knew he was listening, considering them, hopefully more than he had done so in the past. "Be proud of how you wear them."

She expected him to keep going without a word, head to his room and disappear into the night, but instead he put his gear down and walked back and stood in front of her, still as a statue until he reached for the lasso hung by her hip again and held it tight. “Diana, I’m not embarrassed. I hide them because I don’t like how they affect you and Clark. You both get upset when I get hurt so it’s easier for me to deal with on my own so you don’t have to see it.” He twirled the rope between his fingers, watching the hue lighten up against his skin. “I’ve earned these, many of them fighting at your side. How could I possibly be ashamed of that?”

He dropped the lasso, picked up his gear and walked out the door, leaving Diana alone with her thoughts of a noble dark knight and the sacrifices he made for all of them.

#whumptober2019 #no.11 #Diana Prince #bruce wayne #clark kent #wonder woman #batman #superman #trinity

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allthephils · 5 years

Text

You Were Only Waiting

Word Count: 8510 Rated T (language, mental health mentions, strangers to lovers) Read on AO3

This is my fic based on this art by the amazing and talented @lovelydeps for the @phandomreversebang. Huge thank you to @wolfstarphan for betaing. You were immeasurably helpful! This was such a lovely and fun team to work with!

Summary: Dan is stranded at the airport and stuck in his head, Phil is just looking for some company. A fic about delayed flights and delayed connections.

Dan’s flight is delayed just enough that he’s uncharacteristically on time. It has improved his mood from incredibly irritable to very annoyed but still, this trip was exhausting. New York is cool but there are just so many people and he’s drained. He’d rather be alone with the friends coming through his headphones than fielding questions from his Uber driver. Apparently, he didn’t get the memo that headphones mean no talking. Janelle and Kevin and Troye understand, they don’t ask anything of Dan.

He’s never been so relieved to step out of a car. The ground is covered in a thick blanket of snow, bringing a magical beauty to this decidedly mundane setting. Unfortunately, inside it’s still an airport. He watches his feet as they carry him across the ugly airport carpet to the end of the security queue. It’s a mess, a labyrinth of twists and turns that feels unending. It does end though and Dan goes through the motions by rote. Laptop out, shoes off, little baggie of travel toiletries into the tray. He stands in the scanner, arms above his head and the TSA agent nods and waves him through. It’s the same every trip. He’s come to accept that the time lost in airports is just a necessary evil, something to get through.

At least he doesn’t have to run. He should get to the gate just in time for boarding. It’s quite a hike though, the airport is huge. This is far more exercise than he’d like to be getting today and the constant drone of voices rushing past in all directions is doing nothing for his mood. It feels like a big American mall in here. Dan hates malls, they’re just big monuments to capitalism. So much wasted space filled with useless plastic junk and cheaply made decadence. He passes a Victoria’s Secret and a store that just sells massage chairs. There’s a very posh jewelry store and a shop filled with designer bags and key fobs. He wonders who drops two grand on a handbag at the airport until he catches a glimpse of his reflection in the glass case and remembers what he paid for his jumper. He picks up his pace, choosing to ignore the voice in his head that says he’s part of the problem.

The gate is purgatory. Close quarters packed with people who would rather be somewhere else and bright unnatural lighting. It’s stifling and Dan wants nothing more than to move on. In a few minutes, the flight will board and he can finally relax. He’s got a guided meditation all queue up and some chamomile tea in his bag, ready to brew. With a deep sigh, he pulls out his phone to get his boarding pass ready. Just then, a notification from the airline pops up. Before he can read the whole thing, the announcement booms out all around him, a long list of cancelled flights, his included. Shit.

Cancelled due to inclement weather. That’s what the notification said, no follow up information, no instructions on what to do next. The website isn’t any help either. He glances around at the crowded room but everyone looks just as lost as he feels. He’s going to have to do the adult thing and actually ask for help. He’ll have to physically walk up to the counter and talk to a real human being, like its fucking 1985 or something. He flicks his hair from his eyes and takes his place in yet another queue.

Soon he’s listening while the guy in front of him demands to know why they didn’t predict it would snow so much and how come they can’t just fly around the storm. The agent shows far more patience than Dan would have, repeating her well worn speech, “We are so sorry for the inconvenience but it is very difficult to predict at this time. You’ll receive notification as soon as we know more.”

The man throws his hands up and Dan softens a bit, knowing the agent is having a much worse day than he is.

“What a twat.” He says as he approaches the counter and she spares a thin smile. “I realize you can’t control or predict the weather but I’m wondering if this likely to be an overnight thing or a booked on another flight in a few hours thing?”

She gives Dan the same answer she gives everyone but he leans forward on his elbows. “Yeah I know, but like, if you had to predict how long we’ll be here...Like just between us.” He musters a sweet smile and an awkward wink that he wishes he could take back almost immediately. Before she can repeat herself again, he apologizes and slinks away.

Dan is stood near the desk, hoping to catch any snippets of news that might come up. There’s nowhere to sit and crawling into a hole isn’t an option so standing will have to do for now. That’s when fate smiles upon him. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees movement, someone gathering their things. Thrilled by the prospect of actually getting to sit down while he waits an undetermined amount of time, Dan makes a b line for the soon to be vacated seat. The previous occupant has barely stepped away when he swoops in, nearly colliding with someone who had the exact same plan.

“Oi, sorry mate, I was eyeing this seat.” Dan says, standing his ground.

“Yeah so was I, mate.” He’s pale and lanky, his shoulders hunched over in a painful display of poor posture. He looks like he’s trying to be shorter. If he wants to blend in, he probably shouldn’t have worn a jumper that looks like a lady bird. Dan supposes he’s kinda cute, maybe a little hot, but sarcasm doesn’t look good on anyone. He’s not the least bit intimidating but he’s trying, lips curled up from the snark, wild brows raised. Those blue eyes are too dreamy to be shooting daggers like that.

Dan should look away, he should square his shoulders and pretend he is not to be messed with. This is a snowed in airport, the wild west, he should claim his territory. He doesn’t look away though, he can’t or he doesn’t want to. Whatever the case, his defenses are weakened along with his knees.

“Actually, you take it.” He concedes, “I have too much nervous energy anyway.”

The guy drops the totally ineffective tough guy act. “No, no, it was a draw. Rock, paper, scissors?”

Dan truly believes there are few conflicts in life that can’t be solved with rock, paper, scissors. They draw again and again, both of them laughing at how completely this strategy has failed. On the next 1, 2, 3, the guy pauses and his eyes wander to Dan’s left, his whole face softening. Dan turns to see what brought on such a change and damn. There goes his chance at a restful wait. Just behind Dan is a mum with a very heavy looking toddler crashed out on her shoulder.

“Would you like to sit down?” The guy says sweetly, tripping over his luggage as he moves out of the way. Dan steps aside too and forces a smile though he’s pretty resentful.

“Are you fucking kidding me? Thank you so much!” She looks about his age, like someone he could be friends with. He can’t imagine being stuck here with a child to care for. “Sorry, It’s been a long day.” She says and sits down with a sigh. Dan catches a glimpse of the angelic sleeping face on her shoulder and he’s over it.

Resigned, he walks to the corner of the room and plops down on an empty patch of carpet, facing a big window overlooking the snowy runway. He searches for a hotel and is unsurprised to find every room in the vicinity booked. Headphones back in, he leans forward on the glass and watches the snow fall.

Time doesn’t follow the rules in airports, not when all the flights are delayed and most are cancelled and it’s late afternoon but people are curled up, asleep in chairs. Dan has changed positions roughly 43 times but his restless legs are still nagging him. Funny how being lazy only comes easy when it’s entirely inappropriate.

Standing takes some work, his hips don’t want to straighten up and do the job they were built to do. He’s partially hunched, one hand on his lower back when he sees himself in the window. He looks like an old man, groaning as he pulls himself to stand and he makes a mental note to find a personal trainer when he gets home, and to stop standing near reflective surfaces.

Hoisting his bag onto his shoulder, he shuffles toward the main corridor. The floor is dotted with people who have accepted the long wait ahead, setting up makeshift camps with laptops out and backpacks for pillows. Dan steps carefully through and heads in the opposite direction from how he came, hoping for something better and more interesting than what he found on his way in.

He’s been poised precariously at the edge of an emotional pit all day. Social exhaustion left him vulnerable and in need of time alone in his own space to refuel. That’s not something he’s gonna get right now so the best he can do is to keep busy, try to stave off boredom and loneliness before they spiral into something darker.

This side of the terminal has nearly the exact same upscale nonsense as the other side. Just when he thinks he might scream if he sees one more mannequin in resort wear, a beacon of hope appears. A bookstore, and not an Amazon store, or an airport newsstand but a real, honest to god book store. To be honest, he doesn’t really read much, but he wants to. A place like this is only going to attract certain people, people who think, who want more than the few best sellers available at the newsstand.

It’s small in here, an airport version of a larger, local bookseller, but there are real shelves to walk through and quiet jazz playing. He wanders through the classics, pausing in poetry to pick something up and read a few lines to himself. ...roused up from hole to itching head. Bodies locked shuddering naked, hot lips and buttocks screwed into each other.

Well, he wasn’t expecting that. He finishes that one and pages through to read a little more.

“Hello again.”

Dan nearly jumps out of his skin. He slams the book shut, shoving it onto the shelf haphazardly. Fighting the blush rushing to his face, he folds his arms, defensive. Ready to glare at whoever is to his left, to send a clear signal that he is not in the mood to chat. His head snaps around, eyes narrowed, then he sees him.

“Allen Ginsberg, huh? Just a little light airport reading?” It’s him, the hot guy who gave up their seat for a tired mum. He laughs at his own joke before continuing. “He was always a little dark for me. Have you read D.A. Powell?”

Dan’s eyes are wide as he stammers out a thought. “No, I haven’t read anybody really. I just grabbed a random book. Not really a reader.” Shut up Dan. He knows he sounds like a dick.

“Well, fancy meeting you in a book store then.” This guy doesn’t seemed fazed by Dan’s weird outburst. “I hate these crowds, don’t you? Also hate being alone though. Just trying to find a happy medium I guess. You want some company?” He’s fidgeting now, nervous, but still doing it, still asking a complete stranger to hang out.

“Oh um no. Thanks, I’m good, busy. Sorry.” The words stutter out even as Dan is arguing with himself internally. The guy looks a little deflated but he manages a smile before walking off. Dan has no idea why he said no, why he defeats himself like this again and again, why he’s not kinder to himself, even now.

He’s tired, from residual jet lag and from just living in his head all day. If he doesn’t get some caffeine soon, exhaustion will set in, adding to the dark cloud currently floating above his head. Anyway, if the caffeine doesn’t lift his spirits, coffee shops have a long and storied history for being great places to be sad and alone.

***

There’s one free table. Dan sets his backpack on one of the chairs, ignoring the warning he’s been hearing all day to not leave his bags unattended. He pulls his reusable mug out and soon it’s filled with a steaming hot, mediocre latte. He puts his feet up, headphones in, and searches for an anime to catch up on. As the end credits roll on his third episode, he cracks his neck and looks around, stretching his arms above his head. There’s a long daunting line of people and behind, towering above everyone, a flash of jet black hair.

Dan thinks maybe he was wrong about how big this terminal is because this guy just keeps popping up. He’s shivering, his hands wrapped tight around the coffee he just picked up and he’s scanning the room. God, he’s really good looking, and tall, no one is ever tall enough. There are no tables left, Dan knows that but he looks over his shoulder anyway. He should talk to him. How often in life do you get a second chance, much less a third? The guy’s eyes move from table to table until they land squarely on Dan.

Dan wears a a thin, nervous smile but there’s some good solid eye contact. He is really proud of himself for that eye contact. He lifts his feet off the chair opposite him and sits up straight in his chair, gesturing an offer to sit.

The guy looks the room over one more time and Dan doesn’t blame him. He couldn’t have made the best impression. He doesn’t try to hide his heavy, resigned sigh before weaving through the maze of tables to where Dan sits.

“This is prime real estate. You sure you don’t want to sell it to the highest bidder?” His teeth are practically chattering as he speaks.

“I’m a socialist.” Dan says, sipping his latte.

“You’re in a Starbucks, mate.”

“I’m at an airport, I’m doing my best.” Dan watches him sit, searching his mind for something to say. It’s been ages since he flirted. Does he even want to flirt? All he knows is this guy is so cute and he’s the sort of person who gives up his seat to a tired mum. Dan’s not sure he even would have noticed her, lost as he’s been in his own mind. And he’s already proven himself patient with Dan’s bullshit.

“Um, Phil.” Dan says, reading the name written on Phil’s cup. “Your lips are a tad blue. Are you feeling ok?”

Phil takes a long drink from his cup, wincing because it’s still too hot. He rubs his lips together then cups his hands over his mouth and breathes into them, warming himself. “How do you know my name?”

Dan reaches over and taps the side of Phil’s cup. “Don’t change the subject. I’m genuinely concerned about your lips.”

“I have that effect on people. The moment you meet me, you start thinking about my lips.” Phil’s smirk hides behind his cup as he attempts to breathe in the warmth.

It takes Dan a moment to catch up. He sits staring for a solid three seconds before his eyes crinkle with surprised laughter. It’s the first laugh he’s heard from himself today, the first genuine laugh he’s heard in a while. He’s not totally aware of the way his shoulders drop but he arches his back, stretching again, surprised how much better it feels this time.

“Also, it’s very cold outside.” Phil sits back in his chair now that the shivering has passed.

“Outside?” Dan can’t fathom what he means but that but Phil just keeps drinking with a barely discernible nod.

“Like outside outside? Like where the snow is coming down and blowing sideways?” There is genuine concern in Dan’s voice.

“Yeah that’s the one.”

“Why did you have to go outside?”

“I didn’t have to. I had some time to kill so I made some snow angels.”

“Why?” Dan’s lip is curled in something that looks more like disgust than he intended.

“I like snow.” Phil says, unaffected.

It’s mildly annoying the way he doesn’t see anything unusual about this scenario. Dan sits up abruptly and leans forward. “Ok, so your stranded in the airport for god knows how long and instead of getting a hotel or going to the bar, you went all the way outside, through security, to play in the snow?”

”I mean, I actually just went to be in the snow. Catch some flakes on my tongue, see the lights reflect off the white. It’s really settled out there. You can hardly tell it’s an airport loading zone, it’s looks so pretty.” Phil tilts his head as he speaks, looks to the window, even though it only looks out on the ugly airport corridor.

“There were these little kids watching the snow through the window, they waved at me and I waved back. They had their noses pressed right up to the glass. I was pretending to slip and fall and all that and they were laughing. But then I actually fell, right on my bum. So I made a snow angel for them.” He stands and takes his jacket off, must be warming up a bit. “Just putting it out there, snow angels are the least fun thing to do. I got snow all up inside my jacket and my hands are frozen. Might not be dressed ideally for literally laying in the snow, my ass is soaked to the bone.” He laughs a little to himself as he sits and goes back to sipping.

Dan’s mouth has dropped open a bit and he stares. He’s pretty sure Phil is the good kind of weird but he studies his features looking for signs to the contrary. All he finds are the prettiest lips and something oddly comforting in the dark centers of his eyes.

Phil’s watching him too, just drinking his coffee and watching, wearing a coy little smile. It’s a reaction to his staring, either judgement or flirting or just a smug acknowledgment that Dan can’t or won’t look away.

The quiet should be unnerving. Dan has conditioned himself to fill every moment, with sound or image or information. It prevents him from ever really feeling alone, from being alone with his thoughts. It’s not unnerving though, he just feels, calm. He wonders what sort of break through he could have if he wasn’t so afraid of being in his head, if he let his mind wander. It’s then he realizes his mind is wandering now and maybe this is some sort of gentle breakthrough of it’s own.

“Where’d you go?” Phil asks.

He hopes his expression hasn’t given away the micro crisis he’s having in his head. Pulled from his introspection, he smiles thinly.

“Sorry. I tend to drift off during awkward silences.”

“Awkward? I didn’t think it was awkward,” Phil says. “How often do you get to do nothing like this?”

Dan shrugs, a little guilty. So much of what he spends his time on feels like nothing.

“You know, you didn’t have to invite me to sit down. If I’m bothering you…”

“No, no. I’m sorry.” And he is sorry, really sorry. He wants to be friendly and flirty and easy to talk to. This guy is really sweet and cute and it’s not awkward, not even a little. Dan can’t explain why he always goes on the defense.

“You aren’t bothering me. I’m just kind of a dick sometimes.” Dan heaves a breath, dredging up some courage and mumbles, “I’m actually really glad you showed up.”

“I’m sorry, what was that?” Phil says with his hand to ear.

Dan rolls his eyes and quickly spits out, “I’m glad you showed up cuz I was really bored and we’ll probably be here all night and you’re really nice so thanks for not writing me off when I acted like a twat.”

“Which time?” Phil asks but he’s smiling. “You’re welcome.”

It goes quiet again and Phil stands suddenly. “Alright, we need sugar.” He walks off before Dan can protest. Normally, Dan would pick up his phone, cycle quickly through all his social media so he doesn’t miss anything. He gets as far as picking it up but it just sits in his hand unattended. His eyes are otherwise occupied, following Phil’s long legs as they carry him to the pastry case. They’re good legs, pretty legs that end in wide hips and a nice round ass. His lip has somehow found it’s way between his teeth when Phil glances back. There’s a beat before he realizes and looks away, rather conspicuously.

When Phil returns, he hands Dan a snowman shaped cookie and makes a toast to snow.

Dan taps his cookie to Phil’s, “we’re toasting to snow? But that’s why we’re stuck here.”

“Exactly.” Phil says like it’s obvious. Dan savagely rips the head off of his snowman then thanks Phil around his mouthful.

Phil laughs softly. “Ok, Dan. Snog, marry, avoid. Mario, Link, and… um, the king of all cosmos.”

“Excuse me, the king of what now?”

Phil’s eye grow wide, his mouth open in genuine shock. “The king of all cosmos? Do you even video game? Katamari Damacy?”

“Yeah I know, obviously.” Dan sinks down in his chair a bit. “Kill Mario, marry Link, fuck the king.”

“Really? You’d kill Mario. I could never do that after everything he’s done for me. Also he’s handy.” Phil takes another bite, speaking through crumbs that he wipes away with his fingers. “He’s literally a plumber. He could fix stuff around the house, total husband material.”

“Ok fair.” Dan says, “but Link is brave and humble, he’d be a great life partner. And I grew up with him. Also he’s left handed so we could both use the same scissors.”

“Wow. Nerd alert.”

Dan sticks his leg out under the table to gently kick Phil’s leg. “Shut up, look who’s talking.” Dan’s voice goes high pitched, mocking. “Oh, Mario’s done so much for me.”

Phil laughs out loud, a proper laugh, head tipped back, hands clapped together. It’s a good, warm laugh that wraps Dan up like a blanket. Any remaining angst hanging on to the edges of his psyche lose their grip and all that’s left is an unfamiliar contentment.

“Ok, ok, I think we’ve established we’re both massive nerds.” Phil says, popping the lid off his coffee and dipping his cookie in what’s left.

Dan is a man of extremes. When his guard comes down, it comes all the way down.

“And who would you fuck Phil?” He’s hears his own voice in exaggerated slow motion as heat spreads across his cheeks. His palms are sweaty now, his stomach in his throat. What the hell did he just say? This is why we can’t have nice things, Dan.

Phil seems to be considering his response, slowly sipping from his cup, his lips clearly fighting off a smirk. He catches Dan’s eyes and sucks his bottom lip for a drawn out moment before showing him mercy and moving on.

“Link, obvs.”

Dan clears his throat and tries to act natural. “But the king...that package.”

“I don’t know, I like someone a little younger, not so beefy.” Phil takes a moment then quickly adds, “I’m talking about like, young adult link. Of course.”

“Of course.”

If Phil was trying to break the ice, it worked. The conversation flows easy after that. Dan could talk about video games all day, a topic just impersonal enough to loosen him up. Eventually he’s sharing some of his most embarrassing stories, stupid shit he did at uni and the time he got sacked from a DIY shop for selling an axe to a little kid. Phil laughs at every story and Dan is prepared to dig deep into the repressed corners of his mind if he can keep hearing that laugh. And it seems every story he tells earns him an equally embarrassing and far more amusing story from Phil. Dan is literally wiping away tears as Phil tells him all about a squirrel that bit him right in the Florida.

They both catch their breath when the laughter finally fades and they slip back into quiet. With nothing left to drink, it is a little awkward this time. Dan’s not sure what to do with his hands or where to rest his eyes. He checks his phone.

“No news?” Phil says to a quick shake of Dan’s head. “You want another round?”

“I think I’d better switch to herbal tea.”

Phil moves to grab Dan’s mug but Dan stops him. “Let me. What’s your poison?”

“Caramel macchiato?” Phil says, a little sheepish and with a nod and as kind a smile as he can muster, Dan walks away.

“Sweets for the sweet.” Dan says as he sits down and hands Phil his drink. Their fingers brush as Phil takes the cup, his eyes looking softly into Dan’s. It seems Dan isn’t the only one who’s let his guard down.

The table is small. They’ve both had their legs tucked back this whole time. As he scoots his chair in, Dan’s knees bump Phil’s and it’s clear he’s unfurled them into a more relaxed position. His instinct is to pull back but his body has proven to ignore his better judgement when it comes to this new variable. He lets his foot slide between Phil’s so their legs are slotted perfectly together. Neither of them acknowledge it, holding still to keep from touching more than incidentally.

The conversation continues and they both open up more than makes sense for strangers in an airport. Nothing feels real anymore, time is suspended with no end in sight. Maybe it’s that or maybe it’s the relief of letting go a little bit or maybe it’s just Phil. Whatever the catalyst, Dan feels safe, not something he feels often.

Phil talks about his grandma, his brother, his failed attempts at heterosexuality. Dan’s topics are broader but the political is personal to Dan, and Phil seems to understand that. Time stretches and the nods turn thoughtful, the laughter sweeter. Moments of empathy are punctuated with bumps and nudges under the table. When the next lull comes, Phil shifts his weight. Dan watches as he lets his head lean to the wall next to his chair. His eyes look heavy.

“How can you be tired after all that sugary coffee?” Dan asks, shaking his head.

“Not tired,” Phil says, “just relaxed.” His legs follow the lean of his body, taking one of Dan’s with him. He hooks a foot around Dan’s ankle, coming to rest there.

Dan let’s one dimple peek out but he doesn’t move his gaze from Phil. “Comfy?” He asks, with a hint of mirth.

Phil nods, his crooked lips soft. “This is nice. And I’m enjoying the view.”

Dan looks over his shoulder. Yep, hideous airport corridor, lots of grumpy people he’d forgotten about entirely. “What view? What are you on about? Are you aware that you often speak in riddles?”

“I don’t know.” Phil moves Dan’s leg under the table. “I feel like I’ve been pretty clear.”

Dan’s heart does a somersault and he huffs a nervous laugh. Nervous again after such an easy talk, but it’s a good nervous. The kind that comes from the promise of something good.

Phil isn’t subtle, he wears a cocky grin that says he knows exactly what effect he’s having. Dan’s feels an urgent need to kiss the smile right off of that smug little mouth. He wants to grab the tip of Phil’s tongue that’s poking through his teeth and pull it. He imagines he’d taste like a coffee milkshake and his mouth waters at the thought. He could spring right across the table, charged as he is. Now they’ve stopped chatting, the energy between them just sits, an electric tether holding them there.

Dan can’t help his mind going to the physical first, it’s not often he’s this open with anyone, much less someone he just met. Some piece of him wants to grab ahold of that hint of intimacy lest it get away. What he really wants is to just get closer, to wrap his arms around the beautiful friend he’s found and not let go.

Phil’s phone is vibrating on the table but he doesn’t notice, his focus is on Dan, gaze moving from his eyes to his mouth and back again.

“Brah, you’re blowing up.” Dan says in far too smitten a tone.

“Hmm? Oh!” Phil takes a quick peek and puts the phone to his ear. “Hi love. Nah, still here.” He stands, points to the exit to let Dan now he has to take the call, and walks out to lean against a wall of lockers.

To Dan’s credit, he doesn’t spiral right away. He starts silently rehearsing ways to ask for Phil’s number. He doesn’t even know where he lives, as deep as they got, they kinda bypassed the everyday stuff. Maybe he should just write his own number down and hand it to him. Except he definitely doesn’t have a pen because who carries a pen anymore? He could ask the barista but then they’d know and they’d be watching and it’s hard enough to be bold without an audience much less with one.

He looks over his shoulder, trying to appear casual. Phil looks so cool leaning like that, beaming and chatting. Dan wonders who he’s talking to, someone close enough to call ‘love.’ It’s taking a while and he looks really happy. Dan realizes Phil never actually said he was single. Sure, he seemed interested but he was just looking to find some company for the wait. This is probably just what friendship looks like to Phil, socially awkward but strangely confident Phil. Of course he’s taken, he’s funny and smart and he listens. He probably has someone waiting for him, someone cool and quirky who reads poetry and plays Katamari Damacy with him. Someone who doesn’t wear plain black jumpers that cost hundreds of pounds even though they were made in China. They probably know he’s a flirt but they don’t care because he’s coming home to them.

“Sir,” There’s a barista standing at the table. Dan has no idea how long he was lost in thought, ignoring her. “So sorry but we will be closing up in about 5 minutes.”

“Yeah, ok.” Dan stammers, embarrassed as always. “We’ll, I’ll clear out. Sorry. Thanks.”

She takes the trash from the table and Dan pulls on his hoodie and backpack. He throws Phil’s jacket over his arm and grabs the handle of his suitcase, rolling it behind him. Phil is humming affirmative responses to whoever is on the line but not talking much. He takes his jacket from Dan with a smile of thanks and a roll of his eyes. He mouths the word sorry.

Dan waves the word away. He mumbles something about needing to find a place to get some rest though he knows Phil can’t hear. The only thing worse than walking away from this well of potential would be to stand here and fidget, listening while Phil talks with his boyfriend only to have to say an awkward goodbye afterward. He points over Phil’s shoulder at nothing in particular and Phil sort of nods though he looks confused. Dan’s heart has no right to crack like this. He barely knows Phil. That tether though, it’s got some strength to it. He swallows hard and walks past Phil then just keeps walking. He just keeps walking, waiting for the tether to snap.

He turns the first corner he comes to and finds a lounge. People are curled up asleep on the benches. The sound on the tv is muted. He moves to the far back corner and lays down on the floor, resting his head on his back pack. His headphones are in, a movie queued up on his phone, he’s right back where he started. At least he got to pass the time with someone. It was a nice moment out of reality. So he was attracted to him, it’s not a big deal. He’s attracted to people all the time, it never goes anywhere. There’s no reason it should be different this time, no reason he should feel a dull ache in his chest. It’s totally irrational and unrealistic to think that anything could come of a random meeting like that. It was just a few hours with a friendly stranger.

Twenty minutes later, just when he’s settled into a position that is almost comfortable, the movie pauses and notification pops up. Dan has been booked on a new flight and if he wants the seat he needs to check in at the gate, like now.

The waiting area is still full but the settled resignation of earlier in the day has turned to frustrated exhaustion. Blurry eyed travelers stand, gripping their phones, close to the counter, watching for some glimmer of hope that they’ll get home soon. The paper boarding pass in Dan’s hand feel like a winning lottery ticket and he tightens his hold, imagining the vultures who would swoop in if he were to drop it. He knows it’s irrational, he’s booked, the seat is his but he feels undeserving in light of all these folks waiting. He’s looking down, embarrassed at his good fortune, as he turns to find a place to waiting for boarding.

Two steps forward and he hears him, “Are you kidding me? You’re on this flight?” It’s Phil and he sounds none too pleased to have run into Dan once again.

“Oh hey Phil.”

“Hey Phil?!” Phil sounds angry now, his voice low and controlled, “Hey Phil?! Are you mental?”

That stings. He could deflect, point out the problematic nature of Phil’s choice of language, but he stays quiet.

“That was bloody rude. I thought you’d gone to find a place to sit but I turned around and you were gone. You could have said a proper goodbye.”

“You were on the phone.” Dan’s stomach feels sour at the sound of his own voice, his own immature, cowardly voice.

“Yeah. I was.” Phil’s eyes are right on Dan but he doesn’t meet his gaze, he’s staring at Phil’s shoes. His voice softens, “I was really excited Dan. We have a lot in common and I was gonna get your number and like, you just left.”

“Well, it’s not like you came to find me.” Dan really wishes he would shut up and stop sabotaging every good thing that happens to him.

“Came to find you!” It comes out loud, clearly louder than Phil intended as he looks around and clears his throat before speaking again, this time in a loud whisper. “You chatted me up for hours, flirting with me, letting me flirt with you and then left when I was on the phone so you didn’t have to deal with rejecting me!”

“Sounds like you dodged a bullet then.” Dan says, defeated, “So why bother confronting me?”

“Because I had a good time, Dan. I really did. A better time than I had any right to with a total stranger.” Phil runs a hand through his hair.

He does that when he’s frustrated or nervous. He fidgets, he can’t stand still. Dan knows this about him, he learned it along with the fact like he likes his coffee unreasonably sweet and has a stupidly high tolerance for caffeine. He learned that he sticks his tongue between his teeth when he’s delighted and that he’s delighted a lot. He knows that he’s flirty and confident even though he’s clumsy and messy and has a really weird sense of humor. He knows that his weird brand of conversation meshes with Dan’s uncommonly well. He knows he’s unashamed. He’s a lot of things Dan isn’t and the lump in Dan’s throat is rudely pushing him to face the fact that Phil never would have ditched Dan like that.

Dan swallows hard. “Ok yeah, you’re right. It was really fucking rude of me to leave. I’m sorry. But I wasn’t avoiding rejecting you.” He heaves a sigh, hoping the force of it will push the words out. “I was avoiding being rejected by you.”

“What? I was so into you. How was that not obvious, Dan?”

Dan shrugs and mumbles something about a boyfriend on the phone.

Phil laughs a laugh that’s not at all amused. “That phone call was my friend Louise.” He says flatly, “She literally had a baby today. A fucking baby, Dan. I couldn’t bloody well cut her off in the middle of her birth story.” He flicks fingers through his quiff, laying it down and then picking it back up. “Stomach churning as it was.”

Dan feels sick. He wonders how long he’s going to let his negative self talk make him miserable. He knows there are things he has to forgive in himself, that he can’t help some of it. But he also know the parts of him he hides behind and he wonders how much his low self esteem would improve if he stopped leaning on it like a crutch. His eyes sting, embarrassment and exhaustion are making all of this seem insurmountable.

“I’m really sorry Phil.” He tries to look at Phil but turns his head, too aware of his wet eyes. “I got scared and I didn’t think I had a chance with you. I fuck these things up, I told you.”

With a moment of static, first class boarding is announced.

“That’s me, Dan. I have to board.” Phil doesn’t sound angry anymore, just tired. “This has been a weird day. We were strangers yesterday. But I know a few things about you now and since we’re standing here, fighting like boyfriends, I’m gonna go ahead and overstep one more time.” He reaches a hand to lay it on Dan’s arm. “It’s a heavy weight you carry around with you. I know how that is, Dan. And I’m telling you from experience, life is so much more enjoyable if you let someone else help you carry it once in a while.”

With that, he turns and walks to the doors, hands his boarding pass to the attendant, and disappears down the jetway.

Dan wipes his eyes before they can betray him with actual tears.

***

Sipping his subpar whisky sour, Dan let’s the soothing voice in his ears guide him through step by step relaxation. His legs are heavy and relaxed, the only thing he has to do right now is breathe. In for a count of 5, out for a count of 8, in for a count of 5, out for a count of 8. With every inhale, soft blue healing light spreads through your body. What color is your blue? The color of the sky? The sea? Phil’s eyes. Definitely Phil’s eyes. Dan shifts in his seat, shaking his head as if to dislodge the image from his mind. He takes a long drink of his cocktail, heaves a breath and tries again.

It’s time to get over it. Soon, he’ll be home and settled back to his routine, alone in his flat, back to real life. He tries to do to follow the voice, to do the breathing thing. When a thought enters your mind, acknowledge it, without judgement and let it go. There are a million thoughts in his mind and a million judgements. That was a dick move. He was really great and you just ditched him. Why are you such a coward? You can stop thinking about him now.

With a rather violent jab of his finger, he quits the app, switching to music. He shoots back the rest of his drink and closes his eyes but regret gnaws at him until his stomach is an empty pit, twisting a constant reminder that he’s lost something.

He’d walked past Phil’s row on his way to his seat, carefully avoiding eye contact. He looked sad, this would be easier if he’d stayed angry. At the risk of looking like a dejected lover in a romantic comedy, he makes the rash decision to go talk to Phil. Before he thinks too deeply, he throws off his seatbelt and moves to stand, only to find himself face to face with a stern looking flight attendant.

“I’m sorry sir, but I’ll need you to take your seat. With this turbulence, we have to ask that you stay seated and buckled for the duration of the flight or until the safety light is switched off.”

“Oh, um. My friend is in first class and he gets really frightened on planes.” He searches his mind for a story that will elicit some sympathy. “I’m really worried about him with this turbulence. Can I just go check on him please?”

“I’m afraid not, sir. I apologize but it’s for everyone’s safety.”

Dan presses his lips together, accepting his fate but just as she walks away, he speaks up again, “Oh, excuse me.” She turns with a forced hospitable grin and looks at Dan expectantly. “What about a drink? Can I buy him a drink? Send it to his seat. His name’s Phil, third row window seat, handsome, black hair.”

“If he’s in first class, his drinks are complimentary, sir.”

“Oh.” Dan looks down at his hands. “Then can you just bring him one? Say it’s from Dan?”

There’s a long exhale that reveals just how long her night has been before she nods gently and says, “What sort of drink did you have in mind?”

“Do you have hot chocolate?” Dan smiles up at her, grateful for her patience. His dimples really do come in handy at moments like this.

A tiny smile blooms on her overworked face and she leans in a bit closer, “Ok, hot chocolate from Dan. I’ll bring him an extra blanket too.”

With his hand to his heart, he thanks her, it means it more than she could know. The next thing he’s aware of is the same flight attendant’s hand on his shoulder, waking him up. The flight is descending and he needs to turn off his electronics.

By the time he’s shuffling down the aisle, first class has long since departed. Dan walks quickly, ready to be done with airports and travel and new people and places. He’ll get a car, headphones in, and soon he’ll be curled up in bed. He can sleep all day. There’s nothing he’s late for, no one waiting for him.

It’s terribly bright outside and Dan is personally insulted. He was counting on London gloom to validate his mood. He pauses next to the taxi queue, eyes on his phone, music in his ears, calculating the benefit of getting an Uber over jumping into one of these waiting cabs.

“Dan!”

“What the fuck!” Dan jumps, his heart races off down the road without him and he pulls his headphones off.

Phil giggles behind his hand. His other, on Dan’s shoulder, is warm and heavy and works wonders to calm Dan’s flight or flight freak out.

“Sorry. I said hi like three times.” Phil says, trying to curb his laughter. “Maybe you should turn your music down, mate.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t sneak up on people.” He’s reeling from exhaustion and emotional whiplash.

“Thanks for the hot chocolate. And the blanket.” He moves to rub the back of his neck in a classic display of Phil nerves.

“No problem. Hope it made your first class seat tolerable, you poor soul.”

“Hey.” Phil’s smile is so subtle it’s barely there, his eyes fixed on Dan’s, “I like nice things.”

They stay like that, inches apart, just looking at one another. It’s freezing out here but neither of them can feel it.

“You wanna share a car? I’m in north London.” Phil hasn’t looked away, he sounds like he’s talking to himself, his voice quiet and directed nowhere in particular. Dan nods and they both turn. The guy managing the line ushers them into a cab, taking Phil’s luggage and Phil gives the driver his address. It makes sense for Dan to be dropped off first but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t want to be the one walking away this time.

“Did you have a good flight?” Phil asks, small talk seems the only way out of this tension.

“It was ok. You?”

“Yeah. I mean, first class.” Phil worries his lip and Dan can’t take it anymore. He can’t take the unknowns and the regret and the stupid magnetic attraction he feels toward this person. He’s looking right at Phil’s mouth, it must be so obvious, and he’s telling himself, do it, just do it. His heart is in his throat, his stomach in knots, sensations that usually elicit a firm nope from Dan. His stock reaction to this fear is to run but he can’t run, they’re in the back of a taxi right now. If Phil pushes him away, he’ll just get out and take a bus. Dan’s breath is coming out in huffs, still watching Phil’s pink mouth as his lip slips free of his teeth.

A hand comes to rest on Dan’s leg, just above his knee. He startles a little and his eyes jerk quickly down to make sure he didn’t imagine it. The tether is taught, it’s either gonna break or he needs to grab hold of it and pull, hard.

So he does.

He leans forward too fast, his lips collide with Phil’s too forcefully, but Phil slides his hand behind Dan’s neck and leans into him till they find a perfect balance. Soft but urgent, they push against each other, Phil’s tongue dipping in between Dan’s teeth. Just enough to connect them but with room for so much more. They move with each other, unhurried until they feel the car pull to the curb and hear the driver clear his throat.

“One second.” Phil says as they pull apart, “let me get my bag.” He hands the driver his card and opens his door, climbing out to wait for his luggage to be retrieved from the boot. Dan gets his phone out and sets up a contact for Phil to fill in. He leans into the open door but before he can speak, Phil crouches down.

“You coming?”

“Sorry?” Dan replies.

“Are you coming up?” Phil always seem to think people just know what he’s talking about.

“Up? To your flat?”

Phil nods, “Everytime I lose sight of you, you run off. I think I’d like to keep you close if it’s all the same to you.”

“Don’t you need to sleep?”

“Yeah, and so do you.” Phil says, matter factly, “So come sleep. With me.”

Dan could honestly say that nothing has ever sound better.

*****

It’s been a long time since he woke up next to a stranger. It’s been a long time since he woke up next to anyone, unless you count Colin, Dan’s family’s dog who shared his bed when he went home for Christmas. It’s a little alarming at first, feeling an arm draped over his middle as he makes the slow climb to consciousness. Reality sets in as his eyes blink open and survey unfamiliar surroundings. The room is unmistakably Phil, the plants, the books, the sentimental trinkets. It’s welcoming and homey, this is exactly how Dan would have pictured Phil’s room. It is odd to feel like he knows this stranger so well. He’s not a stranger though, not really.

Gently, Dan lays his hand over the one resting against his belly. The body behind him is solid, pressed up tight. There’s so much intimacy in spooning. He closes his eyes, willfully rejecting any evidence of daytime that might be streaming through the window. He wishes it would snow now, right here in London; a wild, never before seen blizzard that would strand him here in this flat. The whole city would shut down, lives would be disrupted, but it all sounds worth it if it meant he could stay here just a little while longer. Maybe if he’s very still, his big spoon won’t wake up. He really hopes he doesn’t. If he wakes up, they’ll both be thrust out of the liminal space where they found each other and into purpose and schedules and wretched real life.

There’s a sleepy huff of a breath against his neck, and the arm around him pulls tighter for a moment. It might just be his dire need for human connection but this feels so good, being held like this. He wants to turn over so he can look at his face, nuzzle into his neck, wrap his arms around him, but he won’t risk bringing all of this to an end.

“You’re warm.” Phil’s voice is a low rumble against Dan’s back. It reminds him of the furnace coming on in the early mornings when he was kid, the promise of comfort that would stay even when he threw the blankets off. “What time is it?”

“Almost 2.” Dan says after reaching to the bedside to tip his phone into view.

Phil hums his acknowledgment and snuggles in closer, inhaling deeply with his nose tucked into the short hairs at the back of Dan’s head. “You smell like my shampoo.”

Dan is still but for his fingers. They push between the one’s underneath them and curl around to ensure that hand is staying put.

“Do you need to get up?” There’s a squeeze in his heart as he asks until he senses Phil shaking his head no behind him.

“Don’t go.” Phil says, so quietly it takes Dan a second to register. “It’s not enough yet.”

“Not enough sleep?” Dan asks.

“Just not enough.” Phil says and Dan feels a quick, soft kiss on the back of his neck.

“Go back to sleep, Phil,” Dan replies, calm spreading over him, a lightness he hasn’t experienced in so many years. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Soon, the embrace isn’t quite so tight and the breathing behind Dan is slow and steady. Sleep won’t come back so quickly for Dan, it’s just not how he operates. The sound of Phil breathing becomes a meditative soundtrack and he replays the last 24 hours, finding the moments, committing the details to a deeper place in his memory. There’s a small voice in his head that says he’ll want to tell this story later.

End.

#phanfic #PRB #myfic #You Were Only Waiting

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johnnymundano · 5 years

Text

Don’t Blink (2014)

Directed by Travis Oates

Written by Travis Oates

Music by Mike Verta

Country: United States

Language: English

Running Time: 92 minutes

CAST

Mena Suvari as Tracy

Zack Ward as Alex

Brian Austin Green as Jack

Joanne Kelly as Claire

Fiona Gubelmann as Ella

David de Lautour as Noah

Leif Gantvoort as Sam

Emelie O'Hara as Amelia

Curtiss Frisle as Lucas

Samantha Jacober as Charlotte

Robert Picardo as Man in Black

Don’t Blink is a remarkably entertaining entry in the puzzle movie genre. Unfortunately it’s very hard to say very much about it without spoiling it. But that’s life; full of challenges. As challenges go, trying to give the gist of Don’t Blink without spoiling it is a lot less intimidating than the one facing the typically photogenic friends In Don’t Blink. They have planned a trip to an isolated resort, and they might have planned it just a bit too precisely; when they arrive their cars are coasting on fumes. Which would be okay if anyone were on hand to unlock the fuel pump at the remote resort, but nobody is. Which would be okay if someone were in the tourist lodge, but nobody is. Meals have been left half-eaten and yet there’s no evidence of violence or struggle. What happened here to all the people, and will it happen to all the people who have just arrived and are now unable to leave?

Hmm, well, the answer to the latter is obviously yes, but the answer to the former is a little trickier. Obviously what happened to the absent people soon starts happening to the increasingly fearful friends, but what exactly did happen to the absent people? On the simplest, most literal level they disappeared. And soon the ranks of our appealingly vulnerable cast are similarly thinning. Characters can disappear at any time; the only apparent rule is they can only disappear when no one is looking at them. Don’t Blink, geddit? It’s kind of a sinister riff on Invisible Boy (Kel Mitchell) in Mystery Men (1999), who was invisible as long as no one was looking at him. Obviously in that (very funny; much underrated) movie that was a joke, but in Don’t Blink it’s very far from a joke. Because in Don’t Blink the characters are like the discounts at a sofa warehouse closing down sale: once they’re gone they’re gone. (Or are they?)

The elegant simplicity of this device in no way prepared me for the complexity of the immersion it compels in the viewer. (Or compelled in this viewer; you might be bored to insensibility. I don’t know; I’m not psychic. If we were all the same clothes shopping would be a lot easier.) Don’t Blink is a bit of a sneaky beast, quietly replicating in the viewer a less threatening, far more entertaining, way the tension afflicting the tormented cast. Watching Don’t Blink very quickly becomes a game between yourself and the movie. Once you grasp the rules you can’t help trying to beat the movie at its own game. Trying to catch the next disappearance means you, yourself, daren’t blink. It’s very simple and very clever, and a great deal of fun. Careful though, those dice are loaded.

I had an enormously enjoyable time with Don’t Blink, and a lot of this is down to Travis Oates’ taut script and unfussy direction, but none of that would mean beans without the cast pulling their weight. Luckily for Don’t Blink all of the cast are great. Mena Suvari is the *name* and she’s good, sure, but equally good are all the other actors who aren’t in movies about jizzing in pies and beauty in America. Given the premise, some get more screen time than others and so the ones who last longest naturally impress most, as the longer they last the smaller the cast and the greater the tension. And, as we all know from many, many, many (many) movies, characters under tension are always fun for actors to play.

Everyone rises to the edgy occasion but Zack Ward as Alex deserves special mention. He’s real firecracker and no mistake, it takes a while for his fuse to burn, but when he goes off..hooo boy, he pretty much owns the movie. Starting off as a bit testy but fairly reasonable, Alex soon smoothly morphs into an aggressive maniac. His befuddled belligerence probably fortuitously reflects many of the (understandable) reactions to a movie which so wilfully avoids any easy answers. It’s not hard to imagine Alex writing one star Amazon reviews of his own movie; “WTF! Total lame-o copout! Dude, get an ending. Lol!”, which would be ironic as Alex is given the only speech in the movie which even hints at the answer to the cinematic conundrum Don’t Blink presents.

Even with Alex’s speech, the solution may remain elusive and so, even after it ends, Don’t Blink may persist as an extraordinarily puzzling movie. For me the biggest puzzle is how Don’t Blink got made. Not because it is bad (it isn’t; it’s a very good little movie) but because it is so very much not what most audiences expect from a “puzzle movie”. That is, they expect a solution. Which is not unreasonable. However, they expect a definitive solution. A simple solution to boot. Something like - they are all dead; it’s aliens; it’s bees in cars; it’s your momma; whatever…More accurately then, Don’t Blink does have a solution to its set up, but it’s a more cerebral, definitely elliptical solution and not the kind of solution audiences expect. Or want, maybe. Mind you, a lot of puzzle movies flop due to the disappointment of the newly revealed solution. All the fun of them is tucked away in the set up. Puzzle movies basically ask “What could possibly explain all these bizarre occurrences?” and then they belatedly answer “This”. And you go, “Oh, that. What’s for tea?” It’s not often the solution is as satisfying as the set up. Don’t Blink has a set up as entertaining, thrilling and puzzling as the best of the puzzle genre but it (arguably; I guess very arguably) also has a solution to match. Well, I thought so, but your mileage will definitely vary. If it really honks you off you can always write a one star review on Amazon. Tell ‘em Alex sent you.

#don't blink #movies #puzzles #horror #mena suvari #zack ward #united states #2014 #the 2010s

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themyskira · 6 years

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Wonder Woman #45

Previously in hey, remember when Wonder Woman used to be the protagonist of this comic? Does anyone remember that?

Darkseid wants a powerful army, so he’s decided to enslave the Amazons. He built a Stargate capable of reaching Themyscira, and sent Grail through to conquer it single-handedly. The Amazons, being the incredible army that they are, are completely overwhelmed by this invasion of one, and Grail begins zapping them and turning them into parademons, because apparently that’s something she can do now?? And she never thought to use to turn Diana and Jason into her loyal minions, because reasons???

Diana can’t follow Grail because Robinson — either through not paying attention or not giving a shit — has rewritten canon, and now instead of Themyscira being near-impossible to find by design because it houses Ares’ prison, it’s governed by some weird arbitrary rules around not permitting anybody to return after they leave, except if their feet never touched the ground. This is purely an excuse to send Jason through in Diana’s stead.

So instead, Diana has mostly been punching Darkseid ineffectually while raging about how she hates him and wants to hurt him because he killed her daddy. By the end of this issue, she will have done precisely one thing to impact the plot in this entire arc, and it’s love her daddy so much that his ghost comes and beats up Darkseid for her.

The issue opens with parademonised Amazons pouring out of the portal from Themyscira, and Diana, Steve, Jason and the ARGUS goon squad struggling to fight them off.

Since the New 52 relaunch, the Amazons have — with the exception of Rucka’s year on the book — alternately been turned into beasts, killed people en masse, or been killed en masse. So of course Robinson managed to find a way to incorporate all three. This isn’t something unique to the New 52 — between 1986 and 2011, I don’t think there was a single extended run on Wondy that didn’t involve a mass slaughter of Amazons — but it doesn’t make it any less awful this time.

Robinson’s exposition goes into double-time, as the characters frantically remind each other/us what happened last issue, while simultaneously Steve’s narration boxes remind us what’s happened so far in this arc.

In amongst this, there’s a hilarious moment where an ARGUS soldier runs over to Steve with Diana’s sword, like it’s just found the Holy Grail.

“Colonel Trevor, I found it! Wonder Woman’s swor—!”

Wonder Woman’s sword not some magical super-weapon that’s going to turn the tide of the battle. It’s just a sword, same as the ones the Paramazondemons are using.

You know what is a magical super-item that could turn the tide of the battle? The goddamn Lasso of Truth. You know, unbreakable divine relic? Capable of cutting through illusion and mind control, even self-deception? You don’t think it would be worth trying that on your mind-controlled sisters before you start stabbing them?

But suddenly this perfectly ordinary sword is the most important thing in the world! When the ARGUS goon is impaled from behind and drops the sword, Jason swoops in to pick it up.

“Got it! Sword’s on its way, sister!”

After a brief time out for some more exposition, Jason tosses Diana the sword and flies through the portal (because his feet never touched the ground the first time he was there blah blah).

Jason’s powers still look idiotic, and Temofonte’s lettering choices are still irritating.

Steve [narration]: I have to admit… I’m starting to like Diana’s brother.

Good lord, why? Since when?!

A couple of hours ago, Steve disliked Jason on account of Jason being a reckless, glory-hounding, dangerously inexperienced, untrustworthy wanker. He spent a lot of time listing all the reasons he didn’t trust him! And all of those things still hold true. Maybe Jason’s taking this fight a little more seriously than previous ones, but he’s still substantially the same person that he was two hours earlier. Realistically, Steve should be less than thrilled that his people’s lives and the lives of the Amazons are in the hands of an untrained, undisciplined, ego-driven turncoat whose recent exploits include henching for Darkseid, trying to kill Diana and acquiring super-powered armour under suspiciously vague circumstances.

Now with that all-important sword in hand, Diana continues to be… pretty ineffectual against Darkseid.

Diana calls Darkseid insane. This is something she’s been doing at least once every issue, and each time she does, it grates on me. Part of it’s the excessively casual use of pejoratives — because even by the standards of the superhero genre, which historically hasn’t been great at handling mental illness and is quick to default to labels like ‘crazy’ and ‘mad’ and ‘insane’, Robinson’s Diana throws these words around a lot, and it’s deeply out of character.

But more than that, it makes no sense, because of all the characters in this godforsaken comic, Darkseid’s behaviour may be the least erratic. His agenda has been consistent from day one: he wants to regain his power so that he can retake Apokolips, and all of his actions have been effectively targeted to take him towards that goal. He’s cruel, ruthless, callous, vicious, dictatorial and arguably evil, but you couldn’t really call him “insane”.

It gets worse, because the reason Diana thinks Darkseid is mentally unstable is that — even having had it spelled out to her three issues ago by Grail under the compulsion of the Lasso — she still can’t figure out what his plan is. “I know you’re insane, Darkseid,” she says, “but this — transforming my sisters into parademons — this madness has no rhyme at all.”

At this stage, Diana knows

Darkseid wants an army — one that is both extremely powerful and unquestioningly loyal (per Grail),

With this objective in mind, Darkseid has gone to great lengths to open a portal to Themyscira, and

Now Grail has gone to Themyscira, where she is turning Amazons into extremely powerful and unquestioningly loyal parademons

…and she still can’t put the fucking pieces together. That’s how checked out of the plot Diana is: we’re ten pages from the end of the arc, and the villain is forced to explain to her what she should have twigged to sixty pages ago.

Jason enters Themyscira and sees Hippolyta fighting Grail. He rushes to her aid, but in a rare non-terrible writing decision from Robinson, his presence is entirely unnecessary: Hippolyta proves perfectly capable of taking down Grail without any help.

Cue the nauseating reunion.

Jason: Mother! It’s me. I… I’m your son! Hippolyta: Jason? Oh, my beautiful boy. It is you. To finally see your face—

Diana, meanwhile, continues to be completely ineffectual. Battered by Darkseid, she whimpers to Steve that she’s starting to think that she can’t win. Steve tells her that no matter what, he loves her, and Diana sits bolt upright.

“That’s it, Steve! LOVE! Hatred won’t win this — violence — but love just might!”

Look, I’m glad that Robinson has finally figured out that Diana’s greatest strength as a hero is the depth of her love and compassion, rather than a propensity for excessive violence — because, hey, better late than never — but this is straight out of left field.

And the annoying thing is, under other circumstances, this plot point — Diana besting Darkseid not through force, but through love — could be done well. Has been done, in fact, fifteen-odd years ago by Phil Jimenez.

Good comics interlude: During the ‘Our Worlds at War’ crossover, Diana has to team up with Darkseid to save the universe. With Raven’s help, she channels her faith and the faith of all her sisters into Darkseid in order to restore his power so that he can blah blah convoluted plot stuff. At the story’s end, Darkseid gloats that he is back at the height of his power, while Diana has lost almost everything — her mother has been killed, along with hundreds of other Amazons. Themyscira is no more. Diana even lost a piece of her very soul to Darkseid through the act of empowering him.

Diana smiles slowly.

“Surely you must be joking, Darkseid? Or don’t you know?

When Raven channelled our energies through you, she infected your dark spirit. She didn’t just give you my power, she used her empathic powers to fuse that part of my soul into your own. A part that I give freely, each and every day… and which you took gladly, without understanding the consequences.

There’s a piece of me inside you now, Darkseid. A piece that believes more than anything in joy and hope and peace. So ponder on that, New God — each and every time your feelings and actions are tainted by some undeniable longing for kindness… or the next time the Fates decide you should commit an unidentifiable act of compassion towards your minions and people in the name of some abstraction called ‘love’. Ponder that.”

SHE INFECTED HIM WITH HER SOUL SHE IS SUCH A FUCKING BOSS.

A year and a half later, Jimenez delivers an insight into just what this means for Darkseid. And while he’s much the same villain as before, there’s a stubborn splinter of pure compassion embedded deep within his soul. It torments and infuriates him. Every so often, it drives him to feel things, do things entirely alien to him — like show mercy to a slave.

Darkseid: Foul woman! What have you done to me? Diana: What’s wrong, Darkseid? Had moment or two of inexplicable compassion? I warned you. The portion of my soul you stole will corrupt you from the inside out. You’ll be kissing babies and freeing slaves before you know it. Darkseid: What do you want, Amazon? Diana: Just to remind you of your invitation, New God. It seems some of the Amazons are actually willing to forgive you for your hateful transgressions against them and would like to negotiate a more peaceful relationship with the Lord of Apokolips. You should come. Who knows? You might even learn a thing or two. Although it seems to me you’re learning plenty right now… Darkseid: [raging] AAAAAHHHHHHHH!

That’s how Diana owned Darkseid with the power of love last time.

And this is how Robinson’s Diana… enables Zeus’s ghost to own Darkseid on her behalf through the power of her love for her daddy:

Her boyfriend says ‘I love you’, and this gives her an idea. She walks up to Darkseid and informs him that she’s not going to fight, she’s just going to let him pummel her while she aggressively loves Zeus at him. This causes the ghosts of all the gods Darkseid devoured to to pour out of him. Zeus manages to stick around long enough to tell Diana that he’s proud of her, then fades away while Diana’s all ‘noooo daddeeeee come baaaack’. Then Darkseid appears to spontaneously combust, the end.

Steve points out that whatever happened to Darkseid has affected the portal as well — it’s now closing, with Jason and Grail still on the other side.

On Themyscira, the Amazons have just about contained their parademonised sisters, when they see that the portal is closing. Cue another nauseating scene of Hippolyta waxing emotional over how much she loves Jason and he’s the best son ever and, here, have this super-special magical god-weapon, why don’t you?

“Take this spear. Designed by Artemis, crafted by Hephaistos — enchanted and unbreakable.”

boo.

Steve and Diana wait anxiously by the Totally-Not-A-Stargate.

Steve: So what do you want me to do, Angel? I mean, you can’t go through, obviously… but I could.

What are you talking about, no you bloody couldn’t!

Robinson has been quite clear about the portal rules. They’re dumb rules, and they fly in the face of established canon, but they’re clear.

If you have ever been to Themyscira before, you cannot enter the portal.

You only register as having been to Themyscira if your feet touched the ground.

Steve has been to Themyscira. His feet touched the ground. You cannot go changing up the rules with only four pages to go.

But of course Jason gets back just in time, and Diana is unrealistically excited to see him, and it’s all, ‘I met my mummy and she loves me!’ ‘I met my daddy and he loves me!’ ‘Oh PS, we’ve got a bunch of parademon-Amazons in custody now. I guess maybe somebody should work on turning them back to normal?’

Grail wakes up chained in Ares’ prison. At a cursory glance, this seems like a reasonable solution: Grail is a prisoner, and no prison is more secure than the one Themyscira guards over.

But then, unlike Robinson, I thought about it for more than a second and what the hell this is a terrible idea. The whole point of Themyscira is to prevent anybody who might conspire to release Ares on the world from reaching his prison, and they’ve just locked a supervillain in with him and his evil sons. Unleashing War on the world is exactly the kind of thing Grail would do if it means securing her escape and furthering Darkseid’s plans.

It’s also a dick move on the Amazons’ part, because Grail is supposedly one of their own. She has a lot to atone for, and there would undoubtedly be Amazons who’d want to see her pay for her crimes, but I doubt it would escape the council’s notice that Grail has essentially been used and manipulated by trusted parental figures for her entire life. Her mother bore her, raised her and trained her to be a weapon whose only purpose was to destroy Darkseid. Her father turned her into his loyal minion. She has never been her own person, never had any family that didn’t see her as a means to an end. Surely the Amazons would ultimately see it as their responsibility not just to punish and contain her, but to rehabilitate her. That can’t happen if she’s locked away in a cave with only Ares for company.

Also, you know, she’s probably the best chance they have of curing their parademonised sisters, so… maybe do something about that as well?

Meanwhile, somewhere on Earth, Darkseid is wandering around, naked, human-ish, and amnesiac; the end.

#comics talk #the james robinson shitshow

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your-dietician · 3 years

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Richard Marx has many great 'Stories to Tell' — and one big Twitter controversy he'd like to clear up

New Post has been published on https://tattlepress.com/entertainment/richard-marx-has-many-great-stories-to-tell-and-one-big-twitter-controversy-hed-like-to-clear-up/

Richard Marx has many great 'Stories to Tell' — and one big Twitter controversy he'd like to clear up

When superstar singer-songwriter Richard Marx began work on his new autobiography, Stories to Tell, he knew it wouldn’t be a racy, sex/drugs/rock ‘n’ roll tell-all like Motley Crüe’s The Dirt or Pamela Des Barres’s I’m With the Band. “I’ve always been a very private person. I’ve never been in the tabloids. I’ve never been that kind of celebrity, if you will,” he explains to Yahoo Entertainment. In fact, Marx never expected to write his memoirs at all, but after playing VH1 Storytellers-style acoustic shows about a decade ago, he realized, “I have great stories. I’ve had some really crazy, funny s*** happen to me.”

Those tales, which cover Marx’s early days apprenticing for Lionel Richie to his work with Kenny Rogers, Madonna, Barbra Streisand, NSYNC, Olivia Newton-John, Keith Urban, Luther Vandross, and many others, comprise Stories to Tell: A Memoir, which comes out July 6 and hit No. 1 on Amazon’s bestsellers list the day it went up for preorder. “I chose [stories] that were either compelling or funny or self-deprecating or whatever,” says Marx. “There’ll be stories I’ll tell you about my life that I wouldn’t necessarily, you know, write on Twitter or whatever.”

The cover for Richard Marx’s autobiography ‘Stories to Tell: A Memoir.’ (Photo: Simon & Schuster)

Marx is big into the self-deprecation thing. The funniest line in Stories to Tell is when he says the upside to undergoing double hip-replacement surgery was that “Richard Marx” and “hip” could finally be used in the same sentence, for instance. And his Twitter page is a delight, a compelling read in its own right — his famous tweet about going to the dentist because he felt like hearing some of his own music is but one RT-worthy example of his snark. Marx owns his squareness, but ironically, his posts have, intentionally or not, made the public realize that he’s a pretty cool dude.

The perpetually unbothered Marx also gets very political on social media. And one since-deleted tweet in particular, when he wrote — “If I ever meet Rand Paul’s neighbor I’m going to hug him and buy him as many drinks as he can consume” (a reference to a 2017 incident when Paul was assaulted by his neighbor, Rene Boucher) — made headlines in May 2021, after the Kentucky senator outrageously cited Marx’s tweet as the reason he’d received a suspicious package at his home. It was a rare moment when Marx actually was in the tabloids, and he uses his Yahoo interview to clarify that situation.

Story continues

“I mean, it seems pretty obvious. I made a quip. Let’s start with this: Do I, would I, ever really endorse and support physical violence against someone? I can’t think of a circumstance,” Marx stresses. “I made a quip, which I likened to you hear about some raging assh*** who’s just constantly an assh*** getting his ass handed to him — and you might go, ‘He kind of asked for it,’ or, you know, ‘He kind of had that coming.’ Show me a person who’s never, ever thought of that in regards to anyone, and I’ll show you a liar, right? To me, what I quipped was nothing more than that. Stupid me — Rand Paul used that to his advantage. He went on Fox News and pathologically, as he always does, lied about what I tweeted, what I said. He actually claimed that I incited violence against him, that I was the reason he got a suspicious package of powder the next day in the mail. I thought, if I did that, [U.S. Postmaster General] Louis DeJoy should get a raise. If you can get a piece of mail to somebody overnight now, then I’ve been misinformed.

“I made a joke. And you know, the people who rallied to [Paul’s] defense are the same people who defended, or had nothing to say, when Trump retweeted someone saying, ‘The only good Democrat as a dead Democrat,’ or never had a problem with Donald Trump at a rally saying, ‘Knock the hell out of ‘em, I’ll pay the legal fees; go beat up protestors exercising their First Amendment rights.’ So, these people who were supporting Rand Paul and attacking me are just the typical ultimate hypocrites, and they’re full of s***. So, that’s my comment about that.”

Marx actually prefers not to use the adjective “political” when describing his non-partisan social media stance. “I am definitely opinionated, and I definitely find it next to impossible not to respond to what I consider to be blatant ignorance or bigotry or certainly racism. I guess the word ‘political’ is the easiest one to use, but I don’t know that it’s the most accurate, because I’m not on Twitter or in any other part of my life espousing policy or opinions about much other than proper treatment of everyone — and especially when it comes to elected officials,” he clarifies.

“For instance, I’m 57. I started voting as soon as I could. So I guess my first presidential vote was in ’84, and it was for Ronald Reagan. I have voted for Republican politicians in my life. I’ve definitely voted more for Democrats, but I’m a registered Independent. I’m not a Democrat. Also, as much as I find the current GOP to be the most distorted, vile, awful group of people I’ve ever seen in my lifetime in terms of politics, I’m also no fan of anyone in the Democratic party. None. Joe Biden would not have been my… maybe 20 years ago, I would have been like, ‘Yeah, Joe Biden might be a really good president.’ And don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled that he won this election. But he would not have been my choice to be the president of United States. The screwed-up thing is I can’t necessarily point to anyone I would say should be, on either side of the aisle. I think they’re all, to a degree, different forms of reprehensible and mercenary.”

Marx says, “In a span of an hour, if I were to look through my mentions, I’ll find 50 people calling me every name,” but he balks at the argument that pop stars shouldn’t express their opinions. “It’s interesting, because when I get into a thing on Twitter, especially when you have people on the far right who say things like ‘shut up and sing’ and ‘nobody cares about the opinions of celebrities,’ these are the same people who voted for Donald Trump and follow Scott Baio, you know what I mean?” he chuckles. “So, that kind of tells you right there with the kind of mental decision-making we’re dealing with. … I feel like I can’t be on the [Twitter] platform and see something that is so outrageous and awful and not respond to it.”

Watch Yahoo Entertainment’s full, extended Richard Marx interview below, in which he tells stories about Luther Vandross, Vixen, Barbra Streisand, and more:

There are plenty of people who follow Marx online who are now well aware of his frankness and hipness — but unless they read Stories to Tell, they still may not be familiar with the simply stunning breadth of his discography. Sure, he has scored 14 of his own Billboard top 20 hits, including nine that made the top 10 and three that went to No. 1, and was the first male solo artist to have four singles from a debut album make the top three on the Billboard Hot 100. But has always been an in-demand songwriter for other artists as well. However, as Marx himself notes, many people don’t even know that he co-penned Luther Vandross’s signature song “Dance With My Father” — despite the fact that he accepted the Song of the Year honor for that single, and performed it with Celine Dion, at the 2004 Grammy Awards when the ailing Vandross was unable to attend. Hits written or co-written by Marx have topped the charts in four different decades and in almost every genre (“Not polka, though,” he quips), but there’s one more thing he’d still like to accomplish.

“I’ve gotten to work with amazing people, and hope to continue to. But the one thing that has eluded me in my career… Vixen, for example, I wrote and produced their breakthrough song [“Edge of a Broken Heart”]. I wrote co-wrote and produced Josh Groban’s first single, ‘To Where You Are.’ So, I’ve worked with brand-new artists who broke out — but I didn’t discover them,” says Marx. “That’s probably something that I would like before I really call it quits: to discover a talent, bring them to light and launch them, and then just wish them well, whether I work with them or not. … I’d like to be able to have some artists say, ‘Yeah, it was Richard Marx who started my career.’ That would be nice.”

Early in his autobiography, Marx details how Lionel Richie played that role in his own life — when Richie randomly heard the then-teenage Marx’s demo tape and was so impressed that he reached out and encouraged Marx to move to Los Angeles to pursue music professionally. But one sweet Richie story, which Marx shares with Yahoo Entertainment during our interview, actually didn’t make the book.

“A year and a half or two years ago, two summers ago, I went with Barbara Streisand to London and she asked if I wanted to be part of the opening act slot for her concert in Hyde Park. Lionel Richie was one of the support acts, and I’d hoped to run into him. I think I had texted him on the way to London and we were going to try to get together, but it was chaotic. I closed my show. And by the time I got back to my hotel, there was a text from Lionel,” Marx recalls fondly, putting his hand on his heart. “He was staying somewhere else. He texted me and he said, ‘I’m sitting on my balcony of my hotel room, listening to you sing “Right Here Waiting” and hearing thousands and thousands of people singing it even louder than you are. And I can’t tell you how proud I am.’ And I remember texting him back and saying, ‘It’s because of you, man.’”