#SKEE YOU MADE MY WEEK WITH THIS FIC

[letraspal]

“I want to kiss you all the time”

Read Drunken Kisses 💋 by @skeedelvee on AO3.

[artificialqueens]

Carnival Lights (Camgeria) - Athena2

Summary: Angeria hurts her arm trying to get Camden a prize at a carnival to confess her feelings, but she gets a much bigger prize.

A/N: Hi everyone!! So this is an idea I first had back in *checks notes* August. It was inspired by me being an idiot at an arcade playing a clown toss game. I thought it would be a fun fic idea, and here it is!! Please leave feedback if you like!!

“I can’t believe you hurt your arm throwing balls at clown dolls,” Camden says.

Angeria sighs, sinking lower in the hard plastic chair. “When you put it that way, neither can I.”

She and Camden had been looking forward to the city’s carnival all week. Camden was talking non-stop about how it would be like the fair she went to every summer as a kid, when she would stretch herself to be tall enough to ride everything she wanted to, and tried endlessly to win one of the big stuffed animals at the game section, without any luck.

“Those things are rigged,” Angeria told her. “I always wanted to win too. Even my brother couldn’t win at the milk bottle toss, and he played baseball. Rigged.”

“Oh, they’re the biggest scam ever,” Camden agreed. “But you still want to win, don’t you?”

Angeria sighed. “Of course.”

Their day started off great, with the sun shining off all the bright tents. Camden got a butterfly painted on her arm, and they shared a big bag of popcorn, fingers touching each time they reached in together and making Angeria’s heart skip a beat. They skipped the Ferris wheel, since neither of them is good with heights, but they went on the tiny roller coaster and the bumper cars, dodging attacks from the car their friend Bosco was gleefully driving.

The game section came after the rides, and Angeria got her hopes up on the balloon dart booth, only to miss all the balloons and gripe that they probably made the balloons out of some super-strong material anyway.

Then they arrived at the clown toss booth, where rows of dirty sacks with clown faces painted on stared at her in menace. Angera had always hated clowns, and was ready to pass the booth right by. But then Camden squealed with joy.

“Look, Angie, they have a dolphin! It’s so cute!”

A bunch of huge stuffed animals for the high scores hang off the booth’s frame like clothes off a wash line. A bright blue dolphin—Camden’s favorite animal—was nestled among a rainbow of teddy bears, making her grin.

The idea went off in Angeria’s head like the jackpot light at the hammer-swinging game: she would win the dolphin and heroically present it to Camden, and it would become that perfect chance Angeria had been waiting for to tell Camden about her feelings. Camden would see all the love behind the gesture, all the love Angeria has always had for her, and then they’d share a funnel cake and trade kisses sticky-sweet with powdered sugar.

“I’m gonna win it for you,” Angeria declared, speaking into existence.

But then the worker running the booth handed her the balls she was supposed to use, only a little bigger than ping pong balls. They were nowhere near the weight needed to knock down those dolls, which were probably filled with cement for all she knew. Still, she had to try.

Her vision tunneled to the three rows of dolls, their faded red smiles mocking her. Angeria hurled those balls as hard as she could, cringing over her lousy aim, and wincing when pain tore down her elbow like a lightning strike. The second round she insisted on only made it worse, and by the time Camden moved on to Skee-ball, Angeria could barely move her throbbing arm, and now she’s in an urgent care waiting room with a half-melted bag of ice on her elbow, not a funnel cake in sight.

“How’s your arm? Do you need more ice?” Camden asks.

Her concern only makes the whole thing worse, makes Angeria’s failure that much more embarrassing. It would be so much easier if Camden had just dropped her off at urgent care and went home. But instead, she’s been at Angeria’s side for half an hour now, talking and playing games with her to pass the time, since the cell reception is non-existent and Angeria can’t read any of the boring magazines while holding the ice on her arm.

“It’s fine. Hopefully it won’t be much longer.”

Like Angeria’s summoned her, a nurse appears and calls her name.

“Do you want me to come with you?” Camden asks.

“That’s okay, I’ll go myself,” Angeria says firmly. “You can even leave if you want. I’ll text you when I’m done.” Urgent care isn’t fun, but she’s not too worried about her arm, doesn’t need the extra comfort and support. Besides, her crush for Camden already made her be an idiot and wind up here. She doesn’t want to take the risk of Camden holding her hand or something in the exam room. If she did that, Angeria would probably faint and have to see a doctor all over again.

The thoughts of her own failure circle her mind while the doctor checks her arm. Today was the perfect time to tell Camden her feelings. The sun was gentle and warm, the air sweet with funnel cake and cotton candy. She might not have a perfect chance like that again, and the thought weighs down on her as the doctor releases her and sends her back to the waiting room.

Where Camden is still waiting.

She springs from her seat and almost runs to Angeria. “What did the doctor say?”

“You—you waited,” Angeria says instead, warm despite the freezing air in the waiting room. She can’t believe Camden stuck around in that boring waiting room—with no cell service, crappy magazines, and a crying five-year-old—just for her.

“Of course I waited.” Camden’s voice is matter-of-fact, like Angeria never should have expected anything different. “What did the doctor say?” she asks again, chewing her lip.

“I probably just over-extended my arm a little. They can’t really do anything for it. I’m just supposed to ice it and take it easy for a few days.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re okay.” Camden’s smile is soft, and Angeria follows it to the car.

Camden insists on driving, and Angeria doesn’t argue. Her arm might be fine, but that ache is still there, and she doesn’t want to push it. Camden grips the steering wheel for dear life, but she doesn’t move the car. “I’m sorry,” she says softly.

“What on earth are you apologizing for?” Angeria asks in confusion. “I didn’t hit your head with my horrible aim, did I?”

Her joke doesn’t even make Camden smile. “I know you were trying to win the dolphin because it’s my favorite. If I didn’t get so excited over a stupid stuffed animal, you wouldn’t have gotten hurt.”

“Camden,” Angeria says gently, touching Camden’s shoulder with her good arm. “First of all, I’m barely hurt. The doctor said I’ll be fine in a few days. Second of all, I’m the one who acted like an idiot at some stupid game. Not you, okay?”

“Okay.” Camden gives a shaky nod.

Angeria squeezes her shoulder, and a rush of warmth washes over her. Maybe she didn’t need the grand stuffed animal gesture to tell Camden. Maybe now, close together in this car, is a good enough time. “Camden, I…yes, I was trying to win the dolphin for you. But it’s not your fault!” she adds, before Camden can protest. “I wanted to win it so bad because I…I like you, and I wanted to win and tell you.”

It feels good to have finally said it, so good that Angeria doesn’t know why she waited all this time. Especially when Camden takes her good hand.

“I like you too. A lot, really,“ Camden says, cheeks bright pink.

“You do?”

“I do. Even if you didn’t win me a stuffed animal.” There’s that smile Angeria was waiting for, and it makes her heart leap.

Angeria smiles too. “We can go back to the carnival tomorrow if you want. But this time as a date. Plus we can eat our weight in funnel cake.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Camden’s smile grows wider. “But no clown toss for you, ever again.”

“Deal.”

[whatsabriard]

Getting to know you meme tagged by @andallthatmerrymishigas

Favorite time of year: for the temps and the aesthetics, it’s the 4th quarter. Fall. But I work in a retail adjacent field and this time of year is like a suckerpunch to the face every week so it’s also the time of year I dread the most. Emotionally, spring is getting to be my favorite time of year because spring break means a 10 day vacation.

Comfort foods: Shari’s chocolate chip cookies (made with see’s baking chocolates), homemade fried tacos, mashed potatoes, my moms chicken enchiladas, in n out, the pollo asada tacos from Casa Del Rey.

Do you collect anything? Dogs, apparently. Fandoms. Briard stuff. Moving a couple years ago forced me to really whittle down my collections so now I have a few prizes pieces. My life magazines signed by ginger Rogers. My picture with Isabella Rossellini. Shari’s Moolly. The travel scrapbooks I’ve made. Photos. Recipes. Quilts made by Shari’s mom. An afghan made by my grandma. A painting of me by my nana.

Favorite drinks: Coke Zero, iced tea, pepsi, frozen margaritas, mimosas.

Favorite music artists: the other day I had a playlist going at work from my iTunes and it was… eclectic is a mild word. I mean you’ve got your typical divas. Reba, Dolly, Cher. An outrageous number of musicals are represented: wicked, Hamilton, frozen, beauty and the beast, the Addams family, hairspray, Sweeney Todd, Les Mis, Cabaret. And then the rest is the most insane amalgamation of music mostly culled from movie and television soundtracks that are inexorably tied to that media in my mind forever. And postmodern jukebox.

Current favorite songs: oh good grief. Nothing But Diamonds by ATO. Now by the carpenters (shut up). The Sound of Silence (disturbed). Truth Hurts (lizzo). Black Sheep (gin wigmore). Once upon a dream (Lana del rey). March March (the chicks). Chandelier (puddles pity party).

Favorite fics: well obviously Harts All A Flutter by @andallthatmerrymishigas which is single-handedly keeping me going through this grueling holiday season. But also her Downton stuff. And Blake stuff. I’m a fangirl sue me. And then…do you know how much fanfic I’ve read?? Alias, XF, MFMM, tdbm. I have even started scanning svu/OC stuff.

Favorite video games: bubble bobble (NES), Soulblazer (SNES), Mario bros 3 (NES), Skee-ball plus (iOS), Bioshock Infinite (PlayStation 3), Mario kart (wii).

Tagging: I dunno. The Hart crew. @blossom--of--snow @tyree-toes @holy-ships-x-red-lips who am I missing.

[refinedbuffoonery]

Pizza + Skee-ball

This is actually the very first fic MacGyver fic I wrote! It’s set right after 4x09.

Fun fact: I originally chickened out of posting this fic, and I didn’t get the courage to actually post my first one until three weeks later, when I wrote Not His Girlfriend. 

Today marks my one year anniversary of writing for this fandom (or any fandom, actually). I’ve come so far in the last year, and none of this would be possible without all of your continuous love and support. It means the world to me. So, from the bottom of my heart, thank you. ❤

*****

Riley was letting Mac win, and he knew it. Not once, in all their pizza and skee-ball dates, did he win. After years of playing skee-ball with Jack, Riley was a pro. Mac always tried to science his way to victory, but so far, that hadn’t worked out. 

When Riley blatantly missed her fourth shot in a row, she tried to ignore the incredulous look on Mac’s face. “Dang,” she said. “Guess today is just not my day.” Trying to act nonchalant about it, Riley stepped aside so Mac could have his turn. He didn’t budge. 

“Riles.”

“Hmm?” Riley looked up at him, doing her best to play dumb. Based on Mac’s knowing look, it wasn’t working. 

“I know you’re letting me win.”

“Me? Never.” 

He turned and stepped up to the game. Riley watched the gears in his head turn as he contemplated the best way to throw the ball. 

“What I don’t know, is why.” He missed, cursing under his breath. Turning back to her, Mac crossed his arms and waited.

Well, shit. Riley had hoped he wouldn’t catch on this quickly. She scrambled to come up with an explanation, eventually opting for the truth. 

“I figured you needed a win right now.”

His eyes softened, understanding. “Thank you. You didn’t have to do that. I know how much you like winning.”

“Oh I’m still the reigning skee-ball champion,” she said. “Don’t worry.” Riley smirked at Mac’s over-dramatic eye roll. 

Game over, the pair found a table and ordered a pizza. Riley watched a boy challenge his little sister to one of the dance battle games. Once, Jack made Mac play that same game with him, and it was one of the most hilarious and pitiful things Riley had ever seen. 

She missed him. Even though she was surrounded by people who would be there for her, no matter what, there was still a Jack-shaped hole in her life. Riley pictured him stuffing his face with the arcade’s terrible pizza and bestowing some of his “infinite wisdom” on her in the form of a random Die Hard quote.

The sound of someone repeating her name snapped her back to the present.

“Where were you just now?” Concern filled Mac’s face.

Riley glanced down as she said, “Thinking about Jack.”

Their pizza arrived. Neither spoke again until they’d each downed two slices. Mac finally broke the silence. 

“How are you?” 

Riley swallowed her greasy, cardboard-flavored pizza and took a deep breath. “Truthfully, I don’t know.” Mac waited for her to continue. Damn spy training. “I can’t stop thinking about what Peyton said.“ 

She could learn to accept that N3MESIS being used in an attempt to end millions of lives was not directly her fault, but Peyton’s repetition of her words from seven years ago would haunt her for a very long time. Maybe forever. 

Riley continued, “I was the one who convinced her that people need to be shown they have a problem. I convinced her the world isn’t black and white, that there’s a whole world out there that’s just…gray.” A single tear escaped her eye. “I pushed her over the edge.” 

“Riles—”

“I was wrong. Like, really, completely wrong. And then you and Jack broke me out of prison…” Riley trailed off, looking down at her hands. Mac’s calloused hand covered her own, and the small gesture gave her the courage to continue. She looked up again, tears streaming down her face. “Every day I have the chance to make this world a little bit better. Safer. Phoenix gave me the opportunity to do good, to make up for my mistakes. But how am I supposed to make the world better when so many things I’ve done made it worse?” 

The weight of her words threatened to crush her entire being. There it was, all out in the open.

Her biggest fear. 

Mac gently brushed her tears away with his thumb. Riley fought the urge to hold his hand to her cheek, but she didn’t need to. He kept his hand there all on his own, forcing her to return his gaze instead of looking away and shutting down. 

“Peyton decided to go down that road all on her own. Her choices are not your fault, even if something you said helped her make the choices she did. Using the code the two of you wrote almost a decade ago to murder all of L.A. was her choice, and hers alone. And, you’ve saved millions of lives since we broke you out of prison. That has to count for something.” He gave her a small smile that was not at all reassuring. 

“Are you saying I’m doing good just because I’ve saved more lives than I’ve potentially screwed up? You believe the world is black and white more than anyone else I know!” What the hell was he saying? He didn’t sound like himself at all.

Mac took a deep breath. “I’m starting to realize the world isn’t as black and white as I want it to be. People do the wrong thing for the right reason, the right thing for the wrong reason, and all the morally gray stuff in between. You…” His voice caught. “You weren’t as wrong as you think.” 

The pair sat in silence, absorbing the gravity of what they’d said. They were on opposite ends of the spectrum—Riley’s gray world opposed to Mac’s black and white one—desperately trying to navigate to a place where both worlds could coexist. 

“Are you talking about the man at the nuclear plant? The one who died?” Riley phrased her question carefully. 

“Lasky. He had a wife. And kids.” 

Riley didn’t really know how to respond, but she tried her best. “If it had been me in there, instead of you, I would’ve made the same choice.” 

She knew Mac couldn’t voice everything swirling around in that big brain of his yet. Especially not in the middle of the arcade like she just did. Offering reassurance that he’d made the right choice was the best she could do for now. Riley flagged down a waitress and asked for a to-go box for the rest of the pizza. 

“You want to get out of here? Maybe watch a movie when we get home?” Riley asked. 

“Die Hard?” Mac’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, but it was close enough. 

They’d be okay, one day. But for now, all they could do was be there for each other while their worlds fell apart. Check in on each other as they found their places in a new one. One pizza and skee-ball date at a time. 

Riley grinned right back. “Definitely.” 

[sullustangin]

Peanut Butter Filling !

Upcoming snippet that I wrote a long time ago for the Yavin fic... it's migrated around the story multiple times now, and I'm still not sure I'll leave it where I have it now. Anyway, here's Guss:

Guss nodded, but he kept looking over at her. “Can I be really honest?”

Eva leaned back on the gangplank. “Sure, I could use a highly inappropriate laugh at my or someone else’s expense. Lay it on me.”

“It’s weird, but I think the Sith like us better than the Jedi over the camp.” He seemed uncomfortable with that fact.

“I think they’re following Marr’s lead: respecting practicality and effectiveness. The Jedi don’t like the Sith, so they’re sort of willing to do the opposite out of spite.” Eva crossed her legs, scraping some dirt off her boot with the edge of the ship. “I also don’t think Grand Master Shan is a fan of mine.”

Guss slid his plate up the gangplank like a skee ball and managed to stick it on the edge of the landing at the top. “I think she doesn’t want to trust you but does because Theron does, but that’s the whole smug life thing, nothing personal. A lot of the Jedi here are young – you’re like the poster child for everything they’re not supposed to be …but you’re the one at the big kids’ table. And you get to run around with Spy Guy and Mr. Big Daddy Energy over there.”

Eva burst out laughing. “Captain’s order, do not mention that nickname outside of this ship. Marr might actually crush us with his mind.”

“Guess I earned my paycheck this week.”

Eva kept giggling as she made her way up the gangplank, grabbing Guss's plate as she went.

[be-ready-when-i-say-go]

What Do We Have?

Based on the word: Onsra: n., the bittersweet feeling that occurs in those who know their love won't last.

What happens when what you have with someone isn't quite what you wanted it to be?

***No one has my permission to repost this fic, including translation***

Reader Insert, No specific gender, race, or sexuality!

Is lovers to friends a trope? Because, I think I want it to be a trope.

Enjoy my masterlist

____________________________________________

Calum’s not sure when he first noticed it. It might’ve been somewhere between all the nights sitting out in his backyard as you both sip from sweating glasses and all the afternoons at your place where you’d show him some recipe you wanted to try and he agreed to be sous chef. Some of those dishes turned out better than others. But somewhere in between all that, Calum knows. Call it a self-fulfilling prophecy or call it intuition. After making his mistakes, having his wild youth, Calum was ready to set his life on cruise control and take the bumps and lumps but enjoy the ride. 

It was different for you. He saw that. You took every opportunity by the horns and if it blew up in your face, there was hell to pay for it. Every blue was more vibrant. Every spark shined ten times brighter. Calum would be a liar if he said he didn’t like that. If that didn’t tickle his fancy to see the passion in you. But it made him ponder. It made him wonder would you leave at the first hitch. Would you cut ties when he had to go? That’s the inevitable truth. He would have to leave eventually, with touring and promotion. 

“You’re thinking too much.”

Calum looks to his left, where you are curled up with Duke on your lap. The afternoon sun is just cresting its peak. It’s warm out, a breeze blowing through the privacy shrubbery every so often that helps the both of you forget that sweat is pooling down your backs and on your foreheads. “It’s not a crime to think.”

“But it might be a crime to think too much.”

“And what do you suggest that I do instead hm?” You had come over, just to hang out. Your latest binge together on Netflix had been fully consumed. The two of you sat on Calum’s couch scrolling endlessly through the suggestions but there wasn’t anything that caught either of your eyes. That’s when you suggested just taking a dip in the pool, or at least just stepping outside for some fresh air. 

Now, you grow restless. Wanting to do something, go somewhere, see something, taste something new. It doesn’t really matter the specifics. “The new arcade place just opened up near the mall. We can go there.”

Calum nods. There’s no shock that he feels at your suggestion. He sees the twinkle even behind the way you bite down on your lower lip. There it is, the insatiable urge to take on something. “The least I can do is kick your ass in skee ball since you took today off.”

Fixing Calum with a glare, you stand, Duke safely tucked in your arms. “You’re on, Hood.” 

He watches you, feet silent over the concrete as you saunter back into the house. His fingertips don’t ache like they used too. He should’ve run after you, tickled your sides, or pinched your ass and made you laugh. But instead, he sits, watches you go and wonders if he’s actually going to beat you or not. He wonders if his skills can handle his own trash talk. It wouldn’t hurt his pride if his skills were lackluster. 

In the car, he lets you control the radio. You fiddle for a moment before your phone connects and softly through his speaker he hears an old school funky bassline. You watch the cut of Calum’s jaw and the way he reclines into the driver seat. The sight makes your chest warm but you wonder if Calum really wants to go to the arcade. You worry he’s only going because you want to go, because you can’t sit still. Would he ever grow tired of you? Would he ever try to tie you down, make you into something that you weren’t? 

It would wear him thin eventually, you figured. He had a much slower pace that he liked to consume life at. You chalk it up to the fact that he’s life can be so jammed packed for months if not a year at a time with touring that when he can get a moment to relax, he savors it like children and ice cream before dinner. You didn’t truly think he would try to make you into something you’re not. Though the thought and worry never fully escapes you. It seems like no one would ever fully escape their fears, just enough to let the delusion settle in. Everyone would escape just enough to let their hair down and not look over their shoulder at every moment, just every once and awhile. 

In bright red and pink neon lights, Arcadeocity blinks in front of them. Calum pulls into a parking spot. It’s not terribly business given it’s the middle of the week and the summer hasn’t officially hit just yet. “Ready to get your ass kicked?” he teases, one hand guiding the seatbelt as it slides back against the inner frame. 

“The question is are you ready to pay for drinks after I kick your ass?”

“I was born ready.”

Inside, it’s dim and there are some kids running about. But it’s quiet. Calum heads to the counter, gathering the quarters. You look over, seeing the racing games, the ones where you sit and the ones with the bikes. A machine goes off, lots of buzzing and high zings. You look over to see one of the machines lighting up, the conditioned response for any winner. Two small boys are cheering, arms raising above their heads as the machine spits out the tickets in return. 

There are tables off to the sides, for parents to sit, sip at their drinks and pray their children can keep occupied enough to not worry them for a small blimp of time. Though their gazes never leave their children for too long. One mother raises her hand, calling out the child’s name. “You’re going too far.”

“Oh, it’s not going to hurt them,” the father counters. “You remember the code right?” he calls outs. 

You spot the small child, dressed in blue overalls and high top sneakers. “I remember Dad.” They’re no older than eight or so, you figure. 

He waves them on. “Go head. Just make sure to check in after every game, alright?” 

The child nods, a grin on their face. “Thanks, Dad!” 

“Should we work our way up to the main event?” Calum asks, rejoining you now. His pockets jiggle a little. 

You turn your attention to him, thinking for the slightest moment that Calum would be that kind of dad, if he ever wanted to be. That would let his kid go and be free. But the second they needed him he’d swoop in. That’s what he did. Calum kind of swooped in it seemed to be his MO especially since that’s how the two of you met. You’d be lying if you said otherwise. You hadn’t even seen him in the aisle, preoccupied with trying to avoid the kids that had just cut the corner. You stumbled, managing to avoid them and right when you thought you’d wind up smacking into the shelves holding up rice and pasta, strong arms wound around your arm to keep your balance. 

“Racing game first?”

He nods. The dimness cut by the lights and glitz of the games, his eyes look like blackholes. Or maybe more like tunnels with a light at the end of them with the shiny reflection right in the middle of his pupil. 

Calum wins the first race and nearly beats you for third in the second race. As you both slip off the motorcycles, you collect the tickets from your machines. “I’m better with four wheels,” you laugh.

With a thumb over his shoulder, he grins. “I’ve got a pocket full of change. Prove it, sweets.”

You do. Pulling ahead of Calum in both races. You come in third while he comes in fifth in the first. You manage a dirty fourth place, leaving Calum in seventh. It shouldn’t have been fourth but somehow you landed on a shortcut that saved you from eighth up to fifth. It was a fight for fourth but you managed it as you downshifted into fifth gear in the game and took the straightaway with ease.  

“What the actual hell?” Calum laughs, after seeing you actually using the clutch and stick shift. “I didn’t think any of that actually mattered?”

“Dad taught me how to drive stick shift and now it’s just a habit now, I guess.” 

It’s with a click of his tongue that Calum nods but admits his defeat. The both of you are observing, wondering where to go next. He asks you, if there’s anything that interests you. You could spend hours here, playing every game in sight. But you let him choose. You let him set the pace. Maybe it’s in the hopes that you can keep hold onto Calum for just a little bit longer. “You wanted to come here. I’m sure you’re dying to play something,” he concedes. 

“Let’s shoot some hoops,” you suggest. 

“You don’t--you sure?” It’s a silent nod and a gentle grasp of his wrist before you lead him to the basketball hoops. You two don’t even need to make it a competition. Just for fun. Just something to laugh while you do, attempting to throw him off his rhythm by flattering but never being successful. In the end, you don’t read the red numbers at the screen, just take the tickets it does give you. 

“Skee ball?” he asks, folding his tickets. It seems to go on forever, the end hitting the floor and somehow crawling over it too just a little. 

“Sure. If you’re ready to cry of course.”

Calum’s ears are full of the sounds of the game, taunting them, praising them, lighting up and shouting at every ball that sinks into a hole. But right below that is your laughter, your shriek, “You’re supposed to let me win!”

He has no rebuttal, just a feeling. Something like amusement and a tiny bit of guilt. Like maybe he should be more mindful, like maybe he should be toying more carefully. But at the same time, his chest flutters, when you shove at his shoulder and let out an indignant squawk that turns up into a laugh. He won by 100 points. “Round two?”

“Of fucking course,” you huff. Calum drops the quarters into your upturn palm and you guys feed them into their slots simultaneously. He wins again. 75 points as the lead, which stings less, but still. “It’s just an off day,” you say. There’s a smirk on your face and you can accept the defeat but not without a little bit of stink about it. 

Over the course of an hour, you two play more games, stopping for a quick snack break. At the end, you go up to the counter first, Calum excusing himself for a moment to the restroom. There’s a small stuffed dog hanging on the second most top shelf. His ticket cost is high but after some successful rounds on the racetrack, you manage to squeak just enough to get him.  When Calum returns, you’re standing with your arms behind your back. “You hiding something.” It’s more of a question but it comes out factual. 

“Me? No, never.”

He laughs. At the counter, Calum looks over the possibilities. Part of him knows he should go the extravagant route. He’s done it before, with the stuffed animals and big ticket items. But he spies some alien trinkets instead and grabs two for you. He still has a stack left, so he grabs the small bean bag toy in the shape of a soccer ball. “You’ve still got quite the haul left,” the attendant states. 

“Save ‘em for the next kid.”

“If you’re sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. They’ll need them more than me.” Before Calum can reach you, you hold the stuff toy in front of your chest. “Very cute.”

“For you.” 

His brow twitches, pulling down like he can’t quite believe it. “Me?”

“Yeah, you.” You urge him to take it and swallow down the urge to tell him he can give it to Duke. You want him to know it’s for him. No matter what. You did it for him. 

“Thank you.” Almost sheepishly he exchanges the stuffed toy for alien trinkets. One’s a keychain and you smile. “Perfect for the collection?”

“Of course.” It is perfect. It’s thoughtful. And part of you wants to kick yourself for not getting the inflatable soccer ball, or Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Because clearly those are more Calum, those are more thoughtful than just a stuffed animal. Calum makes a show though, buckling the dog into the backseat, after shifting the towel that Duke usually rests on and maybe, it’s not such a bad gift after all. 

It’s in the car as Calum ponders aloud choices for dinner that you asked to be taken back to your place. You do have an early morning and Calum doesn’t think too much of it. It’s not until that gets back home and settles the stuffed dog onto his bed that he remembers the recipe the both of you were going to try. He had gone to the grocery store and everything. It feels wrong to try it without you. He can’t let it go to waste though. 

I’m going to drop you off a plate. That’s the text from him not even ten minutes after he drops you off. You remember all at once the dinner plans. How could you have forgotten that? Truth be told, you had fun. Arcadeocity scratched that itch to get out. But you didn’t want to intrude too much on Calum’s free time. Which, when the hell did that start being a concern? Calum was pretty direct and honest if he needed time to himself. 

Maybe it was just a time thing. You were starting to understand Calum more and even though he would be vocal about needing space, you knew how much he valued it. And you valued your own space too. Truth be told, you were starting to want more of it. Or maybe it was more time to do whatever by yourself. Or maybe the reason really didn’t matter because now, sitting on your own couch, you feel a little less like you’ve been stuffed into a box. 

Calum arrives at your door with a reusable bag full. “I just made the whole recipe and split it in half. You can take it into work tomorrow.”

“Thanks.” 

It’s a quick brush, his lips pressing into the flesh of your forehead. “Of course.” 

___________________

Of course that feeling comes back. When Calum calls and hears the rattle of music in the background, he knows you’re out. It’s the second weekend in a row you’ve walked out on the town. The second weekend in the row you’ve made those plans without really consulting Calum, just going. Not that you thought you’d be out again. But when your coworker mentioned wanting to go out, you didn’t want the opportunity to pass you by. Letting Calum didn’t quite cross your mind either. 

Part of Calum feels like he should be fighting more against that, fighting to maybe get more time. But he doesn’t. “Have fun. Let me know if you need a ride,” he says, unsure if he needs to shout to be heard over the receiver. 

“Okay, will do!” The call ends and he drops into his sofa. Part of him is relieved, strangely. He doesn’t have to worry about having to do something. He doesn’t have to muster up the energy. He had it. If you weren’t out and about, he wouldn’t have minded doing something but he’d rather sit at home. 

Was he wrong for that? Was it wrong to thank the high heavens you had already preoccupied yourself without him?  Was it wrong to know something wasn’t going to make it all the way to the end but just wanting to take the ride while it was still offered? He enjoys his time with you. He enjoys the laughs and the crazy adventures. But god, did he like doing nothing too. There was nothing wrong with that. Right?

His phone shakes again, later in the night with a text from you. Made it home safely. Am buzzed and I should never wear clothes with buttons ever again when drinking. 

He calls in response. “What happened with said buttons?”

“Fly was open,” you sigh in return, sinking into your own mattress. “Embarrassing.” His giggles cut through the slight fog of alcohol. “Don’t laugh.”

“Sorry, that’s a laughable offense, sweets.”

“Humph!” 

“Need me to come over?”

“Nah, not that drunk. Have-have you got no faith in me?”

“No, I have all the faith in you. Drink some water, okay?” You hum in your agreement, mumbling a good night to him. 

______________

“How long’s the tour?”

“Just shy of seven months. There are breaks, of course.”

You nod. “Of course.” They needed them for their own sanity and health. “I’ll watch Duke. You know I don’t mind.” He hasn’t asked. And Calum doesn’t really need to ask. You’ve always taken the chance to watch over the old man when Calum’s gone. You think you should’ve noticed Calum’s stubble before now. It’s not quite stubble really any more, on the cusp of being the start to a true beard. He usually doesn’t let it get this long. 

How long has it been? You’ve texted and called. But somehow in the catalog of your mind you can’t place the last time you saw him in person for longer than a few minutes. It doesn’t feel wrong, in the sense that you’re worried that things are falling apart. But it is strange. It’s almost like air between you--something that you know is there but can’t quite put a finger on it. It’s somehow distance but not distant. The strange new normal the two of you have created. And you want to be sad. It’s a strange guilt to see now more than ever what’s been expanding between the two of you, but not being upset that it’s happening. 

“I scheduled his appointments already,” Calum says, sliding a couple sheets of paper over to you. “Well, the major ones. I know your summer schedule’s a little different so I tried to keep that in mind too. Thanks again.”

“You don’t have to thank me.” 

Calum’s sure this will be the start of the end. And you are too. But that doesn’t stop you from messaging him just shy of three weeks from the start of the tour. Rehearsals are getting longer and more tiresome. His answers to text and calls are coming later in the night.  I’m dropping off a plate for you.  You send it on your lunch break, hoping that by the time you get off, Calum’s replied. 

And he has: Only if it’s not too much of a bother. Thankyou. 

It’s not long after returning home that you’re back in your car, Calum’s food resting on the floor to keep it from tipping over. At the gate, you worry it’ll take you too long to reach Calum to get inside, but thankfully, Luke and Michael are just ahead of you and let you in. The three of you wander back into the studio space. Michael explains at length the mechanics of a game to Luke. You’re not sure if he’s convincing the taller man, but Luke takes in each detail with a thoughtful face. 

“Please tell me you’re teaching any of this,” Luke teases, glancing at you.

“Dude, I’m just dropping off food. I’ve got nothing.” 

He laughs but agrees ultimately to give a test to Michael’s latest video game obsession. As the door to the space opens, you can’t help but let the soft smile crest your face at Calum’s stretched out figure on the floor. You’re not sure if he’s sleeping, but you know from experience if he gets too relaxed in any position anywhere he can and will fall asleep. “It would be such a shame,” you start, voice bouncing off the walls. Calum cracks a smile even though his eyes are still closed. “If this bowl of pad see ew just happened to take a bad stumble. 

“You wouldn’t dare,” he calls out from the floor. He’s slow to look up at you. But when he does, it’s a long gander. You’re still in your work clothes, though the shoes tell him you definitely did go home first. 

“Home cooked,” you offer, lifting the glass container and setting it on the table where Luke, Ashton, and Michael have gathered. 

“Really, thanks. It means a lot.” 

“Of course.”

Calum thinks about that phrase for long after you’re gone and long after he’s consumed the sweet and yet savory noodles. Like, of course--like you wouldn’t be doing anything else but helping him out majorly. Of course, you’d go from a crazy day at work to fixing him dinner. Like of course he shouldn’t have to worry constantly. Like of course this is normal. And it is normal, in some ways. But it’s not normal in others. It’s not normal, he thinks, to go weeks without seeing you and not feeling a super deep ache. There was the missing he felt when he wanted to see his mum, or his sister. But they had always kind of been away from him, ever since he moved out. Calum did miss you, but it never fully consumed him. Never made him mope, or be too down. Or maybe it was normal? Maybe it showed how much the two of you were secure with each other. 

____________________

Did you want to spend a few days together? Rehearsals are pretty much done. I know you’re still working though. 

Calum can’t seem to hit send. 

That last sentence is his out. It’s a way for you to say no without having to feel like an asshole. He knows that. He knows you’ll know that the second you read the text. But he can’t bring himself to delete it. 

With a swift kick of boldness, Calum taps the up arrow. The text lifts and then settles and Delivered sits right underneath the blue text in gray. It’s only an extra ten minutes from your place to work. I don’t mind. 

Most mornings, of the four that you spend with Calum right before the shuttle bus comes to get him, he whines as your alarm goes off. “You can spare five more minutes,” he mumbles into his pillow, one arm raised, not fully like the limbs much too heavy for his body to carry. And at this time in the morning, half past 6, it probably is too heavy to carry. 

“Only five,” you laugh before sliding back into bed, but not under the covers. 

Calum always curls back up into your side, arm thrown across your torso. “Can’t believe you’d leave this nice, warm bed.” 

He almost never mentions leaving him. He doesn't mention leaving you. It’s always the nice, warm bed you’d be leaving, that he’d be leaving. This nestle of comfort and known territory being the only thing tying the two of you together. 

You have to stop yourself from saying it’s just a bed. That any old bed can be nice and warm. Because it always could be any old bed that can be nice and warm. But do you want any old bed or do you want Calum’s? Do you want somebody else? Do you want to fly across skies? Or do you want Calum? 

“It is a nice, warm bed,” you say instead. It’s an agreement that whatever it is between you is nice. Though, you’re not convinced it’ll last. 

The first week of Calum on tour turns into a second. That second one turns into a third. And by the third week rolls around, the most your phone buzzes or chimes with anything related to Calum is a quick picture attached with a few lines about what’s going on in his world. You’re not even sure besides keeping him updated on Duke when you’ve talked about your life if you told Calum about the impromptu trip to Vegas. Or if you told him about your promotion at work. 

Somehow all of that just seems so mundane and so not the thing he’d care to hear about until he calls. It’s an early morning for you. “I see your end of the globe hasn’t gone up in flames yet.”

You shake your head with a tuft of laughter. “No, it’s still thriving. Just adjusting to this new job.”

“You quit your old one? Do you need anything to tide you over?”

“No, no, just a new position.” You almost start to say that you had to have told him. But if he’s asking, if he’s concerned, then you must have forgotten.

“Tell me about it.” 

“My job is not exciting,” you call out, grabbing your clothes from inside the closet. 

“Doesn’t matter. Bore me with the details.” You do. Enough so that, when you’re finally dressed and sitting down to eat breakfast, you can see him with his eyes drooping. “Bored him literally to sleep,” you laugh. 

“I am not asleep,” he responds with a sleepy mumble. 

“Sure you’re not.”

A month into the tour, Calum works it to have you flown out. Calum’s greet you in the car from the airport, the two of you laughing, falling into each other’s side, but ultimately always shifting back into place, resting into the back of the seat instead of each other. Calum’s not phased, not when you run ahead up to the historic hotel. He’s not phased when you run ahead of him at the museums are long the streets during your visit. But he knows it’s killing you. When the bands backstage, and you stare out of the windows, he knows it’s killing you not to get out there. Not to see the country, the cities, the people. 

“Tomorrow we can go adventuring,” he tells you, leaning up against the wall as you’ve curled yourself up into the window sill. 

“You’ve got another show tomorrow.”

He just winks at you, leaning forward to kiss the top of your head. And then he’s gone, back to the sofa, laughing as someone shows him something on their phone. The guys fall instantly back into their chaos. You watch, knowing you could fall into it too. You know their antics and their sense of humor. But yet, you sit in the window sill. You watch the birds fly pass. You watch people wander. You hear the slight cry of fans waiting for them and you know this isn’t really meant for you. 

This isn’t something that would saitatee you in the long run. 

You find out later after the show and he’s had a chance for a quick shower, that in the wee hours of the morning, just eeking pass one, Calum and you wander through nightlife. Arm in arm, you meander down streets, up city blocks, stopping at storefronts just to oogle over their displays. The skies are a little clearer. You can stop, leaning up against some random fence to watch the stars for a little it.

“It’s weird to think that I’m watching some stars last breathe. Like we’re so close, but so far away from the heavens. And they really just go on forever,” you whisper. 

Calum hums, sliding his hands into the pocket of the hoodie draped over your body. His fingers wrap around yours in the pocket. “But it’s almost like they are giving us their last wish, maybe. Giving us one last guiding light.”

 It’s almost four am when you find yourselves back at the front doors of the hotel. You’re laughing at Calum’s slurred speech due to drowsiness. He’s going to regret this in the morning maybe and you can only hope that there’s a pot of coffee big enough to help. His slumber is heavy next to you. Your brain is wired. You can feel it buzzing in your fingertips. How do you tell Calum that you don’t want to lose him but maybe the romanticism between the two of you isn’t there anymore? Was it ever really there to begin with?

With three days left on this trip, you don’t say anything at first. How do you even verbalize that? What are the right words? You don’t sleep that night either. When Calum reaches out for you, his arm feels like hot steel. Like it’s burning you for feeling any different. On the second night, you slip further into the seats in the back of the bus--there’s no stopping at a hotel this time--, your blanket pulled up to your chin, nothing plays on the TV in front of you. You know you can’t avoid him. Not at a time like this. But you’re still not sure if you can mention is just yet, if you have the nerves to do it. 

The door slides open and Calum is there, leaning against the faux frame and his body moves with ease at the jostle of the bus. “Mind if I pop a seat next to you?”

“Of course not.” It’s an automatic reply. And really you don’t mind. But you can tell by the way he nods, biting his lips and settles next to you but not into you that he’s aware of something too. But you’re aware now you can’t duck out of this conversation. There’s no turning back now. 

“You say ‘of course’ a lot, you know?”

“Something tells me that now isn’t the right time to say ‘of course, I know’ so I’ll refrain from using it.” 

His laughter is a quick exhalation, facing the blank screen too. “Are you--” he starts and then stops. He fiddles with his thumb nail for a second and then turns, bringing one leg up under the other and his hoodie cladded arm rests on the back of the sofa. “If it’s not--I’m not sure if our relationship is what it was before.”

You exhale. Your shoulders straighten under the blanket and you shift, sitting to face Calum more. There’s no sadness. Not even the clench of his jaw which he does when he’s trying to hold something back, when he doesn’t want to say what’s fully on his mind. “I-I don’t think so either.”

He gives a thoughtful nod, resting a hand on your leg, over the fuzzy black fabric. “And it’s not that I don’t have love for you. Nothing has happened, like nothing you did or said, or anything bad but.”

“It’s just different between us.”  Different doesn’t feel quite whole, so you unfurl finally from the mass and out of habit, pick at the fuzz on the end of his sleeves. “Well, more like, I’ve realized maybe what we wanted wasn’t what we needed? If that makes sense?”

“It makes sense.” Calum watches your fingers, pinching and rolling at the small balls of cotton. “I-I won’t mind if you stay or go. I’d like you to stay. There’s the museum you always wanted to go to in our next city, but if it’s too weird or anything, I totally understand.”

You shake your head, gaze lifting to his. He’s still chewing over his lip but he looks mostly calm. The nerves are obvious but this conversation is going better than you could’ve anticipated. “I don’t feel pressured to leave at all. I just, do you need space? If you need me to go, I’ll take the next flight out. You’ve got a job to do and I don’t want you to be in a weird headspace with me around. And I would hate--,”

He cuts you off with a squeeze of your hand. “You’re rambling. And no, I don’t want you to leave. I haven’t properly seen you in a few weeks. I still really enjoy your company. But it’s just, not like before, you know. Besides, you still owe drinks from when I kicked your ass in skee ball.”

His grin is small at first but it grows when you flap, releasing your hand from his hold and fold your arms across your chest. “The way I remember it, you would owe drinks if I beat you. Not that I owed drinks for losing.” 

When Calum giggles, you have to laugh. In all the previous breakups, you know laughing immediately after shouldn’t be happening. But everything’s different with Calum. All along the two of you were shifting, settling into the version of the bond you needed with each other, not necessarily the prescribed one from society, or the one that you wanted. 

“Would you be, like, upset if I took a separate bunk?” you asks. 

“Of course not,” Calum returns with a grin. 

Honestly, you feel relieved waking up the next day, for the most part. It should be awkward, but there’s something between you and Calum. There’s something you both get about each other that even in the face of change this bond doesn’t feel broken. It feels mended, finally and completely free too. No guilts, no second thoughts and what you should be doing or what you think Calum expects of you. 

It definitely carries a small sting. There’s no lying, a small bit of your routine and your normal is now gone and that worries you for when you go back home. Like, is it still acceptable that you steal his Santa Cruz hoodie? And when Calum catches your gaze from the otherside of the dressing room, he wonders if he can still kiss your forehead, still hold your hand? Or is that crossing the line? He airs on the side of caution for now, just smiles at you and you smile in return. 

Just before leaving, you fold his hoodie up, placing it on his bunk next to the not fully folded blanket that reveals his iPad. 

When Calum goes to his bunk he sees the hoodie. His heart drops, he won’t lie. When he picks it up, it feels heavy. Not physically, but he kinda wanted you to keep it. Something crinkles. He unfurls it. Nothing falls out but he can hear something. So he continues until he finds the hoodie pocket. 

I know, I know. I wanted to give you this back. Just for the moment. We’re still good like we said before. But I know it’s your favorite right behind the Empathy one. Kick ass on stage. Rock out. 

Calum smiles, neatly folding the note and slips into his bag that he takes into the venues. When the months slip by, show after show mildly interrupted with Duke updates and occasionally things about yourself, Calum finally finds himself able to sit on his own couch. Kick his feet up on his own coffee table. He’s able to decompress. He decompresses enough to fall asleep. A knock at the door jolts him awake. Wiping at the corner of his eyes and his mouth, he jumps from his couch. 

“You were totally asleep,” you grin when the door swings open. 

“Was not,” he retorts. Duke bars from below, jumping at Calum’s leg. “Oh, bubba. How are you?” 

“Good, just missed his pops.” 

Collecting Duke into his arms, Calum stands. “How are you? How’s life?”

“I’m good. Life’s good.” You lift the bag on your arm. “I brought you a plate. Or maybe like four.”

“You--you didn’t have to,” Calum returns. “But of course you did anyway.”

“Of course I did,” you laugh. “Mind if I come in? You can just love on Duke. I’ll reheat the spaghetti.”

He nods, allowing you inside. It’s much more than a plate as you unload the dish and a few other sides. It’s enough for him to eat dinner for a week almost. You always fixed more than he could ever eat. “How’s the move going?” The last time the two of you talked you mentioned needing a new place. Something a little bit bigger to accommodate your needs and the potential of housing your own dog or cat. You’re not entirely sure right now.  

“It’s going slow. But it’s going. Trying to sort out what to toss.”

“I can help, if you want.” Calum watches as you set the plate down in front of him. “Be the voice of reason when you know you really should toss the thing, but can’t do it without a nudge.”

“Or be the nagging voice that tells me to keep it. You know how this goes.”

Calum nods, setting Duke in the seat. “I know.”

“What are you doing? Sit. Eat.”

Two scoops of spaghetti or heaped onto a second plate. You manage to keep Duke away from Calum’s food. The plate hits the table with a muted thud. “If it’s not too much too soon, eat with me? ”

“Of course.” 

“There it is again,” he laughs. 

“What? I’ll leave. Don’t think I won’t.”

“Whoa, slow down. Eat. Then you can huff and puff and blow my house down.”

With a click of your tongue, fork posed in hand, you watch Calum return to his seat. Duke in his lap, just like you knew would happen. “That sounds like a good idea.”

[wiz-witch]

DuckTales 2k17 3x03: Double O Duck In You Only Crash Twice

"The Lost Harp of Mervana!" So fun fact: all I know about James Bond is from the Mythbusters episode, that Jimmy Neutron special, and Goldmember. And I haven’t seen either of those in over a decade. So let’s see how many references fly over my head.

Also this is my second viewing but I’m going to try to keep my commentary as if this is my first

“Dew-ble O Duck” Dewey, sweetie, I will pay you to stop

Wait her name is Red Feather? Boo

Obviously evil guy is obviously evil

“What are you doing?” Being a theater kid with middle child syndrome

...Wait, Ben can sing??

Okay, that was impressive

Yay foreshadowing

Dewey: “Oh fuck, he’s messing up, this was a bad plan”

Daw, Dewey calls him LP

Also I cannot get over the fact the glasses they were wearing in the released screenshots were VR glasses

Hey, it’s the Phantom Blot! I can’t wait until you do something cool this season

My favorite House of Mouse shorts were the ones with him (and one where Von Drake tried to take Mickey’s heart. Yup, the show had more influence on Epic Mickey than causing the company to get Oswald back)

Aw, he sad :(

“Am I a joke to you, lad?”

“Uncle McDee”?? :D :D :D

Webby is a bro, and Scrooge is everyone’s uncle

Ball pits are terrifying, and this just proves it

I love how Heron’s welding mask is built to compensate for her mask. It makes her look like a plague doctor

Yes, intruders in the very public Chuck E Cheese knock off. Geeze, got Magica working there, got Phantom Blot as the mascot, got a FOWL lair underneath... Frank? Why is there so much evil in the Chuck E Chee--oh, wait, never mind

Are we ever going to get the full intro with Della?

Yeah, his kids come here all the time, why are you surprised at this?

He’s asking the important questions

She didn’t want to answer because she made it

I love Whack a Mole. I had a home version even

That is such a mood. I hate being in public.

...Ouch. Those things are heavy

...That’s all.

That legitimately looked like something out of the Carmen Sandiego choose your own adventure

Wait, how did they even know the passcode in the first place? It’s not like they were given a briefing or anything

...what.

Dewey has the brain cell at the table

jlkajlkdajlkdsj SOMEONE PLEASE GET ME A REACTION GIF OF DEWEY SILENTLY GOING ‘WHAT?’ WHILE WATCHING THIS DISASTER

I love the cutting between the game and reality. I also love how Steelbeak felt the need to put on the glasses to beat them up

Webby, that is not how you hold a skee ball

Himbo versus... Is there a term for a himbo who’s an ass? Is it just “attractive idiot”?

...Did I just imply that Steelbeak is attractive? Ew

Webby was right, it is a trap!

Okay, as someone who’s been hit in the face a lot and wears glasses, those glasses should’ve broken from that

Oh my gods...

Aw, sad baby

Ooh, are these the guys I have beat up Huey in my FOWL fics?

Did Steelbeak spend too much time with Quackerjack or something?

...Okay, part of me is actually highly disturbed at the fact Steelbeak changed their clothes while they were unconscious

Ch-Ch-Ch-Chip and Dale! Rescue Rangers...

they play the f*cking theme song...

Daw, he helped them, and they helped in return

Oh snap

Webby is DoneTM

“This department has worked 322 days without an accident” I feel like that’s a facility record. Would be at my work

.......what.

I love how he didn’t know what the device did and knew it was a game and still sacrificed himself for Dewey. That’s adorable

Did you guys really get multiple lives in that game? Because it seemed kinda insta-lose

Also, are the glasses currently off or are they still seeing things differently than we are?

Oh, I think this is a direct Bond reference--it looks like something from Jet Fusion

Why is he British?

...Please give us our himbo back. Please. I will pay money for that.

Aw, he calls him Dewford now. I do not like this, please make it stop.

...was that English?

Me either

“Oh heavens, you don’t want them to think you don’t know what you’re doing” My constant monologue at work

that was epic

Why is he still wearing the glasses?

“They’re back?” Okay, those two words bring a lot of questions I want answers to

Huh. Guess I wrote the wrong triplet getting kidnapped by FOWL

#priorities

Scrooge... Sweetie...

I love how Webby keeps wanting to kill Funzos employees... Oh, what if all of them secretly are part of FOWL?

...Except Magica. Maybe she was hired so they could see if she was FOWL material

Oh, I wanna break that innocence so much...

....... [slams head on desk]

Okay, how could Launchpad hear Dewey clear as day, but Dewey can’t hear anything Launchpad is saying?

Aw, that fear on Dewey’s face when Launchpad crashed... Oh, what if unconsciously Dewey knows this is real now but hasn’t quite consciously processed that?

He’s Launchpad McQuack, that’s how.

Dewey is Done with this guy and is showing signs of being like his brother

Well that’s unnecessarily badass

How can you be so DoneTM when being tied up like that. Also why is he tied up up there

Boo, bad pun

No, “Me” was correct there

I’m sorry, is that just going to become their thing? Just casually coming into a scene to help rescue the Ducks and then leaving?

...Oh you are not doing this.

We were robbed of a hug

Okay, the subtitles say this is Dewey singing, but it doesn’t quite sound like his voice while his song earlier did. WTF

"Stop the evil conspiracy out to get us.” Hey, Launchpad, before you do this, PLEASE TELL HIM ABOUT FOWL SO SOMEONE KNOWS

Launchpad has ADHD and RSD

That was adorable. Dewey is a good kid. Reminds me of half my cousins, but a good kid

...Wait, wasn’t that shot in the original season 3 promo?

Dewey, why did you jump, that was really unnecessary

Well, there’s that hug I wanted

...what.

Because of a joke from a friend, I’m mentally retconning that line into “Huey’s going to freak when I tell him that I--we beat the game.”

Seriously, I love how it took him not being in an episode to not have a mild breakdown

I hate how realistic that is

Let’s see, one ball got him 2 tickets, and one quarter gave him 5 balls...so one quarter equals 10 tickets, which means a dollar equals 40 tickets... That comes out to 75 grand. Scrooge, wtf

I love how Dewey clearly is trying not to crack up

I’m sorry. I cannot get over the subtitles calling him “Suave-Pad”. Who on the crew came up with that.

Ooh, are they going to learn?

...I hate everything.

Scrooge’s reaction is mine

Well, that explains a lot

Okay, if she specializes in rays but Bradford doesn’t want more rays... Imagine them looking for fresh brain...

Shut up, I like hurting Huey, let me do so in peace until canon gives me the conspiracy theorist Huey hunting down FOWL I was promised

...Okay, that is the most terrifying thing this episode.

Me picking up pretty much anything in the house for the first four years of my sister’s life

So what’s next week? ["The Lost Harp of Mervana!"] ...ARNY MAERMADIDS NEAZXT WEK!

[riseandshinelittleblossom]

Go Mets!

A/N: This is my submission for the wonderful @mf-despair-queen‘s 2019 Dylan O’Brien Baseball Week.  This is my first ever Dylan fic, as well as my first ever reader insert (ish) fic, so keep that in mind hahahaha I hope you enjoy it!

 Also! DISCLAIMER: I write this purely for fun, I don’t get paid or anything like that, I’m just borrowing our favorite Mets fan for a bit of  good natured fun...

Warnings: light swearing, because it wouldnt be a riseandshinelittleblossom fic without it. :D

Shout out to my wonderful friend @ao719 for indulging me and pre-reading this for me..girl your rock!

 Tags: @leelee10898 @fullbeaumonty @kennaxval @superapplepie @mrs-mitch-rapp93 @stiles-o-dylan24  @ownworldresident @mrscutiefandobhaz

    Dylan held out his arm, staggering backwards a bit as he caught the baseball in his well-worn mitt.

    “Hey, nice one Maggie!” He chuckled.

    The six year old across the yard beamed at him and he couldn't help but feel his heart melt seeing her snaggletooth grin.

     He was so proud of how much she had progressed since he first started bringing her out back to play catch two years ago.

     His friends had all warned him to steer clear of getting into a relationship with you because dating a single mother also meant “you have to play Dad,” but that had never worried him in the least. Maggie was a good kid, really smart, and she shared Dylan's passion for baseball and the Mets. These days he couldn't imagine a better way to spend his time off between filming than to be in the backyard helping her practice for her little league games.

   She flipped her long, chocolate- colored plait over her shoulder and resumed her batting stance.

   “Okay, Dyl. Let's have another one. And don't go easy on me this time.” She sassed.

   “Go easy on you? I would never..” he feigned innocence, grasping the ball firmly and grinding into the mitt a few times.

   Maggie rolled her eyes, the bat falling to her side.

   “I'm serious, O'Brien. You think the girls on the Grizzlies are gonna go easy on me this weekend? Not a chance! They're out for blood after we wiped the floor with them last season.”

   “Out for blood, huh? Okay, well pick up the bat and I promise I won't hold back then, Princess.”

    She resumed her stance and Dylan shook his head.

    “Here,” he began crossing the yard in a few strides to stand behind her. He widened her grip on the bat and helped her crouch a bit lower. “Gotta widen that stance, baby girl. Otherwise the first speed ball's gonna knock you right off of home plate.”

      He returned to the makeshift pitcher's mound that he and Maggie had made with a pile of her kinetic sand. It was a project that you had been none too happy about.

      He stomped his feet a few times before releasing a steady pitch.

      With a loud crack, the young girl sent the ball sailing away from her. Dylan hit a backwards run in an attempt to catch it, but it soared over the fence anyway.

   You watched from the open kitchen window as your boyfriend raced across the yard and hefted the small girl onto his shoulder.

   “And the Mag-ster rounds first! She's off to second! Oh my God, she's flying past third! Aaaand she makes it all the way home!” He shouted as he ran a circle in the yard and Maggie cheered, her small fists pumping into the air as Dylan mimicked the sound of a crowd roaring. He placed the child on the ground and you couldn't help but chuckle.

    You and Dylan had been going steady for two years now, but it always made you smile to watch him with Maggie. He was the best daddy to her that he never had to be and it made you love him even more.

      You thought back to the day that he first entered you and Maggie's lives as you finished washing up the mountain of dishes in the sink.

***********”**

     You adjusted the settings outside of the batting booth before crouching in front of your preschooler.

    “You sure you want to do the batting cages? We could go for another round of skee ball instead.” You suggested as the little girl before you adjusted her baseball helmet and shook her head. The child-sized aluminum bat in her hand still looked humongous and you bit your lip, wondering why you'd agreed to let her go in there and let a machine lob baseballs at her.

    “I wanna baseball! I'm tired of just tee ball! It's time to break into the big girl game, because one day I'm gonna play for the New York Mets.” She told you matter-of-factly as she stepped into the cage.

   You blamed the babysitter. She was a sweet woman that kept Maggie for next to nothing and she had two boys of her own that were only a little older for your daughter to play with.

   The sitter's oldest son, Jacob, was nine and he played little league, which meant he and his brother often tried to get Maggie to play catch with them outside. Jacob was Maggie's hero and a die-hard New York Mets fan. All the time she spent with Jacob had ignited a fire within your near five year old. It had started with endless tee ball games in the local junior league and now...batting cages at the family fun arena.

   You wrung your hands nervously as the first pitch shot out. You'd set the machine on the lowest setting but it still felt like the ball was the Roadrunner, jetting away from Wile E. Coyote as it hurdled towards your small child. Certainly anyone watching must have thought you were insane to let her in there.

   Maggie held her own, swinging confidently even though the ball barely glanced the end of her bat. The metallic ting caused her to giggle wildly.

   “I hit it!” She shouted.

   “Hey, good job!” a male voice came from behind.

   You whipped your head to see a tall slender man wearing khaki pants and, coincidentally, a Mets jersey. Your eyes scanned over him, your bottom lip tucking itself involuntarily between your teeth.

   He twisted his baseball cap, leaving the bill sticking out behind him and tucked his folded sunglasses into his shirt. He gave you a polite smile and nod, the fluorescent lights overhead catching his honey colored eyes just enough to make them sparkle.

   Your heart all but stopped as you smiled back and quickly averted your gaze, embarrassed that he'd no doubt noticed you checking him out.

    “Thank you. She lives for this stuff.” You said shyly.

     TING

   “I hit it again!” Maggie squealed in delight, turning to face you. “Who's he?”

   She scrunched her face up as she stepped out of the cage.

  “Oh I was just waiting my turn is all. I'm going to use the cage when you're finished. Nice form in there,though. If you'd like, maybe I could give you some pointers.” The man said.

     “You would?!” She squawked.

    You were taken aback by the way he peered directly into Maggie's eyes when he talked to her. Not many people were so attentive when they spoke, especially to children. It made your knees feel weak as he trained his eyes on you in the same fashion.

   “I'm Dylan.” He offered, extending a hand.

************

    Your attention was pulled back to the present as you heard Maggie's sassy, near whiny voice through the window.

   “I am NOT a baby anymore, Dylan. I'm getting bigger everyday, you know.” She scoffed.

   He nodded. “Unfortunately.”

   You stepped onto your tiptoes to get a better view of the two loves of your life, straining to hear their conversation. They were seated on the patio now, Dylan helping Maggie oil her own glove as well as his own.

    “Mommy says that if I want to keep playing I have to take good care of my equipment. She said only responsible players get into the big leagues, so I have been trying to oil my mitt like you showed me, but sometimes it's hard.” The girl huffed as her mentor lifted his large hands-the ones that plagued your every day dream- and placed them over hers, patiently guiding her movements.

   “You want to make sure you get into every groove, Princess. Every crevice. See? You've got it. I'm so glad to hear you've been listening to Mom while I've out of town, though.”

     You let out a sigh, a warm feeling spreading from your chest throughout your body, a small chuckle escaping you. How did you ever get lucky enough to find him?

    “Dylan, can I ask you a question?” Maggie piped up.

     “Anything, squirt. What's on your mind?”

    “Why were you and Mommy yelling at each other last night?”

     Dylan's eyes went wide as he turned his gaze to his own mitt.

    “Wha..wuddaya mean? We weren't-”

     “Come on, O'Brien. I'm not deaf. You were saying, ‘Oh, Y/N,’ and Mommy kept screaming 'Dylan, oh my God’. Were you guys fighting?”

    You tried to stifle a laugh, your hand flying over you lips as you remembered the absolutely mind blowing events from the night before. The ones your daughter had apparently overheard. You could barely see your boyfriend's cheeks turning bright red right about now and you would have paid good damned money to get a view of that up close.

    “Uh, no. We weren't...we weren't fighting, Princess.” Dylan tried to be vague and he cleared his throat. You knew he was silently hoping that his answer had been enough to end the conversation, but you also knew Maggie better than that.

   “Oh. Well then what were you doing?”

    Dylan turned to wipe off his hands, holding the towel out for Maggie to do the same.

    “We were...we were talking in our sleep.”

    “I heard banging, Dyl.”

     The dark haired man gulped audibly, one hand rubbing over the days old stubble of his chin.

    “Uh...that? Oh we were… okay listen. You know I love your Mommy, right Princess?”

    Maggie nodded, “Yep! And she loves you.”

    “That's right. So we love each other. Sometimes, uh...when a boy loves a girl...ya know...they...dance...together?”

      You cackled softly listening to Dylan not even buying his own bullshit.

   “Oh. But I can dance without banging, see?”

   Maggie hopped from her seat and swept into a graceful ballerina twirl, her hands above her head.

    “Well that's because you're a beautiful baseball-playing ballerina, and as such you're very graceful. Mommy and I...well, we're sort of clumsy.”

   The child laughed. “So you mean you guys fall down a lot?”

   “Exactly.”

    “So that's why you were yelling right? You just kept knocking each other down?” the six year old cocked a skeptical eyebrow and Dylan nodded.

    “You're gonna have to do better than that, Dyllie. I'm not buying it.”

     Your boyfriend let out an exasperated sigh. “Okay how's this? We were dancing together because we love each other and we're clumsy so we kept falling down, but then he had...um bruises..?” He stopped short, clearly at a loss.

   “The truth, please. I was born at night but not last night, ya know?” Maggie sassed with an eye roll.

   “Okay the truth is... The truth is that I love your Mom and she loves me and sometimes when you love someone so much you just...you want to show them. There are things that you will learn about when you're older that help grown ups show each other how much they love their boyfriend or their girlfriend. And so..that's what we were doing. But those things are for grown ups only. I mean...grown ups that love each other and want to get married someday...not just any old boyfriend and girlfriend…”

     Your heart stopped at the thought. You and Dylan had been together for a long time, but somehow you'd never talked about marriage before.

    Maggie stared at him, one eyebrow cocked, her face scrunched in thought.

    “Do you..? You understand anything I just said?” He asked nervously.

    “Uuuuhhhh…..go Mets?” Maggie replied still obviously confused.

    Dylan laughed loudly as he ruffled her hair. “That's my girl!”

    “I don't even wanna know anymore,” she shook her head. “As long as you promise you and Mommy aren't breaking up.”

    Dylan wrapped his arms around her shoulders pulling her into a tight hug.

   “No way, Princess. You two aren't going to get rid of me that easily.”

     “Hey, Mommy!” Maggie beamed as you appeared in the sliding glass doorway.

      “Hey, kiddo. Why don't you take your gear upstairs for me? Dylan and I need to talk.”

      She complied with your request, gathering her belongings and tossing them into her athletic bag before hefting it inside.

     You grinned widely at Dylan as your daughter disappeared up the stairs. He exhaled audibly, silently mouthing “thank you,” as he nervously rubbed the back of his neck.

       He ambled across the patio, wrapping his long arms around your waist, pulling you impossibly close.

   “I know you were listening, you evil woman. Way to leave me hanging.”  Dylan muttered, his lips brushing yours as he spoke. His whiskey eyes were locked on yours, making your knees suddenly feel weak.

   “I dunno, you seemed to be handling things pretty well on your own.”  You smugly replied.

    “Yeah? You think so? I'd love to show you a few other things I can handle pretty well.” he pressed his lips to yours and you giggled into the caress.

    “You mean like...Go Mets?”

    He scoffed, giving you his near award-winning, lopsided smile.

    “You're damn right, go Mets.”

[master-sass-blast]

The Sleepover Fic

WELL, THIS ENDED DIFFERENTLY THAN I HAD PLANNED. GOOD LORD.

Summary: You enjoy a sleepover night with the X-Force at the X-Mansion --but partway through you get hit by a wall of depression. Fortunately, Piotr’s there to help you through it.

(Maybekindaprobablydefinitely inspired by the depressive episode I’ve had this week.)

Pairings: Piotr Rasputin x Reader and Nathan Summers x Wade Wilson (sorta).

Rating: T for language and depression.

@marvel-is-perfection

The idea, admittedly, is ridiculous. And that’s why you love it so much.

You’re camped out in the rec room with the rest of the X-Force, perched on the couch next to Piotr in your best set of pajamas --which, admittedly, were just a pair of pants that said ‘bacon makes everything better’ over and over and a random t-shirt. “Okay. So how does this sleepover thing work?”

The rec room’s been completely transformed, floor covered with various sleeping bags, cushions, air mattresses, blankets, and pillows. A pile of snacks covers every inch of the coffee table, along with a few soda bottles.

“Watch and learn, young padawan,” Wade says theatrically, waggling his nonexistent eyebrows for emphasis. As the self-appointed ‘party planner,’ he’d taken it upon himself to make sure that you and Russell checked off another box on the ‘well-rounded experiences’ list. “If you’re good, I might even let you try a little cocaine later.”

“No,” Piotr says automatically, acting as the self-appointed-but-also-kinda-volun-told adult of the night. “Absolutely not.”

“I was kidding, Russia’s Greatest Love Machine. Geez. I don’t share my coke with anyone.”

Yukio giggles while Neena --who’s only staying for a few hours, citing ‘having an actual life to get back to’ for why she’s leaving early--braids her hair. “So, what do you have planned, Wade?”

“Since when does Wade plan anything?” Ellie fires back, deadpan, while she continues beating Russell in Mario Kart.

“Well, I figured we’d hit all the sleepover staples,” Wade chirps. “A little Truth or Dare, some never have I ever, ooh, maybe some Seven Minutes in Heaven--”

“Several of us are minors, douchepool,” Ellie interjects, still deadpan.

“Okay, not that, then. And, when the night starts to wane, we’ll wrap everything up with a massive movie marathon. First person asleep gets pranked!”

“Nyet.”

“Oh, come on, you silver buzzkill! Pranking the first person to fall asleep is a fundamental part of any sleepover!”

“I would allow it if your pranks weren’t so destructive.”

“Okay, name one thing I’ve destroyed in the past twenty-four hours!”

“We’ll be here longer than a night if he does that, dipshit,” Nathan grumbles; he’s also only hanging around for a short period of time, but unlike Neena, his reason for leaving early amounts to ‘not sleeping in the same damn room as Wilson all night.’

Which, admittedly, given Wade’s tendencies to cuddle like an octopus, makes sense.

“Well, I think it sounds like a blast!” you say.

“Thank you!” Wade cheers. “Finally! You think I’d get more respect, considering this is my fucking franchise!”

You can’t help but laugh as Piotr cuts Wade off while Nathan presses his water bottle to his nose, looking endlessly annoyed. New experience or not, tonight was definitely promising to be a fantastic ride.

Truth or dare, as it turns out, is the best game ever to play with Wade Wilson.

First, he thinks of good parameters to keep things from getting boring; case in point, the first rule he establishes is that you can’t pick the same option three times in a row, thus keeping people from sticking to the --arguably safer--truth option for too long.

Second, he actually took the time to write down a bunch of suggestions from a website beforehand, thus preventing the inevitable ‘everyone’s run out of good ideas’ drudge.

Third, he mandates that all dare must be filmed for posterity’s sake. They can be deleted afterwards, but everything has to be caught on camera and reviewed by the group first.

Which is exactly how you find yourself watching a video of Piotr doing a traditional Cossack dance.

“This is amazing,” you giggle as you send the video to your email account.

Piotr simply shakes his head as he sits back down next to you. “If you say so.”

Things get better from there. You get to watch Ellie do a very flat rendition of ‘I’m a Little Teapot’ --which is funnier than it has any right to be--and watch Russell do a solidly decent lip sync to Beyonce’s ‘Single Ladies.’

Funnier still is watching Wade try to bust Neena with truths and dares, only to somehow draw the most benign options from the bowls each time.

“How?” Wade screams when Neena does an effortless set of cartwheels. “I wrote these! There wasn’t even a cartwheel option in there! What sort of fourth wall, author interference bullshit is this?”

“Well, that’s another dare done for me,” Neena says, purposefully cheerful for the sake of pissing off Wade even more. “I guess it’s my turn. Cable --truth or dare?”

Nathan rolls his eyes, mutters something under his breath that is most definitely a string of profanities, and grumbles, “Dare.”

Neena fishes around in the dare bowl before selecting a piece of folded Hello Kitty stationary. “Ask a neighbor if they have a condom you can borrow.”

Ellie lets out a snort. “Do it to Scott. Ask Scott.”

Nathan’s face goes deadly blank --and then his techno-organic eye flares as the corner of his mouth turns up in a vicious grin. “Yeah. Wade, I need your help for this.”

“Hey, you have to ask--”

“I’m asking. I just need you to stand next to me while I do it.”

Ellie practically falls off her air mattress as she cackles. “Fuck yeah. Wait, I’m coming to watch.”

All of you wind up following Nathan to Scott’s room, standing in various positions in the hall while Nathan knocks on the door with his human hand.

(For the record, the look on Scott’s face when Nathan asks him for a condom while Wade waggles his fingers at the bespectacled man is absolutely priceless.)

After that, Truth or Dare is declared ‘done’ on account of the fact that nothing will ever top that moment.

Things detour to a Mario Kart tournament, in which Ellie proves that Neena’s lucky powers have limits.

“This is the best thing ever!” Wade cheers as Neena comes second to Ellie’s first --again. “I take back what I said about you, author! You’re amazing!”

You shoot a confused look at Piotr, and opt to settle back against his side when he shrugs, expression easily confused. “Hey, Wade, you’re good at Mario Kart, right?”

“Well, I don’t want to toot my horn, but my skills in Mario Kart come in second only to my skills at Skee-Ball.”

“Do you think you could beat Ellie?”

Wade’s eyes narrow when Ellie barks out a laugh. “Oh, you think you can win?” He swipes a controller off the coffee table and plops down next to her. “Bring it on, Negasonic Soon-To-Be Loser.”

The match is over sooner than you ever would’ve expected for two reasons.

First: Ellie and Wade decide to jump straight to the hardest option possible --Rainbow Road in Mirror Mode.

Second: No one has the stomach to watch anything on the TV afterwards.

(For the record, Ellie wins, and Wade isn’t happy about it).

Never Have I Ever doesn’t last long, either. Mostly because Wade’s done just about everything anyone can think of, or has had just about everything happen to him.

It does result in some awesome story-telling, though. After a certain point, the game completely tapers off in favor of telling stories entirely. Wade and Neena both have the best, hands down, but Piotr and Yukio come in at a close second thanks to their unique backgrounds and heritages.

You quickly realize, though, that you don’t really have anything worth contributing to the story-time session. There’s nothing from your childhood that’s really worth repeating, and your friends already know everything that’s happened to you here.

Suddenly, you feel completely detached from the room, from your friends, from everything. It’s like someone’s cut the cords keeping you tethered to the world and you’re drifting away from reality.

You get up abruptly, managing a smile and citing some sort of excuse about needing to use the bathroom, and get the fuck out of there.

The bathrooms at Xavier’s, unfortunately, aren’t designed for one person at a time. They’re built like locker room restrooms --albeit much cleaner--with multiple stalls and sinks.

You take the stall furthest from the entry, lock yourself in, tuck your legs up as you sit on the toilet lid, and hope that no one comes looking for you.

You aren’t sure if you want to cry. You can feel the sensation tugging at you --grief, rage, pain--but it seems just as distant as the rec room, numbed by your unwitting ejection from reality.

A larger part of you just wants to disappear for a bit. Slip upstairs, get in bed, hide in the darkness of your room.

They probably wouldn’t even notice I was gone, you think --even your internal voice seems dulled in the face of this sudden shut down. It’s not like I was really contributing anything anyway.

A different part of you doesn’t want to leave your friends, if only because you don’t want to have to explain what’s going on; fuck, you barely even understand it yourself.

That, and they’d probably come looking for you if you did head up to your room, and as much as you love them you just want to vanish right now and get away from the noise that’s always everywhere--

You let your forehead rest against your knees. Fuck. The fuck’s wrong with me?

By the time you manage to uncurl yourself and stand up --and it takes a while if the stiffness in your legs are anything to go by--you’ve made up your mind. I’ll just say I wasn’t feeling well and decided to go to bed if anyone asks tomorrow morning.

You don’t get too far with your plan, though, because Neena and Piotr are waiting for you just outside the bathroom door.

You flinch back, startled. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah,” Neena says with a sunny smile. “I’m heading out for the night. Wanted to make sure I said good-bye.”

The ‘need to disappear’ feeling only gets worse, more grating and jarring, when she wraps her arms around you. Fuck. This is hell. You manage to eek out a ‘good night’ and let out a shaky breath as she walks away.

Because you’re not out of the woods yet. Piotr’s still here, watching you with gentle concern.

He brushes his fingers against your upper arm. “Are you alright, myshka?”

Your brain completely cuts out, leaving you adrift and barely able to stay upright. Talk. Say something, for fuck’s sake!

Instead, you just let out a breath and sag against him.

He kisses the top of your head and wraps his arms around your body. “How about we step outside, just for moment? I think fresh air would do you good.”

You let him steer you towards the front door, moving without thought. You suck in a breath when the cool night air hits you, rattling your brain a little from whatever’s come over you.

Piotr, to his credit, doesn’t leave you. He keeps his arms around you, rubs his hands up and down your back, kisses the top of your head, lets you lean against him like he’s the only thing in the world keeping you upright.

He kinda is, if you think about it.

He stays quiet, though, just letting you suck in breath after breath of fresh night air, letting your press your face against his chest and just breathe.

“You gonna ask me what’s wrong?” You ask after a while, voice a little too sharp, a little too acidic in the face of your unwelcome melancholy.

Piotr just kisses the top of your head. “Do you want me to?”

He’s gentle, not passive aggressive in the least, genuinely giving you an out if you don’t want to talk about it.

I don’t deserve him. “I just wanna disappear. Everything feels... like it’s too much.”

“Did not having happy stories from your childhood upset you?”

Bam. Right on the money. Whoever’s said that Piotr Rasputin is an idiot is dead wrong --blindly optimistic at times, yes, but never stupid.

“The fuck am I even contributing to the group?” You let out a bitter laugh. “Shit, I’m such a downer. Can’t enjoy everyone else’s happiness, can’t contribute my own.”

“Nights like these aren’t about equal contribution,” Piotr murmurs as he kisses your forehead. “And it’s okay to be sad that you don’t have similar tales. Besides, not everyone contributed equally. Cable was mostly silent as well, as was Russell.”

You let out a frustrated huff. “Yeah, but --I just-- Piotr, what’s the point of having me around if I can’t keep up with everyone? What’s the point of me being a part of the X-Force if I can’t contribute outside of fights? We’re supposed to be a team --a family.”

Piotr clasps your upper arms gently as he crouches in front of you so you can see his face in the dim light of the moon and the lights from inside the mansion. “Myshka, family means we take ups with downs. You do not have to be happy all the time --especially if something upsets you. And aside from your many valuable skills --and there are many--we keep you around because we want you with us. You, as you are, is enough.”

Your throat constricts at the thought, and you bury your face in his shoulder in an effort to hide your tears. “I just wanna be good enough.”

“You are,” Piotr croons gently in your ear. His arms wrap around you, shielding you from the chill of the night and bathing you in warmth and love. “You are more than good enough, myshka.”

When you finally come down from your grief --pain, anger, sorrow, everything--who knows how much time later, you find that your brain’s turned back on.

Not all the way. But just a little. Just enough.

You slump against Piotr’s shoulder and chest. “I dunno if I wanna go back to the group. I kinda just wanna go back to bed.”

“Do you think that’s what would be best for you?”

“...I don’t know.”

“Khorosho. That’s fine. How about this: come watch one movie with us. If you still want to go to bed after, you can. If not, you stay with group.”

You let out a shaky sigh and nod. “Okay. That works.”

You almost chicken out as you walk towards the rec room. You can feel everything shutting off again, and you don’t want to suck a night of enjoyment away from the group.

But Piotr’s hand is a comforting, solid presence on yours, a tether to reality that you can’t bear to let go off.

The warm light of the rec room almost seems too bright as you step over the threshold, and you grip Piotr’s hand tighter.

Yukio greets you with a bright, sunny smile and pulls you in for a hug. She doesn’t mention your red eyes or puffy cheeks or the fact that you were gone for so long. “We need someone to break a tie on the first movie choice.”

“Listen, Negasonic-My-Name-Won’t-Age-Well, ‘Monty Python and the Holy Grail’ is a literal, actual classic. It deserves to go first.”

“And ‘Get Out’ is both cutting edge and critically acclaimed. I still don’t see you making any points that actually tilt the argument in your favor.”

“Will someone just make a damn decision?” Nathan growls as he pinches the bridge of his nose.

You manage to smile, buoyed by your friends’ enthusiasm, as everyone looks at you. “‘Get Out’ first. I have a feeling we’ll need Monty Python to cheer us all up after.”

“Go to sleep, lyublyu.”

You blink wearily, the images of ‘Robin Hood: Men in Tights’ blurring before your eyes. You’d made it through the first three movies just fine, but you were barely holding on now. “I don’t wanna fall asleep first. Wade’s gonna prank me.”

Piotr lets out a gentle, quiet laugh and points surreptitiously across the room. “I do not think that will be problem.”

You manage to lift your head and clear your vision long enough to see that Wade’s long since passed out, slumped against an equally dead to the world Nathan. “They so like each other.”

Piotr chuckles and tugs you back down against his chest. “Da. Now rest, moya lyubov’. Everything will be fine.”

You lay your head down and finally let your eyes close.

You wake up on the couch alone, carefully tucked under a quilt and head propped up on a pillow.

It doesn’t take too long to figure out where Piotr went thanks to the sounds and smells coming from the kitchen --and the tone deaf humming; Piotr’s many things, but a naturally gifted singer is not one of them.

You sit up and stretch, rolling your shoulders and neck to work out the stiffness that came from not sleeping a proper bed with a proper pillow.

Nathan and Wade are nowhere to be seen; presumably, they’ve gone back to their rooms --or room if Wade managed to invite himself into Nathan’s bed without getting punched.

Ellie, Yukio, and Russell are still asleep on the floor, cushioned by air mattresses and blankets. Russell’s sprawled out like a starfish, and Ellie and Yukio are holding hands even though they’re sleeping on separate mattresses.

There’s a notification on your phone --a text from Neena.

Neener Wiener: Hope you’re feeling better this morning.

And you...

You are feeling better. Not completely, but a little.

It’s something.

You smile to yourself, just a little, and get up to join your boyfriend in the kitchen.

[snowdice]

520 Ducks (Part of the Road Trips and Everything In Between Series)

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Relationships: Virgil & Janus

Characters: Virgil, Janus, Remy(briefly)

Summary: Virgil and Janus aren’t sure what to do with their arcade tickets until they do.

For the sixth BINGO fic.

This is set in the same universe as Road Trips and Missing Persons and is a prequel. You can read what’s done of that story below.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16 Part 17 Part 18 My Master Post

Janus blinked as the tickets kept coming out of the machine. “What did you do?” he asked the 14-year-old next to him.

“Um… won?” Virgil said.

Remy had to do something for work today, and Emile was attending some special one-week training course. While Virgil was old enough to stay home alone at this point, Janus had still offered to hang out with him so he wouldn’t be bored. Virgil had given him puppy dog eyes and asked if they could go eat pizza and play the arcade games the pizza place had afterwards, and Janus had a moment of weakness. (As though he wasn’t always annoyingly weak for that kid.) Besides, he found blowing his mother’s money on junk food and stupid games you never won very satisfying.

…Well, usually never won. They’d mostly been playing skee-ball and a couple of the other games, but Virgil had decided to put one coin into the game where you had to stop the moving light in exactly the right place to win a prize (a game Janus had been sure was rigged to never let anyone win until now) and had apparently hit the jackpot because the machine was making an alarm sound and spitting out ticket after ticket.

They stood there and watched in silence until it finally stopped.

“Well,” said Virgil. “Huh.”

Janus tore the last ticket from the machine. “What are we going to do with these?”

“No idea,” Virgil replied. “Let’s go look at the prize case.” They went to the front of the pizza place and had the tickets counted in a machine. The ended up with 5,203 tickets.

“Well,” the guy behind the counter said. “You can get anything you want.”

Virgil looked over the options. His eyes drifted over the higher shelves and down to the display case. “How many rubber ducks do you have?” he asked. Janus raised an eyebrow.

“Um,” the guy at the counter said. “However many are in there and then we probably have a few refill bags.”

Virgil smiled a slow mischievous smile. “I’ll take either all my tickets worth or all you’ve got.”

“W-why?” Janus asked.

Virgil looked over at him his eyes sparkling, and Janus could already tell before his brother said anything that he was about to get dragged into a ridiculous scheme. “Remember that one comedy video I showed you a while back?”

“…Remy would hate us.”

“And?” Virgil asked innocently.

“…Let’s do it.”

Luckily for the prize counter guy, the refill bags were in hundreds, so he only had to hand over 5 of those bags and count out 20 more. Virgil used the remaining three tickets to get a few pieces of the one ticket candy.

He looked incredibly pleased with himself as they left the pizza shop with bags of rubber ducks. He handed Janus one of the candies and bit off half of the second. “Keep it,” Janus said, screwing up his nose at the piece Virgil offered. The boy grinned and stuck it in his mouth.

They made it back to Virgil’s house and went immediately to Remy’s bedroom. They stacked 100 on the man’s bed, facing each other as if they were going to war. 200 were lined up in front of the door facing it to stare down Virgil’s father when he opened the door. Another 100 scaled the bookshelf. The last full bag was scattered everywhere. Virgil even managed to convince him to glue a few to the ceiling. The last 20 were the “bonus” ones that Virgil hid in different places in the house for his father to eventually find in the months to come. Virgil smiled over the destruction they had wrought as they closed the door behind them and went downstairs.

~

Remy came home a few hours later to the two of them casually watching a movie, and he did not notice the way they watched him as he climbed the stairs to put down his stuff in his room. When he opened his door, he was met by ducks, hundreds and hundreds of ducks. “You little shits!”

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Road Trips and Everything in Between Master Post

Main Master Post.

[artificialqueens]

The 5 Times Bob Tried to Propose and the 1 Time It Worked (Bob/Miz Cracker) - Mac

AN: I’ve been working on this fic for over a year now, and I’m so glad to finally get it out of my drafts. This is a bunch of fluff, with a teeny tiny bit of angst, but a happy ending. I hope you all enjoy! (Special thanks to Saiph for beta-ing, and being an absolute angel.)

Summary: What the title says…

…

It had been a wonderful dinner. Bob had taken Maxwell to their favorite restaurant and ordered pretty much everything on the menu. That was one of the multitude of things they had in common, their love of food. Bob’s heart had been racing the whole meal and subsequently, his leg was bouncing non-stop. Maxwell had been periodically asking him if he was ok, to which Bob had tried to mask his nerves with a smile. Only serving to make Maxwell more curious.

Bob had been planning this for months, the location, the speech, even what he would be wearing. So naturally he wanted this to go well. Bob kept glancing at his watch and looking at Maxwell expectantly. Maxwell gave him a strange look, but smiled at his boyfriend, unsure what had sparked this weird nervousness, but not on the whole opposed to it. It was nice seeing Bob a little out of his element. The comedy queen of season 8 was usually all confidence and wicked smirks. Seeing him nervously looking around and blushing every time their hands touched, was a welcome turn of events.

As Max finally pushed his plate forward and leaned back, Bob grabbed his hand. Maxwell sat up suddenly at the intensity in Bob’s eyes; all the mirth had vanished. His hands were sweaty, and his heart was pounding out of his chest.

Nevertheless, he started his speech. “Max, we’ve been together a while now. We both have big plans for our future, and I know that you’re gonna do amazing things in this world, and I want to be there to witness all those moments.” Bob started to kneel. “Maxwell will-“

A sudden shriek from the opposite end of the restaurant caused both Bob and Maxwell’s heads to turn. A man was on his knees with an outstretched box. A woman, who Bob assumed the annoying sound had come from was crying hysterically. “Yes. Yes, of course!” The patrons began to clap loudly, and Bob could only just pick up Max’s voice above the noise.

“Wow, how tacky.”

Fuck Bob thought. and he let out the breath he had been holding. There goes that.

As the applause died down, Maxwell turned his attention back to Bob. “What were you saying, babe?”

“Oh nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

…

They were visiting Bob’s family in Georgia. It had been a long time since he had been back. Everything looked the same, but it didn’t feel like home anymore. It was sad, but he was happy that he now had confirmation that his life in New York was the right one to be living. Bob’s family embraced him with open arms and scolded him for not calling enough. They told Max he was too skinny, and after feeding him an entire aluminum tray of macaroni, effectively putting him in a food coma, they turned their attention back to Bob. The questions started immediately, and Bob couldn’t help the smile that enveloped his face as he gushed about all his proposal ideas. His family was ecstatic. They had always loved Max, and the year it took the two of them to get their heads out of their asses and start dating, was the longest of their lives. For the rest of the week that Bob and Maxwell were visiting, they kept giving him sly smiles, and dropping hints about different proposal locations. Finally, Bob knew he just had to get away for the day, the incessant nagging, while out of love, was beginning to grate on his nerves. He offered up the county fair to Max, who eagerly accepted, happy to have some alone time together. It was a small affair, but there were hot air balloons and a Ferris wheel, and Max was there, so it was a good time. They walked around to the few booths. Max was surprisingly good at skee ball. And Bob was surprisingly not. Max won a stupidly huge stuffed bear, and made Bob hold it while he ran around like a kid to all the other booths. It was cheesy and silly, but Max’s smile still filled Bob’s chest with a warm fuzzy feeling. Even after all this time, Bob’s heart still beat just as hard as it had the first time. Well maybe not the first first time, because they had simply been strangers at that point. When he thought about it, it still floored him that they could have ended up just being ships in the night, passing in and out of each other’s lives with hardly any notice. He is grateful to whatever deity that possessed him to run after Max all those years ago. It had been awkward at first, Bob standing still and silent, unsure what to say to make Max stay. He finally told Max that he wanted to try. Wanted to give whatever they had, a try. Max took a moment. Bob could see the wheels in his head working so fast smoke was coming out his ears. But then they screeched to a halt suddenly, and Max nodded with a small smile, and the rest was history. Not an entirely peaceful or normal history, they were drag queens for fuck’ sake, but they had made that journey together. Bob hoped against hope that they could continue to do so. And almost as if on cue, almost as a sign from the gods above, Bob spotted a hot air balloon. Not one to ignore signs, Bob grabbed Max’s hand and drug him over to the line. Max gave him a sweet smile and allowed himself to be led into the contraption, with Bob holding his hand, and an employee to drive them. Bob tried to contain his excitement until they were floating some hundred feet above the ground. He held Max close to him, arm wrapped around his lover’s waist, and his own hand in his back pocket fiddling with the box. Max was looking out at the horizon, pointing out buildings and clouds and anything his eyes could touch. Bob hummed his affirmations, too scared to speak without giving away his intentions. Just as the tension became too much, Bob made a grab for the box. Several things happened at once. The balloon dipped suddenly and without warning, causing the box that contained the ring in Bob’s hand to fly out into the air. Max shrieked and grabbed onto the basket tightly as the wind whipped all around them, sounding like a scream. And the attendant that was supposed to be flying the damn thing was frantically running around the small space doing god knows what. Bob felt his stomach drop at the loss of the ring, but he couldn’t worry about that now with Max clutched against his chest, and the wind still beating on the sides of the basket, hundreds of miles above ground. They stayed pressed together, breathing in each other’s air for what felt like years. The wind whipped and screeched, but Bob held fast to Max. The older man began to have trouble breathing. Bob grabbed Max’s face in between his hands and made a conscious effort to slow his own breathing. Max started at him helplessly, trying his best to calm down. Bob recognized Max having an anxiety attack. After so many years together, he knew the signs like the menu at their favorite restaurant. Bob held Maxwell’s face steady and began whispering reassurances, “It’s ok. You are ok. Just breathe with me. Can you do that?” Max nodded jerkily, and squeezed his eyes shut. Sometimes when he was having these attacks he hit, what he described as “sensory overload.” Sometimes sounds could be too much, sometimes touch could be too much, sometimes even looking at anything was too much. Bob had gotten pretty good at reading Max’s needs at these times, but he still got things wrong. So, he would always ask if what he was doing was ok. “Is it ok that I’m holding you?” A nod. “Do you want me to stop talking?” A shake. “Ok.” Bob continued breathing in and out slowly, occasionally whispering to Max that everything was ok and that it was going to be ok. And before long, the wind died down, and the balloon touched none too gently on the ground. Max bolted out of the small space, and Bob followed close behind, sulking a bit when Max wasn’t looking. Maxwell held his hand the entire drive back to Bob’s house, and only let him go when he had to undo his seat belt.

…

Bob read on three separate marriage blogs that skywriting your proposal was really “in” right now. Bob never considered himself super trendy, but he figured it was over dramatic and sweet, so Max would appreciate it.

He had run into quite a few problems right from the start. They lived in New York City, which had some strange, but understandable laws about flying planes close to buildings. So, Bob had to schedule the proposal a few weeks out, and come up with some excuse to get Max and himself away from tall buildings, which sounded a lot easier said than done. Ultimately, Bob made the plans, and the payments, and went to bed feeling slightly better about his previous failed attempts.

Finally, the morning came, and Bob’s alarm blared into the previously silent bedroom. Max groaned loudly and attempted to silence the alarm by throwing a pillow at it. This only left the clock on the ground, and Maxwell without a pillow. Bob chuckled lightly at his boyfriend, who was now burrowing his head into Bob’s side and pouting. Bob started stroking Max’s hair lightly, and could have done so for hours, if only the high-pitched wailing of the clock weren’t so damn annoying.

Bob sighed and untangled himself from the human leech that was a sleepy Maxwell, to turn off the alarm. Max groaned again when Bob flung open the curtains, letting the early light dance along the walls of their shared room.

“Five more minutes.” Max pleaded; head still buried in the sheets.

“No, c’mon we’re gonna miss it.” Bob pulled the blankets and sheet clear off the bed, leaving Max grumpily looking up at him between his fingers. Well, as grumpily as a grown man in boxer shorts with a pout can.

“Miss what?”

“Miss Vanjie”

Max laughed despite himself.

He got back at Bob by taking his sweet ass time getting ready. Bob eventually had to physically pull Max out of the apartment so they wouldn’t be late.

They took a taxi and sat in relative silence with Max’s head resting on Bob’s shoulder, only occasionally sitting up to ask Bob where they were going. Bob refused to answer, but as they drove, and the signs for the pier became more frequent, Max started to get an idea.

When they pulled up, Max jumped out of the taxi excitedly, leaving Bob to fork over the fare. Max practically ran over to the line for the ferry and looked back at Bob expectantly.

Bob knew Max had always wanted to see the Statue of Liberty up close. Even though they both had been in New York long enough to call it Home, neither had been to see the iconic landmark yet. Bob had found it too touristy, and practically pointless, but Maxwell was a bit of a history nerd.

Every time they would vacation, Max would ask to go to the local museum. And not the big nice ones, no. He wanted to go to the tiny ones in the middle of bumfuck nowhere towns that were run by some old man that the town had nicknamed something that started with a J.  It was Bob’s personal opinion that all the old men they had met over the years were ghosts haunting them. Each time he told Max this, the older man would chuckle and press a kiss to his cheek, before turning back to inspect the artifacts. And while Bob didn’t understand it, who was he to get in the way of Max’s weird fascinations?

They piled on a too crowded boat, that felt like it could tip over at any moment, and Bob tried to not let his nerves show, but he couldn’t help his hands fidgeting. Max noticed, and placed his own hands in Bob’s larger ones, interlocking their fingers with a small smile.

Bob looked up at the sky, trying to make out where the plane would come from, and where his message would end up. It took Bob until the ferry was almost across the river to realize something had gone wrong. And it took him an embarrassingly long time to figure out what exactly had gone wrong.

In the midst of all his planning and prepping, he had completely forgotten to check the weather. The overcast sky was filled with so many clouds, no wonder the white smoke message didn’t appear.

Bob felt completely dejected but tried to put on a brave face for Max, who was eagerly running about, interrogating any tour guides in the immediate area.

…

Bob had no idea how to cook. He had tried and failed many times before. For their anniversaries, Maxwell would always take the lead, restricting Bob to dish duty, and even then, Bob managed to fuck something up. This time was going to be different, at least, that’s what Bob was telling himself. Breakfast in bed, the most classic romantic gesture, with a bit of a twist.

He had been scrolling endlessly on Amazon when he found it. A simple teacup that when filled with liquid hid the “Will you marry me?” message. Bob immediately added it to his cart. He had pulled up some fancy recipe for Quiche and woke up at the ass crack of dawn to cook.

It started off fine.

Bob cut the onions, washed the spinach, and scrambled the eggs. Everything seemed fine, until he started rolling out the pie crust. It was way too flimsy and kept breaking apart in the pan. Bob ended up working some kind of patchwork magic, filling in the holes as best he could, before combining all the ingredients into the pan. He said a silent prayer to any god that would listen and placed the pan in the oven. He put the kettle on the stove and sat back on their tiny little couch.

He felt himself comforted by the tattered blanket that was draped across his legs. Maxwell brought it from his old apartment. Bob smiles at the memory. Two apartments. It feels strange now to think that there was ever a time when he could breathe without Maxwell by his side. Or in his bed.

Moving in together was a normal step of most relationships that had lasted as long as his and Maxwell’s, but that step had been by far the hardest to work through.

Max had always been hesitant in their relationship. He overthought everything, and whenever there was a time to make a big relationship step, Bob had to be the one to make it. After a while, Bob started to worry that he was pressuring Max, or that his feelings weren’t reciprocated in the way he thought they were. When he communicated this to Max, the older man insisted it wasn’t anything to do with Bob himself.

“The reason I seem so hesitant is because I’ve been in relationships in the past where my affections, or at least, the degree at which I showed my affections, was not appreciated. I know you love me, and all the crazy that comes with that. But for me, sometimes I just feel like-like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for you to realize that I’m way too into you, or not worth any of this mess. I’m just so scared if you knew how much I love you, you would run.”

Bob held him a little closer that night, and wiped his tears, and assured him that he was loved and wanted and so incredibly special. They fell asleep on the tiny couch, with dried tears on both of their faces, but a new blanket and a little less space in the closet.

Only after thoroughly getting lost in his own memories did Bob realize he had completely forgotten to add cheese. He ran to the kitchen and threw open the oven. Eyeballing about half the package of cheese, he threw it haphazardly on the top of the pie. He noticed that the filling was quite close to the top of the pan, but Bob remembered reading that this was normal, so he didn’t worry much.

Thirty minutes later, the smoke alarm sounded.

“Fuck!” He heard from the bedroom.

“Max, wait hold on!”

Bob shot up from the couch and threw open the oven, which was releasing an alarming amount of smoke. Maxwell was hot on his heels, and immediately threw open a window fanning the smoke to the bustling New York City morning. Bob grabbed the still hot pan and threw it on the stove, but in the process, he knocked over the kettle and cup in one swipe. The cup and kettle fell to the ground in a deafening crack, and Bob felt a bit of his heart crack too.

Maxwell immediately ran over to help, most of the smoke clear now. He pulled Bob away from the broken cup, and grabbed his hands, red marks from the hot pan angrily looking back at him. Maxwell grabbed the first aid kit from their shared closet and sat Bob down on the couch as he washed the burns with the lightest touch. Cup forgotten, mess forgotten, it was just the two of them, and Bob’s burning skin.

Max grabbed white vinegar from the still wreck of a kitchen and winced as Bob breathed in at the contact. All the while, Bob was focused on how his heart still swelled in his chest every time their hands touched. Maxwell finally sat back on the couch after pressing a light kiss to Bob’s hands.

“What on earth were you doing? I thought I revoked your kitchen rights after that instance with the brownies.” Maxwell wasn’t angry, thank god. He was just concerned. He also had this sad look in his eye; the likes Bob wasn’t familiar with. Bob knew after his previous attempts at proposing, Max was getting suspicious, and with every failed attempt, Bob distanced himself further. He was trying not to, but it was hard. It just felt like the world was out to get him and Max’s relationship.

“Sorry, Max. Was just trying to surprise you with somethin nice. Won’t happen again.” Bob crossed his heart. “I swear it.”

Maxwell smiled lightly, trying to keep from asking all the questions he so desperately wanted to ask. He instead opted for draping himself on top of Bob. The position wasn’t comfortable in the slightest, for either of them, but they stayed there until the sun was high in the sky, and the spilled tea hung heavy in the air.

That smell never quite left either.

…

I didn’t know it yet

That you would be the one

The first place we met

Our adventure had begun

Max looked at the note quizzically, according to Dusty’s recollection. He asked if it was some kind of joke. Dusty did his best not to spill the beans right there, and just told Maxwell to trust him. And so, the adventure began.

Bob had been planning this for weeks. He was by no means a poet, or even good with words most of the time, but he had gotten all their friends involved, and even people who weren’t their friends. There were clues hidden in all their usual date spots, as well as a few private moments they had shared together.

The first clue led to the side of a street in New York City. Monét was standing in the exact spot Bob remembered seeing Maxwell all those years ago. She handed Maxwell the second clue, who, by this point, was smiling goofily. Not quite sure what was going on, but by now, he was used to Bob’s antics.

Libraries full

Got nothing on you

The place I hate

Where you almost flew

The first time they fought. It wasn’t a happy memory, but a necessary one. It marked the time Max didn’t give in to his Inner Saboteur.

They had yelled and screamed in the middle of a bookstore. Bob still can’t remember what it was about, neither of them could. But all he knows is that the door flung open. Maxwell stood in the doorway for too long. The tinny music was the only sound that filled the practically empty bookstore. The two of them were in limbo. The musty smell didn’t matter. The nosy shop owner didn’t matter. The overwhelming feeling of dread that Bob had didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was that Max stayed. He breathed in and out. Once. Twice. Then turned around.

He walked right up to Bob. He didn’t say anything, he just stood there.

And that was it.

They went about their night with biting quips here and there, tension still thick, but they were together.

Bob wanted to revisit all the places that meant anything to them. He wasn’t sure if Max would remember, but sure enough, he got that sad look on his face, at least according to Vanjie. She said, in between her gushing about her own wedding, that Max looked sad, but he knew exactly where to go to find the next clue. Bob had gotten Maxwell’s favorite book, a first edition copy for their three-year anniversary.

I’ve never been prouder

You light up my world

Come to the place

Where my heart first curled

The place they said, “I love you.” Bob couldn’t forget it even if he tried, and he never did. They had been perched up on the High Line. Looking out over the city. The world felt so full and bright and busy. Bob knew that was where he belonged, and that brought him joy, and at the same time, he felt sadness, because he knew his time in this great city would come to an end. He was overwhelmed, and when Maxwell leaned his head on his shoulder, he couldn’t help it. It just slipped out.

Maxwell had looked pensive as his face was caressed by the chilly New York City night air. But he said it back after a few seconds. And from that moment on, they couldn’t stop smiling at each other. Those sickly-sweet smiles that made others around them want to hurl, but secretly happy at the same time.

To you I’ll be true

Forever and a day

Don’t run too fast

I’ll get in your way

This is when it all went awry.

Maxwell had no idea where to go.

Looking back, Bob could have been clearer in his instructions. Maxwell wandered around the city practically all night; Bob was a helpless victim, watching as his soon-to-be fiancé went around to all the wrong places. Somehow, Maxwell missed the last three clues, but ended up in the right place anyway, back at their apartment. But rather than a romantic dinner and gushing about their wedding, the food was cold, and Bob was too tired and sad to answer any of Maxwell’s incessant questions. They ate in a stiff silence as Bob wondered if he even wanted to get married.

…

Bob had given up. He had tried on five separate occasions to propose to Max, and each time he hadn’t been able to. Maybe it was the universe telling him something. Maybe he and Maxwell weren’t meant to be.

That thought struck a chord in Bob, and he physically winced at it. Maxwell was everything to him. He was the only one that ever-made Bob feel right. He pushed the thought away and tried to focus on his lover’s words. “Are you even listening to me?”

Bob shook his head to clear it. “Yes, sorry.”

“You seem a bit…off lately.”

Bob sighed, “I know, I’m sorry. It’s just work ya know?”

“I do, but it seems like more than that.” Maxwell bit his lip, obviously refraining from saying something.

“What?” Bob’s words were harsh, and he regretted the tone immediately.

“It’s just that you don’t act like yourself anymore. Is something wrong? Did I do something wrong?”

Bob was exasperated with himself at this point. Not only had he failed to propose to the man he loves, but he made the man he loves doubt their relationship.

Bob couldn’t even begin to explain his feelings to Max, so he just settled for, “No. I’m fine, I told you, it’s just work.”

Maxwell sat back. “Yeah sure.” Sarcasm was bitterly woven through the vowels.

“What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to tell me the truth!” Maxwell snapped, he looked regretful, but offered no apology. Bob just sat there, shocked at the tone, and frozen in place. He didn’t know what to say.

Apparently, this was the wrong answer, because Maxwell got up and started walking away from him. As if to emphasize this fight, rain suddenly began to pour down on the two of them. Bob squinted as he looked up to the sky and screamed, “No. I don’t believe it. You’re wrong.”

He probably looked insane, yelling up at the sky, but it made perfect sense to him. If the universe didn’t think that he and Maxwell should be together, then fuck the universe.

Bob ran after his boyfriend, hardly noticing the state of his clothes. He grabbed Maxwell’s arm, who tried to wrench it away, but Bob held fast.

“Let me go, Chris.”

Bob took one look in his eyes as the rain came pouring down all around them, and he knew that this was the moment he had been waiting for. “Marry me.”

Maxwell stepped back. “What?”

Bob smiled widely and said it again. “Marry me.” A wary look from Maxwell made him realize how strange he must look, so he fumbled around in his pockets for a second before kneeling. “Marry me.”

Maxwell looked at him bewildered, and for a split-second Bob thought he must have gotten it wrong, but just as the silence began to get uncomfortable, a smile broke out on his face. He pulled Bob up by his soaked shirt into a kiss. Rain was falling all around them, and Bob knew he would never be able to wear these shoes again; his body was cold, and his hands were clammy, and it was nothing like he had planned it, but it was perfect. And the ring fit perfectly on Maxwell’s finger.