#fic: revisionist history

[idolatrybarbie]

series masterlist | read on ao3

pairing: francisco "frankie" morales x f!reader

word count: 9.2k

rating & summary: mature - 18+ only! | You and Marcus haven’t spoken in three years. It isn’t like that—nothing bad has to happen these days for you to lose touch with someone. So goes adulthood.

tags: previously established friendship, lies and manipulation, canon-typical crime, mention of guns, mention of alcohol, the United States government comes with its own warning, reader does not speak Portuguese fluently and is written as such

notes: WE'RE HERE. oh my god. ohhh my god. this has taken MONTHS. it's a little gross, a little freaky. take it. read it. love it (please?) more to come. over and out.

“All truths – even the laws of science – are subject to revision, but we operate by them in the meantime because they are necessary and they work.” — The Elements of Journalism, Bill Kovach and Tom Rosenstiel.

You wake up in a cold sweat, adrenaline pumping. Your heart is beating fast in your chest; you almost tumble out of bed with the force from pushing yourself up. The phone rings—Mom’s landline—the trill high and bubbling from the kitchen. Following the noise through the fog of half-sleep, you pad across the quiet house slowly. You reach the phone by the fifth ring, answering on the sixth.

“Hello?” Your voice is raw with sleep.

“I was starting to think you were dead.” Marcus Pike’s voice reaches your ears, flowing down the line like water.

“Marcus?” you ask. Looking out the window above the sink, you see that the sun is not out yet. The sky is pitch black, forcing you to seek out the microwave’s clock. “It’s five o’clock in the morning.”

“Seven in D.C.,” he says.

Right. That cushy, not-so-new gig out in Washington. He went from art theft investigator to a DOJ special agent in what felt like the blink of an eye.

“How did you get this number?”

“Your folks still live in Kendall County,” he says.

“And I live in Hell’s Kitchen,” you counter.

“They’ve got that yearly trip to Mexico. You house sat for them at the start of every summer.”

“Back in college,” you say.

“You still answered, didn’t you?” Marcus asks.

You can’t help when you laugh. “You haven’t changed.”

“Nope,” he says. You picture him in an office somewhere, shaking his head with a satisfied smile. “Neither have you.”

You and Marcus haven’t spoken in three years. It isn’t like that—nothing bad has to happen these days for you to lose touch with someone. So goes adulthood. He moved away from Texas by the time you were already out on the east coast. Your job at The Metropolitan Post keeps you busy. Maybe a little too busy, absolutely quashing your personal life.

“Not that it’s unwelcome, Marcus, but—”

“You’re wondering why I’m calling you in Texas at the ass-crack of dawn,” he finishes for you.

“Sort of, yeah.”

He hums into the speaker, taking a moment before he speaks again. “I was wondering if you had time for breakfast?”

“Marcus, that’s a four hour flight,” you say.

“I’m not actually in D.C. right now,” he says.

“Okay…”

“I’m staying in San Antonio.”

“So that’s why you’re calling. You got bored, huh?”

“Something like that,” Marcus says. “Meet me at the Sunshine Diner? It’s on Commerce. Say, seven o’clock?” It’s like he’s rehearsed the line over and over again.

“Marcus—”

“Great.”

“Marcus,” you repeat.

He says your name back to you in that same firm tone.

“What is this about?” you ask. The playfulness can’t hide the weirdness surrounding a surprise trip down here.

“I’ll tell you when I see you, alright? All will be revealed.”

You roll your eyes, curiosity unsatisfied. Clearly he’s unwilling to tell you anything over the phone.

“Sure, fine. Breakfast at seven. I’ll see you there,” you say.

The drive from Boerne to San Antonio is only thirty-two minutes. Those thirty miles stretch to feel like thirty-thousand, but before you know it, you’re parked halfway up West Commerce Street. You see the diner, its sun-faded metal sign taunting you from the driver’s seat. None of the cars on the block look like they could be Pike’s. They’re too old or too dirty to be rentals, a sea of Texan license plates before you.

You sigh to yourself, pulling the handle on the car door as it creaks. “Now or never.”

The sun hasn’t brought enough heat to ground yet, the morning air still tepid as you walk onto concrete. Peering into the diner’s windows, you spot Marcus before he sees you. The absence of a suit over his shoulders throws you off. When you think of him, you picture Special Agent Marcus Pike. Sitting inside at a table alone, he looks more like the guy you used to know.

A bell jingles above you as you open the door to the restaurant. He looks up, face absent of surprise or question. It’s seven on the dot. He knows you like to be punctual. The kind waitress smiles at you when he waves you over, letting you join Marcus at his corner booth. He waits until you slide into the seat opposite him to say anything.

“Hey, stranger.”

“Hey, yourself,” you say. “You still have to answer my question. What are you doing here?”

“A man can’t find the sudden urge to visit the great state of Texas?” he asks.

“Not when that man is you.”

He’s got too many bad memories here for this be a vacation. He has never told you outright, but you aren’t stupid. The personal tragedy of a failed engagement and prospects of greener pastures for his career is enough to draw any man away from home. If Marcus is here, there’s a reason.

“I wanted to talk to you,” he says.

“That’s what phones are for. Remember this morning?”

“This…isn’t something I can really talk about over the phone.”

You furrow your brow, eyes squinting as you assess his body language. Shoulders tight, hunched close to his body. He runs a hand over the light scruff on his jaw, rubbing the pads of his thumb and forefinger together when his wrist meets the table again.

“What’s wrong?”

“There isn’t anything wrong,” Marcus says.

“You can’t talk about it over the phone, and you look like someone’s got you in a gun sight across the street,” you say. “But sure, nothing’s wrong.”

“Look—”

“What can I get started for you today?”

The waitress from earlier approaches your table with a peppy sway in her hips, dark ponytail swaying gracefully behind her. She pulls out a notepad to go with her stub of a pencil, ready to take down your order.

“Two coffees,” Marcus mumbles. “Two cream, two sugar.”

Then she turns to you. “How do you take it?”

“Black.” You don’t look at her, staring at Marcus as he taps his fingers against the plastic coating on the table.

“I’ll be right back with those.”

When she ambles away, you say, “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Instead of giving you an answer, Marcus reaches into his back pocket. What he puts on the table almost makes your heart stop.

“Where did you get that?”

You’re staring at a face—your face—on a second-rate identification pass. A name that doesn’t belong to you sits under your photo in bold black ink alongside credentials you certainly don’t have. There is no Molly Hills that works at the Justice Department. At least, not until you made her up.

“Doesn’t matter,” Marcus says.

“I already got into shit over this, Marcus, so if you’re here to—”

“I’m giving it back.”

You pause. “Giving it back?”

“Well, it’s yours. Figured you might want it.”

“There’s nothing that badge can get me that I’d want anymore.”

You were naive when you made it. Green, ready and willing to do anything to get the story. You’d paid the price, too. Lost your job, lost your place, almost went to federal prison. A lot of trouble for a silly little journalist. A long nightmare you don’t want to relive.

“I don’t know if that’s true.”

Irritation consumes you. “Marcus, did you come here to see me or did you come here to piss me off?”

“I need your help.”

He needs your help? That’s a chance in a million. “Aren’t you the federal agent?” you ask.

“This is something that I can’t do,” he says lowly. You don’t believe him. “I’m serious. This is serious.”

“What is this?”

The waitress returns with your coffees, setting them down in front of you. She asks if you want anything else. Not right now, and she’s gone again.

“There’s something you should look into,” he says, voice low as he brings his mug up to his lips.

“I don’t do that anymore,” you say.

He gives you a look of disbelief. “Of course you do.”

“I sit around on my laptop for nine hours a day sending out push notifications and rearranging the homepage, Marcus. I don’t even write.”

“You and I both know that’s not true.”

He knows about your…issue. It’s what gets you into trouble, always has.

“That’s why you’re really here,” you say.

“I’m here to catch up with a good friend,” he says. Reaching across the table, he takes your hand in his own. “It’s been too long.”

Marcus skirts around the topic from there, ignoring the disappointment etched into your forehead as he tells you about Washington: the job, the cases—all the pertinent details left out, of course. You start to play along, sliding the badge off of the table and into your bag. Even if he won’t tell you, you at least want to try and enjoy his presence. It’s been a lifetime since you’ve had it.

Apparently the job is hard work, but you could’ve figured that. Demanding, he tells you. Not much time for a life on his end of things either. You tell him about New York; about your one bedroom claim to fame on the edge of Clinton, about the house plants you’ve managed to keep alive for some time now. Not once does he bring up your old life, how things used to be. You’re relieved.

Marcus is gone when he finishes his coffee, scooting out of the booth to stand and rearrange his shirt.

“I should get going. I’ll call you in a few days, okay?” he asks. “It was good to see you.”

As he turns on his heel, your words stop him. “For the record, I don’t like this. You’re not being fair, Marcus.”

“I’ll call you soon,” he reasserts. And then he’s gone.

You don’t see which car he gets into. You don’t even care. When it’s been long enough and you get sick of staring at the brown dregs at the bottom of your mug, you fish the badge out of your bag. Putting it on the table again, you examine it. Not even half a decade and you already look so different. Weathered, maybe. In this photo you are so very bright and smiley.

Staring at the piece of plastic, you realize you resent it; you’re disappointed in yourself, begrudging Marcus for bringing it here as some sort of token. A reminder. A chit. You owe him, and this is his way of calling in a favour. With you, the man never has been one for the direct approach.

Turning the badge over in your hands, you notice a scrap of paper lodged behind the plastic. Marcus has written something on it. A series of random numbers and letters.

18USC209-14489.

It reads as gibberish. You toss the thing back into the shadows of your bag and flag down the waitress for another cup of coffee.

You try to ignore it; that lingering pull. It’s more like a sinking feeling than anything. You start making lists to distract yourself. Lists of chores to do, things to buy, times to remember. Keeping your hands busy with dishes, sweeping, tending to the back lawn. You hand-wash the guest room bed sheets to keep your mind from wandering.

Marcus hasn’t called for a couple days. You’re starting to think he never will. Even with him leaving you to this alone, you’re trying to keep the temptation at bay. It’s a game you play with yourself: whenever you’re seconds away from looking up the sequence on the back of the badge, you instead search for the specific statutes of federal law under which you almost went to jail for breaking. You’d say it’s pretty effective.

One week after that coffee, you almost trash the badge altogether. All that hunk of plastic does is take up space, both in your mind and your bag. You can’t look for your keys without your fingers brushing past it. Every time, you pull your hand away like you’ve been burned. As you stand over the sink, waste disposal roaring with life, you prepare to drop the card down the drain.

Screw Marcus. He could ask for any favour, but not this one. He didn’t even have the guts to ask you in the first place—he’d stuck you with it, laying this mystery burden over-top of you, smothered.

After a long while, you turn the disposal off, card still intact. You turn it over and over again in your hand, flipping between the two sides. Brain idle and eyes closed, the pause of silence is ultimately what does you in. The series is burned into the underside of your eyelids, a white shadow against the dark. It looks like a code; a sequence used to file records.

18USC209-14489.

You are bent over your laptop before you can stop yourself, fingers flying across the keys. You type in the first half, results for Title 18 showing up in a fraction of a second. Federal crimes and criminal procedure. Marcus has given you a case.

Looking further, you find chapter two hundred and nine of the code—extradition. Beyond scope, limitations, and a lengthy list of countries that the United States has extradition treaties with, this webpage is useless. The public access government site isn’t going to tell you anything about what the rest of those numbers mean.

That’s when it clicks. The badge. Marcus gave it back. What was it he’d said? This was something he couldn’t do. Something you should look into. That he needs your help. 

Immediately, you know what he’s asking. You don’t like it one bit. Of all the things he could ask of you, spend this life sized favour on, it had to be this?

You open another browser tab, accidentally clicking the bookmark of your email. There’s one new message waiting in your inbox. The address that sent it is professionally scrambled, the body absent of text altogether. Attached to the email is an unnamed file. It takes a moment to load before filling your screen: a one-way plane ticket to Reagan National, tomorrow at noon. You don’t have to know the address to know Marcus is the person who sent it to you. What he wants from you is clear now. The question lies in whether or not you’ll do it.

Except it isn’t really a question. You know it and he does too. The email keeps you up all night, finally caving at two o’clock in the morning. You pack a bag, something small, and call the cheapest hotel in Virginia that you can find. Your parents are due back in just a couple of days. Leaving a note on the fridge for them, you write that a work emergency called you home early. The identical text you send them won’t go through until they get back onto American soil, but it’s all the notice you can give.

The drive to San Antonio Airport is warm, the sun beating down on you through the windshield. In your head, you try your best to convince yourself that this is a good decision. At least the car will be there when they get in from Mexico City. You’re mostly focused on this playing out as a dead end. Maybe whatever Marcus is sending you to find isn’t all that important. The man isn’t exactly a journalist, or a lawyer; there could be no story here. He could be wrong. It’s not like he hasn’t been before.

Keeping your eyes open in the airport feels next to impossible. Even with the overwhelming chatter, the announcements, and the never-ending foot traffic, you almost fall asleep three separate times. A Styrofoam cup of cheap espresso is your only saving grace. You’re sat at the gate when your phone sounds off in your pocket.

Marcus Pike. You answer immediately.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

“Good morning to you too,” he says.

“Do you think this is funny?” Your hostility over the phone is drawing eyes. You get up from your seat, wheeling your luggage behind you as you search for a quieter corner.

“Quite the opposite. But some of us like joy in our lives, keeps the mood up.”

“I know exactly where you can stick that joy, if you’d like any suggestions,” you say. “What’s waiting for me in D.C.?”

“National Mall, the Dumbarton Oaks Museum, Capitol building…”

“You know what I mean.”

“And if you’ll remember, I already gave you the details on that specifically,” Marcus says. Can’t talk about this over the phone. “I’m calling from work.”

Of course he is. Positing you to violate federal law, and he’s calling you at the office. You’re starting to think he wants you both to go to jail.

“What am I going to find when I get there?” you ask.

“Something important. Something I know you’d want to see.”

“Don’t put this back on me,” you say. “I’m doing this because I owe you.”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“You and I both know that’s bullshit.”

It’s what he has always said. That you don’t owe him, there’s no favour to be traded here. That he helped you because he’s your friend. You’re not about to go rehashing memory lane fifty feet from the American Airlines help desk, but last time you checked, helping a friend meant moving boxes out of their apartment or sitting a shitty pet—not sparing them from federal prison. You owe him, and for the longest time you thought you always would.

“If I do this, I’m never doing you another favour again,” you whisper. He says your name, almost exasperated. You cut him off quickly. “You can lecture me when I’m in D.C.. Next time, get your own damn cup of sugar.”

Boarding is frustratingly slow. You have to kick some whiny kid out of your seat as his mother gives him a coddling lecture—no sweetheart, you can’t just sit wherever you want. You nod off moments after reaching altitude, not waking until your seat neighbour shakes you by the shoulder.

The older woman is sweet, strands of long hair greying at her temples and forehead.

“I’m sorry to wake you, honey, but we’re here,” she whispers.

“Thanks,” you sigh. Glancing out the porthole window, you can see workers in their fluorescent vests loading luggage onto dollies. Idly, you ask her, “You ever been to Washington?”

“Oh, once. A long time ago. It was lovely,” she says. “How about you?”

You turn to the woman, giving her an easy smile. “Never been,” you lie.

“You’ll love it,” the woman says. “It’s the city of big things, you know. Everything important happens here. Everything good.”

“People really think that, don’t they?”

You’re speaking to yourself, the woman already close to disappearing as she walks with the toddling line of passengers off the plane. You’re the last to de-board, giving the pilot and flight attendants a polite nod as you leave. The air inside of Reagan National Airport is stale. You almost hold your breath the entire time you wait for your bag, taking in a deep gulp when you step outside of its main glass doorway.

Hailing a cab is easy. The ride is a smooth twenty minutes before the stout driver drops you off in front of your hotel. Check-in, the trip up, and swiping your magnetic key card through the door’s lock all blur together. Your surroundings pull into focus when you realize that you’re on your knees. The upper half of your body is hunched over the porcelain toilet in the bathroom as you wretch into the bowl. All that comes up is bile, green and oil slick.

When the vomiting finally stops, you wipe at your mouth and turn on the shower. You avoid the mirror as you strip, stepping under the steady spray. The water is ice cold, beating against your skin like hail. Pulling the shower curtain closed, you sit facing away from the stream. It soaks down your back, running in a dozen bitter rivulets. The cold seeps into your skin, freezing bone-deep.

You lodge your head between your legs to keep the nausea at bay. Your mind stays quiet as the water trickles into your ears and down your face. It feels like hours before you will yourself out, gripping the sides of the tub to stand. You leave the fresh towels where they are in a wicker basket, wet feet padding across tile and hardwood to the queen bed in the middle of the room. Wrapped in crispy white sheets, wet and naked, you squeeze your eyes shut and pray for sleep.

Everything glitters in your dreams. Marcus’ eyes especially, twinkling as they look anywhere but at your face. He sits across from you at this overbearing table—on the side of the good guys. Here, you are logically the bad one. The lawyer your father paid for brushes up against your shoulder as he pulls a stack of paper the rest of the way across the darkened wood. He flips through every stapled page and nods silently. Then he slides it over to you.

You remember this. Even if you can’t decipher the lawyer’s garbled speech, you know that he’s directing you on where to sign.

 It’s a good deal, he’ll tell you later. You’ll be standing in the hall of the courthouse, feeling small and stupid in this cheap suit as you wipe tears from your eyes. Seven years behind bars down to two years of federal probation. The ankle monitor will take some getting used to, but, y’know—

Consciousness comes in a slow roll, eyes opening to stare at the curtains you left open. The puff of a sigh passes your lips as you watch the stars outside the window, the sky still dark. If you look long enough, those glowing dots start to morph into Marcus’ deep brown eyes gazing back at you.

The image unsettles you enough to get out of bed. You pull the curtains closed and dress yourself, transforming into another person over the span of twenty minutes. Your own face slowly disappears under layers of makeup, your clothes a business professional clown costume. You know that you’re ready when you can’t see yourself in the mirror anymore.

The cab is called from a payphone across the street. You give the company your name, Jane Doe, paying in cash when the wheels stop in the middle of Penn Quarter. You walk the four blocks to the Justice Building without feeling any part of your body, sweating in the Washington cold.

The building itself is hard on the eyes, the visitor entrance not far from you now. The line to get in is short. You’re waiting less than ten minutes to get through the security screening. An officer rummages around in your purse for a moment. The badge—your badge, or Marcus’?—burns in your pocket. When he hands you your things again, he smiles. You smile back.

A tour group is forming in settled clumps just beyond the entrance. A woman in a button-down blouse and thick heels gathers the tourists, leading them down a cascading hall. You lump yourself in with the group, folding your coat over your arms as you pretend to listen to her history lesson. Really, you’re eyeing the halls, looking for an elevator.

It doesn’t take long to find one, the group rounding a corner into another hallway. The buttons are calling you as the tour turns down a thin corridor. Taking the opening, you part from the crowd, shoving the cylinder of fabric wrapped around you into the nearest trash can. The coat will be missed, but not dearly.

The elevator arrives in a matter of seconds, sleek metal doors sliding open. You press at the button violently to close them again after picking the third floor. A sigh leaves your nose when they pull shut. You’re acutely aware of the blinking bulb of a camera to your left, watching your every move as the car ascends. Right now, you are fine. You look like any other employee.

Inside the heat of the building, you can feel your limbs again. You swallow back the spit that’s gathering in your mouth. It isn’t anxious hyper-salivation, but accumulating drool. Your heart hammers in your chest, not from fear but from thrill. Some people like to fuck in public, picking up a rush from the real potential of getting caught. You like this, but not for the anticipation of failure in your mission—in the prediction of your success.

There is something wrong with you. Inside of you, maybe. Biological. A dark and inky well, a pocket of spoiled flesh. Marcus has reached in and pressed at it, prodded around with sharp fingers until he could coax the oozing stream of rot out of you. You hate to admit that it felt good—feels good now, as the runoff drives you to the very brink of smart and sane decisions.

You call it professional curiosity. Others might label it being a nosy bitch, too cerebral for your own good. Your eyes are always bigger than your stomach, though. The last time you chased a story, you almost choked. You get a little obsessed sometimes, what can you say? Everyone has their vices. Information is yours.

They have a name for it somewhere. L’appel du vide, you think. The call of the void. It turns people reckless, irrational. But this isn’t really your fault. You didn’t ask to be here. No, you were sent. An agent of someone else’s bidding, a man only a few floors from the one you step onto now.

Marcus knows exactly what he’s doing. It turns you on; it makes you want to kill him. If he is the good guy, and you are decidedly not, then what happens when you start working together? Does that make him bad or you good?

White hats stay on the good guys, but right now you can’t help but feel like Marcus has taken his off. And the million dollar question: why? You hope it’s for a good reason. If not, you really might kill him.

You remember this door, déja vu jolting you back in time. Bringing the badge out of your pocket, you hover your hand above the scanner. If this fails, security will be immediately alerted to a false attempt at access, and it’ll be over. Holding your breath, you tap the card against the bulky scanner. If it doesn’t…

The machine seems to wait, teasing you, before a small light in the corner blinks green. The lock on the handle dislodges for you, a soft click in your ears. You press down on the handle, push forward…and you’re in.

You don’t know how much time you have before someone else enters the file room, getting right to work. Starting at the bottom of the many shelves, you carefully rummage through box after box as you read over their labels. You go through shelves one box at a time, moving from sitting to standing every few minutes. Each file is left exactly how you found it. The last thing you need is anyone asking questions after you leave.

You go through fourty-five boxes in fifteen minutes, exhausting yourself in the process. Scooting into a corner between the wall and the end of a shelf, your head thunks against flaking paint behind you. This room must hold hundreds of boxes. There’s no way you’ll be able to find what you’re looking for in time.

Phone in front of you, you look down at the black screen. Dim LEDs reflect off the screen from the ceiling. That’s when you see it. The box next to your shoulder, the handwritten case file numbers on the front: 18USC209-14489.

You twist around quickly, practically tearing your body in half. Pulling the box off the second-lowest shelf, you keep it in your lap and shovel through the contents. There must be a dozen file folders here, all thick with paper. You start with the lightest one, flipping it open.

It’s mostly photos. Glossy, high quality surveillance images. Various men are featured in each of them, the same group of four rotating every other picture. They all look a little rough and tumble—you know the type. The images show them doing mundane things; walking a dog, sitting in a car, exiting a building at night. You’re still missing something.

Next, you opt for the chunkiest of the manila folders in the box. Everything inside is paperwork. Some of it is formally typed up, but a lot of these are handwritten notes. You start reading, and once you do, you can’t stop. Your eyes roll across the sentences over and over again, skipping over bits redacted in dark ink. You want to make sure you’re getting this exactly right.

Washington, D.C.…proposed extradition to Colombia for the violation of…several criminal charges. War crimes, including…illegal search and seizure of….American dollars…drug cartel.

You have to stop reading, scrubbing a hand over your face. You don’t know exactly how much money that is, the number blacked out, but it certainly isn’t insignificant. Somewhere in the hundreds of millions.

You go back to the photos of the four scruffy men. The U.S. government thinks these men have done it? Seriously. They looked like dads, like men who spend too much time in their garage. The carpenter across the street.

This must be it. Marcus’ big scoop.

You keep reading, flipping through other files. Everything starts to piece together on the floor before you. Four files have names on them— Benjamin Miller, William Miller, Santiago Garcia, and Francisco Morales. You assume the first two to be brothers, their blonde hair and pale skin matching in surveillance photos. 

The other two are a guess. You assume the shorter man with the dark grey-black curls to be Santiago, leaving the last man to be Francisco. He’s clean-shaven in this photo, shirt criminally unbuttoned as he leaves a grocery store.

When you get to the file detailing their (heavily classified) military careers, the suspicion makes more sense. The things these men are capable of scares you to even think about. Still, it doesn’t quite add up for you. The States cooperating with Colombia in and of itself is enough to call the investigation into question. There are very few historical instances of that even happening, and when it has, they have been more than a little self serving. The very last thing that you’re about to do is trust your government.

Getting your phone out, you take as many photos of everything as you can. With the four personal files, you’re going to need your own hard copies. You stand from the floor with them, approaching the copier at the other end of the room. With one quick pass, the machine rejects your badge. No one has been alerted to your intrusion, it just won’t let you into the copier’s system. The I.D. was amateur, made for one thing and one thing only: getting in and out of the building.

An idea comes to you. Terrible, reckless, and stupid, but haven’t we crossed that threshold already? You fumble for your phone again, weighing out two options. You have GPS disabled, roaming on airplane mode to avoid satellite tracking or being pinged by any nearby cell towers. If you try to text Marcus, it will only go through once you reconnect to cell service and it will place you here inside the Justice Building.

The evidence of the text, the location data, using his credentials to log into the photocopier…no. Too risky. Any connection to Marcus here would be bad, leaving a clear digital trail.

That leaves plan B, then.

You reorganize the files into their storage box, already regretting leaving them here. Unsure if your badge will get you back into the file room, you lodge the thin piece of plastic between the door and the latch. When you are sure that it’s jammed open, you head towards the elevator. You hold the files close to your chest as you wait for the car. When the ding hits your ears, you get in, choosing a random button. The elevator takes you up, stopping at the thirteenth floor.

Every hallway is a Greek revival monstrosity, the art deco influences hamfisted into the design everywhere you look. You wonder how Marcus gets on working here, how he likes it this way. You picture the many men that have walked along these halls, all of them the type to pride others on their sense of fairness as they jerk it to the thought of naked Lady Justice behind closed doors.

The kind of men whose life aspirations mirror those of John Ashcroft and hold appreciation for the Patriot Act. Dwelling on it for too long, you lose the sense of where those men end and Marcus begins. But you know him. He’s different.

Breezing past a set of sturdy wooden doors, you come upon an office floor. Cubicles are arranged in a strange game of Tetris, men in suits milling about. You walk straight down the aisle to a photocopier that’s practically calling to you across the room. Keeping your head down, you sandwich the papers into the scanner. You press some buttons, knowing they won’t do anything without badge access. When the thing beeps at you angrily, you make a point to sigh loudly. When it warns you again, you groan. 

Someone taps at your shoulder. You do your best to swallow a sly grin, turning to meet the eyes of a man you don’t know.

“Sounds like the copier is giving you some trouble,” he says.

You shake your head. “Honestly, I think it’s my card. This is the third machine I’ve tried today.”

“Well, here,” the man says. He slides his own badge from his jacket pocket and swipes it over the photocopier’s reader. The machine beeps again, this time in the affirmative. “That should have you all set.”

You’re about to mumble a thank you, batting your eyes at the federal agent, when another man catches his attention.

Behind Special Agent Chivalry stands another man—tall, tan, and all too familiar. Marcus. Over the unknown agent’s shoulder, the two of you make eye contact. He keeps his lips pursed, barely acknowledging your presence.

“Schrader,” Marcus says. “Hate to break it up, but the AUSA’s waiting.”

“Right,” the man who helped you nods, turning to look at you again. “Good luck with your files.”

He’s walking away without a second thought as Marcus behind to share another glance. You can tell by look alone that he is decidedly unhappy about this. You’ll be getting a phone call later, or maybe another message from that cryptic email dressing you down for playing fast and loose with risk. You hope he doesn’t say anything about it at all. Can he? What’s Marcus to do? Bitch you out via carrier pigeon?

None of that matters right now. You begin the process of scanning and copying every single page of the four personal files, starting with the Millers and ending with Garcia. It’s quick work, anxiety ratcheting up the speed of your hands as you open the lid of the copier, flip to a new page, and pull the lid down again. Doing this all out in the open is bold—again, terrible, reckless, and stupid—but that’s what makes it work. No one questions the receptionist at the photocopier. She’s exactly where she’s supposed to be.

Back downstairs, you recoup in the file room. The door shuts behind you with a solid click, the plastic card no longer keeping it open. You stick the four folders back into their box, leaving things exactly as you found them. As for your personal copies, you fold them in half and stuff them into your purse. Making sure everything is in order, you quietly slip out of the file room and take the stairs down. Leaving takes less than five minutes.

Cool air fills your lungs outside, the usual trappings of an east coast autumn. It takes a moment, walking two blocks, for everything to really sink in. You really just did that. Had your cake and ate it too. Committed a federal crime and got out without anyone blinking an eye.

The success affirms you. This is the right thing to be doing, it has to be. Marcus wouldn’t lead you astray. You wouldn’t let yourself fall down the wrong path. Not again.

The city of São Paulo thrums with energy. You can feel it, a pulsing from the ground that shoots up through your legs. The air is hot and damp, the slow curl of spring transforming into summer raising the humidity. The sky is dark but not quite black, light from the many high rises illuminating overhanging clouds.

You pass by nightclub after nightclub with young and beautiful people waiting in line like cattle to get past the door. It’s been a while since your life was like theirs; not as much of an adventure, surely, but carefree.

There’s been a notable absence of laissez-faire for the past four months. The promotion from digital producer to staff writer has you working during the day and chasing this case in your free time. All of that is set to end. No more hunting down leads, trying to find these men who’ve turned up as ghosts instead of people.

Will Miller was impossible to find, and you only got one thirty second phone call—three months ago—with his blonder brother Benny before the line went dead. Francisco Morales hasn’t seemed to exist since November 2019. All that leaves you with is tonight: a contact in Brazil who promises a lead to Santiago Garcia.

The café you enter has more patrons than you’d expect at this time of night. The coffee culture is different here; the people of Brazil enjoy a good steaming cup of caffeine even well into the evening. You take a seat at the table you’ve been instructed to—a round surface with uneven legs and a thin metal stand holding a card to indicate that this is table five. You use your phone to check the time, catching a glimpse of another piece of cold and shiny metal in the process.

There is a gun in your purse that wasn’t there three months ago. It replaced the badge to the Justice Building in the process of looking for these Delta Force soldiers that the world wants to pretend don’t exist. Marcus hasn’t called, and you know that if he can’t protect himself then he certainly can’t protect you. Lord knows if he even wants to anymore.

You pissed him off that day in D.C.. Marcus has a bad side, everyone does, but you never imagined getting on his would be so icy. You are out in the cold, that’s for certain. The gun—one here and one in a safe inside your New York apartment—is the flame that’s kept you from freezing. So far, you haven’t had to use either. Let’s hope things stay that way.

The heat is getting to you. Sweat crawls down your spine, surely leaving a dark stain across the middle of your shirt. It doesn’t matter. The lead is so close you can almost taste it. A few more minutes…

Caught up in your thoughts, it takes a moment for the echoing silence of the café to register. It takes another moment for you to notice the wall of a man that sits down across from you. He’s tall, forehead beading with sweat as his hairline fights against gravity. Opening a dictionary, an image of him is what you’d find to illustrate the definition of gruff. Well-worn. He is exactly the man to do shady back alley deals with nothing-something American journalists. He’s exactly the man you need.

“Olá,” you say.

The man nods at you, then smiles a toothy grin. He says, “Você é mais bonita do que eu imaginava.”

You take a second to translate in your head. You’re prettier than I imagined.

“Obrigado,” you nod, returning the niceties. “Disseste que tinhas informações.”

“Certo,” the man says. The absence of noise leaves your skin cold, goosebumps prickling along your arms. “You are looking for a man named Santiago Garcia.”

“Yes. You said that—”

The heavy clink of a gun against the table halts your words. Everything changes in an instant when he picks it up and points it at your neck from across the table. He is simply itching to pull the trigger. Someone must’ve told him not to.

“You should stop looking for a man named Santiago Garcia,” he says.

“Sir, I—”

“Stop looking for Santiago Garcia. There is nothing for you here, pretty girl. Go home.”

The mystery man holds your gaze for a second longer before he stands from his seat pulling the gun away from you. You watch with wide eyes as he leaves, disappearing into the night.

He didn’t shoot you. The clip could have been empty. You can’t convince your legs to move, to follow him and make him answer your questions with the use of your own very loaded gun. Heart pounding away behind your ribs, you’re frozen in place.

You don’t trust the cab that takes you back to the sweat stain that is your motel, but you don’t really have another option. Your phone, too, is compromised—you’d made the rookie mistake of making contact with your cell. The room door stays bolted once you get inside. Then you take the remote of the complimentary TV to your screen, smashing it to pieces.

Dragging your luggage out from the closet, you toss everything you’ve brought inside. Shattered bits of glass litter the linoleum flooring. You were set to leave tomorrow morning anyway. The departure couldn’t come any sooner.

Tears flood your eyes, fear and pure embarrassment ripping through your chest. How could you be so stupid? So unthinking and hopeful, it disgusts you. You’ve wasted three months of your life on this.

All of that time and work for what? A man from a million lifetimes ago, who one day calls you friend and the next refuses to pick up the phone? Marcus used you and you let him. Leaped at the opportunity. Enjoyed it, even.

When the sun comes up, you vacate the dingy motel room, tossing your old phone battery in the pool on your way out. You don’t cry on the way to the airport, or on the plane back to America. It takes all of your will not to stain the fabric seats of the Queens cabbie that drives you home. You stay bottled and composed.

Inside your place, everything is just as you left it. The wine glass is still in the sink, the dishwasher stashed with clean plates. And yet the world feels different somehow. You feel different.

Dropping your bags at the door, you stalk through the apartment to your room. Under your bed sit boxes of files, all copies of what you took from the Justice Department. You yank them from their place beneath your bed frame, almost spilling paper across the floor.

You haul them to your living room window, stepping onto the rusting fire escape. The first box turns over in your hands. Hundreds of pieces of paper fall into the Dumpster below or get caught in the wind, floating away. You repeat the process with the second box, leaving a mess on the pavement.

In the kitchen, you sit down at the tall glass expanse of your counter. Your mom made you buy a cordless phone for the place when you first moved in, assuring you that it’d come in handy. Right now, you can’t help but agree.

You dial Marcus’ number, knowing it like the back of your hand after months of staring at it with no answer. This time is no different. The phone rings and rings. Marcus doesn’t pick up. You stopped leaving messages a while ago, but this time you wait for the dial tone to end.

“I don’t know who you think you are, or what leverage you may have had… But I’m done. Done, Marcus. You drop this bomb in my lap and walk away when I handle it in a manner you disapprove of? You leave me to follow a trail that’s cold, and set me up to become another corpse in a Brazilian morgue somewhere! I won’t do it anymore. You can take your story and your justice and shove it up your ass.”

You breathe heavy into the phone, collecting yourself. “This is the last phone call from me you’ll ever have to ignore. What a relief that must be,” you say. “Don’t ever contact me again, Marcus.”

It’s icy for late February. D.C. is only the slightest bit warmer than New York at this time of year, the snow melting into grey sludge quicker than the Big Apple. Yet somehow, the White House briefing room is about a million degrees. Fanning yourself with the silk of your blouse, you wait amongst the gaggle of other reporters and journalists for the president’s press secretary. You don’t have a speaking seat yet, but you’ve only been on this assignment for a couple weeks.

You remember watching President Bush unveil the renovated room in the mid-aughts on television, picturing it as a grand theatre. But no, it’s a crammed little room without enough chairs for the number of people they delegate to it, so here you are standing in the back rubbing shoulders with a writer from the Washington Examiner. Still, it’s the White House. How many people do you know who’ve been inside the White House?

You’re watching the press secretary, lithe and airy at the podium in her off-the-rack from Saks Fifth Avenue. She’s getting questions about the president’s new education bill—a topic that your readers couldn’t care less about. Foreign policy, tax legislation, land use laws—you wait for her to get to the good parts. Rich people want to know if the country is going to war so they know where to hedge their bets. They don’t want to hear about inner city kids getting a boost in the classroom.

An hour and twenty minutes pass before you’re released, hearing from the FEMA administrator and the secretary of education. Before you can leave, you hear someone call your name. A woman stands at the edge of the room, almost like she's trying to bleed into the fabric of the curtains and disappear. She's small in stature, the stiff blue fabric of her dress settling awkwardly over her shoulders.

"Do I know you?"

She clears her throat, standing a little taller. You're now noticing the large envelope under her arm.

"I'm an intern for Marcus Pike. He told me to give this to you."

She hands you the envelope, heavy in your hands. Before you can thank her, she disappears into the escaping flood of journalists. You look at it, swiping the pad of your thumb over the sharp corner. Discreetly, you slide it into your purse and follow your colleagues out of the press room.

You know that whatever Marcus has delivered to you via mousy blonde messenger is something you definitely shouldn't have. Your heart speeds up inside your chest, heels clicking against the floor a little too hard, a little too loud. The sky over D.C. is grey as always, but a welcome change of scenery from inside.

This rental car is your office, your living room, and your safe place all at once. Getting into the passenger seat, you lock the doors and put your purse on the center console. You stare at the leather, waiting to see if it explodes or if a SWAT team converges on the vehicle. When nothing happens, you pull the envelope from your bag, undoing the metal clasp at the top.

Inside is paper. A lot of it. A thick stack of fresh white pages stamped with bold, black printer ink. You scan over the first page, trying to figure out what it is you're looking at. At the bottom is a small pink sticky note, Marcus' loopy scrawl written in blue pen: Don't say I never do anything for you.

You bite back a sour laugh, peeling the note up and stuffing it into your pocket. Then your eyes are back to reading the words on the page, piecing together dates and times, people and places. A flight log.

Dozens of them, going back almost five years. A name you've become quite familiar with in the last few months adorns every one. Francisco Morales. Yahtzee.

At the back of the pile are pages and pages of minutes. A series of disciplinary hearings that resulted in a pilot’s license suspension for Morales. From the look of things, it was reinstated shortly after only to be revoked again two years later for the same reason: drug possession.

Francisco was given a mandatory stint in rehab. The facility is redacted from the paperwork, but it doesn’t take you too long to track it down. Some place called New Beginnings Medical Hospice in Austin. Of course, the lady on the phone won’t give you answers.

“I’m sorry ma’am,” she says, no trace of a southern accent in her voice. Must be a Texas transplant. “We cannot give out information on any patients, past or present. We have a confidentiality clause.”

“I hear what you’re saying but—” Oh fuck it. “As I said, I’m calling on behalf of Mr. Morales’ insurance company. We’re having trouble tracking him down for billing of his fees, and this was his last known address.”

You know never said who you were, and certainly not that you were with his insurance company at the beginning of this phone call. You also know the woman on the other end of the line will zero in on the fact that this man apparently owes them money and completely ignore the discrepancy. It’s not your first choice in journalistic strategy, but beggars can’t be choosers here. 

She coughs up the address easily. Somewhere in Lubbock, Texas the answers to all of your questions is sat on his ass in a trailer park. Francisco has been there the whole time. Only four hundred miles from your parents’ place, right under your nose. If you didn’t start laughing as soon as you got off the phone, you’d cry.

You’ve got all you need: the man and the myth. One flight to Preston Smith International, and you might be able to figure out the legend.

The city of Lubbock is small, but not too small. Insignificant enough that someone looking for something, someone like you, would glance over it unblinkingly. You figure that’s why Morales chose it. Property records show that his new lease to the park lot started about eight months ago; two months before Marcus put you on his trail.

Maybe he’s hiding. Maybe—and you try to expel these thoughts as quickly as they materialize—he really did it. Maybe they all did. But Marcus doesn’t think so, and you would like to have more hope in these men than that. Guilty people run, but so do the scared. Those who don’t have much left to lose; who want to hold onto what they have left. It’s not like the government is all right and fair here.

Honestly, you aren’t too sure what to think. You know that you have to know. Whatever happened, whatever story is here, you need to find it. So you found Francisco.

The trailer park is located right at the outskirts of town. You can drive through the populous area end to end in under twenty minutes, but the ride out to the Morales place is a good fourty-five. The warm weather has you sweating, forehead damp as the truck’s windshield does little to hide you from the sun. Adjusting to the temperatures here compared to chilly D.C. gave you a bit of weather whiplash. That’s Texas for you.

There’s not much to look at out here. Grass, a few sparse trees. The past three billboards have advertised some beer brand you’re sure tastes like wheat piss. Your eyes almost glaze over at the scenery. The next billboard coming up finally catches your attention.

LOOKING FOR A SIGN? This is it!

It straightens your spine a little, unglued your shoulders from the driver’s seat as you pay attention to the road. Oddly placed, here in the middle of nowhere. It is, in fact, a sign. Could be something else for you, too.

Rolling into Muddy Creek Mobile Residence, half of the trailers look abandoned. Beer cans and newspaper pile up at the steps, garbage bags left out for the elements and wildlife. Francisco Morales’ registered lot sits at the back of the park. Things look fairly tidy from the outside, meaning someone still lives here. With any luck, it might still be him.

You take a moment to walk around and circle the trailer. Every window has the curtains drawn. Not a single way to see in. A part of you wants to get back in the truck and wait him out. Drive back to the airport entirely.

There’s no way to calm your nerves. After months of buildup and being left on the hook, it’s now or never.

Climbing the few steps up, you sigh to yourself. “Maybe he’ll just…”

You deliver three sharp knocks to the door, then take a step back. The seconds stretch on painfully, wind blowing up dust behind you until finally—

The door jerks open with a creak of its hinges. You recognize the man behind it immediately from the surveillance photos you are holding.

“Hi there,” you say.

“You sellin’ something?” he asks.

“No. Actually Mr. Morales, I was hoping—

“I’m not interested,” he grumbles, moving to shut the door in your face. You jam your foot between it and the doorway before he can.

“Mr. Morales, I’d just like a moment of your time,” you say, the words rushing out of your mouth.

He presses against the other side of the door harder, slowly crushing your toes. “Not interested. Now get your foot out of my goddamn door—”

“Why would the U.S. government have a reason to draw up a warrant for your extradition?” you ask.

You know it’s the only thing that will catch his attention. You’d been hoping to lead into it, lull the man into a sense of personable security before you sprung the trap on him. He stares at you now, the door ajar, his mouth slightly agape. Maybe that’s why they call him Catfish.

“Excuse you?”

“I’m here because the government is currently in communications with the Republic of Colombia about your extradition to South America. Along with,” you pull out your pocket notepad, reading off what you’ve scribbled there, “Santiago Garcia, and William and Benjamin Miller.”

“This isn’t funny.” His voice is low, timbre rough as gravel. “How could you know that?”

“It doesn’t matter,” you say. “The fact is that I do. And whatever you did in Colombia? The government knows too.”

“Why are you here?”

You open the file folder under your arm, pulling out the blurred picture. “This is you, right?” Francisco doesn’t have to nod for you both to know it is. “I’d like to help you, if I can.”

[blushweddinggowns]

Part two to this

"How would you feel about meeting up with Trisha?" Steve asked one night, completely casual. Like he didn't just send Eddie in to a tailspin, "We were talking this morning and-"

"You talked to her this morning?" Eddie interrupted, nerves coloring his voice, "I thought you already talked to her on Monday?"

Steve leaned back onto Eddie chest with a sigh, tilting his head to stare up at him from their spot in bed, "Sweetheart, we've talked about this. You don't really get to be jealous considering I left her for you. On our wedding day. I think it's safe to say you won babe."

"I'm not jealous," Eddie mumbled into his hair, a complete fucking lie, "Just...concerned."

"Concerned that I'm going to leave you for the girl I left for you? You don't think that's a little counter-intuitive?"

Eddie knew he was right, of course he was right. He was being stupid, but that didn't stop the fact that he was scared. And okay yeah, technically he had no reason to doubt their relationship. It had over a year since he crashed Steve's wedding and stole him away. And it had been a great fucking year.

The first few months had been a little rough, jumping from not speaking for years to suddenly living together was bound to have some complications. But they got over them quickly enough, mostly because Eddie hadn't been fucking around when he said he'd do anything to keep Steve around.

If anything, it was all too easy. Suspiciously easy. It made him feel a little paranoid, that he was just allowed to be this happy with a guy he didn't deserve, after getting him back in one of the most dramatic, inconsiderate way possible.

He just...got away with everything a little too cleanly. And Eddie would be lying if he said he wasn't scared shitless at the chance that he could lose him. Even if that chance may just be in his head.

Eddie sighed, breaking eye contact as Steve stared him down, "I'm sorry."

"You should be," Steve said, leaning up to press a comforting kiss to his mouth before continuing, "But I love you anyway. And for the hundredth time, we're just friends. She's not even mad anymore. Sending that check over to her dad definitely smoothed things over. She even has a new boyfriend already."

Eddie may not have liked his ex-finance, on the selfish basis that she had gotten way to close to marrying the love of his life, but paying for their wedding was the least he could do after stealing the best part of it. Being rich and famous had to come in handy sometime right?

But that didn't mean he wanted to meet the girl.

"Come on," Steve tried, turning his body to make them face each other. He wrapped his arms around Eddie's neck, shamelessly ready to pull out the puppy dog eyes, "There's nothing to be worried about. I love you, obviously. And no one else. Besides, she deserves the chance to chew us out a little, considering what we did. Don't you think?"

He had a point, Eddie knew that he had a point. But just because it was the right thing to do didn't mean that Eddie wanted to deal with it. But it's not like he had a choice, not when Steve decided to pull that disgustingly adorable face.

And that's how Eddie found himself sitting across from the girl whose husband he stole, just two days later. It was awkward, or maybe Eddie was just awkward, because she and Steve were talking like they were old friends, instead of the bitter exes that they should be.

Trisha Rogers was a pretty girl, unfortunately. Tall, blonde, and put together. Like she could have just hopped right off the set of Baywatch. Her attractiveness was definitely not helping with Eddie's growing paranoia, but it wasn't exactly a shocker that Steve almost married a Farrah Fawcett clone.

But the pleasant smile on her face when she turned the conversation to him kind of was, "So you're the guy who ruined my wedding, huh?"

She turned back to Steve, a perfect brow raised, "He's cuter than you said he was."

Eddie blinked, glancing over at Steve, "You talked to her about me?"

"Since the start of our relationship," Trisha answered for him with a nostalgic sigh, "Actually, I think his exact words were, 'He's like if sexy fucked adorable and gave birth to a man who would ruin your life.' Something like that. He was surprisingly upfront about the whole 'I'm in love with someone who doesn't want me' since the get go."

"I wasn't that bad!" Steve whined, "And you're the one who kept asking questions about him!"

"And you're the one who failed to mention that he might pop up a year later to steal you away," Trisha said with a warm smile, "And if you had I would have gotten someone else to have a sham marriage with."

"Sham is kind of a strong word there Trish," Steve laughed, "I always thought of it as a marriage of convenience. Besides, it was your idea in the first place."

Sham? Convenience? What the hell were they talking about? Eddie looked between the two of them, brow furrowed at the words and the weird way they were smiling at each other, "Am I missing something here?"

"Well long story short, I met this really hot guy right?" Trisha started, winking at Steve, "And he was a great boyfriend for like, a solid two months. Then I find out he's still in love with an ex I'm still not 100 percent deserves him. And the romantic side of the relationship kind of died there. The sex kept being great though."

Trisha laughed at the way that made Eddie grimace, the shit head. He was starting to understand why these two got along in the first place.

"Anyway," She continued, "He made it pretty clear that he wasn't going to be an ideal life partner. But a friend with benefits was still on the table. And as a friend, he was set to do me the biggest solid imaginable, before you came along."

"She wasn't going to get her trust fund until she got married, her Dad's a massive traditionalist," Steve finished for her, "That's where I came in."

Eddie could feel his eye twitch as he looked over at Steve, "And you didn't think to mention that?"

Steve shrugged, "You're the one who looked constipated every time I said her name. Do you blame me for not bringing that up before?"

"Yes!"

"Oh he is cute when he's mad," Trisha giggled, "You hadn't been kidding about that."

Steve grinned, snaking a hand under the table to lace their fingers together, "Isn't he? And I am sorry about not following through. We both are. I just...got a little bit caught up in the moment."

Trisha shrugged, "It's okay. I mean, I'm still kind of pissed because of the humiliation factor, but everyone felt so bad for me I got to keep all the gifts. And my Dad gave me the trust fund anyway. He has some pretty choice words for you by the way."

She turned to Eddie, a tiny smile on her face, "But he's a big fan of you for sending the money over. He wanted me to mention that if you ever want to leave Steve at the altar you already have his permission for my hand in marriage-Hey!"

Eddie held back a laugh, watching as Steve lazily lied, "Oh whoops? Did I kick you on accident? Sorry about that."

She laughed, "Okay, okay! No flirting with the soulmate! Got it. So what's been new with you? Besides the whole life partnership thing?"

They talked for a little while longer, with more than a few more jokes being made at both of their expenses. But they definitely deserved it, even if the circumstances of their relationship weren't as serious as Eddie originally thought. It helped, especially since it was becoming crystal clear that this girl had every intention of staying Steve's friend. Though...he was still a little pissy that they slept together, as irrational as it was.

He kept that insane thought rightfully to himself.

But either way, by the time they made it home, Eddie's paranoia about the girl who almost married his soulmate was functionally dead.

"I still wish you had told me about the sham part," Eddie groaned as they stepped through the front door, "Could have saved me some serious heartache there Stevie."

Steve grinned. He wrapped his arms around Eddie's neck, stopping them in the hallway to give him a quick kiss, "Consider it payback for ignoring me for three years."

He knew he was joking, but that didn't stop Eddie from flinching. He was 100 percent right, if anything Eddie deserved a much worse punishment for putting Steve through all of his bullshit.

"Oh, don't pout," Steve said at the look on Eddie's face. He leaned in, pressing kisses all over his face, comforting him despite the fact that he didn't deserve it, "I already forgave you, remember? Now you can consider us even."

Eddie shook his head. He refused to let himself off the hook for this, not when he came so close to losing Steve forever because he had to go and be an idiot. He wrapped his arms around Steve's waist, pulling him in until they were flush against each other, "Don't let me off the hook yet. I got a lot more groveling to do. Preferably for the rest of our lives."

Steve grinned, hiding the smile in the crook of Eddie's neck, "I can live with that."

[crehador]

ichiro and samatoki are absolutely that annoying couple who would be like "i love you so much i could never be mad at you i could never hate you for anything" in front of god and all their friends who were there to witness bachibachi era

[onemuseleft]

For the character meme: tim drake

favorite thing about them - he's a fucking chaos gremlin who routinely lied to literally everyone, fought the Joker when that was the one thing on earth he'd been forbidden from doing, and sometimes fucked off to outer space without bothering to tell an adult. What a phenomenal dipshit. I love him.

least favorite thing about them - whatever the hell they did to his backstory in New 52.

favorite line - The first ones that pop into my head are: "I'm not Batman. I have friends." and "The batarang budget? It's bigger than you might think."

brOTP - do his actual brothers count???? Otherwise, Tim and Kon, 100%. Tim and YJ as a whole is great too. Core Four (But seriously Dick&Tim brotp 5ever LOOK AT THESE DORKS)

(honorable mentions to Cass and Tim and Steph and Tim and honestly everyone and Tim)

OTP - um. Also Tim and Kon? ^_^ I like Tim/Bernard too, but if I had to choose one, it'd be TimKon

nOTP - I am not a fan of actual Tim/Ra's? But I don't think there are any pairings I absolutely hate.

random headcanon - there are... too many. When Tim was on hiatus from Robin-ing after his Dad found out, there were vigilantes showing up to his house on the regular (Dick and YJ for movie nights/random hangouts, Batman to check in). Dana knew, but Jack never noticed.

unpopular opinion - the whole "Tim drinks black coffee by the gallon" thing is revisionist history that boy put back Zestis like they were going out of production, you will never convince me his coffee isn't 90% sugar.

song i associate with them - literally anything from 90s punk. Also Blue Monday because I played it on repeat during the Jason&Harley team up to rescue Tim from the Joker fic and now I can't associate it with anything else.

favorite picture of them - Impossible to choose, but this is probably one of if not the actual first images of him I saw back in the day:

[vaicomcas]

Revisionist history

Castiel and Crowley performing a magic spell using a sprig of spurge; as a follow-up to (and inspired by) @lerry-hazel's beautiful fic where they repaired Michael's lance, killed Lucifer, saved Kelly and they all lived happily ever after.

[edmundhoward]

(from other blog!)

🔥 choose violence ask game 🔥

3. screenshot or description of the worst take you've seen on tumblr

shan't be posting a screenshot, but the take that ‘defending katherine parr is defending thomas seymour’ is actually repugnant. her actions wrt elizabeth can and should be criticised — but within their proper context. katherine was a brilliant woman but she was also a woman, and legally, socially and culturally her husband overpowered her. she lived in a patriarchal society. she was negligent, at best, complicit, at worst — but she did warn ashley to keep an eye on thomas and elizabeth, did berate her husband for his ill-treatment, and did ultimately send elizabeth away. she was also pregnant with his child and the pregnancy seems to have been difficult. and elizabeth loved her; she was more her mother than anyone else. putting her on the same level as thomas seymour is just so gross to me.

8. common fandom opinion that everyone is wrong about

i PROMISE you anne boleyn does not receive the ‘worst’ historical abuse of the six wives/female historical figures. the idea of an evil, manipulative, promiscuous anne boleyn is nowhere near as culturally prevalent and pervasive as you insist it is. she very much does not have it anywhere near as bad as is claimed.

people simply do not care about anne boleyn, far more than they actively hate her — and where she does get treated with misogyny, it’s on a similar level to other female historical figures. it’s not distinct to her. moreover, what is unique to her is the level of revisionism and attention she gets. as another post has already put it: “anne's reinvention has been the most powerful and vocal in historical circles. anne is the center of almost all revisionist efforts in tudor historiography”. none of the six wives have been researched, revisited, reimagined and rehabilitated or simply discussed even a fraction as much.

we've already been over this. at this point i honestly believe insistence over this simply comes down to people looking for a thing to feel persecuted and exceptional over, while lacking the academic curiosity, talent and integrity to actually go and find something more tangible than the single most popular person in tudor history.

10. worst part of fanon

the hypocrisy/doublethink is truly something in this fandom sometimes. ‘monarchy was sacrosanct’ so therefore the commons unfailingly accepted the divine right of kings, except for all the times when they didn't and all the numerous recorded instances of royals being slandered/revolted against... but simultaneously, recognising the use of myth/prophecy and mysticism/faith in discourses of the time is ‘lionising’ historical figures, so we can't talk about henry vii and allusions to y daroganwr or king arthur but we can compare anne boleyn to classical mythology. sure!

13. worst blorboficiation

i recently saw that michael hick’s ‘the self-made king’ book about richard iii (which i haven’t read, so for all i know is very good but the title has always put me off) in a bookshop, and it reminded me how profoundly intellectually dishonest ricardians are. whether or not hicks’ book is sound, the popular/fandom approach to idealising richard iii is legitimately insane. truly i believe the only reason for mutilating the historical richard like this — to turn him into some fantasy merrie olde englande caricature of a medieval king — is to appropriate him into a racist, xenophobic, classist conservative ideal of monarchy. for as much as they might talk of him being ‘self-made’ or ‘socialist’ (as professional-at-failing-upwards matt lewis described him), they clearly do not care for such ideas, because they are centering them around (a fundamentally flawed understanding of) medieval monarchy. it's so ugly.

14. that one thing you see in fics all the time

i don’t read fanfic, but i see posts abt them and edit aus a lot and a consistent thing that i just cannot understand is the ‘fix-it’ narratives that have the women having numerous pregnancies. why? especially because the dates given essentially prove that in these aus, women never get to spend any time not pregnant or getting impregnated — including the historic protocols of lying in, churching etc., or religious conventions (sex was forbidden on certain days etc). it all basically creates an image of a husband who disrespects his wife by constantly trying to impregnate her, and a woman forced to endure the physical demands of constant pregnancy/labour with no regard for any other facet of her life/personhood. especially since these aus give these women a diabolical amount of children (including forcing twins/triplets on these women). it’s just so blatant that queenship/womanhood = being a broodmare. and, worse, these aus have the nerve to give these children horrific names.

25. common fandom complaint that you're sick of hearing

not directly what was asked but it’s genuinely exhausting how predominantly complaints about katherine howard being called a stupid slut have become wrapped up in this idea that katherine can only be worthy of sympathy if she did not willingly have sex. so often people trying to defend her, and criticising misogyny directed at her, ultimately constrain her to a fundamentally sexist idea — that sex can only be something done to her, as an unwilling participant. otherwise the implication is that comments about her intelligence or promiscuity are justified. there is no benefit to whitewashing katherine’s sexuality, and the insistence on characterising her almost exclusively as a victim is distressing. and it’s tiring having to repeatedly point this out. it simply feels like katherine howard is talked a lot but rarely as a fully actualised person in her own right.

[clockworkspider]

Saddened by the historical revisionist nature in which non-supernatural fans credit supernatural for fandom tropes and phenomenons.

Like... for 5 seasons what built the supernatural fandom was wincest and CWRPF (which was a community closely tied to supernatural fandom but had its own distinct lore and subculture, as show-focused RPF fandom goes). And then destiel got big and henceforth everyone equivocate the supernatural fandom to destiel. People are like "supernatural fandom started omegaverse" and everyone who wasn't there just assume it's destiel but NO. IT'S AN OFFSHOOT OF THE SUPERNATURAL FANDOM. It's the CWRPF fandom! It was a fic featuring jensen and jared and altho the fic isn't incest it'd not have existed out of the context of the incest enthusiastic fandom!

Similar with early history of Big Bangs.

I wasn't even in the supernatural fandom I just followed all the fandom lore as it developed cause my friend was into it.

[inkforhumanhands]

For the Fic Writer asks,

🍛 Have any comments, tags or reactions to one of your fics every made you laugh or cry or both? and 🍢 Have you ever gotten hate on a fic?

<3

🍛 Have any comments, tags or reactions to one of your fics every made you laugh or cry or both?

Absolutely! Well, I don't cry from comments lol but I'm not really a crier. I do laugh though! The comment that sprung to mind immediately is one @happybeans left me on Guesswork. This is the part that made me laugh, and for reference Seth is a half-Jewish half-Christian character, although he's mostly seen practicing Judaism in the show.

“Seth had never been opposed to a little revisionist history if it made him look better” XDDDDDDDDDD his Christian side coming out…… 🙈🙊

Always good to get a little dig in there 😂

🍢 Have you ever gotten hate on a fic?

Only once, and technically it wasn't even about my fic, it was about the author's note I had up in the beginning lol. Somebody got mad because they somehow didn't seem to think the term "wlw" included lesbians and that I was badmouthing lesbians by mentioning that "gold star" wasn't the best term out there. This was before blocking was implemented lol but I resisted the urge to tell them their reading comprehension sucked and that we were actually in agreement and just deleted the comment.

[itsactuallycorrine]

@ponyregrets tagged me for the opening lines meme; thanks, Chash!

rules: share the first line of your last ten published works or as many as you are able and see if there are any patterns!

1) a world to rediscover: Christopher was back in the tsunami.

2) sweet cheeks: It starts as a joke before they’re even together.

3) this never would've happened in a catholic high school: “Hey, buddy,” Eddie hears Buck call from the hallway as the front door opens and Christopher comes home from school.

4) looking for shelter from the cold and the pain: Buck had been right: summer in El Paso kind of sucked.

5) a little time to do it right: Watching Christopher walk out of the Diaz house with his grandparents nearly took Buck out at the knees, so he could only imagine what it was doing to Eddie.

6) ripples from a pebble someone tosses in a stream: “Ok, Mads, love you and Jee, too,” Buck said into his phone before hanging up and slipping it into his pocket, taking a moment to wipe shaky fingers beneath his eyes.

7) no love is like any other love: Eddie bolts awake with a gasp and a flinch, though he doesn’t know why.

8) the cross i bear that you gave to me: “Before we let you go,” the interviewer said with a playful little smile as she accepted a stack of cardstock from an intern, “we have a little game for you."

9) it's like honey when it rushes over me: It starts as a bit.

10) blame it on a simple twist of fate: Richie sees it first because—unlike Seth’s revisionist history will later claim—he’s the one who meets Kate first.

Well, this was a very interesting exercise--apparently I really love jumping right into the action in most cases. The "it starts as a" repeat had me 😬🙈 but at least those fics were in 2 different fandoms...?

I'm not sure I see much of a trend otherwise, other than my love of Christopher Diaz in my 9-1-1 fics. I'm not even consistent about what tense I use from story to story

tagging @sibylsleaves @clusterbuck @crazyassmurdererwall @biblionerd07 and anyone else who wants to do this one.

[idolatrybarbie]

discontinued (?)

pairing: post-canon francisco "frankie" morales x fem!journo!reader, canon divergent marcus pike & fem!journo!reader

summary: you wake up to the story of a lifetime: four former military special operatives, a drug cartel, and millions of missing american dollars. with United States extradition to Colombia on the line, you need one man to tell his story before it's too late. all you have to do is find him first.

series warnings: discussion of canon acts of violence, toxic relationship dynamics, legal inaccuracies ranging from tiny to very large, emotional abuse, obsessive behaviour, manipulation, angst out the ass, this is not a happy story, do not trust the United States (or any) government or enlist in the military. dd;dne. please refer to individual chapters for all warnings.

one - a moment of your time | two - good | three - right or fair | four - the wrong reasons | five - head in the oven | six - you're welcome

excerpt i | excerpt ii

[sunnydaleherald]

The Sunnydale Herald Newsletter, Tuesday, July 2

Ken: Well, don't you look nice? Lily: I guess. Ken: Well, you don't want to wear your own outfit to the cleansing. It'll get soaked. Lily: A cleansing is like a baptism? Right? Ken: Not quite the same. Lily: Will I see Rickie after? Ken: Oh, of course. He's waiting for you. He's very excited.

~~Buffy Episode #35: "Anne"~~

[Drabbles & Short Fiction]

Not on my Watch (Buffy, T) by veronyxk84

Dirty Him Up (Spike, M, Teen Wolf xover) by skargasm

Blame the candy Ch. 1/12 (Buffy/Giles, M) by Rippertish

Carpark fun (Faith/Giles, E) by Rippertish

The Tall Grass (Buffy/Spike, T) by Swoonz13

Dream of You (Spike/Reader, E) by itsalwaysteatimeinwonderland

Like A Feather, Chapter 7 (Buffy/Spike, T) by Willow25

Stygian Nights (Buffy/Spike, T) by JamesMFan

Tale as Old as Time, Chapter 2 (Buffy/Spike, E) by honeygirl51885

Stranger in her Body, Chapter 7 (Buffy/Spike, ) by Desicat

[Chaptered Fiction]

In Case You Haven't Noticed...Ch. 23 (Buffy/Giles, E) by Sdhuskerfan

We're as Sick as our Secrets CH. 10/10 COMPLETE (Buffy/Faith, M) by StrangeBint

She's in Parties Ch. 4/8 (Spike/Drusilla, E) by betweenfactandbreakfast

Blasphemy Ch. 18/18 COMPLETE (Buffy/Spike, M) by wickedrum

Casts Shadows Ch. 5 (Ensemble, T) by arcanedreamer

In the Company of Witches and Slayers Ch. 87 (Willow/Tara, E) by VladimirHarkonnen (TheLightdancer)

The Boyfriend Swap, Chapter 23 (Buffy/Spike, E) by Maxine Eden

Buffy Summers and the Major Case of the Wiggins, Chapter 1 (Buffy/Spike, E) by Soulburnt

The Neighbor's Point of View, Chapter 118 (Buffy/Spike, G) by the_big_bad

Buffy's Spooky Birthday, Chapter 10 (Buffy/Spike, ) by VeroNyxK84

Blood and Fame, Chapter 2 (Buffy/Spike, E) by Desicat

Buffy 2.0 Ch. 18 (Buffy, M) by BlueZeroZeroOne

[Images, Audio & Video]

Artwork: Bangel chibi sketches () by MamaBewear

Artwork:“We can rest now” (Buffy & Spike) by lystacre

Artwork:Anya () by mistyintherivers

Artwork:Scoobies () by genericaces

Artwork:Buffy & Spike () by genericaces

Crafts: Jess Wilson () by https://www.tumblr.com/annarowyn/754814879666487296/binding-my-favorite-fanfiction

Icons: () by

Manip:Episodic art for BtVS 02.02. “Some Assembly Required” () by revello-drive-1630

Manip:Episodic art for BtVS 02.03. “School Hard" () by revello-drive-1630

Video: Buffy + Drusilla - White dove () by https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1BsMobnaYwM

Video: Wesley Wyndam-Pryce | Refuge () by Jess Wilson

[Reviews & Recaps]

Mothman’s Buffy Rewatch: Season 3, episode 13, “The Zeppo” by mothmans-wedding-photographer

PODCAST: BTVS 519 - Tough Love by Another Buffy Podcast

[Community Announcements]

Tuesday Prompts: Vacations by comment_fic

[Fandom Discussions]

Spuffy Fic Recs — May/June by [personal profile] veronyxk84

“is there a meaningful distinction between a vampire and the human being who was sired to create them?” by coraniaid

I love Buffy the show, I truly do. But there a lot of ew... by there-are-many-ways-to-smile

I feel like season 7 Buffy they truly forget that if Buffy dies, that’s it. by there-are-many-ways-to-smile

faith says to buffy “give us a kiss” right as they’re about to fight by lesbianmarrow

Buffy and the “Not like other girls” Trope by ronnieroan

it’s been like 20 years but i still can’t believe the super complex plan to raise buffy from the dead did not include digging up her grave first. by aphony-cree, gestaltthing

I know it’s probably just the writers finding their footing with the character but by forsakenqueer

Joyce? Hush... by LJ_Ink138

Examples of revisionist history? by jogaforacont

What would an interaction between Charles Gunn and Buffy Summers be like? by jdpm1991

Buffy idea for S6 forwards by prythillyrian

"little sis" just got this! Creeeepy by sKullsHavezzz

Cecily Addams by Consistent_Career940

james marsters has the talent to have impeccable chemistry with anyone man. by Redditor_Moni

Every other show is doing this, figured Buffy should too by Kindly-Accident8437

Wait what? Is James Marsters’ middle name really Wesley? Is this where they got the character’s name by Heart_Throb_

Do you think Kendra tried to fight Drus hypnosis? Or did she just get tranced? by hypngirl

What episode do you never rewatch? by Whatwasithinking79

Times the music factor in a scene really made the moment for you? by InfiniteMehdiLove

Can a fairly mature 10 year old watch Buffy? by LegitimateGoal6309

You guys ever noticed that a backhand slap always lands? by Cpt_Falafel

Is “Close Your Eyes” Buffy/Angel love theme the best original score from this show? by Lobothehobosexual

I just watched Flooded again and… by BrianTheReckless

Why does the council take a slayers powers away when they’ve literally only been trained by Gothamstreetcat

Buffy The Vampire Slayer - Unaired Pilot 1996 by DisgruntledPelican41

Anyone else miss this shot of Angel from the later season intros? by AxelNoir

Mother's milk by Realistic-Drama8463

Willow and Oz by Guilty-Tie164

Was Knox from Angel also in CWDP? by ALeaves1013

Do they ever explain why another slayer isn’t called after Buffy dies stopping Glory’s hell portal? by Complex_Bit_4921

The Gorch brothers crack me up (egg pun intended) by Randy_Giles1880

What are some storylines, episodes or scenes that deserve more credit for their nuance? by debujandobirds

Which Episode Are You Choosing by Past-Throat-6788

S3 Ep 4: The Beauty and the Beasts by Impressive_Monk289

Totally legitimate, not made up theory by spuje4000

Favorite funny quotes by Guilty-Tie164

S3 Ep 4: The Beauty and the Beasts by Remarkable_Mud6377

Submit a link to be included in the newsletter!

Join the editor team :)

[jedimordsith]

Have Luke and Mara fighting from the fic where Talon told Luke Mara was dead.

-  - “Wait.” Luke protested. “You can’t go by yourself!”

“I’m not by myself,” Mara shot back, derisively. “Because unlike you, I’ve called in proper backup. And before you say it, no, they aren’t Jedi. But contrary to what your Provisional Government’s revisionist history wants people to believe, the galaxy survived just fine for decades without the Jedi. And if they’d get off their asses and do their jobs instead of using you as a sacrifice and scape goat, they could do it again. The Old Order couldn’t hold the Old Republic together and your New Order won’t hold this gov’t together. No matter how much you want it to to.” 

“Mara, the risk —”

“No. You don’t get to talk to me about risk. The biggest risk to this mission is that I might die. A quick painless vape into oblivion or a blaster bolt between the eyes. And that is nothing compared to the risks you have put me through — C’baoth's mind control, Palpatine’s service, Exar Kun. You don’t get to choose any more. There are things worse than death, Jedi, and you choose them for us all every fucking time. So this time, you don’t get to choose. You get to stay here and think about who you want to spend the rest of your life listening to. The people who love you and who have your back — right now, in this world — or dead old men who didn’t give a shit about you as a being.” Mara’s hand curled into a fist around the lightsaber he’d given her. “If you choose them, I’ll give this back and go back to Wild Space.”

[brinnanza]

all the fic that makes a big deal out of eliot never saying "I love you" to quentin in the mosaic timeline is SUCH revisionist history eliot's not shy about saying he loves people; he says it to quentin even as he's running the fuck away from their relationship like you're telling me that fucking ancient ass fruit who raised a whole ass human child with quentin and stayed by his side and loved him for fifty years never said it??? teddy CLEARLY had good "I love you" modeling cause he says it when he leaves and just because the writers are hacks who tried to play it coy in season three we ALL KNOW he is eliot's son just as much as he is quentin's and there's no way you raise a whole ass human child with someone like quentin coldwater and never once say you love either of them

[otemporanerys]

Otempora’s Fic Masterpost

Hello all! I’m sure a lot of you are here because you’ve read something I wrote, and I thought it was high time it was all collected somewhere!

Unless labelled otherwise, assume Mass Effect, assume Shakarian. Everything linked here is to my AO3.

True Blue (Active)

Rewrite of Playing the Long Game, my childhood friends-to-lovers Shakarian AU. Having lots of fun with this one, very angsty. True Blue

Species Swap (Active)

An AU where most (not all) canon Alliance characters are Hierarchy turians, and Garrus and his family are humans. Come for the worldbuilding, stay for the height difference.

Cultural Exchange | Interregnum | Life Behind Enemy Lines 

Burn, Shepard, Burn (Theoretically Active)

A Witcher fusion AU, humans only. Shepard’s a rogueishly handsome witcher, Garrus is the runaway lordling she keeps running into. The most sexually frustrated slow burn.

Mainline continuity: At the Mercy of Strangers | Of Monsters and Men | Trial By Fire | Lost Lamb | Small Problems

Backstory/prequels: Bitter Harvest (Anderson POV)

AUs of the AU: Long Shot | Bedside Manner | In the Bleak Midwinter

Paragon Loves Renegade (On Hiatus)

Canon divergence set during ME2, undercover-as-lovers turns into secret dating. Nothing but good times.

Mixing Business with Pleasure | Reasons to Be Together

Playing the Long Game (Complete)

Canon divergent, childhood friends AU. Lowkey my favourite.

Mainline continuity: Playing the Long Game | Telling Tales of Revisionist History

AU of the AU: Rookies

Oneshots/Standalones

Turning Us Into Fire: AU where Shepard and crew ran to Omega to become mercenaries after Aratoht. Slow burn, high-octane angst. Probably not gonna be updated (sorry).

First Contact Protocol: Baby’s first First Contact War AU, Garrus and Shepard are stranded on the same desert planet and have to work together. Enemies-to-friends-to-lovers. Highkey my favourite.

Any Port in a Storm: Garrus/Miranda. Set before the suicide mission in ME2. Smutty.

Diamond in the Rough: fShep/Zaeed. Set during ME3. Shepard is sleeping with Zaeed and no, she doesn’t know why, either. Smutty.

Priceless: Kasumi Goto/Rolan Quarn. They fuck on a pile of money and that’s all you need to know.

Friend of a Friend: Kaidan/Garrus. Set after ME2, Shepard has died. Reliably informed I’ve converted many a person to the ship.

A House is Not a Home: Tali/Kal’Reegar. Post-war, shameless flangst.

Obstacles: Garrus & Solana gen, set between ME2 and ME3.

If you’re really interested in any of my older, non-ME fic, my Livejournal is available upon request, although I can’t in good conscience recommend any of it.

[demonscantgothere]

one of your comments on ao3 said you have 40 to 50 chapters of beasts planned but no ending in sight? how long is this fic going to be (if you don't mind me asking)

Oh, you mean this comment:

I have chapter outlines I make for my stories to plot it out in advance and see the flow and transition of the story. Until I get a good outline for most of the chapters, I usually don't even start. (And you gotta understand, too, this story has chapter outlines going well past 40/50 chapters and I don't have a foreseeable ending yet either because there's so much I want to do with this fic!)

I have up to Chapter 48 outlined, but Chapter 48 is not the ending. So, um, I don't know how long it's going to be. I have a lot of stuff I want to do with Beasts of the Hill. I know I said it's PWP, but not really. I have side plots. I have angst. I have Finrod coming back at some point with Beren and Co. in tow. Sauron's servitude to Morgoth will become a huge point of contention. Morgoth might throw a wrench in things. The Silmarils will very likely come into it. The Beauty and the Beast "Enchanted Rose" may be a Silmaril. Don't quote me on that yet, though. So, yeah. Things will get complicated.

Before I posted the first chapter, I had a long outline written already. I've been adding to it, too. It's gonna be revisionist alternate timeline of Tolkien's First Age history. With Saurondriel smut. Yeah. Lots and lots of Saurondriel smut. Priorities, you know?

This fic accidentally got away from me before I finished writing the first chapter, but that's largely due to the outline I was working on for it. I got hooked into all these different ideas, and it spiraled out of control real fast.

[kaaaaaaarf]

Thanks for the tag, @ennisagain! I already did the show one, so I'm gonna try to do it your way.

8 SHOWS AUDIOS TO GET TO KNOW ME

Stuff The British Stole (podcast)

Revisionist History (podcast)

This Week In Fandom History (podcast)

Random podcasts that are interviews with celebs I'm interested in....on the same vain, I am a sucker for an autobiography read by the author.

The Simon Snow series audiobooks....I just love them. Same with the audiobooks for Alice Oseman's This Winter & Nick & Charlie.

I have a thing for making playlists so any of the many that I have created...currently I'm listening to one with the theme of "music to have a mental breakdown to", "songs to Yearn to" and a playlist I've called "Screamo", which is just songs with gutteral screams in the middle.

Fandom playlists. I am a sucker for a good fic playlist....currently spinning the author made playlists for "Black Mass Over Highway Ninety" by @greenvlvetcouch, "You Wouldn't Like Me" and "I've Got Diamonds In My Eyes (For You)" by @crushofdoves, "Waiding In Waist-High Water" by @colgatebluemintygel, "On Another Ocean" also by @colgatebluemintygel and finally "Under A Big Blue Sky" by @eyra. All are perfect playlists for equally perfect fics.

BBC Radio's 'Desert Island Discs'...a classic.

tagging: @eightysix-baby, @vaguelydoomed, @thefairylights, @sheisraging and @typicalbrunette