#release it on Steam with little to no fanfare

[amcdrawnon]

Neo TWEwY is on Steam. Get steampunk! Or make a some steam pun or something. I don't know. Just let them know about it.

>Squeenix in charge of marketing NEO

[thefullwomb]

Charlene loved mornings. The warm sunshine streaming in from her window, the chirps of birds, like music, faintly echoing in her room. But most of all, she loves the opportunity to measure the ever swelling orb of her gravid womb. To say she was pregnant didn't quite do her current state justice. She was filled near to bursting with babies.

Just a few short years ago, Charlene had been a petite young woman with a semi-popular gaming stream. She wasn't breaking any viewership records, but she was getting by alright. Then, during one fateful stream, a new subscriber asked how much he'd have to donate for her to let him get her pregnant. Charlene jokingly told him that he'd have to donate fifty grand, and she'd have to lose her match. She knew it was unlikely that some random would have that much money to burn, but it was possible. However, losing her match was all but impossible. Her team was up by five, and her opponents seemed like amateurs. Then, as if by fate half of her team disconnected. Suddenly outmatched, she put up a valiant effort but lost none the less. As she tried to absorb what had just happened, a notification dinged from her stream. A fifty thousand dollar donation from a certain subscriber. Charlene was too stunned to speak.

The next day, a package arrived at her front door. She had a pretty good idea of what she might find inside the brown cardboard box, so she decided to have an unboxing on her steam. That evening, she gave the event a significant amount of fanfare as she opened the box for all of her viewers. Within was a purple dildo of the sort that can be controlled with an app and made to ejaculate. There was also a vial of what looked almost unmistakably like cum. Charlene felt a tingle of anticipation run down her spine. The thought of letting a stranger fill her womb had her pussy soaking wet. The idea seemed to have her subs whipped into a frenzy as well. Likes and follows flooded in a she impaled herself on the high tech member. Her comments section was on fire, with viewers begging for the opportunity to impregnate her as well.

With a kiss to the camera, she informed her viewers that her new toy would "go off" the moment she hit her viewer goal or after five hours. She'd connected the dildo to her computer, set it up to vibrate harder and harder as viewers joined her stream and finally to blow its load at a million. She started bouncing on the big rubber cock as her first match began. It vibrated with greater and greater intensity as her viewer count rose. By the end of the first hour, she was nearly delirious from the constant stimulation. She was playing her game by muscle memory as she begged her viewers to get her pregnant and make her a mommy. She came more times than she could count as her viewership rose. Finally, the viewership hit one million, and with a triumphant scream, Charlene felt a massive blast of sticky cum plaster her insides. In that moment, she knew for a fact that a million people had just watched her get knocked up.

Two weeks later, Charlene had a positive pregnancy test to show her viewers. Donations poured in along with requests from viewers who wanted to be next in line to knock her up. By the end of her stream, she had made just over one hundred thousand dollars. She'd made more money in a month than most streamers make in their entire career.

Within six months, her belly had grown nearly as much as her channel. She had created a Patreon tier of a thousand dollars a month that would allow guys to send her their seed. At the start of every stream, she would add their loads to a reservoir connected to her now iconic dildo. With every match she won, she would swallow a fertility pill and force her body to release a fresh egg into her already occupied womb. With every tip and donation, the dildo would vibrate a little bit harder, making it increasingly difficult for her to focus. Then, when she inevitably lost a match, the dildo would unleash a flood of cum and add to her ever growing brood. It wasn't uncommon for her to net nearly a million dollars each stream.

At eleven months, she gave birth to her first baby, live on her steam, of course. Her viewers cheered her on as she stained and pushed. It took nearly twelve hours for her to deliver her baby, but she felt the support of her fans every step of the way.

She used her earnings to buy a mansion and how staff and nannies to see to her, and her rapidly growing family's, every need. She also had to have a special gaming chair commissioned to support the weight of her ever more gravid body.

Within two years, she could no longer keep track of how many babies were crammed into her womb, but she would glow with pride as she listed the names of the two hundred agreed given birth to this far. She had money saved for each of them to live a happy, easy life. She may have long ago broken the record for being the world's most prolific mother, but she loved each and every one of her babies just as much as any mother.

I'd like to give a big, round thank you to @pr-g for providing the picture and inspiration for this story. Both she and her blog are truly lovely, and if you aren't already, you should definitely give her a follow.

[kyndaris]

Adrenaline Rush

After slogging through Diablo IV, all the while listening to video essays about terrible authors (thank you ReadswithRachel), there were still a mountain of games that I needed to tackle in order to bring some semblance of order to my ever-growing backlog. But rather than play through yet another hundred-hour adventure, I opted for something far shorter. Enter: Hi-Fi Rush.

While I have very mixed feelings about Microsoft's acquisition of Bethesda and now, it seems, Activision Blizzard, there is no denying that Hi-Fi Rush is a masterpiece of a game that serves as a breath of fresh air for anyone tired of the dull doldrums that come from staring at dirt or uninspired graphic design.

In fact, there is definitely something to be said for choosing a colourful, high contrast and bombastic art style to go with one's game. It certainly livens up the screen and makes everything pop. Something that could not be said of the recent triple-A games that I recently played through.

Beyond that, it just brings a smile to my face to see a game that doesn't take itself too seriously when it comes to world-building. And it's all the better for it.

Too many games these days have gone the realistic grimdark route and it has honestly sapped some of the fun out of what would have been interesting worlds. As a random aside, you can still be grimdark and still have a colourful world filled with a mixture of fun and funny characters.

But back to the game at hand!

Releasing at the start of the year with no fanfare to describe of, Hi-Fi Rush was a sleeper hit for many gamers although it has tracked well with critics. So, when it was on sale on Steam, I went ahead and bought it. And instead of sitting there for years and years, the delay between purchase and me playing it was only a few months, give or take!

What struck me immediately was the art. I loved seeing the bold lines that defined the characters and the environment. Instead of the dreary atmosphere that came from Diablo IV or Forspoken, I was met with a highly saturated world that wasn't afraid of splashing around a little colour.

True, it might not be a colour scheme or graphic choice for every game but it certainly stood out from the stuffy triple-A crowd.

The second thing that I fell in love with were the host of allies, from Peppermint to Macaron, CNMN and finally Korsica. Though the game was fairly short and the time that I spent with them didn't extend to hundreds of hours, I enjoyed what few conversations that Chai had with them and the immediate dynamic that naturally sprung up between them through in-game banter.

This was a game that didn't waste one's time with endless backstory. It was a burst of game that could be replayed if one wanted and did not overstay its welcome.

Combat, too, took on an interesting twist with attacks landing on beat. This provided some extra challenge to combat but never made pulling off combos difficult as I slashed and slammed my way through the Vandelay Technologies offices to bring down the man - or in this particular case, greedy CEO Kale Vandelay.

It also made sense from a narrative perspective with Chai having his music player being inserted into his chest when his broken arm was initially replaced with a robot arm at the start of the game.

And perhaps that's what makes Hi-Fi Rush such a great game. Almost all of the aspects of the game are interconnected - be it the gameplay, the narrative or even the logs that players can pick up. The fact that the game isn't afraid to also poke fun and get a little meta, which only adds to the game's charm.

While the villains were a little one-note, playing into stereotypes, there were also hidden depths to their characters that were often revealed in their boss battles. And what spectacles they were! Especially against Roquefort! That was truly wonderful - especially the homage to Scrooge McDuck's money bin.

Honestly, there were so many iconic moments, it's hard for me to nail down which one was my favourite.

If I had to say what my main gripe with the game was though, I'd say it had to be the lack of healing options during battle except for special abilities. It was also disappointing to see how little Chai recovered when he picked up the small health energy that was scattered around the environment.

Still, it did make the boss battles nailbiting knowing that I could only heal Chai only once I'd managed to fill up the energy bar to use my healing special ability.

As for gameplay that wasn't combat related, while it annoyed me that I couldn't explore every inch without first unlocking another character first, I enjoyed the challenges although I did find the platforming a little finicky on occasion.

Overall, though, Hi-Fi Rush was an excellent palate cleanser after the less than impressive Diablo IV. And while I would have liked to spend more time in the world of Hi-Fi Rush to understand the backstory for a few more of the characters, I enjoyed my time with it - from the zany plans to the humorous gags that are maintained through the entire game like the Vandelay robots rebelling by ensuring all the coffee machines only serving decaf.

Here's hoping that developers learn to break up their usual doom and gloom with something that brings back the joy of gaming. It almost feels like we're returning to the early 2000s when all games needed to have dark broody tortured protagonists except they're also now extending it to the game design and game world. Which, in all honestly, I'm not enjoying.

After all, you can still make gut-punching emotional games and still have a beautiful world to admire!

True, don't go the route of Thor: Love and Thunder but it doesn't need to be another cookie-cutter stale grey world.

[moiraimyths]

How do the LIs open gifts? Tear open the packaging, carefully unfold it to reuse the paper, something else?

Shae: They open their gifts carefully, but not out of reverence for the wrapping; they want to be careful not to damage whatever might be inside. Keagan: He likes to open one end and pull the gift out, if possible. Recycles the wrapping immediately. Aífe: She opens it painstakingly slow, careful to preserve the paper, but she has no intention of reusing it (not her aesthetic). She's just... like that. Maeve: While she doesn't rip and shred, she pays very little attention to how the wrapping gets opened. Sometimes she rips, sometimes she uses the tip of her sword. Flannán: He just rips it in half without fanfare. Robin: There is nothing left of the packaging once they're finished with it. Might as well be dust particles. They also shout "GIMMIE GIMMIE GIMMIE!!!" as they open it.

***

The Good People (Na Daoine Maithe) is now out on Steam and Itch.io, and has a Kickstarter pre-launch page! Check our pinned post for details!

Remember: If we get to 800 favourites on our Kickstarter pre-launch page, we’ll release flirty sprites for all the ROs! (Current progress: Aífe’s sprite is out! >25 until Shae!)

[generalfoolish]

The Cold Weather Collection

Summary: In which Din Djarin navigates a cold world with his foundling.

Warnings: *All of my works are M for mature so 18+ please; language, language, language, canon typical violence, no pairing, just musings from Din's perspective.

Word Count: 2.1K

A/N: This is my attempt at making my master list for Din Djarin a little nicer to look at. It's been in shambles for ages. This collection is all of my first little one shots shoved into one. I repeat: it's all old stuff.

Master List | Tag List Form | Din Djarin Master List

Din watched as Grogu shuffled across the clearing. He was silent as he watched his foundling, but a smile crept on his face when he noticed the hesitant steps of the child. Din had taken the robe in at his feet, in an effort to protect the child, and he realized now that perhaps the onesie was awkward to walk in. The thought brought a bigger smile to Din’s face. The Mudhorn Clan were two of a kind, a couple of lost souls wearing suits that shielded them. Perhaps closing them off from too much. 

Din sighed beneath his helmet, knowing he would not show Grogu his face, but the ache in his heart swelling at the thought of releasing that burden, at least with his son. His thoughts were stopped all at once when he heard a shrill cawing. Quickly he scanned the clearing, and saw two heat signatures. He moved faster than he thought possible, but was unable to react when he approached the kid.

Grogu blinked up at him, a smile across his face, and between his lips were the feet of a bird. Without fanfare, the child swallowed the last remnants of the kill, feathers trailing around him. Din could only laugh. 

“Don’t do that again.” He told Grogu in a stern voice, but lost all steam when the child blinked at him sleepily.

Din piloted the Crest down carefully, and quickly turned the thrusters off. He looked down at the child and then back at the falling snow outside. He reasoned the carrier would likely keep the kid warm enough for Din to snag the bounty. As they made their way down the cockpit, Din grabbed an extra blanket, just in case. 

There wasn’t anything on Hoth but snow. And of course, a bounty. Din didn’t like the idea of anyone who would choose Hoth to hide on, and knew he wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible. He lowered the ramp out of the Crest, and pushed the button on his wrist to close up the kid’s carrier. He couldn’t have the child getting hypothermia. As soon as the lid snapped shut though, it opened right back up. Din narrowed his eyes, and took in the child. Seemingly innocent, but definitely guilty. 

“You’ll freeze.” Din told him carefully. He fingered the button again, and started walking. He heard the click of it opening again and stopped. He stared the child down, but the kid only blinked back at him. The snow was swirling all around them. 

“Cut it out.” Din told the child again, a softness in his voice now. Though he could feel his irritation rising. 

He snapped the lid closed again and took off into the snowfall. The lid remained closed this time, and Din felt he had won the little standoff. It has been a challenge trying to care for his foundling. His line of work didn’t lend itself to child rearing. And he had no idea how to effectively communicate with the kid, kriff, he didn’t even know the kid’s name. He paused to look at the carrier, only to be surprised. The lid was open, and the kid was gone. 

“Kid!” He yelled, not thinking, only reacting. The snow was falling heavily now, so he switched to thermal heating vision, and relaxed when he registered the small heat coming from the child. He walked a few feet to where the kid had fallen into a snow drift. Gently, Din helped him to his feet and brushed the snow off where it clung to his long, green ears. The child smiled, and held Din’s hand for a minute, then sleepily reached up. Laughing, Din grabbed the child from under his arms and held him close. He tucked the kid back in, and closed the lid again. He was sure the child would stay put this time, and he headed deeper into the snowfall.

Din looked himself over in the mirror, his helmet a shiny mound beside him. The fresher on the Razor Crest was small, but he hadn’t needed anything larger. He had the door pulled tight, and knew that Grogu would be sleeping. They were on their way to find a…jedi rock. He wasn’t sure how to do this. He didn’t even know that Jedi were real. He blinked at himself in the artificial light, and sighed at the sight. He looked tired, and maybe even old. His facial hair needed a trim. He needed more sun. He glanced down at his helmet again, then back at his face. 

Bo Katan had placed a dangerous worm of a thought in his mind, and now he couldn’t shake it. A life without the helmet always on, a life where he could see and be seen…he closed his eyes and let himself imagine the feeling of sun on his face. A hand stroking his cheek, a soft kiss pressed to his lips, and he gasped. His eyes fluttered open, and he hit the wall beside him. 

The promise was too big, and his creed too ingrained. Maybe one day, but today his quest was Grogu. He would focus on his foundling for now. He placed the helmet back on, and his thoughts stayed trapped in the mirror.

Din handed the child a piece of chocolate, and watched as his greedy, green hands shot out and snatched it. The kid loved sweets more than anything, and Din didn’t mind spending the credits on him. In fact, he loved spoiling the kid. He didn’t know how to say the word, and it hung heavy in his chest as he even considered it. Loving was maybe not his nature, but he could give the kid what he wanted at least. The chocolate was long gone now. The child was looking at him expectantly, so Din chuckled and gave him another small piece. 

The chocolates were smaller bits, and he knew the child would plow through them. He wondered what they tasted like. He had had chocolate before, but these looked incredible. He grabbed one for himself, and pushed his helmet up carefully. Just above his mouth, only enough to pop the chocolate in and let the helmet down again. He felt the sweetness melt over his tongue immediately. He lifted it to the roof of his mouth, and sucked slowly. 

The outer casing broke apart from the force, and the gooey inside spread slowly over his tongue. He savored the moment, the flavors incredible. He didn’t give himself many treats, or any for that fact. He was just a bounty hunter, and his back hurt. But the child made him feel younger, stronger. And the sweet made his mouth water; the temptation to grab another was almost overwhelming. 

He smiled down at the child, his hand outstretched and a chocolate floating in the air between them.

Din hadn’t really felt comfortable leaving the kid behind, but Cara had ensured him it would be alright. She had told him the school was safe, and he had trusted her. He had no reason not to. 

As he crossed the threshold of the building, he knew he had made the right choice. His instincts were rarely wrong. And here was his foundling, his son, bent over the desk scribbling away. The sight was almost funny, the quill far too large for the child’s small hands, and the paper underneath far too pale against his green skin. He seemed focused on his task, so Din waited a moment. From his vantage point, just inside the threshold, Din could see every child was as hard at work as his own. He smiled at the thought of the child, the extraordinary child, sitting amongst a group of village kids. It might be okay, he thought, for a while. Until the children realize he had powers. Until the kids realize that the child was different. Until the Imps caught up. He shook his head against the thought, and decided it was time to go. 

Din crossed the room to his foundling in a few steps, and smiled down at the child. 

“Time to go, kid.” He said, his modulator hiding the thickness of emotion that threatened his voice. The kid looked up at him, and Din’s heart stammered at the sight. One look from the kid could melt Din’s resolve. He was a warrior, but when the kid blinked those giant brown eyes at him, he was helpless. 

Din tore his eyes away, the kid would never know, he was safe behind the helmet. He landed on the desk, looking at the work that had kept the younglings so preoccupied, and his heart skittered to a stop. It was moments before he could even breathe. 

The paper, the drawing, the kid had been working on was a portrait. It was the child, complete with his carrier, and Din. In his full suit of armor, a gun in hand, and a cape. It was an accurate drawing, to be sure. But that wasn’t what Din was focusing on, to the side, in Basic, was simply written clan. 

The child cooed and lifted the paper to Din. He wasn’t sure if the kid could understand him, but he had to try. He reached out, and placed his gloved hand on the child. 

“Family.”

Din circles the mountain as he looks for a spot to land the Crest. He mutters to himself as he lands on the wrong side. He didn’t have a choice. The only clearing on the blasted rock was as far away from the tracking fob as it could be. He grumbled as he made his way out of the cockpit and into the hull. 

It’s not like he could just jet over there, either. Too obvious. The bounty would see him coming and run. Again. He had been chasing this particular bounty for far too long. He grunted as he pulled some weapons down, and considered what he would need. 

What would he need for the bounty that had given him the slip? It had never happened before, and he wasn’t willing to let it happen again. The child was fast asleep in his carrier, so Din just closed the lid and led the two out of the ship. It would be a long walk. 

–

Din crept up quietly, and checked the fob. This was his mark, alright. He didn’t know how he had lost them before, but he had no intention of giving them the chance. He slipped into a crouch as he picked his way across the forest floor. The leaves and branches underfoot behaved, and he was able to creep right up onto the camp of the mark. 

He pulled the rifle up to his shoulder, and peered down the cross hairs. The crackle of the fire only slighting interfering, and he lined the shot up. The echo of the fired round bounced off everything. 

If there was anyone else camped on the mountain they knew he was there. He looked back at the sagging body and cursed. He had been so shortsighted. He was going to have to drag the bounty back to the ship. He exhaled and made his way over to the body. 

Din decided there, in the orange glow of the fire, under a canopy of leaves and stars, that he absolutely hated mountains.

Din sat heavily down onto the pilot’s seat, and a dragging sigh escaped his lips as he did so. He was exhausted, full body exhausted. He was starting to see black spots in his vision, and as someone who relied on their senses to stay alive, it wasn’t ideal. 

He pushed his helmet up and off without much fanfare, the familiar hiss a gentle reminder that he needed to set the next coordinates into the Crest’s nav system. He tossed the helmet to the co-pilot seat, empty since the child was tucked away for the night. Sleeping, Din thought crossly. The child could sleep the entire day. A fond smile spread across his face, he couldn’t even be aggravated in this state at the kid. 

Rolling his neck, he turned back to the nav system and punched the numbers in. He wiped his hands over his face, and groaned again. He hadn’t made any time for himself, lately. He started taking the armor off, the heavy beskaar hitting the floor noisily. Finally, he was left with just an undershirt and his thin pants. He stretched, groaning all the while. Dank ferrick, his back hurt. 

He reached into a compartment beside him, and grabbed a pad. He always tried to decompress his mind by logging his bounties, and lately he had found himself writing a lot about the kid. He chuckled, remembering the jerking legs of some little creature half swallowed from a few hours ago. Soon, without realizing it, Din had written pages of his adventures with the kid, and nothing about his last bounty. He slipped off to sleep in the pilot’s seat, the data pad pressed close to his chest, and the child on his mind.

[shealwaysreads]

First line game

Tagged by my darling @bonesliketambourines (who started this all here) and @ohdrarry to expose myself with this game—I’m actually a little nervous doing this because I’ve never looked at my writing like this and I’m not quite sure what I’ll find!

Rules: List the first lines of your last 20 stories (if you have less than 20, just list them all!). See if there are any patterns. Choose your favorite opening line. Then tag 10 of your favorite authors!

I’m going from most recent backwards, and only including drarry fics over 1k (low-key sort of a bit wow that I have enough fics to even do this whole list of 20!)

1) Knuckles : “I don’t want to use any…” he paused, swallowed before he committed to his course of action.

2) Lost/Found : “I won’t ask,” he had said, and was met with a hesitant nod and the flicker of green eyes cataloguing his expression, looking for honesty.

3) Love All Lovely : It had snowed overnight, as it always did on the last night of November.

4) Knots: Harry was reckless.

5) Breathe You In: Harry shrugged his shoulders down under the surface of the water until it licked at his neck, watching with unfocused eyes as steam rose, slow and shimmering in the shafts of late-afternoon light that lanced into his bathroom.

6) If An Injury Is to Be Inflicted: The Second Wizarding War of Great Britain had ended in the courtyard of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, its stone battlements crumbling and scorched, and its students battered and weary.

7) Catch and Release: “Don’t touch me.”

8) Ocean Eyes: Ever since Harry had met Malfoy, small and mean, all those years ago in Madam Malkin's shop, he had been acutely aware of what he looked like.

9) Life Goes Not Backward: Harry had been away for five years.

10) Face to the sun: Draco blinked awake to bright sunlight glinting through the sheer curtains at the windows.

11) the plant that doesn’t bloom: Malfoy had come back to Hogwarts different.

12) Speak (and may the world come undone): It had begun during that strange see-saw year.

13) Hue and Scent: Bitter green depths, the tang of sun-bright citrus and sour-sweet bergamot.

14) Ever Fixed Mark: “Have you heard of a controlled burn?” Harry’s voice was low, and thoughtful in that heavy way he had been since he came back from the forest.

15) Watching: Draco watched.

16) That which hurts (and is desired): Draco was lying still, and pale, on a bed in a private room in St Mungo’s.

17) Pathless Woods: Ollivander’s Wand Shop had quietly re-opened on the first of August 1998 with no fuss, no fanfare, and no frills.

18) Patient, Hungry, Waiting: Potter looked every inch the picture of the war hero that the Ministry loved to trot out for events like this, and nothing like he had on the day he actually did end the war.

19) Sunkissed: Draco sulked for a week after finding out they were going to Greece.

20) A Shorts Story About Love: Eighth Year had been a strange time in Harry’s life.

I’m not sure I can see a pattern, though I think I prefer the lines that open with dialogue—they feel a bit more urgent and present to me?

I’m tagging @slytherco @veelawings @p1013 @clotpolesonly @hedwig-dordt @hogwartsfirebolt @onbeinganangel @teacup-tai @jmeelee @candybarrnerd @lqtraintracks @eva-eleanore @tedahfromtayla @nerdherderette and if you’re reading this then I’m tagging you, too—& me if you do it so I can have a snoop! ❤️

[embyrinitalics]

WIP Wednesday

Cyborg AU

The Plug wasn’t a painful device in the traditional sense of the word, but it did cause a distinct, unpleasant sensation that he couldn’t quite get accustomed to: that fingers were reaching up into his brain, spreading until they scraped the inside of his skull as his eyes clouded over with sparks and databursts. He kneaded his left fist and breathed into the blindness. No one else in the barracks seemed bothered by it—that feeling that someone was messing around inside their heads.

It’s a routine diagnostic, Minus had chided him that morning. Get a grip.

Maybe it was some kind of a glitch. Or maybe he just had a harder time letting go than the rest.

“How you feeling in there, Duces?" the Sheikah technician asked from behind the glass. Her topknot was halfway to falling out. He gave her a thumbs up. “Everything looks good. I’m going to proceed with the final upload. You might see a bright light.”

The guidance stone above her terminal ignited that phantasmal sort of blue they all saw in their dreams—and that was an unsettling peculiarity, one that the Sheikah couldn’t seem to explain. Supposedly, the liquid dissolved in the upload process, and any residue would be absorbed by their enhancements. But they all saw it, hovering in the dark like a reflection, whenever they slept. Some of them thought it might be alive.

The datastream condensed at its tip and plummeted.

He felt it coming before he took the brunt of it, like static on the tip of his tongue before a lightning strike. His back arched off the chair and his eyes clamped shut, for all the good that did him. The new subroutines flooded through the uplink, coating his mouth with a flavor that was too metallic. Slowly, achingly, the pounding in his head began to settle, ebbing with the gradually dimming light.

“No abnormalities, no anomalous readings that I can see,” she hummed from the observation room. “Looks like you’re ready for assignments. Let’s get you unplugged.”

The hermetic seal released with a hiss and the door opened. Another Sheikah hovered over him, steadying him with a hand across his throat as he gingerly removed the plug from his socket, and the fingers pulled out of his head along with it. He eased up from the chair, not daring to look back at the cable hanging limply out of the head restraint. He always got the feeling there would be a half dozen twitching digits attached to it.

“How did the rest of the batch do?” he asked, his voice still a bit gravel.

“One hundred percent success rate,” he murmured, already engrossed in his Slate again. “All twenty-two of you passed. First bug-free batch since project inception. Congratulations.”

Considering the protracted duration of the project and its glaring lack of viable prototypes, he would have expected them to be more enthusiastic. But it wasn’t the Sheikah way. No doubt they were already devising new upgrades—how to make them faster, stronger, smarter, less imperfect.

He headed out into the lab, where he encountered no fanfare at all, and saw himself to the barracks level for a quick boost. It was easier to digest new programs at full power—or at least that’s what he told the others, told himself, when he gravitated towards his recharge station after even the tiniest upgrade. Everyone else was out, probably at the training grounds to try out the new protocols or blow off a bit of steam.

He slipped his hand beneath his mess of hair as he approached his cot, fingering the cold metal circle at the base of his skull, not quite sure he regretted it. Not quite sure he would do it over again. He flopped down on his cot, propped himself against the wall, and pulled the cord out of the supercharger.

He turned his wrist over, snapped open the panel on his forearm, and hooked up, barely stifling a gasp at the pleasure that surged through him with the energy.

Nothing like a little dopamine to get him through the disillusionment of reprogramming.

[andawaywego]

A fic where Damie say their first “I love you’s”?

hey! yes! this! i’ve had a few requests for this and i hope you don’t mind, but i set it in a No-Ghosts, Modern AU bc why not? we see what i assume is Jamie’s first “i love you” in the show, which i may touch on later, but i wanted this quiet scene surrounded by the people they love first.

i hope you like it!

..

In the early hours of the day, the kitchen is chilly and mute, blue-gray sunlight drifting in through the windows to cast empty shadows across the counters and floors. The wind rattles through the house, sliding in through any gap it can find, and Jamie thinks that, if she tilts her head just so, she can hear the way the boards beneath her feet, the wood and stone surrounding her, bend and bulge to make room for it.

She tucks herself a little tighter into her sweater and looks across the table at Flora and Miles as they happily eat their cereal, talking to one another and Hannah. Owen is leaned back in his chair at the head of the table, his cup of tea cradled in his hands and steaming a little, still. Providing warmth, perhaps, where the house tries to leech it. Beside her, Dani shifts and their shoulders brush together and, as much of a jolt passes through her at the slight touch, the real magic is this:

That secret, little smile Dani sends her way after. 

Like they are each from a hidden world that belongs to only them—where they exist and twine together in one existence, away from the prying eyes of everyone else—and are only visiting this realm for breakfast, of all things. It says a hundred secrets they’ve whispered in the dark to one another, limbs laced together warmly beneath the sheets as they caught their breath, as they kissed slowly and loose-lipped. Learning and familiar.

It’s been six months of nights spent tangled together in Dani’s bed. Six months of dinner dates in the empty kitchen late at night; of drinks at the only pub in Bly and phone calls before bed. Six months of Dani slowly figuring out sexting and Jamie nearly regretting teaching her about it when she’s interrupted in the middle of the work day with a less-than-appropriate message or worse: photograph.

Six months after that first kiss in June when they’d been walking the grounds one evening. Jamie saying something about her lost family, her shadowed childhood, and Dani turning right then and there and just kissing her. Beneath the sunset-pinked trees at the edge of the property, the heat of the summer pressing down against her skin, sticking her tight to her clothes, as Jamie presses forward into it. 

Dani.

Jamie loves Dani. 

It’s been right there on the tip of her tongue for three full months. She’s come so close to blurting it out on more than one occasion that she’s talked to Owen about it. Hannah. She’s called Rebecca in London and asked for advice on when she’s allowed to just say it. More than once for each of them.

So often, in fact, that Dani might be the only person sitting at the table that doesn’t actually know.

It aches in her chest, rattling around and begging to be set free, but Jamie hasn’t yet. Is too frightened, perhaps. Or maybe there just hasn’t been a good enough time.

Whatever it is, Jamie can see her own pinching emotion reflected back at her from Dani’s smile that morning so clearly that it’s nearly blinding. She’s waxing poetic about wanting to spend a fevered hour beneath the heat of Dani’s mouth in her own mind when Miles’s voice catches her off guard.

“—this afternoon, Miss Clayton?” he is saying.

Dani tears her eyes from Jamie’s and blinks, dazed, then seems to catch up. 

“What’s that?” she asks. Then, “Sorry.”

But Miles doesn’t mind. Doesn’t even register her apology. Just repeats his, “I was asking if we’ll still be painting the school room today,” with little fanfare.

Understanding blesses the soft lines of Dani’s expression. “Yeah, of course,” she says. “You and Flora are going to have to put on clothes that can get paint on them, though, okay?”

Miles nods and Flora lights up the room with a smile of her own. “Oh, splendid,” she says. “I had a dream last night that we all painted a family of bears on the wall! One for each of us. Owen, yours had a mustache.”

“Did it?” Owen asks. “Sounds like a handsome bear.”

“Oh, he was.”

The conversation falls apart then, the children too excited about how they’ll be spending their day to settle down. That’s one of the funny things about Dani: before she showed up, it was like pulling teeth trying to get Miles or Flora to participate in anything resembling a chore. The school room is one that’s needed repainting for a long time—given the humidity of the rainier seasons and its position in the house, the paint has been chipping for years. Jamie always figured that, at some point, she was going to have to just give in and do it on her own, but, now that Dani is here, it seems she’s acquired three new sets of helping hands. Maybe it’s the years of teaching two dozen students in America, or maybe it’s just a special talent, but Dani has managed to turn the mundane into the extraordinary so many times that Jamie wonders sometimes if she might actually be Mary Poppins.

Wonders if that makes her Bert.

Briefly imagines dancing with a cartoon penguin and almost jumps out of her chair when a hand touches her arm.

But it’s just Dani, giving her a look that’s half-amused, half-concerned. “Sorry,” she says, but Jamie shakes her head.

“Don’t hafta apologize for touching me, Poppins,” she says, giving a little wink, and Dani’s cheeks blush pink. “Just caught me off guard.”

Beneath the table, Dani’s hand is still on Jamie’s arm, her grip loose and lovely, sparking like wires up and down the length of Jamie’s skin. She remembers that morning—Dani pressed into her back beneath the covers, one of her arms wrapped around Jamie’s stomach, her fingers moving fluidly and madly between Jamie’s legs. She clenches her thighs together and tries to calm down. 

It doesn’t work.

That’s the thing she’s learned the most often since that first kiss in the gardens: being with Dani is almost like being on fire all the time. Jamie can’t seem to catch a break, and she really believes now that she wouldn’t even take one if it were offered.

“You’re so pretty,” Dani breathes, but that’s clearly not what she’d meant to say. It just comes out in this drifting voice that Jamie recognizes because she has one just like it. Part of her is constantly reassured when Dani speaks like this that she is not the only one left dazed by their each interaction. 

“So are you,” Jamie says. “Before you ask, I’m going to go pick up the paint after breakfast.”

Dani’s eyebrows lift a little, then settle back down. That’s what she’d meant to discuss, apparently, and, now that Jamie has finished the thought for her, she seems a bit more in control of herself and the situation. 

“You’re a saint,” she says next and Jamie rolls her eyes.

“Hardly.”

Across the table, Hannah is getting to her feet and the children are doing the same, grabbing their used dishes and toddling after the older woman to take them to the sink. Dani and Jamie linger at the table for a beat, neither of them willing to release the other from their hold when faced with a long day spent beneath the watchful, innocent eyes of two children.

Finally, Owen stands up and they have no choice. Their only alternative is to spend the rest of the day sitting right there and Jamie thinks she’d end up getting a little stiff if they decided on that. 

Dani offers to take Jamie’s mug to the sink and Jamie smiles.

Says, “Thanks,” and watches her girlfriend make her way over, setting the dishes she’s carrying on the counter beside where Miles is obediently filling up the sink with warm, soapy water.

“Who’s going to be my dish-dryer?” she asks, her voice enthusiastic despite the content of her question. 

Still—magic as ever—Miles and Flora flood the air with eager I will’s and let me’s. 

Owen gives Dani an impressed look. Hannah just smiles and leans against the island counter. 

“I’m gonna head to the hardware shop,” Jamie says, seemingly to no one in particular, but it has its intended effect. 

Dani turns around from the sink and smiles over at her. “You really are a saint,” she says without a hint of joking.

“Just make sure the little gremlins are dressed and ready when I get back,” Jamie tells her. “Housework waits for no man.”

“Hear, hear!” Owen says and Dani laughs as she steps around the counter to reach Jamie, still standing there.

“If you think of anything else you’ll need, let me know,” Jamie says and Dani nods, reaching out to touch Jamie’s cold hand with her own. 

“I will,” she says. “Thank you. Again.”

Jamie shrugs. “No trouble. Won’t take too long.”

Normally, this would be the part where Dani would give her a quick peck on the cheek or on the lips and say her goodbyes. Just a quick thing because they’re half-a-year into being together and that’s the sort of thing couples do. Or so Jamie has seen on TV and is learning now—she hadn’t much experience before Dani. It’s happened so often in the past that it’s practically routine now, but things are different just then.

Something changes.

Because Dani does lean in and give Jamie a quick kiss on the lips. She does say, “Hurry back,” like she normally might have, but there’s an extra part thrown in at the last second. 

“Love you.”

Dani says it so quickly, so thoughtlessly, that Jamie responds before she even processes the significance of those two words.

She just says, “Love you, too,” and goes to pull away.

But, before she can, everything comes crashing into her like a freight train. Dani seems to be undergoing the same realization Jamie is given the way her eyes are wide and unblinking.

They stare at each other for a moment—seemingly forever. Dani stands in front of Jamie, the light from outside brightening her hair into a halo like an angel’s, and her blood is pumping swift through her heart and veins. It’s strange that all she’s doing is standing in the kitchen—Miles and Flora and Hannah and Owen standing just behind Dani—and yet she feels like she could very suddenly run to the moon and back without needing a break. 

Like she could fly or spread her arms around the world without an ounce of trouble and squeeze it tight. Like she should because Dani just said she loves her and shouldn’t that make her capable of anything?

She thinks so.

“I love you,” she hears herself say, slower this time, making sure that Dani understands.

Dani’s lips part just barely and she nods like she’s agreeing to something, but Jamie isn’t sure what. “I love you, too,” she says. “Hey.” 

“Yeah?” Jamie asks, her eyes tracing the gentle shape of Dani’s face, the dip of her nose and the slender arch of her neck. 

Dani leans forward a little, their foreheads brushing. “I love you,” she repeats.

Their lips brush together, soft and singing reverence in a kiss that can’t be sustained because each of them is smiling too much for that. Cool fingers wrap themselves around Jamie’s hands and it very suddenly doesn’t matter who else is in the room for this. It might as well just be them.

An ordinary morning. Breakfast in the kitchen and work to do later. After a night spent doing normal things; making dinner together and watching TV. Jamie vacuumed her flat and Dani wiped down her counters and then they fell into bed together because that’s what it is to love someone. 

That’s how you do it.

In the little in-between times. Love in offering your jacket when it’s cold; in pressing your chilled toes against the warmth of your other’s skin; in brushing your teeth side-by-side and holding hands when you’re waiting in line with your shopping basket at the market.

What is so frightening about that?

What better time to say it than when you can’t keep it contained any longer?

Nothing.

There isn’t a better time.

Easy does it.

Life ticks on around them—the children laughing and splashing one another with water, Owen making a joke that only Hannah finds funny, and that soft, green paint waiting to be picked up in town—but Jamie takes a moment to breathe. To let the puzzle pieces slide together, colors mixing in and stirring out smooth. Clean.

Leans in and kisses Dani again, longer this time, and says what she’s been wanting to say all along, which is this:

“I love you, Dani. I love you, too.”

..

[440mxs-wife]

The Great Debate

Pairing: Sam x Reader. Other Characters: Dean, Sheriff, Deputy Frank Walters (OMC’s)

Word Count: 6080+

Warnings: mild show-level violence

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"Are you kidding me, Sam?" you exclaimed. "There's no question in my mind who would win that fight," you grumbled.

Sam rolled his eyes from the front seat of the Impala. He turned around to face you sitting in the back seat. "Okay, Miss Smarty Pants, who do YOU think would win that fight?" he demanded.

You let out an exasperated sigh before answering. "First of all, I don't think, Sam, I already know. Lieutenant Worf from Starfleet would definitely win in a fight against Chewbacca!" you retorted.

Sam snorted. "No way! Chewie has the brute strength, not to mention he's oh, I don't know, EIGHT FEET TALL," Sam shot back.

"Maybe so, but Lieutenant Worf is a KLINGON, plus he has the training and the skills to fight with multiple weapons. He doesn't just rely on 'brute strength'," you mocked.

"Yeah, but--" Sam started.

"Oh, for crying out loud, will you two nerds just shut up!" Dean thundered.

You and Sam glared at each other for about ten seconds, then busted out laughing at Dean's outburst.

"Relax, Dean. We're not really fighting," you explained between giggles.

"Yeah Dean, relax. Just two best friends having a healthy debate of Star Wars vs. Star Trek, and why Star Wars is the best," Sam grinned.

"As if, Sam!" you shot back in mock annoyance, playfully swatting Sam's arm. You looked at Dean just in time to see him roll his eyes at the antics going on between you and his brother.

You and the Winchesters were on your way to tracking down the cause of some unusual activity in Colorado. All indications pointed to demons, especially with the traces of sulfur left behind at the crime scenes.

Dean pulled into a space in the parking lot of the Moonstone Motel. He gave the two of you one last glare before he exited the Impala and headed for the motel manager's office.

That left just you and Sam in the car, which served to kick your heart rate up a bit. His chin rested in the crook of his elbow, his arm perched on the edge of the front seat. He looked at you with a playful grin on his face.

"What?" you asked with a chuckle.

"Nothing," he replied, still with that grin on his face. "You look pretty today," he remarked softly.

You felt your cheeks grow warm at the unexpected compliment from an unexpected source. Before you could open your mouth to respond, Dean opened the car door and settled back into the driver's seat.

Dean parked the Impala in front of the rooms, then handed you a key for your own room, #12. Sam followed his brother to their room, #11. As you put the key into the lock, Dean was doing the same for their room. You flashed Sam a warm smile, then ducked into your room.

You dropped your bag on one of the chairs and perched on the edge of the bed. You took a deep breath then flopped back onto the mattress. After staring at the ceiling for a while, you decided to take a shower. While washing your hair, you replayed the events that had occurred in the car just before you arrived at the motel.

It was an age-old debate between you and Sam, Star Wars vs. Star Trek. It was something the two of you liked to engage in to annoy the hell out of Dean on long car rides. He endured it for as long as he could, then usually ended up telling the both of you to shut up. Sometimes, either you or Sam tried to get in one last parting shot against the other. Dean would again yell at the offender to shut up, and that would be the end of it.

You thought back on some of your previous discussions. Marvel vs. DC, Lord of the Rings vs. Harry Potter, even Looney Tunes vs. Tom and Jerry. Sam had fought you tooth and nail on most of those until you finally had to call a truce, basically agreeing to disagree.

However, today's debate ended without the usual fanfare of one of you trying to get in the last word. It was almost like he let you win, but Sam wasn't known to do that. He was nothing if not persistent, practically to the point of being irritating. There was no way you could ever be angry with Sam for long, though, not with how you felt about him. Then there was his last comment, just before Dean got back in the car. What was up with that? you wondered.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

You had first met the Winchesters about seven years ago, when they rescued you on a shapeshifter hunt in Evansville, Indiana. Your hunting partner, Andrew, had been captured by the shifter. You tracked it through the sewer tunnels beneath the city, but by the time you found Andrew, it was too late. As you tried to recover from your initial shock of Andrew's death, the shifter ambushed you. You got knocked around, hit your head a couple of times and broke your arm in the process.

The shifter managed to get the upper hand and knocked you to the ground again. Your silver knife was just out of your reach, and you were fighting hard just to remain conscious. As the shifter was about to strike the final blow, Dean came out of the shadows and killed it.

Sam came rushing to your side, checking you for injuries, while Dean looked around for other shifters and/or victims. Once Sam was satisfied you could be moved without causing further injury, he picked you up and put you in the backseat of your '68 Nova. He drove you to the hospital and stayed while you were treated for your broken arm and probable concussion.

The hospital wouldn't release you on your own due to the concussion, so Sam volunteered to be responsible for you. He drove your car back to the motel, which happened to be the same one that they were staying in, only a couple of doors down. You spent the evening getting to know Sam, while Dean went off to the local bar to celebrate a successful hunt.

As the months went by, the two of you became best friends. After awhile, you found that your feelings toward Sam had begun to change. At first, you dismissed it as some sort of "hero worship", from the aftermath of the shifter case. Then, you thought maybe it was infatuation, from the way he took care of you, almost like a "Florence Nightingale" effect.

Eventually, you realized that your feelings for the younger Winchester went beyond best friends and were not related to the shifter incident. However, after having had your heart broken before, you were reluctant to take that leap of faith to reveal your true feelings to Sam.

Over time, you've done your best to hide them, push them down and pretend they didn't exist. Even so, the current course of action was becoming more difficult with every smile, every lingering look and every touch that electrified your skin. After what happened on the car ride today, you knew something was going to break sooner or later. You just weren't sure what you'd do when it did.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

In Room #11

"So, what do you say, Sammy? What say we find a bar, have a few drinks and go check out the 'local wildlife', hmm?" Dean grinned, waggling his eyebrows.

Sam was researching something on his laptop. "Nah, you go on ahead, Dean. I'll just stay here, see what else I can find out about this case," he mumbled, eyes never leaving the computer screen.

"Come on, Sammy, you know what they say. All research and no whiskey makes Sam a dull boy," Dean teased.

Sam threw Dean one of his famous bitch faces. "Really Dean? That's the best you've got?" he grumbled.

"What's with you, man? You don't want to come out tonight for a drink and to dance with a pretty girl, you'd rather stay in. Oh, and by the way? Why did you let her win that argument today?" Dean remarked.

"What are you talking about? I didn't let her win anything. You told us to stop arguing, so we did," Sam replied.

"Yeah, but one of you usually throws in one last parting shot, and neither one of you even tried. So, I ask again, little brother, what's with you?" Dean asked. "Are you really that tired? Did you think she was right? Do you like her or something?" he persisted.

When Sam looked up in response to his last question, awareness suddenly dawned on Dean. "You do like her! I'll bet you wanted her to know what it feels like to win, so you caved! Oh, this is too sweet," Dean gloated.

"Shut up, Dean, you don't know what you're talking about," Sam growled. "Besides, even if I did have feelings for her, there's no way she'd return them. She's an amazing woman. Smart, beautiful, and she deserves someone who can give her the world. Besides, she's my best friend, for cryin' out loud. Probably all we'll ever be, though," he muttered.

Dean pursed his lips. Oh, Sammy, if only you knew what I know, he thought to himself. Dean found out about your feelings for Sam after a drunken night in the library. After one too many shots of whiskey, you'd let the confession slip out, and instantly panicked. You made Dean swear not to tell Sam, but he also made you promise to tell Sam before too much time passed.

Dean shrugged, grabbed his keys to the Impala and headed out the door. "All right, but don't wait up. You know, you don't have to stay in here all alone after I leave," he grinned mischievously.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Whatever, Dean," he replied. Dean finally left the room, got into the Impala and headed for the bar. "Finally," Sam grumbled.

He thought about Dean's last comment, the one about not staying in their room all alone while he went out. Sam wondered if you were already asleep, or if you might be interested in watching a movie with him. He quickly changed into his pajamas, made sure he had the motel room key in his pocket and knocked on your door.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

As you towel-dried your hair, you heard the roar of the Impala's engine as she pulled away from the motel. Guess the two of them are headed out to blow off some steam, you said to yourself. As you were about to pull the blankets over your head, you heard a knock at the door. You glanced through the peephole and saw that it was Sam.

"Hi," you greeted him as you stepped aside to let him in.

"Hey," he replied. He looked at you then at the blankets turned down. "Oh, you were just going to bed, I'm sorry. I should go," he stammered.

You put your hands on his solid, muscular chest to stop him. "No, no, you don't have to go. As long as you're here, would you like to watch something on TV?" you asked hopefully.

"Sure, a-as long as I'm here," Sam smiled shyly. Your hands on his chest seemed to solidify his decision to stay.

You went over to your previous spot on the bed and got your legs under the blankets then maneuvered into a sitting position. You were having some difficulty in propping up some pillows between your back and the headboard. After he got underneath the blankets, Sam reached over and helped put the pillows in the right place for you. "Thank you, Sam," you remarked softly.

Sam looked around for the remote then found it on the nightstand by his side of the bed. He offered it to you, but you declined. He flicked the power button and started to run through the channels, finally settling on the first of four parts of The Stand by Stephen King. "Is this okay?" he asked.

You shuddered, remembering the parts that you had read from the novel that were a little disturbing this late at night. You had enough nightmares from what you saw with your own eyes on a daily basis, let alone what your imagination could conjure up. "Yeah, I'll be all right, I guess. It's just a TV show, after all," you replied nervously.

Sam chuckled softly and put his arm around you to bring you closer to his side. "Don't worry, I'm here, I've got you. I won't let anything happen to you," he promised. In response, you put your head on Sam's shoulder and your hand on his chest. You let out an audible sigh of contentment and tried to concentrate on the program. There were a couple of jump-scare moments in the show, but Sam was there to hold you and calm you back down.

Soon enough, your eyelids started to droop and you were having a hard time keeping awake to watch the program. Finally, you gave in to your exhaustion and your eyes slid closed for the night. Sam pulled you closer to his side and dipped his head towards you. He pressed his lips to your temple in a lingering kiss and whispered, "Goodnight, sweetheart."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The next morning, you woke to a heavy weight across your midsection and a toasty, warm feeling throughout your body. When you looked down, you noticed that it was Sam's arm draped across you, keeping you held close to his body. You tried to carefully ease out of bed without waking him, but Sam was having none of that. "Mmm, g'morning, baby," he mumbled then kissed your bare shoulder where your T-shirt had slipped off.

The feel of his soft lips on your bare skin sent an electric shock wave racing straight to your core. "G-good morning, Sam," you stammered. You turned over to face him and saw that his eyes were still closed. You reached over and brushed a lock of his thick chestnut hair behind his ear, then traced his jawline with your index finger. Sam caught your hand in his and kissed each fingertip, one by one.

As much as you were enjoying this, you told yourself that it wasn't real. Sam was stuck in some dream-like state, one where he was kissing some other woman just like he was kissing you. That was the only explanation you would let yourself accept. Eventually, you were able to get out from under Sam's arm and make your way to the bathroom with your bag.

Today was the day for meeting with the local authorities and questioning the witnesses. That meant wearing your Fed suit with the black pencil skirt, white button-down blouse and black blazer. You ran a quick brush through your hair then focused on your make-up. You had left your shoes by the door, only wanting to put them on at the last minute.

When you walked out of the bathroom, Sam was sitting up in bed and Dean was already in his Fed suit. He had brought coffee and breakfast with him. You could feel an awkward silence in the room, as if you'd interrupted a discussion the boys were having. Sam rubbed his eyes then got out of bed. "I'm gonna go get dressed, then meet you both back here," he stated. He flashed you a quick smile then walked out of your door and over to his and Dean's room.

Dean looked at you with an all-knowing smirk on his face. "So, how was it last night?" he asked.

"What exactly do you think happened, Dean? Sam came over after you left, and we watched TV," you mentioned.

"All I know is that Sam didn't sleep in his bed last night, so he had to have slept here," Dean pointed out.

"Dean, what more do you want me to say? I fell asleep watching TV, and the next thing I know, I'm waking up with Sam still here in my room," you explained. Which was a pleasant surprise, you thought.

"Oh-ho, a little 'Netflix and Chill', hmm?" he grinned and waggled his eyebrows.

You rolled your eyes in disgust. "Oh, will you grow up, Winchester? Not everything is about sex," you retorted.

"Fine," he huffed. "One question though," he mentioned.

"What?" you replied wearily.

"Who was the big spoon?" Dean asked with a know-it-all smirk still on his face.

You answered him by slapping his face with a pillow from the bed. Sam walked back into the room just in time to witness the pillow being slammed into his brother's face, causing him to laugh. You gave each other a high-five.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

After breakfast, the three of you climbed into the Impala and went over to the local sheriff's department. You wanted to see what they had turned up and also to get a look at the victims. Sam and Dean introduced themselves to the sheriff and began chatting with them about the crime scene and the victims. At the same time, you were trying to see what additional information the deputy may have.

Deputy Walters was kind of young, a little shy and soft-spoken, not exactly the tough-as-nails lawman you might expect. So, during your questions, you turned on your feminine charms, hoping that it might elicit more information. You hated to be reduced to using such tactics, but you reminded yourself that lives were at stake.

As you spoke to Deputy Walters, you noticed that Sam kept glancing over. His frown seemed to deepen the longer you and the deputy were talking. You made a mental note to ask him about it later.

"Well, I think that about does it, Deputy Walters. You've given me a lot of good information for me to review with my fellow agents. Thank you," you remarked, putting a hand on his arm.

"Please, call me Frank. And, you're welcome. Anything to help out an agent from the bureau. 'Specially one as pretty as yourself," Frank gushed. "How much longer are you in town?" he asked.

You felt your cheeks grow warm at his compliment. "Not sure, I still have to compare notes with those two, then go from there. Why?" you inquired.

"I was kind of hoping that maybe you might want to go out for dinner with me tonight? It's kind of a small town, and most of the ladies my age are already married. Besides, it's not every day that I get to meet a gorgeous woman who's also an FBI agent," Deputy Walters remarked shyly.

"How nice of you to say, Deputy Walt--Frank," you replied softly. You looked over at Sam and Dean, who were both still discussing the case with the sheriff. "I think dinner tonight could be arranged," you agreed.

"Really? I-I mean, that's great! How about we meet back at the station at 7, and we can go to dinner from here?" he suggested.

"Sounds great, I'll have one of my partners drop me back here at 7," you said.

"Until then, sweet lady," Deputy Walters took your hand and brushed his lips across the back.

Sam's eyes grew wide as he witnessed this exchange from across the room. He abruptly excused himself from Dean's side and made his way to yours. Sam placed a hand on your back and quickly ushered you out to stand next to the Impala to wait for Dean.

Once you were outside, you whirled around and turned to face Sam. "What the hell was that, Winchester?" you demanded.

"Me? What the hell were you doing, flirting with the deputy?" he retorted.

You pinched the bridge of your nose between your thumb and forefinger. "It's the same as we've always done. We've got a small-town deputy who seems to be a little lonely and we need info. So, like always, you and Dean leave me to turn on the flirt. Don't worry, I have every intention of sharing with you all the information that Frank gave me. Before I head out for my date with him tonight, that is," you finished.

Sam's eyes grew wide at your revelation of going out on a date with someone. "Frank? Who's Frank? And a date?!? You're not going out on any date tonight, not with him!" he exclaimed.

You took a deep breath in an effort to calm yourself before answering. "Deputy Frank Walters and I will be going out to dinner tonight in town. He will be waiting for me at the station at 7, and I have every intention of keeping that promise!" you shot back.

"This is not one of our 'friendly debates', this is about you and your safety. We still don't know who's behind all this demon activity. For all we know, it could be Barney Fife over there," Sam huffed.

A thought struck you about Sam's true reason for not wanting you to go out on a date with someone. "Are you jealous?" you inquired.

"What?" he asked.

"That's why you don't want me to go out with Barn--Frank tonight. You're jealous!" you smirked.

"Don't be ridiculous. He knows we're only in town for a short period of time. And it's you who can't see that he's only seizing this opportunity to use you. Just to 'scratch an itch', without any long-term commitment," Sam muttered.

The look of horror on your face instantly told Sam he had taken his debate one step too far. He reached out to you to apologize, but you backed away from him. "I can't believe you said that to me," you whispered.

"Wait, I'm--" Sam pleaded, his hands outstretched towards you.

"DON'T," you shouted. "Don't touch me, don't talk to me, just stay away from me right now," you growled.

Neither of you noticed that Dean had finished talking to the sheriff. As he walked over, he had been watching the entire heated exchange between the two of you. "What's going on here?" he asked.

"Nothing," you both answered in unison, your response a bit louder then Sam's was. You yanked open the rear passenger door and settled into your seat, arms folded across your chest.

Sam did the same, taking a bit more time to settle in as he reflected on the last bit of your conversation. Am I jealous, like she said? he thought to himself. Why should I care who she goes out with? It's not like we're a couple or anything, he silently reasoned. But I wish we were, Sam shook his head at that last thought.

Dean looked at the two of you before he left the station to head back to the motel. "Oh. Yeah. Obviously it's 'nothing'," he observed dryly.

The Impala was barely put in park at the motel before you were the first one out the door. Your keys at the ready, you were in your room with the door closed before Sam and Dean had even taken off their seat belts.

"Dude, I don't think I've ever seen her so pissed. At anybody, let alone you. What did you say to her?" Dean asked.

Sam closed his eyes and took a deep breath before explaining the previous conversation to his brother. "Whoa," Dean said when Sam finished. "You know she's not like that, Sam. She's not into one-night stands and she's not completely naïve about guys," Dean replied.

"Yeah, I know, and I didn't even mean it, either. But she's right, I am jealous of her going out with that deputy. I still may be right, too, though. We don't know who's behind all the demon activity around here. Deputy Dumbass being the cause of it isn't the most far-fetched idea, you know," Sam grumbled.

"Maybe. It could be the deputy. But all that aside, Sammy, you're gonna have to man up and tell her how you feel at some point," Dean replied as his phone buzzed in his pocket. When he unlocked his phone, he saw it was a text message from you.

You: Dean, will you please take me back to the station for my date? Need to be there by 7

DW: Yeah, I can do that. You ready yet?

You: Almost. Will text you when I am.

DW: Don't worry. Gonna be just you and me in the car, kid. Sending Sam to his room without supper lol.

You: Thanks, Dean.

"Is that her?" Sam asked. "Ready for her date?"

"She said she was 'almost ready'. I told her I was sending you to your room, so you gotta clear out, man. Don't worry, Sam. She's tough, she'll be all right," Dean tried to reassure his brother.

About ten minutes later, a buzz in Dean's pocket showed a text message that said you were ready to go. Dean relayed the message to Sam, who then got out of the car. He unlocked the motel room door and went inside, but stood waiting with it cracked open just a little. He wanted to see how you looked, all dressed up for your date. Also, to torture himself a bit more that it wasn't him you'd be out with tonight.

For your outfit, you were wearing your newest pair of faded blue jeans with a sparkly, navy blue top that had a boat-neck opening. You had on your black ankle boots with the wedge heel, and you had kept your jewelry and make-up simple. Sam drew in a deep breath at how beautiful you looked tonight and sent a silent prayer to anyone listening that you be kept safe.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Dinner with Frank passed pleasantly enough, each of you asking questions to get to know each other better. You tried to keep your answers as vague as possible regarding your background and current occupation. You told him about your family and about losing Andrew in a car accident, instead of on a shifter hunt.

As you walked out to his car after dinner, Frank suggested that you go out for a couple of drinks and maybe some dancing. "I'm having a great time, and I don't exactly want it to end," he murmured as the two of you stood by his car.

He had his arms around you, and he was looking directly into your eyes as his hand caressed your cheek. It had been awhile since you'd had that kind of attention from any man. But with as shyly as he was acting earlier compared to now, alarm bells started going off in your head.

"Frank, it's getting late, I really should get going. Here, let me text my co-worker so that he can meet us back at the station," you said as you reached for your pocket.

"That sounds perfect, since we know those Winchesters will drop everything to come rescue you," Frank sneered.

"What are you talking about? My partners' names are--" you were cut off by his hand at your throat, lightly squeezing it.

"Save it!" he hissed. "Everyone knows you're working with those two flannel-jockeys," he retorted as his eyes flashed to all black.

"It's you," you whispered. "You're the one behind the demon attacks around here," you growled.

"That's right. Now call them and tell them to meet us here. If you don't, it's going to be a very unpleasant ending to our 'date'," he sneered.

You pulled out your phone to dial Dean's number. He picked up on the second ring. "Hey, sweetheart, is your date over with already?" he asked.

"H-hey, Dean. Yeah, I'm ready to come back. Dinner was nice, but it's getting late so we decided to call it a night," you replied shakily.

"Everything okay, honey?" Dean asked, his tone shifting to one of concern.

"Frank" gave your neck a little squeeze and a warning glare to remind you of the consequences should Dean not take the bait. "Y-yeah, I'm okay, just tired. Deputy kinda reminds me of that guy I went out with from Poughkeepsie," you chuckled nervously.

"Okay, we're on the way. Pick you back up at the station, right?" he asked.

"That's right," you choked out. "See you soon, Dean," you whispered. Hope so, you silently added as you disconnected the call.

"Now, we wait," the demon said smugly.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Dean grimly looked at his phone after the call was disconnected. Sam could tell something had gone wrong, and he knew you were in trouble. "The demon--" Sam started.

"Yeah. Just like you said, Sam," Dean confirmed.

Sam closed his eyes and looked at the ceiling. Now was not the time for the I-told-you-so's. The main focus at hand was that they had to get you back safely. Dean grabbed his car keys and ran out the door, with Sam close behind.

Before getting behind the wheel, the boys checked the trunk to make sure they had a good supply of holy water and their angel or demon blades. When they were satisfied in their preparations, they got back in the car and headed over to the sheriff's station. On the way, Dean sent up a prayer to Castiel, just in case.

When they got near the station, they noted that there were five demon sentries keeping watch. Inside, the demon wearing Deputy Walters as a meatsuit had tied you to an office chair. He kept looking out the window for any signs of the Winchesters.

"You don't really think they're going to waltz in the front door, do you?" you scoffed.

The demon backhanded you across the face in response. "Keep quiet. They'll be here, it's just a matter of time. I hope they get here quick, because this meatsuit isn't cooperating too well. Keeps squirming, telling me not to hurt you," he mocked.

"Leave him alone!" you growled.

"You're not really in any kind of position to make demands, now are you?" he sneered.

"Listen to me Frank, I know you're in there, and you've got to fight! You can do this, just kick him out!" you pleaded. Another slap to the face, this one hard enough to bring tears to your eyes.

"Shut up! Or I will hurt him from the inside and it will be all your fault if he dies," the demon snapped. A noise outside caught his attention, and you prayed that it was your rescue party. You also hoped they would be able to make it into the building undetected.

"Looks like the party's about to get started," the demon cackled with glee. His grin faltered when he began to hear demon screams and see several orange flashes. You both knew that meant his demon army was being taken out, one by one.

"Noooooo!" he cried. With his master plan unraveled, the demon chose to smoke out rather than be sent back to Hell by Sam or Dean. Deputy Walters' body slumped to the floor, unconscious.

From your chair, you visibly relaxed when you saw that the demon was gone. Your head was down, and silent tears began streaming down your face. Sam and Dean walked in, guns drawn, but quickly put them away when they saw there was no longer a threat.

Dean tended to Deputy Walters, and for the most part, the deputy was okay. At some point, he was probably going to have to get 'the talk'. You knew he would need it to help him make sense about what happened.

Sam rushed over to your side and began to untie the ropes holding you to the chair. He helped you stand up once you were all untied. He gingerly massaged your wrists where the ropes had started to bite into them.

As you stood before him, you continued to cast your eyes downward, unable to look Sam in the eye. You felt a bit ashamed of how the two of you had fought before your date with the deputy. What you considered to be jealousy, was really only Sam's concern for your safety. Turns out he was correct in that the demon possessing Deputy Walters was the one you were supposed to be hunting.

"Hey," Sam said softly. "Come on, sweetheart, look at me. Please," he pleaded. You shook your head, but Sam hooked his finger under your chin and tilted it up so he could look into your eyes. His face fell at seeing the marks on your face from being slapped around by the demon. "Oh, baby, I'm so sorry this happened," he whispered.

"You've got nothing to be sorry for, Sam, I do. I apologize for not listening to you that the deputy may be possessed and the cause of all of this. If I had, none of this would've happened. I'm so sorry for how I acted earlier," you remarked softly.

"What matters is that you and the deputy are safe, and the demon left the meatsuit behind," he reminded you. His fingertips gently brushed your cheek, then he slid his hand to cup the back of your head. Ever so slowly, Sam inched forward to close the gap between you until you felt his soft lips meshing with yours in a slow, tender kiss.

"Whoa," you whispered after you and Sam broke apart from the kiss. "So that's how best friends kiss after a near-death experience with a demon?" you asked.

Sam chuckled lightly. "I don't know about that, but it's my way of showing you that I consider you as more than my best friend. I-I'm in love with you. Your smile, your laugh, everything. I could lose myself for hours in your expressive eyes. I want to run my fingers through your soft, silky hair. And my lips are itching to not only kiss your lips, but any other part of your bare skin that presents itself," he finished softly.

"Oh. Well, you certainly have made a compelling case. Only this time, I'm in complete agreement with you. I'm in love with you, too, Sam. Your intelligence, your compassion, how I know I can tell you anything and you won't judge me. Your strong arms that I know will keep me safe and comfort me when I need it. And those lips of yours sure do talk a good game. I, for one, cannot wait to feel their magic wherever they may travel over me," you responded.

It took all of about three seconds before you dove towards each other and your lips crashed together in passion-filled kiss. Sam's tongue darted out, intending to break the seal on your mouth, and you gladly granted him access with a smile. As quickly as the kiss started, you slowed down and took your time to taste and explore each other's mouth. A tiny moan escaped your lips, which seemed to re-ignite the fire within Sam, causing him to pick up the pace again.

When the need to breathe became too great, you broke apart, both of you panting heavily. "Wow, Sam, you're amazing," you remarked.

"Baby, you're the amazing one. I wasn't sure how much longer I would've been able to keep my feelings for you hidden away," Sam replied. "I love you so much," he declared.

"You know, I think I fell in love with you right after we met, after that shifter case?" you asked, to which he nodded. "At first I thought it was some sort of 'hero worship', because you rescued me and took such good care of me afterwards. But I can't deny it anymore. I love you too, Sam," you replied.

From the doorway, you heard the sound of someone clearing his throat. You both looked over to see Dean standing there, that know-it-all smirk back on his face. "It's about time you two confessed your feelings. I didn't know how much longer I was going to be able to stand watching you dance around each other," he grinned.

On the way home, Sam sat in the backseat of the Impala with you. His body was wedged into a corner, his back to the passenger-side door. Then his left leg was stretched out across the length of the bench seat. You sat in front of Sam, your back against his chest and his arms around you.

With the purr of the engine rumbling down the highway, you relaxed against each other. Dean turned around at one point to see that you had fallen asleep in each others' arms. He was happy for you and his brother. "Nerd love," he remarked affectionately, shaking his head.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Tags: @yourelivingwrong @akshi8278 @magssteenkamp @swiftlymoniquesblog @lyarr24 @miss-nerd95 @distefano123 @hobby27 @deanwanddamons @jessica-noel94 @wayward-mikaelson @jawritter @gabrielslittleangel @janicho88 @jensengirl83 @deangirl93 @idreamofplaid @like-a-bag-of-potatoes @winchesterprincessbride

[likeshipsonthesea]

hi could you do "but you don’t know the hell you put me through; to have someone kiss the skin that crawls from you" for the geraskier prompts? also i really love your writing! thanks :D

from this list, thank you so much for the prompt! anyone else who would like to send one in, feel free! trying to get into writing the witcher fic but turns out it took me 4 years to get comfortable writing cp! characters and i Am Lost. still, i think this turned out p good and i hope y’all like it :)

from Hozier’s “To Be Alone” geraskier for “but you don’t know the hell you put me through; to have someone kiss the skin that crawls from you” i used inspo from the whole song, not just the one lyric, but yeah. it fits i think

warning for some mild blood, gore, & violence (typical to the show)

           The worst part, in Geralt’s opinion, of walking back into town covered in the remnants of a ghoul’s last meal isn’t the stench of half-digested rotting flesh, the itch of blood drying against his skin and beginning to flake off, or the too-bright light of the sun unmarred by a canopy of trees. The worst part is most definitely the roaring chatter of voices, whispers sharp and breathy, gasps pinpricks against the back of his neck.

           A ghoul shouldn’t have made him this “touchy,” as Jaskier liked to call it, but, Geralt allows himself, it was not just a ghoul.

           “Not that the scent of death isn’t a lovely complement to your usual brood, but must you always bathe in the innards of your monsters once you slay them?”

           Geralt rumbles, stepping towards Jaskier’s voice. He can’t see him through his blinking, through the crowd, but he can hear his heartbeat louder than the townspeople now that he’s announced himself and Geralt can focus on him.

           Jaskier pushes through the crowd in a moment or two, frowning deeply at Geralt. The sight of Jaskier sends a shudder through Geralt. Fucking ghouls, Geralt growls.

           “No need for dramatics,” Jaskier says, taking Roach’s reins from Geralt. “Your coin is waiting in the inn and there’s bathwater being boiled as we speak.”

           Geralt stares at Jaskier, his own head tilted down to block out the sun. Jaskier’s turned his attention to Roach, petting down her nose, murmuring something like, “Darling girl,” under his breath. Geralt clenches his hands tightly, shakes them. Jaskier looks up and frowns again.

           “I’ll see to it that Roach is cared for,” Jaskier says. He smirks in his charming way, something that should be irksome but somehow – isn’t. “Go collect your spoils, Geralt.”

           Geralt.

           The sorcerer’s magic must have been waiting for a very long time, biding its time, building. It had accounted for nearly every detail, every crinkle of smile, every lilt in his voice, every casual touch, except for that, except for how Jaskier said his name. Jaskier could be annoyed with him, enraged with him, pleading or teasing or charming, but every time he spoke Geralt’s name – not Butcher, or White Wolf, or Witcher – every time, his heartbeat aligned with the syllables and his lips twitched, not necessarily up or down, just – acknowledgement.

           Geralt nods, jerky, and turns towards the inn. Magic powerful enough to trick a Witcher, and yet Jaskier was still unmatchable.

           The inn’s owner seems grateful for Geralt’s services, if not his scent, and hands over the coin with little fanfare. The room he directs Geralt to holds a bath with steam rising from its surface. Geralt removes his armor, then his clothes, and sinks into the water with a deep sigh.

           If he closes his eyes, he can imagine he’s still within the magic’s grasp. Geralt assumes the spell was meant to trap one within their own paradise, or something to that end, so of course Geralt’s had included a bath.

           “Is it a Witcher thing or a you thing?” the fake Jaskier had asked, voice close, just behind Geralt’s head. Geralt had rumbled a questioning noise and the mirage had continued. “Your fondness for baths. Is that the Path, or just you?”

           Geralt had growled. Jaskier had laughed.

           “Just you, then.”

           Geralt hadn’t responded, but Jaskier hadn’t seemed to need confirmation. The water had remained hot, scalding, through the long moments of silence, as Geralt had laid with his eyes closed, listening to Jaskier’s heartbeat. Then, without warning, Jaskier’s hands had fallen into Geralt’s hair.

           “What a mess you make of this glorious mane,” Jaskier had sighed, deft fingers careful as they untangled knots. Geralt had hummed, leaned back into the touch. When all the knots were gone, Jaskier ran his fingers through Geralt’s hair, pressing into his scalp, tender. With a soft tug, he’d brought Geralt’s head back against the lip of the tub, eyes closed, neck exposed.

           “Do my eyes deceive me,” Jaskier had whispered, teasing, “or is a relaxed Witcher sitting before me?”

           Geralt growled, but he hadn’t moved.

           Jaskier’s voice suddenly became nearer, above. “It’s nice, isn’t it?” he’d murmured, just before his lips came down on Geralt’s forehead. Geralt had inhaled, sharp, but hadn’t moved. Lips drifted down, pressing over one eyelid, then the other.

           Geralt remembers that it hurt. The softness. Against the delicate skin of his eyelids, Jaskier had pressed with the barest of pressures, lips curved into a smile. Dangerous, Geralt had thought. To be held as a soft thing, even fleetingly, would cut him deeper than any monster he could encounter.

           Geralt’s slow heart had begun to tap. One of Jaskier’s hands released from Geralt’s hair, sliding down his chest to rest over the thump. “It’s alright, Geralt,” Jaskier had said, sweet, against Geralt’s ear, and Geralt’s heart had begun to slow.

           Jaskier’s lips hadn’t twitched.

           “Well, you didn’t waste much time,” Jaskier says, laughing, as he enters their shared room. Geralt opens his eyes. He watches Jaskier move about, settling, undoing the buttons of his doublet in the steamed heat. His hands move quickly, practiced, and the smooth roll of his shoulders as he shrugs out of the garment steals Geralt’s breath.

           Jaskier, oblivious, takes his seat on the bed, facing Geralt. His eyes, expectant, settle on Geralt, and he must stifle the shudder growing under his skin.

           “You promised details,” Jaskier says, pointing accusatorily. “I was a very good bard and stayed back as requested. So be the noble man I know you are and hold up your end of the deal.”

           Geralt huffs. Noble.

           Jaskier throws his hands up. “You were gone for a whole day more than expected, there must be something interesting that occurred.”

           Geralt returns his gaze for some moments, Jaskier unwavering. Geralt looks away. “There was a mage.”

           Jaskier sits up straighter. “Someone we know?”

           Geralt shakes his head. “Long dead.”

           Jaskier deflates mildly. “Oh.”

           “Ghoul meant to make a meal of the corpse. I tracked it to the mage’s home.”

           “A single ghoul?” The skepticism is tart in Jaskier’s tone.

           “The ghoul was simple.” Geralt looks back at Jaskier, his pursed frown. “The magic… less so.”

           Jaskier’s brow wrinkled. “Magic? How was there any magic left with the man dead for so long?”

           Geralt sighs. “Spells can outlive their casters, given the right conditions.”

           “So you were hit by a spell?” The alarm arises quickly, tainting the air with a metal taste. “We must get the healer or—or the town’s mage, what if it’s still in effect, what if—”

           “Jaskier.” Jaskier ceases his rambling, if not his panic. “The spell took effect, but it has passed.”

           “What was it? Did it – hurt?”

           “It created a dream. Of what I want most.”

           Jaskier’s eyebrows dance, his expression lightening. “I thought Witchers wanted for nothing,” he says, teasing.

           Geralt returns his gaze to the wall. Of all the things he wants for and refuses to name – good ale, good food, treats for Roach, silence, a regular bath, money – he knows not why the magic chose Jaskier. He tries not to be self-aware, if he can help it, but the answer looms on the edge of his mind and he refuses to look at it long enough to let it materialize.

           To end the dream, once he’d realized what it was, he had tried to wake himself up, with pain and shock. He ran about the fake room looking for items to prick himself with, the fake Jaskier following, worried. “Sit down, Geralt,” it kept saying. “Relax, please.”

           “You’re not real,” Geralt had growled, stabbing himself with a shard of broken mirror. He hadn’t dreamed himself a sword, otherwise he would’ve tried that.

           “Of course I’m real, Geralt, really, stop with this ridiculousness,” the mirage had said, and Geralt had been so – angry. With the mage, the magic, with himself, and he’d turned and slit the throat of the pleading dream, and he’d woken on the floor of a room, a dead ghoul and a dead mage flanking him either side.

           Danger looms on the edge of his awareness. The dream, for all its lies, had felt as real as anything, the blood warm on his hands, the wide shock in Jaskier’s eyes as he’d gasped, sound ringing in Geralt’s ears.

           He waits, now, for Jaskier to ask, prepares himself for stoicism. He will not tell Jaskier. He will not describe this for a ballad to be sung for drunken humans looking for bravery and heartbreak, vicarious. He will be silent, as he should have been before.

           “A mage certainly makes things interesting,” Jaskier says, humming. He drums his fingertips against his lips. “I could use something upbeat. It’s been so cold as of late, people need something to dance to.” He stands from the bed to retrieve his lute and begins to strum some notes, humming to himself.

           Geralt watches, silent. He slows his breathing until the only thoughts remaining in his mind are of the heat that remains in the bath and Jaskier’s soft singing. He sinks deeper into the water, closing his eyes. He allows himself one more thought before drifting far enough for silence to enclose his mind. This, he thinks, this is good.

[nitewrighter]

Hey :) i kinda miss your prefall Gency fic... Do you think you can write some more ? Take care ♥

I’m still thinking about the canonical existence of Overwatch Propaganda Cartoons that we saw in that preview of Hero of Numbani.

...can you tell I watched old GI Joe opening theme songs specifically for this fic?

Also credit goes to @apocryphist for coming up with “underhand” which really should be the only name for villains in the Overwatch universe.

-----

Genji drummed his fingers on the conference room table as he rested his chin in his other hand. Mercy sat to his left, nonchalantly tapping out some correspondence on her tablet as they waited. On his other side, Tracer was bouncing her knee with her fingers interlaced on the table in front of her, doing her best to at least put forward the semblance of a strike team leader despite her fidgeting. Winston sat stiffly next to her, apparently trying to scroll through lab results on his own tablet but clearly too nervous to stay focused. It was a bright and slightly breezy afternoon in Zurich, and normally Genji would have been gracefully slashing his way through the training grounds at this time, but instead they were all here.

“I can’t stand it when they don’t say what the meetings are about,” mumbled Winston. 

“It’s probably a top secret mission!” said Tracer.

“’Secret?’” said Winston, sounding even more nervous, “I’m... I’m not exactly good at ‘secret.’”

“Is it unrealistic to hope we got more intel from Doomfist?” said Genji, glancing at Mercy.

“I wish,” huffed Mercy, “But from what debriefings I could get my hands on, he hasn’t given us anything useful.”

“How is that possible?” said Genji, “After all the internal damage he did to Talon’s internal power structure, shouldn’t they be scrambling without him? Shouldn’t there be a power vacuum?”

“I don’t know any more than you do...” said Winston, readjusting his glasses. 

“Honestly I thought you’d know more about it, what with the Blackwatch stuff,” said Tracer.

“Still benched,” said Genji, folding his arms.

“Officially,” said Mercy with a slight side-eye.

Genji gave her an amused “Hmph,” before saying, “Either way, Reyes pushed me out of the loop now that I’m on your strike team... not that I paid that much attention to the loop befo---”

The door opened and everyone perked up at the sight of Jack Morrison and Sojourn walking into the room. Jack seemed uneasy, but honestly Mercy couldn’t really recall the last time he seemed at ease.

“Okay, before we start, I want all of you to keep an open mind with this,” he said, looking across all of them.

“...Very encouraging, Strike Commander,” said Sojourn, with slightly sardonic amusement. She put her hands on her hips and turned to face Tracer’s strike team, “As you all know, when you’re recruited into Overwatch, you sign a waiver allowing us to use your image in... all sorts of stuff. Press releases, scientific publications, training videos for new recruits---”

“Posters,” said Mercy, already skeptical.

“Posters, too,” said Sojourn with a smile, “However, back during Omnic Crisis Reconstruction, we were using the images of heroes for a lot more.”

“Heroes?” Genji repeated quietly as Sojourn produced a remote control from the pocket of her jacket and hit a button. The venetian blinds tilted to shut out the sunlight and the lights of the room dimmed as the wallscreen lit up behind Sojourn. The screen lit up in bright colors and red and yellow explosions as a trumpeting fanfare started playing. Tracer’s face lit up as a young cartoon version of Jack Morrison appeared on the screen, pumping his fist in the air. 

“The world needs heroes!” said the cartoon Jack Morrison, “Are you with us?” 

Genji glanced at Jack who was very clearly cringing at his cartoon self.

“Oh yes!” said Tracer, her eyes bright, “It’s been years since I’ve watched this! You guys know the song, right?” she said looking at her teammates, “..No?”

The theme song was already playing, and Tracer was singing along with it eagerly.

There’s no need to fear

Overwatch is here!

Saving all we hold dear!

Mercy made a ‘I really hope this meeting isn’t going the way I think it’s going,’ face at Genji and Genji suppressed a chuckle, but Tracer seemed absolutely thrilled and even Winston was humming along with the theme song. The theme song kept playing and even introduced different members of the old Overwatch Strike team. One of the animators clearly had fun lavishing a lot of attention on Ana Amari’s hair whipping around from the force of an explosion behind her. A still-blonde cartoon Reinhardt brawled fist-to-fist with some kind of black and neon green robot. Cartoon Morrison jumped a motorcycle off of an aircraft carrier with cartoon Reyes wielding a missile launcher in the sidecar. Torbjörn and Liao were working side by side in a lab before the camera panned out to reveal they were in a bright blue tank-like vehicle Genji safely assumed was entirely made up to sell toys, firing off RPG’s with even more explosions. Sojourn chuckled watching her cartoon self fire two submachine guns at black and neon green helicopters while parachuting out of an exploding jet. There was, all in all, a frankly ridiculous amount of explosions. It finally ended with one last massive explosion and fanfare and cartoon versions of Sojourn and the entire original strike team all pumping their fists in the air with Morrison in the center. 

Sojourn hit another button on her remote, the wall screen blipped off, the venetian blinds opened and the lights came on, leaving everyone sitting at the conference table blankly.

“Ahh! Still just as good as when I was a kid!” said Tracer, excitedly.

“Now, I know what you’re going to say--” Morrison started.

“Propaganda,” said Mercy, “You want to put us in propaganda.”

“You’re already in propaganda,” said Sojourn, flatly.

“This is propaganda aimed at children!” said Mercy.

“Do you know how young Talon is recruiting?” said Sojourn.

“That doesn’t mean we should stoop to their level!” said Mercy.

“Wars aren’t just won by strategy and firepower, they’re also won by ideology, by public support,” Winston suggested.

Mercy remembered something Moira said and it sent a shiver down her spine. 

The true struggle is for the superiority of ideas.

“Thank you, Winston,” said Jack, “It’s not necessarily about convincing them to join, it’s about convincing people that we have their best interests in mind. Which...” Jack gestured, “We do.”

“Those bad guys didn’t look like Talon,” said Genji.

“Oh, it wasn’t Talon!” said Tracer excitedly, before dropping into a dramatic narrator voice, “Underhand is a Ruthless Criminal Organization determined to rule the world!”

“Uh--Underhand?” said Winston. Jack said nothing but somehow managed to look more dead inside.

“...Overwatch and Underhand...” Mercy repeated incredulously.

“So--we’re going to be in a cartoon?” said Genji. For some reason, his armor seemed to feel tighter, pinching, constricting around him.

“Well, we did some polling after the Doomfist fight and ran some algorithms through a handful of popular forums and social media,” Sojourn explained, “It turns out you’re all very popular with the younger crowd. Winston and Tracer pull the biggest numbers, but you, Genji, are incredibly popular with boys aged 6 to 14.”

“I...I am?” said Genji.

“Shining armor,” said Mercy, smiling at him, and steam vented from his shoulders.

“And Mercy has a death-grip on the ‘Girls aged 3 to 11′ demographic,” said Sojourn.

“So... more girls are getting into STEM?” said Mercy.

“I’m.. not sure about that, but they seem to really like the fact that you’re pretty and you can fly,” said Sojourn, flipping through the report on her own tablet. 

Mercy’s face dropped and she shook her head. She pursed her lips and thought for a few moments. “I’m not sure about this...”

“If we’re all over the news already, it could help to put stuff out there that gives us more control over our image,” said Winston, he scratched the side of his head, “It... would be nice to show people I’m more than just a gorilla...”

“Genji?” said Mercy, looking over at him. Genji was running his thumb over the knuckles of his prosthetic hand and he seemed to snap out of some particularly stressful train of thought.

“Oh...um... well... it would give you a chance to talk more about Overwatch as a peacekeeping organization?” said Genji, “And if you’re talking about it to children...” 

“They might be less inclined to carry on the conflicts of previous generations!” said Mercy, her eyes brightening.

“Like we said, ideologies,” said Jack.

Mercy inhaled thoughtfully. “If--if we’re going to do this, I want my likeness used responsibly. I don’t want to advocate for violence in any form.”

“...yeah I figured you’d say that,” said Jack.

“And, even if we’re going through fictional conflicts, I don’t want it... glamorized and sensationalized like the old cartoon. We don’t need all those explosions---”

“You did pull Genji out of that explosion a few weeks ago though,” said Tracer.

“Well that’s different--! That’s--!” Mercy huffed, “I think we should push more of Overwatch’s scientific and humanitarian efforts. Show that making the world a better place is more complicated than just.. shooting at bad guys.”

“We could have a science corner!” Winston chimed in, “’Winston’s Science Corner!’”

“Ooh! And maybe I should say something about friendship and teamwork at the end!” said Tracer.

Genji was shrinking a little where he was sitting, unconsciously sliding his wrist plate back and forth.

“What do you think? Edu-tainment?” said Sojourn, glancing back at Jack.

“Could go over easier than a purely fictionalized narrative,” murmured Jack.

“Aw, I wanna fight Underhand, though!” said Tracer.

“Well in any case, you can expect more correspondence from our PR department as we move forward in this project,” said Sojourn. 

“You might not be fighting Talon in some far-flung corner of the world, but make no mistake: this is an important part of the fight,” said Jack.

“And who knows,” said Sojourn as an assistant hurried in with a cardboard box and set it on the conference table, “You could end up some kid’s best friend.”

Tracer and her strike team all stood up from their seats to look into the box.

“Oh commander...!” Tracer looked about to burst with excitement as she reached into the box and pulled out an action figure of herself, “I love it!” She turned over the action figure in her hands and saw a button on the back. She pressed it.

“Cheers love! The Cavalry’s here!” said the Tracer action figure.

“That’s my line!” said Tracer, delighted.

“It’s quite a stunning likeness,” said Winston, taking his own action figure out of the box. He pressed a button on the back of his action figure. 

“Primal Punch!” declared the Winston action figure and Winston chuckled.

Mercy took both the Genji and the Mercy action figures out of the box and chuckled a little. 

“Yours is so pretty, Doc! They even got the wings!” said Tracer as Mercy fiddled around with the action figure’s wings.

“Yes, ‘pretty and flies’ indeed.’ I might be more inclined if she comes with a lab coat accessory,” said Mercy, giving a skeptical glance to her action figure’s bust size. She pressed a button between her action figure’s wings and scoffed a little as the action figure said, “Heroes never die!” 

She held Genji’s action figure out to him and he hesitantly took it. “What do you think?”

Genji turned the action figure over in his hand and looked at the button on the back. He pressed it, but the figure said nothing.

“Oh we um... didn’t really have a ‘catchphrase’ for you yet,” said Sojourn as Genji gingerly ran the finger of his prosthetic hand up the blade of the action figure’s sword clasped in his little plastic hand, “We were hoping you could put in a word for it. These are just mock-ups, really.” 

You’re incredibly popular with boys age 6 to 14...

Genji moved the arm of the action figure up and down, the figure striking downward with its sword, and he thought of young boys playing with this miniature him. Running with the action figure clutched in little hands with white knuckles, playing out battles, having the action figure swing its sword at all those foes, imitating his own swordsmanship, fighting their brothers with sticks, punching each other, kicking each other---

“No,” Genji said on reflex.

“What?” said Sojourn, glancing up from Tracer chattering about her own action figure.

“I--I said no. I shouldn’t have an action figure. I shouldn’t be in the show,” said Genji. His voice was tight.

“Genji...” Mercy started.

“...is it about how you look?” said Sojourn, “Because Genji, I can tell you, seeing people like us on the screen means the world to kids with prosthetics---”

“No--” Genji was stammering, “It’s not about that, it’s--”

“Genji, you’re a part of the team,” Tracer tried to reassure him, “It wouldn’t be the same without you--”

“Children shouldn’t want to be like me!” Genji blurted out, and there was a small plasticky snap. Genji glanced down and saw that he had unthinkingly broken the arm off of his own action figure. The entire room had gone silent, staring at him. He set both the action figure and its broken-off arm on the table and exhaled. “I’m-- I need to think about it,” he said, pushing up from the table and walking briskly out of the room.

“Genji, wait--” said Mercy, standing up. Her eyes flicked to the broken Genji action figure on the table and she picked it up, tucking both the figure and the broken off arm in the pocket of her lab coat. The door slid shut behind Genji but she quickly walked after him, leaving Morrison, Sojourn, Tracer, and Winston alone in the room. A long quiet pause passed between the four of them.

“Maybe just web shorts?” said Winston, “Just.. um... just the science corner?”

“Winston--” Tracer huffed.

“Right--sorry,” said Winston.

“...well, they did keep an open mind,” said Jack, “Mostly.”

“Don’t make me break out your action figure, Jack,” said Sojourn.

----

It was a known fact that if you broke visual contact on Genji, you had a pretty low probability of finding him again unless he wanted to be found. Still Mercy spent more of the remainder of the afternoon looking for him than she was readily willing to admit. The fact that he was able to disappear from the hallway that quickly made her assume he had taken the window (very mature, by the way, Genji, she thought with an eye roll) but she checked all of his usual spots and even went to his room before finally huffing and returning to her lab.

It was about 11 at night when the door slid open.

“Genji, we’re beholden to the UN. I know that was an uncomfortable situation, but... there are still protocols,” said Mercy, not even looking up from her screen.

“I know,” his cybernetically reverberative voice hummed from the other side of the room.

“I don’t know how... informally Reyes maintained his meetings, but we can’t--” Mercy looked up from her screen and read his posture and expression. Her shoulders slumped. She pushed up from her desk and walked across the lab over to him.

“I’m sorry, I know. I just shut down,” said Genji as she closed the distance between them, “I don’t even know where it came from, ever since I joined Tracer’s strike team, I thought I’ve been getting better but--” he cut himself off as she hugged him. He stood there for a few seconds before returning the embrace. A part of him wanted to take his faceplate off, breathe in the smell of her hair and the smell of coffee on her, but he tamped that down. They had embraced before, after Gérard Lacroix’s death, and had broken out of it, both of them muttering about it being inappropriate and messy, but after missions together on Tracer’s strike team, there was no such shame in taking comfort in each other like this. She loosened the hug slightly to look at him.

“What you said... about you and children...”  she trailed off.

“I...” Genji sighed, “I’m an assassin.”

“You’re an agent,” said Mercy.

“Whose skills all come from the fact that he was raised to be an assassin,” said Genji, “What I went through as a child---I don’t want another child to go through it. And I don’t want children to think that’s what they want because it’s not.”

“They won’t have to,” said Mercy, putting her hands on his shoulders, “The Shimada Clan’s practically collapsed! You get to decide who you are, not them! You get to choose what you do with your skills,” one of her hands trailed down his arm and clasped his organic hand, “And you choose good. You’ve been choosing to do good.”

“...kids shouldn’t want to be like me when I don’t even know what the hell I am,” muttered Genji.

Mercy gave a helpless chuckle, “Join the club. ‘Mercy’ is easier to be than Angela. People listen to ‘Mercy,’ except not really, because she’s just pretty and she flies and at the end of the day, she’s just a bloody idea, so no one actually listens to her because she’s not real---”  she caught herself, “God, they’re really going to turn us into cartoon characters, aren’t they?” she said, pushing her bangs back from her face, “As if things weren’t already weird enough.”

“Cyborg ninja. Angel doctor. Time traveler. Gorilla from the moon. It really makes no difference at this point,” said Genji with a shrug, looking over her shoulder, he noticed a small figure on her desk. “Is that---?” he broke out of the embrace and walked over to the desk to see his action figure standing there. The arm had been glued back on, the seam of the break barely visible. He picked up the action figure. “You fixed me? It--It-- I mean it. You fixed it?” he said glancing over his shoulder at her.

“Well I couldn’t just leave you like that,” said Mercy, chuckling a little. 

“’You’ve rescued me again, Doctor Ziegler!’” said Genji, making the action figure bob with his words. They both snickered. “Maybe that can be my catchphrase,” said Genji, a smirk in his voice.

“Absolutely not,” said Mercy, giggling.

[kyndaris]

A Hero Lies in You

On April Fool’s Day 2019, a video was released showing the latest game in the Yakuza franchise. Many thought it was a prank. The reason why? The sudden change in combat. Gone was the brawler beat-em-up that was associated with the series. In its stead was a turn-based system reminiscent of role-playing games. Characters waiting for their turns before utilising special skills? In a franchise known for its hard gritty storylines about gangs duking it out in the streets of Japan? ‘Haha Ryu Ga Gotoku. You thought you could fool us, but we see right through you. This isn’t our first rodeo and you’re not Square Enix,’ was many a thought when the footage had been viewed by thousands online.

What gamers did not know was that this was no gag. Fast forward several months to August 2019 and it was confirmed that Yakuza 7: Like a Dragon, starring new protagonist Kasuga Ichiban, would actually incorporate turn-based battles. There would even be JOBS! 

As I had just finished playing through Kiryu’s story, as well as Judgment, in 2020 I was eager to see what new protagonist Kasuga Ichiban would bring to the table. From trailers, I could already see how much livelier Ichiban would be in comparison to the more stoic Kiryu. And, in contrast to Yagami, he was definitely more of an idiot. A lovable idiot, to be sure, but an idiot nonetheless.

Yakuza 7: Like a Dragon released in a huge week for video games. While I would have preferred to play it earlier, I had other huge titans to wrestle into submission first. Once I had managed to satiate my Ubisoft open-world needs with Assassin’s Creed: Valhalla, I dived head first onto the streets of Yokohama, ready to bust some heads.

The game opens on a play. For a moment, I thought I had somehow purchased the wrong game. But as the lengthy prologue progressed, it was very clear that this was most definitely a Yakuza game. It just needed to set up a little bit of the tale, starting with Arakawa Masumi - father figure and role-model for our erstwhile hero. It isn’t long before players are introduced to Kasuga Ichiban with his trademark ‘punch perm.’ Born in a soapland and raised by those that lived on the fringes of society, Ichiban, rather than being hardened by his experience, is empathetic and not afraid to show emotion. Tasked with collection, he interprets his orders in a way to benefit those that are struggling. His goofball attitude immediately makes him a character one can connect to. And it doesn’t hurt that he’s a bit of a nerd, having played Dragon Quest during his childhood and likening many of the people around him to things in the game.

It’s not long before the plot escalates and Ichiban volunteers to give himself up to the police. Sentenced to fifteen years in prison, he inadvertently extends his sentence when his Patriarch is insulted by one of the fellow inmates. After nearly two decades spent in prison for a crime that he did not commit, Ichiban is released with little fanfare and no waiting convoy. Disappointed, he takes it in stride. The first thing on his order of business: to get his signature punch perm and reconnect with his second father-figure and Patriarch of the Arakawa family.

Along the way, he is dogged by a former policeman: Adachi. At first, it isn’t made clear why Adachi seeks Ichiban for help. After all, Ichiban had supposedly killed another yakuza in Kamurocho, Tokyo. Adachi, on the other hand, was a detective in Yokohama. Why would he have any interest in uncovering the truth behind what had put Ichiban behind bars?

After a few shenanigans are had in and around Kamurocho, our protagonist is shot and left for dead - waking up in a homeless shelter in the heart of Isezaki Ijincho. Climbing his way from rock bottom, Ichiban embarks on a journey to uncover the truth, stumbling upon a series of events and unearthing a vast conspiracy in which he was to serve as a pawn.

Many of the earlier chapters felt a little contrived. In particular was the death of Nonomiya. While it served to move the narrative forward, it was most assuredly a means to an end that didn’t highlight any significant character growth. Poor Nonomiya was fridged just to bring Ichiban into conflict with the Liumang branch of the Ijin Three.

It was only in the later chapters that the story picked up steam - with the confrontations with Bleach Japan and the encroachment by the Omi Alliance. Joined by a menagerie of characters like Zhao, Saeko, Han Joon-Gi, Nanba and Eri, there was a lot to keep track on as the plot barrelled forward at a breakneck pace, connecting Ichiban’s past with his current present and all the while setting up a juicy conflict between two men that could have been brothers. And honestly, the ending with Arakawa Masato and Ichiban got to me. I loved how that Ichiban was finally able to reach his old charge by being vulnerable and finally letting out a little of his resentment at the life Masato led, despite the fact that he could not use his legs.

The characters were superbly written and their motivations were a good reflection of the human condition. The themes of family and finding a home were evident, right from the start, even though a lot of it was glossed over by Ichiban’s desire to be a hero in a video game.

(I also really liked Seong-hui and would love to see her be an actual playable character in possible future instalments. On a side note, Arakawa...you cannot simply say: ‘See you tomorrow, Ichi,’ and expect to walk away. You basically wrote your own name into the Death Note with that line!)

As far as aping Japanese role-playing games go, however, Yakuza: Like a Dragon falls woefully short. While the Tendo twist was a good one - it was pulled a little too early. Worse, there was no world-ending threat. Everyone knows that a Japanese role-playing game MUST HAVE A VILLAIN/ EVIL GOD FIGURE THAT INTENDS TO DESTROY THE WORLD. Yakuza: Like a Dragon was too focused on old childhood rivalries to extend it further afield. I mean, yes, Aoki Ryo hoped to pull the strings of the Japanese government as chair of the CLP, but WHERE WAS THE METEOR HURTLING TOWARDS EARTH? 

Honestly, 1/10 for holding true to Japanese role-playing games.

Other than that, the summons with Pound Mates was amusing. As were the side stories. Honestly, there can never be enough side stories to flesh out the wacky world of the Yakuza franchise. So many old favourites made their return. From Pocket Fighter (now dubbed Dragon Fighter) and Gondawara Susumu with his baby fetish.

Also, I didn’t think I’d be so obsessed with it, but I think they cracked property management this time round. Ichiban Confections, later known as Ichiban Holdings, was a blast to manage and accrue juicy money for.

The bartender of Survive also looked very familiar. I mean...what with the huge scar across his face. My suspicions were confirmed when I searched up Kashiwagi up on the Yakuza wiki page and was awarded with the fact that HE MANAGED TO SURVIVE THE ASSAULT HELICOPTER FROM YAKUZA 3!!

Other than that, my few other gripes involved the implementation of the levelling system and the way area of effect skills were handled. In particular, the pathing for how characters moved around the battlefield proved, at least to me, a bit of a frustration. Often, characters would be blocked by a knee-high fence or a corner. Sometimes they would be able to go around, but other times the game (after several seconds of watching them fail to walk through a solid building) warp to the enemy that I had targeted to launch their attack.

And even though the combat is turn-based, most of the enemies tend to walk around the battlefield - either clumping together or distancing themselves from each other. What truly annoyed me was when there were moves that could be used as an area of effect, with the MP cost to go along with it, but were limited by their effectiveness when the enemy combatants were too far away. Yes, it makes sense, but golly gosh, how much of a pixel measurement does it have to be for it to not hit?

Besides that, the levelling was also a bit of a tedious chore. Were it not for the invested vagrants, I feel like I might have put the game down with how much grinding there was - particularly when it came to the various jobs. The biggest hill to climb was from 20-30. Without the exp (experience point) boosting items, it would have been a torturous slog. I know that in the original Japanese release of the game, the cap for jobs was level 30, but if you change it to 99, please, for the sanity of all the gamers out there, tweak the requirements to make it easier. And maybe give normal trash mobs a bit more experience points for the playable characters to munch on. 

Goodness, imagine having to grind on level 55 Ornery Yakuza and receiving a paltry 1000xp for each battle (when, in order to level up a job, you needed almost a million).

Yakuza: Like a Dragon is a break from the traditional formula that’s been a staple of the franchise for many years. Much like Ichiban, it’s a bit of fresh air to liven up the experience that might have gone a bit stale after I slogged through the whole Kiryu arc last year. With a few tweaks, and a few more Persona 5 CD soundtracks, I’m eager to see how the story evolves and whatever contrivances Ichiban will somehow force him into.

Although, to be fair, is it still appropriate to call this franchise Yakuza when the game literally saw the dismantling of the two biggest clans? Then again, Civilian: Like a Dragon 2 just doesn’t have the same ring to it. In any case, I hope the next one comes soon and we’ll be able to have Seong-hui in our party. I feel like she’d be wielding a gunblade.

(Did I just use a lyric from Mariah Carey? You bet I did! I had been tossing up the idea between this line and ‘I need a hero.’ Why? Well, I think that would be self-explanatory after knowing Ichiban’s proclivities. And it fits so, so, so well!) 

[watching-pictures-move]

Put On Your Raincoats #13 | The Pink Ladies (Watkins, 1979)

This review contains mild spoilers.

Roger Watkins first delved into directing pornography with Her Name Was Lisa. It was apparently successful, and is in my humble opinion a very good film, but was perhaps a little too intense for producer Dave Darby, who insisted that Watkins make something a little lighter. The Pink Ladies was the result. For those familiar only with Watkins' most famous film, Last House on Dead End Street, it can be quite a shock to see something this lighthearted. While it doesn't contain any of the better known film's bad vibes and was apparently disliked by Watkins himself, it is not without its qualities. The opening credits show the main characters playing raquetball. They are framed individually, their shared space fractured as if to render their actions abstract, even if the leering gaze of the gym's attendant gives them a vague sense of connection. The hazy cinematography casts over this the feeling of a dream, and what follows does not rest strictly in the realm of reality.

The main characters are a group of friends who vary in the level of cattiness. The cattiest of the bunch is Samantha Fox, who played the lead in Lisa, followed by Robin Byrd, who played one of her abusers in the former movie, then Kandi Barbour, who's taken permanent residence in my head thanks to a certain pool scene in Neon Nights. Least catty is Christine De Shaffer, who is distinguished by her benign stupidity and incompetence at sports, the latter quality immediately making her my favourite character. After the characters finish playing, griping about De Shaffer's performance (she rightfully insists that it's not about winning or losing, solidifying her position in the rankings), they go off to the showers. We get an eyeful, as does the attendant, who starts fantasizing about what can be delicately referred to as a reverse gangbang. "Fanfare for the Common Man" by Emerson, Lake and Palmer plays on the soundtrack, and one could argue that for this man, the fanfare has taken on a more tangible, not unpleasing form. For the non-prurient-minded, it's worth noting that even in the fantasy De Shaffer is terrible at raquetball.

The girls discuss plans for later in the week, which include a trip to the theatre to see Eugene O'Neill's The Iceman Cometh ("Oooh, sounds dirty"). They then split up, and we get to spend some time with Robert Kerman, playing one of their husbands. Kerman is a Yankees fan, which you can tell by him wearing a Yankees cap and shirt with his extremely unflattering yellow short shorts and eating stale pizza as a he listens to the game. Even when Kerman drifts off into fantasy, as he does when spying on an eager young couple in the act, he stays in character, ensuring that he doesn't miss the Yankees game as a result. A Humphrey Bogart poster provides some deadpan reaction shots. Unfortunately, he gets distracted by De Shaffer, who insists on chatting him up and singing "Moon River". (Quite badly, I should add, showing a lack of talent in multiple disciplines. Whatever the opposite of a polymath is, she's it.)

Next we move to Robin Byrd, sitting in bed and wolfing down popcorn next to her husband while watching a movie about a carnival, which inspires a fantasy sequence of her own where she's tag teamed by three guys in Aladdin Sane makeup and glitter while "March of the Gladiators" plays on the soundtrack. (Given that I associate this music most closely with the educational video game Math Circus, the effect is a bit jarring.) It's worth noting that one of these men is played by Ron Jeremy, who spends most of the scene sucking his own dick. Of course, when her husband suggests they get it on, she turns him down as she's not in the mood. I guess Ron Jeremy autofellatio will do that to you.

Kandi Barbour's fantasy is a bit more palatable, inspired by the bodice-ripping historical romance novel she leafs through before bed. Christine De Shaffer, treated as a punchline for much of the movie, doesn't even get her own fantasy. Rather, as she's putting on a ludicrous amount of facial cream (not like that, you preverts), her husband sneaks off to the bathroom to jerk off to a BDSM magazine and then imagines being dominated by his wife, who wears silver face paint like an extraneous member of KISS. Apparently the movie was released in a version without this scene as it was considered a bit too extreme, but honestly, without revealing anything about my viewing habits, I didn't think it was too bad. (It was also apparently Watkins' favourite scene in the movie.) Perhaps I've been desensitized by a week long Phil Prince binge, but without cataloguing the exact acts depicted, there's nothing too wild shown. The husband is played by Alan Adrian, who played Mistress Candice's willing slave in one of the more tolerable scenes in Prince's filmography. Adrian was into this kind of thing in his personal life and even suggested nailing his scrotum to the floor, which Darby thankfully shot down. Sometimes the money man is right. (Adrian is interviewed on the Vinegar Syndrome release of the movie and is unclothed without comment the entire time.) Of course, when his character approaches his wife after with the idea of trying this stuff out, she brushes him off.

The next morning, the husbands all wait for the train and see Vanessa Del Rio sitting on the other side of the tracks. Naturally, they start getting all worked up and start amusing themselves with what they'd get up to with her if they had the opportunity. Kerman's involves Del Rio as a schoolgirl, which is about as convincing as Steve Buscemi's "How do you do, fellow kids?" moment. Even Adrian, who claims that he never indulges in fantasies (he claims "they drain the life fluids", a statement that causes the other three men to immediately shift away from him on the bench), entertains the idea, although (depending on your proclivities) it's disappointingly not that distinct from the others in terms of tone or the acts featured. Del Rio's role is mostly silent, but she makes an impact in other ways (*raises eyebrows*).

We then move to a restaurant where the girls are biding their time, with Fox being especially rude to the waiter. It's then revealed that De Shaffer forgot their tickets to the The Iceman Cometh and is coldly made to walk home, which she does by crying and looking at ducks while sad music plays, finding new ways to put the audience on her side. (I too am a fan of ducks.) The rest of the ladies go to the gym to blow off steam, and Fox, angrily cycling away on an exercise bike, pictures her and the gals getting in an orgy with the other patrons of the gym, all of whom are covered in body paint and wearing goggles and swim caps. The same year that Francis Ford Coppola used "Ride of the Valkyries" to lend operatic dimensions to a helicopter siege, Watkins uses it to cheekier effect in a very different context. Lest you think this is all that's left, the final moments have the real heroine getting her revenge in a manner appropriate to the genre. High five, Ms. De Shaffer! Suck it, Mmes Fox, Byrd and Barbour.

Look, this is all very slight and I can understand why Watkins, given how dark his movies can get, didn't care for the end result, but I had a pretty good time. I think when trying to watch these movies as actual movies, lighter fare can be a bit of a challenge as they can lack the tension inherent in darker material (I imagine Her Name Was Lisa and Corruption might play better for most viewers, despite the disturbing content), but I can appreciate that this is executed with a good deal of style. It features a game cast who sink their teeth into their roles, particularly De Shaffer giving a very funny and endearing performance. (Fox and Del Rio don't quite make the same impact they did in Lisa, but are still effective in their less demanding roles.) Watkins' disregard for music rights results in some striking uses of music (he gets in Iggy Pop's "Sister Midnight" in between the aforementioned needle drops). And even between the sex scenes the movie is well visualized, translating the fantasy theme into atmosphere and finding images to match the humour.

[the-desolated-quill]

Sonic Vs Harley: Send In The Hedgehogs - Quill’s Scribbles

Unless you’ve been meditating in the desert for the past couple of weeks, you’ll know that there’s a bloody epidemic going on in the world right now. The coronavirus outbreak has dramatically changed our very way of life for the foreseeable future, and us plebs have been having to get used to all these alien concepts such as social distancing, self isolation, vaccines being good and Gal Gadot murdering John Lennon with a tuneless rendition of ‘Imagine.’ These are scary and uncertain times we live in, and this goes double for the movie industry as productions are halted and/or delayed, and cinemas around the globe are shutting shop. This means that streaming services, initially dismissed by pompous filmmakers like Steven Spielberg as being lesser than cinema, has now become Hollywood’s saving grace. Oh the irony!

But I’m not here to talk about that. Today I’m here to talk about how a blue CGI hedgehog seems to be more profitable than Margot Robbie.

Jokes aside, this is actually a fascinating topic of discussion in my opinion. Both Sonic The Hedgehog and Birds Of Prey (I categorically refuse to type the whole title because I’ve got better shit to be doing other than trying to remember how the fuck you spell ‘fantabulous’) were released within a week of each other just as the coronavirus outbreak was gathering steam, and yet the box office earnings of both films are poles apart. Sonic has now become the highest grossing video game movie of all time and is, at the time I’m typing this, the second highest grossing film of the year, beating even Disney Pixar’s new film Onward if you can believe it, whereas Birds Of Prey... well... it’s not exactly flopped as such. The film’s low budget protected it from that, but it’s hardly what you’d call a success, making just shy of the $200 million it would need to break even. How did this happen? Especially when you consider that public opinion of both films a year ago would have you believe that the opposite would have happened. Everyone was massively excited for Birds Of Prey, especially after the string of successes DC have had with Aquaman, Shazam and most recently Joker, whereas Sonic...

...yeah, lets not talk about that.

Now before we start, let me just make absolutely clear that this is just my opinion. Mu subjective opinion. Normally I’d expect my readers to be smart enough to know this, but I’m talking about a DC movie here and I know from personal experience how ‘passionate’ a certain tin foil hat wearing portion of that fanbase can be sometimes. You may recall back in 2016 I received rape and death threats when I had the gall to say that I didn’t enjoy watching Suicide Squad. You know? That beloved classic that nobody fucking remembers or talks about anymore? Also there was that time when Harley Quinn fans started spreading fake rumours that the Sonic movie was homophobic in the hopes of salvaging Birds Of Prey’s box office earnings. And yes, I know it’s not all DCEU fans that are like this, etc. etc., but considering that it only ever seems to be DC fans that pull shit like this, you’ll forgive me if I’m not exactly in a very generous mood right now. Basically, if you’ve seen Birds Of Prey and liked it, that’s great. More power to you. I’m not even suggesting that Birds Of Prey is a bad movie. I’m just exploring the reasons why I think the film may have underperformed and why, possibly, Sonic The Hedgehog overtook them despite outside circumstances. This is not fact. This is just my opinion. It’s my opinion. An opinion. A subjective opinion. It’s my opinion. Okay? Okay.

Also I should point out that out of the two films, I’ve only seen Sonic, not Birds Of Prey. Believe it or not, this will be relevant later on. Again, this is not about the quality of either film. This is merely my subjective observations regarding their respective marketing and box office performance.

So why, according to the fans and the media, did Birds Of Prey underperform at the box office? There are three popular reasons for this. The first is obviously the coronavirus. Less people willing to leave the house and buy a ticket, therefore less box office earnings. Makes sense, but I don’t think that’s the whole story. Lets not forget, Sonic The Hedgehog came out a week after Birds Of Prey and practically steamrolled over the competition despite coronavirus fears. So I’m not entirely convinced of this. The second reason is that Birds Of Prey only has niche appeal because it’s based on a lesser known comic book property. Again, makes sense, but so was Guardians Of The Galaxy and Deadpool, and they were both hugely successful. Obviously I’m not saying Birds Of Prey needed to be as big as those movies. Even if it just made the same amount of money as Shazam did, it would have been successful, but it didn’t. The third reason is good old fashioned sexism, and yes, I agree that may have been a contributing factor, but I think it’s naive to place all the blame on the anti-SJWs who feel threatened by a gang of women kicking butt. Look at the 2016 reboot of Ghostbusters for example. That film received a tirade of misogynistic comments from butthurt fanboys, but it still made roughly the same amount of money at the box office as the original Ghostbusters did. The reason it flopped wasn’t because of the fanboys, but because of Sony spending a stupid amount of money on the thing in the hopes of jumpstarting a shared universe. If Ghostbusters 2016 had the same budget as Birds Of Prey, Sony would be laughing their way to the bank right now.

No I think there’s a little bit more going on here. Lets bring Sonic into the discussion and explore it, shall we?

The most blatantly obvious reason for Sonic’s success and Birds Of Prey’s relative failure is the age rating. Sonic is a PG, family friendly film with a cuddly animal as its main character. The film even stars Jim Carrey being his usual goofy self. Kids love this shit and parents will no doubt be prepared to risk a zombie apocalypse to let their kids see it. Birds Of Prey, on the other hand, is a hard R. Strong bloody violence, sexual references, everyone says ‘fuck’ a lot. No kids allowed. Of course that hasn’t stopped films like Deadpool or Joker being such giant hits, but they didn’t have to contend with a global pandemic. Plus, according to what I’ve heard from certain critics, apparently Birds Of Prey’s R rating doesn’t seem wholly justified. That if you were to cut back on the swearing and the gore, it would make no difference to the film. Now you see this is something I’ve been afraid would happen ever since Deadpool’s surprise success back in 2016. That studios and filmmakers would take the wrong lessons from it and make their films R rated just for the sake of making them R rated. We see this with movie studios all the time. One studio finds success and suddenly everyone tries to copy it without considering why it was successful in the first place. The reason Deadpool as well as other R rated films like Logan and Joker worked is because the films justified their R ratings. You couldn’t have told the same story without that R rating. An R rated Harley Quinn doesn’t seem necessary, especially when you consider that there have been Harley Quinn adaptations before that did just as well without being strictly for adults. Hell, the original Harley Quinn story from the Batman animated series was PG rated. So the inclusion of a R rating feels less like a genuine artistic choice and more like trend chasing. And now that Joker has become the most profitable comic book movie ever made, I fear this is only going to get worse in the future.

Another factor that needs to be considered is audiences’ trust and expectation. Sonic The Hedgehog’s journey to the big screen has in some ways become the classic redemption story. After the initial reveal of Sonic the Manhog, fans were understandably pissed off that a beloved video game icon was given such a grotesque re-imagining for the sake of ‘realism’ (snort). As a result of the backlash, the director Jeff Fowler announced they would revise the design and the film was postponed for three months in order to fix it. The result was a Sonic design much closer to the games and this generated a lot of goodwill from the fans. Subsequent trailers were much better received and there was a lot more positive buzz around the movie. Birds Of Prey on the other hand demonstrated the inverse of this. Everyone was hugely excited, but as we got closer and closer to the date of release, audience anticipation began to wane. The trailers received little fanfare. In fact a lot of people were largely unimpressed by it. Why?

Well first we should address the elephant in the room. The fact of the matter is Sonic has a bigger and much more passionate fanbase than Harley does. That’s not to say Harley isn’t a popular character. She is. But I think Warner Bros and DC seriously overestimated how much people wanted to see Harley Quinn get her own movie. She may have been the best thing about Suicide Squad, but considering what a total trainwreck Suicide Squad was, that’s hardly saying much, is it? I mean the villain Sandman was the best thing about Sam Raimi’s Spider-Man 3. That doesn’t mean I want a whole movie based on him. It just means out of all the things I hated about Spider-Man 3, Sandman was the thing I hated least.

And that’s another thing. The fact that Birds Of Prey didn’t try to distance themselves from Suicide Squad I don’t think did them any favours. While Suicide Squad was a commercial success at the time, people haven’t exactly been kind to the film in subsequent years. I mean feel free to read my review of Suicide Squad for an exhaustive list of reasons why the film was less than enjoyable to sit through. One dimensional characters, poor editing, ugly colour palette, casual sexism, David Ayer trying desperately to look cool and edgy, I could go on. So when the first trailers for Birds Of Prey came out and we saw the neon colour scheme and Hot Topic wardrobes make a comeback, I can’t have been the only one who was slightly put off.

Which leads me to the biggest issue of all and that’s the stonking unoriginality of the whole thing. For all their boasting about how feminist and progressive they are, what is it about Birds Of Prey that makes it stand out from other comic book films? Granted Sonic wasn’t wholly original either, but at least they had the novelty of a blue CGI hedgehog to piggyback off of. Birds Of Prey really doesn’t have anything if you think about it. Here’s the impression I got from the trailers. It has the same aesthetics as Suicide Squad, so already I’m getting PTS style flashbacks, and its story doesn’t seem all that intriguing or unique. Think about it. A violent anti-hero has to protect a delinquent child from some sadistic big baddie. How many times have we seen that done in these films? Terminator 2, Deadpool 2, Logan, even Ghost Rider has told this story before. The fact that the characters in question happen to be women doesn’t change a damn thing. They even have Harley Quinn breaking the fourth wall. Like... guys, come on! Surely we can do something more original than this! It feels like the only thing Birds Of Prey has going for it is that its main protagonists are all women. But after the likes of Wonder Woman and Captain Marvel, that’s no longer a real selling point anymore. You need something else to entice people. Something that Birds Of Prey sorely lacks.

Now I’m sure any Birds Of Prey fans reading this must be getting pissed off at me, so I’d just like to remind everyone yet again that I’m not necessarily saying Birds Of Prey is a bad film. I wouldn’t know. I haven’t seen it. And that’s kind of my point. A week or so ago, my friend and I knew this was probably going to be our last opportunity to go to the cinema for quite some time, so we knew we had to make our choice of film count. We had a choice between Sonic The Hedgehog and Birds Of Prey, and we ended up going to see Sonic. We don’t regret it. We had a good time watching Sonic. It was a fun movie, well made and surprisingly moving at points. (interesting to note, Sonic also has the main protagonist protecting a child plot, but unlike the films I mentioned, Sonic’s story is told from the perspective of the kid. It’s a little thing, but it’s enough to make the whole thing feel fresh and unique because it’s something not even the games tend to acknowledge. Sonic is a kid and the film plays around with that, which adds to its overall charm). Maybe Birds Of Prey is a better movie than Sonic. I don’t know. But that’s not what this is about. When picking which film we would watch, it was the factors I mentioned before that we considered and I suspect what many other people took into consideration too. Basically we looked at these two films and thought to ourselves which one would we be prepared to go outside and risk our health for in order to see it in a cinema. In the end, Sonic won because, out of the two films, it looked more exciting and more unique than Birds Of Prey, and ultimately we trusted that this film could deliver what it promised. Is that fair? Probably not, but sadly that’s often how these things play out. 

Birds Of Prey may have had a good critical reception, but it ultimately shot itself in the foot thanks to some of its creative and marketing decisions. And if studios take anything away from all this, it should be that relying solely on the gender of the main characters as a means to sell something just doesn’t cut it anymore.

[ducktracy]

145. boulevardier from the bronx (1936)

release date: october 10th, 1936

series: merrie melodies

director: friz freleng

starring: berneice hansell (emily)

the first cartoon to use merrily we roll along as the theme song for merrie melodies! eventually, this would be the only indicator in discerning the difference between cartoons in the looney tunes series and cartoons in the merrie melodies. even then, a few looney tunes shorts have gotten a blue ribbon release, which uses merrily we roll along as the theme song, further skewing any difference. this would be the theme song for merrie melodies all the way until 1964. quite a momentous occasion! plot wise: emily from let it be me makes a reappearance, falling for star baseball pitcher dizzy dan (a play on star pitcher dizzy dean.) her sweetie, claude, (the pitcher for hickville) is none too pleased, and seeks to settle the argument in a good old game of baseball.

an underscore of the title song opens the cartoon, accompanied by a cluster of banners and pennants. one in particular advertises an upcoming baseball game in hickville, welcoming a rooster by the name of dizzy dan, who will be pitching for the chicago giants. the faraway drone of a train whistle serves as a signal to an expectant homecoming band, and they launch into an exuberant rendition of “it looks like a big night tonight”. the train hurtles right past them, without taking any note—quite the impressive overlay of the train rushing past. a cloud of smoke fills the frame and the music halts.

the train is at a standstill, hissing and exuding black smoke just a bit ahead of the station. so, of course, the villagers push the train station along to the train ITSELF. another impressive overlay, especially for 1936. fanfare resumes, and we go inside the cabin to see dizzy dan gleefully looking out the window at his adoring fans. he swaggers along, posing at the end of the caboose, met with applause and cheers. off to the side, emily the hen and her (presumed) boyfriend admire the spectacle from afar. emily is clearly smitten—“isn’t he handsome?” her boyfriend thinks otherwise, scoffing “awwww.” dismissively while she giggles.

dizzy dan asserts he has quite the inflated ego, turning around to show off the back of his jersey. “THE GREAT DIZZY DAN” blinks on and off in pompous neon lettering. with that, dan orders “okay, maestro! strike up the band!” and launches into a talk-song rendition of “boulevardier from the bronx”, a song that would be used in a handful of warner bros cartoons (such as in frank tashlin’s porky the fireman.) the animation is amusing, with interludes such as a man blowing into a trombone, his hat flying off in accompaniment, or the lettering on a drum bouncing off with each hit. even more amusing is dan himself kicking at the ground and clucking like a feral rooster—in case you didn’t know what species he was! emily swoons from the sidelines, her boyfriend shooting steely glares at her and dizzy dan. all in all, an amusing song number.

finally, the fated event arrives as we fade in to the baseball field. a pig shouts through a megaphone “for today’s game, giants vs. hickville! pitching for hickville: claude!” claude, emily’s gangly, hayseed, envious rooster boyfriend is met with a wave of noise... booing. a hilarious contrast as claude rakes in the glory, shaking his hands until realizing the clamor isn’t a positive one. the pig announcer then introduces dizzy dan, whose status is so gilded and precious that his sacred pitching arm is safely propped up on a pillow, carried by a little duck assistant. “play ball!”

the diamond is filled as everyone assumes their positions, with dan contentedly tossing the baseball in his hand. turning his hat around first, the catcher, a turtle, turns his shell around 180 degrees to substitute as protective padding, garbling a string of incomprehensible encouragements to dan. a measly little mr. magoo type pig is up to bat. dizzy assures his fans that he’ll “strike em all out!”, and with that he goes for the pitch, whirling his arm at bewildering speeds (accompanied fittingly by the sound of a jet plane warming up). he throws the pitch, the catcher managing to catch it as he’s propelled into the backstop—a gag that would be reused to a much higher degree in freleng’s classic hit baseball bugs. to remedy his throbbing, burning hand, the pitcher soaks his injury in a nearby bucket filled with water, steam hissing at the initial contact.

second pitch plays out the same as the first, reusing the animation. strike two. this time, for the third pitch, the catcher holds a pipe bent in a U shape. the ball hurtles into one end and pops out of the other, landing right back in dizzy dan’s clutches as the third strike is made. a victorious, obnoxious rooster cackle from dan. the giants are beating hickville (not by much), with one point per inning, the game in the second inning. what a riveting game!


now, hayseed claude is up to pitch against the mean giants, who are much more competent on the field than hickville’s team. claude pitches to a wiener dog, which contorts his body in a sideways U as the ball whizzes right past him, nearly taking him out. a ball—the batter isn’t too pleased, (no pun intended) barking “hey! be careful!” another pitch, and the batter hits it. there’s some nice, floaty animation as claude runs backwards, repeatedly calling “i got it! i got it! i got it!” in a dopey, hayseed voice. instead of one ball returning to the ground, a brief shower of baseballs rains on claude. a bit of an incoherent gag, but coherent enough to get the general gist across. the wiener dog runs across the field, elongating his body and contracting it with each turn as his legs catch up to him. a home run, much to the befuddlement of claude.

elsewhere, dizzy dan is off to the side, flirting with emily, stroking her chin and ogling at her while she giggles in the stands. he swaggers to the batting plate, posing nonchalantly and leaning against his bat, waiting for claude to pitch. the ball whizzes by, right into the catcher’s mitt while dan doesn’t move a muscle. another ball whizzes by, another strike. emily calls “ooh, you better hit it!” from the stands, but dan shrugs her off. “that’s alright! i only need one ball!” this time, he finally assumes the batting position, and most definitely hits the ball with the final pitch. the ball rockets straight into claude, propelling him across the field, right into the backstop.

dan has his own personal cheering section as emily cries “run! run! run!” dan’s in no hurry. “i got lotsa time,” he drawls dismissively. claude is positively fed up with dan’s attitude, and throws the ball back to the catcher. an interesting layout as the ball flies IN from the audience and to the catcher, dan zipping around the diamond like it’s nothing. safe. another victorious cackle.

what a high score. just riveting! neck and neck! at the final inning. the giants are in a staggering lead of 3-0. claude is up to bat, glaring daggers against his cocky mortal foe. dan reassures him “now i’ll strike ya out so you can go home!” he gives his famous whirlwind pitch, and the ball soars right past dan, the impact causing a tremendous gust of wind to blow across the field. the next scene is wonderfully structured: “now i’ll show ya my slow ball!” carl stalling’s score does wonders as a slow, slurred rendition of “boulevardier of the bronx” accompanies dan throwing his pitch in slow motion, the ball lazily floating through the air, creeping towards claude. even greater is when claude swings his bat wildly as the ball approaches, a flurry of activity contested with such a slow moving ball—and he still misses.

stakes are high with the final pitch of the game. dan anticipates and gives one final whirlwind throw... and claude hits it. a jaunty accompaniment of “in the stirrups” as claude darts home, the crowd going wild. final score: 3-4, hickville. claude is showered in hats being thrown off the field, with him waving his own as a dejected dizzy dan trudges up to him in defeat. the cartoon ends as claude laughs in dan’s face, doing the same obnoxious cackle that dan had been taunting the entire short.

a decent cartoon, but not much above that. freleng’s best baseball cartoon (and one of his best cartoons in general) would be baseball bugs, released 10 years later in 1946. there definitely are some similarities, such as the backstop gags, but baseball bugs certainly possesses a lot more energy and wit than this cartoon. with that said, though, this is a good cartoon for its time. catchy music, decent animation, good voice acting, but it’s nothing particularly thrilling. not bad, though! i’d maybe do a one-time watch. i don’t regret watching it, but i think this was enough for me.

link!

[winterisakiller]

Get Better - Chapter Five

Title: Get Better

Chapter: 5/18

Character: Tom Hiddleston/Cath Richardson (OFC)

Genre: Romance

Rating: Teen and up

Summary: Love. Companionship. Family. These are all of the things Tom Hiddleston desperately wanted. But his life and his choices left that a distant and unlikely prospect. So he did his best to move on and live his life as is. When an opportunity to return to the theater arises, he jumps at the chance and along the way finds that maybe, just maybe, those distant and unlikely prospects are closer than he could have imagined. Sequel to Brave Face.

Authors Notes/Warnings: So as I was writing Brave Face I knew that Tom’s story wasn’t over, even if that particular part of it was. And while I knew, more or less, what the overall ending to the story would be, its taken me a while to figure out the time in between. Thanks to @redfoxwritesstuff for letting me continually throw ideas off and at you. I still can’t fathom why you put up with it, but I am eternally grateful you do. This story will update on Thursdays.

Tag list: @tinchentitri @theheartofpenelope @noplacelikehome77 @messy-insomniac-bookgirl @nonsensicalobsessions @blacksuitofdoom @just-the-hiddles @theoneanna @wolfsmom1

Previous Chapter

CHAPTER FIVE

 There was something about the start of full dress rehearsals Cath had always found fascinating. It was the chaos which ensued, keeping everyone on their toes and running like mad, that she found enjoyed like nothing else. She’d arrived at the theater early, as had become her habit, to get her station to rights. And, honestly, to clear her head for the task at hand. This wasn’t her first production by any stretch but it was her first as lead make-up artist and the thought both pleased and terrified her. It wasn’t a huge production a la Wicked or any other number of large scale musical productions she’d done grunt work on, but it was still a major step forward career-wise. The butterfly-like nerves in her stomach fluttered uneasily at the thought.

 Cath had been working exclusively in theatre, with the occasional dabble in television production (hey the money was decent and a steady gig was something she certainly wouldn’t turn her nose up at), for the last five years. When she’d told her mother she’d wanted to pursue an actual career in theatrical make-up and design rather than just mess around with it in her spare time (as she’d done throughout secondary school and her first year of uni), Cath wasn’t terribly shocked by her lack of enthusiasm. Her mother was a practical woman, having raised three children mostly on her own after her divorce, and while she supported and encouraged her children, she had always instilled in them the need to make sound and responsible choices. And true to form, she had made her concerns quite clear.

 “Darling, there is absolutely no doubt in my mind that you are talented. I’ve seen the work you’ve put in for school productions and the local theatre…But how steady will the work actually be? I just want to make sure you’ve honestly thought this through and can make it work.”

 Her concerns were valid and in those first few years Cath struggled to make ends meet. She’d taken any job she could find, often working hellishly long hours for frustratingly little pay. But slowly things started to take off. She’d landed a steady gig at one of the smaller theatres in the West End and had worked herself as hard as she could; learning not only to improve her craft but dabbling in costuming and whatever else she could get her hands on. That job had led to another and another until she found herself booked for most of the year. Television gigs paid well and she enjoyed the hustle and bustle of the sets but theatre had always held her heart. Probably always would.

 She took a long, slow sip of her coffee, enjoying the smooth warmth as it slid down her throat. It was one of her guilty pleasures….Well, maybe not guilty but certainly a pleasure. Take away coffee…Lattes in particular where something she tried very hard to not indulge in; save for when she was starting a new show. During that time the coffee shop around the corner from her flat frankly saw more of her paycheck than she did. It was just simply easier to let someone else make her the caffeine she desperately needed. She let out a soft sigh and tried hard not to feel too guilty about the coffee press sitting unused on her counter.  

 The sound of the door opening pulled Cath back to herself. She turned to find Maggie and Lorna making their way into the small workspace draped with bags and take away coffees which they quickly divested themselves of on the table by the door. Cath had worked with both women on previous projects and had been thrilled when their names appeared on her work log. Both were exceptionally talented and made the often hectic hours much more bearable.

 “Cath!” Lorna cried, launching herself at the shorter woman and wrapping her in tight embrace. Cath stumbled backwards and nearly fell into one of the lighted workstations. “I’m so glad you’re here!”

 Laughter tumbled from her throat as Cath returned the embrace. “I’m glad to be here. Let’s try to keep it that way, eh?”

 Maggie snorted a laugh. “Yeah, let’s not kill our boss on the first day. Wouldn’t send the best message to the production team, now would it?”

 Lorna shrugged, “Fair enough.”

 The rest of the morning passed with little fanfare. Bags were piled in the corner near the curtained dressing areas, one for each actor, filled with costume pieces and various accessories waiting final approval from the production team. As workstations were slowly set to rights and their coffees consumed, the three women bustled around the small room waiting for the rest of the production team to arrive; the actors weren’t due in until closer to eleven.  A quick glance at the wall clock told Cath it was rapidly approaching nine.

 Lorna puttered around the various bags and pulled the pieces of clothing from them one at a time, hanging them up along the back wall. Simple pieces that fit with the ideas that Jaime had thrown around during pre-production; jeans and blouses for Emma and various jeans, suits, shirts, and blazers for Robert and Jerry. Cath and Lorna worked together ironing and steaming the pieces so they wrinkle free and ready to grab and go once the actors arrived.

 Maggie flitted around the room, getting the remaining loose ends settled; extra kits and pieces of clothing that would be used if alterations were needed. Humming to herself, Maggie moved around the small room. Humming turned to singing and soon Cath and Lorna joined in, belting out the words to ridiculous late 90’s/early 2000’s pop songs. Laughing, Cath wandered to her own bag, pulling out her mobile to provide actually music for their impromptu karaoke session. The three women danced around the room, laughing, dancing, and singing at the top of their lungs.

 Applause from the doorway was the first clue that the three of them were no longer alone. Cath squeaked in alarm as she spun around, finding the play’s director, Jaime, laughing hysterically at the door, Zawe standing beside him doubled over in laughter as well. She quickly grabbed her mobile from the table and paused the music. “So um…Welcome!” Cath started, laughing as well, “We’re here all week.”  

 Zawe clapped and darted forward to pull Cath into a tight hug. “I’m so thrilled you’re here!”

 Cath laughed and returned the embrace, “Me too! So come on in, let me introduce you to my team.” She beamed at the fact that she had a team; that would certainly take some getting used to. Cath made quick introductions and the four women fell quickly into conversation regarding theatre in general.

 There was another knock on the doorframe and looking up, Cath found a moderately tall, bearded brunette man standing in the doorway, whom she recognized as Charlie Cox, smiling warmly. He was quickly ushered over and introductions were made once more. Jaime joined the fray and he and Charlie were quickly pulled into conversation with Lorna regarding costumes and character ideas.

 Seeing everyone sufficiently occupied, Zawe had taken Cath by the hand and led her to one of the opened stations. The two women quickly fell into conversation, joking and catching up on what had been happening in each other’s lives. Cath hadn’t had the chance to speak with Zawe since the gala a few months back and was thrilled to hear that the book she’d been working on was finally preparing for release. Cath had worked with Zawe on a handful of projects over the past several years and they’d hit it off almost immediately. They were close in age, had similar tastes in books and movies, and shared a similar sense of humor. They’d passed many an early morning shoot laughing themselves silly.

 “…So there I was standing there with the back of my dress wide open, trying to grab at the bleeding zipper when Darren, our director, walks in with some poor bloke from the local paper.” Cath threw back her head, laughing at the image Zawe had painted. “Needless to say that was certainly one interview I’ll never forget.”

 “God, Zawe, I can only imagine. At least you were mostly dressed. And it certainly gave the show write up a bit of color.” Cath joked, dodging the playful swat Zawe threw her way. “Besides, you remember that morning in Devon? When I got locked out of my hotel room and had to go on set in my dress from the night before…The very one that had gotten soaked in wine when that man lost his balance and fell into our table?” She waved her hands wildly, mimicking her panicked reaction to the flying wine. “I still don’t know how I didn’t get crucified for that. You remember how bloody strict Jaz was.”

 Zawe laughed and nodded. “Yes! Oh that was quite the talk of the set.” Her attention waivered at something over Cath’s shoulder, face breaking into a smile as she waved at the doorway behind them.

 Cath turned, finding herself standing face to chest with a tall, auburn haired man. His blue eyes were hidden behind a pair of black square framed glasses, but they were no less arresting for it. There was something about the way in which they took her in, the colors swirling between blue and green, which fascinated her. A scruffy beard covered his cheeks and chin, recently trimmed she noted given its length. His hair was just a touch too long, curly and just this side of disarray. He looked completely different from the clean faced, strong jawed man she’d seen on film posters but she’d recognized him all the same. The show’s second leading man, Tom Hiddleston.

                                                            —

 The door closed behind him with a bang, causing Tom to wince as he glanced back to make sure he’d not caused any permanent damage to either door or frame. All looked well enough and that would have to do. He glanced once more at his watch, cursing out loud as he took in the time. Fucking hell, he was late. But if...Just maybe if he could make it to the underground station and catch the next arriving train, he would make it to the theatre close enough to call time.

 He hadn’t meant to be late; he’d had every intention of making it out of the house and to the theatre on time. That obviously wasn’t going to happen now. He let out an exasperated sigh. Possibly going out the night before had been a mistake. But it had been Daniel’s birthday and he hadn’t seen him in ages. They’d been friends since RADA and did their best to keep in touch over the years; which had been difficult considering their hectic schedules and life in general. When Daniel called the night before and asked if Tom could swing by the pub for a few drinks in honor of his birthday, he had eagerly agreed; looking forward to spending a few hours with old friends. But as these things tended to go, a few drinks turned into talking and suddenly it was nearing midnight and last call.

 Tom had made it home and to bed slightly after one and woke at nearly ten to discover that the alarm he’d sworn he’d set either hadn’t been set or hadn’t gone off. He cursed profusely, earning him a confused look from Bobby. He’d thrown on the first clean pair of jeans and jumper he found (the perks of minimalizing his wardrobe) and shoved his feet hastily into his boots before charging down the stairs, Bobby following quickly at his heels. Rounding the corner, he skidded into the kitchen and then through to the back room. He pushed open the back garden door, Bobby barked once and trotted out to do his business. Once Bobby was fed and shut in his kennel, Tom had grabbed his keys and wallet from the side table by the front door and sprinted out of it, the door slamming behind him.

 His jog to the underground station was thankfully uneventful and he’d managed to catch the next arriving train, though it was a very near thing. The crowd in Leister Square was easy enough to navigate and he’d only bumped into one or two people in his flight, apologizing as he jogged through the square and onto a side street. Tom felt himself fill with relief as the Harold Pinter theatre came into view. He made his way across the street and up into the stage door entrance, greeting the staff mulling around it warmly. He raced up the stairs as quickly as his feet could carry him, hoping he wasn’t as late as he feared.

 Tom could hear laughter echoing from the opened dressing room door as he climbed the last few steps and onto the landing. He was mostly on time, the quick glance at his watch showed it was only a few minutes past eleven. Not the best impression he’d ever made, but certainly not the worst and there was nothing he could do about it presently. With a smile, he made his way through the doorway and into the brightly lit dressing room.

 His attention fell first on Zawe, perched on a stool and chatting animatedly with a short woman in dark jeans and an oversized light green jumper. There was something familiar about her, even with her back was turned to him, but he couldn’t quite seem to put a finger on why. It wasn’t until she’d thrown her head back and laughed, a bright and rich sound, when realization struck him. The woman from the Pinter Gala in October. Cath. He laughed despite himself. What were the odds?

 She looked absolutely lovely; laughing warmly at whatever she and Zawe had been discussing. Her voice animated and full of warmth as she waved her hands around to emphasize the point she was making. Her long, dark hair was pulled back and piled in a lop-sided bun, though a few stray strands had fallen out of their bindings and had been pushed behind her ear. Zawe smiled at him when she’d turned her head and found him standing by the door and quickly waved him over.

 His breath caught in his throat as she turned around, confusion painted across her face. Her dark blue eyes flashing first in surprise then in recognition. Her face broke into a warm and welcoming smile. God, she is stunning.

 “Cath this is Tom, my long suffering cuckold of a husband….For the next few months at least.” Zawe gestured at Tom, a playful and warm smile spreading across her face. “Tom, this is Cath. She’s going to be responsible for making us look pretty. Though for you, I suspect she has her work cut out for her.” There was a brief pause before all three burst into laughter.

 God, the thought stole across Tom’s mind, she has a wonderful laugh. He quickly shook the thought away, extending his hand to hers. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

 “Likewise.” Cath took his hand, smiling, and shook it firmly. Her hand was small, dwarfed in his own, smooth and warm. He had no desire to let her or it go.

 “Alright,” Jaime yelled, standing up and clapping his hands. The three of them turned to face the director. “Since we’re all here, let’s get started.”

                                                        —

 Tom poured himself into the make-up chair, quite ready to be done for the day. He’d forgotten how draining theatre could be, no matter how much he enjoyed it. Their first official rehearsal had gone well; they’d ran through the play twice, stopping occasionally to work on blocking or change a delivery of a line. It was comforting, being in costume (even if the costume was close enough to what he’d wear outside of the theatre) and full make-up (God, though it made face itch something fierce), it made things feel more…real. But blast it all, he was tired.

 Cath smiled at him, make-up remover in hand. “Long day?” she joked, handing him the soaked wash cloth. Tom smiled and took it gratefully, wiping his face with a sigh.

 “I’d forgotten how much this stuff itches.”

 “But it makes you look oh so pretty,” Cath teased, taking the wash cloth back and getting the bits he’d missed the first time around. “You guys are quite good,” she murmured, placing the cloth into the dirty linen bin by her feet and pulling out a bottle of light moisturizer. She pumped a small amount onto her hands, rubbing it between them before reaching and applying it to his slightly reddened face.

 “Thank you,” he answered, trying not to think about how nice her touch felt on his skin.

 They’d chatted quite a bit in the run up to actually getting himself, Charlie, and Zawe on the stage; and he’d found he very much enjoyed her company. She made him laugh with an ease that he hadn’t felt in a long time. She was warm and genuine; what you saw was you got. They’d talked briefly about his work; she’d seen him in Coriolanus, a friend of a friend had gotten tickets and invited her along, and she’d confessed to being quite impressed with his work in it, even if he was a fair bit shouty at times. She’d seen one or two of the Marvel films and had a fair grasp on his role in them, but they hadn’t really been her cup of tea.

 He’d been almost grateful for her lack of response to his fame, or infamy depending on how you looked at it. It was a wonderful change of pace. She asked him questions about his experiences on set and what had lead him to acting in the first place. He, in turn, asked her about the work she’d done, in theatre and in television, he’d been pleased to find out, and they’d shared stories about long days on set or backstage antics they’d encountered.

 “Alright,” she declared, leaning back with a soft smile. “All done. You, good sir, are free to go.”

 The loss of her warmth against him was disheartening in a way he did not wish to explore anytime soon.

 He returned her smile. “Thank you, my lady. I look forward to working with you in future.” Tom stood and headed back to the screened area in the far corner of the room to change back into his street clothes. Had he turned back, he would have caught the faint blush that spread across Cath’s face at his words.

                                                             —

 Tom cursed as he caught sight of the time. He was late. Of fucking course he was late. God, what a mess. His hair was plastered to his head and he hadn’t had time to do anything save brush it from his face as he ran from the house and down the street towards the Underground station.

 Bobby, the little shit, had been an unholy terror. He’d rushed out the garden door that morning, with complete disregard for the sheets of rain that were belting down (at the rate it was falling, Tom was thrilled to death it wasn’t snow), and dived head first into the muddy flower beds instead of calmly doing his business and rushing back inside for breakfast. Tom, knowing the horror it was to wash the foul beast, charged after him, winding up soaked in the process. Both muddy and thoroughly pissed at each other, man and beast made their way inside the house. Bathing Bobby had been an exercise in mutual frustration. The spaniel whined and growled through the whole process, swiping paws at his master in a fruitless attempt at escape. The bathroom was a disaster, water and mud splashed over the floors and walls and Tom groaned, knowing what a nightmare it would be to clean. Toweled dry and still growling intermittently, Bobby was unceremoniously shut in his kennel and his food bowl shoved in after.

 Grumbling, Tom took the stairs two at a time and made as quick a work of cleaning the guest bath as he could. He’d just loaded the remaining towels into the washer when he caught sight of the time off the clock in his kitchen. His eyes bugged, how had it gotten so late?

 Another string of curses followed Tom up the stairs once again as he dashed into his bedroom and grabbed clean clothing from the wardrobe (his usual dark jeans and a jumper). He ran into the bathroom, cursing the fact that he didn’t have time for a proper shower. And certainly no thanks to the beast in his backroom.

 He grabbed a wash cloth and wiped the mud and dirt from his face and arms as best he could before pulling his jeans and jumper on. He sat on his bed to get himself settled in his socks and boots, knowing that with his luck, if he tried to do this while standing he’d fall and break his neck. That would be the icing on the cake of this foul day.

 Dressed and still rather cross, Tom grabbed his keys and wallet from the side table and then his umbrella from the hall tree, quickly shrugging into his wool coat, before dashing out the door. The rain was still coming down in unrelenting sheets and the jog from his front door to the station had his boots and the cuffs of his jeans soaked through. He grimaced but knew there was little he could do for it now. At the ticket gate he paused and pulled his mobile from his pocket, quickly dialing the theatre, hoping to catch someone and inform them of his tardiness.

 The phone rang once. Then twice before the line clicked and a warm female voice answered. “Hello?”

 He recognized Cath’s voice immediately and made a determined effort to keep his frustration in check. Absolutely none of this was her fault. He took a deep breath and explained as quickly as he could. “It’s Tom, I’m running late. It’s been…A fair bit hectic this morning. But I am on my way.”

 “Alright, Tom.” There was a clear hint of laughter in her voice, but she held it back remarkably well. “Take care. See you when you get here.”

 Tom echoed her statement and ended the call, shoving his mobile back into his pocket. He made his way hastily through the barrier and down the escalator towards the filling platform. He brushed his wet hair from his face as he waited for the next train. He mentally cursed his lack of coffee but there hadn’t been any time and hoped against hope that there would be some at the theatre. Or that he could possibly duck out at some point and hit the Costa a few streets down. As long as he got caffeine somewhere (and in the relatively near future) he didn’t care.

 By the time the train had pulled into the station and Tom had made his way from the platform and onto the street, the rain had died to a slow drizzle. He rushed from the station towards the theatre passing the aforementioned Costa with a longing look; he was far too late to risk stopping now, no matter how badly he wanted to. He nodded at John, one of the security at the stage door, and climbed the stairs two at a time. His watch had him at twenty minutes late and he cringed. He’d been doing so well with his time management in the last few weeks and this blip stung.

 He burst through the dressing room door, pulling off his coat, hanging it up, and dropping the umbrella by the door. “So sorry,” he called. Charlie and Zawe were dressed and sitting at their respective stations, chatting with each other and with Lorna and Maggie. They looked up at his entrance and called greetings out.

 Cath emerged from the back, smiling. “You made it!”

 She quickly ushered him over towards his station. His eyes widened as he took in the waiting take away cup of coffee and brownie awaiting him. Gods, he could have kissed her for her thoughtfulness. He blinked the thought away and settled quickly into his chair before turning back to her. “You are a lifesaver. Honestly, thank you.”

 “Can’t have you falling off stage because you’ve not had the requisite amount of caffeine in your system, now can we?” They both laughed and Tom reached gratefully for the gently steaming coffee, taking a tentative sip. It burned, but in the best way and he closed his eyes, savoring the warmth and the smooth bitterness. “Would you two like a moment alone?”

 Cath’s teasing words snapped Tom back to himself and he blushed, quickly putting the cup back onto the counter. “Nah,” he quipped, once he’d recovered himself. “I trust your discretion.”

 “Well that certainly explains a lot, Hiddleston,” she teased, not bothering to hide her laughter. “Who would have thought you were into exhibition?”

 Tom shrugged, enjoying the playful if not slightly evocative teasing. “Why do you think I got into acting?”

 Cath only laughed harder, shaking her head as she turned to grab a towel. “What happened to you, Tom? Your hair’s a mess.”

 “It’s a long story,” he grumbled, grabbing the coffee once more and taking another long sip. “Involving a stubborn dog and far too much rain.”

 “Yikes.” She rubbed the towel over his head, drying his hair as best she could. A smirk spread across her face as she spotted a muddy paw print on the side of his neck. “Looks like the dog won, though.” She pointed at the spot and Tom let out a groan. “He marked you.”

 “Stupid bloody dog.”

 Cath chuckled to herself, wiping the mark from his neck and dropping the towel into the dirty linen bin. She reached down and grabbed the hairdryer, making sure it was plugged in before running it over Tom’s unruly hair, making sure it was well and truly dry. “Alright,” she announced, shutting off the hairdryer and placing it back in its holster. “That’s about as good as we can get. Now scoot.”

 Tom laughed, thanking her again for the coffee and for fixing the mess his morning had made of his hair. “You really are a lifesaver, Cath.”

 “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Like I haven’t heard that one before. Now off with you, before we both get yelled at for your tardiness.”

 With a smile and a wave, Tom made his way from the dressing room towards the stairs leading to the stage. Cath watched as he went, a warm smile spreading across her face as she caught sight of an errant curl sticking up at the back of his head. Silly man, she thought to herself. You are going to be a world of trouble, aren’t you?

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