#sorry I’m tipsy and reflecting on being fifteen years old and being told I’m a waste of space for burning the shit out of myself by accident

[chorealis]

I’m not the first or the last person to say this but I grew up in the restaurant industry (third generation restauranteur) and everything that happens in The Bear is real life. Every restaurant you eat at? That’s what’s behind the kitchen door. There’s a crazy culture of abuse (both mental and emotional) as well as rampant substance addiction that’s considered “normal”. And I’m very serious when I say TV personalities like Gordon Ramsey truly make things worse by perpetuating the idea that yelling and screaming at both coworkers and subordinates is how a restaurant “should work”. And that attitude has genuine, real world consequences. So many good chefs- and good people- have taken their own lives because it’s so taboo to ask for help, or even just that maybe being yelled at all day every day might not be good for people’s mental well being.

The kitchen is a wonderful place. People from all walks of life come together in order to make people smile, to make memories, to make food that tastes the way food SHOULD taste!! But it’s also the same place where human beings are treated like absolute garbage. It’s where people plate hundreds of wonderful meals a night, but then eat their own dinner hunched over a trash can. It’s where people escape to a cold, dark, damp walk-in freezer to cry, because that’s the only break they get from being on their feet for hours at a time. It’s the place where chefs sometimes walk out after a hard night and choose not to wake up the next day.

The restaurant industry is changing. Owners and managers say that it’s because “nobody wants to work anymore”, but the truth is that people refuse to let themselves be treated as disposable anymore.

I dunno. All this is to say- remember the human beings behind every dish you eat. The chefs who put so much of their lives into food and the emotions attached to it. Whenever possible, eat at restaurants that have designated kickback fees to the kitchen staff. And if you work in a kitchen… you’re loved. You’re valuable. Please never be afraid to reach out if you need it.

Read more on restaurant service fees here if you’re curious what they are and how they work:

[mere-mortifer-writing]

Dean Winchester/Reader ❧ Sweet Apology

Rating: Explicit Pairing: Dean Winchester/Reader; Dean Winchester/OFC Word count: 4874 | Chapter 1 of 3 Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content Tags: Fluff & Smut, a smidge of Angst; Misunderstandings; Porn with Feelings; Arguing; Reader has a crush on Dean  Summary: The plan was to watch a movie in Dean's room, but without Sam to help her feel less awkward, it's no surprise that she ends up saying something stupid - and make Dean think she dislikes him, of all things, when she has a gigantic crush on the guy. They start yelling at each other, soon enough they're kissing, and then - well, Dean's bed gets put to good use. It kind of sucks, though, that as soon as they're done Dean puts his clothes back on leaves her like nothing happened. Wham, bam, thank you ma'am. Well, not really. He's just absolutely clueless. I swear, if these two don't open their mouths and talk...

Beta’d by @mostly-shawn and @aingealcethlenn - Thank you so much for the help <3 

Read on Ao3 | Chapter Two coming soon

❧ Chapter One 

So, to summarize: she’s eating Fruity Loops, in an underground bunker, at the same table as two certified living legends in the hunting community. The monster hunting community, may she remind you in case you lost the memo.

She is, apparently, very good at identifying and theoretically killing said monsters – although God forbid they ever ask her to join in on the action. She admires Sam and Dean for what they do, but she's fine staying behind the scenes: rummaging through old lore books and giving herself a headache is as far as she'll go. She has proven herself useful in multiple occasions, so no shame there. 

Sam confessed to her, on the one memorable occasion when he had drunk enough to be tipsy, that he was more than happy she has to interest in hunting.

"It's my life and I love it", he said, "but it sucks all the ass and you shouldn't do it. Everyone fucking dies. If you got hurt I'd be sad about it for at least six months straight. I'd grow a beard and all." "What would Dean do?", she asked in morbid curiosity.  "'Dunno, drink and throw every chair and lamp he sees on the ground, maybe? He does that a lot. Just - never hunt, okay?" "I'll do it for the sake of your poor furniture", she responded, and she never changed her mind. 

Sorry, sometimes the crazy hits her all at once, and she needs to do a recap of the situation. Where was she? Oh, right: she was looking at Dean. (What else is new?)

Dean's sprawled on the wooden chair like a bored king, dead guy's robe at least two sizes too big on his broad shoulders. It's one of those rare instances where he slept well the night before, and he looks cozy and relaxed and roughly fifteen years younger than yesterday.

She's trying so hard not to openly stare at him that her cereal got all mushy in the meantime.

"Are you sure Jody can deal with this on her own?", Dean is saying, oblivious to her thoughts. "Seems to me like she's already got her hands full, with the girls and all."

On the other side of the table, Sam sips his coffee and nods. "Yeah, hopefully, it'll be just the one werewolf. I told Jody to call us if she finds out there's more going on."

"Hopefully there's not. Oh!" Dean slaps a celebratory hand on the table and grins. "That means we've got the day off! We could take advantage of that Netflix subscription we pay for." "Garth is paying – we're just leeching off of him. And I actually wanted to go for a run. Wanna come?" "Ugh." "Yeah, I thought so. You two can start without me, though. I'll join you later."

Oh, the mental image that double-meaning evokes!  But it’s more of a private joke with herself that anything – she likes Sam, obviously, if only because she's a straight woman with functioning eyes, but she doesn't have a crush. He’s tall and kind, and objectively attractive but he’s not… 

Her eyes fall on his brother's long fingers tapping on the table, his strong wrist peeking out of the robe’s sleeve, and she feels her stomach tie in knots. 

He’s not Dean, alright?

She didn’t ask not to have eyes but for him, and yet here she is: all moon-eyed over his wrist, of all things. 

Someone shoot her; it’d be a mercy killing at this point. 

Dean turns to her, all bright-eyed in his good mood. "What do you say, movie marathon? We could stay in my room, get comfy on the bed." Well, now, that makes her legs clench tight together under the table.  She knows she���ll have to answer very quickly because in a second she’ll start overthinking and find some excuse not to join Dean. In his bedroom, on his bed. Something she has never fantasized about, no sir. "Yes? Yeah, why not!", she exclaims, just a tad too loud. Oh my God, at least try to play it cool. Sam smirks from behind his cup, and she wonders for a moment if this "morning run" of his isn't just a ploy to leave her alone with his brother. Then Dean winks at her, and all other thoughts fly out of the window.  "Awesome. Come on, I'll even let you choose the movie."

❧ ☙

"I'll let you choose, he says," she huffs to herself. Her reflection in the bathroom mirror looks back at her with mild panic in her eyes. "Like that's not agonizing or anything."

God, she just wishes Dean didn't make her so damn nervous. How long has she known the Winchesters for? A year? She's even living with them, she should be past all – she clenches her fists, trying to calm herself – this. And still, Dean makes her heady and rattled just by looking at her for too long. She needs to get a grip.

While she brushes her teeth and washes her face, she settles on Kill Bill – which a) she knows Dean hasn't seen in years and b) should hopefully keep her attention away from his closeness. On his bed. Where she will also be.

God help her.

She walks out of the bathroom up to Dean's room. He's already propping his laptop on a bunch of pillows at the foot of the bed, humming a Metallica song under his breath. His eyes shoot up to her when she arrives.  "Hey! Did you choose the movie?", he says. He's still as carefree as she's ever seen him, but there's something in his voice that was missing during breakfast. A note of –  weariness? Hope? She can't decipher it. "Don't tell Sammy I said, but I could sit through a chick–flick without bitching too much if you wanna watch one.”  And if that isn’t proof he has a martyr complex... "Actually, I was thinking Kill Bill?" He beams up. "Oh hell yeah, haven't seen that one in ages." He finds the movie and hits play, settling down against the bed frame. She notices that he got rid of the robe and is now sitting in only a t–shirt and grey sweatpants. Oh please, no, she thinks, already feeling desperate. Fucking grey sweatpants, tight and revealing in all the right places, inviting her to look down, down...come on, just take a peek- 

She gingerly sits down at the opposite end of the bed, eyes straight ahead.  Despite the distance, she can smell Dean’s cologne (and what the fuck did he put cologne on for?), fresh and manly and very attractive – so much so that she forgets to focus on the film.  She's acutely aware of his presence beside her – of the warmth radiating from him, of how little space and layers there are between their bodies. She also notices him glancing at her from time to time, even though her gaze stays fixed on the computer screen.  Is she acting weird? Is that why he's looking at her? She's literally just sitting there, but maybe there's something on her face, or she's breathing too loud…that has never happened before, but who knows–

"I don't bite, you know?"  She's almost startled by Dean's voice interrupting her manic line of thought. He's now openly watching her, the small smile on his lips a mix between tentative and reassuring. "You can come closer if you want to. You're almost off the bed." She laughs nervously – damn, way to put her on the spot. But he’s right: she’s all bunched up on the corner of the bed, shaky hands hidden under her legs. "I, uh, didn't want to make you uncomfortable, that's all."  What the fuck does that even mean? One of Dean's eyebrows shot up his forehead, and his smile turns disbelieving. "Me? You're the one that looks like she has a gun pointed at her head." Her whole face heats up in embarrassment. He knows she's timid, and anyone who even glances in her direction knows she's head over heels for him – why does he have to put attention on it? "I'm just out of my depth here, you know I'm shy–" "Shy?" he interrupts her. "We've known each other for a year! And we both know you're not like this with Sam." 

Also very true, much to her chagrin – Sam has this puppy-dog aura to himself that makes him look smaller and non-threatening, at least when he’s in the company of friends. Dean...Dean doesn’t seem to have an off-switch, he’s always very unapologetically himself. Even when he’s acting like a total dork, he fills the entire room with his presence.

The mortification of being called out like this is making her eyes water, and Dean's unfaltering eye contact is not helping. "It's different with Sam," she tries to explain. What can she say without giving too much of her feelings away?  "Why? Have I done something bad to you?" he asks. “You’re always so – so skittish with me, it’s like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

Dean has the most expressive eyes she has ever seen, and try as he might his feelings are always starkly clear on his face – like now, settling over the vibrant apple-green like an ugly shadow; disappointment and plain sadness. She really, really doesn't want to hurt him, and trips over her own thoughts in an attempt to say I'm not uncomfortable, I'm just in love and bad with feelings – but how to say it without spelling it out? 

"It's nothing you've done,” she tries, “it's just – you."

Oh, God. That came out awfully wrong.

Dean scoffs, breaking the eye contact to look at everything in the room but her. "Yeah, I figured," he snickers, "Could have just said no to watching the movie, then, sweetheart. You shouldn't have to spend time with people you dislike." Dislike? She almost can't believe the irony of the situation. "Dean, I don't dislike you, that's not what I meant." "You just said you have a problem with me as a person! Listen,” – he passes a hand over his mouth, like he does when he needs a second to find the words – “Listen, I don’t know what you heard about me, okay? Sometimes hunters pass through here, and maybe you got wind of some rumours. I’m the first one to admit I can be a douchebag from time to time, but they don’t know me. Hell, half of them I don’t even consider friends! And I thought, you.. well, whatever. You can go back where you came from if living with me is so damn unpleasant! ” Well, ouch. That one hurt. She stands from the bed, raising her voice to hide how close she is to tears.  They could have spent a nice day together, watching movies and eating popcorn from the same bowl or something, and then she had to go ahead and ruin everything.  And he's being so stubborn, God, but what else is new?  "Dean, what – rumours? You think this is about your reputation or something?” “I don’t know! You fucking tell me.” “Why do you wanna argue? You were in such a good mood two minutes ago-" "Yeah, I really was." He jumps off the bed and walks around it until he's face to face with her. "Excuse me if seeing you all – all scared of me kind of killed the mood!" "What? I'm not scared!" "Then why the fuck are you on the verge of tears right now?" "'Cause I'm sorry," she shouts to match his tone. He's standing so close; it's unfair how much it affects her. "I don’t find you scary, okay? I’m sorry I made you think that!" "Yeah, well, I’m sorry, too,” he shouts back. “Then why are we yelling?” “I have no idea!”

They both fall silent. Her mind is trying to process what the fuck just happened, why was she shouting in the first place when Dean is right there, not even five inches away –  eyes bright and fiery because of the argument, the hard line of his mouth relaxing as his expression changes. He looks down at her lips. Her breath catches in her throat. She feels paralyzed by how intensely she wants him at that moment, stuck between throwing caution to the wind or fleeing before she makes a fool of herself. But Dean hasn’t moved away, has he? If anything he’s inching closer, and he's looking at her like, like he, too…

Dean leans in and kisses her, a soft sigh leaving his nose when their lips touch.  He's so warm, is her first thought. Warm and big and solid against her, so much more substantial than in her fantasies – where he holds her just as tightly, kisses her just as deeply. Her hands tremble slightly as she goes to cup his face. God, it's happening for real. She bites on his full bottom lip with urgency, and he tugs her closer by the hips, pushing his tongue in her mouth. He’s not so much aggressive as he’s ardent, burning fast and bright on her skin like he hasn’t much time left – or like he’s waited too long, and he’s hell-bent on making himself unforgettable.

She isn’t sure she would like the pace, was he anyone else.  But oh God, he’s not anyone else, he’s Dean – and she wants, she wants, she wants him and won’t make excuses for liking this. Teeth, bruises, too-sharp nails; warm breaths mixing with hers, his fingers digging in wherever she’s softer and warmer. 

She passes a hand on the short hair at the nape of his neck, and she can feel goosebumps rise on his arms at the feeling. Dean gives her one last peck on the lips before hiding his face in the crook of her neck – he releases a shuddering sigh that makes her shiver, and nips at the skin behind her ear. His big hands settle on her legs, squeezing and palming the back of her thighs until she's raised to her tiptoes. "Hold on, baby," he says and picks her up from the ground.  Wrapped around his waist, she can feel his erection pressing on her core –  and she's never felt emptier and needier than right there with Dean, hard and panting, ready to fuck her against a wall.  "Oh God," she moans, and desperately paws at Dean's shirt to get some skin–on–skin contact.  He raises his face to watch her and chuckles at her efforts, grinding with more and more insistence against her.  "I know, I know," he hums, "I gotcha." He smiles that boyish adorable grin he sometimes does, and she's overwhelmed by both the rush of affection for him and the desire pooling low in her belly. 

She's about to say something undoubtedly stupid that would ruin everything –  she has the three words already formed on her lips, but they turn into a gasp when Dean twists around and lets her fall on the mattress. The cold sheets underneath her give some clarity back. Not that she keeps it for long, with Dean crawling between her open thighs, hair all fucked up by her hands. He gives her a long caress from her knees up to her waist and smiles again. "Always wanted you in my bed." Is this actually happening?, she thinks, incredulous. "Wh–Yeah?" "Why do you you think I proposed we watch something here?" He winks at her. "Sam wasn't home...I dunno, I felt lucky today." "...and then we ended up yelling at each other a bunch", she adds. Dean huffs a laugh and leans down to kiss her, deep and long enough she forgets what they were even talking about. "Doesn't that just count as foreplay?"  "I don't think so, no." Dean beams at her, eyes glinting with something dangerous. "No? How about this, then?", he says, and licks a hot strip on her neck before sucking a mark there. The sharp feeling of his teeth on her sensitive skin makes her back arch closer to his chest. "Or this?" One of his hands sneaks under her shirt, slow and teasing. Dean's fingers splay wide on her stomach on their way up, and she's never hated a piece of clothing more than her bra when it stops the contact. She wants everything off, wants to feel him really touch her. "Oh, fuck," she gasps. "Dean– Dean, take this off." He groans against her collarbone, voice low and rumbly, before leaning back on his knees. "Mmh, yeah. Yes, ma'am. Can you roll over?" The thought of Dean pressed long and wide along her back makes her toes curl, and she gladly turns around. 

She realizes Uma Thurman is still swinging her katana on the computer screen, so she takes a second to close the laptop. There's the swishing of fabric behind her, probably Dean shimming out of his sweatpants and shirt while she can't see him. She goes to undress as well, but two warm hands on her hips stop her. "No, wait, I wanna do it," Dean says. “‘Kay?” Oh God, this man is gonna be the death of her. "Yes, please."

Dean scoots closer, his knees on either side of hers, erection pressed on the small of her back. He briefly hugs her to his chest while he leaves a kiss on her hair, squeezing a bit before he lets her go. She swallows back a whimper at the feeling – not because it brings any real pleasure, but because of Dean's unguarded desire behind the gesture. He’s slowed down the pace, maybe for her benefit, maybe for his own.  God, she's there, with Dean. Unbelievable. She wants him so much she could cry. 

Nuzzling her neck, he helps her take off her shirt, and then – faster, cause he's seductive, yes, but also earnest and enthusiastic – he unclasps her bra, and it falls on the bed. She gets why he asked her to turn around, conscious that her shyness would, at least at first, follow her even in bed: like this, she can't see him watching, and her instinct to hide from him is stifled.  Not that she had nothing to worry about: Dean just sighs softly and cups her breasts in his hands, a smile splitting his face at how soft and hot her skin is. 

Her leggings go next, tugged down roughly by herself, 'cause suddenly she really, really needs to be naked so he can touch her everywhere.  She leans forward on the bed, face pressing on a pillow as she shimmies out of her pants.  Dean huffs a laugh behind her. "These are very sexy," he comments, hooking his fingers on the edge of her underwear. Which is ridiculous, cause she has on the most boring pair of black undies ever produced.  Goes to show with how little Dean is pleased.  Instead of taking the last piece of offending clothing off, he slides two fingers up and down her folds, pushing in a little through the fabric.  "So wet already," he says, “and I haven't even touched you yet." His voice has gone low and rumbly and that, coupled with his fingers, makes her that much wetter.  “‘Cause I want you,” she mumbles in the pillow, stating the obvious. She rocks backs on his hand, inviting. ��You know, I-” “Yeah, baby?” Oh God, he called me baby, she thinks a bit hysterically. She bites back the embarrassment and tries to find somewhere the courage to finish the sentence. “You know, I - I think of you when I touch myself.”

There it is, out in the open. Just how ridiculously attracted to him she is. 

His movements stutter; when she angles her head so that she can see his face, she finds him already watching her with such intense, naked longing in his eyes, she has to feel proud. It’s getting to her head, feeling wanted like this. “What?” he asks, finally sliding off her underwear. He’s already naked, and as soon as the panties hit the mattress she pushes back until she’s flush with him – his erection is pressed in the cleft of her ass, getting smeared with her wetness when she starts undulating her hips. “What- fuck,” Dean tries again, distracted by what she’s doing. “Mmh, what do you think about?” God, she’s burning up, and she’s so damn empty without him inside of her. “I don’t know, uh - Your fingers?” Dean circles an arm around her and sneaks his hand down her belly until he can touch her clit, middle and forefinger forming slow circles in time with her hips. “Yes, yes like that, fuck,” she gasps. She decides, there and then, to tell him a secret. 

“One time, one time we were at that diner together, Sam and Cas were there as well...And you had that red shirt on, and you must have spent some time on your hair, ‘cause it was – I don’t know, Dean, you were just so beautiful. I was sitting right in front of you. You were flirting with the waitress, and I thought, I thought ‘God, what if I took my shoe off, and slid my foot all the way up his leg and then, when he looks at me, confused, pretend I’m not doing anything?’ And I kept thinking about it, ‘cause you weren’t looking at me anyway.  What if I made you hard, there in public, but you had to keep your face straight and not react? And then, what if you grasped my ankle under the table like a warning to stop, but you still pushed back to have more friction, blushing that pretty red when Sam asked you if were okay? And you know what, Dean?” She pauses a second, lost in the fantasy and the feeling of his hands on her. “I would have stopped without a word. I would have left you there, wouldn’t have even acknowledged what I was doing by glancing at you – I would have stood up, with you still hard in your jeans in that cute, family-friendly diner, and I would have said “Sorry, gotta powder my nose” or something just as stupid, to look even more annoyingly innocent –  and then I would have gone to the bathroom. And waited for you to follow me, so you could fuck me in one of the stalls, my hand on your mouth to keep you quiet, hoping against hope that no one would come in, or hear us, or interrupt us before you could cum so deep inside me I would have felt you for days-”

Dean moves away from her, one hand to keep her still. “Okay, okay, that’s- that's enough for now." His free hand is at the base of his dick, squeezing a bit as he calms down. He’s breathing fast, lips bitten red and freckles standing out against the flush on his face. He is, quite possibly, the hottest thing she has ever seen. And she did that. “You little- I think I remember that day, fuck. That’s what you were thinking? Jesus.”  He briefly rummages in the bedside drawer and comes back to the bed with a condom.  “Is like this okay?” he asks, and helps her up from where she was sprawled on the bed.  She considers whether or not her legs will hold her up in this position, and figures that after that spiel she deserves to be a bit of a pillow princess – Dean will hold her up if he needs to. With those strong, muscular arms of his. Mmh, God bless his biceps... So she hums “yes,”  and hooks her feet around his calves to feel him closer. 

She looks back at him as he goes in, and more than the feeling of Dean sliding into her, she'll never forget how his eyes flutter close in a pained frown, like it feels so good it hurts; like he’s somehow surprised by the pleasure.  And then he moves, and her eyes just close on their own at the feeling. Everything’s just burning hot – Dean inside her, his hands touching everywhere on her body, his forehead pressed between her shoulders when he leans down.  “‘Missed this,” he mumbles on her skin. “I always forget how good it is.” 

Which would be, was this a different setting, an unwelcome reminder of how many women have been under him before her. Right now, with him groaning and moaning in her ear? She couldn’t care less.

The pace picks up - and, really, Dean’s a very proportionate man, and, in that position, he goes too deep for comfort. At a particularly hard thrust, she whimpers in pain. “You okay?” he asks, worried fingers moving the hair out of her face.  “Yeah, ‘s okay. Just-” “I hurt you,” he interjects, and helps her up. “Get closer to the headboard? Alright, let’s try it like this.”  On her knees, with her arms balancing her weight on the wall, the angle changes drastically. Dean slides back into her, this time pressed on her in a long line from shoulders to knees, and hooks his chin on her shoulder. “Better?”

“Way better,” she says, and smiles at his happy sigh. 

There’s not much she could tell you about the rest, not without interrupting herself every two seconds by grinning and blushing. It just feels good. It feels amazing.  Dean’s experience is evident in his every move, and he doesn’t let her forget for a second exactly who’s she with –  in that too-hot bedroom with weapons decorating the wall, giving a memory foam mattress a run for its money.  She says his name probably too many times, and some ridiculous praise comes out of her mouth once in a while, but Dean doesn’t seem to mind; he bites her neck too hard, at one point, and it hurts but she loves it, the proof that he has lost himself completely in her body.  And Dean builds her up and up, with his voice and his fingers and his cock, until she shudders and cums around him. 

She briefly loses sense of time, feeling only Dean thrusting into her faster and deeper and with a faltering rhythm – when she comes back to herself, he’s slipping out of her with a groaned “Jesus Christ.”

She lies down on her back, panting as she watches him throw away the condom in a small bin beside the bed. All those good chemicals that come with an orgasm are making her feel more naked than a simple lack of clothes – Dean turns back to her, and she has the impression that he can see right through her skin and bones; that all the feelings that surely will scare him off are sprawled out on the bed like heavy, uncomfortable blanket. 

She feels both amazing and scrubbed raw at the same time. She really needs Dean to take her in his arm before she starts crying, which is becoming more and more probable by the second. 

Instead, his attention falls on his phone, bleeping away on the bedside table. “Twelve messages?”, he says when he picks it up. They’re from Sam, which becomes obvious when he reads them instead of chucking the phone at the end of the bed; she watches him frown as he scrolls down. “Ugh, fuck. It’s Sam; Jody apparently needs back up after all. Five werewolves? Well, shit.”

She doesn’t say anything and busies herself by sliding under the blanket. 

She doesn’t like to think of Jody in danger, but she likes even less where this is going. Dean is putting his boxers back on, and clean clothes from his drawer. Oh, wow, look at all that flannel. Does he have an endless supply or something? “I gotta go,” he explains. No shit, Sherlock. “Hey, it was awesome,” he tells her as he puts a belt on, nonchalant as if he was talking about a very good burger. “Just- awesome. Shit, I’m so late already, Sam’s gonna bitch all the way to Sioux Falls. See you in a few days?” She nods, a bit jaded by the sudden change in scenario – from one with Dean naked in bed with her to one where he’s leaving as if nothing happened –  and he smiles and winks at her. 

And then he’s gone. 

Maybe she spends the next hour on the verge of tears, hugging his pillow and watching the rest of Kill Bill as a distraction, but that’s not really any of your business.  She gets up, eventually, and puts her clothes back on even if the bunker is empty. She does what feels like a walk of shame back to her room and straight to her shower. She washes off, with her favourite lavender-scented soap, all the signs of the past few hours off of her skin. Like it was a random guy. Like it was just a one-off. 

Thank you very much, ma’am, it has been fun while it lasted. 

“I gotta go.”

Well, alright. Goodbye stranger, then. 

❧ ☙

I hope you guys enjoyed it! I cherish every comment and reblog, feedback really motivates me to keep writing <3 I especially appreciate comments on characterization, I tried to keep Dean as IC as possible :) Let me know what you think! 

Tags from @spnfanficpond‘s Tag List under the cut - apologies if I tagged someone who’s not interested in Dean/Reader’s by mistake!

If someone wants to be tagged in the next chapter, let me know <3 

@aprofoundbondwithdean @manawhaat @thing-you-do-with-that-thing @nichelle-my-belle @leatherwhiskeycoffeeplaid @notnaturalanahi @bkwrm523 @deanscarlett @roxy-davenport @impala-dreamer @samsgoddess  @frenchybell  @deandoesthingstome  @deansleather @curliesallovertheplace @whywhydoyouwantmetosaymyname @waywardjoy @mrswhozeewhatsis @imadeangirl-butimsamcurious @kayteonline @supernatural-jackles @wevegotworktodo @quiddy-writes @supermoonpanda @deanwinchesterforpromqueen @chaos-and-the-calm67 @memariana91 @plaidstiel-wormstache @teamfreewill-imagine @chelsea-winchester @fandommaniacx @castieltrash1 @supernaturalyobessed @ruined-by-destiel @winchester-writes @evilskank-inthemegacoven @clueless-gold @bennyyh @winchestersmolder @maraisabellegrey @faith-in-dean @deanwinchesterxreader @winchester-family-business @winecatsandpizza @there-must-be-a-lock @cas-backwards-tie @emoryhemsworth @just-another-winchester

[chaossmagic]

(another one bc i'm a thirsty bitch) AU prompt where Aaron kisses his best friend (they are teenagers) after school in the cricket pavilion. He regrets it because he thinks he's fucked up... But Robert proves him wrong. (then it starts raining)

He didn’t know why he’d done it. 

One minute, they were laughing and joking on the wooden steps outside the cabin at the cricket pavilion, taking in turns to swig a can of lukewarm beer that had been rolling around in Aaron’s school bag all day, and the next Aaron had leaned in to Robert’s solid warmth and was kissing him, soft lips under his slightly chapped own, his vision filled with floppy blond hair and pale sea-green eyes and freckles for miles across lightly tanned skin and then...

They were kissing.

Aaron and Robert. His best friend ever since he could remember, ever since tall, skinny, bookish Robert had defended an eleven-year-old Aaron from the sneers of Ross Barton at lunchtime, putting himself between the snotty Year Eight lad and him when he’d shoved his fist under Aaron’s ribs and made him cry. He’d been new to the school, having just moved back with his mum, but somehow he’d singled out Aaron and they’d been stuck together ever since.

And then he’d kissed him, he’d kissed his best mate because he’d wanted to and because he wanted to know what it felt like, what it felt like to kiss a boy because he didn’t want to kiss any of the girls in their year but Robert...

Robert was nothing like a girl, nothing like anything he was supposed to like at fifteen years old and just discovering everything to do with sex and dating. It was scary and confusing and made Aaron’s stomach do this funny swoop every time the older boy looked at him and smiled, or laughed at one of his jokes, or moaned on his shoulder about how sometimes he wished his dad and brother didn’t exist because he couldn’t stand them. 

So. They’d been a bit tipsy on cheap warm beer, pulling off their school ties and jumpers and throwing them in a messy pile on the grass while the sun shone on Robert’s blond head and turned the mop of hair into a halo, catching Aaron’s breath in his chest in a funny sort of way that made his palms tingle.

It wasn’t like that when he tried to look at the lasses in their year group, or the year above. Course, girls were pretty - Robert’s sister, Vic, was pretty, with her big eyes and long dark hair - and some of them even thought he was alright for a boy, but he didn’t want to kiss them or hold their hand. 

And then he’d kissed him, eyes fluttering closed, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and holding on as if for dear life, the way a drowning man might hold on to a piece of rope thrown out to him in the middle of the ocean.

It was the biggest mistake he’d ever made, because when he’d realized what was happening, Robert had scrambled away from him as if he’d been burned, eyes huge with panic in an unusually pale face and the kind of look there that Aaron knew only meant one thing.

Horror.

He was horrified, horrified that a boy, his best friend, had kissed him and would probably never want to see him again, meaning that Aaron had lost his only real friend in the whole world and everyone one would know that...they’d know that...

He was a freak. 

A - fag.

The names he would be called imprinted themselves on the backs of his eyes, flashes of being shoved around in the corridors filling his thoughts, jeers and dirty looks from the boys at school who would no longer want him to play footie with them at lunchtime, even though he was the fastest and best player in their year. 

Sinking to the ground, he hugged his knees up to his chest and buried his head between his legs. The sky had darkened and it looked like rain; but he didn’t want go to home yet, in case he bumped into Robert, in case he had to see him and face up to what he’d done.

He’d lost everything. He knew he had. Tomorrow, Robert wouldn’t want to speak to him ever again, it would be all over the school, and Aaron would go from being reasonably tolerated to a social pariah.

Dirty. Queer. Sick.

There’s something wrong with you, lad….

Aaron started; heard his father’s voice clear as day inside his own head, as if he were leering right into his face and sneering the words in his ears. He saw the red veins on his cheeks and the hatred in his eyes. 

He felt vice-like hands gripping him too tightly, the weight of a body pressing him down even as he tried to thrash against it, and the emptiness that came afterwards, the numbness that was void of feeling, not even the physical pain. But there was always physical pain, afterwards, it would creep up on him in the late hours and leave him paralyzed in his bed, hunkering down under the covers and vowing to do better tomorrow.

A wave of nausea rose over him; he lurched forwards, retching into the grass, his throat burning from the effort of getting rid of what little there was in his stomach. Mostly beer, and the taste was bitter in his mouth. His head was starting to pound, and he didn’t know if the wetness he felt on his face was from the rain that had finally started or his own tears.

He’d messed everything up.

He should never have kissed Robert.

He should never have thought about kissing Robert, or about Robert, or about any boys at all…

Because it was wrong. It wasn’t allowed. His mum would be so disappointed, Paddy too, his Gran, his uncle...he had let them all down with this. With who he was. 

It would be better if he just didn’t go home for a bit. He was fine here, away from everyone. Nobody would come looking for him and a bit of peace and quiet might help him to sort his head out, make up some excuse for Robert when he saw him, and forget that it had ever happened.

---

It was raining, hard, large shining drops pummelling the decking outside the cricket pavillion and Aaron sat huddled under the awning, knees under his chin and his coat buttoned up to the throat for warmth; his eyes were red, sore, and he’d bitten his lip so much from worrying that it was starting to bleed. He was shivering, from the rain and the cold; his trainers were wet, and so were his socks, his school tie sodden where he’d forgotten it lying near one of the bushes.

Miserable. That’s how he felt. The weather reflected his mood, and he curled up further, the instinct to get somewhere warm and dry abandoning him. What would be the point? He may as well become the village vagrant, because that’s what he was going to be once everyone found out.

He didn’t hear footsteps on the stairs leading up to the awning over the rain and the sound of his own heart pounding in his ears, and he didn’t see the oh-so-achingly familiar shadow of a tall, lanky someone standing over him with an umbrella in his hand until he heard his own name being repeated with the strains of worry and a little bit of fear trembling under it.

“Aaron,” Robert gasped, “I’ve been looking for you for ages. You didn’t come back and I - I got scared. I thought somethin’ had happened to ya.”

“Why do you care?” Aaron snapped. “After what I did you should be ignorin’ me, not running around chasin’ after me like you-”

Like it meant nothing.

“You’re my best friend,” Robert said, his brows knitting together with sincerity. “You just disappeared, I didn’t know where you were, and after you did - what you did…”

“Don’t say it!” Aaron jumped to his feet, anger flushing his face instead of the cold. “Don’t you dare say it, Robert, I mean it. I can’t handle it. Not if you’re gonna judge me or - or say you wish you were never mates with me.”

Robert’s eyes went huge, round with concern. His face was pale under rain-soaked hair that stuck to his forehead. Aaron always joked that he looked like he was thirteen with his hair like that, all flat and feathery and stuck to his head, instead of almost sixteen. Baby face Sugden, he’d call him, and Robert would jump on him and tickle him mercilessly until they were both out of breath and panting, and Aaron was forced to concede that he did, in fact, not look thirteen after all. 

“Why would I think that?” Robert asked. “You’re my best mate. I’m closer to you than I am to my own family. I don’t care what you are, whatever you are, I don’t give a stuff-”

“Well, maybe you should,” Aaron replied bitterly. “Because everyone is gonna hate ya if you stick around with me, because I’m-”

“Gay,” Robert finished for him, his voice softer than he’d ever heard it, and Aaron felt like a stone had plunged right to the bottom of his stomach.

He shook his head. “No. No, I don’t wanna hear that word. You shut your mouth right now.”

“It’s okay, you know, it doesn’t matter to me,” Robert said, taking a step forward - and Aaron saw red, shoving him hard in his chest, wanting him to get away.

“WELL IT SHOULD!” he bellowed. “I’m a freak, Robert, I’m sick and I’m wrong and you don’t want to be around me, got that? We can’t be mates anymore, we can’t -”

“It doesn’t matter to me because if you’re a freak then I am too!” Robert yelled across his words, shaking the pounding rain from his eyes. “I’m - we’re the same, Aaron. I’m sorry I haven’t told you before but I was trying to figure stuff out first. I’m like you. Not gay, but -” he looked around, half-dazed, chin wobbling. He looked years younger, and scared.  “I’m bi. Bisexual. I like boys and I like girls. So yeah, you’re not the only freak in this stupid village, alright?”

Aaron’s jaw dropped; his throat worked noiselessly, no sound coming out, his tongue glued to his mouth. A stunned, hoarse whisper eventually left him. “You’re - you’re what?”

“I should’ve told ya,” Robert said. “I should have but - I got scared, too.” He shrugged his shoulders dejectedly. “I thought you were the same way I was and I wanted - I wanted to say something, I swear, but I was afraid of getting it wrong and messin’ up our friendship.”

“But you ran away,” Aaron stuttered, sniffing. “I kissed ya and you ran away.”

“Only because I freaked out because I didn’t realize you felt the same way about me as I did about you,” Robert said - and Aaron’s heart lurched three beats in the space of one. 

Was Robert saying what he thought he was saying? 

“You don’t mean that,” Aaron shook his head. “Ya just feel sorry for me. You don’t -”

“Like you?” Robert asked, and then laughed, a disbelieving kind of laugh that made Aaron’s insides do a strange flip-flop as his meaning settled in. “God, Aaron, I’ve liked you for as long as I can remember. Year nine Chemistry lesson, I accidentally set Donna’s skirt on fire and you covered for me. You took a week’s worth of detention for me because you knew I’d get into more trouble for it and that my dad would lose it and end up belting me.”

“Yeah, well, I know your dad gives ya a hard time, I didn’t wanna make it worse for ya,” Aaron mumbled, toeing the wet grass with his trainers and caking them in mud. “But c’mon, Robert. You only think you like me because you’re my best mate. You’ll meet another lad and you’ll know - you’ll know,” he finished lamely. 

“I don’t want any other lads, or girls for that matter,” Robert replied. “You are my best friend, Aaron. You know more about me than anyone, more than I’ve ever told anyone, and you don’t hate me or think I’m just looking for attention. You listen to me. You believe me when dad starts in on me and you were the one who pushed me to tell my mum what he was really like. I don’t want to go with anyone else because there is no-one else.”

“I don’t know if I can believe ya,” Aaron said quietly. “My head, it’s messed up - I can’t promise I can give you what you want that’s more than just a best mate.”

“I don’t care,” he said. “I don’t care, as long as we get a chance to try. Can we try? Please?”

Aaron’s heart thudded. He took in the sight of Robert, soaked through in the middle of the cricket field, face beseeching and earnest and more sincere in his expression than Aaron thought he had ever seen him. 

“Okay,” he nodded, eventually. “Yeah, yeah okay.” 

Nervously, he held out his hand for Robert to hold. He took it gratefully, his grip strong but comforting. Then he looked down at his sodden clothes and mud-caked shoes, at their dripping hair. “We should probably go and get some dry clothes, though. Mum’s going to kill me for having to wash my uniform again.”

“Wouldn’t mind if ya wanted to kiss me to warm me up,” Aaron said quietly, flushing pink and biting down on a shy smile that spread warmth through the end of Robert’s fingers right down to his toes.

[sad-sweet-cowboah]

Pretty Little Black Dress

So this is a combined piece, from the nonny who wanted reader wearing a dress that Arthur appreciates too much, and @r0xy-w0lf who asked me to make one where reader takes Arthur to a club!

Warnings: Alcohol mention/use, cursing, suggestive themes and smut

Payday.

Your favorite word.

After being told you were given a bonus with today’s deposit, you were giddy with excitement, your mind immediately launching into a multitude of plans that you and Arthur could do to celebrate. You’d gone out to dinner last weekend, and already it seemed as if the steakhouse was getting a little stale. No good movies were out either.

And then it hit you: the bar. The one place you hadn’t taken him to yet, not knowing how far he’d go with the drinking. During the weekends it turned into a hot spot for the young adults of the town. Not a bad place to have fun and get cheap drinks. You knew Arthur wouldn’t say no.

You got home after stopping by the mall to purchase something for the both of you, walking in the door, arms laden with shopping bags.

“Arthur!” you called out in a sing-song voice.

His dirty blonde head poked out from the kitchen. “Hey Y/N, welcome home!”

You smiled at him, trotting up to place a kiss on his lips. “You wanna do something tonight?”

He blinked in slight surprise, and then noticed the bags in your arms. “Sure…what did you have in mind?”

“Remember that bar you wandered into a few weeks back?” when he nodded, you continued. “I think it’s about time you and I go to it.”

His face lit up, a grin spreading across his lips. “Great, I could definitely use a drink or two.”

“As long as you don’t go overboard,” you warned. “Remember that night in Valentine with Lenny?”

His grin turned sheepish as he held up his hands in mock surrender. “I ain’t goin’ overboard, I promise.”

“Good,” You said, and pressed one of the bags into his arms. “Now go get washed up and change into this.”

“Uh…” he fumbled with the bag to open it, glancing at the fabric folded neatly within it. “Alright, I guess.”

You smiled at him once again, heading to the bedroom to change yourself.

Fifteen minutes later, after carefully applying makeup, fixing your hair and making sure your new outfit fit just right. It was a little black dress, the fabric clung to your curves and stopped more than halfway up your thighs. The plunging neckline not shy about exposing a decent amount of cleavage. The sides had a sheer mesh pattern that ran up your hips and waist. You completed the look with a pair of stilettos that had been sitting in your closet for at least a year. You had a jean jacket on, adequately covering your upper torso for now.

You found Arthur waiting in the living room, leaning up against the wall with his arms folded, his head tilted down as if deep in thought. As you made your presence, he stood straight.

Accustomed to seeing him in just flannels and jeans or the outfit he’d come in, seeing him in such a refined appearance caused your heart to skip a beat.

He had on a nearly skin tight black t-shirt that hugged his muscles in every right way, the v-neckline dipping to expose a gratuitous amount of chest hair. He also had a jacket of his own, black with the sleeves partly rolled up. His black jeans were somewhat tight as well; showing off the curvature of his cute ass. He customized the look with his own belt and cowboy boots, which still gave it a country touch that didn’t seem too out of place. He’d done his hair as well. It’d grown a couple of inches from the swept fade he’d originally come with, but he was able to style it in a way that looked nice enough, parting it to the side in a neatly combed sweep.

He was admiring the view before him as well, his gaze slowly taking every inch of you from bottom to top. “Damn…” he murmured, a hunger reflecting in his eyes.

You smiled, cocking one hip. And he couldn’t even see the full extent of your outfit. “You don’t look so bad yourself, Mr. Morgan.”

“They ‘sposed to be this tight?” he asked, tugging at the fabrics. “Feels…kinda awkward.”

“If you drink enough, that’s not gonna bother you.” you pointed out.

He gave a half shrug, tilting his head in a way that told you he probably agreed. “So, you all ready?”

“Hell yeah,” you grinned. “Let’s go.”

Twenty minutes later, you pulled up to the familiar bar that already had multiple cars parked around it. It took you a few more moments to find a spot, parking just a block away. As the two of you walked, Arthur offered his arm and you took it, smiling at his gentlemanly action.

You were just yards away when you could hear the music blaring from within its walls, the door constantly opening and closing as people walked in and out. You passed by a couple of others standing outside for a smoke and chatter, heading into the bar.

It was certainly packed; the bar having a large crowd surrounding it with others on the dance floor, moving their bodies rhythmically to a fast paced rap song. The lights were dim, casting a golden glow across the walls.

“Huh, this ain’t much different than a saloon,” Arthur observed, having to speak up over the music. “Only the outfits and music’s different.”

You giggled a little, moving toward an empty bar table off to the side. He followed close behind, smoothly ducking between others. You shrugged off your jacket, slowly, revealing the rest of your outfit. It was priceless to see Arthur’s eyes go wide.

“What?” you feigned an innocent tone.

“That…don’t leave much to the imagination,” he responded, rubbing his scruffy chin. “Back in my time, the skirts would be floor length…”

“Ah don’t sound like an old man, Arthur!” you giggled, lightly smacking his shoulder.

He gave you look a confusion. “I didn’t realize that made me sound old, but-”

“Never mind,” you sighed, glancing back toward the bar. “I’m gonna get us drinks. What do you want?”

“Shot o’ whiskey,” he responded automatically. “Better be good.”

You nodded, stalking over slowly, making sure to put on a show for him as you walked. You could feel his eyes on you as you crossed the dance floor to the bar, squeezing through to get the attention of one of the bartenders. You ordered his shot as well as an Amaretto sour for yourself.

Moments later, you made your way back to him, drinks in hand. He only had his focus on you, not that you minded. Sliding him a full shot glass, he took it with a smile and downed it within seconds, practically licking the glass clean as he slammed it back onto the table.

“Damn, that’s good,” he rumbled. “Missed a good whiskey.”

You began to sip your drink, your hips idly swaying to a nostalgic hip-hop song that played over the speakers. You weren’t sure if Arthur could dance, let alone somehow figure out the rhythm to this music to even attempt. It didn’t stop you from moving, though. And it didn’t stop him from staring.

You wandered closer to the dance floor, keenly aware that he was right behind you. It wasn’t long until his hands found your waist, his fingers twitching as if testing the fabric itself. The image of him ripping your little piece to shreds to get to you ignited a fire deep in your core.

Ignoring it, you stepped away and continued to dance, turning to face him. He didn’t move, only watching you with the same look of hunger he gave you before. This was going to be fun; teasing him the way you did. He leaned back on the table, his attention never leaving you. The expression on his face said it all; if he could have you right now, he would.

But you wanted to have fun, get a good buzz going and dance until you were tired. And may, just maybe, let Arthur have his way with you when you got home.

You finished your drink, and took a break from dancing to buy another round. As you skirted the outside of the dance floor, you felt the sharp sting of a smack on your backside.

Jumping in surprise, you turned, half expecting to see Arthur, instead it was some random guy, sporting a toothy grin as he nearly shouted at you, “That’s some fine ass you got!”

You could smell the alcohol on his breath. He was definitely drunk, and despite the annoyance that rose within you, you were going to let it slide.

“C-care to join me and my…my buddies?” the drunk guy slurred, reaching for your arm. “We can-”

Arthur was quick, but you were quicker.

Cutting the drunken fool off, you grabbed his hand, twisting it in a way to lock his wrist in an uncomfortable position. He doubled over immediately just as Arthur stormed up, the anger on the cowboy’s face replaced by confusion and surprise to see what you’d done.

“Touch me again, and I’ll shove my foot up your ass.” You growled, keeping your grip firm.

“Ow-ow!” the drunk cried out, failing to escape your hold. “O-okay! I’m s-sorry!”

You released him, watching him stumble on his feet for a moment, grumbling profanities under his breath. Arthur shot a dirty glare at him, and you saw the fear form in those drunken eyes before he scampered off.

“Moron,” Arthur growled, shaking his head before looking at you. “You okay, darlin’?”

“Just fine.” you said evenly, letting the annoyance and slight panic you felt earlier die down.

“I didn’t know you could do that…whatever that was.” He sounded impressed.

You gave him a small smile. “I’m capable of handling myself, Arthur. Don’t think I’m a damsel in distress now.”

“Didn’t say you were,” he replied, wrapping his arms around you. “Hell, I can appreciate a lady that knows how.”

Your smile turned into a smirk, placing your arms on his shoulders as you pressed to him, giving him a tender kiss. He groaned softly, his hold on you tightening as he deepened the kiss slightly.

And just as soon as you started, you backed away, amused by the disappointment in his face. You held up one finger, turning toward the bar again.

An hour passed, you were a few drinks in while Arthur had at least four shots and a bottle of beer. The both of you were past the point of tipsy. Arthur began to dance on his own, though very out of rhythm. You laughed at his attempt, watching as he took a swig of beer, awkwardly stepping along the floor. You joined him, allowing him to grip your hips again. You were aware of some others watching you, though you didn’t care. His movement stopped as you danced against him, feeling his torso pressed against yours.

As the night wore on, both of you had another drink before stopping and sporting a decent buzz. You wandered between dancing by yourself and subtly grinding against Arthur, which you knew he more than loved. He wasn’t shy about his feelings in his inebriated state. He was getting a little more handsy with you, his fingers subtly brushing up your thighs, ghosting across your ass. You loved it as well, although the alcohol making you become a tease, you’d step away before anything else happened. Ooh, it was going to be a fun night.

Eventually the ache in your feet became too much, and you tiredly took a seat, leaning against the table as Arthur stalked over. He wordlessly kissed you, his hands yet again taking their spot on your waist. He’d stopped drinking at least a half hour ago but the taste still remained on his lips. He was definitely more affectionate in this state as well.

“Well, you’re not shy tonight.” you giggled as he pulled back.

“Just lettin’ everyone else know what’s mine.” he said, his eyes dark.

You blushed, the tone and his expression giving you all sorts of inappropriate thoughts. Arthur being possessive was a new side, unexpected but incredibly sexy.

“Wanna get outta here, princess?” he asked, that smile teasing. His hand ran down your thigh slowly, lightly.

“Absolutely.” You responded, hopping down from your chair and grabbing your jacket.

---

He pinned you against the wall, hardly containing his excitement the moment you entered your home. His lips were hard on yours, holding your face as he trapped you. Your arms were holding him to you, kissing him back with such passion. His rough hand found its way under your dress, taking no time in finding your core. He pulled your panties out of the way, yanking them down before returning to his prize.

His fingers formed rough circles against your clit, earning a loud moan into his mouth. You gripped at his jacket, peeling it smoothly from his shoulders as he tossed it off elsewhere. His other hand pushed aside the fabric, squeezing your now bare breast. His mouth moved from your lips to your jawbone, nibbling along, placing hasty kisses down the crook of your neck.

You sighed his name, running your fingers through his hair. You gasped as a finger entered you, working across your walls easily.

“This wet already?” he murmured against your skin, peering up at you.

“You surprised?” you chuckled with a sly grin.

He only smirked in response, dragging his finger across your delicate spot. Your hips bucked into his grip, another gasp passing through your lips. You reached down, pressing against the hard line in his jeans. He moaned quietly, pressing against your grip as if begging for release. You granted it, unbuckling his belt with ease, allowing his cock to spring free.

You held him in your palm, beginning to pump your hand along his length. His body shuddered from your touch, his deep voice growing louder as he thrust up into your grip. He certainly was impatient, and you were too.

He growled your name, prompting you to want him even more. You hitched your leg up, resting it against his hip. You were exposed to him now. He gripped your thigh, removing his finger to briefly line himself just before shoving himself deep within you.

Your head lifted up, swearing out loud as he wasted no time in pounding into you. He was relentless, the first time he’d gone this hard. And man, did you love it.

His face buried against your shoulder, biting against your tender skin. You hissed, the sting of his teeth only adding to your pleasure. You tilted your head back, crying out his name. Somehow this drove him much faster. Uttering a gasp, your hands clawing at the fabric of his shirt.

“You feel so good, Y/N,” he grunted against you, gripping you tightly. “Fuck!”

Your only answer was a whine, gripping at the fabric hard. He paused to remove the shirt, yanking it off easy to expose his broad, scarred torso. His skin was hot against yours, sweat forming as he continued his pursuit.

Strong, fast, burying deep in your core. You squealed as he hit your sweet spot, feeling a rush of pleasure course through your veins. His teeth abused your flesh, the pain hardly a bother as your body tingled with absolute ecstasy. You left marks of your own on him, his hiss bringing satisfaction to you.

You felt your peak growing quickly, your voice raising an octave as you cascaded over the edge. Your legs trembled as he refused to cease his movement, a small chuckle rumbling in pride. You praised him, your voice wavering as you came down from your high, his high-caliber thrusts rendering you breathless.

His head raised, staring directly at you as he reached down in between to play. While slightly overstimulated, your entire body shuddered. He held you trapped as you almost squirmed from his touch.

“H-hold on, I’m almost there,” he breathlessly groaned. “Can you do that, princess?”

You couldn’t muster a voice to answer, only giving a short whine and a small nod. Your arms were vice-like around him, your claws continuously scoring marks. His lips found their way back to your body, driving himself as if he had limitless stamina. You could feel his breath hitching, his voice cracking in his groans.

Sinful utterances graced your ears as his hips became flush with yours, letting himself spill completely within you. His muscles trembled as he held himself in, completely spent yet still holding you. With one weak thrust, he pulled out slowly, taking short, jagged breaths.

“Shit…” he murmured, resting his forehead on your shoulder as he released you. “I’m spent.”

You giggled a little, cradling his head as your fingers threaded through his hair. It took him a moment to catch his breath, finally standing straight slowly. His gaze on you was sharp, apparent that most of the alcohol had worn off at this point.

“I been…holding that in all night,” he said, a silly grin on his face. “That dress is somethin’ else.”

“Why do you think I wore it?” you answered, smirking at him. “Gotta say, I like it when you’re drunk.”

He hummed in response, rubbing his forehead a little. “Don’t let me get drunk too often, though. Can’t promise what else would happen.”

[drawingsanddrabbles]

Scandals Stick Together

ao3

Prompt: No Capes AU - First Kiss

Woo! I did it! All seven days, hell yeah!

~~~

Tim thinks that if the room was any more glittery he'd probably be having a seizure. He can't help but wonder if the many chandeliers in the room are real diamond. Bruce only uses crystal in his. 

Bruce's hand closes on Tim's shoulder and Tim's eyes flutter closed for a moment. He wishes Bruce's hand was his dad's. But his dad is in a coma, he reminds himself. It's not his fault that he can't be here to work Tim through his first professional gala. 

"Hey there, Timmy." Bruce says with a smile just as glittery as the rest of the room. "It's good to see you at one of these!"

"Bruce, good to see you too."

"Have you thought any further about my offer?" 

"To buy Drake Industries?" Or the other offer? Tim wonders. The one where he offered Tim to move in with him and Alfred. To work at Wayne Enterprises. To become Tim's legal guardian while his father is still in a coma.

Social workers are terrified to touch Tim's case, and as long as Tim keeps paying them to push it to the bottom of the pile they never will. But it's getting expensive. He can't push it off forever, and having Bruce Wayne as his legal guardian wouldn't be so bad. His other strays seemed to have done well--well, Dick anyway. 

Tim is losing hold on Drake Industries. Every since the plane crash stock has been going down. It's going to crash soon. News of the buyout could, frankly, make it go either way at this point. If Tim agrees he'll have nothing to lose.

But it's the last thing he has of his parents. Dad.... Dad's probably never going to wake up. 

"I told you, I have no interest in selling. I am going to bring Drake Industries out of the ground, you know I can." It's not totally a lie. Bruce does know how competent Tim is. He knows that Tim, if he dropped out of high school, got emancipated, and managed to convince his company that a fifteen year old CEO is a good idea, could do it. If he really tried. 

But Tim's tired. He's so tired. 

Bruce knows that Lois Lane is watching the two of them too closely for Tim's comfort. One word from her and his stock price plummets, and Tim can lose everything. 

Bruce's eyes slide to Clark Kent who sits next to her. He's only focused on Luthor--as always--so even if he did catch something they're saying he wouldn't care, or he'd be nice enough about it that he might actually tick DI up a few points in the stock market. 

Bruce lets out a big belly laugh (one that Tim can tell is fake) and slaps Tim on the shoulder. Not hard enough to hurt. 

"Well, you know, if you ever need anything, Kid. Come straight to me." He says with an easy smile and he ruffles Tim's (meticulously gelled) hair. But Tim takes that for exactly what he knows Bruce means. They'll talk about this later. Bruce walks backwards away from him with a wave. "Let's do lunch!"

"Yeah," Tim mumbles, a little pink from the way people are now staring at him, "let's." 

Bruce goes off to flirt with Lois and (probably, from the way Mr. Kansas City has turned bright red) Clark, which leaves Tim some reprieve from endless questions about his future for the company. Tim's hair is now sticking up in a non-artful way so he narrowly dodges old white rich folks and their perfectly made up children as he weaves his way to the bathroom.

He's not the only one fixing his hair it seems, as two other men are as well. One is a boy a little older than him and (presumably) his father. Both of whom are trying to hide that they are watching Tim out of the corners of their eyes. 

As Tim turns his back on them to leave (although he can clearly see them in the reflection on the shiny eco-friendly heat dryer) the father leans over to his son and whispers: "That's Tim Drake. He's acting chair of his company and he's going to lose it to that Wayne idiot in a few weeks. Read it in Forbes."

Tim ignores the way his cheeks turn red and rushes out of there as fast as he can. 

Tim hates the way people look at him now. Ives feels sorry for him, but that's because Ives actually cares about him. The fake way these people do, makes him want to snatch a champagne flute from one of the servers and down it. But really the last thing he needs is to get drunk or tipsy, to say the wrong word in a room filled with piranhas who have diamond teeth and lose everything before he ever gets a chance to earn it back. 

Mrs. Powers corners him (old Gotham money, he tells himself) and starts with condolences (as they always do) before moving onto the obligatory "How's your father doing?" ("Well! Doctors just want him to stay a little more for observation but he'll be up and about in no time!" He says,) then to "do you need anything, darling?" ("Fuck you too Mrs. Powers," he doesn't say). 

Tim doesn't know when exactly he gets surrounded by old rich women, but suddenly they're engulfing him. None of them squeeze his cheeks like they used to, or pat his head, or try to straighten his tie (he hopes that one's because it's still straight but he knows that's probably not the case). Instead they keep distance from him. He's no longer a child of a rival but the rival himself (the floundering rival, perhaps). They're not treating him as an equal so much as something diseased to excise. 

He misses the days when he could just blend in next to his father's side or, at least, hang out with the other rich kids. Wow them with his knowledge (and the thrill) of living in Gotham. 

Tim passes the drink counter (under which he's positive Winston Price the Third and Jennifer Wallaby are making out, because last gala, when he was one of them, Winston had told him he planned to do just that next time he saw her) and orders a soder despite what he really wants. The waiter laughs at him but cuts it out with a glare from Tim and gets him what he ordered. 

He wishes that Luthor would just get on with the dinner part of the night. He was too nervous to eat all day and now he's starving. Also, prearranged seating means people will stop coming up to him to show him they care. 

"Tim Drake, I am shocked to see you here," speak of the devil... "shouldn't you be caring for your father?" 

Luthor knows. Luthor has always known, just as Tim has. His father isn't waking up, no matter what Tim manages to fool the rest of the world into thinking. 

Lex Luthor smirks and Tim turns around. He plasters what he hopes is a Bruce Wayne brand smile on his face. "Mr. Luthor!" He covers his eyes and squints, as if the sun is blinding him. "Good to see you!"

Luthor frowns slightly. "Are... you feeling alright, Mr. Drake?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, it's just," Tim lowers his voice and leans closer to Luthor as if he is telling a secret, "with all these lights, your head is just blinding me." Luthor's lips turn into a pale line. "Really, I think you might want to see a doctor about your perspiration, it's so.... shiny. I'm sure my father's doctor would love to offer some... discreet suggestions."

The snicker behind Luthor almost makes Tim drop his hand. Luthor whips around. Ah yes, and there is the boy that made Tim's takeover of DI old news. 

Conner Luthor. Appeared, as if from nowhere, just after everything from Haiti was settled. The de facto heir to Lex Luthor. Being trained to succeed him, but who's training wasn't even close to succeeding. 

Partier, playboy, and very hot. Luthor's polar opposite. Also, the same age as Tim. 

"Conner, maybe you should carry this conversation with Tim, after all you two have more in common than I do with him." A dig at his youth, lovely.

But before Tim can bite anything back, Conner says in a flippant way: "Well, beauty before age. Isn't that the saying?"

So the rumors are true, they don't seem to be able to stand each other. 

Careful, Tim, he warns himself, cute boys with sparkling smiles might be more than they appear. 

"Lex! How wonderful to see you!" A familiar voice hums behind Luthor, snapping the tension building. The singsong voice can only be Bruce. 

Tim wonders if Bruce has been watching him. Tim doesn't need his help. He doesn't want his help. He just wants to go home. 

Luthor grimaces at Bruce. "Wayne."

"Say, is this your son?" Bruce asks, turning his attention on Conner. He sticks out a hand. "Good to meet you, chum!" Bruce flashes a grin at Lex, "And they call me a playboy. Wow, she must have been a looker, huh, Lex?"

Luthor looks as though he might combust. Conner doesn't take the bait or the hand (he's been famously tight-lipped about his other parent and life before he took on the Luthor name). Conner glares at Bruce. Tim notices that Luthor hasn't convinced him to get rid of the earring for tonight (one more scandal to add to the Conner Luthor package) and wishes he hadn't. He doesn't have time to notice these things. He has to network. To try and dig himself back into a good light for the sake of his company. 

But Bruce, in his blundering and self-focused way, has managed to give Tim a way to slip out of this interaction. All eyes are on Bruce. 

Tim used to have a theory that Bruce was smarter than he appeared. His father had told him that was stupid. Sometimes, Tim thought he was right, but ever since he'd gotten to know Bruce he'd understood his mistake. So he gratefully takes the exit Bruce offers. 

He can't hide, but he wants to. He really wants to.

Thankfully, though it seems that it's time for the dinner part of the gala to begin and everyone and their drinks are ushered into the next room. 

Tim is seated at table nineteen with eight other people who only represent five different companies. Tim sits next to the daughter of a mogul on his left and the son of a different one on his right and it's clear to everyone that the artful Mr. Timothy Drake (Drake Industries) on his place card is just a courtesy. Everyone knows where he really belongs. 

Luthor stands and begins his speech which Tim tries really hard to listen to but gets bored. He knows the gist of it, new tech, bringing Metropolis into the future, thank you for coming, etc etc etc. 

Tim's eyes travel to Conner's seat at table number one, and finds that he's not there. Of course not, probably ditching. 

Tim wishes he could ditch. He knows that the teens on either side of him will find one of their go-to excuses after a respectable amount of dinner and go up to one of the balconies or the roof to drink and smoke and play spin the bottle and other things their parents wouldn't approve of, before making their way back down by dessert and leaving completely respectably, none of the parents the wiser. Tim knows this because Tim used to do just that. 

Despite that Tim hasn't eaten all day his salad just doesn't look that appetizing anymore. 

"So, Timothy, I'm so sorry to hear about your parents. Who are you staying with?" The old lady across from him asks. The speech has ended and everyone has begun their first course. He can feel heat rising to his cheeks. None of his family members wanted him. 

"Myself. I have an attorney for general legal issues but I can live on my own until my father can come home."

"What a smart young lad you are!" The father of the girl on his right says. 

"And so well organized too! I can't imagine my Peter running my company at his age." The father of the boy on his left says. The kid himself looks like he would give anything not to be there right then, Tim agrees. 

"Well, I just worry. It's so difficult to be a deciding factor in a company's decisions and for one so young-why, it must bore you to death!"

Don't tell them anything they can use, Tim reminds himself, lie. 

"Really, it's a piece of cake."

"Well then!" The other adults (read: vultures) around the table seem delighted. 

"Well he may not be bored," one of the younger people at the table says, he's the head of some start-up or another, "but I'm sure we don't want to bore the other kids with this table talk. How is your dog, Miranda? I heard she was sick?" And from there the conversation, thankfully, is led away from the topic of Tim and Drake Industries. The girl next to Tim begins going on about how her teacup poodle has cancer or something and Tim fazes out again. 

Just after the soup course is served Miranda explains to her father that she's having some "lady problems" and might be a while. At the end of it Peter tells his father that he thinks he sees Conner Luthor over by that way, would it be alright if he says hi? (Tim glances over, and Conner isn't there). He's excused as well with a chortling: "Already networking! What an entrepreneurial spirit, that one!" 

By the meat course Tim is losing his mind. The Start-Up Guy tries valiantly to steer the conversation away from Tim's parents but eventually even he is overwhelmed by rich old people and Tim has to repeat the same lies he's been saying for days now. 

It's only once Miranda's father says that Tim might have been a good match for her, if only he were a little older that Tim decides to excuse himself with a 'phone call' from work. Something these people will understand. 

Tim makes it all the way out of the ballroom, and then he decides to push his luck and go looking for some people his own age. 

Since breaking down in a bathroom isn't an option (old rich people use bathrooms too), Tim decides that he might be able to find himself a secluded area where the kids are. 

It's not hard to find them. They're in a much smaller ballroom on the second floor of the Luthor Concert Hall. There's a balcony, Tim knows, he's been here before. 

Rock music blares and can be felt outside the room. Tim used to think that them playing music that loudly was a challenge to their parents: catch us. But now Tim understands it for what it is, just loud music. 

Tim opens the door and a son of an African CEO hands him a joint. Tim wants to, but like so many things lately, he can't. He can't risk it. 

The kid just shrugs, and lights it himself. 

The room smells like smoke: all sorts. Tim spies some beers some of them smuggled in, and some wines from the receiving hall downstairs. His eyes snag on the champagne, but it's the cognac that he really wants. 

"Traitor." Someone says to his left. He turns. It's Joseph. His dad is COO for Maxie Zeus. It's good natured, Tim knows, because Joseph is smiling. "I thought we weren't going to turn into our parents." 

"Didn't have much of a choice."

"Bullshit." Lucy says from Joseph's side. "Let them go belly up and cash out."

"My Dad's going to pick the company back up in a bit." This is the last thing Tim wants, he came up here to stop talking about DI. People are starting to watch him. He can see Conner eating Miranda's face in the corner of the room. 

"How'd you even swing it anyway?" Ha Joon asks. 

"Yeah, aren't social services up your ass?"

"Guys, leave him alone." He hears Tam Fox say. She's always had his back. 

"What happens in Gotham stays in Gotham." Preston snipes. 

"Be nice!" Lucy says. 

"What about school?" Peter asks. 

There's enough of a lull in the interrogation that Tim answers with a shrug and scuffs his shoe against the tile floor. "I'm dropping out." This causes more of an uproar than anything else. 

"No way!"

"God, my Mom would kill me if I dropped out."

"Kill you? My Dad would disown me!"

"Only disown? Wow, your parents are uncreative. There's more than one way to skin a kid that's for fucking sure."

It doesn't occur to any of them that Tim wouldn't have to drop out if his father really was doing okay. 

"Seriously?" Tam asks. Clearly Lucius hadn't told her. Because Tim had told Bruce and there was no way that Bruce hadn't told Lucius. 

"Yeah, seriously." Tim says. 

"What's the big deal? I dropped out." Conner Luthor says with a shrug and all eyes turn towards him. 

"Did you really?" Lucy asks. 

"I mean, I basically did. I never go anyway."

"Ah, young grasshopper. We all don't go to school. But it takes some special cajones to drop out." Vido says. 

"What's the difference?" Conner asks. 

"See, don't go to school and your Dad just pays the administration office to keep it quiet. Drop out and he pays the reporters to keep it out of the newspapers." Preston tells him. 

Conner cocks a wicked eyebrow. "And if he pays both?" 

Everyone listening shakes with laughter. "Then you must have done something really bad," Lucy says, eyes traveling up and down Conner as if only now sizing him up. Conner languishes in the attention from her and Miranda who is staring at him like he's a god. Conner winks at Lucy and Tim feels a little sick. The smoke swirls around Tim's head, making it swim.

“What about that girl of yours? What was her name… Ariana?” Peter asks. “Did you ever get that first kiss?” 

“My parents were held hostage and my mom died.” Tim says more harshly than he means to. He needs some fresh air. 

Tim heads to the balcony but before he gets there Tam grabs his arm. "Hey, how are you really doing? Really?"

Tim grimaces. "What happens in Gotham stays in Gotham, right?"

Tam looks disappointed but she doesn't push and Tim opens the balcony doors. 

The night is cool which is good against his burning cheeks. He wants to rip off the monkey suit. The tie itches and the gel is making his hair feel greasy and his feet hurt and he's still a little hungry. All these little things are coming up and bashing him in the face now. 

"You really from Gotham?" Conner Luthor asks from behind him, making Tim jump. 

"Yeah." He says. 

"Rad." He says which makes Tim laugh even though it shouldn't. Conner grins at him. "So, a kid CEO, huh? Didn't know that was possible."

"It's not. Not really. But I'm trying." (And failing, he doesn't say. Again, it doesn't seem to occur to Conner that it wouldn't matter whether he fails or not, if his father is coming back.) 

"No one's given you shit about being bisexual?" Conner asks. 

"What? I'm not-"

"Oh. Sorry, I just assumed since they said about that Ariana chick and the way you look at me so-"

"I don't-Not you-!"

Conner snorts. "Please, I'm scandalous, not blind."

Tim shuts his mouth abruptly. "What do you want?" Tim asks in a low voice. Conner must be spying on him, there's no way Lex would give up this information. 

"Nothing!" Conner frowns. "Why should I want anything?"

So that was how he wanted to play it. Tim frowns. "I should probably head back down-" He says but when he turns around to go back into the room he finds the balcony door is locked. 

Tim tries not to cry. This can't be happening. It can't- He has to be able to get back down to the party, he-! 

"Locked out?" Conner asks. 

Tim leans his forehead on the door. He wants to die. 

Conner leans over him and bangs on the door but the music is loud enough that no one hears him. 

Conner scowls. "Well I guess now you're stuck out here with me."

"I'm screwed." Tim says in disbelief. They'll be locked out here forever, and even if they aren't it doesn't matter. Coming up here in the first place was a stupid thing to do. Ten more minutes is enough to ruin whatever reputation he has left downstairs. 

Maybe he should just accept Bruce's offer. Whatever he'll get for Drake Industries will be more than whatever it's worth. 

Tim feels tears leak from his eyes. He rubs at them angrily. He's going to lose everything. Every part of his parents, of his Dad.... Mom... 

"Hey, it's not so bad! I promise! I'm less annoying than I seem at first impression!" Conner says hastily. Tim wipes at his face but he's sobbing now. 

"I-It's not you. It's not-It's not- I'm not-" but he can't say anything without the words coming out as a garbled mess. 

Conner, confused and worried, tries to comfort him by putting a hand on his back. Tim pushes him away. "Hey, it's okay." Conner says. He pulls Tim into a hug anyway. 

"I'm going to lose everything." Tim tells him, words spilling out of his mouth. He'll accept Bruce's offer tonight. The paperwork will be done before they get home to Gotham and it won't matter what Conner tells Luthor because it'll already be done. "My company... everything my parents worked so hard for... it's going to be gone. I'm going to lose the last of them."

"But... I thought your father was getting better..." Conner says. Then he realizes what Tim's been hiding. "He's not getting better, is he?" 

Tim shakes his head. His shoulders tremble. Conner holds him tight and he cries into Conner's shirt--soaking it. 

Tim tells him everything. From Bruce's offer for the company to his offer of fatherhood. Conner listens silently, rubbing Tim's back and nodding. When Tim finally calms down, Conner presses his lips to the top of Tim's head. The kiss so fleeting Tim wonders if he imagined it. "You're going to be okay. You at least have Bruce Wayne, don't you? And don't lose hope, stranger things have happened. Your father could wake up."

"And if he does, I'll have sold his company away, don't think that he'll be happy about that." 

"He'll be happy enough that he's alive and so are you."

You don't know my father, Tim wants to tell him. But he doesn't. 

Conner wipes his thumb across Tim's tear-streaked face. "I don't even know why I told you all of that."

"I've got a listener's face." He says.

Tim snorts. "Yes, exactly. That's what everyone says about you. Lex's infamously obedient child."

Conner winks. "Only for cute boys. Lex can screw himself." 

Tim raises an eyebrow. "Really?" The mysterious boy, who came from nowhere, heir to a fortune and company whose CEO he looked nothing like. Tim likes mysteries. Always did. 

And then there was the cute boy comment. Tim tries not to think about that one too hard. 

"Isn't that what the tabloids say?" Conner asks. He spreads his hands out in a half-shrug. 

"Guess I never really believed they really knew anything about you. Not that they really know anything about you."

"I'm a man of mystery." Conner shrugs uncomfortably.

"Clearly." Tim raises an eyebrow. "Come on, tell me something about yourself. Anything. I told you my entire life story."

"Uh uh. That's my business to keep." Conner says shaking his head, arms crossed over his chest. Tim sighs, but supposes that is his right.

Of course, without DI on his plate he can go back to his amatur conspiracy theorist detective work. Maybe he'll figure it out on his own. 

Tim sizes Conner up. Yeah, he can figure it out.  Conner's a teenager, and he exists which means he had to come from somewhere. He wasn't just born fifteen. Made in some lab. 

"Yeah," Tim agrees though, "that's fair."

Conner nods. There's a knock on the door and both boys jump as Tam pokes her head out. 

"Tim? Dad's says you better get back downstairs, Mr. Lord is saying some pretty nasty things about your father and Bruce is doing what he can but-"

"Thanks, Tam. I'll head down now." Tim tells her. 

She looks from him to Conner suspiciously. "Gothamites stick together," is her veiled response, her glare at Conner showing what she really wants to say. 

She leans back into the room and Tim just barely catches the door before it locks the two of them out again. 

"Wow. Tell us how you really feel." Conner grumbles at her back. 

Tim turns back to Conner. "Thanks. For... not being weirded out by me sobbing into your silk shirt." (Which is now ruined by the way, he doesn't say.)

"Hey, scandals stick together, right?" Conner offers with a quick grin. 

Tim smiles back and turns to leave when Conner grabs him by the hand. "Hey, wait-!"

Tim turns just as Conner bends down to kiss his lips gently. Tim is too stunned to react as Conner pushes past him into the room. His first kiss and it’s with a Luthor. "Text me next time you want to vent. Listening face." He says, pointing to said face to emphasize his point. "Wayne's got my number. I think." Then he disappears into the party. 

Tim watches him go, shocked. He's standing there so long, mouth open, that Luke walks past him at some point and he says: "I thought Tam told you what Dad said? You going back downstairs?" 

Which restarts Tim and he rushes downstairs, cheeks pink. 

~~~

"Well?" Lex asks as he and Conner sit in the limo back to the penthouse. "Learn anything useful from that Drake boy?"

Conner stares out the black tinted windows, watching as the streetlights zoom past and trying not to think about how Tim's lips had felt pressed against his. "Not a thing. Didn't even show up to the kid party like you said he would." 

Lex narrows his eyes at his son. "I see." 

Conner just shrugs. "Better luck next time."

[mikauzoran]

Adrienette Drabble Twenty-Six: Boy

Luka smiled faintly down at Adrien. “Come on. Let’s get you some air.”

Adrien found himself being half-carried towards the exit as the alcohol he had consumed too quickly hit him all at once. His feet weren’t doing what he wanted them to do, and his mind felt pleasantly fuzzy like the world was covered in pillows. (That thought alone was enough to tell him he’d had too much too fast.)

Thankfully, the uncovered area at the stern of the boat was deserted with no one to witness Adrien’s muddled state.

“Here.” Luka sat him down on one of the folding chairs and knelt in front of him to loosen Adrien’s tie and undo the top few buttons of Adrien’s shirt.

Adrien’s eyes slipped closed as he enjoyed the brief sensation of being touched. Luka’s long musician’s fingers brushed Adrien’s throat like butterfly kisses, and it was nice to be fussed over.

“Just breathe,” Luka coached, settling down on the chair next to Adrien’s. He placed one hand on Adrien’s shoulder to steady him and began rubbing soothing circles on Adrien’s back with the other.

Adrien nodded, concentrating on filling his lungs with air.

They sat like that in silence for what could have been one minute or five or fifteen.

When he could finally breathe normally again, Adrien opened his eyes and looked sheepishly at Luka. “Thank you. And sorry. I was just—I didn’t…I mean…”

“It’s okay,” Luka assured, gradually retracting his hands. “Panic attack?”

Adrien gulped and nodded. “How did you know?”

Luka shrugged, smiling sorrowfully. “Jules has been having them since we were little…since our dad walked out on us. Unfortunately, I’m an old hand at helping people through panic attacks.”

“Sorry,” Adrien whispered.

Luka shook his head. “You’re fine. I mean…you know what it’s like.”

Adrien gulped and nodded yet again.

“You going to be okay if I’m gone for a sec to get you a glass of water?”

“Oh, you don’t have to…uh…” Adrien trailed off, mind going blank, as Luka cupped Adrien’s cheek in his hand, studying Adrien’s unfocused gaze and splotchy coloring.

Luka pressed the back of his hand to Adrien’s forehead. “You’re still overheated…. Have you been drinking?”

Adrien looked away. “Maybe a little bit? I sort of…had a little too much a bit too quickly on an empty stomach.”

“Will you be okay on your own for five minutes?” Luka inquired again without passing judgment. “I want to go get you some water and a snack.”

“Okay,” Adrien begrudgingly agreed, cheeks coloring. “Sorry. Thanks.”

“No worries,” Luka chuckled softly. “You trigger my protective big brother instincts. Be back in a minute, okay?”

Adrien nodded in a daze, watching Luka go.

“I don’t like this,” Plagg sighed, coming out to lick at Adrien’s face like a mother cat.

Adrien closed his eyes and leaned back, resting his head against the wall behind him. “Which part? The one where I’m just barely on the right side of ‘drunk’ or the one where Prince Charming finally showed up to rescue me?”

“All of this,” Plagg scoffed. “The part where you’re vulnerable and emotional and being taken care of by that guy who hat-boy told you to steer clear of at all costs.”

“I don’t know what Nino was on about,” Adrien sighed. “Unless he was worried about Luka sweeping me off my feet in my current susceptible state. I mean, Luka is obviously wonderful. I don’t see why I should stay away from him.”

“Yeah, I don’t know,” Plagg hummed. “…You doing okay?”

“Not really,” Adrien chuckled. “I guess I deserved all that for being an idiot all these years with Marinette and then going off the wall and dating all of those girls?”

“Nah,” Plagg snorted. “What does that jock-guy know? Nothing. He knows nothing about you, so he should just back off.”

“I’m probably not going to see him again after tonight anyway, so it most likely won’t matter,” Adrien muttered.

“If you carry what he said around with you, that’s going to matter in your everyday life. Let it go, Kid. You’ll be better for it.”

Adrien hummed softly, enjoying the heady feeling that his mind was full of cotton.

 Luka returned, as promised, just minutes later with a glass of ice water and a small plate of finger foods. “Here.” He pressed the glass to Adrien’s cheek. “This should cool you down. Take slow sips, all right?”

“Thank you so much, Luka,” Adrien sighed, accepting the glass and dutifully taking a cautious drink. “I’m sorry again. I’m betting this wasn’t what you had in mind for the evening.”

“No,” Luka chuckled, retaking his seat beside Adrien. “The original plan included coming up with plausible excuses to wander off and not be too intrusive while my date spent the evening celebrating with her friends. Honestly, spending the evening with Adrien Agreste on a romantic, starlight boat ride is an improvement. I mean, how many guys can say they’ve done that?”

Adrien laughed sheepishly. “Including you and me? Two. …Well, I’m glad to hear I’m not a huge damper on your night.”

“Nah,” Luka assured, holding up the plate of hors d’oeuvres for Adrien to select something. “Will you eat any of this? I wasn’t sure what you like other than Marinette mentioning you weren’t a big fan of animals.”

“Oh, I’ll eat anything. What I like isn’t really relevant, but thank you for being so considerate.” Adrien smiled judiciously, picking up a fig and goat cheese puff pastry. “…You and Marinette talk about me?”

Luka shrugged. “I’ve been taking her to lunch lately on weekends to make sure she remembers to eat, and I seem to be picking a bunch of places you two have been before. Apparently, you guys have elaborate eating rituals where you get half her salad and she gets half your fries and she picks certain vegetables out of her dish and gives them to you while you give her your cucumbers and pickles and-and what have you. It takes her a while to decide what she’s going to get at a restaurant because you’re not there to eat your part and order the corresponding dish. It’s kind of adorable.”

“Are we that bad?” Adrien smiled sadly through a blush.

“Yes,” Luka snickered. “It’s like I’ve only got one half of a set. I’m going to have to take you with us next time.”

Adrien gazed nervously down at his bite-sized pastry. “I wouldn’t want to intrude on your time together…but…I mean…if Marinette would be okay with me tagging along, I’d like to hang out with you two. I was just talking to Marinette last week about how it’s been forever since I’ve seen you and how the three of us needed to spend some time together.”

Luka nodded. “I wouldn’t be opposed to you coming with us sometimes. I like you, Adrien. I’d like to be friends, and I know what a big part of Marinette’s life you are, so I’ve kind of accepted that as long as she’s in my life, you’re going to be a part of that too.”

“T-Thanks.” Adrien took a big gulp of water and almost choked.

Luka thumped him on the back. “Easy. Small, slow sips, remember?”

Adrien nodded.

“How are you feeling?” Luka inquired after a minute. “Your face is still red, but your coloring is more consistent now.”

“Tired,” Adrien confessed, taking a slice of bruschetta from the plate. “Panic attacks just kind of wear me out. Still tipsy, but my head isn’t spinning like it was. I don’t know how much of this is the alcohol and how much is anxiety. I mean, I just had, like, two glasses, but I don’t really drink, so my alcohol tolerance is pretty much nonexistent.”

“You’re pretty cohesive,” Luka offered. “You’re slurring a bit and speaking a little slower than normal, but you don’t really seem drunk besides the lack of focus in your eyes and diminished motor control.”

“I think the fresh air is helping. And the water and the food.” Adrien turned to look up at Luka with deep gratitude in his eyes. “Thank you so much for this. I’m really sorry I’m a mess, but I seriously appreciate you taking care of me. You didn’t have to do this.”

Luka smiled warmly, shrugging a shoulder. “We all need a little help every once in a while. And, like I said, you trigger my protective big brother instincts. …Did you want to talk about why you’re a mess? Would that help at all? I mean, I saw you earlier, and you seemed like you were fine hanging with Nino, dancing with Chloé. Did something happen?”

Adrien shook his head. “Girl problems, mostly. One of my classmates has it bad for an ex-girlfriend of mine, and he’s choosing to take out his frustrations with her on me. Maybe I deserve a little of his anger because I’ve certainly made mistakes, but there was no need for him to get so aggressive and pick mercilessly at the scabs of all of my insecurities.”

Luka rested a hand on Adrien’s back, rubbing soothingly.

Adrien melted at the touch. “I need to find some way to bottle you so I can have you with me whenever I’m feeling like rubbish.”

“You still have my phone number?”

Adrien’s eyelids fluttered open. “Yeah?”

“Call me sometime,” Luka instructed. “I’m serious. Let’s be friends.”

“…Why would you want to be friends with me?” The words easily slipped past Adrien’s liquor-loosened lips.

Luka cocked an eyebrow. “You’re interesting. You’re funny. You’re a talented musician. I like you. Why wouldn’t I want to be your friend?”

Adrien smiled ironically. “I may not be an emotional blackhole anymore, but I’m kind of still an emotional whirlpool right now. People don’t usually volunteer to get close to that.”

Luka shrugged. “I’m sure you’re better when you haven’t been drinking and haven’t just had a panic attack. I saw you earlier this evening, and you looked like someone I’d want to know. Besides, I liked spending time with you before when I was teaching you guitar, and I want to get to know the person Marinette is always talking about.”

Adrien could feel his cheeks burning in pleasure at the flattery. “Okay,” he conceded. “Sure. Let’s be friends.”

They fell into a reflective silence as the boat sailed by the Ile de la Cité.

“So,” Luka sighed. “What have you been up to lately? It’s been about a year or so since we last really talked, hasn’t it?”

Adrien nodded. “Yeah. Almost two years. I guess a lot has happened since then, but nothing’s really coming to mind. I mean, except for the past month or so, I’ve been doing pretty much the same things I was doing when you were giving me guitar lessons: modeling, fencing, piano, Chinese, basketball, hanging with friends when I can squeeze it in…”

“What’s changed in the past month or so?” Luka inquired conversationally.

Adrien grimaced, meeting Luka’s gaze. “So…I’ve kind of been trying to recover from an emotional meltdown.”

Luka winced.

“Are you familiar with opera?” Adrien asked.

“I’m a lover of all types of music,” Luka assured. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I was going to say that my meltdown was just short of the level of Electra in her exit aria in Mozart’s Idomeneo, if you’re familiar with the work.”

Luka winced again. “Wow. Complete with your mother and her lover killing your father and your brother killing them and getting driven mad by the furies for matricide all while the guy you were in love with announces his marriage to someone else?”

Adrien laughed softly. “Perhaps I was being a little overdramatic comparing my own mental breakdown to hers.”

Luka shrugged, with a comforting smile. “Opera is full of extremes. That allows it to explore the whole range of human emotion. It doesn’t have to be realistic as a whole so long as the emotions ring true. The point is that you identified with Electra’s desperation and pain and anguish. You saw some of what you were feeling in her…at least, that’s what I’m guessing. I don’t mean to tell you what you felt.”

“No,” Adrien was quick to assure. “No,” he breathed. “That’s it exactly. That’s…really deep.”

“Is it?” Luka chuckled softly.

“Yeah,” Adrien stressed.

Luka smiled. “Don’t look too impressed. I probably paraphrased that from some article I had to read for class or one of my professors.”

“You study music?” Adrien leaned in slightly.

Luka nodded. “And literature with an emphasis on nineteenth century Russia.”

“Do you think you’ll be a professional musician? I know Marinette was talking about Kitty Section gaining traction, but I didn’t think Juleka, Rose, or Ivan wanted to go into music as a career, so…”

Luka shrugged, looking out at the Right Bank. “There are a couple other groups that I play with. I do some paid gigs from time to time. I don’t know if I’ll be able to make a living off of it, but I’d like to. I want music to always be a part of my life, even if that’s teaching or giving lessons while I do something else more stable. I’m kind of at a point where I need to think realistically about the future and being able to provide for a family in a couple years. We can’t all be Jagged Stone.”

“But maybe just being Luka Couffaine will be enough,” Adrien offered innocently.

Luka turned to meet Adrien’s gaze and smiled. “I like your bright-eyed optimism. Don’t let the world crush that out of you, okay?”

“I’m serious,” Adrien insisted. “I’ve heard you play; you’re magnificent.”

“One guitarist doesn’t make a popular band,” Luka chuckled, pleased at Adrien’s sincerity.

“But your music is beautiful,” Adrien argued as if by virtue of this alone the world should surrender a place in the annals of history to Luka.

“You’re cute,” Luka laughed, shaking his head.

Adrien stopped breathing.

Did Luka mean that Adrien was cute in a dismissive sort of way? Like “that’s cute”, “that’s funny”, “that’s hilarious that you would say that”, or “you must be joking”? Or did Luka mean that Adrien was…cute?

 Was Luka flirting with him? Did Adrien want Luka to be flirting with him? Sure, Adrien thought Luka was attractive…as attractive as Adrien could find another guy, but…between Luka and Adrien it could only be flirting. It would only be making out. Adrien wasn’t interested in a relationship with a guy, but…flirting felt good. Flirting made him feel desirable…desired. With Marinette, there had been so much rejection, so many nos. It was nice to get a “yes, you’re wanted”. It was nice to be sitting there with Luka, Luka’s eyes on him alone, Luka fussing over him, Luka taking care of him, Luka being nice, Luka touching his arm and back, and…

It was everything that Adrien needed in that moment, especially with Kim’s insidious words still ringing in Adrien’s ears.

Maybe it was the alcohol or the starlight or Paris all lit up or Adrien’s insecurity or his deep well of affection deficit. Maybe it was the kindness and fondness in Luka’s eyes, but Adrien decided that if he ended the evening making out with Luka, that was okay. If he didn’t, that was also okay, but he decided to allow himself the option. It was time to stop blaming himself and berating himself and holding himself up to unreasonable standards. It was time to just let himself feel good within safe parameters. He wasn’t going to let himself feel bad about anything that happened between him and Luka that night.

Luka was still talking. “…wish I had my guitar with me. I’d play you my new song.”

“Maybe I can come over sometime and you can play for me then,” Adrien suggested, popping a pitted olive into his mouth. “I’d love to hear what you’ve been up to musically since the last time I heard you play.”

“Well, I’ve been super inspired the past two weeks, so there’s plenty of new material to sort through.” Luka shrugged. “I don’t know if any of it’s good or not, but the inspiration is solid. Maybe you can help me separate the chaff from the wheat because my eyes are a little clouded recently, so I’m probably biased.”

“Maybe you could help me brush up on my rusty guitar skills while we’re at it?” Adrien proposed.

“I bet you’ll pick it back up in no time,” Luka snorted. “I’ve never seen someone learn an instrument so quickly before.”

Adrien laughed sheepishly, pressing his water glass to his neck. “I mean, the concept is similar to the violin, and I spent the first eight years of my life in close proximity, so…”

“You played violin?” Luka quirked an eyebrow.

Adrien shook his head. “…My…My older brother Félix. He used to take part in competitions. I used to watch him practice for hours.”

Luka’s eyes widened. “I always thought you were an only child. I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine…” Luka shuddered, thinking of Juleka.

In his slightly addled state, it took Adrien a minute to catch on. “Oh! Oh, no. He’s not…he’s not dead; he’s just…estranged. He and my parents had a big falling out, so…I haven’t seen him in a decade, and I wasn’t allowed to talk about him until recently.” Adrien looked away. “That sounds bad. I guess it is bad. Um…but…my dad reached out to my brother’s family a few weeks ago, and it’s looking like maybe they’ll be reconciled eventually, so…”

Luka gently nudged Adrien’s shoulder with his own.

Adrien blinked, looking up into Luka’s kind blue eyes.

“It’s okay.” Luka gave a muted grin. “Everyone’s family is a little screwed up in one way or another. I mean, mine of course, but even Marinette’s family, and they seem perfect at first glance. As you know, her grandpa didn’t speak to her dad for twenty years because of the interracial marriage thing, so… Don’t worry, Adrien. I’ll only ever judge you based on you, not your family.”

Adrien searched Luka’s eyes and found only honesty. “Thanks,” he whispered, turning away to smile into his water glass.

“Sure…. You know, I’ve been learning to play that old keyboard these past few years,” Luka delicately switched topics. “I know I’m nowhere near as good as you are, but maybe, sometime, do you think you’d deign to play a duet with me? I’ve been watching these guys on YouTube who do four-handed renditions of songs from video games, and I thought that might be something you’d be interested in, since I remember Marinette mentioning that you two were both big gamers.”

“Yeah, that would be totally awesome!” Adrien agreed enthusiastically, taking a carrot and ricotta tartelette from the snack plate while simultaneously palming a cube of cheese. He ate the tartelette himself and surreptitiously slipped the cheese to Plagg. “What kind of music are you working on for the piano? Is there anything in particular you like to play or a piece that you’re learning?”

“I like jazz a lot. Right now I’m working on a couple of things, but the one I like most is Ravel’s Pavane pour une Infante Defunte. I’m a big fan of Ravel.”

Adrien scrunched up his nose and laughed. “You’d get along well with my father. Dad adores Ravel.”

“And you?” Luka prompted.

Adrien shrugged. “Depends. A lot of his music is lovely and technically beautiful, but I don’t personally get caught up in it like I do Rachmaninov or Mahler or Shostakovich.”

Luka shook his head. “Ravel’s Miroirs No. 3, ‘Une Barque sur l'Ocean’ just floors me. Like, my insides melt and I go into a trance it’s so gorgeous. I feel it here.” He placed a hand over his heart. “Is there a piece that does that to you?”

Adrien pursed his lips and thought for a moment. “…Vivaldi’s Winter from The Four Seasons. The first allegro non molto part in particular is just jaw-dropping for me. I used to love when my brother would play it.”

Luka nodded his approval. “I once saw Avi Avital do the solo part on the mandolin, and it was phenomenal. Vivaldi’s music itself is arresting, but that performance in particular…it passed by in the blink of an eye I was so enraptured.”

“Isn’t it amazing how music can do that to you?” Adrien sighed dreamily.

“Is it any wonder I want music in my life always?” Luka chuckled.

“…You know, I misjudged you,” Adrien admitted bashfully. “You’re a lot more complex than I originally gave you credit for. I thought you were only into contemporary music like Jagged Stone. I didn’t realize you liked opera and classical music too.”

“And rap and folk music and big band and ska…Gregorian chant, enka, salsa… Honestly, I enjoy some more than others, but I think there’s value in all music because music is the highest form of expression of the human experience. Music does something that words alone can’t.”

“Is that something you’re probably paraphrasing from one of your professors, or can I gush about how deep you are now?” Adrien hummed.

Luka laughed heartily, giving Adrien’s shoulder a playful nudge. “I honestly think I sound pretty pretentious. I’m glad you’re impressed, though.”

“You’re very impressive,” Adrien mumbled shyly.

“Thanks.” Luka grinned as he studied Adrien’s face.

Their eyes locked, and Adrien gradually leaned in.

“Are you feeling okay?” Luka inquired, noting the dilation of Adrien’s pupils and the distracted look in the younger boy’s eyes.

Adrien jerked back slightly. “Fine. Yes. Good. I mean…I can still feel the alcohol, but it’s more of a buzz or a hum now whereas before it was overwhelming, so…better. Thank you.”

“Good. You’re looking and sounding better.” Luka smiled, eyes crinkling.

“What color is your hair originally?” Adrien blurted out.

Luka blinked in confusion but answered anyway. “It’s black. Why?”

Adrien grimaced. “It…figures.”

Blue eyes and black hair yet again.

“I don’t know why exactly. I was just curious since you’ve had your hair dyed since we met. I figured it might be black because it looks like you have black lowlights, and Juleka’s hair is black, so…do you maybe want to dance with me?” The words slipped out before Adrien could put them in check.

Luka’s eyebrow slowly arched. “Dance?”

Adrien’s cheeks were already burning, so he decided to go all in. What was the worst thing that could happen? “Yeah. Dance. Together.”

“You…dance with other guys?” Luka inquired hesitantly, making sure he understood what Adrien was proposing.

Adrien shrugged. “I mean…sure. Why not? Girls dance together all the time. Why can’t guys?”

Luka’s brow furrowed. “I feel like two guys dancing together is different than two girls.”

“Well, it shouldn’t be,” Adrien countered, beginning to pout slightly. “It’s really stupid that girls can do things that guys aren’t allowed to without being judged. That’s part of the reason why I’m a feminist.”

“Oh?” Luka smiled curiously.

“Yeah,” Adrien insisted. “True feminism is about equality. It means girls can open doors for me or give me flowers without that being weird. It means I can be a stay at home dad or talk about my feelings or cry in public without being called a wimp. It means I can dance with another guy without it necessarily having to mean we’re gay.”

“Down with the patriarchy. I’m all for that.” Luka winked teasingly. “So…what I’m hearing is that you want to dance with me to make a feminist statement.”

Adrien’s cheeks burned pink as he smiled up sheepishly at Luka. “Honestly? You’re really wonderful, and I think you’re cute, and I want to dance, so…” He bit his lip nervously.

Luka’s eyes widened. “Like…dance as in ballroom like you were doing with Chloé earlier?”

Adrien gulped. “More like…contemporary dance. Like how Juleka and Rose dance together.”

Luka’s mouth slowly dropped open of its own volition. “I…thought you were straight.”

Adrien looked away, his entire face to the tips of his ears going red. “I mean, I am. For the most part. I think. I think I am. I’m not…” He looked up searchingly at Luka. “It’s not like I would sleep with you, but…if you kissed me, I would kiss you back, so…I don’t know what that means.”

Luka nodded, giving Adrien an appraising look and thinking, “That…lends new meaning to his blush and the dazed expression. If only he’d said something before two weeks ago.”

“Sorry,” Adrien backpedaled. “I didn’t mean to make things weird. Earlier when you said I was cute, I must have misunderstood because I thought—”

Luka rested a hand on Adrien’s knee. “—You didn’t misunderstand anything,” he assured. “I would very much be interested in dancing with you if you’re feeling well enough, but…does your father allow you to dance with other guys?”

Adrien grimaced. “Technically? I think my dad is homophobic, but, technically, he didn’t say anything about it being against the rules to dance with men. It’s only against the rules to make out with anyone, so I think I can dance with you so long as I don’t make out with you…and even then, I think it’s only against the rules to make out with you if someone gets it on camera,” Adrien added with a tentative wink.

“I’ll take that under advisory,” Luka chuckled.

This was weird. This was entirely foreign to Adrien. He’d spent years flirting shamelessly with Ladybug and getting nothing back. Flirting with Luka was sort of empowering. The encouragement of Luka’s smile felt good. It felt really, really good to flirt and not be brushed off.

“There’s just one thing.” Luka fixed Adrien with a solemn expression, taking his hand from Adrien’s knee. “Right now, we’re flirting, and I’m fine with that. You can flirt with someone just for fun and not really mean anything by it or expect anything to come from it. If we’re just flirting for fun, that’s fine. I can do that. This is only a problem if you’re at all serious. As you know, I have a girlfriend, and I’m crazy about her, so nothing more than friendly flirting is going to happen between you and me. If any of this meant anything to you, I don’t want to lead you on. Okay?”

The concerned look in Luka’s eyes, so full of care, was oddly touching.

Adrien smiled awkwardly, blushing as he laughed off Luka’s reservations. “No worries necessary. I mean, not that you’re not attractive, but…I’m not interested in a relationship. I’m just…” He chewed on the inside of his cheek as he attempted to find the right words. “I kind of got my heart crushed, and the rejection still sort of stings. Flirting and having someone else flirt back makes me feel better, so…platonic flirting is all I really want right now anyway.”

“All right,” Luka agreed with a nod. “Sounds good to me. Give me your glass of water and see if you can stand up.”

Adrien did as requested and carefully got to his feet. He stood still for a minute, making sure of his balance before giving Luka a thumbs up.

Luka smiled, resting his hand at the small of Adrien’s back just in case Adrien lost his footing as he guided Adrien back to the main room.

“Fair warning,” Adrien remarked as they made their way to the dancefloor. “I’ve been told that I’m a bit of a slutty dancer. I believe Nino’s exact words were that I turn dancing into a full-contact sport, so if I do something that makes you uncomfortable or if there’s someplace you don’t want my hands, please, please just tell me.”

“Likewise,” Luka insisted, his own hand moving to Adrien’s hip.

Nearly half an hour flew by on the dancefloor. Mentally, Adrien checked out, losing himself in the throbbing of the music, the warmth and press of the other dancers, the smell of sweat mixed with dozens of perfumes and aftershaves, the contact between his own body and Luka’s. He didn’t have to think about Marinette or his family situation or learning to love and care for himself or university coming up in a few short months…so he didn’t. He melted into cyan eyes, strong hands, and his own heartbeat, only mentally coming up for air when a slow song interrupted the thrumming beat in his veins.

Luka and Adrien blinked at one another, each unsure of what to do.

Luka smiled sheepishly. “May I have this dance? I mean…while we’re making a feminist statement about two guys dancing together and everything.”

Adrien laughed heartily as he wrapped his arms around Luka’s waist. “Down with the patriarchy.”

“I’d hoped you’d say that,” Luka chuckled, slipping his arms around Adrien’s neck.

“As much as I’m enjoying your undivided attention, shouldn’t you check in with your date?” Adrien wondered. “I’ve been hogging you for nearly an hour now.”

Luka glanced over to where Marinette, Alya, Rose, Juleka, Alix, and Aurore were all dancing together, giggling and falling over one another. “Nah. She’s doing fine without me,” he assured with a doting smile.

“I didn’t even ask who you came with, since you’re not in our class,” Adrien realized. “Juleka?”

Luka shook his head, lacing his fingers at the back of Adrien’s neck. “Girlfriend. Honestly, I probably shouldn’t have come. I mean, tonight is supposed to be about what she and her friends have all accomplished. It’s not supposed to be about us as a couple, but I guess Marinette felt like since she could invite a date, it might be weird or hurt my feelings if she didn’t invite me? I told her I was more than perfectly happy to hang on the sidelines while she had fun with her friends, so…”

Luka looked back at Adrien and frowned at the pallor of the younger boy’s face. “You okay?”

Adrien’s feet stopped moving as he stared blankly into concerned blue eyes. “You…Marinette…is your…girlfriend.” The words fell from his lips like tiles from a crumbling building.

Luka’s frown deepened in confusion. “She didn’t tell you?”

Adrien laughed, smiling sheepishly as the walls slammed down. “Sorry. Yes. Of course. Of course she told me. I mean, I’m one of her best friends; she tells me everything. Why wouldn’t she tell me? She told me immediately. Okay, maybe she called Alya first and they screamed in excitement about it for a while, but I was second on the list as far as people she told. Sorry. I just…you know. Mental breakdown recovery lately. I’ve had a lot on my mind, and that just…slipped. Because we don’t exactly talk about you much. I mean, we do talk about you. She told me about your date the other night and-and dancing and going for crepes with you and the Jagged Stone concert and everything, but…you know. Mostly we talk about other things.”

Luka nodded slowly, unable to shake the feeling that something was definitely off. “Right.” He decided that the easiest thing to do was just go with it and ask Marinette later. “Sure.”

“Like…we talk about her internship with my dad and my parents’ wedding coming up in a few months and what I do with my free time now that my schedule isn’t so strict,” Adrien continued, suddenly feeling like he had something to prove, like he needed to demonstrate that he was still a relevant part of Marinette’s life even if she wasn’t talking to him anymore…even if she was cheating on him with other guys.

“We talk about everything,” Adrien insisted. “Sometimes we stay up texting until early in the morning just talking about nothing. She bounces ideas off of me, and I’m always the first one to see her new designs.”

It would be like that again in no time. Marinette was bound to miss him eventually and realize what a stupid mistake she was making dating other people. Destiny had literally—literally—chosen them for one another. Everything would be fine if Adrien could just avoid having a total meltdown on the dancefloor.

Adrien pulled Luka in closer, resting his head on the other boy’s shoulder because Adrien really, really needed someone to ground him and physically hold him together in that moment and he was forced to work with what he had at hand.

“You doing okay?” Luka inquired, resting his head against Adrien’s.

“Yeah. Yeah, totally fine,” Adrien lied. “Just a little tired. Just… Actually, no.”

Luka lifted his head and tried to angle his neck to catch a glimpse of Adrien’s expression. “What’s wrong? What do you need?”

Everything.

Marinette to love me.

“Sorry. Anxiety,” Adrien explained haltingly. “All of the sudden something just reminded me of…”

“Shh. It’s okay,” Luka whispered soothingly into Adrien’s ear. “Just breathe. Do we need to go back outside to get some air?”

Adrien shook his head. “No. Sorry. I just…stay like this, please?”

“Sure.” Luka began to rub at Adrien’s neck gently. “Um…sometimes with Juleka it helps if I distract her by talking about something else. Do you want to talk or…?”

“I don’t know,” Adrien answered, preoccupied by his thoughts. He wanted to get away. He wanted to transform and run home and make a pillow fort and hide under the covers until the world decided that it was done kicking him while he was down.

“Okay…. Well, let’s try it, and you just tell me if it’s helping or not. Um… Oh. Hey, speaking of Marinette’s new designs, what do you think of the latest ones?”

Adrien’s mind locked up as he tried to come up with something he could say to make it sound like he’d actually seen the designs that Luka was talking about. “Oh… Er…I’m not sure. I mean, I always love everything that Marinette does. I don’t know that these are her most creative designs ever, but I do like them. She’s taken the necklines in an interesting direction.”

“Necklines?” Luka hummed thoughtfully.

“Hemlines,” Adrien corrected, hoping that there was something unique about the way that Marinette had done them. “I meant hemlines.”

“Oooh. Yeah. I see what you mean. With the way they’re gathered and kind of…not toga-y, but sort of…like ancient Greece.”

“Precisely!” Adrien lied. “Marinette and I were just talking a couple weeks ago about how Neoclassicism is making a comeback in fashion.”

Luka was quiet for a moment. “…I’m just now realizing that I don’t know too much about fashion.”

“Honestly, I don’t either,” Adrien sighed. “Let’s talk about something else?”

“Sure,” Luka easily agreed. “Will I see you tomorrow at the party?”

“P-Party?” Adrien looked up to meet Luka’s gaze.

“Marinette’s party?” Luka clarified.

Adrien’s heart sank. “Oh. Yeah. I’d forgotten.” He smiled winningly. “Unfortunately, I have a thing tomorrow, so I can’t make it. I mean, it’s an all-day thing, so I can’t even get away for a little while. I had to choose between coming tonight and coming tomorrow, and I couldn’t risk making Chloé mad by picking Marinette’s party over hers, so…Marinette understands.”

Luka nodded. “That’s a shame that you’ll miss it.”

“Yeah,” Adrien muttered. “I really would have liked to come.”

“I’ll have to throw a party sometime and invite you,” Luka suggested as the slow song came to an end. “We’ll have to work together to find a date you can make.”

“That would be…great, actually. Thank you, Luka.” Adrien was oddly touched by the offer. He wondered if Luka would be so nice if he knew the true nature of the relationship between Adrien and Marinette.

“Sure.” Luka tentatively pulled away as the pumping dance beat resumed. “You feeling better?”

Adrien nodded, giving Luka his most convincing smile. If he could only hold on for a few more minutes…. “Yeah. Thanks. All better now. I don’t know what that was, really.”

Luka shrugged, returning the smile.

“I think I’m going to head to the upper observation deck, though, and get some fresh air.” Adrien tried to make a graceful escape.

“I’ll come with you,” Luka offered.

“Nah, I’ll be fine on my own,” Adrien deflected. “I’ve had a great time with you, Luka, but I think I really have kept you to myself for too long. You should go check in with Marinette.”

“You’re positive?” Luka studied Adrien skeptically.

“Definitely, but, again, thank you. This was fun.” Adrien leaned in to give Luka an air kiss but got more cheek than he had intended. “I’ll call you sometime, yeah?” Adrien called over his shoulder with a wave as he fled in a calm, collected fashion.

Adrien forced himself not to run until he made it to the stairwell to the upper deck.

[celebratorypenguin]

Fic: Lachrimae Antiquae Novae

Rating: PG-13 for language

Genfic, but could be considered McLennon if you squint

Summary: In which I visit Overused Trope Land with a story about Hurricane Dora/"The Night We Cried." The title is from a set of seven Pavanes by John Dowland, and roughly translated it means "Old Tears, Renewed."

This setup with all four of them is based on one of Paul’s conflicting recollections of that night, when they were ALL in the room and Ringo ended up in the bathtub.

Lachrimae Antiquae Novae

Key West, Florida September 10, 1964

***

Once the jam session ended, there wasn't anything else to do but drink.

"Thank you, Dora," said George as he poured scotch for Paul and himself into plastic cups before passing the bottle to John. "We needed a night to ourselves."

John decanted a liberal amount for himself, then splashed some into the cup in Ringo's outstretched hand. "Let's drink to her." The four men raised their makeshift glasses and said in unison, "Here's to Hurricane Dora."

"And a good night's sleep," Paul added. His voice was creaky with overuse and the beginning of a cold.

"Not sure how much sleep we'll be getting tonight, crammed in here like sardines," Ringo sighed. "A man needs to stretch out, you know."

Because of the emergency surrounding the approaching hurricane, the band had been able to secure only one room, with two tight double beds and a tiny bathroom. Brian and the crew had to stay in an even smaller and less comfortable motel down the road.

"We've slept in worse situations than this one," John reminded everyone when their faces began to reflect annoyance. "No holes in a windscreen and no dirty movies playing in our ears. And we've got a proper bathtub." He nudged Ringo with his elbow and grinned maniacally at him. "A veritable palace, this place."

In reality, it was a barely-respectable motel. John had doubts about how sturdy the building might actually be, but he kept them to himself. With George absolutely exhausted, Ringo apprehensive about the storm, and Paul trying not to come down with something, they were on enough of an edge already.

For himself, John was just glad not to be on the move. Brian had supplied them with snacks, candles, and a shocking amount of liquor, so they were all set for the night. The fact that there was a bed to sleep in instead of an airplane seat sounded just great to John, even if the bed was going to contain an extra Beatle.

Paul sneezed, looking surprised that it was happening to him. "Ugh. Sorry," he sniffed as he rubbed the end of his nose with one of the tissues he held in a tight ball.

George poured more scotch into Paul's glass. "Here, drink some more. Kill the germs."

"Ta." Paul took a long swallow and winced. "It's like gargling with battery acid."

"Good. It's burning the snot out of your throat so you'll be able to sing by tomorrow night," John said lightly even though he was concerned about how rotten Paul was starting to sound.

"If we get to sing tomorrow night." Ringo's words were strained. "If we don't wake up in Oz what with this storm and all."

George, whose rosy cheeks hinted at how tipsy he was becoming, snickered. "Here you were a Hurricane for all these years and it turns out you're scared of 'em!"

Everyone laughed. John looked fondly at George. Rather than being a maudlin drunk like the rest of them, the first few drinks tended to bring George's humorous side bubbling to the surface of his personality. It was always a joy to see the furrows between George's eyebrows lessen, to see a full smile instead of the brief flashes of teeth he gave when he was uptight.

John took a good, long swallow before setting the cup down on the shaggy brown carpet. "Might as well get comfortable, fellas. I'm gonna change so I'll already be in pyjamas by the time I pass out." Standing up was a bit more of a problem than he'd expected, but he felt Paul steadying him with a strong hand on his leg. The hand was warm, too warm, but John decided to get comfortable now and check on Paul's temperature later.

It wasn't as if any of them would be leaving the room tonight.

They took turns in the little bathroom, changing into pyjamas while the other three plucked or drummed at nothing in particular. By the time they were all back in the bedroom they were well into the third bottle and the storm was raging all around them. Wind and pounding rain rattled the windows. Distant flashes of lightning went off like strobe lights and the accompanying thunderclaps got closer and closer together.

John actually enjoyed a good storm now and again; the rumbling thunder and faint scent of ozone made him drowsy. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Ringo's frown. "Best have another one," John said as he passed the bottle. "We're in for a long night."

"I was counting the seconds between the flash and the thunder," Ringo said, but he didn't turn down the offer of more scotch. "You can tell how close the storm's getting. At least that's what my mum always said."

Paul cast a quick glance at John. It was a reflex, the way he always checked on John when a mother was mentioned in their presence. More than one interviewer had made the faux pas of asking the two of them about their mothers, and no matter how many times it happened John always felt flat-footed when replying. It upset and annoyed him, but what he really hated was the tiny flash of sadness that always, always crossed Paul's face before he had a chance to hide it from John.

Tonight, between the scotch and the fever, Paul wasn't able to school his features as well as usual. His lips trembled and his wide eyes were suspiciously shiny. He opened his mouth as if to say something, seemed to change his mind, and instead slumped against John's shoulder.

"What is it?" John asked quietly, giving Paul a chance to whisper it if he didn't feel secure enough to say it aloud.

Paul shook his head. "It's daft," he murmured.

"That never stops me." Ringo's deadpan delivery and sly smile told John that he was attempting to lighten Paul's mood. John grinned at him, grateful for the attempt.

Paul shifted his head so that he could talk without a mouthful of John's pyjama top. "D'you remember her voice? Julia's?"

"God, what...what?" John stammered. He had to think about it for a moment, had to force himself to return to a time when Julia's silver laughter rang out in delight, when she told John how clever and wonderful he was. "Yeah. It was a nice voice, I remember liking how smooth and cool it was."

George nodded in agreement. "And she could sing, too. She loved listening to us and singing along just like the kids."

The pain John felt in remembering his mother was acute, even six years later, but when Paul whispered, "I can't remember my mum's voice," John's heart nearly broke for him.

George gently said, "She was a nice lady, your mum," then his face fell. He reached out a slender hand and put it on Paul's knee. "I'm sorry," he mumbled.

Paul, confused, patted George's hand and shrugged at John. "For what?" he asked.

"For my perfect life," George said in a thick, miserable tone.

Well, George usually wasn't a maudlin drunk. There's a first time for everything, John said to himself.

Paul's eyebrows shot up and he coughed slightly. "Son, I don't have a clue what you're on about."

"You three all had it so rough, and here I was happy with my mum and my dad and my sister and brothers!"

John, who knew exactly how poverty-stricken the Harrisons had been before the Beatles made it big, felt his heart swell that George considered himself so fortunate compared to his friends. "I dunno, George. I mean, Mendips was a pretty swish place to live."

"It was hard losing my mother, but I have my dad and Mike," Paul added.

"My mum and Harry took good care of me every time I got sick," Ringo said after a pause. "We didn't have much, but I never doubted that they loved me."

John was relieved that Ringo had the delicacy not to remind them that he was from an actual slum, because that would have set George off even more.

George nodded. John leaned over and peered into his face. "How much have you had to drink, there, George?"

"Not as much as Paul."

Paul, whose face was ghostly pale, suddenly doubled over with his arms around himself.

"Uh-oh," Ringo warned, getting to his feet faster than anyone could have thought possible. He grabbed Paul by the armpits and hauled him into the bathroom just in time.

Eager to cover up the sound of vomiting lest it trigger a chain reaction, John grabbed his guitar and started playing noisy chords. George looked woozily at John and frowned. "Aren't you going to go in there?" he asked.

"Nah. Give the lad a bit of privacy." Years and years of sharing rooms with Paul left John certain that Paul would want as few onlookers as possible. Losing control, even due to illness, was something Paul preferred to do in private.

George reached for his own instrument and played a plaintive melody to go with John's chords. Even plastered, George was more than a match for any guitarist John had ever heard. John watched George's fingers pull eloquent tunes out of the guitar. "That's quite good," he said with awe in his voice.

"Don't you forget it," hiccuped George, whose hands seemed blissfully independent from the fog in his brain.

"I won't." John took a deep breath. Fueled by liquor and genuine admiration, he said, "I can't believe I put off asking you to join the group just because you were a tyke of twelve."

"I was fourteen," protested George. "Almost fifteen."

"But you looked ten. And I was an arrogant sod--" He stopped when George snickered at the word "was," then continued. "And I might never have asked if it hadn't been for Paul's fucking stubbornness."

"I heard that," croaked Paul from the bathroom.

"Your FUCKING STUBBORNNESS, Paul, got us the best lead guitarist in the whole damn world, and I don't care who hears me say it!"

At that interesting point in the night's conversation, a crash of thunder directly overhead was followed by all the lights going out.

Ringo came out of the bathroom, holding his cigarette lighter aloft. "Where'd Brian put the candles, then?"

John scrabbled on the nightstand and came up with a cylinder that he hoped was a candle. "Here, try this."

"Make sure it's a candle and not a condom," Paul called out.

"I can tell the difference, son, even if you couldn't," John replied as he took Ringo's lighter and put the flame to the wick. The candle sputtered and for a horrible moment John thought it wasn't going to light up, but eventually the flame shone clear and strong.

"What're you going to put it in?" George asked.

John blinked. Surely he wasn't going to have to sit here holding it until the damned thing burned to nothingness.

"Here, let me." Ringo took the candle, tipped it sideways so that some of the wax ran around the lip of an empty scotch bottle, then held the bottom of the candle in the warm wax until it set. He repeated this with two other candles.

George whistled through his teeth. "Impressive, that."

"Now our cheap motel looks like a cheap Italian restaurant," Ringo chuckled. "So much better."

It actually was better. The room was bathed with a warm, golden glow instead of incandescent white electric light. John picked up one of the makeshift candle holders and shuffled into the bathroom to check on Paul.

"Can you see all right, Macca?" he asked. Paul was leaning with his cheek against the rim of the toilet, breathing shallowly.

"Wish I couldn't," was all Paul was able to say before he choked and began vomiting again.

"Easy, Paul, it's okay, I've got you, I've got you," John crooned as he wrapped one arm around Paul's chest and stroked his hair with the other. The contents of the toilet were mostly clear, meaning that Paul was probably near the end of whatever had made him sick. John flushed the toilet then put his hand on Paul's forehead. It was warm but not as bad as before. "That's better," John said. He reached up to the sink and pulled down a tube of toothpaste - probably George's, because it smelled strongly of the peppermint he favored - and squeezed a bit onto Paul's index finger. "Scrub a bit, get the taste out of your mouth."

Silently, Paul complied, then his body went lax and he laid his head in John's lap.

"That's him done for," George said from the doorway. He set his candle on the sink and sat down next to John, putting one hand in Paul's hair and the other on John's shoulder. "If only the world knew what larks it was, being a Beatle."

John chuckled. "We've had better nights."

"And worse ones. Like in Hamburg, where you and Paul and Pete played Olympic scorekeepers while that ginger bird..." George broke off, clearly embarrassed at the memory of losing his virginity while his bandmates cheered him on.

"Oh, I don't know, I quite enjoyed that," John said with a little leer.

George shook his head and leaned against the wall. John's shoulder felt cold without George's touch, and Paul whimpered a little at the loss of the caressing fingers. John took over, absent-mindedly tousling Paul's dark hair.

Ringo entered a few moments later. "Room for one more?"

"Of course," John said, "if you don't mind sitting in the tub."

"I don't, actually." Ringo clambered in and set his candle on the edge of the bathtub. He stretched out and folded his arms behind his head. "We only have the three candles, so maybe we should blow two out and save 'em."

John puffed out George's and his own candles, then pulled Paul's head into a more comfortable position on his lap. George's head tipped back and his breathing deepened.

"Guess it's just the two of us still conscious," Ringo whispered.

"I'm conscious," mumbled Paul.

"Me, too." George's voice was barely audible as he relaxed further, nearly hitting his head on the plumbing beneath the sink.

"Hey, Ringo, don't let him tip over," John said.

Ringo held out his hand to George. "C'mere, lad. More room over by me."

George scooted to the edge of the tub and put his head down on the pile of towels. He shifted a couple of times, grumbling wordlessly. Ringo rolled his eyes at John then moved one hand down to George's head, petting him like a puppy. "The youth today just can't hold their liquor," Ringo quipped, but John could hear the affection in his voice.

John cocked his head, listening for the storm but not hearing anything. "I think that's the eye passing over us now," he said. "So it's halfway done."

"Good. I've had about enough of this storm business." Ringo's eyes, silver in the muted candlelight, were focused on John. "Listen, Johnny, did I stick my foot in it, earlier, talking about my mother in front of you and Paul?"

John's throat tightened. "Nah," he said, wanting to mean it, but he could tell that Ringo wasn't fooled.

"Okay, I'll be more careful from now on." Ringo waggled his eyebrows to let John know that he hadn't fallen for his attempt at obfuscation.

Nodding in appreciation, John turned his gaze down to Paul's face. "It's funny, how Paul hears music so perfectly, how he remembers every note after hearing it just once, but he can't remember his mum's voice. I can't imagine forgetting Julia's, but I suppose I will, eventually." His voice felt thick as he continued. "I mean, I don't really remember Uncle George's, and sometimes I'm not even sure I can remember Stuart's, except for the old recordings. And someday they won't play anymore, and then his voice will be gone."

"Steady on," Ringo said, reaching out for John even though they were sitting too far apart to touch. He settled for putting the last remnants of scotch within John's reach.

The hurricane's eye was past them and the storm began anew, lashing the windows with rain and shaking the whole building with wind. John grabbed the bottle and swallowed the last of the amber liquid before he started talking again.

"How can someone you love just...disappear, like that? Like they never existed? Who's gonna be left in ten years, in fifty years, to remember Stuart's voice, to remember him, to remember Julia?"

George raised his head, blinking slowly. John felt George's fingers wrap gently around his wrist as he said, "God will remember, John. He'll remember all of us."

"Is that the same God who gave Stuart a brain aneurism? The same God who put a cop in a car he didn't know how to drive so that he could kill my mother? Why should I trust a God who takes everyone I love away from me?" He knew he was shocking George with his words, George whose childlike faith in higher powers never wavered, but John's heart was throbbing in his chest and the words spilled from his mouth as the hot, stinging tears spilled from his eyes. "Everyone I love leaves me," he cried. "Everyone I love fucking dies, that's why I don't love anyone, why I can't love anyone, because I don't want them to fucking DIE!"

John heard himself sobbing harshly as Paul sat up and threw his arms around him. "Johnny, it's okay, love, it's okay."

"Don't!" John yelled, trying to pull away. The panic that seized him clutched his chest so that he could barely breathe. He started scrubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. "Don't you see? If you love me then I'll love you and you'll die, just like the rest of them!"

"You can't stop me from loving you." Paul's voice was still raspy and weak but his embrace remained firm. "And I'm not going anywhere."

"Me, neither," chimed Ringo from the bathtub.

"We're none of us leaving you, so you can feel free to love us as much as you want." George's voice was as tearful as John's as he sat behind him and wrapped his arm around John's chest. "You're not getting rid of us that easy, Lennon."

The lights flickered then came back on. All four men winced at the sudden burst of cold fluorescence. George staggered to his feet and batted at the bathroom switch until that light went out.

The insanity of the situation wasn't lost on John. He was sitting on the floor of a loo in a cheap motel during a thunderstorm, in his pyjamas, with the rest of his band trying to console him while he had a drunken breakdown.

It was actually a good metaphor for their lives, when he stopped to think about it.

The light coming in from the bedroom was strong enough that he could take a good look at his friends: Ringo, always as unwaveringly steady as his drumbeat, loyal George with his fine mind and extraordinary patience, and Paul, whose brilliance more than compensated for his exasperating perfectionism.

"How'd I get so bleedin' lucky as to end up with the three of you?" John asked as he smiled at each of his bandmates in turn.

"Dunno how lucky you'll feel when you have Typhoid Paulie in your bed," George declared around a yawn. Paul shot him a dirty look but he was fighting back laughter.

"C'mon, up with you." John stood, wincing at the pain in his lower back from sitting on hard tile, and gave Paul a hand up. "What about--"

George silenced him with a finger on his lips. John and Paul looked at Ringo, who had fallen asleep in the bathtub. "I'll get him settled," George whispered. "You two go on, get some sleep."

John walked Paul over to one of the beds and pulled the bedspread back for him. As Paul climbed in and John covered him up, they shared a tiny smile. John could tell from the way Paul's eyes softened that he was thinking about his mother, and if he was thinking about her then he was also remembering Julia and worrying about John.

"Daft lad," John whispered fondly as he started to get in behind Paul.

Paul stopped John with a hand on his wrist. "If Ringo's gonna sleep in the tub, maybe you should share with George. You don't need my germs."

"Better your germs than George's bony knees." John pried Paul's fingers loose and patted his hand before settling in behind him. "Now, be a good boy and let me have my beauty sleep. Or maybe a beauty coma, that'd do me more good."

Chuckling, Paul burrowed deeper under the covers.

George padded barefoot through the room to get a blanket and pillow for Ringo. John could see him over Paul's shoulder as he lifted Ringo's head ever so gently to put the pillow beneath it, and then draped the blanket over his sleeping form. George picked up the candle and used it to light his way back to bed once he turned out the bedroom lights. When he got into his bed, he leaned over, mouthed "Good night" to John and Paul, then blew out the candle.

The storm had died down to a lulling fall of heavy rain. Moonlight streamed through the window, a gentle silvery glow that lit up Paul's face when he turned over to look at John.

"Your voice," he whispered. "No one's ever going to forget your voice. Not in fifty years, or a hundred. It's gonna live forever."

"Hush, you'll wake Ringo," John admonished, but he pulled Paul into a fierce hug. He felt Paul begin to relax into sleep, his skin damp with breaking fever. Maybe John would catch his cold but he would not push Paul away.

Tomorrow night, John thought, when the storm had washed the sky and polished the stars, he'd take Paul outside and show him their mothers' star, Mary Julia, and perhaps Paul's long-opened wound could begin to heal.

Perhaps John's would as well, and at last their old tears would come to an end.

*** END ***

[duckbehindthewheel]

A Spoiler-Free Reflection on LaLaLand

Oh, good LORD, is this film hit & miss. You’ll have to forgive me, internet, but I’m an old-fashioned guy who loves his musicals, and I’ve got to pontificate. Bear with me.

On the technical side, this film is in need of two things: a better sound mixer and some dang FILL LIGHTS. I could barely hear what what happening in the ensemble numbers, few as they are. (More on the music later.) The music was so, so, loud, and I almost wonder if they were trying to drown out their weak, pitch-corrected cast. Not to mention their lead actors who can’t use a strong voice to sing. Does everyone come out of the womb singing in head voice? It’s vile, and so not the voice you want for a musical number. They also felt the need to drown out their surpisingly diverse cast, more diverse than the leads, in their poor lighting choices. Geez, I understand moodlighting, but you had seven eights of your screen filled with black and an awkward sliver of Emma Stone in her sweater, and her legs cut off because she wore black pants. It was such a bizarre shot. Not to mention several outside shots were so contrasted, which suits Los Angeles, but you can NOT see anyone’s facial expression, and that’s so key in film, especially musicals.

However, La La Land is NOT a musical. Musicals are defined by having musical numbers where characters sing to further the plot. There are usually several in each act, around fifteen or twenty on average. This film had maybe four “unique” songs where singing happened, and I’m sorry to say, all felt and sounded like Oscar bait. They were generic and the melodies, frankly grating. All of the “choreography” in each number was so minimalistic, and i could tell right away it was because the cast was inexperienced, so they dumbed it down. There were no showstoppers in this movie, only scenes with quirky imagery and the same two melodies. Even the soundtrack was sparse, scoring moments with literally just an exact copy of that one song you heard twenty minutes ago, no key change, no instruments added, just that stupid piano, all over again. And so many opportunities to, you know, sing, that were caught up by whole snatches of a film that I fear didn’t want to be a musical at all. The jazzy aspect of some numbers was an ear-catcher, but those miserable autotuned voices were so off-putting to a guy like me, who has spent years in musical theatre. I won’t even speak of the “singy” faces everyone made. You know the ones, like those annoying people make when they sing the national anthem. It’s frustrating, and it’s certainly not a substitute for effort.

You know what else didn’t have effort? The casting, and the plot. I love her, but I’m getting tired of Emma Stone. She can’t sing, and all she did was cry and get anxious on screen in a way that made me jumpy. At the risk of sounding like everyone on Tumblr, I am getting tired of the same two straight, white romantic leads smooching while the cast is all the colours of the rainbow pride flag. The “chasing success” story is so tired, too. I was sighing after sigh as the “we’re apart, but getting everything we want” montage came up (with no singing), and when the sudden act of kindness from our leading man sent our girl into One Last Hope ™. And I think I know why this movie ultimately fails to me. It’s soulless. It’s tired. It’s every 2000s-era romcom that existed with superficial imagery of a Gene Kelly musical with none of the passion, or fun, or anything. I feel like the director said, “I’ve seen a musical, lemme try”. It’s so shallow. And the way the arguments during pivotal points of the film go down, it’s jarring and upsetting. Nobody is this intense and frightening ivertheir insecurities. It’s a much more subtle thing. Yelling isn’t a sudden drama-maker, not in this context, and it needs to stop.

I will admit, the film had some excellent color work. Everything was saturated and bright, making the scenes look fantastic and fun. If it weren’t for the smeary, tipsy-boy camera, I could maybe have enjoyed myself just a touch more. They tried to make something very unique here, but in the end, it really didn’t have any of the basic ingredients to warrant this story being told…again. This is not a musical, and it is not anything new. However, I still recommend watching it, just keeping these things in mind. There will be things you have seen before, so freaking many, but there are a handful of some really clever scenes, and the final, sentimental scene, while I knew it was emotionally manipulative and I never appreciated that in the past and never will, was such a welcome surprise, and I wish the whole film could have held that tone.

I guess it’s curtains for me. Bye, now.