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swift--fox · 3 years

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Day off

HAPPY BIRTHDAY BITCH I wanted to make this a sort of surprise but I failed miserably. ANYWAY hope u like it i love u you outstanding funky lil dumbass celebrate somehow surviving another year!! (AGAIN please ignore the garbage title I’m so bad at this)

P/N: This is amazing, and I have been hoarding it for like a month (Totally not because I am terrible at remembering to post shit, shhhhhh) But THANK YOU GREY @pissbabydean!!! THIS IS AMAZING AND I LOVE IT!!

——

Dean woke up in a great mood. He was well-rested, perfectly sated from last night’s…activities, and they had the bunker to themselves today. He and Sam had agreed to taking a couple “off-days” a month just to keep tensions from building too high. Today was one of them, and Sam was taking Eileen out on a day trip to Colorado.

Dean rolled over and flopped on top of the warm body next to him, resulting in a sleep muddled grunt. He peppered a flurry of kisses across his boyfriends neck and cheeks, making obnoxious smooching noises as he went. Said boyfriend was now awake, if his sleepy murmurs of protest were anything to go by.

“‘M sleeping. Get off,” Cas mumbled, eyes still shut while he turned his head, blindly trying to evade Dean’s affections.

“No way, Grumpy. It’s almost 11, time to get up.” Dean crowed, leaning down to peck a kiss on the tip of his nose. Cas screwed his face up and twisted underneath him, unseating the hunter without breaking a sweat. He buried his face into the pillow with a satisfied sigh.

Dean could almost forget how strong Cas was, seeing as he rarely showcased it. He only really used it on hunts or when they were hooking up - in both instances Dean’s brain was usually too preoccupied to really take note.

Regardless, Dean had to uphold his reputation as Incredibly Annoying Alarm Clock, otherwise Cas could sleep until 2pm. Which was weird, because angels didn’t even need sleep. Cas just really really liked it, which was all fun and games when Dean could wake up in the arms of his angel and maybe even lay there with him until his growling stomach could no longer be ignored. Now, it was more annoying than anything. At least he could have fun waking him up.

He crawled back over and straddled Cas’s bare back, resulting in a muffled “Uff” into the pillow.

“Caaas, c’mon, dontcha want to spend time with your loving boyfriend? Who makes amazing pancakes? And who you love so very dearly?”

A dismissive grunt was all Dean received in way of an answer. Dean leaned forward and licked a fat stripe across the top of Cas’s tanned shoulder. He shuddered once and that was the only response he got before Cas stilled again. He wormed his tongue up Cas’s warm neck and traced the shell of his ear with it, making lewd moaning noises right in his boyfriend’s ear.

“Gross,” He protested as he reached back to blindly swat at Dean’s face. The perpetrator just chuckled and avoided the half-hearted protest, nipping on his fleshy earlobe.

“You love it,” He teased.

“Not when you have morning breath,” Cas rebutted. Dean hummed dismissively and continued his minstriations.

Cas didn’t mind enough to put up an actual fight, but he did mind enough that his will-power was slowly diminishing. Then, a tongue snaked into his ear and he shrieked, nearly throwing Dean off the bed while he escaped the disturbing sensation. Dean was folded over with laughter, cackling into the bedsheets while he glowered.

“You’re disgusting and cruel. Go make me pancakes,” He groused, using the hem of Dean’s discarded t-shirt to wipe out the wetness in his ear. Dean, who was still laughing, came over and kissed him on the cheek.

“Comin’ right up,” He grinned. It was hard to stay mad at him, especially with a smile like that. Cas could still act the part, though.

After brushing his teeth and putting on a clean shirt, Castiel ambled into the kitchen, which was flooded with the scent of cooking batter and fresh-brewed coffee. The table was already set, his favorite mug filled to the brim with dark liquid. He sat down and immediately began nursing the bitter beverage while he watched Dean man the stove, quietly humming to himself.

Castiel was an angel. He didn’t need to eat, just like he didn’t need to sleep. Unlike sleeping, though, he didn’t particularly enjoy eating. Mostly, if it wasn’t Dean cooking for him, he wouldn’t eat. Not much was worth the overwhelming tsunami of flavor and texture from each individual molecule and building block of whatever he was consuming. But Dean’s satisfied little smile and shining eyes were.

Pancakes weren’t the worst for him to eat, but they certainly weren’t good by any means. He found that foods containing eggs were largely unpleasant. But Dean always made him a heart-shaped pancake, and Cas’s chest always did those happy little swoops when he caught Dean watching him eat it.

They finished breakfast and Castiel washed the dishes while Dean dried, then Cas was left to sit on the couch while Dean showered. He reached over to grab his latest read - The Crooked House, which he’d flown to the public library to borrow a few days ago in anticipation of their off-day. He opened up to the yellowed, well-loved first page and quickly lost himself in the rolling plot.

Dean had come to join him some time ago, stray droplets dripping from his hair to the shoulders of his t-shirt. He slid his way over to the couch suavely, socked feet gliding easily over the smooth flooring. If he wasn’t so focused on his book, he would have noticed Dean’s little huff of annoyance that Cas had missed his grand entrance.

And thus began Dean Winchester’s unabashed quest for attention from his angel boyfriend. It started with an incessant amount of talking.

“Heyyy, Cas, whatcha doin’? He drawled in a very successful imitation of Isabella from Phineas and Ferb (What? It’s not like Cas would get the reference. Slim pickin’s on Netflix these days).

“Reading,” Came Castiel’s curt reply as he turned a page. Dean’s mouth fell open in an overexaggerated “aaahhhh,” noise.

“Cool. Whatcha readin’?”

“The Crooked House. It’s a murder-myster novel where a young woman’s-”

“Cool, cool. So, whaddya say about a little TV? Ever watched Schitt’s Creek?” Dean cut him off purposefully, gesturing at the TV. The picture of innocence, if you didn’t count the faint upwards tug of the corner of his mouth.

“I don’t mind if you watch something,” He replied noncommittally. Dean narrowed his eyes a fraction and tossed the remote aside.

“Okay, no Netflix. So, what should we do, then?”

Castiel shrugged and flicked the page. “I’m reading. You can do what you like, Dean - it’s your day off.”

Dean collapsed against the couch with a frustrated groan, throwing his hands up in the air.

“It’s our day off, babe. As in, together. Let’s do something,” He whined.

“I’m open to suggestions,” Dean sat up excitedly, but Cas held up a finger. “…after I’m done reading.”

Dean’s face fell and he crossed his arms against his chest. He wasn’t pouting but he wasn’t not pouting, either.

“Come on, dude, you got, like, the whole book still! Watch something stupid and funny with me! Don’t you love me?”

“I do. And you love me, which is why you’ll let me finish my book in peace.”

Dean huffed and muttered complaints under his breath. He hated it when Cas turned his own words against him. It was just unfair.

Dean could be unfair, too.

He started clicking his tongue obnoxiously loud, humming nonsensical tunes to himself, tapping loudly on the end tables with his finger tips. He watched the angel carefully for any reaction to his antics but damn, he knew Cas was good. He would have to up his game.

Then he started singing. Loudly. Badly. Voice cracks and all.

“Oh Danny boyyyyyy, the pipes, the pipes are ca-a-allingggggg~”

There was a minute twitch in Cas’s jaw and the grip he had on the cover of the book was a lot tighter than necessary. He was getting somewhere.

“From glen to glennnnnnnnnn, and down the mountain siiiii-”

His mouth was suddenly clamped shut. Lips pressed together, like if he weren’t speaking at all. But he had been, and he was trying to. He tried to speak, to do anything, but no sound came out.

“Perhaps vocal lessons would be a good investment for you, Dean.” Cas commented off-handedly, and then paused in thought. “Or ear-plugs for the rest of us,”

Dean glowered at the nonchalant angel on the other end of the couch and shifted, shoving his legs unceremoniously into Cas’s lap, making sure to jostle the book in his hands with his calf.

He knew Cas knew what he was asking for. HAnd Cas knew he knew that he knew what Dean was asking for. e was just being an asshole for reasons unknown (okay, unknown if you didn’t count the way Dean woke him up that morning. And how he’d scared him in the shower the previous morning).

Where Dean had been glaring a hole into the wall just past Castiel, he noticed that the book was…levitating. Where were Cas’s hands?

He got his answer a second later when he felt fingers press against the arch of his foot. He tensed and a little ribbon of excitement coiled in his chest. He thought he was getting what he asked for. He was wrong.

Cas’s fingers were…devastating, in all the wrong ways. Just barely brushing his fingertips in sweeping ovals on his heel, occasionally poking his arch or instep. It wasn’t enough to warrant laughter, or even really much squirming. It was just on the precipice, and Dean fucking hated it.

And then Cas decided to get meaner. He would drag a deliberate finger down his sole and as quickly as his nerves could flare up with tingly delight, the sensation was promptly rubbed away by strong, soothing hands. It was a terrible, cruel, sadistic, almost-tickly-but-not massage.

Dean scowled and leaned forward to thwack Cas on the shoulder, though not too convincingly. Despite it not being what he wanted, Cas was a talented (if incredibly mean) masseuse. Dean was putty in his hands, and not the giggly kind. Ugh.

Cas was still reading his stupid murder book, the creased and worn old book was hovering a few inches from his face, the pages turning on their own. Seriously, how did this guy have enough concentration to do three things with his grace at once?

“What is it, Dean? What more could you possibly have to complain about? I’m giving you the attention you were so desperate for.”

Dean harrumphed and glared at his angel, pointedly jostling the feet in his lap. Cas would have found it cute if it wasn’t so annoying. He continued his infuriating game while Dean’s mouth stayed zipped shut with grace, all he could do was move into the touch - and for every bit he did, Castiel pulled back the same. It was goddamn psychological warfare.

Then, there was a…prodding. On his right bottom-most rib, through his shirt. Which could only mean one thing. Dean would, technically, be getting what he wanted. But in the most impersonal and - there was that word again - infuriating way possible. It was more of an itch, really. But the fact he couldn’t scratch it was why he started squirming and kicking his legs out. Castiel was not amused and then Dean realized that he wasn’t moving anymore. He was sending the signals to his muscles to move and thrash and, in general, be a nuisance. His body just wasn’t responding and it took Dean a second too late to register the faint self-satisfied smirk on the other man’s face before the incredibly thin and spindly wire of grace was curling and flossing between each individual rib.

Though, now, he could laugh. And he did. He imagined he would have thrown his head back if he could while he shrieked and full-belly laughter tumbled from his newly-functioning vocal chords. But, he couldn’t move. He couldn’t wiggle, couldn’t shake his head or even clench his fists. He couldn’t do anything that even alluded to a struggle and he couldn’t decide if he liked that added layer of vulnerability or not.

Then, the spindle of grace turned more into a…tickly lash. The thing with using grace for tickling, (like a filthy cheater, because grace is so unfair for this very reason) is that it doesn’t quite follow the rules. With a wave-length of celestial intent behind the wheel, it was lethal.

The cruel extension of his power flicked across his chest, leaving behind a swarm of buzzing nerves. It migrated to his neck, his underarms, his belly - Jesus, even his thighs. His laughter was jumpy and bright and desperate, because he didn’t know where the next strike would be.

His question was answered when the malicious tendrils of grace brushed the crease of his thighs. The laughter Cas drew from there was wholly consuming and embarrassing. Cackling, you could call it. Howling may be a more accurate descriptor.

Dean waited for the electric tingling of his nerves to taper off, but it didn’t come. Cas didn’t stop.

If it wasn’t before, Dean’s laughter had definitely turned desperate. Gasps and sobs and choked attempts at words and all.

“C-CAS!” He all but screamed, and the rest of what he would say slipped through the cracks of his crumbling mind. His boyfriend, although sadistic, knew when to stop. Or slow things down, at least. The weapon his thighs were previously assaulted with moved to converge on his stomach, ribbons swirling around the softer center like a goddamn merry-go-round.

Occasionally one of said ribbons would deviate from the rest to wiggle into his belly button - which would add a squeaky quality to his giggling. At least now he could think, although the laughter that was coming out of his mouth (that could only be described as giggling, much to his dismay) was embarrassing enough that it was hard to find this an act of mercy.

“Yes, Dean?”

"Me-Mehehercyy!” He pleaded. His lungs were starting to ache, as well as the rest of him, from laughing so hard. Although, it was a nice feeling, Dean enjoyed the feeling of complete bone-deep exhaustion after he and Cas’s sessions. Still, he needed a break. Cas’s book finally was placed on the end table and he smiled over at Dean fondly with a short nod.

When Dean regained control of his body, the first thing he did was fold forward and press his forehead to Cas’s thigh, panting out the last of his residual laughter. A warm and firm hand rubbed soothing circles into his back and Dean leaned into the heavenly touch.

“You were mean,” Dean whined, no real accusation behind his words. He felt Cas chuckle more than he heard it, and he was being guided to collapse in his lap again. This time, his upper-half was splayed across the sweatpant-clad legs and he was face down, cheek pressed against the top of Cas’s thigh. He sighed and immediately molded himself to the warm body under him.

“I was, wasn’t I? What would you like?”

Dean hummed and reached behind him blindly for Cas’s hands.

“Touch me.”

A blissfully wam palm flattened in the center of Dean’s back and began rubbing once again, the same soothing circles, but now under the shirt.

“Is this good?”

Dean thought for a moment.

“Light.” Was all he could manage, as his brain was currently tickled-out mush.

Cas made his hand into more of a relaxed claw and dragged the pads of his fingers and occasionally the edges of his blunt fingernails of the pliant and receptive planes of Dean’s back. The hunter let out a herculean sigh as every bit of stress was drawn out of his body by his caring and meticulous angel. Damn, he’d have to annoy Cas more often.

#submission #supernatural #Destiel #ticklish!dean #dean is a nuisance #Cas loves it tho #he pretends to hate it #but really

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lazy-universes · 4 years

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How did you & buttons became friends? (I have communications problems too & i yearns for friendship like yours)

*cracks knuckles* anon you’re in for a RIDE

basically buttons went to school with a couple of my law school friends, but we had never met. We had this one friend in common who used to say things like “oh you’d hit right off with this friend of mine” but there was nothing beyond that.

Now I need you all to understand that one of our common acquaintances is a Mansplainer (tm). He’s the definition of mainsplainer to the point where he often enough mainsplains me my own fucking job (which you might guess annoys the shit out of me). And one day he posted something along the lines of Dragon Age 2 is a garbage game.

And i also need you to understand that I fucking love Dragon Age 2. I’ll play the same fucking maps over and over again for that sweet sweet character development. I’ll go into the same fucking cave three hundred times just to hear Hawke go “ "If they're not dead, watch out for a bunch of boneless women flopping through the streets”. the FLAVOR of this game. And it was lost on the Mansplainer because apparently games where he can’t beat everyone into submission are not games worth playing. I’m a national debate vice-champion and I had to let him know that he has a constitutional right to be wrong.

Buttons saw me go off on his facebook post, liked my comment, messaged me and said “hey do you also think that this dude is fucking dumb” to which i answered “yes i do” and then a beautiful friendship bloomed

(I might’ve ghosted her for a week or two because I was organizing a Conference and was chest-deep in shit, and then buttons caught on pretty quickly that the key to being my friend is to understand that i am shit at messaging people, that i have an executive dysfunction, and that my memory is, quite literally, garbage)

#not sure if this answers you anon #but it never fails to amuse me how our friendship was born out of a deep desire for men to shut the fuck up #Anonymous

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drabbles-of-writing · 4 years

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Hi! I've been reading your stories and frankly I think you're doing very well. I'm thinking about writing, can you give me some tips? If possible, some l¡nks about more technical things. Thanks a lot in advance!

Sure thing my dude!

Write what you want to see. That’s the most important thing and I will continue to talk abt it you cannot stop me. You think nobody will care about it? Write it anyway! Even if it’s popularity is minor, there are still people out there who love and adore what you made, and it makes their day. So write what you would want to see, because I guarantee there is someone out there who wants to see it, too.

I know it sounds boring, but study books you like! Look at how sentences and dialogue are structured and incorporate it into your own. Punctuation is important! And some sentences end in a , rather than a . and makes the flow a bit easier.

It’s tiring, but re-read your works. Once you finish, scroll back to the top and read through it. Make notes of words you use often (ex; mumbled, huffed, snapped) and make sure to spread them out evenly so you aren’t repeating yourself. Be prepared to delete or rewrite sentences if you don’t like it, or even write in new scenes. It’ll look clunky at first, but ironing it out makes it work better.

THESAURUS! It’s very helpful! Type in a word you want to use and look at other variations. It’s also good for finding that One Word you didn’t realize you needed until right then. Look up words! Be flavorful, but also know that sometimes a simple ‘said’ is all you need to get your point across.

This one depends on the person, but I like to imagine my scenes in my head, like I’m watching a show or movie. But it’s up to you how descriptive you want to be, if you want to be very specific on what your viewers see vs letting them come up with their own ways to view it. But don’t over-do things, and if your descriptions seem to drag on, you may want to cut them down. Describing things is good, but you don’t want to be spewing about things that may not matter all that much to the story.

Look up works similar to what your writing, if you can find them. This includes actual books or fanfiction. It’s never a bad thing to take inspiration or to look for help by searching what others have chosen to do.

If you ever post it online, wait a day or so before checking for comments or notes. It’s mostly just a personal preference of mine, but I like it since comments build up over time in a day and I get v happy over the comments that built up over those hours. And if it doesn’t get as many as you hoped, oh well. Sometimes it was your writing, sometimes it was because people just weren’t interested in. And that’s okay. Some will be a flop, while others a banger. The key is to not get discouraged and appreciate whatever you got because through those comments you got, there are at least 10 other people who loved it but were too shy to comment. They see you, they’re just a bit nervous. Refine your writing and try again.

Take breaks!! I know you want to write, but if you can’t get yourself to actually write, take a little vacation for yourself and read or scroll through whatever you like. Your mental health is more important than writing.

If you don’t like the scene, don’t write it. You can skip it if you’d like. Think that scene is important to the story? Then re-make it. Make it so you like writing it, because a writer should enjoy writing as much as others enjoy reading.

Don’t overthink things. I guarantee you that adding in something on a whim can and will be taken in many different ways. Symbolism and ideas will be drawn from what you make that you never even thought of. And that’s the joy of posting things publicly. People make you realize things and give you ideas you’d never have thought of otherwise. Be open to changes and don’t feel ashamed if you change something up. Store old drafts away to be used at a later date.

Depends on the person if you plan out your whole story beforehand. Sometimes I think of all the main important beats of a story before writing them, sometimes I only get one single idea from the story down and write on a whim. Write in a way that makes you feel comfortable.

Use italics to show something intense, not caps lock. Ex: “Dude, what are you DOING?!” Ex: “Dude, what are you doing?” Makes it look neater, in my opinion. If the character is shouting a question, ask yourself if the question or shouting is more pronunciated, which is how you decide if you have a ! or ?

Spell check is only sometimes you friend. Watch what it corrects wisely.

Know your themes and what your going for, but don’t be afraid to stray off-course if it’s working better that why. Look for what inspires you! Song, art, other writings, etc. And if you can’t get anything down, then wait until something comes to you.

I’m afraid I don’t have any technical links, but I hope this was helpful to you! I know you, or at least someone else, has seen this kind of advice before, but I promise it works. And honestly, eventually you’ll get to the point where you don’t even think about it. You just automatically do any of these things, and that’s something very hard to forget.

#asks #advice #writing #my writing #fics #ao3 #ideas #writing tips #hope this helps my bro

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thestanceyg · 3 years

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Darcyland Drabble Race the Second

So here’s my contribution to another drabble race. Again under the cut because there’s a LOT.

Quantum 1 “Oh my god,” Jane said, flopping down on to the couch next to her. “I had forgotten this show was even a thing.”

“It’s my stay home from school sick comfort show,” Darcy said as she pulled her blanket tighter around her. The chills she was experiencing were no joke.

“Man, I wonder how the creators of Quantum Leap feel now? Like…that tech kinda actually exists, even if it’s classified.”

“I don’t think they know about it Jane,” Darcy said with a fond roll of her eyes. “You know, on account of it being classified and all.”

2 “The fuck does this word mean?” her dumbass lab partner asked.

“Which word?” she asked with a put upon sigh.

“Quantum,” he said, pointing to literally the first question.

“Thor wept,” she muttered under her breath before turning to him more fully. “Here,” she said, pointing back to the textbook. “Definition’s right here. I’ll even read it to you. A discrete quantity of energy proportional in magnitude to the frequency of the radiation it represents.”

“No need to be a bitch about it.”

She idly wondered if killing him was a possibility. “Sure sure,” she said, sugary sweet. “Since I’m such a bitch, don’t worry about me helping again.”

3 “I don’t think the quantum physics work that way,” Fitz said with a tilt of his head as he looked at the projection.

“I mean, I didn’t either,” Darcy agreed, joining him, “but I also don’t doubt our modeling software. Something’s happening here that’s unexpected, and that means either we have something wrong, or there’s something we have yet to figure out that’s acting on everything.”

“You know what that means?” he said with a smile.

“More research dates,” she said before kissing the tip of his nose.

“Can’t wait,” he said before claiming her lips.

4 “Quantum Laser Tag is the best!” she yelled, highly offended. “I can’t believe you just besmirched it’s good name!”

“Err, all I said was that laser tag was kinda lame.”

“It is not!” she practically whined. “Okay, dude, maybe you’ve not had good laser tag experiences, but I have to say that does not mean you get to shit on literally the greatest arena in at least the tristate area.”

“You’re…really passionate about this,” he said giving her a look she couldn’t decipher.

“So is this your way of bowing out of our first date?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Hell no,” he said, smiling.

5 “I’m just saying, that the names at this bar are not scientifically accurate,” she complained.

“Jane. Literally none of us give a shit. We are here to get shitfaced and giggle over our jobs being somehow alcohol themed,” Darcy reprimanded her.

“I’m definitely having a Quantum Blast,” Helen said, sidling up to the bar.

“Really?” Darcy said giving her a disgusted look. “I mean…there’s something about adding the word ‘blast’ to it that turns me off from it.”

“Fair,” Helen agreed. “But it has triple sec in it and I’m in the mood.”

Darcy tilted her head in acknowledgment of the wisdom.

6 “I promise to never play with the quantum field again if we can just get out of this alive,” Darcy said more to herself than anyone else.

“What?” Scott asked.

“Just promising myself to try and stick to my field in the future should I survive whatever this is.” She gestured to the everything around them that really defied understanding.

Scott nodded. “I wish I could make a similar vow, but it’s kinda my field now. Though this,” he looked around a bit, “is indeed disconcerting. I could, err, try to make it up to you when we get out of here.”

“Are you asking me on a date?”

“Yes?”

7 “Nope. Not happening. I will not be teaching quantum physics as my teaching assignment next semester. It’s not my field. I would have to do my own research just to feel like I was giving the students an adequate course,” she said as soon as the department head had offered her the schedule.

“Well you don’t have a lot of options here. You’re still a candidate and not a post doc so you don’t get to argue with me really.”

“This is some serious bullshit,” Darcy groaned. “But seriously, Johnson would be way better at this. He even has done research in this field.”

“Yes well…”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Darcy groaned. “You’re doing him a favor and I’m the one that has to deal with the consequences?”

Nebula 1 “And if you look here,” the professor droned on as he used his laser pointer, “you can see a nebula that is starting to die.”

“Kinda like me in this class,” she muttered under her breath. The guy next to her laughed, but covered it with a cough. She looked at him and winked, and he honest to Thor blushed. Well damn if that wasn’t the cutest thing that she’d ever seen.

She grabbed a scrap of paper and wrote her name on it and slid it over to him.

He read it and smiled a bit and wrote back.

Fitz. Nice name. She couldn’t wait to be screaming it later.

2 Nebula was very murderous and Darcy kinda loved her for it. It seemed like there was a lot of deep seated anger that the woman was ready and willing to take out on anyone and everyone. You had to love her unapologetic rage. Darcy couldn’t help but admire how she didn’t give a shit if someone thought it made her less attractive because anyone dumb enough to voice that sentiment would probably end up with a knife in them. Was it wrong that she was a little turned on?

That thought made her come up short.

Shit. She didn’t have time for a crush.

3 The fabric technically had nebulas all over it, though the fabric name had the word galaxy. In the grand scheme of things it really didn’t matter, but it annoyed her for some reason. It seemed that all sorts of little things were bothering her lately, and she couldn’t find the reason. Why should she care that she had “galaxy fabric” that was actually nebula fabric? She would make the damn pillow covers and then she could tell her friends it was nebula print. Giving up caffeine had been a bad idea. It made her crabby. She should probably reconsider her idea to stop drinking coffee.

4 Nebula Swirl was possibly the best flavor of ice cream she had ever eaten, and it was looking like she would only be able to eat it for one more month if something drastic didn’t happen. She took her cone and snapped a picture and posted it to Instagram with the tag SaveGalacticCones. Maybe someone would see it and drop some cash their way. It wasn’t their fault that the freak storm had damaged the property and left them paying off heavy repair bills. They deserved to thrive, if for no other reason than it was the ice cream of her youth and she had so little to remember her childhood by.

5 “I don’t research in the Horseshoe Nebula,” she said with a frustrated sigh. “In fact, I don’t even look within a million light years of there. So please explain to me in very small words why you think your project should get any of my grant money.”

“Because I need to fund my research Dr. Witherow said. “It’s as simple as that. I need more funding and you just won a lot of money. There’s no way you’ll need all of it, so umbrella my study under your project and we’ll both win.”

“No, dude, we won’t ‘both win.’ That grant is actually just one of three for my project because it doesn’t cover everything.” Thor save her from entitled scientists.

6 “It looks kind a like a nebula” Jane said as she looked at the giant bruise on Darcy’s hip.

“I guess that’s fitting because the pain is out of this world,” Darcy tried to joke. It didn’t quite come off as carefree as she had hoped, but that was possibly because she was an hour out from her next pain pill and the current one seemed to have mostly worn off.

“Darce,” Jane said with a bit of warning in her voice. “You’re going to let me coddle you because that’s what I need. I think you do too.”

Darcy sighed. “I know.”

7 A burst of nebula like light flashed before her eyes as the hit landed.

She didn’t pass out, but it was a near thing.

“You will do what we want, Dr. Lewis!” the man spit at her.

“No. I won’t,” she argued. “And you hit like a little kid.”

The man’s face turned a red she didn’t realize was possible before he backhanded her, hitting the already blooming bruise from the earlier punch. “I think you will change your mind.”

“I’d rather die.”

“That can be arranged,” he sneered.

“I doubt it,” she countered. “You need me too much. And if you keep hitting my head, it’ll be that much longer before I’m even capable of doing what you ask.”

Vortex 1 Of course it was a solar vortex. Or, at least that’s what she was calling this abomination in her mind. She wasn’t sure what else to call what appeared to be a tornado of sunlight that was leaving a path of fire and destruction behind it. Why couldn’t normal things happen to her?

She would have to blame Jane. Shit like this never happened to her before New Mexico.

Of course, it could also be that this kind of madness would still happen to her even if she had never been an intern, but blaming Jane felt familiar. That woman definitely owed her ice cream for changing her life like this.

2 “It’s not a vortex” Dr. Strange said, the pinched look on his face clearly telling him what he thought of Darcy and her inability to call it whatever name he had given his portal thingy. She knew it wasn’t a vortex. It was just fun to razz him and see him get annoyed.

He was kinda cute when he was annoyed.

Well, he was kinda cute regardless, but his cuteness was focused on her whenever he was annoyed because 99% of the time it was her fault.

It wasn’t healthy, but it was working so she’d deal with the mental health implications later.

3 “I promise you that’s not a tornado,” she said to her storm chasing boyfriend. “I know it looks like one, but, very unfortunately for the entire town of Lawton, it’s actually an anomaly called a temporal vortex.”

“What does that mean, Darcy?” he yelled over the roar of the storm.

“It means that if we don’t get out of the path of that thing we’ll end up in an alternate reality that may or may not include a breathable atmosphere.”

“Right,” he said, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. “I’d like to live to have another date so one storm evasion coming up.”

4 “It’s called The Vortex,” Helen said reverently as she placed what Darcy thought was a fishbowl on the table. It had six straws sticking out of it.

“Why?” Pepper asked, looking at the drink cautiously.

Helen shrugged. “Does it matter? What matters is it tastes like sunshine and amaretto and goes down easy and will get you shitfaced if that’s what you want.”

Jane grabbed a straw and took a long slurp. “I need to get shitfaced and Helen isn’t wrong. I don’t care what’s in the Vortex. It can be made of baby souls and I will keep drinking it. It’s a fucking delight in my mouth.”

5 “I am sick of the Polar Vortex and it’s technically only been here for three hours,” Darcy said as she cuddled more into the blankets and tried to burrow even further into the warmth of her boyfriend.

“I’m not exactly excited about it either,” he agreed, “but at least it means we have guaranteed time together. That’s been a rare occurrence lately.”

Darcy nodded and debated it it was worth getting her arm out of the blanket to grab her hot chocolate.

“Darce?” he asked.

She turned to look at him. His eyes were soft. “I love you.”

Her breath stopped. He hadn’t said that before. Maybe the Polar Vortex wasn’t that bad.

6 “Sedona is weird,” Spencer said with a frown.

“Are you talking about the vortices?” she asked.

“I am,” he said, studying the map they had been given at the little tourism station. “I just. I can’t believe people believe in this stuff.”

“Ehh,” she said. “There’s a lot of shit I wouldn’t have believed in before it happened to me. You know, like Asgardians and such.”

“Maybe,” he agreed with pursed lips.

She pointed to a spot on the map. “Look, that one’s on a trail. We said we were going to do some hiking, so we’ll go there and treat it scientifically.”

He perked up just like she knew he would. “Sounds like a plan,” he said with a kiss to her cheek.

7 “I am a vortex of emotion,” she said before throwing herself on the couch.

Pepper handed her a glass of white wine. “What happened today?”

“He’s just so cute,” she practically whined. “And he has no idea that literally every time I’m talking to him I’m trying to flirt. I swear I used to be good at it.”

“Perhaps Bruce is ignoring it?”

Darcy shook her head. “I don’t think so, but I also hate that idea. Please don’t ever say that again. How can I live if he doesn’t like me back?”

“Do I just attract drama queens, or is there something special about you and Tony?”

Darcy gasped. “How dare you think I’m not special. You take that back!”

Supernova 1 “Why are you listening to Oasis on repeat?” Jane asked as she walked into Darcy’s apartment.

“Not Oasis,” Helen corrected, “Champagne Supernova.”

“Oh, Darcy. No hon.” Jane threw her purse on a chair and went to the kitchen and started going through the freezer. “Okay, here’s the plan,” she said as she came back into the living room. “I am going to make us some very alcoholic fruit slushies, you are going to move on from Oasis to some 90s Alanis, and then you are going to tell us what happened.”

Jane disappeared back into the kitchen and Helen looked at Darcy.

“And then we plot revenge,” she added.

2 “I promise you there was never a Gusher flavor called Supernova Blast. That wasn’t a thing. You need to stop trying to convince me it was. I might be dumb, but I am not that gullible.”

“Aww, babe! Who said you were dumb! I’ll be happy to knock some sense into them.

“Darce, that’s not the point,” Peter said with a whine. “The point is you cannot make me believe it.”

Darcy turned her laptop to show him the Google Image search with Supernova Blast gushers.

“Your reality is so flippin’ weird,” he said as he stared at the screen.

3 “It’s, like, more than a nova. It’s a SUPER nova.”

Darcy just stared at the man in front of her. This was the last time she allowed Clint to set her up on a blind date.

“Riiight,” she said. “Ummm, I’m sorry, but I need to go to the bathroom. Be right back,” she said as she grabbed her purse and praised the heavens that she hadn’t brought a coat too.

She grabbed a waitress as soon as she was out of his line of sight. “Hi, I need to escape a bad date and I will pay you $40 to let me out a back door.”

The waitress grabbed the money. “Done.”

4 “And next up is Supernova!” the announcer roared. Darce waved to the crowd as her name was called. She hadn’t expected to love roller derby as much as she did, but it truly was a life saver. The team was amazing, it allowed for stress relief, and it was something that was just hers. No being in Jane’s academic shadow. No being in her brother’s professional musician shadow. No shadows. Just Darcy.

As they set up for the first jam she looked up to the crowd and saw some signs with her name on them. She had never felt more alive.

5 “Excuse me?” the man at the counter said, “Are you really telling me that you’ve never heard of the Supernovas?”

Darcy gritted her teeth. “Honestly, dude, it doesn’t matter if I have or not. What I asked was whether or not you had any Aquabats.”

“But I can’t let you listen to that when you could be listening to the Supernovas.”

“I think you are missing what exactly your role is here. I came here looking specifically for a present for my brother, and I came to you to help me with it. In exchange, you should be telling me whether or not you have it, not making me want to leave because you won’t stop forcing your terrible bands on me.”

He stared at her in annoyance.

6 She imagined that this was what it must feel like at the center of a supernova. She had never felt so warm and alive and bursting. His simple confession wasn’t something she had ever expected, but it knocked the ice off her heart and had made her realize that she loved him too. She loved him in a consuming way that she hoped would eventually burn down to warm contentment and not eat them alive, but she couldn’t deny that his love had changed her and she could never go back to not knowing how this felt.

7 “You can’t use the supernova attack in this setting!” Steve said.

“I don't’ see why,” Darcy argued. “What’s stopping me?”

“Because that’s not how it’s supposed to be used.”

Darcy made a tsking noise at him. “Stevey, you can’t say that you want to follow the spirit of things here. You knew I was the type of person to always argue I was technically inside of the rules to do crazy shit when you asked me to join your game. So you either let me cast this or you kill me so I can go play with people that enjoy my unorthodox approach.”

“Fine,” he sighed. “Roll please.”

#darcylanddrabblerace #revengers

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rhetoricalrogue · 4 years

Text

31 Days of Wayhaven: Day 10

Prompt: Blood Rating: G Words: 1910 Characters: Winona Adams, Farah Hauville, Nicolo Morelli Summary: Farah accidentally connects two dots while dishing out on some gossip. Note: Blood, bloodlines...stretching the prompt a little? Who, me? Tony first showed up in a few headcanon posts of mine as my detective Aubrey Miller’s best friend/ex-dance partner before she came back home from the City. He’s apparently evolved from a throwaway mention minor character to a bridge between Aubrey and Unit Charlie.

For the @31daysofwayhaven event.

“You should have seen the look on his face!” Farah bent over in laughter before flopping onto Winona’s bed. Unit Bravo was stationed at the Facility closest to Wayhaven while their new warehouse headquarters was being built and it so happened that Charlie was also in between missions. When Farah had found out about how Winona had joined up with the Agency, she had made a beeline to introduce herself, practically bouncing off the walls in excitement and hoping that her Echolian hadn’t gotten too rusty after seven years. Nate was incredibly good at the language, but no matter how fluent he was, it wasn’t like speaking her mother tongue with another native speaker.

Just hearing the same language spoken so fluently made the pangs of homesickness that hit unexpectedly now and again hurt just a little bit less. They still felt like a knife being twisted in her side, but at least they didn’t take her breath away or knock her to her knees as often.

“You shouldn’t tease him so,” Winona chastised, reclining on her side and peeling an orange to share. Winona liked spending time with the youngest member of Unit Bravo. The exuberance and sheer joy that radiated out of her reminded her of her own younger sibling that hadn’t made it through the rift she’d fallen through before it had closed almost immediately after her.

Her hands trembled for a moment, the peel of the orange caught between her fingers. Her brother would have loved having these available year-round.

“But he makes it so easy, Winona!” Farah took a segment of the orange she offered, nibbling at it to acclimate herself to the taste. The first burst of sweet yet slightly tart flavor always overwhelmed her senses, but she really did like them. She sighed as she popped the rest of the segment into her mouth. “I just wish Adam would talk to someone about how he feels. I mean, Aubrey is head over heels for him, I just don’t get it.”

“People express their feelings differently,” Winona commented, peeling another segment. “And sometimes fear makes expressing those feelings openly difficult.” Her thoughts went towards Cameron and Penelope. She and Nicky had lengthy conversations on how the two of them should just say how they feel about it instead of living in a constant state of mutual pining. The unresolved sexual tension between them was so thick that Winona often felt it buzz along her skin. It was a struggle to not feed off it - had it been two other people than the ones who trusted her the most, she wouldn’t feel guilty about topping off her energy or using her pheromones to give them that extra push they needed to resolve things - and whenever things flared up between them, she found herself raiding the Facility kitchens for anything sweet to distract her from the yearning hunger that made her fangs extend and mouth water.

It was a good thing that Unit Bravo was around. She and Mason had an...agreement. The no-strings, casual sex he offered was worlds better than the slightly formal, businesslike encounters that the Agency offered. The participants were volunteers, and she made certain that they had a good time, but it always felt more like a visit to a clinic instead of a more natural sensual moment. Cam and Penny had been sparring in the training area earlier and what Winona had walked in on made her think that seeking out Mason’s company for an evening was a good idea.

Farah rolled onto the mattress until she was on her stomach, her feet kicking in the air. “I still don’t think Adam fully understands that this guy who came for a visit was just a really good friend of Aubrey’s.” She’d been in the middle of sharing a recent incident where some man had dropped into Wayhaven unexpectedly on his way to another city and had decided to surprise his very good friend. Apparently Detective Miller had been a ballerina before settling in Wayhaven and this man had been her longtime dance partner. And apparently, Adam hadn’t taken it well seeing the current object of his unspoken affections interact so easily with a man from her past.

The best part of it was that this man had been a supernatural being himself, though from how Farah described him, he had clicked with Aubrey long before he realized there was something special about her mutated blood. Farah had giggled about the fact that Aubrey had tried her hardest to make everything in Wayhaven appear normal so he wouldn’t catch on to the Agency, and then this half-fey guy turned around and threatened the four vampires bodily harm if his best friend got hurt because of them as soon as she was out of the room.

Farah was right. Winona would have loved to have seen that unfold.

“He was a cutie though,” Farah said, digging her phone out of her pant pocket. She swiped around until she found a good shot. “See?”

Winona looked at the picture, smiling as she took in the relaxed, easy smile on the detective’s face - she’d only been briefly introduced to her once during her initial stay and Winona could tell that she had still been taking in the fact that beings such as herself existed and that she had a murderous vampire hunting for her. It had been a lot to take in, and honestly, Winona was surprised that Aubrey had taken it as well as she had.

Then she focused on the man next to her. Yes, he was attractive, but there was something oddly familiar about him that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Zooming in on his face, she had a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach. “What did you say this guy’s name was?” she asked, zooming in further. His eyes and the way his mouth quirked as he smiled made her dig out her own phone and pull up a picture.

“Tony.”

“Last name, Farah.” She zoomed in on her phone and held it side by side with Farah’s.

“I don’t know, something Italian?” Farah rested her chin on her hands. “Something with an M?”

“Morelli?”

Farah snapped her fingers. “That’s it! Wow, that was a great guess!” She started when Winona all but jumped out of bed and rushed towards the door.

“Nicky! Get in here now!”

***

“Are you certain this man’s name was Morelli?” Nicky asked, holding Farah’s phone as he paced around Winona’s bedroom.

“Yeah, he’s a famous dancer in the City.”

“It checks out,” Winona said, holding up her phone to show Nicky the quick Google search. “Do you think that the two of you could be related?”

He frowned. “Morelli is a common last name, it could be coincidence.”

Farah squinted. “Are you sure? I mean, the two of you look awfully similar.”

Nicky stared at the screen, his eyes boring holes into the picture. “None of my mother’s family survived the plague of 1656. I was only a child then, but my grandmother would have taken in anyone who had made it.”

“What about your sister?” Winona asked, sitting at the edge of her bed. She resumed peeling off segments of orange, purely to give her hands something to do.

“She only had one child, and they died along with her and her husband in the earthquake of 1693.” He pointed a finger at her. “And before you ask, no, I didn’t have any children.”

“Nicky, you did sleep around a lot,” Winona pointed out. “Like, a lot-a lot.”

“But I was careful! I admit, I may have been a bit of a -”

“Horny dude who couldn’t keep it in his pants?”

Nicky glared at Farah, who just laughed at him. “A romantic with a great love of women,” he pointed his finger at Winona in warning for her to not chime in. “But I was extremely careful to leave without leaving a…” he searched for a word. “Little souvenir behind.”

“Well!” Farah hopped up from the bed and snatched her phone away faster than Nicky could react. “I know one way to solve this!”

“Wait, what are you doing?”

She pulled up her contacts and pressed down on the one named AUBS that was bracketed with little ballet shoe emojis and sparkly pink hearts. “Getting info from a source.”

“No, you don’t -”

“Too late! Hey Aubs! How’s it going?” Farah bounced a little on the balls of her feet while listening to whatever Aubrey was saying. “Quick question: you know your dreamboat best friend? Ha, okay, so thanks for telling me he’s single, that’s actually really useful info, but I was wanting to know a little bit more about him. What’s his mom’s name?” She twirled on the ball of her foot in a lazy, half-pirouette that she’d been working on with Aubrey. “No, no reason at all, just really interested!”

Nicky scoffed. “Like that’s not going to raise suspicion.”

“Gianna? Gianna Morelli? That’s really pretty!” Farah gave Nicky a glance and raised her eyebrows to see if the name rang any bells. He shook his head when it didn’t. “Okay, so maybe a little weirder question, do you happen to know who his grandma is? I remember you talking about her and how she made the best chicken soup that one time the whole cast of a production got sick.” She gasped and pressed a hand to her chest. “Aubs! Of course I listen to you, I’m offended you’d think otherwise!”

“Well?” Nicky asked, resuming his pacing. Farah waved a hand at him to get him to quiet down.

“Oh. Okay. Can you call me back as soon as you ask then? And ask where from Italy she was from! Oh, cool, thanks! Okay, byeee!” Farah clicked off the phone. “She said she didn’t know, she’d have to ask Tony. She’s always known her as Nona Morelli.”

“Did she know where she was from?”

Farah fidgeted with a curl of her hair and was tempted to drag it out, but thought better of it when she saw that Nicky was incredibly tense. “She wasn’t quite sure where, but she said Tony’s grandma always talks about Sicily and how she goes back to travel there every so often. She’s really big on historical preservation and does a lot of work with the older cemeteries.”

All three of them jumped when Farah’s phone rang, ABBA’s Dancing Queen chiming out. “That was fast!” she said by way of a greeting. “Okay, fine, confession: I may have shown off a picture to some people here at the Facility and Tony may bear a remarkable resemblance to one of the other agents in another unit. No, no, not a supernatural. He’s human, just dead, like really dead. It’s a long story. Anyhow, what sort of news do you have?” Farah sat on the bed and kicked her feet in front of her. “Uh huh. Uh huh. No, it’s probably not likely they’re related, but think how neat it would be!”

“Her name, Gallinetta.”

“Oh! Isabela Morelli? That’s a really pretty name too!” Winona shouted out a warning as a loud thud made Farah turn around. Her eyes widened when she saw that Nicky had fallen to the floor, his hand clutching his chest. “Uh, Aubs? I’m gonna have to call you back. That dead guy I told you about? I think he just fainted.”

#31daysofwayhaven #my writing #farah hauville #nicolo morelli #winona adams #Unit Charlie

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gwiiyeoweo · 5 years

Link

Prompto learns the intricacies of living with a god.

Pairing: Prompto/Noctis Rating: T

Surprisingly, having a god as a roommate wasn’t too complicated. Noctis seemed content to sit on the couch and play video games or borrow Prompto’s phone to play King’s Knight (until one day when Noctis pulled out his own smartphone from seemingly out of nowhere). Which was great, especially on days when he was swamped with homework or had to study for an exam; he’d hate to leave Noct just hangin’ like that. Sometimes Noctis poked his nose around in Prompto’s study material or borrowed library books, but not usually without commentary — especially when it came to the Cosmogony texts, or anything relating to the Astrals, for that matter.

“Really?” Noctis nearly spat out his drink one night, the night Prompto learned gods could get drunk. In one hand he held a volume of the Cosmogony, in the other was a can of cheap beer.

“Listen, it says here that Bahamut, and I quote, ‘handpicked a pious maiden and bestowed upon her the power of the Stars and his trident.’Bullshit.” He looked up from the offending text and squinted at Prompto, traces of pink dusting his cheeks. “Listen, Prom. Listen,” his words came in a slur. “Bahamut. Bahamut’s a little bitch, y’hear me? And, and a fuuuhh — a fuckboy.”

Noctis rolled his eyes and slammed his beer down on the table. “‘Bestow his trident,’ huh? Yeah, he gave her his trident alright.”

Prompto choked on his poptart, eyes bulging out his sockets as he coughed out cheap cherry filling and crumbs. “No w-way, man.”

“Yes way. Bahamut got around back in th’ day. It said somewhere, that us Astrals don’t show up around y’humans a lot. Yeah? Well, Bahamut, my man. Nuh-uh, not ‘im.” Noctis tossed his head back and threw his arm up, laughing into the back of his hand. “He would make himself look like, like a sex god, you shoulda seen it. Like a damn twelve-pack and Fabio hair and everything, the whole package. It was ridiculous.”

Noctis lifted his head just enough to share a deadly serious look with Prompto. “Between you and me? I think the only reason he’s stuck in that, uh, that Crystal is ‘cause he’s too sex’d out.”

Afterwards, Noctis fell onto his side and cuddled the Cosmogony into his chest, silent for the rest of the night, save for the occasional soft snore, leaving Prompto alone to process his emotional and mental turmoil on his very new, very disturbing piece of information.

And that was one concern that had quickly come up — the problem of sleeping accommodations. Sometimes Noctis would just stay up until Prompto fell asleep, would wait until the boy slapped on his chocobo pyjamas and crawled into bed. On those nights, Noctis would just smile sweetly and tuck him in, pat him on the chest a couple times, turn the light off, and leave the bedroom. Prompto would strain his ears to hear the tell-tale click of the front door. Sometimes he heard Noctis leave the apartment, sometimes he didn’t. In the morning when Prompto woke up, the god would be waiting in the kitchen with two mugs of coffee. He never asked about what Noctis did on the nights that he left.

On other nights, Noctis would fall asleep on the couch; and not wanting to disturb him, Prompto would tiptoe around the living space and switch off the lights after carefully draping a blanket over him. But like always, Noctis would be waiting for him with his coffee once morning came around.

So when two weeks passed and Prompto had let the guilt and curiosity break off the final chip, he finally got the guts to ask Noctis. “What do you do when I sleep?”

On the floor, Noctis was hunched over. His hands stilled, and he looked up from the 1000-piece jigsaw puzzle he was working on, a photographic rendition of the Citadel. “I sleep. Like you.”

“Yeah, but sometimes you leave.”

“Sometimes I go for a walk. Then I go to sleep,” Noctis shrugged, turning his attention back to the puzzle, “You could say I go ‘back’ to the Noctis ‘tree,’ or to the stars, or whatever. Then I come back in the morning.” He ran his fingers through a small pile of pieces, when his brows quickly came together in a frown. In one swift motion, he stood from the puzzle and flopped onto the couch, where Prompto was studying. “Prompto, I told you. I’m here to stay. If you’re worried that I might just ditch you —”

Prompto shot up a defensive hand. “No! It’s not — well, sometimes I still wonder if this is all a dream and that you’re just like, some hallucination or something. But that’s not really why I’m asking.”

“Okay, so?”

“Well, sure the couch is nice, but it kinda hurts my back after sleeping on it for so long. And, like, I dunno how this ” — he gestured with his hands at Noctis — “really works, or if you even get stiff shoulders from sleeping on a couch, but… My bed’s, uh, a lot more comfortable. So, you could… Maybe, join me instead.” Oh boy, he could feel the heat creeping up his neck and his cheeks.

“You’re asking me to sleep with you?” Noctis asked, lips curling into a sly grin.

“Not like sex! But, well, basically? I mean, not like I wouldn’t want to! Like, Noct, you’re totally hot, with this whole dark and mysterious cool vibe going on, but uh. Just, I mean, I totally see you as my bud. But it’s not like we could get something more going on later — and how would an Astral and a human even do this dating thing anyway — and does that, did that even happen before? I, I mean Bahamut was going around banging everyone, like you said, and I’m not slut-shaming any gods or I might get electrocuted or something but… I, uh.” Prompto covered his face with both his hands. “I’ll just shut up now.”

He knew this was a bad idea. Oh gods, he just wanted to sink into the couch and let it eat him. Hell, he’d even be okay with Bahamut striking him down right here and now for blasphemy or whatever.

Noctis, however, took it in stride and laughed it off. “Sure, Prom,” he said, reaching over to pat the poor guy on his shoulder.

And just like that, it was done. Prompto felt the shift in weight on the couch, and he peeked through his fingers to see Noctis back on the floor, working on his 1000-piece puzzle.

That night — and for most nights thereafter — once Prompto packed up his textbooks for tomorrow and threw on his cactuar PJs, Noctis slinked through the door in a pair of black boxers and a loose tee, climbed into a bed that seemed to fit two people just right. Somewhere along the way Prompto discovered he liked being the big spoon and that Noctis had no problem tucking himself in between his arms.

(Prompto did have to wonder, though, how and where Noctis got all his clothes when he never went shopping.)

“Hey, Noct.”

“M’yea?” he answered through a mouthful of pizza. Apparently Astrals didn’t need to eat, but Noctis could still enjoy flavors and spices and textures. He had quickly developed a habit of picking bits and pieces from Prompto’s food, or digging around the fridge for some cold meats or half-eaten leftovers that were a touch too ripe. Which worked perfectly, actually. Prompto wasn’t a starving college student, as he had a government stipend as well as a decent sum gifted from his parents to tide him over. Thing was, his budget was meant for himself, and himself only; he couldn’t really spend funds on feeding an extra mouth. So the fact that it was impossible for Noctis to starve definitely came as a plus.

“How come you look like that?” Prompto kept his eyes on the screen of his laptop, fingers typing away on his keyboard, only stopping when he realized that maybe his words weren’t the best choice. “I mean, like, my age. Some people said you were a little kid, or an older guy.”

‘Or a dilf,’ he thought to himself. Many of the posts that claimed Noctis as an older man, definitely did not leave out their biases and chose descriptions like “hot dad” or “daddy Noctis.” But the Noctis who was with him now, in the flesh and in his apartment, was scavenging his fridge with a half-eaten slice of pizza hanging from his mouth like some backstreet raccoon. And his looks barely passed as a young adult. There was still some softness of youth cushioning his features, a fairly slim but lean physique that girls would absolutely gush over. With his long eyelashes and smooth skin, he was the picture-perfect “pretty boy” Prompto had seen and heard his high school classmates squeal about way back then.

But, as Prompto paused to glance at Noctis, he could kinda see it — the whole “daddy Noctis.” He imagined an older Noct, the baby fat melted away to reveal sharp cheekbones and a jawline that could cut mythril, and maybe a trimmed beard to add some age. Would older Noctis have longer hair? Or maybe a cropped hairstyle? Noctis would probably keep his lean muscle, but maybe broader shoulders or something. What were even the requirements to be “daddy” anyway? Obviously it didn’t include having an actual kid though. (Did… Did Astrals even have children? Could they?)

“Well,” Noctis said, shutting the fridge door with his hip, each hand holding cartons of two-week old takeout, “I pick whatever floats their boat.” He set them on the kitchen counter and picked the lids off, leaning his face down to sniff the contents. He wrinkled his nose at one of the leftovers but chose to stick a fork in it anyway, twirling the cold noodles around before taking a bite.

“Dude, I don’t know how you do that,” Prompto gagged. “Or why, even.” He supposed it was his fault for not eating them sooner, for letting them go rancid. But that’s just one of the perks of having an ancient deity for a roommate, he justified. In the same way Noctis didn’t have to eat, he didn’t get sick from eating expired food bordering on mold and fungi. What would otherwise go into the trash or down the drain, went straight into the god’s stomach. Recycling at its best.

“If you’re talking about the food,” Noctis said, after swallowing down the slippery noodles, “It’s not that bad. Does taste kinda funky though, like artisanal cheese or something.” He swirled his fork, the carton making a distinct sound of something disgustingly wet and thick. “There might be some mold though, unless that’s just fuzzy cilantro.”

Prompto was pretty sure there was a blasphemy law or something out there, that strictly forbade people from offering gods old-ass food and moldy noodles. He learned last week to not think about it, however, and to let Noct eat what he wanted.

“But if you’re asking why I’m a twenty-something-year-old, it made the most sense.” Noctis tossed the empty carton into the trash and pointed his fork at Prompto. “Figured you’d want someone around the same age. I’m ninety-nine percent sure you wished for a friend, not a little brother or a dad.”

Oh. Well, that made sense. “Fair enough. I guess it’d get kinda old having to stop for old ladies that want to squish your baby cheeks.” Prompto paused, remembering the posts of people drooling over middle-aged Noctis. “Or crushing on hot dad Noct.”

That managed to pique Noctis’ interest, however, and his fork stopped mid-air on its way to the second carton. “Hot what who?”

Prompto realized then and there that Noctis did not, in fact, realize how badly people were thirsting for him.

“Oh, man, Noct buddy. The thirst out there is real .” Prompto laughed and pulled up a new tab, clicking on a link he bookmarked long ago. He scrolled through a few pages as Noct made his way to stand behind Prompto and look over his shoulder. The blonde stopped at a juicy string of replies and posts, angling the laptop screen so they could both see. “Your fans are so wild, my guy.”

> I hope all the gods are as handsome, if only i saw him shirtless lol > Omg ur not the only one. If i knew he looked like a hot piece of tall dark and gorgeous, i would’ve been soooooo much more specific with my wish. ;P

Some of the posts were a little more flattering. Others, less so.

> do u guys think that if i wished hard enough, he’d sit on my face > honestly? I don’t know if i want to pound that sweet ass or get rekt by him > y not both? ;D

Prompto wasn’t sure what he had expected, but Noctis took it… Pretty well. In fact, they spent a good few hours bonding and laughing over the sheer thirst of these people. At some point in the night, they even came up with a drinking game.

“I mean, technically, this one mentions ‘daddy,’ ‘bondage,’ and ‘babies.’ So that’s what? Half a beer?”

Which quickly became a bad idea. Prompto was sure his liver was going to fail on him by his umpteenth bottle. Noctis — and damn him, and his stupid Astral powers — seemed to be unaffected despite having just as many drinks. He was cheating, using magic or whatever, to flush the alcohol out of his system, and Prompto whined as he was guided into the bedroom. This was so unfair. He was never going to have a drinking contest with Noctis ever again.

Unceremoniously, he was dropped onto his bed, and a pillow bounced off the mattress. “Ugh, ‘eyy, I’m delicate goods, y’knoooow,” Prompto groaned, rolling onto his side and burying his face into the blanket. It wasn’t a soft landing, and it probably would have actually hurt if not for the alcohol numbing his systems.

“Yeah? Pretty sure those posters would be more than happy to be thrown into bed by yours truly.” Noctis picked up the pillow and gently tossed it at Prompto’s head.

“Pfft. And now what?” Prompto pulled the pillow off his face and tucked it under his head. “You’re gonna ravish me, oh Mister Noctis?” he said, with half-lidded eyes, though his wiggling eyebrows killed whatever attempt of seduction he was aiming for.

Noctis snorted and crawled into bed, shoving Prompto to make space. “Pretty sure you said you’d rather do the ravishing, oh Mister Prompto.”

“Mmm, too tired to do any ravishing.”

“Then stop talking and get some sleep.”

“Okay-dokay,” he said, a pinch too chipper. ”G’night, oh Mister Noctis.”

Noctis placed a chaste kiss on his nose. “Night, nerd.”

It was winter break when Prompto would finally introduce Noctis to his acquaintances. (He had gotten an A on that research paper; not because of his stellar writing, but because Noctis insisted on meeting the professor himself, and that was a whole story for another day.) The Amicitias were having a potluck, and Gladio had invited Prompto and Ignis. It went without saying that Prompto was freaking the fuck out, when he read the text.

“Ohmygodohmygodohmygod.” He had been pacing back and forth, hands rubbing nervously at his face, for a good while now. “I'm invited to the Amicitia's. The house of the Shield. This is, like, huge!”

Noctis was on his bed, sitting up against the headboard when he swiped through Prompto's phone, reading the text that had gotten him so riled up. “Uh-huh. That's what it says,” he said, not impressed at all. “It's just a little party and some food.”

“Noct!” Prompto swirled around and stomped over to Noctis, clamping his hands on the other's shoulders. He looked at him dead in the eye, with all the seriousness of a soldier marching towards his death. “The Shield. They're like, almost royalty .”

Noctis shrugged, expression remaining bored. “So? Your parents are in Niflheim's Council. You're basically in the same boat as that Gladio guy, even if you keep calling yourself a pleb. Which, you know, you're really not.”

Prompto just gave an indignant shriek as he fell over Noctis’ legs and buried his face into the blanket. “It's not the same,” he groaned.

Noctis may have a point about their social classes being not so different, but it's not like a god could understand the struggles of lowly humans. Back in Niflheim, it wasn't as if Prompto was even well-known; he was just the kid of some government officials. The Amicitia family had this prestigious pedigree and a noble, gallant history to boot. If anything, Prompto really was a pleb in comparison.

Noctis drew his legs from underneath Prompto and laid on his side, parallel to the other. He gave a few sympathetic pats on his back but rolled his eyes at the dramatics. “You're really freaking out about this, huh?”

Prompto wordlessly nodded, face still glued to his bed.

“You can pass, you know. That's totally an option, in case you forgot.”

Prompto finally lifted his face to stare at Noctis, a stubborn frown pulling on his lips. “No way. This is an opportunity of a lifetime.” He rolled onto his back and sighed, dragging his hands down his face. “Gladio's pretty cool, but I guess the issue is with everyone else that's gonna be there. Everyone knows I'm a Niff, and well.” He waved his hands in the air, letting the implications speak for him.

“And Lucis is still on edge with Niflheim,” Noctis finished for him. “I know. I've seen the way people look at you.”

The sneers, the whispers, those eyes. But it wasn't as bad as it used to be, when Prompto was alone. Noctis’ presence itself was comforting, filled a hole in his life that had been there before he even arrived in Insomnia, but it also provided another form of relief. Walking the streets alone left him too vulnerable to the baleful stares and whispered curses. But with Noctis, who looked every inch a pure-blooded Lucian, walking side by side and laughing over shared drinks or stealing fries, it made all of them second-guess themselves. He could tell by the confused or surprised expressions, and he sometimes caught the weird looks they gave. It filled him with a sense of gleeful vindication.

(Noctis had easily caught on — or rather, he had known from the start. On their first outing together, he had made damn sure to be as touchy-feely as possible or laugh just a tad too loud at bad jokes, he had admitted to Prompto.)

Noctis looked at the message again, skimming over the short three lines of text. “You know,” he said, his eyebrows perking up, “I can come with. He said you could bring a friend along.”

“What?” Prompto shot up, and he reached over to snatch his phone back from Noct's clutches. He furrowed his eyebrows, read the text message twice over. “You're right. Oh! You, uh, you'd really be okay with coming with me?”

“Duh. It's a potluck. I'm always up for food.”

They spent three days looking up party foods, mostly at Prompto’s frantic insistence: “Dude, I can’t be the one guy who just brings the crappy off-brand chips and shitty dip.” Finally, Noctis took matters into his own hands and decided for Prompto, one hand dragging the blonde out for grocery shopping, the other pulling up a lasagna recipe on his phone.

“Ugghhh. Can’t you just use your magic and just, magically make some kind of one-food-satisfies-all sort of thing?” Prompto groaned, reading the label on a jar of tomato sauce. He tossed two in the shopping cart, then threw in another just in case.

“Technically, I could.” Noctis pushed the cart along, grabbing a few bottles of dried spices. “But you never filled out the ‘Stellarian Make-A-Wish Form’ and that takes four to six business days to get to me. And we definitely have less than four days to get this thing cooked up.”

“What. I didn’t know I had to sign forms! And business days? Dude, you’re right here.”

“Sorry, Noctis the Stellarian isn’t here right now. Please call again during normal business hours or leave a message after the beep.” Noctis walked off, leaving the cart behind. He never even said beep.

“Nooooooct!”

They had managed to make two large pans of lasagna, and it tasted pretty damn good in Prompto’s opinion. (Noctis’ opinion didn’t count, since he could eat practically anything, aside from his aversion to vegetables.) Better yet, they had managed to keep the kitchen intact, only burning one mitten and two hand towels. With the food out of the way, the only thing left was what the fuck was he going to wear.

Prompto was going to be late, and oh gods, his anxiety was spiking. He never asked Gladio if the dress code was casual or formal wear, and he wasn’t going to take his chances with guessing ugly sweater party. He rummaged through his dressers and tossed shirts and pants all over the bed and floor, only pausing to press a shirt against his chest and stand in front of the mirror every few minutes. He should have been out ten minutes ago, but here he was freaking out over what sweater to wear, and he was pretty sure being late would make for bad first impressions. It was a vicious cycle.

Noctis stood by the bedroom door, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed, when he rolled his eyes and sighed. He stepped through the whirlwind of clothes scattered all over the place, and stooped to pick up a long-sleeved shirt. Wordlessly, he shoved it in Prompto’s hands and manhandled the blonde out of the way, pulling out a pair of black slacks from the dresser. “Go, change. Now,” he ordered.

“Yeah, but —”

“Chill, Prom. It’s not like you’re meeting the King of Lucis or anything. So just change already.”

Noctis was a filthy liar.

Surprisingly, they made it to the Amicitia manor with three minutes to spare. Prompto had expected security checks or battle-hardened guards standing watch from lookout towers, maybe a couple black guard dogs too. So when he pressed a finger to the intercom and offered his name and reason for visitation, he was taken back when the gates opened only seconds after, with no vicious attack dog or security uniform in sight. Noctis looked a little too smug, who had listened to Prompto’s over speculation and frenzied rants, and sauntered right on in.

Prompto followed at his heels, and was greeted by cheery instrumental music and all sorts of tantalizing aromas, a blend of spices he’s never smelled before. He zeroed in on the long tables topped with food, some brought in tupperware or actual plates. It was reassuring to see aluminum trays lining the tables; he and Noctis brought in their lasagna in aluminum pans, too, and he had worried that maybe they should have splurged on those ceramic pans instead. They managed to find an empty spot for their dishes, though Noctis had to subtly rearrange a few plates around to make room for the tight fit.

“Hey, Prompto!” That gruff voice was unmistakable, but so was the hand that clamped itself on Prompto’s shoulder, nearly jostling him. “Good to see you made it.”

“Oh, hey, Gladio. Thanks for inviting me,” Prompto chirped, as if he hadn’t been rattled with anxiety and stress for nearly a week. He waved a hand over Noctis. “I brought a friend with me, if that’s cool.”

“Nah, you’re good. I did say you could bring one,” he said to Prompto, before turning his attention to Noctis. “I’m Gladiolus, but call me Gladio.”

“Noctis. Just Noct’s good. You’re Clarus’ son, yeah?”

“Yep, son of the Shield and all that.” Gladio paused a moment, an amused smile ghosting over his lips. “Noctis, like… the Stellarian?”

“Noctis, exactly like the Stellarian,” Noctis replied, ignoring the way Prompto coughed.

“Huh. Bet you get teased about that a lot.”

“You get used to it,” he said with a wry grin, throwing a sidelong glance to his friend.

It was mostly smooth sailing from there, despite Prompto’s prior apprehension but according to Noctis’ reassurances — which came in comforting whispers and light hand squeezes. However, they didn’t seem to escape the hawk-ish gaze of one Ignis Scientia, who gave them a knowing look and a tilt of the lips over the rim of his wine glass. Even Gladio the musclehead noticed, nudging Prompto with his elbow and blowing a low whistle. It wasn’t like they were trying to be inconspicuous anyway; having been caught, Noctis laughed and gave them a full view of a smack of lips on a freckled cheek, at the price of Prompto’s flushed embarrassment.

Prompto still wasn’t sure what was going on between them, and Noctis gave no indication of his own. It had been casual flirting here, an offhand comment there, and somehow it turned into little shared kisses on the cheek or forehead. What he did know, however, was that he enjoyed it and wanted to see where things would take them. It was a little awkward to be caught sharing their affections, especially when he himself was still trying to process his own feelings about them, but it filled him with a tingly warmth all the same.

And it was almost enough to ignore a familiar, unsettling gaze that bore through the back of his skull. No matter how many cups of eggnog he downed, Prompto would always know what that sort of look was; he had been on the receiving end of it for far too long to not know. It was the judgmental stare of a stuck-up noble, the prejudice of a narrow mind — or in this case, the animosity of a Crownsguard official. Having had enough and feeling his confidence bolstered by the buzz of alcohol, Prompto turned to see who was glaring daggers at him, to find who the burning gaze belonged to. The uniform screamed Crownsguard, his face the same stern expression of a military man ready to snap and bark, and Prompto had immediately turned back around the second he saw that scowl. Okay, so maybe he regretted looking just a little.

But he managed to get on, because out of sight, out of mind and all that, yeah? He could still feel the little pin pricks as the hairs on the back of his neck stood at guard, could feel the barb wired glances given his way, but as the hour wore on, he managed to relax until the perpetual stare melted like the ice in his punch, into nothing but a distant reminder. The man had seemed satisfied to just shoot scowls at Prompto, which he was able to fare with and mostly ignore, and nothing had happened so far. Not to mention he was in the Amicitia household, so surely he was safe. No one would want to start a fight in the Shield’s home, right?

Wrong.

“What do you think you’re doing here?”

Prompto had returned to the punch bowl to refill his drink, leaving Noctis to carry on with Ignis and Gladio. And yeah, that probably wasn’t a good idea, to present himself vulnerable as a lone target.

Prompto set his cup on the table and turned to stand face-to-face with the Crownsguard who had been shooting metaphorical knives at him for the past hour-ish. And maybe it was the liquid courage that was in the punch and eggnog that had Prompto puffing out his chest, but damn it , he was at a party and enjoying himself for once! He really did not need some asshole bursting his bubble.

“I’m getting punch, what does it look like?” Prompto huffed, gesturing to the very obvious bright red of the glass bowl.

“Sure you’re not planning on poisoning us, Niff?” The Crownsguard scoffed, eyes narrowing in suspicion and scorn. “Wouldn’t doubt it if you poisoned the food either.”

Okay. This was guy was hella rude. Their lasagna was actually good — he and Noct worked very hard on that, for his information.

He opened his mouth in protest, to point out they suffered a burnt mitten to get the damn pan out of the oven, to point out all the hard work and mess that had gone into it, until Noctis came over, planting himself between Prompto and the asshat Crownsguard.

“You got issues with my lasagna?” Noctis crossed his arms across his chest, his chin tilted up. Prompto couldn’t see, but he was pretty sure there was a scowl on his face. He also couldn’t help the vindictive glee in his chest.

“I got issues with the Niff here, not you, kid. He doesn’t belong here.”

“Sure he does. He got an invitation from the Amicitia over there,” he said, motioning a hand to Gladio, who was looking in their direction with concern, ready to intervene. “And besides, you got an issue with Prompto, you got an issue with me.”

“Look, kid. You’re better off not hanging around Niffs —”

“I’m not a kid,” Noctis practically growled. Though Noct was technically right, Prompto figured his looks… Kinda barely passed as an adult though.

“And I can do what I want, so don’t you tell me what to do.” Noctis jabbed a sharp finger into the Crownsguard chest. At this point, Gladio and some other man — ‘ Oh shit, is that Clarus Amicitia ?!’ Prompto silently screamed — were making their way over. But they would be too slow.

“Watch yourself, kid, or you'll be seeing stars,” the Crownsguard hissed. His shoulders tensed, and Prompto could see the faint lines of muscle tightening. This was so not good. He could feel the stare and attention focused on them, the worried murmurs and hushed whispers. He wished he had refilled his glass so he had punch to swallow down all this tension he was surely going to choke on.

“Oh, yeah?” Noctis snarled, bristling like an angry cat, Prompto imagined, with his curled up fingers and stiff white knuckles. He saw Noctis’ head twitch, jerk ever so slightly to his left, when Prompto caught a glimpse of a foreboding smirk. He followed Noctis’ line of sight, and it took every ounce of steel willpower to not scream.

Because standing right there was King Regis Lucis Fucking Caelum.

Prompto felt his eyes bulge from his skull, as the blood drained from his face to be replaced with ice cold water. Oh, Six. He was breathing, right? In, out? He could barely hear the rush of blood in his ears, too busy internally screaming into the void and all that.

‘ Chill, he said! You’re not gonna meet the King of Lucis, he said. It’s gonna be fun, he said!’ Whoever told him gods didn’t lie needed to go check themself.

He barely caught onto Noctis, too busy freaking out over literal royalty over there to stop him when he heard That Tone in his voice.

“Well, guess what?” Noctis had dropped his knees slightly. And with all the fury of a burning star, he slammed his fist up into the Crownsguard’s jaw in a brutal uppercut before either of them had time to blink. Prompto was pretty sure there was a kungfu movie with a similar title. Fist of the — South? West? — Star or something. It was over as quickly as it had started, and the body dropped in a skin-crawling thump.

“ Twinkle twinkle, motherfucker .”

Noctis shook his wrist, grimacing lightly from the impact. But it was quickly replaced with a shit-eating grin when he turned his gaze back to King Regis, who looked pretty damn chill despite witnessing someone knock out his Crownsguard, as opposed to the panic rising in Prompto’s own chest.

“Hey, Reggie. Long time no see,” Noctis all but laughed, who was way too calm about all of this.

A flash of confusion and irritation passed over the King’s face, but it quickly melted into shocked realization then mild exasperation. Prompto was still too stunned to think of anything, but he could have sworn there was a hint of fondness in the man’s eyes.

By the time Gladio kneeled beside the Crownsguard, Clarus moved in on Noctis, taking long strides with a definite purpose. Prompto almost threw an arm out to shield Noctis behind him, to point out that the Crownsguard was being an ass and Noctis was just defending him so could he please just —

“Clarus, stand down. It’s alright,” King Regis ordered. Clarus stopped dead in his tracks, hand left in mid-air as he was just about to grab Noctis. Regis ignored the unconscious guard and walked up to the Astral, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Nearly twenty years, Noctis, and not a single hello. I must say, you know how to make an entrance.”

Prompto briefly remembered his first meeting with Noct’s shoe. Yeah, that had been an entrance alright.

“What can I say? I’m just that good.” Noctis shrugged and glanced over at Prompto, then past him at the tables behind. “Want to try our lasagna?” he asked the King.

“If I did not know any better, I would leap at the opportunity. But having past experiences with your cooking, I do think I prefer living. I’ve a kingdom to run, after all.”

“Hey!” Noctis interjected, smiling.

Still, the two laughed as if they had been old friends, ignoring the confused and slightly terrified faces around them. But knowing Noctis’ long, longhistory, Prompto didn’t doubt they truly had a bond.

He didn’t notice the King’s attention on him until Noctis nudged him on the shoulder. “Eh? What?”

“Prompto Argentum, was it?” King Regis asked.

“U-uh, yeah!” he stammered, feeling the pressure of the King’s gaze. Then he quickly added, “Your Majesty.” He couldn’t believe he was talking to the King, not to mention he even remembered Prompto’s name. And also not to mention, he was still not over the fact he had shaken his hand all those months ago, on the day he first arrived in Insomnia.

“I would love to hear how you met dear Noctis over here, whenever you’d be willing.”

“Noct? Um, yeah! Totally! Er, Your Grace.”

King Regis chuckled, deep and warm, and merely nodded. “Now, let’s try that lasagna, hm? You, too, Clarus! If I die of food poisoning, we die together.”

“Your Majesty, please,” the Shield sighed.

Prompto never really figured how it happened or when it all started. But one snowy morning, when he woke up to Noct's sleeping face and terrible bed hair, he was suddenly struck with a revelation.

‘Huh. I love this man,’ he thought. It was weird. He expected metaphorical fireworks and the heavy beating of his heart with that dizzying blood rush, waited for it with silent expectancy and any minute now .

But nothing came.

Two minutes, then five minutes. Ten. Nothing. Instead, he was left with the soft knowledge of his feelings, the gentle warmth that settled in his stomach as he watched Noctis and the slow rise of his chest with each steady breath. And this warmth, it was nothing new; it had been there for well over a year now, when his loneliness was replaced by this bright little star. And not even a month ago, Gladio and Ignis had referred to Prompto as their friend .

There were no grand explosions, no sparks of passion and heated kisses stolen between short, frenzied breaths. It had come silently. Like the slow rise of the morning’s light streaming in through the window, like the lazy snowfall covering Insomnia, settling so gently that he wouldn’t know how much had piled up unless he drew back the curtains and looked out into the heart of the city.

Prompto closed his eyes and smiled into his pillow, snuggling a bit closer to his favorite little star, and drifted back to sleep, falling to the comfort of knowing everything would work out, that everything already had. And Noctis, still deep in his sleep, responded to the shift and threw a cold leg over Prompto’s, eliciting a quiet breathy laugh.

Yeah, everything would be just fine.

Bonus

“So, you look pretty good. Older, but still good.” Noctis said over the rim of his glass.

Regis resisted the urge to roll his eyes and to fall back to his younger years of bantering and snickering, to the days of his youth spent with the Astral. “Yes. Well, ageing does that to mortals, Noctis. I would like to say the same to you, except you’ve gotten… Younger.”

He almost hadn’t recognized Noctis, when he watched the younger man knock his Crownsguard off his feet. He had felt the flames of angry retribution and indignation ignite, until that age-old smirk caught him off guard, when he recognized that smile, that specific tilt of the lips, but he couldn’t place it — not until he saw that set of steel-blue eyes that seemed to hide all the world’s stars behind them.

After all those years, Regis never expected to see him again. Ever. And especially not in Clarus’ home. Yet here they were again, sitting by the fireplace with plates of lasagna and glasses of champagne, basking in each other’s company as they had done in what seemed like a lifetime ago. (The lasagna was, surprisingly, quite good.)

“You were an older man, back in my youth. I almost failed to recognize you.”

Noctis was a bit taller, back then, sporting a neatly trimmed beard and age lines that looked to add wisdom around his eyes. Regis, being but a boy back then, had looked up to the god, for when his own father was absent in his royal duties as King. For when he had wished for a father, someone who could actually spare more than ten minutes a day for his son.

“Oh, yeah. ‘Daddy Noct,’” Noctis snorted. “Apparently that’s what I’m called nowadays, when I look like that. Y'know, you never actually called me dad.”

Young Regis had never gotten over that strange pride-ego-dignity trinity that teenage boys tended to have, and refused to call Noctis any version of the word “father” despite his wish being just that. They both knew he had been the closest thing to what a father should actually be, but those times were gone; however, Regis now saw a dear old friend instead. Plus, it'd just be downright weird for a grown man to call a younger one his dad.

“As I am aware.” Regis earned an incredulous look, to which he responded, “I know how to use the internet, Noctis.”

“Yeah, but it’s weird hearing that from you,” Noctis mumbled around his fork. He looked to the fireplace, the flames dancing in the dark of his eyes. “Time sure flies, huh, Reggie? You used to be so small. Now look at you.” He gently placed his fork down, lightly clinking against the ceramic, meeting his gaze with Regis’. “You grew into a fine king.”

They let a comfortable silence fall over them, save for the crackle of wood and the cheery music playing in the distance. Clarus had made sure the two could get their own little space, away from the rest of the party.

Finally, Regis spoke up again. “I never properly thanked you for granting my wishes.”

“Don’t mention it. All I did was get the ball rolling. You’re the one who pushed it to the finish line. Now look.” Noctis nodded over behind them, where Ignis was trying (and failing) to teach Prompto a proper waltz. “You finally got peace for your kingdom, even after the mess your father left behind.”

“Still. If it weren’t for your hand in all this—”

“Reggie, stop, you’ll make me blush,” he said wryly. “But, uh, sorry that it took so long. Had a hard time coming to a compromise. Don’t tell him I told you, but” — Noctis leaned in, and Regis mimicked the gesture — “I had a little argument with Bahamut. He kept insisting that Lucis wipe Niflheim out first, declare war and all that. Heck, that’s part of why Shiva’s doing her thing over there still, to soften them up and make the fight easier. It’s kinda hard to convince the god of war to not go to war, you know?”

“Ah. So Bahamut.”

“Yep.”

It was Regis’ turn to gaze into the fireplace. “I suppose you were right along,” he said after a brief moment. He turned to look back at Noctis in the eye and smiled with all the kingly grace he could muster.

“Bahamut is indeed, as you had put it, a fuckboy.”

#prompto argentum #noctis lucis caelum #ff15 #final fantasy xv #i can type #i forgot to post dis yesterday :v

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francesderwent · 6 years

Text

“In Need of a Generic Father Figure” A Veronica Mars Everybody Lives/Nobody Dies Meet-Cute LV AU Week Day 7 Canon-typical language, but otherwise general audiences On AO3 Inspired by this post and that one scene in Charlie Don’t Surf.

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It was supposed to be a kind of housewarming-slash-homecoming party, the kind of event that was totally low key in its formulation and planning stage but got completely out of hand once things got rolling. All their friends from the old neighborhood were coming over, and it was supposed to be all nostalgic idiocy born from the eternal familiarity of each having been present for one another’s particular flavor of shitty childhood. There were no delusions about the depth of this bond, and so they weren’t expecting it to be a great party, not the best night of anyone’s life by any means, but it was the sort of gathering you could predict, could depend on. Low-pressure, low stakes, low key.

So, precisely the kind of event which would have a giant wrench thrown into it if you were to add in an unknown factor, say, a perfect stranger to man the grill.

“But he wouldn’t be a stranger,” Dick is insisting. “He’d be a dad.”

Logan gapes at him. “Whose dad?”

Dick shrugs, ineloquently.

“So by dad, you just mean some unknown-as-yet male person who has at one point fathered a child?”

“Sure.”

“So, some unknown person’s father, standing on the corner of our property, making hamburgers.”

“Grilling hamburgers, that’s essential.” Dick looks up from his computer and gives Logan a look like he’s disappointed in him for missing an obvious point. “And it’s not just some random sperm donor, dude, he has to be fatherly and shit. I put it in the ad.”

“Ah yes, the ad,” Logan says. “The Craigslist ad, which you put up online without consulting or telling me. I read the ad. And yet here I stand, questioning the entire premise behind it.” But Dick has returned to his computer, presumably to scroll through his emailed responses. Logan pinches the bridge of his nose. “Alright, the court recognizes that grilled hamburgers are better than any alternative. But why do we need someone else to come grill? You and I are fair-to-average at setting things on fire already.”

“We don’t have a grill.”

“No, but we both have trust funds that kicked in some time ago. You may remember them. They’re how we afforded the house…”

Dick huffs. “So we just buy a grill?” Logan gives him the raised eyebrows and jazz hands: duh. Dick bangs on the space bar. “Just buy one, from the depths of our rich boy pockets, without working for it or anything.”

Logan stares. “Are you having some kind of break?”

“It’s stupid to spend money if we could just borrow one.”

“Okaaaay,” Logan says. “So why aren’t you advertising for a grill we can borrow?”

“Because!”

“Because what, Dick?”

“Your dad is supposed to teach you how to grill!” Dick bites out.

They stare at each other for a long beat, then Dick tears his eyes away and starts clattering angrily on his keyboard. Logan sighs, then gingerly sits next to him on the sofa.

“You know,” he says, careful to keep his tone conversational, “if you wanted to sign up for one of those programs for kids with deadbeat dads where they hang out with well-adjusted adult men and learn life skills, I would have happily signed up with you, but we really should have done that when we were younger.”

Dick throws an elbow into his ribs half-heartedly. “Shut up.”

“I’m not saying, like, when we were twelve,” Logan goes on, warming to the topic, “because we mostly hadn’t figured out our dads were deadbeat by then. But definitely before we finished college and joined the workforce. I’m thinking like nineteen or twenty would have been the ideal age. Our father figures could have taught us to consume alcohol, in addition to teaching us to grill.”

“We were already pretty good at drinking alcohol by then,” Dick reminds him.

“Then they could have given us a strict talking-to about underage drinking,” Logan says. “It’s far too late for that now, and we’ve missed our chance.”

“Missed our chance…” Dick echoes.

Logan looks at him sideways.

Dick catches his eye and actually sniffs a little. “I know it’s stupid. You don’t have to tell me it’s stupid.”

Logan shifts uncomfortably. “It’s not stupid, man. I just wish we knew of some actual father figure we could get to sub in for you, rather than resorting to Craigslist dads.”

“It’s not just for me, dude,” Dick insists. “I know you care about this shit, too.”

Logan cracks a smile despite himself. “If some guy with a beer gut shows up and grills me a hamburger and calls me ‘sport’, that’s not going to make the old man any less of an abusive asshole.”

“I know, but we can make some nicer memories can’t we? Some nice dad-memories?”

For a second, Logan allows himself to enter into the delusion, but almost immediately becomes sidetracked on the mental image of Gregory Peck from To Kill a Mockingbird standing in their backyard, holding a light beer and grinning affably. That would be one thing – but he can’t imagine that any fathers like that actually exist in the world. No, this dad was probably going to be more or less a deadbeat himself, or else how would he have time to babysit a bunch of profligate twenty-somethings? At best, it would be some old guy whose kids were too grown-up and busy to talk to him anymore, a dad whose desperate neediness for attention and affirmation matches Dick’s. But then again, Dick will inevitably be drunk for the entire party – he wouldn’t notice if the dad was an escaped convict in black and white stripes with a literal ball and chain on his ankle. What harm could it do? He sighs, asks in a wry tone, “Are you going to ask for proof of paternity, or is this person going to be a fake dad on top of being random?”

Dick lights up. “That’s a great idea, I’ll edit that in!” He resumes typing at a frenzied pace; Logan watches bemusedly.

Still. It’s one weird thing on one day. It won’t make any difference one way or another, in the long run.

Nobody’s life was ever changed because a stranger made them a hamburger.

-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-

After that, Logan tries to extricate himself from the whole dad-audition process, but Dick is, as usual, both oblivious and incorrigible. Logan very quickly comes to dread the phrases “hey, listen to this” and “what about this”, since both are sure signs that he’s about to be read a joke resumé with phrases like “excels at offering positive reinforcement”, or shown a headshot of a guy in a sweater vest. So when he gets home from work and the first thing he hears is “Logan, dude, this is the one”, his first response is to groan and flop face first onto the sofa. They found the sofa at the side of the road the second week in the house and it is therefore a little worn out, so the decision to be dramatic hurts.

“Asshole,” Dick tells him absently, wandering in from the next room holding his laptop. “Listen: father for twenty-plus years, expert level jokes and manly affection, bonus secret-family-recipe hot sauce.”

“The hot sauce is a nice touch,” Logan admits, rolling over onto his back and kicking his feet up onto the sofa arm. “All of the other applicants have really fixated on the ‘dad’ part of ‘grill dad’.”

Dick nods so enthusedly it looks painful. “I know, right? And get this, there’s an attached letter from his kid,” he says. “Dear advertiser, I can confirm that the applicant has been my father for my entire life, and I can honestly say that he has excelled at the position. You would be lucky to have him at your party, where he would strike just the right balance between embarrassing and fun, call all of you by the wrong names and then substitute “son” or “honey”, and repeatedly tell you he’s proud of you. His hamburgers are to die for, and he brings his own fire extinguisher in case anything should go wrong. He has my unreserved recommendation. Also, if this is some kind of dad kidnapping scheme, I will hunt you down and kill you. Cordially, V. Mars.” Dick looks up expectantly; Logan fights a smile.

“They wrote a letter of recommendation for their dad?”

“Uh huh.”

“Hmm,” Logan says neutrally, then says, “Mr. Mars,” trying it out, hitting the ‘r’s and dragging out the ‘s’.

“Keith Mars,” Dick adds helpfully, and turns the computer so Logan can see the attached photo. Keith Mars is bald, just slightly on the portly side, staring adoringly down at the tiny pigtailed child with whom he is dancing, her feet on his – V. Mars is a girl, apparently. Dick tabs to the next picture: Keith Mars standing next to a grill holding a hot dog over the head of a plaintive-looking pitbull while a gap-toothed, elementary-school-aged V. Mars laughs in the background with a blue-haired friend. In the third picture Keith is older, wearing a suit and grinning widely, hugging someone in graduation regalia, her face obscured by her cap. “He looks cool, right?” Dick prompts eagerly.

“Yeah,” Logan says, tearing his eyes away from the graduation photo. Neither he nor Dick had had any relatives attend their college graduation, and he’d seen plenty of family reunions at the baccalaureate celebration that seemed more stiff and awkward than anything else, but Keith looks like he just might burst with pride. “Yeah, he seems nice.”

“Like a real dad, right?” Dick persists.

Logan snorts. “As if I have any experience with which to judge that quality.”

Dick offers a fist bump and Logan complies. “Trauma twins!” Dick says, sing-song. Logan rolls his eyes. “But he seems legit?” Dick says, returning to the salient point. “This is okay?”

Logan stands and claps his roommate on the shoulder. “Sure, man. If you say this is the one, I think you’re probably right.”

Dick beams at him. “I’ll tell him he got the gig!”

“Cool,” Logan says drily. “I can’t wait to meet him.”

-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-

Since Dick thinks it would be acceptable to simply explain the dad-for-hire situation when their guests show up, Logan finds himself calling each invitee one by one the day before the party and beginning with the statement, “So you know how Dick has a tenuous relationship with reality?” Lilly laughs for a full minute and a half, and Duncan, no matter how many times Logan runs through the concept, just doesn’t seem to get it, but everyone else just thinks it’s sad.

“Oh my god, our lives suck,” Gia says, sounding as if she just realized it. “Does no one in our group have a functioning father figure?”

“Carrie’s dad was okay,” Logan offers. “But he moved out of state a few years back.”

“And he never knew how to grill!” Dick yells through his bedroom door.

“And he never knew how to grill,” Logan repeats.

“Yeah, well,” Gia says skeptically, “I’m bringing extra booze for when this weird-ass idea causes someone to have an emotional breakdown.”

“Appreciated.”

And when the day arrives, booze is the one thing they do seem to have enough of.

“Why did we say we were going to supply ingredients?” Logan wonders aloud as he methodically opens and shuts every cupboard in their kitchen. “You forgot to buy onions, we don’t own any spices, I don’t even think we have salt and pepper –”

“Logan. Man! Relax.” As anticipated, Dick is already halfway to trashed, and far from caring if their hamburgers are seasoned.

“This was your idea,” Logan says, accusing sliding into sardonic. “You’re the one who wanted to make some new dad-memories, and now because you were overly confident in a Craigslist ad, our new dad is already going to be disappointed in us.”

“Dude, holy shit –” Dick bursts out laughing and can’t continue his thought. Logan turns around to glare at him in exasperation. “What if –” Dick stammers, chortling, “what if he says the thing? ‘I’m not mad I’m just disappointed?’ How absolutely sick would that be?” He’s wheezing now, and Logan can’t think of anything to do except stare at him. “Just like a real dad!” Dick howls.

Logan stands, frozen, for a beat longer, and then abandons his search for the probably-nonexistent spice cabinet to reach for the scotch instead. “Gia was right,” he says flatly. “This is going to end in tears.” He pulls a little too sharply on the tab of the wax seal and it snaps off with the seal still in place. He looks at it in consternation, and it is at this point that the doorbell rings. Dick makes no sign of moving from his position, giggling slumped over the kitchen table, so Logan jogs to the front hallway, only to discover that Dick has placed all the beer they bought in front of the door, barricading it closed. He’s kicking six packs out of the way and trying to open the scotch bottle with his teeth when he finally manages to wrench open the door and is greeted by the genial but not-quite-non-threatening face of Keith Mars.

For a moment the desire to say something dismissive rises up, as if this was still high school and he was still incapable of engaging with an adult on mutually respectful terms, but Logan takes a deep breath and forces it down. “Mr. Mars,” he says.

Keith sticks out a hand. “Richard?”

Logan snorts, but accepts the handshake. “Richard is inside. I’m the roommate, Logan.”

Keith’s eyes drop to the scotch bottle still in Logan’s hand. “I hate it when that happens,” he says mildly.

Logan makes a non-committal noise. “We probably have a wine opener somewhere that should do the trick.”

“We don’t!” Dick yells from the kitchen. “I told the chicks to bring one!”

“That would be Richard,” Logan tells Keith wryly. Keith raises his eyebrows, but then reaches into his jacket pocket and offers Logan a multi-tool. “Thanks,” Logan says uncomfortably, looking down to flip through utensils instead of making eye contact. “Can I offer you anything?”

“Nope,” says Keith cheerfully, “just point me to the backyard and I’ll get the grill fired up.”

“Get the grill fired up!” Dick’s voice repeats, maniacally.

“He’s fine,” says Logan, unconvinced himself. “The backyard’s through this way.”

“No!” Dick stumbles into the hallway and spreads his arms wide, probably so as best to show off the tshirt he bought specifically for the occasion which reads “you’re all up in my grill”, a decided improvement over the grill-themed shirt Logan had to initially talk him down from, which had a meat-related innuendo on it. “I will show you to the backyard, sir!”

Keith offers a hand. “Keith Mars.”

“Awesome, dude.” Dick shakes his hand, which is apparently hilarious because he cracks himself up again. “Welcome to the party!”

Keith glances at Logan, who shrugs. “I’m just happy to be included,” Keith says, sounding, against all odds, like he means it.

“Dope,” Dick responds. “Follow me, mon capitan, I will show you to your grill kingdom!”

“Please stop mixing your metaphors,” Logan tells him, but Keith waves him off and allows Dick to sling an arm around his shoulder and lead him towards the screen door to the backyard.

“Dude, seriously, your application was whack,” Dick says. “I was like, whoa, this guy is like a serious dad!” Logan is watching them go, wondering if he’s responsible for making Keith feel safe and if he should therefore follow, when there’s a voice at shoulder-level behind him.

“So that’s the Craigslist guy?”

He turns, smoothly accepts the proffered casserole dish. “Craigslist dad, actually, or you’re missing the whole point.”

Carrie stands on her toes to look over his shoulder at where Keith is patiently observing Dick’s wild gesticulating at all the ingredients they bought. “Huh,” she says. “I guess he does kind of look like a dad.”

“I should hope so, we took the casting call very seriously.”

Carrie rolls her eyes. “That’s a fruit salad,” she informs him, indicating the dish he’s holding. “I’ve just gotta grab my guitar out of my car and then I can help set up or whatever.”

“You brought your guitar?” Logan repeats. “Are we gonna sit in a circle and sing campfire songs? What the hell kind of barbecue do you think this is?”

“A nice wholesome one, of course. You were kind enough to invite Susan and her kid, and you specifically got a random dad to come grill you food.” After a pause and seemingly despite herself, Carrie asks, “You really couldn’t have just bought a grill yourselves?”

Logan sighs. “Actually, the grill is ours. Keith had one but it wouldn’t fit in his car, so Dick went straight out and got the most expensive one there was.”

“Don’t all serious dads own pickup trucks?”

“That’s exactly what I said.”

“And now you have your own grill.”

“We even managed to work it ourselves; we made marshmallows over it last night.”

Carrie makes a face. “I can’t believe you guys are living together. You’ll both starve to death or suffocate under dirty laundry within a month.”

“Nah,” says Logan, dismissive, “we can live on marshmallows for at least two months, and we can just buy new clothes and burn our dirty laundry on the grill.”

“That,” Carrie tells him calmly, “is disgusting.”

“People who bring acoustic guitars to house parties shouldn’t throw stones,” Logan counters.

She laughs and flips him off. “When’s everyone else getting here?”

He indicates careless ignorance with a wave of the hand. “Hopefully soon. I think we need to set up a watch rotation to make sure Dick doesn’t start crying on the grill dad.”

Carrie snorts, tosses him her keys; he manages to switch the fruit salad to one hand and snag them in the hand holding the scotch. “In that case, you go grab my guitar out of the trunk. What did you say the guy’s name is?”

“Keith Mars.”

“Got it. Do not leave me out there by myself for more than a minute.”

“Of course not! In fact, I wouldn’t dream of getting in your car and driving far, far away from here.”

She elbows past him, laughing, and jogs through the house to make a dramatic exit out the back door, where she is greeted by Dick’s incoherent shouts. Logan sighs, then picks his way back through the six-packs to the kitchen to put everything down, finally open the scotch, and knock back half a drink. When he gets back out to the driveway Casey Gant is there with his newest arm-candy girlfriend, and Logan finds himself cajoled into giving a house tour so he can explain to her why he and Dick decided on this house, how all the guests know each other, and that, no, Casey wasn’t lying about the Craigslist situation. By the time Logan manages to extricate himself, everyone has arrived and is milling around the backyard. Carrie waves to him from a picnic blanket in the middle of the lawn, where she is in fact playing guitar for Susan and her adolescent daughter. He likes Susan and the kid fine, but the three of them seem to be working on a warble-y song from the latest Disney princess sensation, so he hides a grimace, waves back, and looks elsewhere. There’s a few people clustered around the grill, listening to Keith tell some story which is apparently fascinating; Logan gives them a wide berth and joins Lilly and Gia instead, who are standing off to the side eyeing the whole scene skeptically.

“Don’t you ladies want to take advantage of this unique opportunity to interact with a genuine, human parent?” he asks.

“Nope,” says Gia, at the same time as Lilly says “Not even a little.”

Logan snorts. “Well, cheers to that, I suppose.”

“Yes, cheers!” Lilly says. “To dealing with our issues in therapy, rather than projecting all of our buried hopes onto a stranger with a novelty apron who could never live up to our ideals anyway.”

“Like motherfucking adults,” Logan echoes solemnly. They clink glasses.

Gia looks contemplative. “It’s not so much that he’s a random stranger,” she says. “I even kind of trust that he’s for real, you know?”

“I know,” Lilly retorts, pausing to take a big gulp of her drink. “That’s the worst part. Dick introduced me to him when I got here, and he was immediately more interested in my life and my job than my parents have ever been.”

“Yeah, but like, actually interested,” Gia adds, “like he thought I was worth his time and couldn’t wait to hear more about me.”

“How dare he,” Logan says mildly.

Gia elbows him in the ribs. “I don’t see you over there talking to him.”

Logan shrugs. “If I met him on the street maybe I’d be able to trust that he’s the real deal, but the fact that he answered the ad just seems fundamentally suspicious.”

“Yeah, but you guys aren’t paying him, are you?” says Lilly.

“Just in beer.”

“He’s probably just lonely,” Gia suggests.

“I thought the same thing,” says Logan. “But if he’s such a good father, then wouldn’t his own kid want to see him? So why would he need us?”

Lilly pats him on the shoulder. “Logan, you’ve honed your trust issues and pessimism into quite an art.”

He huffs, irritable despite himself. “I’m just saying, don’t anyone go writing him into their will just yet.” Gia looks at him little worriedly, and he attempts a reassuring smile. “I need another drink, can I get either of you anything?” They both wave him off, and he makes for the deck where all the refreshments are, but in his haste to get away, forgets to avoid the grill group and accidentally makes eye contact with Dick. Dick, of course, begins frantically waving him over, and though Logan lifts a hand in acknowledgement and tries to stay course, this only means that Dick starts yelling his name. Logan silently swears to himself that he will not enter the fatherland without a drink in hand, so yells back that he’ll be right there and prays that they’ll be out of something on the drinks and appetizers table so he’ll have to go inside to get it, if not drive to the store. Tragically, Carrie is already there, refilling chip bowls, and when he offers to help she just gives him an unsympathetic look.

“Go get it over with, before Dick convinces everyone to start chanting your name,” she says.

Logan sighs, grabs the beer with the highest alcohol content he can find, and skips down the stairs. “Logan!’ Dick crows. “Logan’s here, guys!”

“I live here,” Logan reminds him. The obvious statement is greeted by polite laughs from the Keith fan-club and drunken giggling from Dick.

“Get this, Logan!” he says, childlike excitement radiating off him in waves. “We didn’t even need salt and pepper, Keith brought his own burger rub!”

Logan looks obligingly at Keith, who nods. “Secret family recipe.”

“I thought the secret was the hot sauce?” Logan says.

“I’ve got that, too.”

Logan raises his eyebrows. “Everything’s a secret with you, Mr. Mars. And here I thought we were just on the verge of opening up to each other.”

Keith laughs good-naturedly. “I’m an open book, Logan.”

Logan is mentally scrolling through options for sarcastic replies which aren’t overly combative when suddenly he feels very, uncomfortably cold, from the back of his neck down, and can do nothing but gasp stupidly. For a moment he thinks Dick has poured ice down his back, but Dick is standing on the other side of the grill from him, looking genuinely surprised albeit delighted. Logan cranes his neck and turns in a circle, but can’t see what’s been spilled on him, though it’s entirely clear who’s to blame. “Duncan,” Logan says, flat and edging toward a growl.

Duncan has the nerve to roll his eyes. “Come on, man, it’s not my fault.”

Logan gestures to where Duncan has clearly dropped his solo cup and half a plate of appetizers on the lawn. “And how do you figure that?”

Duncan shrugs. “You know how hard it is to hold a drink and a plate of stuff at the same time.”

“Hmm, then maybe you should go inside and eat at the table – or better yet, maybe the family down the block can loan us their high chair.”

Duncan scowls at him. “Do you have to be like this, Logan, seriously? It’s just a shirt. And it’s your freaking house, you can just go in and change.”

Logan flicks his eyes over at Keith, who thankfully doesn’t appear inclined to use his fake fatherly authority to intervene and is pretending to look intently at something across the way. Logan fakes a laugh and says as evenly as he can manage, “And it was your freaking drink, so you could have just apologized.” Keith abandons his examination of the next-door-neighbor’s maple tree to give Logan a side-eyed smile, and for a moment, Logan feels a vague sense of satisfaction, before he remembers that he doesn’t care about Keith’s approval. He makes a wry face back.

“Logan,” Keith says mildly, “keep an eye on the grill? I need to grab something I left in the kitchen.”

“No problem, Mr. Mars,” Logan answers, saluting sloppily. Keith nods at him, and then pats Duncan on the shoulder as he passes; Logan interprets the move as condescending and is pleased again, and again annoyed at himself for being pleased. As a pathetic attempt at distracting himself, he pulls his arms into what was previously his favorite gray v-neck and puts it back on backwards so he can look at the stain, and then is horrified all over again. “Duncan, what the fuck were you drinking?” he demands.

Now, finally, Duncan has the grace to look ashamed, or at least defensive. “Mike’s,” he mutters.

“Mike’s lemonade is not this color.”

“It was Mike’s hard black cherry lemonade, alright!”

There are various titters from the group; Logan snorts inadvertently and lifts up the shirt to sniff the purple-y stain, which smells more like sugar than anything else. He knows he should stop pushing, but can’t quite restrain a “Dude, really?”, which turns the titters into full-fledged barks of laughter.

Duncan snaps. “Why do you have to be such a –”

“Donut!”

Duncan freezes at the sound of Lilly’s voice.

“Quit being a drip!” she yells. “Or go home!”

For a second, Duncan turns his glare back on Logan with full force, and Logan almost thinks he’s going to spit in his face or something, but then he just kicks at his dropped solo cup and slinks off toward the front yard.

“Wo-o-ow,” says Dick, with barely contained glee. “This really is the best party ever.”

Logan rolls his eyes, grabs the spatula hanging off the grill, and starts idly pushing burgers around to have something to do. “You’re happy with your Craigslist investment?” he asks Dick.

“Absolutely, dude!”

“And the weirdness of the concept still hasn’t dawned on you?” Casey adds, snickering.

“How could it be weird? Keith is awesome, and he’s the perfect addition to the party, just like the application said.”

“Of course he is.”

Logan jumps, almost drops a burger on the ground, and then turns to find that Duncan’s place in the circle has been filled. She’s on the shorter side, with blonde hair falling down her back in waves, a leather jacket slung over one shoulder, and a completely unreadable expression on her face – and based on the looks she’s getting from the others, no one else has the faintest idea who she is either. “Uh –” Logan says.

“Keith Mars is still here, right?” she asks, voice somewhere between businesslike and belligerent.

“Well –”

“He just went inside,” Dick says, helpfully. “He’ll be back out in a minute.”

Logan groans. “Dick, remind me never to commit any crimes you’d have to be interrogated about.”

Dick shrugs, the whole movement exaggerated by drunkenness. “Look at her, man, what’s she gonna do?”

Logan looks at her, less sure that he should be unintimidated than Dick seems to be; she gives him an unimpressed once-over, but then cracks a smile seemingly despite herself. “So was it some combination of getting dressed in the dark and a wet tshirt competition, or is this a bold fashion choice?”

Logan glances down at his backwards v-neck and the damp, purple circle on his chest. “Bold fashion choice,” he answers, looking up to raise his eyebrows at her.

“I wouldn’t have been able to picture it,” she says, looking him up and down again, “but now that I see it, I guess it works. In fact, you should only wear this. Like, ever.”

Logan grins awkwardly, unsure whether she’s mocking him or flirting with him, and still unsure what he, as a homeowner, is supposed to do about strangers in his backyard, even if they are exceptionally cute.

“So, this is weird,” Dick offers.

“Hey, honey!” Logan turns; Keith is coming down the steps of the deck with burger buns and cheese in hand, beaming at the interloper.

“And it just got weirder,” Casey announces.

“Yup,” echoes his date. “More drinks?”

“You bet.” They wander off arm in arm; Casey salutes Logan with his beer can.

“What are you doing here, sweetheart?” Keith says, dumping his armful of food onto the picnic table so he can hug the blonde girl.

She shrugs, looking considerably more relaxed now that he’s appeared. “I’m an only child, dad, you didn’t honestly expect me to let you adopt a whole party without at least coming over to check up on you. I’ve never had to share before.”

Keith laughs. “Of course, why didn’t I think of that. Why wouldn’t my grown adult daughter show up at an honest Craigslist gig to make sure she wasn’t losing her spot as my favorite child?”

“I dunno,” Dick says suspiciously, “I think she might also be here to flirt with Logan.”

“You two have met?” Keith turns a surprised look on Logan, who does his best innocent blink and tries not to broadcast that a few seconds ago he was considering using Duncan’s spill as an excuse to take his shirt off in front of this girl.

“Only just now,” Keith’s daughter assures him.

Logan nods. “You’re V. Mars?”

“Veronica,” she answers. She offers her hand to shake.

“Don’t take this personally,” Logan says, “but I wouldn’t. I’m honestly kind of covered in Mike’s hard black cherry lemonade.”

“That exists?” she says.

“There’s no limit to the abominations which crawl this earth,” he replies, straight-faced. She laughs.

“See what I mean,” Dick says to Keith. Keith looks at him blankly; Dick belches, shoots Logan a complicated and incomprehensible hand gesture, and wanders off after Casey, leaving Logan alone with the two Marses. He looks back and forth between them, trying not to stare, and wondering if it would be weird to ask what kind of degree Veronica just graduated with based on the picture Keith sent.

“So!” Veronica says, into the strained silence. “You’ve been treating my dad well?”

“He’s getting all of the standard grill-dad benefits,” Logan answers. “We didn’t want to have the agency all over us, or god forbid, the unions.”

Veronica smiles in acknowledgment, but her eyes flick to her dad with something like nervousness.

“Do you two need a minute?” Logan offers.

“No!” says Keith, confidently calm. “Everything’s all fine, here. Son, can you start putting cheese on hamburger buns? Veronica, honey, help him?”

Veronica rolls her eyes, but bumps Logan out of the way with her hip so she can grab the cheese. “So, daaad,” she says, sing-song.

“Veronica,” he says, warningly.

She actually pouts. “Come on, dad,” she says, the words coming quicker now. “It’s pretty clear Logan doesn’t care about you being his fake father for the day; his entire body flinched when you called him son.”

Logan hands her a hamburger bun he removed from the block of them in the bag, says mildly, “I thought I managed to reserve my flinch to only seventy percent of my body.”

“Nope!” Veronica gives him an apologetic smile, and then turns back to Keith. “Dad, please.”

Keith glances at Logan, back at her, and sighs. “Make it quick, Veronica.”

She drops the package of cheese and reaches into her bag to retrieve a giant camera. “So-o-o,” she says, lowering her voice, “you know that guy I’ve been on all week for a completely unrelated…work thing?”

Keith rolls his eyes. “Yes.”

“Well, he just walked through the front door of your guy’s house.”

“No, he didn’t,” Keith says drily. She tabs through a few photos on the display, shows him one. Keith looks at her. “That can’t be good.”

She lets out a huff of breath. “No, I didn’t think so either.”

“I can see both exits from here, honey, and I haven’t turned my back once.”

“From here?” Logan repeats.

They ignore him. “If I didn’t notice him going in, it was because I wasn’t looking for people entering,” Keith continues, reassuringly. “Nobody could have gotten away, so they must all just be inside. We’ll wait it out, it’ll be fine.”

Logan is just about to give up and leave them to it so he can find another drink, and maybe even change his shirt, but that, of course, is when the air is filled with the sound of breaking glass.

Some kind of instinct takes over and he dives in between the sound and Veronica, dragging her to the ground with him despite her incoherent noise of protest. He looks up in time to see a flailing person hit the ground below the next-door-neighbor’s maple tree, surrounded by the debris from the shattered second-story window.

“That’s yours!” Veronica gasps, but Keith has already produced a gun from somewhere under his novelty apron and is pointing it at where the fallen man has gotten unsteadily to his feet.

“Police!” Keith shouts. “Don’t move!”

There’s a stunned pause, Logan takes in the faces of gaping astonishment on his friends, and then the man takes off running in the opposite direction. Keith lets out a brief curse and rips off his apron. “He’s running,” he announces to thin air, and Logan hears a siren start up down the street, so apparently he really is police. Keith throws the apron at Veronica. “Don’t let the hamburgers burn,” he orders, and then he climbs on the picnic table, vaults clumsily over the neighbor’s fence, and takes off after the runner.

“You’re going to strain your back,” Veronica yells after him, almost petulant. She elbows Logan in the ribs and he rolls off her, not sure whether she’s about to join in the chase herself or whether she’s just going to lay into him for tackling her. She gets up, checks her camera and is apparently convinced that its not broken, but still looks dissatisfied about something. She peeks into the grill, lifts a single burger with the forgotten spatula. “They’re not going to burn,” she says, disdainfully.

“Dude.” Dick jogs over so he can give Logan a hand up off the ground. “Dude,” Dick repeats, “is it just me or was our grill-dad packing heat?”

Logan pats his arm. “Not only was he packing heat, but he was almost definitely using us to surveille the house next door.”

Dick looks flabbergasted. “Shit, man. Even my fake dad didn’t really want to spend time with me.”

“I’m sure he’ll be back, once they’ve collared the guy,” Veronica offers. As if inspired, she removes the first burger patty from the grill, puts it on one of their prepared buns, and hands it to him.

Dick looks at it suspiciously, takes a bite, and then nods, but adds accusingly, “Whatever, man. I’m going to need therapy from this.” He shoots a finger gun at Logan. “So, you do whatever you’re doing here, I’m gonna go apologize to Susan for exposing her child to all this violence.”

“That’s really mature and responsible of you, Dick,” Logan says, surprised.

“Duh,” says Dick. “It’s up to us to break the cycle.” And with that, he heads back towards the rest of the party, who are all staring at Veronica with no small amount of apprehension. She doesn’t seem to notice, but absently picks up Keith’s apron and puts it on, and starts assembling burgers.

Logan can’t help but ask, “You’re not going to follow them?”

“Nope,” she says, shortly, “not my case.”

“Do you need to go after…your guy?”

“No, I’ve got the pictures I needed.”

“Then I’m sure Keith would appreciate the backup…?”

She lets out a short laugh, and Logan sees with dawning comprehension that she’s worried. “He needs it,” she answers, “but he wouldn’t appreciate it. I don’t have the clearance.”

“You’re not his partner?”

She turns to look at him like he’s an idiot. “No-o-o,” she says. “I’m his daughter.”

Logan grins, lifts his hands in surrender. “Sorry, I wasn’t sure how deep the undercover scheme went.” She snorts, flips her hair over her shoulder, and turns back to the grill. “That one on the right is getting a little overdone,” he says, pointing.

“No it’s not.” She swats his hand away, and then moves the offending burger closer to the coals, Logan suspects just to be contrary.

“So you’re not a cop?” he tries again. She shoots him an exasperated glance over her shoulder, he grins, says, “If you’re not a cop, why were you surveilling the house too?”

She huffs a sigh, puts the spatula down with a clatter, and reaches for her bag where it had fallen on the ground. “Here,” she says, and tosses something at him. He catches it, turns it around, opens it.

“You’re a private detective?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Not a cop?”

“I’m going to throw a hamburger at you.”

Logan laughs. “So, what, you didn’t want to follow in your father’s footsteps?”

“I did, he didn’t,” Veronica says casually, returning her focus to the grill. “He wanted me to aim higher. I got accepted to Quantico, and was sent home after three weeks because of my issue with authority.” She shrugs, spins the spatula like a baton. “Turns out, I’m more suited for private eye work than I am for either the feds or the boys in blue anyway.”

“Huh.”

“What?”

Logan shrugs, thinking that she was already exceptionally cute, but she just became the most fascinating person on the planet. “I don’t know.”

She removes the last burger from the grill and spins to look at him, hands on her hips. He feels a goofy grin spreading over his face, and she rolls her eyes at him. “What, Logan?”

“You should only wear this.”

She looks down at Keith’s apron, which reads in big, bold letters, “NEVER TRUST A SKINNY CHEF”. She snorts. “If you haven’t figured out yet that you shouldn’t trust me, no amount of written reminders are going to do the trick.”

Logan ducks his head, rubs the back of his neck. “So I’m trusting, sue me.”

“Ah!” She taps her chin with one finger, mock-contemplative. “Is that how you ended up advertising for a strange dad to on-site cater your barbecue?”

“That wasn’t my idea.” Veronica raises her eyebrows, Logan adds, “I actually feel a lot better about your dad now.”

“You feel a lot better about him now that you know he deceived you?”

“Well, yeah,” Logan admits. “He seemed way too normal to be the kind of person who responds to Craigslist ads, so there definitely had to be a catch.” She raises her eyebrows at him, he adds lamely, “So it’s nice that the catch was he’s mainly here to catch bad guys.”

As if on cue, Veronica’s cell phone buzzes; she picks up on the first ring. “Dad?” The worry smooths away from her face at his response, and she mouths a quick apology to Logan before retreating into the corner of the yard to debrief. The last thing he hears her say is “I can’t believe you jumped over that fence, are you trying to kill me?”

Logan walks over to where Dick and Gia are relating the main event to Duncan, who has reemerged and is trying very hard to appear as if he doesn’t regret missing out. “Then Keith magically pulled a gun out of nowhere,” Dick says, miming in slow motion, “and yelled get on the ground or I’ll shoot!”

“He didn’t exactly yell that,” Gia puts in. “I’m pretty sure he basically just said ‘police’.”

Dick ignores her, too invested in the story. “But the guy just books it, and so Keith literally vaulted over the fence and chased after him, yelling and firing at him –”

“No,” Gia says.

Duncan rolls his eyes. “This is what you get for inviting strangers into your home,” he says derisively.

“Trained professionals to arrest the criminal who apparently lived next door to us anyway?” Logan pipes up.

“Professional or not,” Gia says, upbeat, “as soon as shit started to go down, Logan shielded the cop’s daughter with his body, which was pretty cool.”

“Aww,” says Lilly, coming up to put an arm around her brother’s shoulders. “And you were out in the car, sulking because everyone laughed at your drink choice!”

Reminded, Logan glances down at his shirt, which he’d mostly forgotten in all the excitement; it is now starting to stick to his skin uncomfortably. What the hell, Keith won’t be back for twenty minutes at least; he can definitely get some mileage out of this. He takes the shirt off. The girls wolf-whistle, Duncan groans.

“You know,” Lilly suggests slyly, “there are definitely easier ways than Craigslist to incorporate a new father figure into your life.”

“What?” says Dick, immediately intrigued. “Is there a more specific service?”

“Is there?” Logan repeats, alarmed.

Lilly starts laughing. “You’re both idiots,” Duncan tells them, with significantly more affection now that his knowing something they don’t has reestablished him in a position of authority.

Gia appears to be about ready to take pity on them, but is interrupted by Veronica’s return. “They got the guy,” she announces. “Dad is driving him to the station. Logan, he says he’s leaving you in charge until he gets back, not Richard.”

Dick flips her off; Logan replies, “I’m touched that he’s ceding authority to me in my own home.”

Veronica performs an elaborate double take, gestures at the house. “This is yours?”

“As far as the eye can see, or at least until where I imagine the police tape will be going up.”

“It’s my house, too,” Dick puts in.

Veronica ignores him. “I took you for an out-of-towner,” she tells Logan.

The fact that she thought of this means she’s not uninterested in the possibility of seeing him again. “Nope, local boy, though and through.”

Veronica eyes him thoughtfully. “And why are you half naked?”

He realizes he doesn’t actually have a good reason. “I was really starting to smell?”

She pretends to consider this. “I guess I’ll take it,” she finally says. Lilly starts cackling.

Logan tries not to preen. “Veronica, this is everybody; everybody, Veronica.” Veronica waves awkwardly.

“Are you going to stick around until your dad gets back?” Gia asks, faux-innocent.

Veronica looks sidelong at Logan. “Stay,” he says, hearing it come out somehow as if he were laying his heart on the line. He adds, more casually, “You can scold him for his fence-jumping.”

She considers him. “Do you have anything other than Mike’s hard black cherry lemonade?”

He cracks a smile. “I think I can scare something up.”

“The good stuff is all inside,” Lilly lies, straight-faced, then elbows Duncan, who says with faux-enthusiasm, “Oh yeah, and while you’re in there, maybe Logan could put a shirt on.”

“Like, if one jumps out at him,” Gia puts in. “Not every color works on Logan.”

“Yeah,” says Lilly. “He went through a whole orange phase. It was bad.”

Veronica looks bewilderedly around the circle, then back up at Logan. “I guess I could stay awhile,” she says, a smile pulling at her mouth.

“Don’t forget to grab hamburgers before you go in,” Dick says, serious. “That’s literally the whole point.”

“Right,” says Logan, not taking his eyes off Veronica. “Thank goodness for those hamburgers.”

-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-

Yahoo answers post from user MeCasablancasIsTooCasablancas:

So a few years ago I met this really cool dad, super great, very wise, lot to offer as a father figure. I put a lot of effort into getting to know him and he’s always been totally chill. My roommate, on the other hand, barely wanted to talk to the dad, from day one. Only problem is, now that’s changed and we’re in competition, and I was wondering, how do I make sure that my prior claim to the dad is respected? My roommate didn’t even want a dad, but now just because he’s marrying the guy’s daughter everyone’s telling me father-in-law trumps the fact that I clearly called dibs? This can’t be right.

Also, the wedding is in two months, and even though there’s no way they go through with it, just in case please go to Craigslist and look for my post seeking a new roommate. If it helps, we have a grill.

#LV AU week #veronica mars #cate fic #vm #this fic brought to you by general insanity and my conveniently timed spring break #aaaaaaaand that's it for now folks!!#I promise I am working on the teachers AU #it's just very difficult to write a teacher AU #without including lots of stuff about students #which takes up space and time

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janeykath318 · 7 years

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Surfer Dad and Ice Cream Lady

Pairing: Bones x Reader

Prompt: “You’re a hot surfer and I’m an awkward person working at an ice cream stand.” The hot sun beat down on you relentlessly as you stood at your post, dipping out ice cream cones for beachgoers in need of a cool treat. “Here you go, sweetie,” you said, handing a vanilla cone to a happy looking little girl with adorable brown curls. An older woman with silvery brown hair handed you the money and reminded the girl to thank you, which she did with a messy smile that totally melted your heart. What a refreshing moment in a long day filled with rude, crude, and often whiny people.

(No, you did not have a dairy free option. There’s a slushy place just twenty yards away.) Don’t take out your rage on me. I just work here. Don’t you even dare make a milkshake joke, you pervert. My eyes are up here, by the way. Watching the girl walk away, happily licking at her cone, your eyes were drawn to the water where swimmers and surfers could be seen cavorting. You wished you were one of them, especially with the heat and boredom of being in the same place all day. Thank goodness there was only one more hour before closing. One of the surfers was looked like he’d been born on a board, so nimble and steady he was riding the waves. Clad in a dark blue wetsuit, he was clearly having the time of his life. The curly haired girl you’d just served cheered and clapped as the man did a particularly nifty move and you wondered if he was her dad. Pretty nimble and he obviously kept fit, given how perfectly that wet suit fit him. You pulled your eyes away and went back to serving customers, thinking about your plans for the upcoming school year. The little girl was just about the same age as your students and reminded you of the need to start getting supplies bought and lessons planned. Forty minutes later, you were jotting down lists on a napkin when the girl appeared again—this time with both the older woman and the surfer dude, who was insanely hot, you quickly realized the closer he got. Trying not to blush, you tried a friendly smile. “Can I help you?” You asked, managing to not stutter. The man grinned back with the most delightfully dimply smile you’d ever seen. Flip-flop went your heart. Uh-oh. “I’ve been told that you sell delicious ice cream. Isn’t that right, Jo?” The brown haired girl nodded enthusiastically. “The best!” She exclaimed. “So,” hot surfer dude continued, “I decided it would be very foolish of me to miss out.” His eyes scanned the menu board and briefly you. “How about a two scoop chocolate cone?” “Coming right up!” You replied cheerily. “Sugar cone or waffle?” “Waffle all the way,” Surfer Dude declared. Smart guy you thought. Waffle cones were infinitely superior with the flavor and satisfying crunch. “Here you go!” You Said, handing him the cone and turning pink when your fingers accidentally touched his. Even through the gloves you were required to wear, you were hyper aware of the contact, and quickly pulled your hand back. “That’s $2.50,” you told him, wishing you weren’t quite so awkward around nice men.” He paid and looked around the tiny building you were stationed in. “Hope you’ve got plenty of hydration. Wouldn’t want to see a nice young lady like yourself keeling over from heat exhaustion.” “Oh, I learned my lesson about that last summer,” you assured him. “There’s a dozen water bottles stashed away in here. Thanks for your concern. By the way, nice surfing skills.” “I’m not great, but it’s a great way to relax. I tend to be a workaholic, but when I do take time off, there’s nothing better than spending the day with my favorite girls.” He took a big lick of his cone and beamed at his family. “Take care, Ma’am.” He said politely. “Have a nice day!!” You returned, waving at the group as they walked off. You didn’t think you’d see any more of cute brunette girl and Hot Surfer Dad, but the next week, they were back again, but this time the man was in a white T-shirt and colorful swim trunks. “Back again?” You greeted, when they approached the stand. “Yep. One last time before things get busy with school staring up.” “Ugh.” The daughter made a face. “You’re not looking forward to it, I take it?” You asked sympathetically. “Not the beginning,” she admitted. “It’s always hard getting used to new people and teachers.” “It is,” you agreed. “You look like a bright kid who adjusts quickly, though. What can I get you?” After they’d given their order and you handed them their cones, the man introduced himself as Leonard and his daughter as Joanna. “You’re awfully good with children, Miss....” “Y/N,” You supplied. “And I should be given how much time I spend with them. I’m an elementary school teacher,” you explained. Joanna’s eyes widened. “Really? What grade?” “Third,” you answered her. “That’s the grade I’m going into,” She said, looking less doleful now. “Awesome!” You said. “What do you want to be when you grow up?” “At first I wanted to be a doctor, like daddy, but I realized I don’t like being around blood so I want to a scientist.” “Ooh. That’s fantastic,” you told her. “We could always use more scientists!” You were trying hard to concentrate and not to notice how built Leonard was as he was standing so close. Interacting with children was so much easier for you than men. “You get much business here?” He asked. “It’s slowing down now,” you answered. “June and July are really busy, but August it’s quieter. Oh, you have some ice cream on your nose,” You pointed out. Leonard wiped it off sheepishly as Joanna giggled. “How embarrassing to make such a mess in front of such a classy lady,” he remarked, giving you an appreciative look. Was that flirting? “Trust me, it happens a lot,” you assured him. “Ice Cream can be messy.” “A lot like life,” he said sagely, eyes looking far away for a moment. You and Joanna kept up a conversation for a few minutes before they finished their cones and headed back to the beach. On your last evening working the stand, you closed down and took your blanket to the beach to watch the sun go down. It was so beautiful you were held spellbound by the sky’s breathtaking display of pink, orange, and red, finally allowing yourself to relax. “Gorgeous, isn’t it?” Came from your left and you turned to see Leonard standing there, surfboard in hand, toweling himself off. “Yeah....it is...” you said in a strangled voice, fighting the urge to add and so are you. “Glad they finally let you out of that cramped box to get some fresh air,” he commented. “I closed down for the last time,” you sighed. “Back to the real world and lesson plans tomorrow.” “Good thing I ran into you then,” he suddenly said. “It would be an awful shame if I missed my chance to ask you if you’d like to have dinner sometime. Jo sure likes you and I do too.” “I guess that means you’re single then?” You returned with a teasing smile. “When there’s a kid involved, I like to make sure.” “That’s thoughtful of you, but I’m very much single. Jo’s Mom found greener pastures elsewhere when she was a toddler.” “Aw, That sounds rough,” You sympathized. “I’m glad you and Jo stayed close.” “I can’t imagine otherwise,” he said seriously. “But you haven’t answered my question yet.” “Sure, I’ll go out with you,” you began with a gleam in your eyes, “if you’ll agree to teach me how to surf.” Hazel eyes looked at you with a very delighted approval. “I’d be glad to, Y/N.” A date AND an opportunity to see Leonard in a wetsuit again? Now that was a win-win situation.

@yourtropegirl @southernbellestatues @supermoonpanda

@outside-the-government @starshiphufflebadger @medicatemedrmccoy @star-trekkin-across-theuniverse

Finally, A fic where I can tag people!

#leonard mccoy x reader #bones x reader #my fics #reader imagines #AU

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anpanmanslaps · 7 years

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tag ten followers you want to get to know better!

tagged by @officialfinnwolfhard thanks buddy!

NAME: Kasey

GENDER: floating orb of benevolent intent

STAR SIGN: libra

HEIGHT: i cant reach shit my dude

WHAT IMAGES DO U HAVE AS YOUR WALLPAPERS? my cellphone wallpaper is a raw af Thor Ragnarok poster and my computer wallpaper is the movie poster for Kong Skull Island? that movie was gr9 and the colors are beautiful

HAVE U EVER HAD A CRUSH ON A TEACHER? nope. im from the south all of our teachers are old women and sports coaches

WHAT WAS YOUR LAST TEXT MESSAGE? "fuckin sure”

WHAT DO U SEE YOURSELF DOING IN TEN YEARS? dont make me exist that long

IF YOU COULD BE ANYWHERE RIGHT NOW, WHERE WOULD YOU BE? in the woods. covered in moss. surrounded by mist. a log.

WHAT WAS YOUR COOLEST HALLOWEEN COSTUME: one time i made my own queen of hearts costume so that was pretty neat

FAVORITE 90S SHOW? power rangers? that was nineties right? Well that’s when I watched it soooo, power rangers

WHO WAS YOUR LAST KISS? im up all night to kiss puppies

HAVE U EVER BEEN STOOD UP? i dont think so??

FAVORITE ICE CREAM FLAVOR?: extreme moose tracks lmaoooo

HAVE U BEEN TO LAS VEGAS? no but i wanna go because. lights.

YOUR FAVORITE PAIR OF SHOES? my flip flops lmaooo theyre so ugly but i love them

YOUR FAVORITE FRUIT? do i look like a human that is capable of decision? i lose my shit over fruit. apples? hell yeah. oranges? YASS kiwi? yes yes YES mangoes? heart eyes motherfucker. blueberries? Not a fruit? I dont give a SHIT

YOUR FAVORITE BOOK? currently the bear and the nightingale but some of my all time faves are and then there were none, gone girl, and howls moving castle

WHATS THE STUPIDEST THING YOU’VE EVER DONE? one time I didn’t put my truck in park and got pinned in between a gate and a vehicle because i am, at best, incompetent. also, tonight, instead of saying “enjoy your meal” i told a customer that i love them so there’s that

WHICH LOSER? im very fond of eddie and no amount of call-out posts will change that.

im tagging @essentiallychaotic @brohorel @insideyouraddiction @beauty-grace-outer-space @urban-trek-thru-middle-earth @spacecores andddddd anyone else that wants to do this :’)

#tagged things

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thesylvalining · 7 years

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Now don’t get all peanut butter and jelly (jealous?) on me but it’s turning out I am on perma-cation. This time of year in my “adult” life I’d typically be slaving away at Arapahoe Cafe, or before that on a trail crew in Colorado, or before that fighting a forest fire somewhere. Occasionally I ponder how hard it’s going to be to return to normal life–but then again, I never really believed in a normal life, did I? Most importantly, I’ve been presented with a year off and I’ve grabbed it, like a bull by the horns 🙂

Recently, I reconnected with my (now married!) pal Nicolette, aka Nini. Both of us are as good at keeping in touch as two similar poles on a magnet. But as soon as one of us remembers to switch poles, it’s like nothing ever changed. I told her about my magical year off thus far and she said, “Or year on.” Ole! Nini’s right. It’s my year on–on course, on a joyful wavelength, on a big, free, unplanned adventure.

And during this exact moment of my year on, Faenza–as elsewhere in Italy and the world–is waist deep in a heat wave; two days ago, we passed a sign reading 44 C (111.2 F). In the un-airconditioned castle, post-midnight, the temperature clung to 32 C (89.6 F). The only solution: to go neck-deep in a river. Lisa and I chose the Montone, specifically a her happy place outside Bocconi. By car? I’m surprised you’d even ask!

After the quaint town of Tredozio and a decent, sweaty climb, we stopped to check out Romagna’s very own vulcano (volcano)–in all reality, a fumarole. Even if Lisa hadn’t been there many times before, it was easy enough to find…

At first glance the fumarole appeared to be dressed for Halloween–quite convincingly–as a rocky, pyramid-shaped campfire. But, perched on the dry lip of a wheat field overlooking a valley of relatively green hills, the vulcano was still impressive. Its bold orange flame licked the air like I wished I could lick a popsicle; we were careful not to get too close lest we lose what electrolytes we had left to sweating (more) profusely.

Arriving at The Guardrail, we tiptoed down the steep dirt path to the river in our bike shoes like newborn goats on an icy lake. After claiming a flat boulder, we set up shop and devoured the “cold” basil and tomato quinoa salad chef Lisa prepared. We chipped away at the afternoon happily watching leaves blowing in the wind, reading, journaling, dunking, drying off and doing a whole lot of Important Nothing.

Of course, Murphy’s River Law went into effect once we’d set up shop: clouds gathered like a band of hippies in front of the last Cannibus plant on earth, crowding in so close they blocked out the sun and the heat. Of course, every other moment had been vulcano-hot; luckily we decided to stay anyway and the mountain storms came and went quickly.

On our return, we barely dodged the wet bullet of a real soaker. We hid out under the eave of a bar where old Romagnolo men did their best to shield us from the elements with their curiosity.

Oh no, is it raining?!?!

Yay, it’s raining!!!

We capped off the day and the ride back with friends at a sagra (an Italian outdoor summer festival with dancing, music and most importantly: food) in Santa Lucia, just outside Faenza. Santa Lucia’s sagra celebrated the numerous joys of cappelletti, local pasta formed like a hat (un cappello) and stuffed with cheese or meat. Afterward, we felt like twice-stuffed cappelletti and managed to sleep with the help of our two, dueling fans.

In the midst of the worst drought in at least 60 years and a two-week heat wave the likes of which could fry an egg inside a fridge, it became apparent we needed to do Important Nothings Near Water. So two days later, we were dominating the flats from here to Marina Romea on our bikes, destination Romea Family Camping, Boca Barranca and water. The coolest part: we followed the partially gravel route along the very same Montone River all the way to the murky, refreshing waters of the Adriatic.

We made a weekend of it, setting up shop next to my favorite animal in the whole world:

And then we committed to a refreshing yo-yo between our lettini (beach chairs) and the Adriatic. The only interruption to circular heaven was a shower to rinse off the salt water before succumbing to another nap, seafood lunch and later Spritz in Boca Barranca’s breezy, outdoor dining room.

That evening, of course, said dining room transformed into the dance floor we were all too familiar with. The first night was Club Adriatico, techno beats and a young, too-cool crowd that didn’t mingle much, except among themselves. We turned in early (aka before 3 a.m.), in order to spend maximum time at the beach again in the morning…

Girls just wanna have fun! In the sun!

Glad we got our nails did, early birthday present from Lisa 🙂

The next evening, we rode bikes north along the coast, took the little traghetto (ferry) across the canal, ate our weight in fresh, fried seafood at locally infamous Baracchina and arrived just in time at Hanabi for the concert to begin. If we had socks on for some reason, the band would’ve blown them off. Xixa (chee-chuh), from Tuscon, Arizona, played and their sound was Mex-American, like an aural taco in a cowboy boot. Their energy was infectious, the lead singer (who raucously climbed on top of the drum set at the end of the last song) was swimming in charisma. We met and thanked the entire, chill very attractive band afterwards at the merch table.

And then we beelined back and danced our proverbial pants off until 3 a.m. This time, the flavor was house and the crowd was an older, quirky group we seasoned veterans hadn’t yet spotted in the hallowed, sandy halls of Boca. It became quickly apparent the Faenza-based DJ (who may or may not have snuck away to do some coke and come back with more than enough energy to head bang to house music) had a cult following. This crowd came to dance, not pick up chicks or dudes or stand around and stare and drool and be creepy while we danced. Ages ranged from blushing youths like ourselves to–literally– grandma in her flowered mu-mu.

We were plastered to the dance floor like the sweat which clung to us like drunk flies on heat-melted proscuitto. Afterwards, we were past primed for bed. Back at the tent, an angry buzzing arose like fish burps from the bottom of the shallow river in Bocconi. A large fly? A bee? If I got a euro for every time I’ve gotten gnawed on by an insect, I’d retire yesterday so, of course, we had to find the source.

“I think it’s coming from your ass,” said Lisa, after we’d ripped the tent apart like the biggest, most mysterious Christmas present under the tree. And yet the bedding, pillows, pads and tent were oddly insect free. And we hadn’t had a drink since the bottle of wine sloshing around with our seafood. Still the buzz prevailed.

I peered under the tent–in case the idiot bug mistook itself for a gopher–and Lisa put her ear to my thick, orange Big Agnes sleeping pad. The same one with a single entrance and exit: the valve I spend 20 years of my life blowing through each time we camp.

“It’s inside your mat,” she said, as the warm three a.m. breeze came to investigate. We looked at each other incredulously, shrugged, remade our beds and laid down. Lisa fell asleep immediately with her mouth open, intent on catching whatever else was going to sting me later. Meanwhile, the drowsy buzz continued on and off–Zzzz. Zzzzzzzzz. Zz–until I flopped off the sweaty ledge into sleep.

I must say, before moving on, I didn’t think my peculiar relationship with insect-kind could get any stranger. But now I’ve had a winged tenant residing inside my sleeping pad, I realize it can always get stranger.

Miss Merighi–per usual–rose when sunlight invaded the tent and made her way to a prime beach spot. I slept soundly, like the insect inside my sleeping bag which was certainly dead and baked to a crisp. Outside, a battery-powered car driven in ever-decreasing circles around the tent by the kids next door encroached on my dreams.

“Guarda,” I heard mom say, loudly. Then, insistently, “Guarda avanti!” Or, “Watch in front!” This statement was followed by a crashing noise, which was the tree next to the unicorn and also the end of my rest.

Sunday was another beach day. That evening, once it had “cooled down,” (which was more or less the difference between riding bikes in a dry sauna and riding bikes in a dry sauna with the door cracked), we rode home.

My favorite bike fence in the rural hinterlands of Emilia-Romagna.

Back at the castle, the air crept about like a stoned tortoise and the temperature gauge once again moved about as much as the house DJ, pre coke. I’m part of a strange breed of humans whose progeny has largely died out and who naturally prefers sweating to shivering. But even I had to concede the better choice was to escape Faenza again, as if chased by a herd of zombies intent on eating only endangered, warm-weather brains.

And where better than back to Bocconi, where we could make our world a slab of rock in the shade of a quivering tree…

… or explore the neighboring world in the cool, green waters and dry off on a hot rock…

… or wander barefoot for hours upstream to discover quieter swimming holes…

For much of the day, with the heat wave in full effect, the riverbanks were crowded for a Wednesday. But once darkness curled its fingers around the stone amphitheater of the river’s bend, the crowd evaporated. So we set up our (illegal) tent by the gurgling river…

DCIM101GOPRO

… tried to make dinner and realized since it’s our first time camping, we forgot a lighter AGAIN. We ate piadina and ripe melone instead and chilled in our swimsuits until we turned in around midnight. Before sleeping, we meandered barefoot downstream and laid on a flat rock, still warm with sunshine heat. I lost all track of time, observing the stars observing us.

In the morning, we logged in river nymph time (wandering around or sunning ourselves totally naked). It felt gloriously wild and free. Eventually people trickled in like a bead of sweat between… well never mind. Anyway, we frantically traded swimsuits for birthday suits and resumed our earlier positions…

They say all good things must come to an end, but first, how do they know? And also, can they end when buttressed on either side with more good things? I’m not sure, but at any rate our next adventure called so we picked up the phone, packed up our tent, left the area clear of our presence, hiked up the steep hill to the road…

…bombed down hot pavement on bikes with a crescione break at our new favorite kiosk…

… and arrived back at the castle before the stars popped out of the hot, humid skies like mystery bugs from a sleeping pad.

I can’t even taunt you with teaser of the next adventure because this blog–for once–nearly brings us up to speed. Just in case you were worried about a lack of blog material, I’ll touch on the wonder that was my birthday (August 6th) and tomorrow (for almost the next two weeks) Lisa and I trade hot Faenza for the cool Italian alps. Alla prossima!

Water You Up To? Now don't get all peanut butter and jelly (jealous?) on me but it's turning out I am on perma-cation.

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