#their footing seemed more equal than it had before vegas but here he is doing the same thing again

[lisbonsteresa]

seeking directions for the nearest cliff

[mcmansionhell]

Underground, Part 1

[Author’s Note: A year ago, when waiting for the DC Metro, I came up with an idea for a short story involving two realtors and the infamous Las Vegas Underground House, typed up an outline, and shoved it away in my documents where it sat neglected until this month. The house recently resurfaced on Twitter, and combined with almost a year of quarantine, the story quickly materialized. Though I rarely write fiction, I decided I’d give it a shot as a kind of novelty McMansion Hell post. I’ve peppered the story with photos from the house to break up the walls of text. Hopefully you find it entertaining. I look forward to returning next month with the second installment of this as well as our regularly scheduled McMansion content. Happy New Year!

Warning: there’s lots of swearing in this.]

Underground

Back in 1997, Mathieu Rino, the son of two Finnish mechanical engineers who may or may not have worked intimately with the US State Department, changed his name to Jay Renault in order to sell more houses. It worked wonders.

He gets out of the car, shuts the door harder than he should. Renault wrinkles his nose. It’s a miserable Las Vegas afternoon - a sizzling, dry heat pools in ripples above the asphalt. The desert is a place that is full of interesting and diverse forms of life, but Jay’s the kind of American who sees it all as empty square-footage. He frowns at the dirt dusting up his alligator-skin loafers but then remembers that every lot, after all, has potential. Renault wipes the sweat from his leathery face, slicks back his stringy blond hair and adjusts the aviators on the bridge of his nose. The Breitling diving watch crowding his wrist looks especially big in the afternoon glare. He glances at it.

“Shit,” he says. The door on the other side of the car closes, as though in response. 

If Jay Renault is the consummate rich, out-of-touch Gen-Xer trying to sell houses to other rich, out-of-touch Gen-Xers, then Robert Little is his millennial counterpart. Both are very good at their jobs. Robert adjusts his tie in the reflection of the Porsche window, purses his lips. He’s Vegas-showman attractive, with dark hair, a decent tan, and a too-bright smile - the kind of attractive that ruins marriages but makes for an excellent divorcee. Mildly sleazy.

“Help me with these platters, will you?” Renault gestures, popping the trunk. Robert does not want to sweat too much before an open house, but he obliges anyway. They’re both wearing suits. The heat is unbearable. A spread of charcuterie in one hand, Jay double-checks his pockets for the house keys, presses the button that locks his car. 

Both men sigh, and their eyes slowly trail up to the little stucco house sitting smack dab in the center of an enormous lot, a sea of gravel punctuated by a few sickly palms. The house has the distinct appearance of being made of cardboard, ticky-tacky, a show prop. Burnt orange awnings don its narrow windows, which somehow makes it look even more fake. 

“Here we go again,” Jay mutters, fishing the keys out of his pocket. He jiggles them until the splintered plywood door opens with a croak, revealing a dark and drab interior – dusty, even though the cleaners were here yesterday. Robert kicks the door shut with his foot behind him.

 “Christ,” he swears, eyes trailing over the terrible ecru sponge paint adorning the walls. “This shit is so bleak.”

The surface-level house is mostly empty. There’s nothing for them to see or attend to there, and so the men step through a narrow hallway at the end of which is an elevator. They could take the stairs, but don’t want to risk it with the platters. After all, they were quite expensive. Renault elbows the button and the doors part. 

“Let’s just get this over with,” he says as they step inside. The fluorescent lights above them buzz something awful. A cheery metal sign welcomes them to “Tex’s Hideaway.” Beneath it is an eldritch image of a cave, foreboding. Robert’s stomach’s in knots. Ever since the company assigned him to this property, he’s been terrified of it. He tells himself that the house is, in fact, creepy, that it is completely normal for him to be ill at ease. The elevator’s ding is harsh and mechanical. They step out. Jay flips a switch and the basement is flooded with eerie light. 

It’s famous, this house - The Las Vegas Underground House. The two realtors refer to it simply as “the bunker.” Built by an eccentric millionaire at the height of Cold War hysteria, it’s six-thousand square feet of paranoid, aspirational fantasy. The first thing anyone notices is the carpet – too-green, meant to resemble grass, sprawling out lawn-like, bookmarked by fake trees, each a front for a steel beam. Nothing can grow here. It imitates life, unable to sustain it. The leaves of the ficuses seem particularly plastic.

Bistro sets scatter the ‘yard’ (if one can call it that), and there’s plenty of outdoor activities – a parquet dance floor complete with pole and disco ball, a putt putt course, an outdoor grill made to look like it’s nestled in a rock, but in reality better resembles a baked potato. The pool and hot tub, both sculpted in concrete and fiberglass mimicking a natural rock formation, are less Playboy grotto and more Fred Flintstone. It’s a very seventies idea of fun.

Then, of course, there’s the house. That fucking house. 

A house built underground in 1978 was always meant to be a mansard – the mansard roof was a historical inevitability. The only other option was International Style modernism, but the millionaire and his wife were red-blooded anti-Communists. Hence, the mansard. Robert thinks the house looks like a fast-food restaurant. Jay thinks it looks like a lawn and tennis club he once attended as a child where he took badminton lessons from a swarthy Czech man named Jan. It’s drab and squat, made more open by big floor-to-ceiling windows nestled under fresh-looking cedar shingles. There’s no weather down here to shrivel them up.

“Shall we?” Jay drawls. The two make their way into the kitchen and set the platters down on the white tile countertop. Robert leans up against the island, careful of the oversized hood looming over the electric stovetop. He eyes the white cabinets, accented with Barbie pink trim. The matching linoleum floor squeaks under his Italian loafers. 

“I don’t understand why we bother doing this,” Robert complains. “Nobody’s seriously going to buy this shit, and the company’s out a hundred bucks for party platters.”

“It’s the same every time,” Renault agrees. “The only people who show up are Instagram kids and the crazies - you know, the same kind of freaks who’d pay money to see Chernobyl.” 

“Dark tourism, they call it.”

Jay checks his watch again. Being in here makes him nervous.

“Still an hour until open house,” he mutters. “I wish we could get drunk.”

Robert exhales deeply. He also wishes he could get drunk, but still, a job’s a job.

“I guess we should check to see if everything’s good to go.”

The men head into the living room. The beamed, slanted ceiling gives it a mid-century vibe, but the staging muddles the aura. Jay remembers making the call to the staging company. “Give us your spares,” he told them, “Whatever it is you’re not gonna miss. Nobody’ll ever buy this house anyway.” 

The result is eclectic – a mix of office furniture, neo-Tuscan McMansion garb, and stuffy waiting-room lamps, all scattered atop popcorn-butter shag carpeting. Hideous, Robert thinks. Then there’s the ‘entertaining’ room, which is a particular pain in the ass to them, because the carpet was so disgusting, they had to replace it with that fake wood floor just to be able to stand being in there for more than five minutes. There’s a heady stone fireplace on one wall, the kind they don’t make anymore, a hearth. Next to it, equally hedonistic, a full bar. Through some doors, a red-painted room with a pool table and paintings of girls in fedoras on the wall. It’s all so cheap, really. Jay pulls out a folded piece of paper out of his jacket pocket along with a pen. He ticks some boxes and moves on.

The dining room’s the worst to Robert. Somehow the ugly floral pattern on the curtains stretches up in bloomer-like into a frilly cornice, carried through to the wallpaper and the ceiling, inescapable, suffocating. It smells like mothballs and old fabric. The whole house smells like that. 

The master bedroom’s the most normal – if anything in this house could be called normal. Mismatched art and staging furniture crowd blank walls. When someone comes into a house, Jay told Robert all those years ago, they should be able to picture themselves living in it. That’s the goal of staging. 

There’s two more bedrooms. The men go through them quickly. The first isn’t so bad – claustrophobic, but acceptable – but the saccharine pink tuille wallpaper of the second gives Renault a sympathetic toothache. The pair return to the kitchen to wait.

Both men are itching to check their phones, but there’s no point – there’s no signal in here, none whatsoever. Renault, cynical to the core, thinks about marketing the house to the anti-5G people. It’s unsettlingly quiet. The two men have no choice but to entertain themselves the old-fashioned way, through small talk.

“It’s really fucked up, when you think about it,” Renault muses.

“What is?”

“The house, Bob.”

Robert hates being called Bob. He’s told Jay that hundreds of times, and yet…

“Yeah,” Robert mutters, annoyed.

“No, really. Like, imagine. You’re rich, you founded a major multinational company marketing hairbrushes to stay-at-home moms, and what do you decide to do with your money? Move to Vegas and build a fucking bunker. Like, imagine thinking the end of the world is just around the corner, forcing your poor wife to live there for ten, fifteen years, and then dying, a paranoid old man.” Renault finds the whole thing rather poetic. 

“The Russkies really got to poor ol’ Henderson, didn’t they?” Robert snickers.

“The wife’s more tragic if you ask me,” Renault drawls. “The second that batshit old coot died, she called a guy to build a front house on top of this one, since she already owned the lot. Poor woman probably hadn’t seen sunlight in God knows how long.”

“Surely they had to get groceries.”

Jay frowns. Robert has no sense of drama, he thinks. Bad trait for a realtor.

“Still,” he murmurs. “It’s sad.”

“I would have gotten a divorce, if I were her,” the younger man says, as though it were obvious. It’s Jay’s turn to laugh.

“I’ve had three of those, and trust me, it’s not as easy as you think.”

“You’re seeing some new girl now, aren’t you?” Robert doesn’t really care, he just knows Jay likes to talk about himself, and talking fills the time.  

“Yeah. Casino girl. Twenty-six.”

“And how old are you again?”

“None of your business.”

“Did you see the renderings I emailed to you?” Robert asks briskly, not wanting to discuss Jay’s sex life any further.

“What renderings?”

“Of this house, what it could look like.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Jay has not seen the renderings.

“If it were rezoned,” Robert continues, feeling very smart, “It could be a tourist attraction - put a nice visitor’s center on the lot, make it sleek and modern. Sell trinkets. It’s a nice parcel, close to the Strip - some clever investor could make it into a Museum of Ice Cream-type thing, you know?”

“Museum of Ice Cream?”

“In New York. It’s, not, like, educational or anything. Really, it’s just a bunch of colorful rooms where kids come to take pictures of themselves.”

“Instagram,” Jay mutters. “You know, I just sold a penthouse the other week to an Instagram influencer. Takes pictures of herself on the beach to sell face cream or some shit. Eight-point-two million dollars.”

“Jesus,” Robert whistles. “Fat commission.”

“You’re telling me. My oldest daughter turns sixteen this year. She’s getting a Mazda for Christmas.”

“You ever see that show, My Super Sweet Sixteen? On MTV? Where rich kids got, like, rappers to perform at their birthday parties? Every time at the end, some guy would pull up in, like, an Escalade with a big pink bow on it and all the kids would scream.”

“Sounds stupid,” Jay says.

“It was stupid.”

It’s Robert’s turn to check his watch, a dainty gold Rolex.

“Fuck, still thirty minutes.”

“Time really does stand still in here, doesn’t it?” Jay remarks.

“We should have left the office a little later,” Robert complains. “The charcuterie is going to get –“

A deafening sound roars through the house and a violent, explosive tremor throws both men on the ground, shakes the walls and everything between them. The power’s out for a few seconds before there’s a flicker, and light fills the room again. Two backup generators, reads Jay’s description in the listing - an appeal to the prepper demographic, which trends higher in income than non-preppers. For a moment, the only things either are conscious of are the harsh flourescent lighting and the ringing in their ears. Time slows, everything seems muted and too bright. Robert rubs the side of his face, pulls back his hand and sees blood.

“Christ,” he chokes out. “What the hell was that?”

“I don’t know,” Jay breathes, looking at his hands, trying to determine if he’s got a concussion. The results are inconclusive – everything’s slow and fuzzy, but after a moment, he thinks it might just be shock.

“It sounded like a fucking 747 just nosedived on top of us.” 

“Yeah, Jesus.” Jay’s still staring at his fingers in a daze. “You okay?”

“I think so,” Robert grumbles. Jay gives him a cursory examination.

“Nothing that needs stitches,” he reports bluntly. Robert’s relieved. His face sells a lot of houses to a lot of lonely women and a few lonely men. There’s a muffled whine, which the two men soon recognize as a throng of sirens. Both of them try to calm the panic rising in their chests, to no avail.

“Whatever the fuck happened,” Jay says, trying to make light of the situation, “At least we’re in here. The bunker.”

Fear forms in the whites of Robert’s eyes.

“What if we’re stuck in here,” he whispers, afraid to speak such a thing into the world. The fear spreads to his companion.

“Try the elevator,” Jay urges, and Robert gets up, wobbles a little as his head sorts itself out, and leaves. A moment later, Jay hears him swear a blue streak, and from the kitchen window, sees him standing before the closed metal doors, staring at his feet. His pulse racing, Renault jogs out to see for himself.

“It’s dead,” Robert murmurs. 

“Whatever happened,” Jay says cautiously, rubbing the back of his still-sore neck, “It must have been pretty bad. Like, I don’t think we should go up yet. Besides, surely the office knows we’re still down here.”

“Right, right,” the younger man breathes, trying to reassure himself.

“Let’s just wait it out. I’m sure everything’s fine.” The way Jay says it does not make Robert feel any better. 

“Okay,” the younger man grumbles. “I’m getting a fucking drink, though.”

“Yeah, Jesus. That’s the best idea you’ve had all day.” Renault shoves his hands in his suit pocket to keep them from trembling.  

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[bbrandy2002]

Fool’s Rush In -- Chapter 16

Book: The Royal Romance

Pairing: Liam x MC

Warning: Some language, mild sexual talk

Since it’s been awhile since I last posted an update, in the previous chapter Madeleine had confronted Riley with a video after she left the ball. 

Thank you @burnsoslow for the preread and beta.

-------------

Riley sat on a leather bench at the foot of the bed with a television remote held loosely between her hands, folded in her lap. 

Somehow her worn-out body managed to walk from the corridor after the encounter with Madeleine, up the many stairs of the quarters she shared with Liam and to their bedroom. The shock of the situation combined with exhaustion and throbbing pain in her lower back was secondary to the fear she felt at possibly giving up the man she loved. 

With trembling hands, she had slipped the DVD into the player and watched her nightmare play out on the screen -- It was all true. Madeleine acquired an illicit video of Riley and her ex-husband that the Queen had no clue was recorded of her or existed.

Her thumb grazed over the pause button several times, but she knew pressing it wouldn’t stop the hurt and embarrassment she felt at that moment at watching her former husband violating her trust and privacy. It wouldn’t stop Madeleine from releasing the video of it to the press and public. And it wouldn't stop the love she felt for Liam -- no one was powerful enough to take that feeling away from her.

But it was those words Madeleine threatened her with that got equal consideration with that video in Riley’s mind. She tried to envision how the scenario would carry out if the video was released and for those who would be affected by it: her father, her friends, her former students. 

Liam.

“It’s a shame that he’ll lose his reign, all because of you.”

“Would you really do that to Liam?”

“Do you genuinely believe you’re worth all the trouble it will cause him?”

Riley hit the pause button, her hands flying up to cover her tear-laden face as she bent over in sobs, shaking her head. She was wrestling with that inner voice, replaying Madeleine’s words like a broken record while struggling to remember everything Liam told her about trusting him and his love for her.

No matter how hard she tried to let his tender voice speak to that sacred place in her heart, Madeleine’s threats and taunts were getting the best of her. If there was even a slight possibility that the Countess was right, and Liam would get dragged through the mud in all of this, then there was no question what needed to be done. 

Those scattered bricks that formed the walls she came to Cordonia with, the ones Liam had broken down, were quickly stacking up again, one on top of the other. If something didn’t happen soon, Riley would be surrounded and suffocated inside that impenetrable cocoon that initially caused herself to doubt her worthiness to him in the first place.

All of those insecurities and fears crept up faster than a flooded riverbank, and she felt powerless to stop it from rising. Even if she could, she’d never allow Liam to suffer the consequences of something she had the power to prevent. To hell with whatever happened to her, but not him. He saved her weeks ago, and as her teary gaze slid from her hands to the wardrobe closet across the room, this would be her way of saving him.

Riley picked up the remote from her lap and tossed it aside. Determined to get out of the palace and Cordonia before anyone could see her, she swallowed her anger and grief and swiped a knuckle under each eye to dry the tears shed. 

She rose to her feet faster than she should have, feeling an intense shock of pain that began in her hip and shot down to her feet. There were no doubts that the fall from struggling with Madeleine injured her far worse than she wanted to admit to herself. With a shrieking whimper, she ground her teeth together and doubled over, feeling like she might faint. 

Riley grasped her back and gave herself a second to breathe through the pain before straightening up and staggering to her wardrobe to pack whatever she could as quickly as possible.

_____________

Liam stepped off the dance floor with Olivia's arm curled through his and escorted her back to their table. The conclusion of the ball was nearly upon him, and most guests had already stopped on their way out to say their farewells and offer congratulatory well-wishes. When they'd ask about the Queen's whereabouts, he'd tell them she had something come up that needed her attention. No one dared press him on the issue.

Checking the time on his watch, Liam looked up as Maxwell ran over with his phone in hand and dropped into a seat. He looked curiously at the out of breath Beaumont and asked, "What's going on, Maxwell?"

"Sorry," he replied before plucking a flute of champagne from a passing server's tray and gulping it down quickly. Wiping the droplets that dribbled from his mouth to his chin off with the back of his hand, he panted. "I ran here as fast as I could. I just got a text message from Drake. He's heading back soon."

"Did he say what the results of the paternity test were?" Olivia asked.

Maxwell nodded. "Yeah. They're Bastien's for sure. Las Vegas officials are allowing Drake to leave, but they've detained Bas until he pays up the $200,000 he owes to Boom Boom. Drake's return flight is scheduled to leave tomorrow morning, Cordonia time."

Liam pulled out his wallet and tossed $100 at a smug Leo, who promptly counted them out and stuffed the bills into his pocket. "I told you those little dudes weren't mine, bro. Really, your doubt in me hurts." 

"I'll admit you were right, Leo. But you do have a track record when it comes to being involved in weird stuff like this."

"Yeah, I've gotten myself into some pretty hairy shit a time or two," he laughed as the memories came to him. "Ahh, good times, good times. But, y'know, it wasn't always just fun and games with me, Liam. During those few occasions when I'd show up to train on being the top dog of this place, Father taught me several valuable lessons. Wanna know what they were?"

"Not really," Liam answered dryly, then tossed back the rest of his scotch to prepare himself. "But I assume you're going to tell me anyway."

"Damn right I am! This is good shit to know, straight from the Big Kahuna himself." He leaned forward and lowered his voice. "You must never tell anyone what I'm about to share with you all. This is top secret, classified Cordonian shit we're talking about; lives are on the line here. Father would be pissed if --"

"Just spit it out already!" Olivia snapped.

"Alright, first, never jizz in a jacuzzi unless you want to be covered in a thin spiderweb-like amalgamation of your own gravy. Daddio said he learned the hard way on that one ..."

"Oh, God. Leo!" Sickened, Liam dropped his head.

" ... Next, when you kiss a woman's hand, do it on the thumb side. Most people scratch their asses with their fingers, but rarely their thumbs. I might be an exception to the rule on that one." Leo chuckled to himself. "And lastly ... Rys spermies are MEAN sons-of-bitches, and we should dip my balls in a mug of hot water every day to kill them before having sex." 

"What the hell?" Olivia grimaced as she lowered her coffee mug away from her lips and pushed it away. 

"My dad told me the same thing," Maxwell boasted. "Except he called them Beaumont spermies. I guess he heard the same story from someone different than your dad."

Liam lowered the hands that were covering his face and breathed out heavily, "Leo, did our father ever teach you about anything other than using protection and sex during these meetings? Anything about negotiations, taxes, treaties ..."

Leo considered him for a moment. "Nope. He said you'd do all that stuff."

Liam grumbled. "Of course he did."

Olivia looked between Leo and Maxwell and scowled. "Well, it's too bad neither of your fathers took their own advice." She grabbed her clutch from the table. "At least I'll rest easier knowing the two of you aren't reproducing. Now, if you'll excuse me."

"I'll walk out with you, Liv." Liam rose and left the ballroom, having had more than enough of his fill of Leo for the night. There was also an incredibly sexy woman upstairs he'd been dreaming of pleasing all day, and he was overly eager to make good on his promise to join her shortly. 

______________

Liam made his way through the residential wing and down the long hallway to his quarters. While undoing his tie, he stopped midway when he noticed a vase that usually sat on a decorative table along the wall, tipped over on its side with bundles of long-stemmed roses littered on the ground around it. 

As he stooped down to pick them up, he found it oddly peculiar -- they didn't just fall over like this on their own. If a member of the staff had knocked them over, they would have picked them up; he felt certain Riley would have, as well.  

After rearranging the flowers in the vase and situating them back on the table, Liam removed his key card from his pocket and swiped it through the key fob next to the door.

"Riley! I'm home," he called out in a sensual tone, knowing she was most likely upstairs -- hopefully naked and ready to get her ass spanked -- and wouldn't have heard him.  

Taking a moment to check his reflection in the entryway mirror, Liam smoothed back his hair and tested his breath against his palm, satisfied he was good. After a quick stop in the kitchen to grab a can of whipped cream and chocolate sauce, Liam ascended the stairs, two at a time, to his bedroom. 

"Daddy's ready for his dessert ..." his exuberant voice trailed off as the sultry smirk he donned quickly faded away when he walked into an empty room. "Riley?"

Glancing around the bedroom, the en suite door was still open, and the light was off, so he knew she wasn't in there. The bed was still in pristine form and didn't look touched. He wasn't at all worried; Riley likely went for a snack, even though that thought seemed rather odd considering how adamant she was about returning to their quarters earlier.

Liam placed the toppings on a side table and slipped out his phone. He plopped down on the bench at the foot of their bed, thinking maybe he'd missed a message or call from her. 

There was nothing.

He scratched his head; it wasn't like Riley not to mention to him if she'd gone somewhere, not that she had to. But in this case, she knew he'd be up soon. Thinking about the overturned vase Liam walked upon, something started to not sit well with him. 

With the cell still in his hand, he pulled her contact information up. Just as he was about to hit the dial button, he heard "Liam" in a low, raspy voice.

Relief washed over him as he stood and put his phone away. "Love, you worried me. Everything okay?" Her face was ashen, and her eyes red and swollen. Liam's insides immediately clinched.

Riley didn't answer as Liam crossed the room, frantically approaching her, worry engraved on his features. “Riley, love, what’s wrong? What happened?” His eyes were desperately searching for any clue as to what was clearly something wrong with his wife.

She held out her hand, preventing him from coming too close. “Please ... don’t.”

Bewildered, he asked, “What are you doing, sweetheart?”

Riley turned her head away somberly; she couldn't bear to look at him. She had planned to get out of the palace before he returned from the ball; there was no way she would be able to face him. Liam would want an explanation that she couldn't give him. But when she got to the car, Riley noticed there was something important she forgot to give back to him, and there was no way she would take it. Maybe somewhere inside, even if she couldn't admit it, she needed to see him and do this right. “I ... have to go.” Her words were barely audible.

Liam's brows bumped together. “Go? You’re going somewhere this late? But you were tired before --”

“No,” Her head shook faster than she realized before she spat the rest out. “I’m leaving Cordonia. I’m returning to Las Vegas, and I’m not coming back.”

“Riley? What the hell is going on? You were fine and having a good time 30 minutes ago, and now, all of a sudden, you want to go back to Nevada. What am I missing here? Does this have something to do with what happened at dinner? Because I told you --”

“You’re not missing anything. I came here to prevent you from marrying Madeleine, and I did that. That was the agreement, and now ... I’m going home.”

Liam started to laugh and wagged his finger at her. “Leo put you up to pranking me? He's mad about me sending that damn monkey away and is trying to get me back, right? Because if he did, that's just … just heartless. And I don’t find it funny.”

“No, Liam.." She shook her head again. "Leo didn’t put me up to this, and it's not a prank.” Riley carefully pulled off the wedding bands she came back to give him and held them out to him.

He looked at them and gritted his teeth. “Put them back on,” he commanded.

“I can’t do that, Liam. They belonged to your mother, and I’m not taking something so sentimental with me back to Vegas.”

“You’re damn right you're not taking them back to Vegas with you because you’re not going!”

“I am.”

“No, you’re not!”

Riley choked out into a wispy sob, “I’m so sorry, Liam. I'm so sorry!”

He said nothing as he stared at her in disbelief and saw that she was serious. “Why?” He asked as his throat clenched and the first tear slipped down his cheek.

Her body felt leaden, never having seen him this shattered. “Liam, I just want to go home, okay? I mean ... this has been an amazing experience, and I’ll never forget it, but I miss my home, and my job, and my friends ..."

“Fuck your home! I’ll buy you one here that looks just like it. Visit your friends all you want ... hell, bring them here if you want to; I don’t care. That's NOT what's going on! There’s something you’re not telling me. And I want to know, NOW!”

Riley startled at his yell, wanting to hold him and make it better. “Liam, I don’t want to be in Cordonia anymore, or be the Queen, or live in this palace. I want to go home.”

He motioned around the room.“THIS is your home, Riley ... Cordonia.  I’m your home! This palace is your home." Liam scrubbed a frustrated hand furiously over his face. "Again, you were fine 30 minutes ago. What changed between you leaving the ball and coming up here? You're not telling the truth for some reason, but I can’t figure out why. Did I do something to upset you? Did someone else do something to upset you?"

"No!" she responded expeditiously.

"I love you, Riley. You know that, right?" She nodded; the glisten in his blue eyes and the desperation in his trembling voice was destroying her willpower. "Do you …  still love me?"

Riley slammed her eyes shut. She loved him with every fiber of her being, and to tell him so in this very moment would only serve to prolong this hellacious situation. The only way to protect him from losing everything -- in her mind -- was to let him go. He would fight her on this, and it broke her heart to see the pain and confusion in his eyes, but it had to be done.

“Do. You. Love. Me?” he enunciated his question once more. The struggle and agony on her face were evident to him.

Riley turned away from Liam and faced the door. Did she have it in her to answer that question with a lie?

"... the council will have no choice but to question Liam's decision-making abilities after not only squandering his pick of a queen on some American nobody but now one whose ass will be featured on the desktops of teenage boys across the world. It's a shame he'll lose his reign, all because of you. Would you really do that to Liam? Are you worth the trouble?"

The sadness crushed her. There was no other way to protect him. Riley swiped at her face and answered firmly.

“No.”

With that, the Queen walked out, leaving the King in an empty room with his shock, his confusion, and an unimaginable pain he'd never get over.

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Liam x MC: @cordonia-gothqueen

Fools Rush In tags: @narrytheworld @queenwalton​ @cordonianprincess​ @zaffrenotes​ @zilch3​ @drrookie​ @sfb123​ @secretaryunpaid​

[forasecondtherewedwon]

Scuffed Souls

Pairing: Midge Maisel/Lenny Bruce Rating: M Word Count: 2769

Summary: Despite her declared intention to go get herself a taxi, Midge can't seem to leave Lenny's hotel. Parts of it aren't so bad—the ocean view, the pool, Lenny. She could be persuaded into a little recklessness.

It’s the way he says it—“before I’m dead”—that has her twisting on the soles of her new shoes to turn back towards him with an equally twisted smile that can’t fully perk up to the uncomplicated amusement she usually feels when Lenny cracks a joke. It just didn’t sound like one.

And now she’s probably scuffed the black soles on the wretched, fine-pebbled stone of these slabs surrounding the pool of what’s otherwise a really rather sad hotel. He knows it, she knows it, and she can’t blame him for wanting her to come into his room, if only to liven it up for a few minutes. She wonders if anybody’s ever died here. Wait, she thinks, of course they have. It’s a gracelessly aging Floridian hotel. The count for patrons who’ve left unscathed is probably lower.

“Is that a long list?” Midge calls back to him.

Like the melancholy, reluctant romantic he is, Lenny’s still leaning in his doorway, watching her depart. Until a moment ago. Now he’s watching her stand here in kind of a weird realm: the post-date, non-overnight stay who issued a spoken plan to find herself a taxi like a big girl. She’s loitering. Then again, unlike at home in New York, you can do that here. Loiter your heart out. Cross that heart and hope not to die before you’ve slept with the woman whose martial status changes from minute to minute. Roll the dice! No, that’s Vegas.

Even from this distance, she can see Lenny cock his head in that way he has—playfully subservient as a child and publicly tactful as a monied, middled-aged woman. Some days, he could mirror her mother. What a gag that would be.

“Things you wanna do before you’re dead,” Midge explains with a tight gesture of her arm. Just the elbow down. God, is she nervous? She seems to be suddenly doing an imitation of Susie meeting Lenny for the first time.

“Not really. I think of somethin’ good from time to time and, of course, when I do, I can’t find the paper I started the list on and I have to get a new one… so it never really gets that long.”

“I just wondered. You know, how much time I have.”

“The length of the list determines my distance from death? This I did not know. Powerful,” Lenny notes emphatically, producing the same noncommittal smile from Midge. “I guess I better look harder for the next one I lose. Handy thing to refer to.”

“There’s that,” she agrees, “but also…” She takes a step back in the direction of his open doorway. The pool shimmers at her side. He’s right about the pool. Somehow, a pool at night looks glamorous no matter the courtyard. She hopes she looks half as good. “I wonder if there’s sort of an implication in there that—” Midge rolls a modest hand over the crassness she’d have no trouble blurting out on stage, no matter which of her relatives were in the audience. “—the quality of it would extend your life.”

He’s smiling wickedly at her. She’s gotten away with nothing and has no option remaining but to clutch primly at the handle of her purse with both hands.

“If anybody else told me that,” Lenny warns, “I wouldn’t believe them, but you I know to have been engaged to a doctor, and so I assume that any medical information you may have to offer vis-à-vis sex—” Spoken in a harsh stage whisper that nearly makes her (her) blush. “—comes certified by some type of professional board.”

“I didn’t say it was the truth, I said I wondered whether it were what you were implying.”

“Me? Well, you can’t trust that guy. Still, worth chancing, wouldn’t you say?”

Midge’s scuffed soles have brought her many steps nearer to Lenny than she remembers being in lucid command of. She’s slow-tongued as she stares at his impish expression. Flat-out flustered when he tips his head back with a smile to rest it on the doorframe.

“In there?” she asks with eyebrows arching like the next stop on this tour is St. Louis. She points sideways, where his bedside lamp glows. “On one hand, eternal life—on the other, whatever diseases are living in those sheets.”

“Oh, they’re very well mannered,” Lenny assures her with a casual brushing aside motion. “We split the rent fifty-fifty.”

“Hmm, then I’m not sure there’s room for me in that scenario.”

“The shower’s not bad,” he counters.

“Water pressure?”

“No, cleanliness. Haven’t you ever—” He employs the hand roll she should patent if it looks like that when she does it. Elegant. Prudent. Half what she wants to be and the other half what she has no hope of becoming. “—in a shower?”

Because Lenny’s looking at her like she’ll either sidestep (metaphorically—the shoes have suffered enough these past few minutes without risking anything more than a regular forward walk) or say no, she takes very great pleasure in smiling devilishly back at him.

“A shower sounds luxurious. Never done it in a bathroom with a shower before. You look scandalized,” Midge notes. “Do the diners in your neighbourhood have showers in their ladies’ rooms?”

“You had sex in a diner bathroom? I’m impressed,” he allows.

“Thank you. I needed that. I carry every compliment about the encounter back to my closet and console my wedding dress with it. Poor thing never did look the same after rubbing up against those walls.”

“Is this in your act?” Lenny demands, leaning towards her earnestly. “Why haven’t I heard this?”

“Put it in my act? Lenny, please. I’m a lady.”

“Hence the ladies’ room, I suppose.”

She giggles lightly with her lips pressed together. He earned that last line. Set her face on fire to get there, so she’ll let him have it. Speaking of letting him have it. Midge finds herself dropping her eyes so they don’t get into their second intense staring contest of the night. Can’t look straight ahead, can’t look to the right because that’s where his room is and the bed is highly prominent. Almost too eager. The bed is the bump in the front of a virgin’s pants on prom night when his date’s skirt brushes a little too close as they dance. Those crazy kids. Oh, to be young.

Midge looks left.

“The ocean,” she observes, and says, like an idiot. She even does another fucking gesture towards it, like he’d miss it somehow. “It’s… big.” Clever. Real sharp.

“Bigger than in New York? I think so too. Alligators though.”

“It’s ok, you’re talking to a fellow New Yorker. You can use the real term. Pre-handbags,” she prompts when Lenny gives her an inquisitive look.

He lets her have the wrap joke this time, but he’s more persistent about trying to catch her eye. She gets it. She is still standing here making alligator jokes when she was supposed to be in a car on her way back to the type of hotel it would be kinder not to tell this hotel exists. A hotel containing her parents, Shy Baldwin and his entourage, the boxer shorts Susie sleeps in and forgot to pack when she went to save Sophie’s ass. Hopefully Susie doesn’t need to cover that famous, demanding ass because she left the best equipment behind.

Lenny tosses his coat into his room and pulls the door shut, startling Midge.

“How ‘bout the pool?” he asks as he steps around her, arm extended to point. She swivels (damn, damn, damn, her shoes) and chases him. “You ever done it in a pool?”

“Actually, no.”

“I heard the pause and, trust me, I’m enthralled that you even had to think about it.”

“Did I mention I hit my head doing it in the bathroom? Pretty hard. All my memories before that day are hazy, so it’s really anybody’s guess.”

He gifts her an indulgent little smile and stops at the side of the pool. As she looks on, he removes his shoes and socks. Midge hears herself make the noise she makes when she denies Ethan a cookie only to see Zelda handing one over when she returns to the kitchen. The noise says, Is that wise? when her adult mommy brain knows for damn sure that it’s not. Lenny wets his foot and flicks water at her. The mommy noise had no effect on him at all.

“It’s nice,” he says, clasping his hands behind his back. “Warm.”

“Of course it’s warm. The air’s warm. Everything here is warm.”

“I hadn’t noticed.” When Lenny frowns, it’s tragic. The most tragic thing you’ve ever witnessed. “You see, I’ve been so cold since the end of our dance. I really may die if I can’t hold you against me.”

Midge tilts her head back and laughs.

“You’re worse than the guy I tried to scare off at the bar by mentioning dick jokes. And you’ll die? Really? All of a sudden, I’m the cause of your death rather than the agent of its postponement?”

Though he smiles, his eyes remain soulful. There really is something tricky about trying to be funny when he’s looking at her a certain way. She’s probably returning the look.

“Take a dip with me.”

“Why?” she asks, smiling.

“Because I want to admire you with that rose in your hair without the rest of it to distract me.” He nods down at her dress.

“My outfit is distracting? Terrific. Now I know I wore a distracting outfit on Brye Adler.”

Self-deprecating thoughts trickle away, accompanied by the gentle slosh of the ocean behind them. A rambling, improvised bit about what she’s wearing won’t change the fact that Lenny said what he said and she heard it.

“Are you going to call me a taxi if I keep standing here?” Midge asks.

“I had no intention of reminding you of that plan.” He rests a thoughtful forefinger against his upper lip. “But you do seem to be stuck. You won’t brave the room, but you also haven’t left.”

As though demonstrating how to do it, Lenny crouches and trails his fingers through the water of the pool.

“Still warm.”

He gazes up at her with needful brown eyes. The need feels equal to hers. She’s tired of being the only one needing.

“You have neighbours.” It’s between a question and a statement.

“Ah, they’re all either young and stoned or old and asleep.”

Midge makes a decision.

“Gimme your key. I’m going to change in your room.”

“Change into what? Do you have a bikini in your purse?”

She leans close to snatch the key he’s withdrawn from his pocket for the second time tonight and grins.

“Into nothing.”

Lenny takes a visibly shaky breath, not trying to hide it from her.

“Well, I’ll be here performing the role of guinea pig by stripping for any neighbours who may be watching. Should you hear wolf-whistles…”

“I’ll run right back out and join the audience,” Midge promises.

They smile at each other until Lenny tests the tension by loosening his tie. Her eyes drop to watch and she realizes she’d better go do what she said before he’s naked enough to make her lose her nerve. She hurries, high heels clapping on the stone.

His room isn’t quite as bad as anything she and Susie experienced on their first road tour, but it definitely isn’t anything to write home about. Not that he’d need to, seeing as this is his home ‘til Friday and likely beyond. Standing beside Lenny’s bed, Midge unfastens her dress. For the first time since Joel, she does it quickly. For the first time since splitting up with Benjamin, she does it alone. Beneath the dress, she’s cinched in pretty damn tight and she rubs at the red lines in her skin as she takes deep breaths that she lies to herself about—telling herself it’s the relief of being free of her undergarments. She lays her dress on his coral bedding. She positions her purse on his nightstand. Adjusting the rose in her hair, she slips her feet back into her shoes and dons Lenny’s carelessly-discarded suit jacket. Though it’s no beach coverup, it hides enough to get from here to the pool.

She spots the pile of his clothes before she sees him, head bobbing up through the surface as he slicks his wet hair back and swipes water from his eyes.

“Don’t worry,” Midge teases to his stunned expression as he locks onto her approaching figure. “The shoes are coming off momentarily. I know they’re distracting.”

As if he’s even aware that she’s wearing shoes; his eyes are fixed on her legs as though she’s an exotic species of butterfly and his gaze is a mounting pin.

“That’s all I see when I look at you,” Lenny says, arms thrusting to propel himself backwards across the width of the pool. He halts at the far side and rests his arms on the stones, chest above the line of the water. “One big pair of shoes.”

Midge shoots him a coy smile as she steps out of them, wary to avoid treading on his watch. That’s what gets her: his watch. She stares down at it, resting there, the glass face catching the light, second hand ticking away. Before they’re dead.

“Aren’t you going to close your eyes or something?” she asks, standing in bare feet, Lenny’s jacket, and a rose. “Or are you only a gentleman when it comes to sharing a cigarette?”

“For you, I will go through the charade.”

He places a hand over his eyes. His mouth smiles below it.

Watching him, she swiftly sits on the side, dangling her legs in the water. With tentative fingers, she undoes the first button on the jacket. His hand doesn’t move. She undoes the second. Nothing from Lenny. Jacket open, Midge shrugs it from her shoulders. As she pushes off the wall, dropping into the pool, he lowers his hand.

“Hey!” she complains, spluttering on water, but he raises both hands helplessly, then goes back to holding himself up at the opposite side of the pool. “That was a dirty trick.”

“I would repent if I could find it in my heart to do so, but I just don’t regret it.”

Midge laughs, shaking her head and treading water.

“By the way,” Lenny adds. “The rose looks wonderful.”

She managed to keep all but the very bottom of her hair dry and can feel the flower still tucked between the strands. Fleetingly, she thinks of where she’s supposed to be tonight. What would Carole have to say about a situation like this? Maybe Midge can be the one who knows how a situation goes for once, without warnings or tips. Just… living it. That’s how she gets the material for her act, which what’s happening tonight could never be part of. ‘So,’ she imagines telling a crowd, ‘I finally fucked Lenny Bruce. Plenty of people already thought I had, so I doubt anybody’s still betting on it, but if you had money on it happening in a swimming pool in Florida, happy days!’

“Can you see it from way over there?” she asks coquettishly.

“A little.”

“Seeing a rose ‘a little’ won’t do. Do you think Shakespeare only bothered to see a rose ‘a little’ before writing that line about how sweet it smells?”

Lenny shoves away from the side and swims lazily in her direction.

“What does yours smell like?”

“Pool chemicals, probably.”

“An underrated scent.”

Midge’s heart surges and her throat seizes up, tongue awkward in her mouth as he draws nearer. With the glow and distortive properties of the water, his body’s nothing but a blur below the surface, as she’s sure hers is as well.

“It’s like a forcefield,” he notes. “I get close enough to you and, it’s not that the world stops being funny, it’s…”

“It’s that it becomes somebody else’s job to make the joke.”

“That’s it,” Lenny agrees softly as they begin to slowly circle each other.

Gradually, they work their way over to where it’s shallow. Midge’s toes skim the bottom when she begins to uncurl her legs. Her body gets used to the weightless feeling of the water, muscles relaxing, but her heart beats harder and harder. Finally, she cuts across their circle and wraps her arm behind Lenny’s neck as she presses her mouth to his. His hand cups her cheek, then shifts, knocking the rose from her hair.

[let-it-raines]

another kind of green (4/?)

Emma Swan spends her days in pretty white dresses and heavy layers of makeup. Day after day and dress after dress, she poses for pictures and acts like she’s in love and having the happiest day of her life with the man standing next to her.

It’s not. This is all a gig, and at the end of the day, she’s no longer the girl in the pretty dress who’s faking getting married for a magazine cover or a wedding convention. Instead, she’s the girl who probably never wants to get married.

Little does she know, she already is.

| Based on two-trope game forgotten first meeting + accidentally married |

a/n: thanks for reading, lovely people, and thanks to @resident-of-storybrooke​ for looking over these words even though I keep changing them on her😊 

AO3: Beginning | Current

Tumblr: 1 | 2| 3 | 4

-/-

“Hello, love.” Killian waves to Marlene before placing a folder of some of his paperwork on her desk. “Can you do me a favor and send these up to Captain Roberts? It’s the rest of the paperwork he needed.”

“Of course. Do you need anything else?”

Killian hums and winks. “Just for you to have a good day, Marlene.”

“It’s always brightened when you come by.”

Killian huffs before forcing a brighter smile onto his face. He’s been posing for pictures for the past two hours, and he’s not sure how much more smiling he can take. This is why he has to get out of this job and get everything squared away at the station so he can do more with his life.

So he can move on.

Liam was a damn fine officer, and if he were still here, he’d be proud of Killian doing this. It’s so much more than him posing for pictures. When he was younger and had no plan in life, he’d drink too much and sleep with far too many women. That calmed down with Milah, but Liam never really saw Killian turn his life around before Liam died. He’d been there for the early years with Milah, but it hadn’t been enough.

(And on occasion, like with Emma, Killian falls back into old habits.)

Killian has always resented that Liam never saw him try to be better, has always let that hatred fester inside of him, but he’s working on it. That’s the mantra he keeps having to repeat, especially this morning at his shoot as he was poked and prodded and treated like a fucking mannequin.

“Thank you,” Killian tells Marlene. “I’ll see you soon. Thanks again.”

She opens her mouth to say something, and he braces himself for it before she simply smiles and nods, allowing him to be on his way. Killian turns on his heels and exits the police station, putting his sunglasses over his eyes and walking up the stairs only to come face to face with Detective Humbert.

Fuck.

He doesn’t know what kind of relationship Emma had with the man, but he’s got a pretty good idea. Doesn’t the guy ever stay at his desk or out in the field? That would be helpful.

“Detective Humbert,” Killian says, keeping his smile from earlier.

Graham blinks, and for a moment Killian thinks he’ll get away with this interaction without Graham recognizing him, but things don’t really seem to be going his way today.

“Jones, right?”

“Aye.” Killian reaches his hand forward to shake Graham’s hand, and Graham moves down a step until they’re on equal footing to shake hands. “Killian Jones.”

“Nice to see you, Jones. Is Emma with you today?”

Killian releases Graham’s hand to scratch behind his ear. “No. She’s working.”

He’s got no bloody clue if she’s working, but he doesn’t know what else to say. If Graham was part of Killian’s training team, he already knows he would have no chance in hell in getting his certification.

“She still modeling?”

“She is.”

They stay standing there in silence, the seconds passing by as cars speed down the road and the construction across the street carries on, the crane lifting a large beam in the air.

Graham nods, pressing a tight smile onto his face. “Tell her I said hello then,” he says before stepping down another step and walking toward the entrance.

“Humbert,” Killian calls out because he’s a fucking idiot who for some reason feels obligated to do the right thing here since he could have royally screwed up Emma’s life a few weeks ago when they were here. Graham stops walking and turns around. “Look, mate, I don’t know how to say this without making myself look like an ass, but Emma and I aren’t married.”

“Excuse me?”

“I mean, we are married. Legally, at least. We were both working out at a wedding convention in Vegas, got a little tipsy, and got married. We’re getting it annulled though. I was just being an ass and bothering her when I told Marlene she was my wife. I had no idea someone she knew was going to walk through the doors.”

Graham crosses his arms over his chest and sighs, staring Killian down despite the fact that Killian is on higher ground. “Isn’t there some kind of rule in Vegas that they can’t give you a license if you’re drunk?”

“Aye. Emma and I are apparently fantastic at acting sober.”

“That’s, well, that’s fucking crazy, but it does make more sense to me. Emma was never really the marrying type.”

“Pardon?” Killian says as the tiniest bit of anger boils in his stomach.

“I don’t mean it in an offensive way,” Graham explains. “There’s nothing wrong with her feeling that way. I know how she is. We were together for awhile, but I wasn’t the right man for her. Maybe you will be if you can make it past the whole getting married thing.”

Killian wants to explain that they’re not together, that they’ve never been together for anything other than a night of sex, but there have been other officers walking by he and Graham this entire time. He really doesn’t need to get into any of this. Hell, Emma will kill him if he says anything else to her ex. It’s just not his business.

“Thanks. See you around, Humbert.”

“See you around, Jones. Remember to tell Emma I said hello when you see her.”

“Of course.” Finally, Graham leaves and goes inside the station, and Killian is free to get out of downtown and go home.

He needs at least a little break before tonight.

-/-

“Oi, why are we going out to watch fireworks?”

“Because Ariel wants us to.” “And we do everything Ariel wants?”

“It’s a nice show,” Killian yells into the other room, pulling off the pair of sweats he changed into when he got home and tugging on a pair of jeans, the holes at the knees getting caught before he can pull them to his waist and button them. “And she invited us to meet them down by the harbor for dinner and the Labor Day fireworks. Ariel loves this kind of stuff, and believe it or not, on occasion it is alright to be nice to someone you care about.”

“I have a late shift at the bar tonight, mate. I don’t think I can watch the whole show, and it’s in the opposite part of the city and all.”

Killian sighs and grabs a t-shirt to put on before walking out of his bedroom and down the hallway so he can actually see Will when he’s talking to him instead of having to yell. He’s sure their neighbors love it when they do that. But he’s still tired, is still partially ready for this day to be over with, and he’s agitated enough to not want to have to put up with Will’s shit.

“Look, if you don’t want to come, you don’t have to. Despite your general attitude, you’re an adult. You can make your own decisions.”

Will puts down the dish he’s washing, porcelain of the plate hitting against the metal of the sink. “Don’t be an ass about it. Is this your way of guilt tripping me?”

“Oh, definitely not.”

“Fuck it, Jones,” Will groans, “you are guilt tripping me.”

Killian smiles, but he says nothing as Will keeps blinking at him.

Perfect.

Maybe he is being a bit of an ass about it.

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I do.”

“You don’t, you git. Now go get dressed. A and Eric are probably saving us seats at the Wharf.”

“I can stay for thirty minutes, and then I have to go to work. Not all of us can use our pretty faces to make our money.”

“Stop being jealous and put on a shirt without stains, Scarlet.”

-/-

Ariel and Eric are waiting for them at the Wharf, just like Killian knew they would be, and Ariel absolutely gushes over Will showing up. She’s got a soft spot for him, God knows why, but Killian’s glad he pulled Will out of the apartment for long enough that he would come down here even if it’s just for a beer before he goes to serve actual beers to people who are reveling in having a three-day weekend.

If Killian had a regular job, which he’d one day like to have now that he’s dropped off the rest of his paperwork for the PAT. He had it scheduled, but then it got rescheduled after the whole background check debacle and so he can take it with a bigger recruiting class that will all be in the Academy together. It’s why he’s got his phone pretty consistently in his hand waiting for an email or a text or something.

From Captain Roberts…or Emma.

He’s been thinking about her all day, pretty much ever since he ran into Graham. It’s been twenty or so days since he last saw her, since he last heard from her in a coffee shop as they hashed out the details of their annulment. She’d been more than ready to get it over with, had practically only talked about it, and he gets that. He does. Why would she want to stay married to him, especially when he gets the sense that Emma is jumpy? At first it was the nervousness outside the precinct, then how she was inside after they ran into Graham. Now he knows that she’s not one for marriage, apparently, and he went and married her the night they met.

And now that they’re trying to fix that he keeps pressing her into having an actual conversation about anything else.

What the hell is wrong with him?

Why is he trying to get to know a woman who doesn’t want to get to know him?

Oh, because she’s charming and funny and sexy as hell.

But mostly, he thinks, she’d been freaked out over the process of having to get the annulment. She was the one who brought up the lawyer but kept insisting that maybe they didn’t have to use one even if the both of them are pretty sure that they’re in so far over their heads that they need all of the help they can get.

He’s thirty years old, but sometimes Killian can’t help but feel like a kid who’s waiting for his brother to find a solution to all of his problems.

That’s not going to be something that happens ever again, and even though it’s been years, Killian still forgets that Liam isn’t here.

Is never going to be here.

Right now, all he really wants is for Emma to text him or call him or send him a damn email with the attorney’s name she decided on so that they can file the annulment papers and go ahead and get it in the system and have it be over with. Neither of them are contesting it, so it shouldn’t take too long.

Move on. He desperately wants to move on with his life.

“Earth to Killian Jones. Are you there? Is there anything going on inside of that head of yours? No? I knew pretty people couldn’t also be smart.”

“So what does that say about you, A?”

Ariel scoffs and rolls her eyes while Killian shakes himself out of his thoughts. “I think you meant to insult me, but really, all you did was compliment me.”

“He’s not very good at the insults,” Will sighs. “But he’s an expert at the compliments. He could get any woman out here to go on a date with him in five minutes.” “That sounds like a challenge.” It’s Killian’s turn to roll his eyes at Eric before reaching down and taking a sip of his beer while his eyes scan over the crowd that’s flooding the boardwalk and moving over to the open green space where several booths and food trucks are spread out with a few hundred people lounging around on their backs or sitting on chairs they brought with them to watch the fireworks and celebrate Labor Day weekend. “What do you say, Jones? You want to try that?”

Ariel slaps her husband. “We are not having Killian make a bet on whether or not he can get a woman to go out with him. That’s how every single nineties’ romantic comedy got their drama.”

“Wait. You’re opposed to this because it goes awry in a few movies?”

“And the fact that it’s kind of misogynistic. You can’t just make a joke out of someone’s feelings.”

“So if I were to tell you that I asked you out on a date because – ” Ariel moves to slap Eric again, but he catches her hand before she can touch his shoulder and then leans forward to quickly brush his lips against her cheek. “I’m kidding, sweetheart. I asked you on a date because you were the most beautiful woman in my American literature class.”

“You two are bloody saccharine,” Will mumbles.

“Hey, look at you with your big word there, Scarlet.”

“That’s it,” Will groans, standing from his chair at the table, “I’m going to work. I’ve talked, had a beer and some potato logs, and I want to go stand in the air conditioning of the bar.”

“See you at home, mate?” Killian questions.

“Yeah, whatever. Bring me home a bag of those donuts from the booth over there.”

Killian mock salutes as Will walks away, his head slowly shaking from side to side. Killian’s agitated mood seems to have passed over to Will for the most part, and he’s not even going to be sorry about it today. He needs a night where things go right.

“He loves us,” Ariel sighs. “You can tell in the look in his eyes. That’s all love there.”

“Yeah,” Killian huffs, drinking his beer while his eyes land on a woman with long, lean legs and an ass that fits perfectly inside of her jean shorts which don’t seem to be covering much of her thighs. She’s got blonde hair pulled back into a braid and…holy shit. The universe can’t seem to give him a break. Or, well, maybe it can. “Hey, Fisher?”

“Yeah?” they both say.

“Hundred bucks says I can get a woman to come over here to our table and spend the night with me.”

“We are not betting on you having sex with someone.”

Killian rolls his eyes. “No, not that kind of spending the night. I want her to spend the evening with me, and if she so chooses to come back to my place, that’s none of your business.”

“I thought we said we weren’t doing that.”

Killian leans forward and winks. “I do so love a challenge.”

And then he’s getting up and walking away from the table to the sound of Ariel’s protests of him being an asshole. And yeah, he knows that he can be, but he’s not about to be an asshole right now. He wouldn’t even think about doing this, at least not anymore, if he didn’t know who this woman was.

“Swan,” he calls out, and he sees the muscles in her shoulders tense before she turns around from the group of people she was talking to. “Fancy seeing you here.”

He can feel the eyes of everyone on them, but he blocks them out and only focuses on Emma. She’s only got on a thin top that shows off her shoulders and the curves of her breasts while also revealing her toned midriff, and he has to fight back memories of their night together if he doesn’t want his jeans to get too tight.

Of all the women in the world to be here.

“Well, you know, Boston is a big city, but it’s apparently much smaller than I thought.”

“Which is a good thing, I assume.”

“Depends on the situation.”

Killian chuckles and takes another step closer to her before glancing up at her group of friends. “Can we talk for a minute?”

“You know, I’m with my friends and – ”

“Of course she can talk to you,” one of her friends says, a woman with long brown hair full of red streaks and a wolfish smile. “She can make all the time in the world for you, handsome.”

“Ruby,” Emma hisses, “shut up.”

“A hot as hell man just came up to you because he knows you and is asking to speak. You need to go, Emma. You know what they say about droughts and everything getting dried up down – ”

“Okay,” Emma sing-songs, thrusting her hand forward to push at Killian’s chest until he’s backing away, “I will go talk to him if you shut up because none of that is true.”

“I mean, it could be.”

“Rubes.”

“Fine, fine.”

Killian’s trying to stifle his laugh. He really is, but he can’t help himself when a small chuckle escapes and he gets an absolute death stare from Emma. Ah, he’s kind of missed that. She’s a feisty lass.

“What do you need, Jones?” Emma huffs out when they get far enough away from her friends that they can’t hear the conversation.

“I was wondering why I haven’t heard from you in twenty days.”

He should not have said the exact amount of days. He shouldn’t have. That’s too much.

“The phone works both ways.”

“Ah, yes, but I have a feeling you wouldn’t have answered my calls or texts if I had tried.”

She crosses her arms, and it takes everything in him not to look at how the movement pushes her breasts up. He’s not going to be that guy. “Look, I haven’t found a lawyer yet, okay? I’ve had shoots pretty much every day for the past three weeks, and it hasn’t been at the top of my list of priorities.”

“Oh really? Ending your marriage hasn’t been at the top of your list? You were the one who said you wanted to pick the attorney because you didn’t want to work with just anyone. It’s some paperwork, Swan. I’ve done some more research and am pretty sure we can do it ourselves. We’re not settling in for a custody battle that’s going to last two years.”

Her eyes narrow. “I’ll get around to it. It’s not like this is keeping you from living your life anymore. I talked to your Captain. Your background check has been cleared, and you can take all of your little tests now. You don’t need me anymore for anything besides filing the papers.”

“Love – ”

“What did I say about calling me that?”

“It’s a force of habit. It’s not something special, so don’t let it get you too high on your horse.”

“You absolute ass- ”

“Emma Swan?” Ariel gasps, and both he and Emma turn to the side to see Ariel walking up to them, absolutely beaming. “Emma Swan, is that you?”

She looks back at him quickly, green eyes as wide as he’s ever seen them, and suddenly the absolutely threatening look she was giving him is turned into a vibrant smile that makes small lines around her eyes appear.

Her eyes have to be another kind of green because he’s never seen any quite so captivating.

“Ariel, hi. What are you doing here?”

How the hell do the two of them know each other? Is Boston actually the smallest city in the world?

“I’m here with my husband and, well, Killian actually. I don’t mean to interrupt you, especially since I know Killian came over here to ask you out, but then I noticed it was you he was talking to and had to come and say hello.”

What the hell is going on?

“Oh,” Emma laughs, “is that what he was doing? Asking me out? I had no idea. That wasn’t very smooth, Jones. I thought you knew how to sweet-talk a woman.”

“Oi, I was not asking you out. I mean, that’s what I told Ariel and Eric but – ”

“Why would you tell them that?”

“There was a bet and – ”

“A bet?”

“Aye, but – ”

“A fucking bet, Jones? What is this? A rom com from the nineties? You can’t ask me out over a bet? And you of all people should know that I’m not exactly interested in dating you. I mean – ”

“Love, if you could let me finish a sentence, I think you’d see that this all makes a little more sense than you’re thinking it does.”

“Try me.”

“Okay, so I – ”

“Wait,” Ariel interrupts as Killian reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose, “do you two know each other? How do you know each other?”

“Funny, A, I could ask you the same thing.” “Ariel knows my agent, Mary Margaret” Emma explains. “Wait. Is Ariel your agent?”

“Aye, but I don’t know a Mary Margaret.”

“Oh, sure you do,” Ariel says, waving him away. “I’ve talked about her plenty. She and her husband go out with Eric and me quite often. So how do you know each other again?”

“Um,” Killian begins, scratching behind his ear.

“We did the convention shoot in Vegas at the end of July,” Emma quickly explains, shooting him a look. “He was my fake husband for the day.” “And your real husband right now,” he mumbles under his breath until Emma slaps him.

“What was that?” Ariel asks.

“Nothing, darling. So, what a small world that you all know each other. What are the odds?”

“Well, catalog model agents in Boston run a very small circle. It’s not like we’re in New York or something like that. Also, you lose your bet because you knew Emma. That doesn’t count.”

“I was never going to take Eric’s money, A.”

“I was never going to go out with him anyways. He’s not exactly my type.”

Bloody liar.

Ariel laughs at Emma before placing her hand on Emma’s shoulder. “Why don’t you and your friends join us? We’re about to eat some food and then watch the fireworks. I’m sure we can get an extra seat or two for the table.”

“Oh, no,” Emma protests. “I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“It’s not intruding at all.”

“Did someone say food?” Ruby asks, skipping up to her and dragging the woman behind her with her. “I’m up for some food.”

Emma turns around to look at her friend, and if he could see her face, he’s sure it would scream murder right now. Holding in his chuckle is more difficult than it should be, but this is all too perfect. He’s not about to pass up on an opportunity to have a night messing with Emma.

“Come on, Swan,” Killian urges, kicking his foot at her, “get something to eat with us. I’ll buy you a beer, though I know you’re partial to champagne and tequila.”

The look she gives him definitely screams murder.

“They sell margaritas at one of these booths. Buy me one, and we’ll eat with you guys. Don’t think I’m taking my eyes off you for a second.”

“I would despair if you did.”

He learns that Ruby is also a model, but that she does more work than Emma because she wants to move onto bigger gigs, and that her girlfriend Mulan is a physical trainer who apparently regularly kicks Emma’s ass enough that Emma will go to another gym some days. This causes Mulan to go into some kind of rant about Emma needing to show up at a class and that the other gym she goes to is a waste of money, but Emma waves her away, murmuring something about finding a cheeseburger, some onion rings, and whatever the largest margarita sold is. That’s how they end up leaving Mulan and Ruby with Eric and Ariel as he and Emma go in search of her food and her drink.

“So onion rings? Not fries?”

“I mean, I like fries,” Emma explains as she walks slightly ahead of him before slowing down to fall in step with him, “and I’ll eat them. But onion rings are undeniably better.”

“Undeniably, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Can you defend that?”

“I like them more, so they’re better.”

Killian chuckles. He doesn’t have a particular fondness for either, but he’s not about to argue. “Okay, lass. Whatever you say. So, have you told any of your friends that you have been happily joined in matrimony?”

She stumbles in her walk. “I told my agent and her husband, who’s a cop, but I didn’t tell anyone else. I had a few questions for David about how to become a cop and all that you were going through. I don’t know…it seemed right to tell them because I knew they could help. You?”

“I haven’t told any of my friends.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm. I think there’s a burger truck in the second row to your left, Swan. And yeah, I don’t know, didn’t feel like it was something anyone needed to know.”

Emma doesn’t say anything, but she does turn to move toward the food truck he pointed out.

“I can help you find an attorney, you know? I’m sure it’s not a big deal.”

“I can handle it.”

“Swan.”

“I said I can handle it.”

“It’s been nearly a month. The longer we wait, the longer it’s going to take to get it done.”

She groans and turns around, slapping her hands against her thighs. “Look, I have a thing about lawyers and courthouses and the whole damn legal system, but I really have been busy, okay? I’ll get to it this week and make a decision on how I want to move forward.”

“Does your thing have anything to do with Detective Humbert?”

Oh boy he really is an asshole.

“You know, like I already said, that’s not really any of your business, but no, it doesn’t.” She turns and her braid flips over her shoulder. It’s a dismissal if he’s ever seen one, and any opportunity to tell her he talked to Graham is gone. It wasn’t a big deal, and he’s sure she doesn’t want to hear about her ex anyways. “I’m hungry. Let’s go get dinner. I will find someone to help me do it.”

“Okay, Swan. I trust you to do that.”

She stops again, making him nearly run into her in the crowded area, but then she’s quickly moving again and working her way to get her food. Emma Swan makes absolutely no sense to him. None.

But he cannot deny that he is incredibly intrigued by this woman.

He can’t deny that it’s the first time in a long time that something like that has happened, either.

“Jones,” she yells out, “you’re getting me the extra-large margarita.”

“It would be my pleasure, love.”

She only rolls her eyes at his endearment this time, and Killian marks that one down as a success.

Or, well, progress.

Like he said, he does love a challenge.

-/-

-/-

Tag list: @xemmaloveskillianx​ @stahlop @shardminds @carpedzem @captainsjedi  @galaxyzxstark @thejollyroger-writer @kmomof4 @tiganasummertree @xellewoods @idristardis @karenfrommisthaven @shireness-says @scientificapricot @captswanis4vr @a-faekindagirl @ultimiflos @jamif @dreameronarooftop15 @nikkiemms @resident-of-storybrooke  @bmbbcs4evr @onceuponaprincessworld @jennjenn615 @mayquita @teamhook @kmomof4 @ekr032-blog-blog @superchocovian @ultraluckycatnd @cs-forlife @andiirivera @qualitycoffeethings @jonirobinson64 @mariakov81 @spartanguard @snowbellewells @therealstartraveller776​ @onepunintendid​ @bluewildcatfanatic​

[charonaraccoon]

Maverick Viñales, Luca Marini (if possible others VR46 riders) + mafia!au + meet messy + "suck on that.”

Okay, so this just happened, don’t ask me, why. It’s a bit bloody and certainly messy, but also a little more than a drabble, so I hope, you like it, anon, thank you very much for this difficult and still so amazing prompt, it’s been a pleasure! <3 

Luca Marini has been one of the PD’s brightest hopes of the century. He’s young, has acquired his forensic degree at 20, been part of more than one nationwide and famous investigations and specialised in the mafia to an extent, which outshined his colleagues’ by a mile. But what impresses Valentino Rossi, leader and the mainly responsible person for the IAMTF – the Italian Anti-Mafia task force – the most, is how Luca has deserved this spot in his team like no one else. Despite he’s his brother – or maybe even because. Because they are related, Luca has always tried his best to never have people talk behind his back. So when they arrive in Spain to follow a lead from Sicily over Naples all the way to Figueres, it’s no surprise Luca is Valentino’s second man in the field, shadowing him around the van and closer to the huge abandoned building in the outskirts of the Catalonian city. They followed all kinds of hints here, bogus money, weapons and drugs and they all seem to lead to Maverick Vinales, a young thug taking over more and more of the Spanish-Italian mafia. Valentino counts his men, Marco and Luca to his left and right, further back Franco with his fedora pulled into his face as far as possible. Stefano exhales cigarette smoke through his nostrils and he’s never seen the young detective this nervous. Vale nods at Luca. “Are you okay?” “Yeah, we’re just taking down the most dangerous Mafioso in the world. What makes you think, I wouldn’t be okay?” The way he says it and the way his eyes twinkle in the darkness of the unlit street make Valentino smirk. Luca has hunted down Maverick for years now, following his every step on European soil and his attempts to get a foothold in North America, New York to Las Vegas. They’ve placed spies and cons, listened to conversations and got their hands on documents. Once they’ve got him, he’ll spend the rest of his days in prison. Luca is more than ready to lead this charge, and still- “Alright, Bambino. Be careful. After me.” Valentino checks his old colt, completely tranquil now and back into the mode of a seasoned and experienced cop, and with a wave of his hand leads half of his task force to the back entrance. Luca takes a deep intake of breath, stubs out his cigarette and nods, before following his brother and boss into the building. They get a good look at Vinales behind the ceiling-high racks, checking on some documents with furrowed brows. Luca feels his legs shake beneath him, as he sees the Spaniard nonchalantly letting cigarette smoke escape from the corner of his mouth, fedora sitting lazily and crooked on his black hair. Damn, I never realised he was that hot. But Vinales isn’t just hot, he is endearing in his perfectly fitting dark-green suit, the loosened tie, the brown-green eyes behind black glasses. Luca has his difficulties looking away, until Marco stops him in his tracks. Before he can scoop closer to his colleague and look for Valentino to wait for his signal, he realises Franco hissing. The door behind them opens with a loud creak and Pol Espargaro, Vinales second man, catches them red-handed. “What the fuck?!” he yells, before someone (Migno, given the quick fuse) pulls the trigger and the projectile hitting Pol’s chest makes him stumble backwards through the door. That’s it, their cover is blown.

“NOW!” Valentino yells and the members of the IAMTF jump out of their hiding spots and into action. Luca doesn’t know what happens next. Shots are being fired, wounded policemen and gangsters alike drop to the floor, blood pouring from lighter or more severe bullet holes. All Luca focuses on is the man he hunted like an animal over the past five years, the man he holds a personal grudge against for throwing his hometown into a turmoil of violence and corruption. He shoots one of his foot soldiers, one of the Marquez-boys, as it seems – Taller, Alex, shit. He jumps at Vinales and wrests him to the ground. He loses his gun, as Vinales kicks his arm, but he manages to place a hard punch against his stomach. He grips his brass knuckles and hauls them at his face. The loud groan and drippling of blood, as Vinales’s lips immediately start bleeding makes utter euphoria rush through him. “Suck on that, fucker!” But the Spaniard doesn’t give in, he stumbles to his feet and knocks all air out of Luca’s lungs with a blow to his solar plexus. He catches a glance at him and hesitates. A loud gunshot makes them both startle. “No!” Luca yells, as Vinales wrestles himself free from his grip and storms out of the door. “Go, go, go!” Valentino screams, voice pained and Luca comes to a halt with squeaking dress shoes, as he realises, his brother got shot. Valentino has a hand firmly pressed against his stomach, blood dripping from his fingers. Next to him Jorge Lorenzo sinks to his knees, holding onto his bloody hand with a pained groan – Valentino had managed to shoot him while they fought for the gun. “Go, Luca, damn it, GET HIM!” Luca swallows, taking a long look at his brother, before he picks up his colt and storms past the gangster. The night is icy cold and ripples of ice cover the brick wall, when Luca jumps down the staircase and onto the nightly black tarmac. A few feet in front of him stands Vinales – unmoving and with his back tuned to him. Luca swallows a mixture of panic and blood, when he lifts his gun and points it at the Mafioso’s head.

“IAMTF, show me your hands!” Luca has expected a lot from this night, but certainly not to see Vinales’s shoulders drop and him to turn around after the very first order. What surprises him even more is the deep hurt in the gangster’s eyes, the tiredness looming there in the green-brown. “I’m sorry.” “W-what?!” “I don’t want to hurt you.” “Why not? I’m cop, you like killing cops, don’t you? You hadn’t had an issue with it before.” And Maverick takes his gun, pulls the slide back and clear silver bullets ripple to the ground, all eight of them, the whole magazine. Luca stares at the bullets in utter shock, rain drops reflecting on the metal shells like diamonds. “You haven’t shot once…” “No.” “W-why?!” “I’m not meant for this kind of life. I want out.” “You’re just saying that so I let you go.” But Luca’s hand around his colt trembles, his heart is in his mouth. Maverick sighs. “Then shoot me.” But Luca can’t. He sees this man in front of him, the suit rumbled, hands shaking and eyes still so inexplicably sad. “I deserve it, come on.” And Luca, whose whole life has revolved around this moment, lowers his weapon and spreads his arms. “No. I’m arresting you.” “They’ll kill me in prison. If you arrest me, I’m a dead man, you could as well just shoot me now.” It’s not the hunt, which fascinates him any longer, it’s these eyes staring at him in the darkness of the alley. It’s the simplicity of that, the truth so blatantly being spread out in front of him, which makes Luca’s breathing hitch. At the same time, Maverick doesn’t plead, he doesn’t sink to his knees and beg for his life, he’s kept his pride and backbone. Luca can’t look away, until he does, facing the building and fading shots reverberating through the night. Luca functions on autopilot, when he throws his gun at Maverick. “Shoot me. The shoulder or the leg. They’ll believe me, when I tell them, you overpowered me. Take the gun. The roadblock is South from here, head Eastward.” Maverick catches the gun, but stares at him with wide eyes. “W-why..?” He asks this time around, equally astonished as Luca has been mere seconds earlier. “Because I think, you’ll make it up to me.” And he does. All of it. The bullet pierces through Luca’s skin and goes right through his left upper-arm. Maverick merges with the shadows of the night, as he flees through the dark alleyway. Luca does return to find his brother pissed, but alive. They do believe his story. The team is ordered back to Italy – empty-handed apart from both Marquezs and Espargaros. Luca resigns from the task force and returns to his second passion. He repairs and sells motorbikes. They never hear a word of Vinales again, he’s gone like the wind. Two years later Luca finds a hand-written letter in his mail box. He bows down to pick it up and feels the old familiar sting of the bullet wound. He tears open the envelope, cigarette smoke clouding his vision for a second. It’s a one-way flight ticket to Buenos Aires. One thousand dollar cash. And a note. “Come and find me, detective.” And Luca does. He finds Maverick on a deserted beach outside of Palermo. He looks different in the loose white shirt and longer hair, but way better. When he takes off his sunglasses, Luca realises his eyes are lively and warm. “I hope the money for the flight ticket was clean.” “You found me.” “You knew, I would.” Maverick nods and points at their surroundings with a wide gesture. “It took me a while, but I’m legit now. I kept my promise. Will you?” And Luca sees his own reflection in Maverick’s eyes, before he dives into his arms and the kiss so full of pent up emotions it makes them stumble over the sand. When they part Maverick has a hand buried in Luca’s unruly mob of blond hair and Luca clings to his loose shirt. So the kiss wasn’t enough then. “I think the only crime you can commit now is run away.” “Never.” Maverick whispers into his hair, before pressing a kiss to Luca’s forehead. “Be it from violence, my family or who I am at heart. I’m done running.” We both are.

[prairiesongserial]

12.4

Johannes had taken his shoes off, and held them in one hand as he approached the water. He walked right into the ocean, letting the foam-tipped waves lap at his feet. Val stayed what he felt was a healthy distance away, watching skeptically. He couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched, his skin crawling with the warning that someone was immediately behind him, though the beach appeared entirely devoid of other people. Maybe it was the fact that Johannes had looked at him in the mirror without his notice, or the way the dark waves of the ocean roared and crashed ceaselessly against the sand, but Val was uneasy.

“Where are the people?” Val asked, pulling at the clerical collar around his neck. It was hard to tell if this one was especially tight, or if he was so unused to wearing one now that it felt like it was constricting him. The rest of his shirt felt tight, too - the arms on his stomach squirmed against his bandages more than usual. He put a hand gently against them and grimaced.

“They’ll probably be around soon,” Johannes said. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the crashing waves. “Mame always used to come down to the beach to talk to them instead of knocking on doors. Most of them live right along here, so they keep an eye out, I guess.”

He made a broad gesture towards the houses that bordered the beach, bulky blocks of color that rose out of the tall grass on the same wooden stilts that the houses near the road had. Val understood suddenly that the suspension was to prevent the lower levels of the houses from flooding. The idea that the ocean might be able to reach that far inland, to completely submerge the beach he was now standing on, chilled him.

Something else chilled him, too. The houses Johannes had pointed out were built to include long sets of stairs that led from an upper level balcony down to the beach. Val followed the lines of the stairs upwards and found that nearly every balcony had a person - or several people - standing on it, looking down at the beach. It was impossible to tell how long they had been there. Not a single one of them acknowledged that they had been seen, as Val turned his face up to watch them in return. There were no friendly waves, no calls of greeting, no questions as to what he was doing here. The hairs on the back of Val’s neck prickled.

“Good morning!” Johannes shouted directly into his ear, making Val jump nearly a foot in the air. He turned to find Johannes waving up at the people on the balconies, moving his arm in broad, sweeping gestures that made the sleeves of his shirt flap dramatically in the breeze. “Should we come up there?”

“We’ll come to you,” someone said, from one of the balconies. Val looked to the source of the voice to find that it was a woman, with arrestingly red hair that fell over her shoulders and down to her waist, wearing a white sundress that hung down from her shoulder on two thin straps.

The instant the red-headed woman spoke, the others on the balconies seemed to relax - their postures becoming less rigid, their faces more readable than blank. Val wondered if Kill Devil Hills was wary of strangers. Maybe they’d had bad experiences with gangs, or other interlopers. He couldn’t blame them for coming off cold, if that was the case. He didn’t see anyone carrying guns, or weapons of any kind, but he wouldn’t have blamed them if they had been, either.

The red-headed woman began to descend the stairs from her balcony, the wind whipping her dress this way and that around her body. The other people of Kill Devil Hills, who appeared to take their cues from the woman, began to descend as well. Val watched them, drinking in their appearances. They were all young, maybe Friday’s age, and they were all dressed appropriately for the heat in loose, light fabrics stirred by the wind. Most of them were also barefoot, Val noticed, as they all began making their way across the beach towards him. He felt overdressed, in his dark preacher’s outfit that soaked up the heat of the sun, and his pinching shoes that doubtlessly had sand in them.

“Hi, there,” Johannes said as the woman approached, at the head of the pack of locals. He stepped in front of Val, offering her an outstretched hand and a lopsided smile. “Johannes Madsen. My momma used to preach around these parts, but I haven’t been through in a while.”

He had fallen easily into a Southern accent like the Bellamys’, one that Val had never heard come out of his mouth before. Val stared at Johannes’s profile for a long moment, trying to figure out how he had switched so fluidly into a voice that wasn’t his. Johannes caught his eye and winked.

“It’s nice to meet you,” the red-headed woman said, in a tone that was much more measured than Johannes’s. She took his hand, shaking it once before dropping it quickly, like it was made of hot iron. “You can call me Weep-Not.”

Johannes seemed to falter for a moment. Val watched with some interest as the cracks in his composure appeared - Johannes’s smile twitching at the corners of his mouth, his eyes briefly confused and questioning instead of bright and intense. But the cracks were gone in a moment, painted over quickly by an even wider smile and an even more manic stare.

“Weep-Not!,” Johannes said, cheerfully. “That’s quite a name.”

“Yes,” Weep-Not said, with a smile that didn’t reach her cloudy, grey eyes.

“Well! Maybe you’re not old enough to remember the last time she came through, but my momma used to preach in the revival tent for the Madsen and Hyde Circus - that’d be the Madsen and Graves Circus, now that it’s passed down to my brother and me,” Johannes went on, gesturing to nothing in particular. He had a habit of speaking with his hands, Val had noticed, and was apparently hard pressed to stop it. “Now, my brother and I ain’t preachers, but the Honorable Reverend Brother Lecter here is a recent addition to the troupe, and he puts on - pardon my language - one hell of a revival show. I remembered how much you folks used to like the revival tent, and I thought we’d stop here on our way up to Virginia to see if y’all were interested in attendin’.”

Val barely restrained himself from a scowl. Honorable Reverend Brother? He now firmly suspected that Johannes knew next to nothing about not only Catholicism, but Christianity in general.

On the other hand, Weep-Not didn’t seem to have noticed. She was staring directly at Val, her eyes suddenly bright and attentive, and she opened her mouth to speak before Johannes could get another word out about the revival tent.

“You’re a preacher?” she asked. There was a note of something like relief in her voice.

“I...yes,” Val said, and tugged on his collar again.

“That’s wonderful,” Weep-Not said, her face lighting up with a broad smile. “It’s been so long since we’ve had a preacher around here. Not since Father Holloway’s church burned to the ground, and that would be...ten years ago, now. After your mother stopped coming.”

There was a murmuring of agreement in the crowd behind her, who up until now had been watching silently. Val saw a dark look pass over a few faces, and grimaced himself at the thought of another church like his own burning to the ground. He didn’t recall seeing anything that might have looked like a burned church on the way to the beach, but it was possible they simply hadn’t passed it. You could only see so much of a town from the road.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “Was it a gang that did it?”

“A lightning strike,” Weep-Not said, and her grin stretched wider, almost too broad for her face.

“Oh,” Val said. He wondered how the people of Kill Devil Hills had been getting on for ten years with no preacher. How they had been practicing their faith.

“How fortunate it is for you to meet the Reverend, then,” Johannes chirped, and Val fought back the sudden urge to elbow him hard in the side.

“Yes,” Weep-Not agreed, still smiling. “How fortunate.”

“I suppose the Lord brought us together,” Val said, mostly because he knew it was the sort of thing he was supposed to say, even if his heart wasn’t in it. He had a feeling that the people of Kill Devil Hills, while eager to have a preacher around, would be a more difficult flock to lead than his small congregation in Vegas. He didn’t know them, or what they needed from him. And he wasn’t even supposed to be leading them, really - he was supposed to be putting on a show for them, like Johannes wanted.

But if there truly hadn’t been a preacher in Kill Devil Hills in a decade, then Val had a certain responsibility to these people. Even if he’d been relieved of his duties, he could help guide them.

“I suppose he did,” Weep-Not said cheerfully. Her eyes were less cloudy now, the honed-steel silver of a knife blade.

One of the people behind her, a young man in a loose white shirt and pants that were rolled up to his knees, stepped forward to whisper something in Weep-Not’s ear. His hand was cupped over his mouth, making his lips impossible to read, and Weep-Not listened intently, closing her eyes and rocking back and forth. With every motion, her bare feet pushed into the sand, pale granules burying equally pale skin.

“Yes,” she said, eventually, when the young man withdrew. “Yes, I think that’s a fine idea.” She looked to Val, and smiled that too-broad smile again, holding out her hands to him. “Will you stay with us a while, preacher?”

“I -” Val began, staring down at Weep-Not’s hands. He couldn’t bring himself to take them. The burn scars on his own palms itched, and the crashing of the ocean at his back was loud, too loud. He had the ridiculous thought that the beach was shrinking behind him, that the water was moving closer.

“Just for the Eucharist? It’s been so long,” Weep-Not said. Her smile hadn’t faltered, though her eyes looked disappointed - wistful, almost.

“Of course he’ll stay,” Johannes cut in. “It’s the least he could do, when it comes to helping you folks out. And you’ll come to the revival tonight to see him again, won’t you?”

Weep-Not blinked, coppery eyelashes fluttering.

“Yes,” she said, after a moment. “Certainly, we will. If he stays to perform the Eucharist.”

Johannes turned to Val with an expectant look. Val kept his lips pressed tightly together, clenched his teeth behind them, and resisted the urge to put his hand over the squirming bandages on his stomach again. This was playing into Johannes’s hands, he knew. Staying here would mean having to do the revival tent later. Doing the revival tent would mean tricking the people of Kill Devil Hills into attending a less-than-Catholic circus, obliging them to give Johannes their money. But if they were so desperate for Communion…

“Fine,” Val said. “Fine, I’ll stay.”

Weep-Not clapped her hands together, beaming, and spun around to face the crowd that had fallen in behind her.

“The preacher will stay to give us Communion!” she announced.

The crowd murmured again at that - it was impossible to say if they were grateful, or still cautious of the strangers in their midst. Some of them were smiling more than they had been before.

“Fear-Not!” Weep-Not called, raising her voice. For a moment, Val thought it was a command to the crowd. Then, he saw that Weep-Not had turned her face upwards and was speaking to someone.

A woman stood at the very top of one of the houses that overlooked the beach, on the narrow balcony that had been built into the peak of the roof. The wind pushed her long, red hair back from her face as she looked down at the beach, and Val realized that she was identical to Weep-Not.

“The preacher is staying for Communion!” Weep-Not shouted towards her. “Get us the bread and wine!”

There was no indication that Fear-Not had heard. She did not yell back. She turned, though, and vanished from sight rather abruptly, probably dropping down a door built into the small deck, or descending a hidden set of stairs. Val watched the house for any sight of her, but it was too far away to make out shapes moving through the windows.

“It’s been so long since we’ve had a preacher,” Weep-Not said, echoing her sentiment from before. She was smiling widely again. Val’s skin crawled, though he couldn’t have said why.

12.3 || 12.5

[hearteyes-for-killmonger]

One Night Only 2, Part 6

A/N: This one is a flashback from ONO 1 only it's from Erik's perspective. For @muse-of-mbaku

---

Twenty-three days had passed since Erik had seen Y/N and he was in Ontario, Canada backstage with a cup of hot water, lemon, and honey as he listened to the crowd of thousands. A cough drop rolled on his tongue as he waited. The opening act was a young duo who needed exposure. They definitely had the talent. They performed their asses off living in their moment and he smiled at the energy they brung. The crowd was really feeling them.

(Y/N) I miss you

The message on his phone screen was the same one that had been there for the past twenty days. It may as well have been his screensaver at this point. For the eighteenth time in the day alone, he re-read the three small words in the nearly empty text thread. He could imagine Y/N's voice in his head telling it to him. He could still hear her, thinking of when she yelled after him in the airport. The memory always made him smile.

Don't respond, he told himself. She needs this time to develop who she is and you'll only become her crutch if you respond now.

The truth of the matter was usually enough to get him to put the phone down.. This time, however, despite his best efforts, his thumb hovered on the screen ready to respond. He typed four words before he stopped himself, deleting them character by character. Be strong. You can make it.

Whether he was thinking about her or himself, he wasn't sure, but he knew if he texted her now, they'd never stop talking. She'd never get the opportunity to move on and to grow alone. She'd gone from relationship to depression to relationship. She needed time to live with just herself so that she could discover herself without anyone else's input and find out what it meant to live for only one person, chasing her own dreams and desires.

For her own good, he had to ignore her.

The performance ended with a howl of screams and applause for the duo. The dramatic shift occurred where the music for Erik's set came in and the crowd went wild. It was time for Erik to go on, they were calling for him.

This is for you, he thought darkening the phone screen and running out onto the stage jumping with the mic in his hand.

From now on, everything I do is for you.

---

Ontario, Montreal, Vegas, New Orleans, Atlanta, Houston, Chicago, London, Bucharest, Rio, Lima, Brasilia, Lagos, Accra, Nairobi, Cape Town, Johannesburg, LA, Detroit, Anchorage.

Another stop, another city, another set with him pouring everything out on stage and exhausting himself, sweaty but satisfied. More nights with women throwing their bras and thongs onto the stage and coming backstage.

He's sure to wink at a few women when their eyes meet as he's performing. Their cameras are on him and he knows they'll go back and look at the footage later especially if they plan to post it somewhere. He gives one young lady with long blonde braids the mic watching her finish his lyrics as he bobs his head along with her. The moment in the car with Y/N when his song came on the radio comes to mind as he grins throwing the girl a t-shirt. He must've done that in four different cities. Everytime.. he had to smile because he couldn't stop seeing and hearing Y/N in those girls. He kissed one girl on the cheek and she almost passed out. He had to catch her and hold her for a second until she was okay.

Backstage meets were full of loyal fans, some down to earth and some a little crazy. He could always pinpoint the ones who felt entitled to him simply because they paid for a backstage pass. He was cordial with them, but he refused to put up a front to satisfy their expectations of him. He was Erik Stevens, a nigga from Cali.. and this puffed up image of him that the media sold was just that, puffed up. The ones who could vibe without demanding a performance of a character were the ones he preferred to mix with backstage.

He gave handshakes, dapped up, and hugged those who came on equal footing as souls connecting to the music. He fucked the ones who came as groupies, their love for his music so strong it transferred onto him. Some of them had been attracted to him from day one to the point they actually started listening to his music because of it. Some of them, their intentions from the very beginning were simply to have sex with someone famous. He gave them what they wanted. He fucked them all.. if they were attractive. 

He didn't fuck the women with those bright hopeful eyes though nor did he fuck the ones with sad eyes. There could only be one of those for him now. Every time a woman looked up at him like he was her hero it only served as a reminder of that fateful day that forever changed the way he thought about love.

---

"It's been five months... The fuck is she doing," Erik snapped.

He'd long been off tour and yet Y/N hadn't come. He clearly recalled asking her to come to him when they were together. He thought she would. He'd hoped that she would. He wanted her face to be the one he saw once his tour had ended. He wanted her in his bed and in his house. Alas, she had not arrived.

"She doing her.. Ain't that what you told her to do," Corey replied smartly over the phone.

He did, but he ain't expect it to take this long. It had been TOO long. She should've found him when his tour was over. He could've been helping her right now instead of talking to this nigga over the phone. Well, he could still help her... and matter of fact, he would.

He floated her name to a few people in his circle in hopes that they could scout or create opportunities for her. Anything that he could do without overstepping or making it obvious.

---

Nine months and he was still waiting on the woman who'd come into his life and turned it inside out. He read her text message again. It was starting to feel like a fever dream, their time together. It was like living months without his heartbeat. He'd been reduced to checking her social media accounts that he'd gotten hold of regularly just to get glimpses of her, making sure she was doing well. He'd created a separate account just do he could follow her and lurk without her knowing. This way, he didn't have to sweat over accidentally double tapping or hitting the heart. He could also view her lives without his name appearing. This eased his mind because he felt closer to her, but it still was not close enough. He was happy to see her coming into her own gradually and he loved the glimpses into her life, but he wanted to be part of it.

The day finally came when he saw her pictured with another nigga, light skin with freckles like an old banana. Who was that nigga? He dug through the comments and looked for any tags following them until he found the profile. James Porleau.

Porleau. His lip twisted in irritation scrolling through the man's account... also known as Jimmy.

Well fuck you, Jimmy, he thought as he scrolled. He went back to the photo of them together. They'd both posted it and it set off red flags in his mind. Stop it, he told himself. She needs this, and how many women have you fucked? Let her get it out of her system. 

That was until a week later he saw that her IG account was suddenly on private and that blew him. Wrong move, babe. Luckily his fake account was already following her so he could still see her posts.

"Corey tell her take her Instagram off private. Can't nobody like or enjoy her shit if they can't access it."

"I ain't even know it was on private.. how'd you know? Damn you a stalker for real, huh?"

"I'm just checking on her."

"Riiight," Corey drags, "... You musta seen Jimmy," he chuckles.

"Who is he anyway?" It wasn't worth pretending he hadn't.

"A placeholder.... She misses you but she need dick to keep her warm at night and you not here. I keep telling you to just pop up on her. That nigga would disappear real quick."

"I can't. She's in her zone right now, growing, and if I pop up she might get distracted. This is all healthy for her...I just don't like that nigga." Looking at the two of them together made him uneasy. "I'm a look into him to make sure. Just to be safe."

"Nigga," Corey laughed on the other end.

"I'm serious."

"They not. They just fuckin around."

---

Fuckin around. Who fucks around like this for months? Y/N and Jimmy seemed to be going strong and there was nothing in Jimmy's past that Erik could hold up or frown on. He was a lawyer and a decent guy it seemed. Inside, he was conflicted. He didn't want them together because it made his heart burn, but at the same time she WAS his heart and he was glad she wasn't alone. There were five photos with him and Y/N together. He swallowed his emotions and continued to scroll.

He could see pictures posted at Corey's engagement party. The shoes he'd bought. He rolled his eyes still not believing he'd bought a grown man's shoes. Mostly, he'd scrolled the feed to get glimpses of Y/N. She looked as beautiful as ever and despite the turmoil boiling in his gut due to the fact that she was still too far away, he was glad to see she had a big smile on her face where she was. 

He felt like a fan.

---

"She quit her job," Corey blurted when Erik answered the phone. Erik had just left a meeting with his manager and PR person to discuss some of his most recent behavior. He'd cussed out a white guy who'd bought backstage passes and wasn't satisfied because Erik didn't cater to him. The guy tried to force Erik to pay more attention to him but Erik refused to be treated like a toy. The guy deserved worse than the few choice words he got and Erik made that known when he refused to apologize or do anything to make the situation go away. He simply didn't care. 'Figure it out. I'm not doing shit,' he'd told them before storming out.

"She q-.. Is that good or bad? She need money?"

"Nigga. Who don't need money?"

"I'll say it like this.. Is she in danger of losing her apartment or not eating?"

"Nah nah.. Nah, never that. She getting money from her social networking. She one of them influencers now."

"Oh damn.. Is she happy?"

"Oh yeah. She happy as hell, her lil pickle head ass dancing all over the living room right now."

"She don't know you talking to me right?"

"She in there with Anaya not thinking about my ass. See, “BIG OL FREAK, BIG BOOT BIG OL TREAT.. see they ain't paying no attention."

"Nigga, I slid you that track in secret because you were a Megan fan, damn! Don't make me regret it! It ain't out yet... I gotta get my verse together."

---

The day came where Y/N finally released her own original music, music she'd written and arranged herself. He sat in his Ferrari 488GTB with his phone connected by bluetooth and the music playing through his speakers. He'd been waiting a year to hear her song and now that the time had come,  he rested his head against the headrest and let the sound caress his ears. Her soulful, smooth, and angelic voice rode the beat with precision. With the volume up and the sound enveloping him, it felt like she was there and singing directly to him. This about me, he thought with a lazy smile listening to her words. That nigga couldn't make her feel like this.. and I know it ain't about her ex.. Nah, it's definitely about me. The thought had him replaying it and for the next week it was his go to song. He knew every word and could sing it. He often did when he was alone.

From singing covers to her own original music, she'd taken large strides. He was impressed and proud that she'd worked hard to carry out her vision to accomplish her dream. He could not stop grinning whenever he heard her song... and then he heard it in public. He was out and about and he heard it, it was brief, but enough for him to recognize it. His stomach was leaping. He looked around for the source, but it had been so quick. That's my baby. His chest was swelling, heart full. That's when he knew for a fact she'd made it.

---

Erik witnessed the success of her EP and bragged on her where he could, of course not to the point of it being loud or widespread enough for it to get back to her. He was careful not to tempt her into cutting off her progress for some haphazard reunion. Of course, he was still fuckin groupies left and right.

He saw the explosion in her social media for himself, her verified side account so that her main could be reserved for her inner circle. He saw all the plays she got on Pandora, Spotify, iTunes, and YouTube. He could finally Google her and see her on multiple platforms. She was linked to him. Their names were still used together, but she was standing alone as well.

She'd gotten fans and followers. Lotta comments and likes. Aight now.. Drake.. back the fuck up. Along with her fame came the thirst. Hella niggas were liking her pictures and leaving random emojis.

"Ayo Corey, tell me something. I need an update. What's she doing? What she need?"

"I remember her saying she need a signed jersey from Steph Curry. She's really been into basketball lately for some reason. She'd love that."

"How bout I send this size 12 foot up ya ass?"

"You still violent as ever, I see. Ornery... You been getting any cheeks?"

"Groupie pussy don't hit the same."

"Not when you've had that number one superfan pussy!"

"Don't remind me. That bitch was crazy."

"But her pussy was fire wuh'nit?"

"She was fuckin crazy. You almost got sniped for that, sending me crazy bitches. You lucky I been in therapy for so long."

"How was I supposed to know the bitch was nuts, she seemed normal to me, I just thought she was a nice lady."

"Nah. I knew something was off. Shouldn't have fucked her."

"Can't unfuck her, but you can hire extra security."

"Nah. If she come around, I'm a handle her."

"Careful E... you soundin like the old you. I know you wanna keep control n'shit."

"Oh I'm in control. I got security, but if she push me they can't protect her from me but for so long."

"Remember she a woman. Though she a bitch, she a bitch with titties.. I guess you supposed to be more gentle.. because of the titties..."

"Yeah well she ain't finna have no titties fuckin wit me. I was taught to believe in equal rights of the sexes."

Click.

Hm? He hung up. Must've been Anaya or someone who walked in.

---

Erik had seen Corey's wedding photos and short clips and through he didn't comment, he congratulated him ans sent a gift. He lurked Y/N's social media catching up on her photos and videos. He was beginning to forget what she tasted like, but when he stared at her through his screen ge could imagine. He was a ghost haunting her pages. He'd become the very thing he'd warned her against. He was stuck on her.

She hadn't posted yet. Every time he scrolled, it was like Russian Roulette. He had to continuously remind himself to check that he was using the lurking account and not his actual account. Also, he was never sure what he'd find. Sometimes the content filled him with intense pride and joy, but sometimes it hurt. That nigga still seemed to be close to her and it got under his skin. She was supposed to fuck around with him and move onto another one, but this nigga was consuming ALL the time that Erik was sacrificing.

He wanted to get on her live.. it was an impulse whenever he visited her page and she had one. THE NIGGA WAS IN THE LIVE. Given, he wasn't the only one there, but still. Erik's jaw tightened and his eyes shut tightly putting the phone against his forehead before putting it away. He needed to think of something different. He needed to go on with his busy ass day.

---

Another year had officially passed.

Pictures posted of Y/N with her and the Corey's baby smiling and glowing living their best fuckin life. Erik didn't want to be bitter, but he couldn't hello that part of him felt bitter. He was lonely. He could see Corey was happy and flexin with Anaya. He'd found a good thing.

Erik wanted to be happy like that, but he couldn't and it wasn't for lack of trying. No matter how many models he went through, how many groupies he fucked, he was still lonely. He laid in bed with other girls as they were passed out from all the sex, scanning through Y/N's pictures. He still had that photo he'd taken when they were in bed together and he was flipping off the camera. It felt like ten years ago instead of two, but emotionally it still felt like yesterday.

Don't know what you're doing off camera.. Wonder what you're doing and if you really moved on..

I sound insecure right now.

Put the phone down. Turn the phone off.

24 hours. Erik kept it off.

The next morning when Erik turned him phone on, his manager had a lot to say. The main thing being, "You ain't answer your phone."

Erik laughed dryly having just gotten chewed out. What could he say?

"It died," he lied. "What'd you wanna say tho?"

---

Typically, Erik could distract himself and push his feelings aside, but he'd seen something this time that he couldn't push aside in his mind. It was a photo of Y/N and that nigga kissing on the lips, the caption: 'I love this man.'

She'd dropped the L word and Erik couldn't breathe. He looked at the phone staring from the word to the picture. It was a punch in the stomach. Had he been waiting on her in vain? Had she chosen this banana faced bitch? Had she really decided to be with him?

Erik had to sit down. He laid down the phone and gripped at his face which was hot, dragging his cheeks down with his palms, fingers sliding down his face. Facepalm. Her with this nigga AGAIN. He wanted to cry.

They ain't look bad together and that seemed to be a popular consensus based on the comments. It made his eye twitch.

He sighed deeply, his jaw tightening. His head felt like it would pop. She was raising his blood pressure and he had to breathe, blinking as he stared at nothing to calm himself. It didn't look like they were just fuckin. They were entirely too close, spending too much time together to say there were no feelings and now he knew. She loved him.

He stood abruptly pacing the floor of his living room. His ear itched at the entire situation and he scratched wildly in irritation releasing his frustration in a loud, "FUCK."

He needed to jog. Stopping short, he decided fuck jogging, he'd hit the bag. In his home gym, he paced and punched the body bag until his fists went numb with pain to match the confusing and excruciating feeling in his heart. He fell to the floor onto his back, sweat covering his face as he tried to shut down his racing mind, chest heaving.

One time. He'd allow himself to see her one time. He had to see her up close even if it was a goodbye. He looked her up to see her next performance. It was at a club called Sapphire. He laid there on the ground thinking of her song and all the times he'd played it. He was starting to think he was wrong about who she was singing to all along.

---

The performance went without a flaw while Erik stood in the back of the crowded club with his hood pulled up, listening with his ears and saying goodbye with his heart. If she wanted him, he'd fight, but if she wanted that other nigga and he truly made her happy, he'd let her go.

The entire performance, he wished her the best, still more excited for her than anyone when she got nothing but applause and positive feedback. He wanted badly to walk up and grab her hand just to confirm that his eyes still held power over her, her heart, and her knees... but he resisted. He'd have stayed longer, but when he started to get recognized, it became a problem

The first woman to recognize him gaped, her mouth and eyes wide. He signaled for her to be quiet with his finger over his lips. When the third person recognized him, it was time to go. He had to leave before word got out that he was there.

---

"Nigga, you are dumb as hell. Them pictures don't mean shit. They ain't even together no more. You depressed for what?"

"I'm not depressed, I'm working."

"This would all be solved if you'd bring ya ass over here then you'd see for yourself... You should've approached her at the club. She'd have lost her fuckin mind and been with you right now, but y'all both wanna be stubborn."

"Well then if that's true... I'm not gonna rush her or or cut off her relationship. I've BEEN ready. I'm just waiting on her. When she's ready she'll come."

"You finna be waiting a decade."

"Aye.. So be it."

There was a strain that Erik could hear. Corey was the middle point and he was trying hard to keep the two of them connected but there was only so much he could do. Erik felt his frustration, but his resolve was strong.

"..UUUUUGH, Y'ALL GET ON MY DAMN NERVES," Corey groaned.

---

3 months passed and Erik was with his lawyer, manager, and producer reworking contracts that would be re-signed. Apparently, his lawyer was peeping shit he missed, earning his check. Erik figured he'd need a new producer soon. This one was sheisty and he didn't wanna have to threaten him or worse. It was best to work with someone else and this lawyer seemed to be doing well with determining the producer's breach of contract making it void.

"One second," Erik put a finger up walking out of the conference room. Typically, he would never walk out of a meeting that serious, but he saw a name on his screen with a new message from a number that hadn't contacted him in two years.

Holding his breath, he opened it.

(Y/N) I'm in Cali can we meet

@imaginewhoever @goddessofthundathighs @panthergoddessbast @thadelightfulone @misspooh @marvelmaree @youreadthatright @forbeautyandlife @theunsweetenedtruth @bidibidibombaclaat @myboyfriendgiriboy @dameshaemonique @blackpantherimagine   @vikkidc @hidden-treasures21 @mysidefanting @hold-me-like-a-heart-beat @syndrlla97 @winteroflife @thotyana-in-this-hoe   @texasbama @gingerylimonte @princessstevens   @magic-madness-heavensin @wawakanda-btch @scrumptiouslytenaciouscrusade @wakanda-inspired @blackgirloneshots @thegucciwaffle @thiccdaddy-mbaku @drsunshine97 @purplehairgawdess @trevantesbrat @indigoxsummers @cccccx1   @dynastylnoire @iamrheaspeaks @blowmymbackout @fonville-designs @they-call-me-le @theblulife @raysunshine78 @sheisexcellent @blackpinup22

[teaandgames]

The Teacup Awards! (2019)

So, as holes begin to form in the parachute of time and we fall with gathering speed towards the hard ground of inevitability, we must bid good day to 2019. Another year of political upheaval as the Brexit circus marches on, the American president continues to document every thought in the form of a tweet and the English public prove themselves to be the best foot marksmen around. It was also a year of upheaval in my own life, with a new job and a new home to grapple with. Still, it was an interesting year for games. In part because of how few 2019 releases caught my eye. Because of that I looked back over the last few years, helped by the Humble Monthly bundle, and found a few gems that I missed. So, as usual, these awards will go to games I wrote about this year, rather than just released this year. Otherwise they’d be a little bare. Oh and I’m afraid we’ve lost the horror game award, due to lack of games. I’ll bring it back next year.

The ‘Tea Stained Page’ Award For Best Writing

Runner Up - Hellblade: Senua’s Sacrifice

There’s a strange thing in visual media where less writing can actually be better. Overwriting something can lead to it becoming weaker, as all mystery and personal connection are systematically destroyed. Hellblade understands that better than most. Most of its writing is given to the voices inside Senua’s head and offer up different interpretations of what’s going on. Some of them are hostile, while others offer encouragement. It’s a fairly unique way of setting up the protagonist. Tied in with the intriguing nordic setting, it makes it one hell of a well written game. Shame about the gameplay, but you can’t have everything.

Winner - The Outer Worlds

I had high hopes for The Outer Worlds. Made by the minds behind the original Fallout games, and my long term flame Fallout: New Vegas, I was hoping for some great character writing with original quests. I pretty much got what I wanted. While some of the quests weren’t exactly as original as hoped, the characters were all charming, deep people. There wasn’t anyone in my party that I excluded because I thought they were boring. Instead, I exhausted everyone’s dialogue trees.

I don’t think I’ve ever done that before, come to think on it. There’s always someone who gets kicked to the curb. If that’s not a testament to good writing, I don’t know what is. Like Hellblade, it suffers from gameplay issues but those almost fade into the background. Instead, it’s just a fun romp through space with a varied, interesting crew of nutjobs. Along with characters, it’s also got various flavours of well-written capitalism. Truly, all things to all men.

The ‘Head Nod’ Award For Best Soundtrack

Runner Up - Ori and The Blind Forest

Apparently, only fifty percent of people get goosebumps when listening to music. That’s a shame, because ‘Completing the Circle’ from Ori and the Blind Forest caused an explosion of goosebumps up my arm. It’s absolutely beautiful. Unfortunately, I made a bad call of listening to it at work which brutally killed my productivity until it was over. There are other gems in the soundtrack too, with a mix of beautiful serenity and fast paced action. Damn, everything in this game is beautiful.

Winner - Katana Zero

When the protagonist of Katana Zero starts a level, he pulls out a pair of headphones and presses play on his walkman. Then the music starts. It creates this odd sense that we’re listening to the music through the protagonist, complete with all the time reversal and everything. It’s also a rare case of the soundtrack becoming part of the story. Our ‘hero’ is so desensitised to what he’s doing that he’s playing music while brutally killing people. But that’s by the by.

What we’re here for is some catchy synthwave tunes to kill along with. ‘Third District’ is a standout, being strangely relaxing for a game where death is only a failed slice away. But that’s kind of the point. Zero is chilling out. He already knows how this is gonna go. Then you’ve got the more faster paced songs, like the requisite disco song, ‘Hit the Floor’. The best comparison I can make is to DEADBOLT. Equally laid back soundtracks that somehow link together with horrific, bloody murder.

The ‘Perfect Cuppa’ For Best Looking Game

Runner Up - Spyro Reignited

Spyro Reginited Trilogy was a bit of a shock, to be honest. I’ve never been too invested in remakes, as they seem to be creative vacuums by nature. Spyro slipped me by when it was big, however, so I thought I’d give it a look. I’m glad I did, as I was greeted by a slick and smooth platformer. What did strike me was how bright and colourful it was. It just looks like a nice place to me. A variety of bright colours, helped by our bright purple dragon.

Winner - Ori and the Blind Forest

Before I played it, Ori and the Blind Forest struck me as an ‘art game’. The type of game that looks really nice as a cover up for its weak gameplay. That wasn’t quite the case, as Ori’s platforming is pretty good (though let down a bit by the combat). That’s not why we’re here though. We’re here because it looks absolutely bloody beautiful. The ‘blind forest’ relates to a part in the story where the forest withers, with Ori being one beacon of light in this dark place. This interplay of light is one reason why it looks so beautiful.

The forest starts off dark with twinkling areas of light throughout. As you progress through the game, life begins to return to the forest and you go off to new locations that all look different. There’s a cave full of lava, for example, or there’s the dark and mysterious Misty Woods. Either way, wherever you go, you’ll find somewhere that looks good. Can’t wait for Ori and the Will of the Wisps.

The ‘Spilled My Tea, Punk’ Award For Best Action Game

Runner Up - One Finger Death Punch 2

Sometimes simple is better. To make a fun game, sometimes you only need one button. Though, to be honest, I used two fingers, thus invalidating the point of the game. For shame. Still, One Finger Death Punch 2 has found new ways to make twatting stickmen challenging. It calls back to those old flash animations, with the exaggerated moves to send the variously coloured enemies flying. It may not look like much when you’re looking at the screenshots of it but I promise you: it’s a damn exciting game.

Winner - Yakuza 0

Another surprise this one. I got it through the Humble Monthly bundle and installed it while not really expecting much. I’d heard a few things about it, mainly how crazy and over the top parts of it were, but I wasn’t expecting to be quite so blown away. There is some madcap zaniness, of course, but layered on top of that is a serious crime story about a low level Yakuza drawn into something far bigger than him. Enter Kazama Kiryu, smart, stoic and with one hell of a heavy fist or two.

That leads us to the action part of the game. It’s split into three styles, Steady, Speedy and Heavy. Or Brawl, Rush and Crash if you want the proper names. The most exciting parts of these being the Heat Actions. Special moves that play out when proper conditions are met. Grappling someone near a wall, for example, will cause Kiryu (or Majima if you’re on his storyline) to throw them against the wall and then break a couple of ribs with his fists. These heat actions make me feel like im in a proper action film and for that, and many other reasons, Yakuza 0 is a clear winner.

The ‘Perfectly Brewed’ Award For Best Revisited

Runner Up - Rayman 2

I finally got around to beating Rayman 2 this year, something I’ve not achieved since I was a kid. While the final boss was atrocious, it is still a great game to me. There is so much imagination filtered down into it. Nothing is predictable, especially not the giant eyeball monster in a hat chasing you down a hallway. It’s like being eaten by Mike Wazowski’s big brother. Couple that with some fairly decent 3D platforming (as decent as it could be in those games) and you’ve got yourself one hell of a Rayman game. I am glad it went back to 2D though.

Winner - Danganronpa

I’ve played games like Danganronpa before, most notably Ace Attorney. However, in that series the worst that could happen is a client being found guilty. It’s awful but it’s not quite on the same level as Danganronpa. Screw up there and all of your friends will die horrible deaths. That kind of contributes to the whole ‘despair’ thing that hangs over the entire game like a dark shroud. It’s very oppressive; it almost qualifies for a horror game if it wasn’t for all the upbeat anime cheeriness.

It’s an odd blend that. Half the game is figuring out whodunnit, while the other half is hanging out with your friends and giving them gifts. That’s what it makes it so effective. It’s rather a cruel joke, really. Danganronpa makes you care about your friends and then kills them without mercy. While it suffers from the usual problem of you desperately trying to catch on to the developers thread of logic when it comes to the murders, the core gameplay and the writing are both top notch. As is the second one, which you’ll be hearing about on Tuesday!

The ‘Accidental Sugar Lump’ For Biggest Disappointment

Runner Up - Sundered

Sundered had a lot of promise. It’s a Lovecraftian Metroidvania game and both of those things are very exciting. Unfortunately, it doesn’t quite deliver on the second one as well as it does the first. The Lovecraftian stuff is there for sure, and lends itself to some good plot notes and strange bosses. Unfortunately, the combat is a total damp squib. It gives no real feedback and there’s rarely a better solution to a problem than spamming the attack button. As a result, playing the game quickly slips down into being a chore. A damn shame.

Winner - Layers of Fear 2

Unfortunately, I feel like this award could probably be named after Bloober Team. They always seem to hit on the right ideas but fail to properly implement them. Layers of Fear had a nice story about a troubled artist that ended with it throwing doll heads at us. Observer led with a great story about hacking into people’s minds but threw in awkward stealth sections and the usual screen wobbliness. Then we get to Layers of Fear 2. A promising story about a method actor blurring the lines between fiction and reality.

Unfortunately, it gets rather too full of itself, making its story take a lot of confusing twists and turns, which makes it hard to figure out who’s who and what they’re doing. Symbolism is haphazardly thrown in so often that it becomes frustrating to try and decipher exactly what it’s saying. That’s when it’s not throwing mannequins at you, for no readily available reason. They literally fall down from above you. All of this leads it to be one unfortunately disappointing title.

The ‘Rate Your Server’ Award For Best And Worst Developer

Best - Hopoo Games

I do love a developer who actually listens to their fans. Hopoo have proved that they really have their ear to the ground with Risk of Rain 2. The Early Access title has gotten a number of updates since it first launched on the service. It’s constantly bringing out new characters and levels, as well as variations on existing ones. More than that though, are the quality of life updates. Risk of Rain 2 has a very vocal community and their changes and suggestions are clearly being looked at.

While it might not seem like too much to ask from a developer, not everyone does it and implements it in the same way that Hopoo does. For consistent updates and an actual sense of community, Hopoo definitely deserves this award.

Worst - Bethesda Softworks

Well, this is a two-year streak, Bethesda. I can’t wait to see how you’ll screw things up next year. For those with their heads in the sand, this award goes to Bethesda for the constant mishandling of Fallout 76, already a silly idea to begin with. I thought the whole thing about the canvas bags, leaked customer data and a weird battle royale mode was bad enough but then they brought in Fallout First.

A paid subscription for a game you’ve already paid for is bad enough. It’s rampant money grubbing and they’re not even bothering to hide it anymore. This subscription service, which is about £100 for a year by the way, gives you a few bits and bobs like a travelling tent and a box for your junk, as well as private servers. Certainly nothing to justify paying more money for a game you’ve already bought. For shame.

The ‘Golden Teapot’ Award For Best Game

Runner Up - Yakuza 0

Well, I said most of what I wanted to in the Best Action Award but here I’ll talk about Goro Majima. A suave ponytailed man, who’s desperate to get back into the Yakuza but instead goes on the run with a blind woman in tow. Throughout the game he carves out his own breed of Yakuza, using his own heat actions and skills. For example, one of his combat styles is breakdancing. Seems a bit less useful than the one that’s just about smashing people over the head with a baseball bat. You take these skills all around the streets of Kamurocho and Sotenbori, getting embroiled in a deep and violent story.

If you like crime games, with excellent combat systems, and don’t take things too seriously then you absolutely need to look into the Yakuza series. And Yakuza 0, to my mind, is the current King of the series.

Winner - Dead Cells

There have been very few games in my life where I’ve started them and immediately felt in awe. Sometimes you just know a game is exactly what you want and made perfectly. This year, Dead Cells was that game. A roguelike game with Metroidvania aspects set in a world that’s been torn apart by a sickness called ‘The Malaise’. Our hero wakes up in a prison- oh I should say our hero is a big ball of sentient goo stuffed into a dead body. Probably important, that. He then has to fight his way through the prison to find the king.

And boy is the fighting good. The combat is extremely tight, with little forgiveness for panicking. A single blow can carve off most of your health, particularly when you add in the ‘Boss Cells’, which function as an extended new game plus system. Add to that some fairly tight platforming, which doesn’t take the center stage, and you’ve got a game that’s as fun as it is frustrating. It has that beautiful quality where every death, and there will be many of those, feels like it’s your fault. That’s absolutely crucial for a roguelike.

It also doesn’t make or break on its items, with each weapon type following generally the same pattern. It’s a game entirely bent on player skill (or lack thereof). I honestly can’t sing Dead Cells praises enough. Everything, right down to the sombre score is brilliant. Absolutely deserving of the Golden Teapot.

The ‘Golden Accompanying Teaset’ Award For Best Game of the Decade

The Binding of Isaac

I had a good long think about this one. A decade is a long time, after all. Ten whole years. A whole lot of games released. With that in mind, I wanted to pick one that was not only a good game in its own right but one that mattered a lot to me personally. With that in mind, I landed on The Binding of Isaac. I think we can all agree it’s a good game, for one. Brutally hard and relentlessly imaginative and it has grown substantially since it was first released, with expansion packs and a remake in the form of Rebirth.

Personally though, it sparked off a love for a genre that’s remained strong to this day. The roguelike genre has been around for many years, of course, since, well, Rogue. But it seems to have picked up a lot more oomph this decade and I wonder how much influence The Binding of Isaac had over that. Certainly, it was pretty damn high profile, initially off the back of Super Meat Boy and then in its own right. It proved that a simple, repeating formula that had thousands of different combinations could be incredibly addictive.

It certainly got its hooks into me. I remember my first year of university, where steam was blocked by my hall’s internet meaning I didn’t have much else on my laptop to play. So I did run after run of The Binding of Isaac, until I could beat the bosses without much trouble. And even then I kept plugging away, trying to unlock everything. I did get the ‘Golden God’ achievement, until multiple expansions made that irrelevant. Ah well.

For the sheer fun and the influences on the roguelike genre, and for making me love the same, it absolutely is my best game of the decade.

Well that’s 2019 done. Personally, I’m hoping that 2020 will be a bit less chaotic in the personal life department. A bit less juggling of money and filling out endless forms and more lying on the sofa playing the games I love. Either way, I hope everyone had a good Christmas, or a good break, and a happy New Year. I hope you’ll join me in looking forward to what 2020 is going to bring. Brace yourselves, eh?

[detectivejigsawpines]

One Rainy Night-Part 1 (The Prophecy)

Since this story has been so successful on AO3, I have decided to start reposting it here, for those of you who are not on that site.  To make a long story short, it’s a Gravity Falls AU set just after the Marilyn Incident, where Stan gets a chance to reunite with Ford and prevent the apocalypse thirty-five years ahead of schedule.

...Have I captured your interest yet?

Well, Vegas officially sucks.

Stanley knew, because he knew himself way too well, that sooner or later he’d probably change his mind about this, the next time things started looking up for him here.

But right now, laying in the gutter with the newly-acquired certificate of divorce in his pocket, his precious car keys (barely rescued from the greedy claws of his new ex-wife) clenched so tight in his hand they were probably breaking the skin, and a headache performing a drum solo on the inside of his skull, he hated Vegas.

And then, because the world hated Stan Pines, it started to rain.

And not just a soft, wet drizzle either, oh no, that would have been nice and merciful so of course it didn’t apply to him.  It was a full-out downpour that had him soaked through within seconds.

At least he still had his car, so he had somewhere to go to dry off.

With a groan, Stan finally sat up, and after a long moment where he waited for the tiny drummer living in his head to stop beating the cymbals he began the agonizing process of getting to his feet.

He sighed, brushing his shaggy hair out of his eyes, and began the arduous walk to where his car was.

It probably should have bothered him more than it did that he wasn’t even that upset about finding out that Marilyn had just been going after his car this whole time.  But somehow, well...you got used to being abandoned and rejected, after a while.  It didn’t hurt any less when it kept happening, but after a while it stopped being a surprise.

He stopped at an intersection of two equally grimy, dirty alleyways, and frowned in thought.  He’d hidden his car down one of them when he first got to Vegas, he knew that.  Covered it with a bunch of trash, made it look less appealing to anyone who might come sniffing around-and then stupidly bragged to Marilyn about how great it was, so she’d married him and tried to persuade him to tell where he was hiding it, until he finally caught on to her little scheme and nipped it in the bud.  But right now he was still kind of hungover, so he couldn’t quite remember the right alley…

Reaching into his pocket, Stan pulled out his last quarter and flipped it.  Heads, he’d go for the one on the left.  Tails, the one on the right.

In some universes-many of them, in fact-Stan got tails.  He went in, found his car right away, changed into dry (albeit grimy) clothes, and curled up in the back and moped himself to sleep before driving off the next day, already planning out another get-rich-quick scheme.

In this one, however, the quarter turned up heads.  And Stan caught it quickly, before it could bounce away into the gutter or something, stuffing it back into his pocket, and trudged into the corresponding alley.

********

He realized soon enough that his car wasn’t down here.

Grumbling to himself, he was about to go back the way he’d come, when a voice said, “Care to learn your fortune, young man?”

Stan jumped what felt like a foot in the air, and whirled around, digging into his pockets for his brass knuckles in preparation to fend off-

A tiny old woman dressed in clothes even more ragged than his, sitting cross-legged on the ground, using half a cardboard box as a makeshift tent (that he could tell wasn’t going to last much longer if the rain kept up like this), with a deck of cards being shuffled between her bony hands.

Stan let out a relieved laugh, snorting at himself for being scared so easily, and turned away shaking his head.  Just hearing that phrase made a small coal of nostalgia burn in his gut, and he didn’t need anymore painful reminders of how much his life sucked today, thank you very much.

“I can tell you your heart’s desire.”  Somehow the old crone managed to make herself heard over the pouring rain.

This time he flat-out rolled his eyes.  “That’s what they all say, lady.”

Her next words, though, stopped him right in his tracks.  “You want your brother back.”

****

Slowly, Stan turned around and gaped at the woman.

She just looked back at him expectantly for a moment, then folded the cards and slid them up her sleeve, standing up and daintily approaching.

There were several questions Stan wanted to ask-how the [CENSORED] did she know that, who had she been talking to, what did she think she was playing at-but all that came out was a kind of strangled, “H-how-who-” before his natural defenses sprang back into place and he snarled, “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

The woman just reached out, and before he could react cupped his cheek in one hand.

“You poor things.”  Her voice was filled with unexpected sorrow.  “You’re both so lost.”

“I’m not-and he’s not either, he’s doing just fine!”  He made it perfectly clear he doesn’t need me.

She gave a small sigh, stroking his cheekbone with her thumb.  “That is what you keep telling yourselves.  You think that it’s better to hide behind your anger than admit to your pain.  But it doesn’t hide how you’ve both become broken.”  Finally she released him.  “Broken in heart, broken in soul…”  She pulled out a card, and with a quick jerk of her hands ripped it right down the middle.  “Broken in two.”

Stan wondered how she was doing this-he was no stranger to cold readings, but he didn’t see how she could possibly have figured out this much from him.  Unless she really was a psychic-and, well, he’d seen the Jersey Devil as a kid so maybe he shouldn’t rule that out entirely, as improbable as it seemed that he’d run into a genuine psychic here in a dirty alleyway in Vegas…

“You can still fix it, though,” the woman went on.  “In fact, you must.”

Stan scoffed.  “Oh, yeah?  Why?”  What was the point?

She looked straight at him.  “Otherwise the world will be destroyed because your brother will choose the wrong allies.”

...That was a way more dire prediction than even his mother had ever dared make.

“Mend your bonds before it’s too late,” she insisted, pressing the two halves of the card into his hand.  And then she stepped away, towards the other opening of the alley.

“...Geez, ya think ya could be a little more cryptic?!” Stan yelled after her.

She didn’t answer, continuing to shuffle away through the rain.

********

The pieces of card, Stan noticed as he went to the other alleyway and found his car, were the halves of a two of hearts, appropriately enough.  He thought about tossing them away, but instead he found himself putting them in the pocket of the dry jeans he changed into.  And then staring vacantly at the roof of his car for two hours, thoughts tumbling around and around in his brain helplessly.

On the one hand, fortune tellers and so-called psychics really got off on either telling suckers that all this good stuff was gonna happen to them, or giving vague, easily misinterpreted omens of doom.  On the other hand, she hadn’t asked him for money in exchange for her prediction like most of those shysters-she’d just given it.  And somehow, she’d known.  She’d known everything.

Come on, you’re not supposed ta be this naïve, he told himself in annoyance, It’s gotta be some kinda con you just haven’t figured out yet.

And yet…

It would be just like Ford to make some kind of dumb mistake and trust the wrong person because he had nothing between his ears besides science stuff, and no concept of guile whatsoever.  And wouldn’t it be better to take the risk that this lady was crazy or something if there was a chance that she was right?

With a sigh, Stan dug the quarter back out of his pocket, and put the keys in the ignition.  Time to find a pay phone.

By the time he found one that seemed to be in decent condition, it had stopped raining.  Stan dialed the number he had by now memorized, and nearly pulled the cord right out of its socket as his finger toyed with it nervously.

It rang twice, before the familiar refrain of “Hello, this is Stanford Pines” came through the receiver.

Stan’s thought processes froze.  What was he supposed to say?  Somehow, ‘hey, I’m calling because a fortune teller said you were gonna destroy the world if we don’t make up’ didn’t seem like it would cut it.  And of course his throat was locking up and he could already feel his arm preparing to put the phone back on the hook because he couldn’t take the pain of being rejected again-

“Hello?  Is someone there?”  Ford’s voice was tinted with curiosity that could turn into annoyance any second.

“Lo siento, hermano,” Stan blurted out, and then his impulsive hand finally got its way and slammed the phone back on the hook.

A second later he groaned into that same hand.

You idiot.  You finally say something, and-well, yeah, it’s an apology that he’s been deserving for a long time, but…

This is gonna be harder than I thought.

[chicagoindiecritics]

New from Jeff York on The Establishing Shot: APPRECIATING THE SUBLIME NASTINESS OF STUART GORDON’S “RE-ANIMATOR”

Original caricature by Jeff York of David Gale and Jeffrey Combs in RE-ANIMATOR (copyright 2020)

With the passing of filmmaker Stuart Gordon this past week, I was inspired to re-visit his darkly comic horror film RE-ANIMATOR. A loose adaptation of H. P. Lovecraft’s horror short Herbert West – Reanimator, Gordon made it his own by amping up the comedy and the grotesque in equal measures for a modern horror classic. When it came out in 1985, America was settling into a comfortable groove with a second term of the Reagan administration, a nationwide obsession with music videos on MTV, and a steadying economy. Gordon likely wanted to shake audiences out of its complacency, and he did just that with his hellzapoppin horror show.

The film was probably too controversial by half to be anything more than a qualified hit at the time, but nonetheless it still had quite an impact. Not only did it achieve instant cult status, and lead to a number of sequels, but it cemented Gordon’s artistic reputation as a provocateur and set his film career up to continue to shock and awe. (He’d already done a lot of similar things in Chicago with his Organic Theater Company where, among other things, he introduced the world to the equally edgy playwright David Mamet when he produced his first play entitled Sexual Perversity in Chicago.) 35 years later, the chills and laughs Gordon put out for the world to see in RE-ANIMATOR still stand tall, and if anything, the entire enterprise seems even more outrageous than it did when it opened during that comfy and conservative Reagan era.

The idea of reanimating corpses wasn’t exactly the edgiest subject for the horror genre. Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, which helped start the genre back in 1818, was about that very idea. Nor was excessive violence and gore new to films or even TV shows in the genre. The Hammer horror films dumped buckets of blood all over the screen in the ’60s. THE NIGHT STALKER made-for-TV movie in 1972 pushed the boundaries of violence transmitting into people’s homes with its tale of a vampire on the loose in Las Vegas. And God knows that John Carpenter was raked over the coals by critics for the spectacularly graphic deaths in his remake of THE THING in 1982. RE-ANIMATOR didn’t do anything all that new by being excessively violent. What was novel about it was how viciously it was employed, and how glibly. It was gross, sure, but mostly, it was served with a sense of humor.

In a word, RE-ANIMATOR was nasty.

Nasty in tone, look, and physicality, not to mention its treatment of death, the medical community, patriarchal society, ingenues, and yes, the classic hero’s journey. It was a sniggering and snide middle finger to propriety, daring audiences to watch, laugh, and stay till the end of a film wall-to-wall with outrage. Some did, some didn’t. I had to chase after my date who walked out during it due to being so offended. I returned the next day to see it on my own. It was a very polarizing movie.

The story concerned a brilliant but certifiably cuckoo medical student named Herbert West (Jeffrey Combs) who has invented a reagent that can re-animate deceased bodies. He pulls his classmate and roommate Dan Cain (Bruce Abbott) into his twisted world when cat Rufus ends up dead by accident and West brings it back to life with his DayGlo green goop. Unfortunately, the lovable personality of the frisky feline doesn’t return as easily as his body. Instead, the sweet kitty’s personality is replaced by a savage and mutated one, a zombie-cat driven by bloodlust. As the two roomies dig deeper into experimentation with reanimation, human bodies start to pile up all over campus, all becoming as vicious as poor Rufus. It’s a film with a pretty sizable body count, one that ends with most of the cast dead, or at least dead for the moment. Dr. West’s formula glows in the dark in the final fade to black.

Combs gave one of the greatest horror film performances ever, a snide sociopath somewhere between Tony Perkins’ boyishness and Christopher Lee’s silken menace.  West was arrogant, tart-tongued, and incapable of even showing a speck of human empathy, By the end, he’s not become a better person one iota. Instead, he’s grown even more obsessed and dangerous. And he’s the lead. (Gordon was all but taunting Joseph Campbell, if not Robert McKee.)

Dan, while a cliched handsome hero in appearance, is little more than a feckless fool throughout. West all but leads him by the nose the entire time. Dan’s girlfriend Megan (Barbara Crampton) is introduced as a sweet, innocent girl and then promptly gets pulled into one humiliation after another. She’s bamboozled by Dan, has to watch her kind father, the dean of the school (Robert Samson), die and then turn into a vicious zombie. West treats her with derision, and the film’s villain Dr. Carl Hill (David Gale) will spend the entire hour and 45-minute running time trying to get into her pants. Today, they’d give her a Katniss Everdeen moment or two to counter such victimhood, but not in ’85.

RE-ANIMATOR is a film that at every beat of its story, exuded in its politically incorr ect attitude Gordon, and his fellow screenwriters Dennis Paoli and William J. Norris threw all the sacred cows out the window or against the wall. (Literally and figuratively, truly.) Rufus’ death is played for grisly laughs. So are all the human deaths. The story also ridicules people in mental institutions, padded cells, and morgues. The character of Megan’s father goes from a sweet, caring man to a drooling, lobotomized caricature in about 10 minutes. And to justify its adult rating, Megan ends up nude for a great deal of the third act. It should be noted too that the film has no problem lingering on Crampton’s comely figure either, including her pubic region. The film takes no prisoners and laughs all the way to the dank.

Most horror comedies tend to play more cute than cruel, like BEETLEJUICE, GHOSTBUSTERS, and ZOMBIELAND. RE-ANIMATOR, however, emphasizes humor that often plays as mean as the bloodletting. Nowhere is this more evident than in how Gordon treats the film’s villainous Dr. Hill. When West catches him trying to steal his reagent, he attacks him with a shovel, and then for good measure, decapitates him too. Still, Hill stays in the picture. The lascivious villain is reanimated and soon both his head in a pan, as well as his foot shorter body, are plotting more nastiness.

The film ends with a phantasm of violence and craziness, chock full of multiple corpses attacking and spraying blood and guts around like the top was left off of a Cuisinart. Yet, even that over-the-top ending cannot compete with the single most memorable set piece in the film. That is when Dr. Hill’s decapitated head tries to, ahem, give head to Megan as she’s strapped to the slab. (Thankfully, my girlfriend left before that scene!)

When the film was originally presented to the review board, it received an X rating because of such scenes, as well as its violence. Gordon trimmed some bits and pieces here and there to scale back such offenses, and thus ensured the video release of the film got an R rating that made it acceptable for Blockbuster and mom & pop stores nationwide. In rentals is where the film really took off and built its reputation that it enjoys today.

Gordon and his producer Brian Yuzna consciously went for the shock and delivered it in spades. They spent a considerable amount of their meager $900,000 budget on the gruesome makeup effects, ensuring that they were as disgusting and graphic as the photos they discovered in a forensics pathologist manual.  John Naulin, the film’s effects supervisor, said it was the bloodiest film he had ever worked on. In past horror films, he never used more than two gallons of blood. For RE-ANIMATOR, he used 24.

And, dare one say, it was bloody effective. By not pulling its punches, RE-ANIMATOR was true to Gordon’s vision of splitting skulls and being side-splitting too. And for such a brazen film, it’s got dozens of quotable quips, particularly those uttered by West. When he discovers the headless Hill trying to get it on with Megan, West admonishes the bad doctor. “I must say, Dr. Hill, I’m very disappointed in you. You steal the secret of life and death, and here you are trysting with a bubble-headed coed.” Snark like that is comedy gold. And it’s in a horror film.

It’s not everyone’s cup of tea, but then Gordon wasn’t interested in the status quo.

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[snarkwriteswrasslin]

FFT: he loves me, loves you not; drew gulak

Notes:

Okay, so this one was originally sent to me on my main’s ask by @vonschweetz​  and here we have Drew Gulak as an Alpha. Which, not gonna lie, that is... quiiite a concept and one that I do truly want to re-visit one day... maybe after I’ve plotted it out a lil better. I know literally no one else asked for this one to be dug up but here it is so HA.

Summary:

Lily is Drew’s Omega. And she’s feeling just a little insecure thanks to Mandy Rose popping up and putting in her two cents. Drew takes his role as Lily’s Alpha quite seriously and as a result, he does whatever he can to reassure Lily about her place in his life.

Pairing:

Drew Gulak x OFC, Lily

Warning:

heavily implied alpha and omega dynamics at play.

“You do realize that he followed me around like a lost puppy before you showed up.. Right?” Mandy said it calmly as she filed her nails. Lily bit the inside of her cheek to keep from saying something she might regret later and she continued to straighten her hair.

Mandy Rose was just a bitch who liked to intimidate people. Just like all the bullies back in Lily’s old school. Girls like Mandy were a dime a dozen and often cheaper than that.

“No response, Lila?”

“My name is Lily. Or is all the silicone from your tits leaking into your brain, Amanda?” - it slipped out before Lily could stop it and Mandy looked up at her, shocked.  

“First of all it’s Mandy.. Secondly, did you just? Because I don’t think I need to remind you, Lila..” Mandy put a heavy emphasis on the wrong name this time and Lily gave a dry laugh as she put down the straightener, and folded her arms, waiting on Mandy to finish. “Well? Go on AMANDA..  You were obviously about to say something earth shattering? Awww… did your itty bitty brain stop workin again?”

“You little bitch.”

“Takes one to know one, hon.” Lily retorted, suck popping her gum  as she tapped her foot. Mandy eyed her and then continued calmly, with a particularly predatory gleam in her eyes, “I don’t think I need to remind you that if I complain about you to certain people, you’re gone.. And then I will get Drew Gulak all to myself.”

“Is that what you really think? Because frankly, I don’t see that happening. We done or do you have any further stupidity you wanna unload?” Lily tried to pretend total confidence but a quick glance in the mirror at herself and then at Mandy, well.. Mandy had that certain look that seemed to make even the most reasonable man lose their entire goddamn mind and she and Drew were.. Still new, still figuring things out. And she couldn’t ever be sure.. Sometimes, being surrounded by women who were society’s /ideal/ of beauty was damning in the fact that every single flaw someone like Lily possessed seemed to stand out like a neon light on the Vegas Strip at night.

Suddenly, she was seeing every little flaw or thing she didn’t like about herself magnified, no matter how much she tried to tell herself that a pretty face didn’t equal a pretty heart. And so far, what she knew about her Alpha, Drew Gulak, that tended to suggest that he leaned more towards what was on the inside.

Mandy eyed the mousy little blonde and smirked. “I don’t just think it, Lily. I know. See, I’m used to getting exactly what I want and lately? I want Drew.”

Lily was about to say something but a throat clearing from the door and Drew’s scent filling the room had her tensing and biting her lip. Drew eyed her, mouthing the words “Is everything okay?” and she shrugged as she put the finishing touches on Mandy’s hair then sat the straightener down on top of her makeup table firmly. “I believe you’re all done. I mean I can’t give you a brain transplant to make you any less stupid or a personality transplant to make you less of a bitch but i did what I could.”

“You just got on my bad side.” Mandy glared as she turned and stormed out, careful to drop the atititude as she passed by Drew. With Mandy gone, Lily flopped down in the chair and uncapped the bottled water in front of her, shotgunning half. “You can come in.”

Drew stepped into the makeup room and made his way over to his Omega. He didn’t need his enhanced senses to know something was bothering her, the look in her eyes told it quite clearly.

He stopped behind her chair and rested his hands on her shoulders, wordlessly kneading and rubbing, giving her a massage as he stared at her face in the mirror. “Whatever she said wasn’t true and you shouldn’t let it get to you, Lily. And before you say you’re not, I can see it in your eyes, princess.” he leaned down and brushed his lips against her ear, chuckling quietly when he felt her shiver at the intimate touch. In a whisper, he told her with a smirk, “Who did I give my mark to, hmm? Because it wasn’t that spray tanned bimbo that just left here if I’m remembering properly..”

“I know, just..”

“Maybe someone needs a reminder of exactly where she belongs and who she belongs with, hmm? Is that what you’re saying, princess? Because that’s what it sounds like to me.” Drew trailed off, tilting her head slightly, lips dancing over a healed and re bitten mate marking. “You’re all mine because I chose you. Not her, you. I love you. Not her. And as soon as we’re back at the hotel, Lily..��

“Yeah?” her words came in a breathless pant, his hand slipped down the front of her shirt, massaging and squeezing her breasts in his hand as she fought to keep her composure and resist the urge to climb Drew like a tree, right there in the arena.

“I’m gonna show you just how much I love you, princess.”

[wwoww-au]

All That Glitters

Dark and Abe strode in through the Great Library’s entrance. Shelves stuffed with books towered over them, ascending out of view. They had been there plenty of times before on past cases for information, but they still didn’t know quite where they needed to go. No one did. The whole place was like an ever-shifting labyrinth. One day the Ancient Middle-Eastern History section would be south by southeast, the next it would be on the third floor due west. It was easy to get hopelessly lost.

The only one who had any clue where anything was located was the head librarian, Google, who was mostly referred to as G. The detectives cautiously approached the large desk in the center of the room where G was sitting with his face in a book. The book had no title on its cover, but he seemed to be enjoying it, a gentle smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Beside him, a deep blue quill was writing on its own against a stack of papers. Upon further inspection, Dark could just barely read the numbers of pi being put in order. He matched Abe’s equally confused glance, but they shook it off. The Library was a life form of its own, and no one asked questions if they wanted to keep their sanity intact. Abe cleared his throat before speaking up.

“Good to see you, G,” Abe greeted. “We were wondering if you could help us on a case we’re working on.”

G flipped a page of his book, and for a moment, Dark wasn’t sure if the librarian had heard Abe or not. The quill gently brushed aside the paper at the top of the stack before continuing onto the next sheet.

“What is it you need exactly?” G asked, not looking up from his book. He seemed mostly disinterested in the two. If anything, Dark would have guessed he was slightly irritated at being interrupted.

“We’re trying to track down someone named ‘Marvin the Magnificent.’ He’s a conman of some sort, might have ties to Warfstache,” Dark explained, eager to get on with the case. G said nothing for a moment until he flipped to the next page in his book. Dark tapped their foot impatiently.

“My apprentice will help you with that,” G said casually, picking up a quill and jotting something down on a notepad. Abe and Dark looked at each other in confusion. Having an apprentice in itself wasn’t too odd; plenty of wizards had apprentices. Google, however, hadn’t had an apprentice in years, ever since the last one went missing in the Dead Zone.

“Since when did you have an apprentice?” Abe asked. Considering he was the head of a department that regularly used the library’s resources, it was weird for him not to have been told. He should have been updated as soon as the apprentice was taken on.

“He was assigned to me last month.” G checked a nearby clock, frowning a bit before going back to his book. “He should be along right about now, actually.”

That didn’t make any sense either. Classes at the Academy had only ended a couple of weeks earlier, and the selection process for special jobs like this usually took a while. How could he have been assigned a month ago?

Just as Dark started to question Google’s sanity, they heard a scream from above, followed by a loud thud and a quiet “Ow…” coming from behind them. Turning around, they spotted the end of a portal closing and a newly disrupted pile of books.

“Ah, there he is,” G said, looking completely unfazed by his apprentice’s entrance. “Detectives, this is my apprentice, Bing. You may call him ‘B.’” G gestured to the teen, who was now jumping up from the ground as if he didn’t just fall from the ceiling.

“Suh dudes,” B greeted, a happy grin plastered on his face. “I finished organizing the Portal section like you asked, G.”

“Excellent, but I have a new task for you. B, these two are from the Crime Department. They’re trying to find one ‘Marvin the Magnificent.’ Go fetch his file and the Map, would you? The file is in the Biographies section, and the Map is in the Magical Objects section, Heart subsection,” G ordered, his voice never changing from its uninterested tone. “You’ll know it when you see it.” B sighed, his smile fading into a dejected frown for a brief second. He perked up again quickly though, waving to the detectives before running down the aisle of bookshelves directly behind G’s desk and disappearing from sight.

G turned to watch B run off before finally getting up from his desk and walking between Abe and Dark as if they weren’t even there. He crouched down, picking up an armful of the books B had knocked over and carrying them over to the nearest bookshelf. The two detectives only watched as he began placing books on the shelf without any apparent rhyme or reason.

“So.. how’s the apprentice?” Abe said, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

“Good,” G replied, placing one last book before turning to look at him. “It’s nice to have an extra set of hands around here. A bit dull-minded, but he has… potential.”

“What made you choose him? I mean, he seems so… different from you,” Dark asked. They weren’t usually one to delve into gossip, but they couldn’t not ask questions when they saw a mystery. The difference they’d picked up on just observing the two for less than a minute was clearer than night and day. Bing was enthusiastic, sociable, and kind, while Google was… well, Google wasn’t.

“I didn’t,” G said as if he expected Dark to understand exactly what he meant. As he walked back over to his desk, a loud roar was heard from somewhere to the left, followed by a scream from what had to be B.

“What do you mean, you didn’t choose him?” Dark asked, now only more confused and eyeing with fear the direction the sounds had come from. G looked off towards the distant sounds and sighed.

“I told him not to cut through the Deep Sea section again... “ he huffed, voice as monotone as ever. “As to the answer to your question, it’s like I said. I didn’t choose him. Simple as that.”

Dark opened their mouth to ask more questions, but was distracted by movement to their right. They could see someone sprinting down one of the aisles, and as they got closer they could see that the person was B. The apprentice skidded to a stop once he reached the central circle, collapsing onto his knees in an exhausted pile of sweat, salt water, and scarf. He held a file and box above his head like trophies, proud that he had even made it out alive.

“Thank you, B, now go file that under ‘Children’s Books’,” G said, taking the objects from him and dismissively pointing him toward a cart of books. B groaned, but stumbled to his feet and trudged over to the cart anyway.

“I’m assuming you have something belonging to the criminal? It won’t work without it,” G said, clearing away some space and placing the file and box on his desk. He opened the box and looked pointedly at Abe, who dug into his pocket and pulled out the glittering business card, taking a couple steps forward to hand it to G. He examined the card closely.

“It’s preferable to use an object that the person cherishes, but I suppose this will do.” G placed the card inside the box and closed the lid. He held his hands above the box, a cloud of light blue sparks enveloping it. “Once you open the lid, you’ll only have a few hours before the spell wears off and the map becomes useless.” When the last of the sparks faded away, he pushed the box across the desk. “Good luck, detectives.”

“Thank you, G,” Dark said, taking the box with their free hand and tucking it and the file under their arm. The librarian only nodded and picked his book up again, making it clear that the conversation was now over. Abe and Dark exchanged uncomfortable looks before stepping outside and onto the long marble staircase.

Dark stumbled and nearly dropped the map G had given them as they almost collided with someone coming up the stairs. Dark was ready to snap at whatever rookie hadn’t been watching where they were going, but stopped when they realized who they’d run into.

Doctor Henrik von Schneeplestein brushed his sleeve, a mildly irritated look creasing his brow as it usually did. Flecks of gray peppered his dark brown hair, and his glasses sat askew across his face, slightly obscuring the doctor’s dull blue-gray eyes. He was wearing the same thing he always seemed to be wearing; a dark blueish black tunic with black pants and tall dark boots. He backed down a few steps, moving to the side to let Dark and Abe pass.

“Sorry, Doctor,” Dark apologized, stepping back as well to push the library door back open for Henrik. “I didn’t see you there.”

Henrik made no move to step inside the library, only eying Dark with a look they couldn’t quite interpret. Sympathy, perhaps. “It’s fine,” he sighed, straightening his glasses. “And don’t bother. I can’t go in.”

Dark awkwardly let the door shut behind them and glanced over at Abe briefly before looking back at Henrik. “Why not?” They knew Henrik had done something unforgivable in the past, and that was why his magic item was broken, but no one had told them why. Whenever Dark asked, they were always met with uncomfortable glances and awkward excuses.

“Something a long time ago,” Henrik answered, sounding suddenly much more tired than he usually did. “Regardless, the library doesn’t want me going inside again, and personally, I don’t blame it.” The doctor leaned against the ornate metal banister, slowly lowering himself to sit down on the stairs. “You two seem very busy,” he added, forcing a polite smile. “I’ll let you carry on your business.”

“What about G-”

“He knows I’m here,” Henrik interrupted. “He’ll be out in a moment.”

Dark opened his mouth to volunteer to get G for Henrik, but was stopped by Abe tugging on their sleeve. The head detective shook his head and started walking down the stairs. Dark followed close behind, giving Henrik one last glance as they descended before he disappeared out of view.

.

.

After reading Marvin’s file, Dark expected that he would be hiding somewhere large and glamorous, like Las Vegas. Somewhere fast paced, with lots of people and plenty of entertainment. Instead, they found themself walking through the streets of a small Mundane town in eastern Europe. While there were a few tourists, it definitely didn’t scream ‘flamboyant con-wizard’ to Dark, but there had to be clues around somewhere. As they and Abe walked into the town square, they spotted colorful buildings, a large fountain, a green cart, and numerous posters taped up all over the place. On the buildings, the lampposts, the giant fountain thing in the middle, and more just blowing around in the wind. Abe managed to grab one and showed it to Dark. It was a green piece of paper, an advertisement for a show, one side written in Czech, but the other thankfully in English.

“‘Come see Marvin The Magnificent today! Show starts at 12:00, look for the green cart,’” Dark read. Checking their watch, they had about forty-five minutes until then.

“Guess we found our clue,” Abe muttered, stuffing the ad in one of his many coat pockets. Dark followed closely behind him to the flamboyant cart, scanning it up and down. It was rather large, four wheeled and attached to a horse that was laser focused on pulling what little grass it could snatch growing out of the pavement. It was all very green, and seemed to be one of those carts that could extend into a small stage. There was a door on one end of it which Abe spotted and knocked on, and some shuffling sounds could be heard from the inside.

“Just a second!” A sing-songy voice called out from inside. The door opened to reveal a masked man wearing a shiny blue bathrobe, with tall sparkly green boots covering the visible parts of his legs. Long, equally glittery green gloves went halfway up his arms. “I have to finish my- oh. Well, hello there. What brings you two to my humble home? The magic show isn’t for another forty minutes.”

“Are you Marvin the Magnificent?” Dark asked, straight to the point. Clearly he recognized them as wizards, but apparently was deciding to play ignorant. Probably didn’t want his cover blown in a town full of mundanes.

“Yes, the one and only!” Marvin answered cheerfully, taking a sweeping bow. “Did you want an autograph? Or maybe you’d be more interested in some of my wares? I do have quite a few exotic items if you’d like. Usually I wait until after the show to open shop, but I think I could make—”

“We’re not here for your show, or your shop,” Abe snapped, tapping his foot impatiently. “We need— Hey! Are you listening to me?” Marvin had retreated some into his cart, muttering under his breath as he dug through something Dark couldn’t see. Turning back, he adjusted his robe and looked down at Dark and Abe, appearing slightly apologetic.

“Sorry, dears,” Marvin sighed dramatically. “I’m a bit busy at the moment. Perhaps you could come back after the show?” He leaned heavily against the doorframe, letting his bathrobe slide off of one shoulder seductively. Dark looked down at their feet, suddenly feeling incredibly uncomfortable.

Abe let out a tired groan and rubbed his temples with one hand. “Fine,” he grunted, glaring at Marvin. “We’ll see you after your show.”

Marvin bounced to his feet, clapping his hands together and producing a small shower of green glitter from his gloves. “Excellent,” he purred, beaming down at Dark and Abe. “I look forward to it.” The door to the cart slammed shut before either detective could say anything else, leaving them standing in stunned silence. Nearby, the horse huffed and shook itself.

“Well, I’m not looking forward to seeing him again,” Abe said finally, not waiting for Dark before starting off towards the nearest cafe, “but I guess we don’t really have a choice.” The head detective ran his hands along the side of his head, clearly frustrated with having to wait. For as long as Dark had known him, Abe had never been a very patient man.

The two watched in silence from across the square as Marvin finished setting up the stage. Dark had a black coffee, and Abe was pouring over the file they had gotten from G. The crowd was fairly large for such a small town, though most of them didn’t look like they were from the area. The show began exactly at noon, with a large explosion of green glitter and some loud, dramatic music.

As Dark watched, slowly sipping their drink, they noticed that while most of Marvin’s ‘magic’ tricks were cheap and easy, he was definitely capable of using some rather impressive magic. Half of his tricks that would usually be done by using invisible strings or hidden panels were instead done using real magic. Marvin’s bright green sparks were hidden easily by his equally bright green gloves. The show lasted around half an hour, ending with the magician bowing and the audience cheering as they were showered with more glitter. Abe immediately stuffed the file back in his coat, standing up and briskly walking over to the cart. Dark sighed, gulping down the last of their coffee and hurrying to catch up to him.

Abe moved to knock on the door, but it opened just before his hand hit it. Marvin was standing there in his full show garb, and smiled when he saw the two detectives.

“Oh yes, you two! I had to cut my sales off early today, but you seem like you might be worth it,” Marvin sighed, dramatically leaning against the door frame. He spun around and walked into the cart, cape giving a perfect dramatic swoosh. “Come on in, I’ve just finished putting the props away.”

Dark and Abe exchanged puzzled glances before walking in. To their surprise, it was far bigger on the inside than the outside. They were in some kind of living room, and it looked like there was an entire house compressed into the area of the tiny little cart.

“Permanent spatial distortion? Do you have a permit for this?” Abe asked, stepping around a pile of half-finished fake wands. There was a spiral staircase leading upstairs in the corner, and a door leading to a kitchen right next to it. In the the living room, there was a blue couch facing across from a coffee table and an ornate red velvet fainting couch, where Marvin lay sprawled in a suitably dramatic pose. Dark and Abe took seats on the other couch. Dark glanced around the room, noticing all sorts of fake magical items strewn about in boxes and on shelves. Crystal balls made of plastic, leather-bound books with nonsensical symbols drawn on the covers, cloaks literally covered in sequins; all items that any wizard could discern as fake, but looked real enough to trick an unsuspecting mundane.

“Permit? No. Am I supposed to?” the conman asked innocently, shifting into another dramatic pose.

“Of course you- you know what? That’s not what we’re here for,” Dark interrupted themself, straight to the point as always. “We’re from the Crime Department.”

“The Crime Department?” Marvin echoed back in a shocked tone, sitting up in his seat and placing a gloved hand to his heart. “What do policemen like yourselves want with little old me?” Dark glanced around at all the fake items again. From what they read in his file, he used these to scam desperate mundanes out of their money with promises of magical solutions to their problems. There was enough incriminating evidence in this room alone to get Marvin thrown into prison and his magical item destroyed. However, they still needed him for answers on this far more important case. They would call in some officers to arrest him once Dark and Abe had gotten what they needed.

“We’re looking for a Time wizard by the name of Wilford Warfstache. He stole something very important from the Wizard Committee, and we have it under good authority that you know where to find him,” Dark explained, leaning forward in their seat.

“Oh, you’re looking for Will?” Marvin asked softly, his mask barely obscuring the deep red that was spreading across his face. He quickly regained his composure and stood up, leaving his cape on the couch. He brushed past Dark, and began pacing around the room as if he was in deep thought, heels clicking against the hardwood floor. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to help you with that, I haven’t seen him for a good while.” Marvin paused with his back to Dark and Abe. “Your name is actually ‘Dark’? A bit on the nose, don’t you think? Ah, well, who am I to judge?” Dark glanced over in confusion, standing up quickly and patting around their coat when they saw the magician was flipping through their wallet.

“Hey! When did you-” they started to yell before they were cut off by Marvin tossing the wallet back toward them.

“Here’s an important lesson about magic. Don’t watch the mouth, watch the hands,” he said, giving wild jazz hands that glittered in the lamp light. “Honestly, as a detective I’d think you’d know this.” He collapsed back onto the fainting couch.

“I’m still new to this…” Dark grumbled, checking their wallet only to find it empty. “Hey, give me my money back!”

“What money? Even if I were to have some of your money, check the sign on the door. No refunds.” Marvin winked, reclining back. Dark thought they spied a piece of paper peeking out of Marvin’s glove.

“We’re getting off topic,” Abe interrupted, purposefully ignoring the dirty look Dark shot at him as they shoved the wallet back into their pocket and sat down, crossing their arms. “I don’t care if it’s been a while, we need any information we can get our hands on to catch this guy. Did he tell you where he was going?”

“Even if he did,” Marvin began, pretending to examine his gloved hands, “why should I tell you? What’s in it for me?” He glanced over at the detectives, a mischievous gleam in his eyes.

Dark wanted to get up and smack the greedy magician until he begged for mercy, but they knew that that would get them nowhere. They ran their hands down their face, inciting a small chuckle from Marvin. “What do you want?” Dark asked finally, immediately regretting their choice of words.

Marvin’s eyes lit up and a grin spread across his face. He looked the wizards over eagerly, no doubt trying to assess how much money they were carrying. Dark reached for where they had rested their cane against the couch to steady themself against this clearly insane man, but surprisingly found it missing.

“How about this?” Marvin asked, balancing the cane on one finger. “I’ve been looking for a new cane for my act, and this one’s already got some delicious magic in it, I can tell.” He bounced up from the couch and twirled the cane like a baton in one hand. Dark leaped to their feet and snatched the cane away from Marvin, clutching it tight to their chest.

“No,” Dark snapped, making Marvin frown. “Not now. Not ever. Anything but the cane.” Marvin fell back onto his couch, heaving a dramatic sigh.

“Fine,” Marvin huffed, eyeing the cane with envy. “That was an excellent bargain, but I see you’re going to be tough customers.” Was Marvin seriously treating them like customers? Dark’s brow furrowed with irritation, and they could tell Abe was struggling to keep his composure.

“Are you sure there isn’t anything else you want?” Abe asked, voice tense with frustration. “Money, jewelry, less time on your prison sentence?”

Marvin laughed at this, which only made Dark want to punch him even more. “Oh, dear,” Marvin chuckled, briefly lifting his mask to wipe his eyes. Dark caught a brief glimpse of a dark green iridescent scar running down the center of Marvin’s forehead to the end of his nose before it was covered by his mask again. “You really think you’re going to catch me? That’s adorable.” Dark twisted the cane in their hands.

“Look, Marvin,” Abe said slowly, “we just want information on Warfstache. We’ll give you anything you want, except the cane, so long as you hold up your end of the bargain.”

“This is an awfully nice badge,” Marvin hummed, now holding Abe’s wallet and flipping through its folds. “Imagine the places I could get into with this…”

“Hey!” Abe yelled, jumping to his feet and reaching for the holster at his belt. “How did you- When did you- Give that back!”

“Don’t bother,” Marvin muttered, casually waving Abe’s gun in the air. “And you did say ‘anything,’ dear detective.” The conman tucked the wallet into his pocket and examined the gun closely. “I’ll take these.”

Abe sputtered angrily, his face beet red. Dark let out a sympathetic sigh and patted Abe on his arm. The head detective stomped his foot before sitting back down on the couch, glaring furiously at Marvin.

“Thank you, Marvin,” Dark said, forcing themself to sound calm. “Now your end of the deal.”

Marvin set the gun on a side table and tapped his chin thoughtfully. “What was that, again?”

“Don’t play dumb, conman,” Abe snapped. “Warfstache. Where is he?”

“Ah, of course,” Marvin purred. “I have no idea.”

“We know he was here,” Dark said, irritation creeping into their voice. “He must have mentioned something about where he was headed.”

“Who said he was here?” Marvin asked, smiling naively.

“His shoe is on the stairs!”

Marvin glanced over at the offending bright yellow shoe and let out a defeated sigh. “Fine, fine,” he said sadly. “You’re really twisting my arm here.” He let one of his legs dangle off the couch, casually kicking another yellow shoe further under. “He’s with Bim.” Marvin looked partially ashamed of himself, but it was hard to tell with his face half hidden.

“Bim?” Abe repeated, going pale. “Bim Trimmer? The Bim Trimmer?” Marvin only gave a slight nod, and Abe and Dark exchanged anxious looks. Of course Warfstache was with him.

“Can you take us to him?” Dark asked. Marvin started to open his mouth to talk, but Dark held up their hand, stopping him. “We’ll pay you.”

Marvin beamed. “Your watch, then,” he said, pointing at Dark’s wrist. “And any money you have left on you.”

“Money, yes,” Dark growled, “but not my watch.”

Marvin’s face fell, and he pursed his lips in annoyance. “Why not? It’s just a watch.” Dark only glared, and the magician shrugged. “Fine. I want your badge, though.” He stood up as Dark produced their wallet, swiftly taking it out of their hand and tossing it along with Abe’s wallet onto a small basket brimming with numberless other wallets. He walked into the kitchen, and for a minute, didn’t return. Abe and Dark both flinched as a bright green flash of light illuminated the main room from the kitchen entrance.

Marvin stepped out of the kitchen, brushing his hands together before pulling his gloves back on. “We’re here,” he said, grabbing his cape as he walked past the fainting couch. He pulled the door open and stepped outside, revealing a dirty cobblestone street.

Dark couldn’t tell where they’d travelled to, but it certainly wasn’t Czechia. Rain drizzled lightly, forming puddles in the cracks in the road. A couple stray cats hissed at each other over a half-eaten paper tray of fish and chips next to a knocked over trash can. Across the street, a large warehouse door was partially open. Dark stood up just in time to see the figure of Warfstache run into the open warehouse door, closing it behind him.

“There he is!” Dark shouted, running out the door with Abe close behind. They pulled the warehouse door open, letting the dim gray light illuminate the space. Warfstache stood over a crate, his back turned to Dark and Abe.

“It’s over, Warfstache,” Abe said loudly, voice echoing through the room. The thief didn’t seem to acknowledge them, simply rocking back on his heels.

Dark glanced over briefly at Abe before stepping forward cautiously. Warfstache had either gone deaf, or was actually going to let them catch him. A pit of uneasiness settled in Dark’s stomach. Something didn’t feel right about this.

They finally reached Warfstache, and he still hadn’t noticed Dark. Cautiously, they reached out to place their hand on his shoulder. Just as they touched Warfstache, he vanished in a puff of green sparks and glitter. Something hit the ground with a heavy thud behind Dark, and they spun around.

Marvin wiped something shiny off his mouth and stepped over Abe’s unconscious body. “You really should know better than to trust an illusionist,” Marvin purred. Before Dark could react, Marvin blew them a kiss, sending a spray of green glitter at Dark. They were out as soon as it hit them.

.

.

“...Outdone yourself this time, Marvin, darling,” a voice said, voice dripping with sweet charisma.

Dark’s head was filled with the sound of their own heartbeat.

“Told you I would,” Marvin hummed pridefully. “You’d better pay extra, my dear.”

They couldn’t move. Something was binding them.

“I will, I will,” the other voice reassured softly. “Don’t worry.”

Dark let themself slip back into unconsciousness.

[desertbroad]

misc. massive headcanon write-up : tvtropes edition. aka some things from fallout: new vegas’ tvtropes page that felt kaj relevant. from here !

1) “ The unique Fatman in Gun Runners Arsenal is called Esther. [...] Esther, much like Gehenna, are named after Hebrew Bible concepts. Esther, both the name of a book in said bible, and the name of the Persian queen of Jewish descent, who helped prevent a Jewish genocide, by convincing the Persian king to allow the Jews to arm and defend themselves. This ended with the death of 75,000 Persians. ”

a/n: kaj parallels a modern esther, having prevented slaughter of her own—or at least, having misdirected it. also ironic, as her nickname in canter was esther due to her bratty, “queenly” demeanor. that said, despite her big personality, kaj is definitely not a fatman user. so it’s even more ironic that they share a name.

2) “ In Vault 11, the vault mainframe tells you that while being a martyr isn't as fun as driving a race car, it's every bit as important. The thing is, driving a race car isn't important at all, and neither is being a martyr. ”

3) “ In Fallout 3 and Fallout: New Vegas, blood packs heal 1 hit point per pack. In 3, you can get a perk from the leader of blood-consuming people which increases the hp gain to 20. Why do blood packs heal so little hp, when blood transfusions can save people from the brink of death sometimes? Because the player actually drinks the blood instead of replenishing his/her lost blood from an injury. [...] Which drifts into Fridge Logic again when you consider the fact that, after 200 years at least, the blood in those packs has certainly expired no matter what kinds of advances the US had made in preservation technologies. With this taken into account, the Sole Survivor injecting the blood into his veins would do more harm than good. Drinking it would actually be more helpful, which makes sense considering that a high medicine Courier would certainly be aware of the expiration date of blood and the concept of a blood transfusion. ”

4) “ If you take a look at Caesar's SPECIAL stats you will find out that he only ranks 4 in both charisma and intelligence. It first seem like Fridge Logic since he is supposed to be extremely charismatic and possess super intellect. But after you find out that he is suffering from a brain tumor, it makes sense that his skills were being affected as a result of it. Additionally, he acts extremely rude to the Courier, and trusts them, and only them, to deal with a problem, without any way of preventing the Courier from undermining and/or sabotaging his plans. ”

a/n: though kaj prides herself on her manipulation of caesar, it wasn’t really a manipulation at all—just an appeal to his baser instincts that only paid off because of his illness. if he was completely well, it’s waaaaaay more likely he’d see her manipulation for what it is. kaj herself even seems somewhat aware of the precariousness of her position, given her cautious actions around him and unwillingness to vie for more power. it makes sense that she starts trying to take him down from day one, knowing his history with anyone he sees as his equal—aka, a threat. she speeds up the process when she meets joshua graham and realizes exactly what’ll happen if she fails. further elaborated on by the legion ending: “ In the Legion Ending, when the Courier receives his/her reward, she's kneeling before Caesar, but standing before Lanius (if he ends up in charge). This seems odd before you realise it sums up your relationship with character: no matter your competences, Caesar will always see the Courier as a servant/inferior, whereas Lanius sees you as an equal and acknowledges the Courier's worth even if she's a woman. ”

5) “ The two Jokers in the deck, Benny and the Courier, have those cards for more reasons than just being the Wild Cards. First, in Euchre, the Joker is called the "Benny" card. Second, the Joker cards in Tarot have significant meaning, one Joker meaning the Fool, the other the Magician. The Fool, being the Courier, is the spirit in search of experience (although XP might be a better word for it), and represents mystical cleverness, not bound by normal reason, and possessing an ability to tune into the inner workings of the world, and is often represented by a wanderer walking aimless, often one foot hanging over a void, a step away from falling to his death. Meanwhile, the Magician, being Benny, is a man who practices sleight of hand, trickery, and deception, a stage magician with the initial appearance of great power, but later revealed to have no ability of his own, and can also indicate a manipulator, a trickster, and the ego, as well as the pursuit of personal power, and is often associated with the first step in the Fool's Journey, as well as the potential for new adventure. ”

6) “ Why is the courier consistently insulted by legionnaires regardless of what they do for them? To serve as a reminder that they don't necessarily need you. The legion offers you few side quests, most of which are just minor preparations before the battle, because they don't need you to do those for you. In comparison the NCR has a significant amount of side quests including training troops, fixing equipment, rooting out spies, exterminating extra problems like the fiends, and reclaiming territory from the legion. Result: by the end the NCR sees you as a true hero which would lead to them being incredibly polite, to the legion you're just a guy who's quite good at fighting, so they have little reason to treat you as anything more than a very good mercenary. ”

7) “ The Wizard of Oz analogy (in Old World Blues) goes further. In the movie, Dorothy's companions each wanted certain qualities, namely a brain, a heart, and courage. In the game, the surgery done to the courier removes their brain, their heart, and their spine. Stupid people are called brainless, unemotional/uncaring people are often said to be heartless, and cowardly people are often referred to as being spineless. Not to mention the similarity in the methods of arrival to the Big MT and Oz the characters went through. Just like in the movie, the Courier realizes that in spite of their missing organs, they have the qualities they needed all along: it takes a heart to befriend the Stealth Suit, a spine to repeatedly brave the dangerous X-8 facility, and a brain to outwit the Think Tank once and for all. ”

8) “ Why are there no long haired options for the Courier? You're in a desert. Long hair would be rather impractical, especially being a courier. You were also very recently shot in the head. It stands to reason that Doc Mitchell might have trimmed your hair, if it was long before the game started, to make operating easier. Also, long hair is a bad idea if you plan on fighting. If you have long hair, it becomes easier to grab it. The world being what it is, quite a few pragmatists are likely to be around. ”

a/n: inverted trope. though native american culture has been forcibly distorted over the years by white imperialism, kaj’s family has still managed to hang onto some old world traditions, such as the styling and care of hair. as a result, kaj’s hair is extremely culturally significant to her even as an adult. she wears it long as a choice, and it is only cut against her will by the think tank (when normally it would only be cut while she was in mourning; and though she does mourn afterwards, it doesn’t erase the fact that it’s forced on her, not chosen). meanwhile, doc mitchell is considerate enough of these traditions and culturally aware enough to leave her hair alone and, given the placement of her bullet wound, cutting it is not entirely necessary regardless. the cutting of kaj’s hair in old world blues (as well as the violation of her bodily autonomy) is traumatic and painful for her, paralleling real life cultural assimilation—when it grows back out, she is extremely protective of it.

9) “ If you ask No-Bark Noonan if anyone has been acing strangely, he states that he doesn't trust anyone who acts too normal, and his description fits Clanden to a tee. No-Bark: If a man's wearing his pants on his head or if he says his words backwards from time to time, you know it's all laid out there for you. But if he's friendly to strangers and keeps his home spick-and-span, more often than not he's done something even his own ma couldn't forgive. ”

[diyunho]

The Joker x Reader - “The Work Wife” Part 4

You’ve been working for The Joker for the past 10 years: you speak and act for him and no matter the circumstances, Y/N is always there to take care of everything he needs.  The King of Gotham might not be married, yet he has a perfect partner: his work wife.

Part 1          Part 2       Part 3    Part 5

The Presidential suite at Marion Hotel Casino, Las Vegas

6 days into your honeymoon

“This never happened to me before,” The Joker frowns while you lift your shoulders up, trying to be sympathetic:

“It’s ok, it happens to everybody at one point.”

“But I’m The Joker!” he reminds a relaxed Y/N that doesn’t seem to understand the severity of what just happened.

You squeeze the small, decorative pillow to your chest and lean over to kiss him:

“It has nothing to do with that; I’m telling you, it’s not that uncommon. Totally fine, don’t be embarrassed.”

“Embarrassed?!” J sarcastically grins. “I’m completely naked! Why do you have to rub it in my face?!”

“Don’t worry, I’m not gonna tell anybody,” you fiddle with your ponytail for a few moments before reassuring: “Your reputation is safe with me.”

The Joker scratches his chin, straining to find a solution yet there’s none. His wife takes a deep breath and utters the words she’s been dying to say for the past 30 seconds:

“Checkmate!!”

“Ugh!” he kicks the chess board with his foot and the pieces fly all over the bed.

“You’re such a sore loser,” you laugh and start cleaning the mess he just made.

After rejecting the idea of playing strip poker because you knew J would cheat, you decided to go with chess since it will make the games entirely fair. In the last two hours he lost his sweatpants, t-shirt, socks, 3 gold chains, 5 rings and his Rolex and least but not last, his boxers.

“I still need payment though,” you carefully look around to make sure you’re gathering everything.

The Joker gestures towards the pile on your left containing his clothes and accessories, enunciating the obvious.

“I have nothing more to give, Y/N!”

“I’ll take one of your earrings,” you extend the palm of your hand and wait. He growls and detaches the diamond from his right ear, bitterly handing over the requested item.

“Thaaaank you,” you add the shiny stone to the rest of the stuff taken from the moody husband. “Let’s play some more,” you propose and he gets out of bed, done with the temporary entertainment that didn’t go his way.

“I think I’ll walk away while I still have an earring and a shred of dignity left.”

“Here’s your wedding ring back,” you offer the only thing you’re able to part with from the stack containing your winnings. He gives you his hand and you slide the band on his finger, closing one eye due to the discomfort in your jaw.

“Still bothers you?” J caresses the deep scar on your cheek and you peck his wrist.

“Yes, on and off; I’ll check once we’re back to Gotham,” you let yourself fall on the cushions and stretch.

“Wanna go gambling?” he crawls on top of you and you wrap your legs around his waist.

“Not tonight; I will take a pain killer and mop around here until you return.”

“Are you sure?” The Joker grumbles, nuzzling to your neck.

“Yes, I’m sure,” you get ticklish when his hands pull down on your bikini, making it obvious he doesn’t want to leave right away.

“I want my special treatment,” and you attempt to explain why he’s not going to receive the grand price of the night:

“You lost.”

“I’m already naked so I want my special treatment!”

“But you lost,” you wiggle to escape while he keeps you trapped under him.

“Don’t nag me!” J impatiently rips the strap of your lacy bra, kind of annoyed he has to put in extra effort anytime he wants to have sex;  what The King of Gotham usually got with no effort from his previous women came back to haunt him: karma is a bitch.

************* Shortly after The Joker went to the gambling VIP section downstairs, you decided to surprise him and join the fun. The pain medication worked and you feel reinvigorated: Y/N dolls up, dresses up with her favorite little black dress and high heels, ready to spend a few hours at the casino:

The Angelli brothers own the premises, their less than ordinary business partners having to use only special sections of the humongous building in order to avoid the public eye. The personnel working these areas are trained to handle the unusual guests, trusty employees that will not betray and disclose what is going on behind the closed doors.

You get out of the elevator and walk towards the VIP section, smacking your lips a few times in order to make sure the shiny lip-gloss is equality distributed. The “VIP Gold Members” neon sign hanging on the wall at the end hallway is a sign you’re close to the well-known destination.

You are about to enter the private sector when the sight of The Joker seating at one of the Poker tables with a girl in his lap abruptly halts your enthusiasm. One of the waiters carrying a tray with numerous cocktails almost bumps into you, promptly apologizing for a mistake it’s not his:

“I’m so sorry. Would you like a drink?” he offers a glass to an absent minded Y/N that couldn’t care less her dress nearly got ruined.

“No, I’m fine…” you stay behind the shiny curtains, spying on J.

5 minutes pass, 10 more, another 25.

She’s still on his knees, giggling and whispering things that make him smirk. You don’t have to be an expert in order to see what’s going on, especially since you’re a pro in reading his body language: after 11 years of being around him, you bet you can tell The Joker wants her.

Still...  Why isn’t he telling the woman to get lost? He’s here with you.

You take a deep breath and prepare for a very unpleasant confrontation when the decision is unexpectedly put on hold: the girl hops from J’s lap, eagerly grabbing his arm after he stands up from the Poker table. You quickly hide behind some decorative trees and watch them pass by, already startled by his behavior.

Once they get in the elevator you emerge from your spot and follow, waiting to see which floor J will take her to. The light indicating the 35th level stops after a few seconds and your heart stops with it: when The Joker visits The Marion Hotel, he likes to use suite number 360B for his one night stands.

How familiar you are with that room since you had to wait in front of it in the past, that way you could escort him back to his own quarters after he was done with his flings.

You are so tense on your way up to the 35th floor you unconsciously bite on the scarred cheek over and over again, ignoring the tender skin that’s hurting again. The bell ding gets you out of daze and you rush towards the end of the long corridor, dreading the imminent evidence of betrayal.

A few more steps and here you are, ready to enter the password on the electronic key pad that will reveal the truth about a marriage you thought might just work…until now. He didn’t change the code: “Batsy Is A Jerk” grants you access to the suite. You tiptoe on the hallway, careful not to make a sound. The darkness conceals your presence and the third bedroom facing the center of Las Vegas reveals what a stunned Y/N was hoping to never see: proof that she should have never altered the status of her relationship with The Joker.

He’s by the large windows looking outside, the busy night life offering a show J got absorbed into while the girl he brought with him is undressing in a hurry.

“Do you want to use the bed?” she stomps the clothes scattered on the floor, planning to help him get rid of his.

“U-hum,” he keeps on glaring at the bright lights while the woman takes off his jacket, unaware they have company.  She starts unbuttoning his shirt too when the voice coming from behind them makes her jump.

“Did you accidentally wander off in the wrong room on the way back to ours?”

You emerge from the shadows and The Joker’s eyes get big, completely surprised his wife caught him in such a compromising situation.

“Am I supposed to be on active duty on my own honeymoon and get rid of the trash afterwards?”

He’s not answering and you repeat the question: “Am I?...”

He watches you backing out until you disappear from his visual field, the slammed door a clear statement of the humiliating experience you’ve been subjected to. The girl doesn’t know how to react; J is not even listening to the words that are coming out of her mouth, numb from realizing he messed up with his carelessness.

Maybe he should have paid more attention and not bring the woman here? Take her somewhere else? Or maybe he shouldn’t have taken you for an idiot in the first place?

It just sort of happened; The Joker is so used with this life style he didn’t think twice about the fact that he’s not single anymore, actually quite unavailable due to the wedding band on his finger.

“Mister Joker,” she cups his face since he’s not blinking, “are you OK?”  

He keeps on staring at the blackness you vanished into, conflicted by the thoughts running through his head.

“Mister Joker,” the girl insists, “what’s wrong?”

His attention switches towards the person he brought there for some cheap fun: young and beautiful, the type he always goes for. No scars on her cheek, no sassy attitude to irritate him, no feistiness, no witty remarks. Just a doll in a perfect box, trained to please and satisfy her clients’ wildest desires.

But The Joker does like scars, ballsy attitude that annoys him, feistiness and clever comments: they’re all embodied in the only woman that managed to take care of everything he needed for countless years without ending up in a grave despite the dangers of such a risky job.

“Nothing is wrong,” he grumbles and abandons the girl where she stands, sprinting outside the room to try and catch up with you.

There’s no trace of Y/N on the corridor and J elects to return to the Presidential Suite because he’s certain you went back.  

He was mistaken: the place is empty.

“Call wife,” he uses voice command and Bigsby obeys without further issues since you changed the setting to his “Contacts” a few days ago when you got married from “work wife” to “wife”.

“Calling wife,” the electronic device dials your number.

You don’t pick up and he tries again, this time successfully getting a hold of Y/N.

“Where are you?” he groans, pacing around the bedroom; you are actually at the underground parking lot, getting ready to enter the car.

“Going away,” the news displeases J as much as his conduct displeased you.

“I’m waiting upstairs; I want to talk to you!” The Joker barks.

“I’m going home,” you stab the lock with the key, wanting to be as far as possible from the casino in the next 5 minutes.

“Get back here!!!” he has the nerve to act all pissed off as if you’re the one that did something bad.

The crackling sound at the other end of the line halts the conversation; you simply dropped your cell in the sewer under your SUV, leaving J hang in doubt until he comprehends the basic notion: the honeymoon is over.

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

For 3 days he debated on his options: The Joker didn’t follow you to Gotham right away, swearing to himself he will party without his estranged wife for the rest of the planned vacation.

And he certainly did: J couldn’t sleep; Y/N wasn’t there to make his chamomile tea or keep him company until he would nap. Nobody to play strip chess with, nobody to nag him, nobody to fight with, nobody to guess what he wanted before he knew it himself, nobody to give him the special treatment he was secretly addicted to.

No work wife to tend to his whims and no wife to shower him with her affection that maybe was there for 11 years before they ended up together.

The Joker was such a party animal he went to a strip club located on the west side of the Casino and snoozed 15 minutes later after not sleeping for 24 hours straight. They didn’t dare wake him up and The King of Gotham found himself buried under bras and panties next morning, not remembering being more exhausted in his life.

He barely made it back to his quarters, burned out after the intense Vegas spree; somehow the City of Lights didn’t make him cope with your absence. That’s when J decided to ask The Angelli brothers for one of their men to drive him back home.

It was a full day trip back to Gotham and he arrived at the Penthouse around 9:32pm. He stayed there briefly, then went downstairs to your apartment ready to address the burning issue with Y/N; The Joker was sure it won’t be pretty since you weren’t one of his toys to bend and twist as he pleased.

Oddly enough, the entrance to the condo was cracked opened and he made his way in, suspecting the reason why: the place was empty. Completely empty. He stood in the doorway with his mouth opened, not believing you really left. J finally started roaming around the rooms, puckering his lips since there was no evidence of you ever being there for all those years: the apartment was spotless and you didn’t leave anything behind.

Except two items he found on your bedroom’s floor: your wedding ring placed on top of a picture depicting an image of the only tattoo on your body. The Joker gazed at the hand written note on the back of it and read the lines five times before stashing your message in his jacket:

“There’s nothing worse than doom coming from the self-fulfilling prophecy tattooed on your skin as a joke.”

The Clown prince of Crime knew it won’t be easy to find you, but he had to search for his missing bride anyway.

What is the point of having an empire if the woman that helped you build it is not there?

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

After 2 months, Tuesday--11:12pm

“Where’s Y/N?” Jonathan Crane takes another drag from his cigarette, blowing the smoke high up in the air.

He came to the Penthouse for a business meeting with J and delivered the suitcase with valuable Liquid Dream vials himself.

“Away,” the elusive reply makes Scarecrow chuckle.

“Is she sick?” he continues the interrogation, pushing The Joker’s buttons on purpose and doesn’t hide it. “Nobody has seen her for a while.”

“No, she’s not sick,” J admits and crosses his legs on the couch he’s sitting across from Jonathan’s.

“Strange she’s not present since she never leaves your side,” Scarecrow taps the ashes from his cigarette against the ashtray on the coffee table next to him.

“Don’t try your psychology crap on me, Crane!” The Joker gets aggravated at Jonathan’s persistence.

“I have five master degrees in psychology and I like to use them on daily basis due to habit. People do a lot of things out of habit,” he nonchalantly concludes and The King of Gotham sneers:

“Cut your crap! If you have something to say, say it!!”

“I know where Y/N is,” the prompt answer makes the green haired man narrow his eyes; he didn’t expect this reply.

“Are you playing games Crane?” J’s lack of patience immediately emerges.

“No,” Scarecrow starts smoking again and warns because he noticed the insane look in The Joker’s eyes. “If you kill me, you won’t have access to any of my merchandise; I’m the only one that knows the formulas. Plus I’m the only one that knows where she’s hiding.”

“How so?” J mutters through his clenched teeth.

“Y/N came to see me about 5 weeks ago: the pain in her jaw was becoming unbearable and it turned out the metal bolts in her gums were starting to shift the bones. I performed a surgery and took out two of them in order to alleviate the pressure. I told her the scar on her cheek will be even more pronounced after it heals, but I do have a serum she could use that would make better. You know what she said?”

The Joker is contemplating murder while Scarecrow goes on:

“That she likes that scar because it reminds her of the only man that loved her. You don’t have to be a genius to know she’s referring to Kai. Believe me, it’s upsetting I didn’t make the list either; I’m sure you remember we dated for 3 years after she started working for you.”

“So what’s your point?” J’s crabbiness reaches new levels due to the unexpected memento.

“I’m sure I don’t have to tell you it’s not her style to jump from man to man and she is very careful in choosing her partners. I don’t presume to know Y/N’s heart, but if she had feelings for her boss for a long time she decided not to act on them,” Jonathan hints at the problem without sugar coating his insinuations. “And then something happened that triggered a change, despite the better judgment of staying away. Maybe when you got shot last year?... Perhaps she got scared you almost died and just went with it?”

“Are you lecturing me Crane??!!” The Joker raises his voice and Jonathan takes it down a notch.

“I wouldn’t dare,” Scarecrow carefully stirs the dialogue since he’s walking on egg shells now.

“WHERE. IS. MY. WIFE ?” J pauses after each word, fed up with the speech.

“I’m betraying her trust by telling you, but I’m doing it out of concern for Y/N; she is not very well after the miscarriage. I mean, physically she’s fine; mentally…” and he lifts his shoulders up,”… not sure. She won’t talk to me about anything.”

The Joker didn’t hear the rest of the sentences after the word “miscarriage.”

“What miscarriage?!” he mutters, dumbfounded; he had no idea you were pregnant.  

“I’m sure you know what that implies,” Jonathan takes a deep breath and divulges your location: “If you want to see her, she’s at my Creek Hill property. I don’t use that place and I let her stay there until she figures out what she will do next.”

J gets up from the couch, snapping at Scarecrow’s confession:

“I would thank you but due to the fact you didn’t tell me sooner you’ll have to consider walking out of here alive the best gratitude I can offer!!”

The Joker snatches his car keys from the table, heading towards the elevator.

“Now get the fuck out of my house, Crane!!!” he threatens the guest still sitting on the sofa. “I’m sure you can find the way out!” **************     J drove his purple Lamborghini to Creek Hill in the middle on the night and he encountered another major issue: Scarecrow forgot to mention the huge property is gated. He circled the whole estate four times, trying to find a gap in the fence. There was none.

The Joker wanted to jump over the fence, but it was electrified so he had no other choice besides the extreme action of driving his Lamborghini through it. He cussed all the way up to the top of the high ground, the customized vehicle not made for the steep, rocky terrain. He could hear the bottom of the car scraping against the sharp stones and lost his temper: J stopped and got out, dropping F--bombs as he assessed the severe damage to his beloved car. It would definitely need serious repairs to fix the dents and scrapes that made it look like it escaped a tornado.

He continued his journey on foot towards the lighted house he could see in the distance, using the cell phone’s flashlight app to make sure he won’t fall in a ditch. Took The Joker a good 40 minutes to reach his goal, but he finally made it to his destination.

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

You are standing on the porch, listening to the sound of crickets and frogs that gets pretty loud out here: no city noises to diminish its intensity. You take another sip of Coke and toss the container in the trash can by the swing, getting ready to call it quits for the night.

“I’m sure you’re aware I require two weeks notice if my tenants decide to leave the building I own,” the familiar voice freaks you out. You turn around to look at The Joker, alarmed to see he’s a few steps away. Making a run for it seems like a great idea, except for the fact that your husband is blocking the door that is the only escape plan you have for the moment. All you want to do is dart inside the house and barricade yourself until he leaves.

“How’s your jaw?” he asks, referring to your bandaged cheek still healing after the surgery Jonathan was talking about.

“Why are you here?” you step away from him, mad from realizing Scarecrow couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

“I have nobody to make my tea,” J blurs out because it’s the first reason that popped in his mind.

“I’m sure one of your girls will be happy to oblige,” you remind him he has plenty of choices.

“I want you to make it,” he cracks his neck and you gulp, anxious from the unexpected encounter. You’re so frustrated your hideout was discovered you can’t think clearly. The Joker passes his fingers through his hair, casually admitting to the facts: “If you think you’re in pain, consider this: I didn’t get laid since you abandoned me in Las Vegas. It’s a miracle I can still walk.”

Instead of a smile following the candid confession, all The Joker sees in your eyes is hate. Pure hate. It didn’t lower your defense like he was expecting.

“Why did you go with that girl?” you lift your chin up, frustrated he has the audacity to joke about such a serious matter. “If I wouldn’t have shown up, you would have fucked her.”

“Yes,” J categorically agrees because it’s better to go with the truth giving his present circumstances.

“And then come back to our room and sleep with me.”

“Yes,” he takes a deep breath and holds it in.

“That’s disgusting!!!!! And humiliating!!!!” you scream so loud it shakes him out of apathy. You’re not really supposed to open your mouth until your wound heals, that’s why the bandage is starting to get stained with blood: your stitches are pulling at the flesh they keep sewed together.

“I didn’t care about what you did before we were together, but once you were mine I expected some loyalty!” you shout, unable to stop the tirade and the dressing covering your scar is getting redder. “Why did you ask me to marry you, hm? It’s such a cruel thing to do if it means nothing!”

“I asked because it seemed that’s what you wanted,” J finally exhales, not accustomed to have someone lashing out at him.

“You think you did me a favor?” your voice breaks under the burden of deception.

Why did he bother to come if he has nothing to say?

Your husband doesn’t have any other aces up his sleeve, but he wants you to know at least one thing:

“I’m sorry you lost the baby.”

J sees the emotions you’re trying to hide, the painful reality settling in even more since the man you conceived with is right there and actually lost his baby too. Not that it means the same to him as it does to the heartbroken Y/N.

“I’m gonna kill Jonathan!” you sniffle and start crying, blaming him for telling all your secrets to The Joker.

“Please do,” he fastly approves of your idea. “I can’t stand that arrogant asshole!”

The King of Gotham takes advantage of the opportunity and approaches, slowly wrapping his arms around you.

You don’t hug him back and he uses one hand to dig in his pocket and take out your wedding ring, figuring there’s no point in holding back now:

“If the scar reminds you of the only man that loved you, keep the ring to remind you of the one that asked you to marry him and fucked up.”

Jonathan told him about that too??!!

You start bawling your eyes out, more than upset Scarecrow was a complete snitch while J firmly squeezes you to his chest, convinced about one thing: he never wanted a woman more.

The Joker doesn’t need his work wife or his old girl back.

Just his wife.

Also read: MASTERLIST

AO3 account - same blog name: DiYunho

[thisislakewoodnews]

One evening, over at Raphael Stone’s home.

Characters: @raphael-stone, @mavstone, @naomixstone, @hckerstvne.

Below the cut is plot information to be led prior to the upcoming event.

Raphael Stone: Raphael had been sitting in the kitchen, laptop open and USB turning over and over between his index finger and thumb. “To get it to work, you put it in the computer.” Was the snark from his sister in the corner of the Kitchen, as he rolled his eyes. “Not yet, Noami.” She knew—she knew his intention, knew where his mind was at. Perhaps they’d always understood one another, Raphael and Naomi. As the sudden sound of the front door opening, the chime of the alarm, he stood up straight, eyes locking with his brother. “We’re just waitin’ on Lil to get her ass over here.” He commented.

Maverick Stone: There's a moment of hesitancy as Maverick stands on the other side of the door, contemplating his fate and future. Stepping through the threshold would change everything and he knew once he left, it wouldn't be the same ever again. With a breath, his hand went to door knob and the alarm announces his entrance before he can. His older brother is given a simple nod, the years of resentment seeming to vanish because there were more important matters to attend to. Naomi, on the other hand is greeted more warmly before Mav takes a seat. "How much time we got? This could take awhile." He teasingly responded.

Lily Stone: She was ready. She was ready to learn what was on the USB that almost costed Lily her life. The urge to sneak into Raphael's office and take it is finally going away as she began to feel anxious. Popping a pain killer into her mouth Lily powered through the pain she felt and made her way down the stairs. Arriving into the kitchen to see all three of her siblings is when the youngest Stone realized this is the first time they've all been together since Colleen Stone's funeral. "Sorry I'm late," she clears her throat. "I uh had to take my medicine." The hacker knew if she didn't a certain Doctor would be on her ass abut it. Ignoring the presence of Maverick for Lily was still furious at him, she takes a seat beside Raphael. Her eyes glued to the USB in her President's hand.

Raphael Stone: Did he just come right out and say it? His siblings in the room, as he drummed up a small smile—rare in its form for his brother through all their previous tension—and to Lily, who now sat at his side. “We’re looking at this—“ He murmured, holding up the USB. “It’s got incriminating footage, so we assume,” He gestured to Naomi behind him, as she drank his liquor cabinet dry. “But—It’s uh…” Raphael shrugged his shoulders. “Seran’s dead. Body found—I confirmed it was him a few hours ago.” Was there a time to mourn, yes. Completely. But not now. “I—we’re out a Vice President, and we cannot be.” He’d been looking around the room to his siblings, as hues settled on his brother. “We need a Vice President, Maverick.” Was Raphael making his point clear?

Maverick Stone: Blue eyes shifted to the USB that would be the answer to all their questions and the source of all their problems. Such a small subject possessed enough power to bring all four Stone siblings together for the first time in years, excluding their mother's death. It was enough to make Maverick less of a pessimistic shit. His eyes moved from the drive to Raphael as he began to speak, explaining the entire situation that led to this moment. Seran was a huge loss but, with everything as they are now, the family wasn't in a position to look vulnerable. "And I accepted." He added to Raphael's point, eyes gauging his sister's expression to gauge their reactions...because he knows there will be one. "It was time. There's too much shit going on and we can't afford to look weak and divided."

Lily Stone: Hearing the death of Seran was no loss to Lily personally, not really, but to the cartel? Big loss. Before Lily could tell Raphael she is sorry for the loss of his vice president and to ask how he met his demise she found herself biting her bottom lip. How eager Lily felt to see what was on the USB quickly became replaced with one emotion; rage. No longer able to keep her mouth shut, the youngest Stone looks to her President. "You want him as your Vice President?" Lily felt as if she should've seen it coming, but she didn't. Without realizing it Lily stood up out of her chair to tower him. "He fucking left Lakewood and the cartel all behind because he got his feelings hurt by that bakery princess." Oh there was so much more Lily wanted to say about all of this. "Give it to Lucien or--" the young Stone found herself choking on her words. "--or someone else who didn't abandon us or the cartel!" That is when she finally looked to Maverick with a burning rage in her eyes. "When I left, I left to gather Intel--not be a glutton for punishment in Vegas like you did." If anyone where to ask Lily, she saw it as if she should get the promotion not Maverick. Did she want to be the VP? Hell no. She wanted to be what she always wanted; a soldier and work her way up to Lieutenant and Bodyguard.

Raphael Stone: Didn’t he expect just that? Someone would have something to say, as he raised a hand, sunken silence. Lily was laying it on—Naomi’s personal opinion would come, but now wasn’t the time. “Get over it—“ Raphael snapped, looking at his little sister. “You’re not the only one he left. He left me. Mom, dad, Naomi—“ He spoke, gesturing to his other sister. “Maverick fucked up—and I know where he’s coming from. If it had been me…” Silence fell for a moment, as he sighed. “I would’ve done the same thing. It was suffocating. I stayed, but I didn’t like it any less. I knew what was being held over my head. He had more freedom.” Raphael stood, USB still gripped tight. “But the only way we’re all looking at this, is if we all agree to accept what I’m saying—“ A lull. “Or don’t, I don’t care. I’m the President of this Cartel, I’m making him the Vice President.” Maverick was right. It was time. “We’re family.” He looked to Lily. “That understood?”

Maverick Stone: Maverick saw that reaction coming from a million miles away. Lily wasn't exactly known for being subtle or for her lack of dramatics. His eye simply arched at the younger Stone as she climbed onto the chair, throwing a fit -- which, in a way, was warranted. Attention shifting from Lily to Raphael, the tone in his older brother's voice said it all. It wasn't really a question, despite him giving the siblings an option, it was a command. "I already apologized for what I did." Maverick stated, even though he'd do it all again in a heartbeat. "That was then and this now. You wanted me here, Lil, I'm fucking here and stepping up to the plate." Better late than never, he figured. "If Raphael and I can put our shit to the side to make this work, then so can you." He noted. "It's time to let it go. That was the past and there's a lot more important shit happening right now that we need to focus on."

Lily Stone: When Raphael stood and towered over Lily she stood her ground against him. She never has been one to back down so easily, so why start now? Lily knew they were right and found it difficult in herself to put this bullshit aside. "Fine. I'll play along with him being the Vice President." then something came to her mind. "Since you are clearly giving out promotions--then promote me to being a soldier." The youngest Stone knew she shouldn't even have to say why. Taking a deep breath she looks back over to Maverick with anger still residing in her eyes. Though she lost her breath when she felt a sudden sharp pain in her abdomen; the stab wound. Acting as if she weren't in pain Lily held her gaze on Maverick. "I'll be a good little warrior and keep my mouth shut for now on about you becoming VP, but for what you did to me as my brother? You got a long way to fucking go for that." She declares. With that Lily sits down and crosses her arms over her chest before looking to Raphael. "Now can we see what is on that damn USB? I about died from being gutted over that fucking thing."

Raphael Stone: Raphael didn’t even hesitate to her quip. “No.” His voice was sound and strong. Don’t question him, don’t barter him. This wasn’t some clubhouse, no form of government or diplomacy. It was a god damn crime to do as they did—what he says, goes. “You’ll stay where you are, Naomi is staying where she is, I’m bringing someone in, not shifting the fucking pyramid.” Didn’t he expect an argument from Lily? Sure. But he wasn’t about to lift her up to justify some vendetta she was hanging over Maverick’s head. “Lily, I swear to fucking god, pull your foot out of your mouth and listen to me,” Raphael rubbed his temples momentarily. “I run this show—so when you’re speaking to Maverick from here on out, you better do it with some fuckin’ respect.” There was another lull. “He’s not just your brother—he outranks you now.” Was it a silent warning to Naomi as well, should the equally vibrant-with-words have an opinion? Possibly. Maybe with her sullen silence she knew not to push Raphael. “Now,” He murmured. “We watch this once, and Maverick and I will decide what to do.” He eyed his little sister as a warning—no smart remarks. Plugging the USB in, as the CCTV footage came to light. Raphael’s mind was trying to remember the familiarity of the scene. Set outside of Tito’s, a familiar spot for the Stone family—“Oh my god,” Naomi’s long hair almost shielding the wide screen as she leaned in, even the awe striking her tone. “Look at the date—“ She pointed to the corner of the screen with a finely manicured hand. “This was the date Mom died…” Did he hone in, finally pay attention to the scene that had been—gunshots went off, silence on the film, but the bright light moved in. “Move,” Maverick murmured, as he reached for the laptop. Raphael cast a ‘keep quiet’ glare to Lily. “We can zoom in on—“ His words stopped, , as the screen was moved back, shifted for Raphael to see as clearly as they could make out on the black and grey screen: Dominic Moretti. Gun in one hand, gunning the gas of his motorcycle in the other. “Oh my god,” Naomi broke the silence first, as he felt her place a hand on his shoulders. “You know what this means, Raph…” He stayed silent for another moment. “I know,” He looked to Maverick. “The Castro cartel didn’t kill mom—the Rinaldi’s did.” [END]