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behindheremeraldeyes · 3 years

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DamiRae Week 2021 Monday, May 3rd - Pregnancy/ Parenthood & Family/ In-Laws

title: a cup of tea, please

summary: This is her first time being invited for dinner at the Wayne Mansion as his official girlfriend, and to say she’s nervous would be the understatement of the year. While she waits for them to arrive from an emergency call, perhaps, a nice cup of tea can calm her poor heart. Ao3 / ffnet

The path connecting the gates to the main entrance is probably the longest she ever remembers walking in a long time, and the clicking of her black heels against the concrete is starting to sound too loud in her ears. She’s miles away from Gotham, now, and the constant symphony of sirens that is always playing doesn’t reach her ears anymore. The garden is enveloped in peace and quietness, the moonshine bathing the statues and trees with its delicate light.

The Wayne Mansion is a spectacular construction, indeed. Her lavender eyes can’t stop looking around, carefully paying attention to all the details that make this place so impressive. The gothic style, the lit windows and the empowering towers make her feel incredibly small and she can’t help the shivers that run down her spine when she sees the massive water fountain in front of her.

Perhaps, she thinks, it’s a good thing that she came in alone. Raven doesn’t know what kind of face she is making right now, but she knows for sure that her boyfriend would make fun of her for reacting like that. Due to a sudden call from the GCPD requesting the dynamic duo, the empath ended up teleporting herself from Jump City on her own.Though she would always grow worried whenever they received those emergency calls, Damian did promise to meet her at the mansion in one piece so the three of them could have dinner.

Oh, right, the dinner. She feels her heart skipping a beat at the thought, and she has to suppress the urge to bite her lower lip in order not to ruin her lipstick. Of all the monsters and bad guys she has had to face in her life, Raven doesn’t recall ever being this nervous before. All of her primal emotions are screaming at her right now, and some of her inner demons— her father included— are telling her to run and hide in the depths of hell so she won’t have to face what’s to come.

She’s having dinner with the Waynes. However, it’s not just a simple dinner, no. It’s her first dinner as Damian’s official girlfriend— her first dinner meeting his father as his father. And even if she has already encountered Bruce Wayne many times before, she can’t help but think things would be much easier if she believed he was just a rich and eccentric man.

It would certainly be easier if she didn’t know he was, in fact, Batman.

Though she has never had any problems with Bruce since she’s joined the Titans, Raven must admit that she does feel intimidated by the fact that her father-in-law is the Gotham City’s very own Dark Knight. In all of their previous encounters, he has always been very cordial, never disrespecting her or any of her teammates. He is a good man, Damian says so himself. A good man with enough skills to go against every member of the Justice League without a single super-power.

He is a meticulous man, very precise and mysterious. He is her boss, and tonight, he is also her host.

It takes her a while to recompose herself from that wave of emotions, but eventually, Raven reaches the main entrance of the mansion. The mahogany doors are lustrous, and something tells her that the carved details were handmade decades ago. She takes one, last and deep breath, and finally, she reaches for the intercom with her index finger. A loud bell resonates inside the building, and before she has the time to rethink her choices, a muffled voice greets her.

“One moment, miss Roth.”

At those words, the empath is left slightly startled, as she starts playing with her fingers. Judging by the few things she was told her about the manor, Raven believes it’s safe to assume that voice on the speaker belongs to Alfred, the butler. According to her boyfriend’s stories, he has been in the family for at least three generations and he’s probably the one man who knows all of the secrets of the Waynes. Damian always speaks very fondly of him, saying he has always treated him like a boy instead of a potential assassin. Perhaps it wasn’t a very wise decision at the very beginning, but it says a lot about the man he is.

It doesn’t take long before the huge doors swing open in front of her, and as the lights start to creep out, it’s like a whole new world is revealed in front of her. She slowly walks in, her eyes marveled by all the elegance oozing from every corner of that entrance hall, which is probably larger than the house she grew up in.

There’s marble on the floor beneath her feet and a crystal chandelier hanging high above her head. Two spiral staircases unite the first and the second floors, and she notices as the walls are decorated with large, classical paintings of war and winter woods. There’s a brunet woman beautiful portrayed in one of those frames, and something tells her she must be Bruce’s mother. Though subtle, it’s undeniable that Damian shares a lot of his delicate features with her.

He has her cheeks, she thinks, a tender smile taking over her lips. It’s a pure emotion contrasting her current uneasiness, and right now, it’s enough to provide her some sort of comfort.

Even if Raven is completely absorbed by whole scenario around her, she’s quick to notice his presence in the room. Though her ears didn’t realize exactly when he arrived at the entrance hall, her senses are quick to detect the way his warm emotions mingle with hers. There’s a pinch of worry mixed with calmness, but mostly, she can feel a certain excitement building up inside him. It’s completely different from what she feels coming from the Wayne men she knows, for it’s lighter and consistent, and she can’t help but feel welcomed by that.

She still doesn’t even know his voice, but the empath is starting to understand why her boyfriend likes this man so much.

“Good evening, Miss Roth.” He starts, speaking politely and never taking his eyes away from hers. He’s dressed with a formal smoking, his black shoes perfectly shined and his gloves withe as the snow. “My name is Alfred, the butler. Welcome to the Wayne mansion. I apologize on behalf of Master Bruce and Master Damian, for they are still busy handling some matters in Gotham. They should be arriving shortly.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it, Alfred.” Her voice is steady and low, as she tries her best to cause a good first impression. “I'm sure they must be taking care of some important business. There’s no need for an apology. The city needs them, after all.”

“You’re a very kind, young lady. Please, allow me take your coat and walk you to the living room.”

She offers him a smile in response, carefully removing the black coat covering her petit body and revealing her outfit. She’s wearing a long, beige skirt that falls just above her calfs. Her onyx stilettos are giving her some extra inches, and a charcoal, sleeved shirt completes the set. For the material was a little transparent, it was possible to see her dark, lacy cropped beneath it, but according to Zatanna, it’s not indecent or anything. While preparing for tonight, Damian told her not to worry about futile details, but it only felt natural for her to want to look presentable for this evening’s event.

“Thank you, Alfred.” She handles him the coat, and she realizes how careful he is as he puts it inside a hidden closet.

“You're welcome. Now, if you could accompany me.”

"Of course.” She nods, following behind his footsteps. They walk down a large hallway with frames also decorating the walls, and even if she wanted to stay and look carefully at every single one of them, Raven knows better than to risk getting lost. Instead, she keeps paying attention to the composed man leading the way, observing in awe as the living room finally comes to view.

As expected, it’s another no by veryelegant room, filled with classical furniture and a gothic-themed fireplace that is responsible for keeping the area warm. Another large portrait hangs above it, and this time, that same woman is accompanied by a man very similar to Bruce himself. It’s a powerful painting for newcomers such as herself, but she knows it probably has a deeper meaning for those living inside those walls.

The carpets now are thick enough to muffle her heels, and while she’s distracted admiring the clocks spread around the living room, once more, his delicate voice bring her back to their reality. “Would you like a drink, Miss? Master Bruce has chosen a fine wine for the dinner, but feel free to ask me anything.”

“Uhmm.” She hums, pondering, her lips now pressed in a thin line. Though she doesn’t want to sound rude, Raven isn't really a fan of wine. She doesn’t hate it or anything like that, but it’s undeniable that she doesn’t have a high tolerance for alcohol. Once Bruce arrives, though, she will eventually have to share a glass with him, so, for now, she thinks it will be safer to avoid any liquor in order to prevent any embarrassing incident. “How about a cup of tea? I mean, only if it won’t cause you too much trouble, Alfred.”

“Non-sense. I will go boil the water immediately. Would you like any tea in particular?”

“Thank you very much, Alfred. And about the flavor… You can choose whatever you like, I guess. Damian once told me you know a lot about tea, so you probably know better than me when it comes to tea and the best choice for each occasion.”

His expression freezes for a fraction of second, a certain surprise now lacing his emotions. “Oh, did he?”

“Yes, he did.” She nods, offering him a soft smile. “He talks a lot about you, actually.”

“Good things, I hope.”

“The best, I assure you.”

“Who would have thought…” He nods, accepting her words and it’s as if she can sense a certain happiness in his voice. “Very well, I will go boil the water. If you need me, I will be in the kitchen. Please, make yourself at home.”

“I will, thank you.”

After nodding politely— because everythinghe does is polite— he turns around and walks away until he disappears in one of the many hallways she imagines this mansion to have. A soft smile takes over her lips as a warm sensation fills her chest. Alfred is really an amazing man. He’s thoughtful and his emotions are as transparent as Damian’s are filled with pride. Her first impressions on him are impeccable, and though he’s very different from the entire Wayne familiar circle, Raven is starting to understand why their dynamic works.

Maybe, with time, she will come to a full conclusion on that matter.

For now, though, she’s just happy to have finally met the man Damian always mentions whenever he’s talking about home. And now that she’s finally having the chance to add real images to his vague descriptions, well…

To say she’s just impressed would be the understatement of the year.

Though she has been in the mansion for a while now, Raven is still finding it hard to get used to her surroundings. Perhaps it’s the sepulchral silence or the fact that she’s all alone in Batman’s living room, but suddenly, she’s starting to feel a mild anxiety creeping around. She’s starting to feel self-conscious, as if she’s been watched— which is very likely to be happening, for sure— and even if Alfred has told her to make herself at home, the empath realizes it’s easier said than done.

She should’ve brought her book, damn it.

Her eyes are looking around in search of something to distract her from overreacting, but she soon realizes it’s useless. All of that subjective pressure is starting to get the best of her, and chances are that, if that continues like that, she will be teleporting back home before Damian even gets back.

Raven needs to calm down. She needs to stop overthinking and get herself together.

She needs Alfred, preferably with that tea. And even if she doesn't really know where the kitchen is, it’s not like she can’t use her powers to help her find the butler.

Without sparing a second thought, her eyes are already glowing and some loose locks of her purple hair are lifting up. With just a little concentration, she’s able to locate the only emotional human-being in the mansion and even if she doesn’t know which corridor will take her to him, Raven decides to improvise.

A dark energy envelops her body, and in a blink of an eye, the empath is teleported to a dim-lit room that is filled with a slightly bitter citric fragrance she’s very familiar with. It’s Earl Grey tea, she knows. The scent invades her nostrils and she can feel her body calmly responding to it. She takes a deep breath, then, and that’s when her eyes finally acknowledge the man responsible to that delicious aroma.

He’s standing in front of the stove, the boiling water working its magic on the leaves floating above it. As it appears, he’s following all the correct steps to brew the perfect Earl Grey and she doesn’t feel like she can thank him enough for that.

She stands a couple of feet away from him, near a wooden table that has a porcelain tea cup that certainly belongs to an english crockery set. There are four stools near her, and she also notices the many kitchen utensils displayed around the room. The newspaper is resting next to a pair of reading glasses, and she wonders if that’s what he was doing before she got here earlier this evening.

“Miss Roth, may I help you?” He speaks, not bothering to turn to face her, as he’s delicately blending the black tea with Bergamot oil. Though she has literally just appeared behind his back, she noticed how he remained calm and focused. Years of living with that family must do that to a person, she thinks.

“Oh, Uhm… It’s nothing, really.” She starts, stumbling upon her own words like a 5-year-old child who was caught stealing cookies from the jar. Apparently, Raven didn’t really think of a way to properly explain why she even bothered coming after him in the first place. “You see, Alfred, I was just… I was—“

“It’s overwhelming, isn’t it?” He speaks, and suddenly, it’s like her worries dissipate in thin air. It’s funny how she’s the empath between them, and yet, he seems to know exactly what she’s feeling right now. He’s a good man, for sure.

“Yeah.” She sighs, a smile on her face. “I guess I just didn’t want to be alone in Batman’s mansion. Do you mind if I stay here with you until they get back?”

“Of course not, Miss Roth. Please, sit and make yourself comfortable. The tea is almost ready.”

“Thank you.” She says, choosing one of the stools for her to sit. Even if it’s not one of Bruce’s expensive armchairs, Raven is feeling a lot more comfortable here, with him. “Also, I see that you’ve chosen Earl Grey… It’s my favorite.”

“I know it is, Miss Roth.”

Her eyes widen for a moment, and slowly, she lets his words sink in. Few people in this world know such simple details about her life, and though she wouldn’t take Damian for one to chit-chat about his girlfriend’s favorite kind of tea, she’s not oblivious to what that means.

They do get along, she can tell. And even if she can only make guesses on that matter, she definitely wants to know more about that relationship.

“So, Alfred…” She starts again, not really sure how to ask him those questions without sounding too nosy. “How was Damian before he joined the Titans? He talks a lot about you, his father and Dick; but never really about himself.”

“Uhm… Master Damian is different from all the others.” He states, finally turning off the flame of the stove. He lets it sit for a couple of seconds, only then opting to pour it in the cup he had separated for her. The scent is stronger now, and she can’t wait for the temperature to drop just enough so she can take a sip of it. “He's the only one who wantedMaster Bruce to be his paternal figure, even if he might not be aware of that himself.”

“And did he get what he wanted?”

“You perhaps need to spend more time with Master Bruce, my dear.” He says, his voice laced with a certain sarcasm as his mustache slightly turns upwards.

“Well… I don’t know how it was before, but I think they’re starting to understand each other a little better now, right? At least that’s the impression I get every time he goes back to the tower after a night patrol.”

“I believe you’re right, indeed. Both of them are too similar in many aspects, and I think it’s safe to say they’re making progress as father and son. An old man such as myself can only hope for them to find a balance."

“Damian Wayne finding balance in life… That's something I would love to see.” She giggles, earning a side smile from him.

“He's changed a lot since the first time we met him. Master Damian is certainly no longer that irreverent child who’s constantly angry and lost.”

“Maybe that monastery did good for him.”

“Well, not only the monastery, Miss Roth.”

A comforting warmth creeps under her skin and she can't help but feel a sense of wholesomeness taking over her emotions. Though she doubts she’s had all of that effect on him, it’s nice to know she was able to make a difference, no matter how small it might have been.

Her boyfriend is a very complex man, filled with doubts and conflicts that might never come to an end. He struggles to become a new man without abandoning his past, and perhaps, that’s the one thing she loves the most about him. He’s unique, original in his own shape and colors. He’s not trying to please anyone, and yet, even if he doesn’t believe her words whenever she points it out, he’s trying to be a hero.

He will be a fine leader someday, and she can’t wait to be there by his side when his day arrives.

“Thank you, Alfred… For taking care of him when he was a little boy.”

“It was only my job as the family’s butler. I should be the one thanking you, Miss Roth. For taking care of him now that he’s no longer one.”

His old, wrinkled eyes are now looking at her, and there’s an emotion there that Raven can’t really name. It’s pure and laced with honesty, and for a moment, she thinks this is how grandparents are supposed to look at their grandchildren.

It feels special to be looked at like that. It feels warm and safe in a whole different level, and she feels encouraged enough to talk to him about anything in the world. Her tastes, her doubts, fears, and mostly, the things she loves.

At last, she’s beginning to understand the man behind the dynamic duo. At last, she beginning to understand why Damian loves him so much.

There’s an inch of expectation in his face as she finally takes a sip of the tea, and she hopes he can see the satisfied look on her face after that. It’s perfect, for sure. Perhaps the best Earl Grey she’s ever had in her life. As expected from a man such as Alfred Pennyworth.

“It's delicious, Alfred.” She nods, closing her eyes to savor the moment. “Would you like to drink with me?”

“Don't mind me, Miss. It’s still too early for my tea.”

“Oh, I see… Maybe next time, then?”

“Of course. Next time will be perfect.”

Neither of them really knew for how long they’ve been talking, but eventually, their ears capture the sound of rushed footsteps coming from down the hallway. Unalarmed eyes turn their attention to the source of the new sound that has disturbed their chit-chat, and in a matter of seconds, a raven haired boy dressed in his black turtle-neck shirt appears.

“Alfred, we’re home! He starts, sounding slightly breathless. “Have you seen Rav—“ Though he did seem bit exasperated, at first, once his emerald eyes meet her amethyst one, it’s as if time stops and he allows himself to breath. “Oh, there you are.”

“Hi.” She greets him, a warm smile now forming on her lips. “Took you long enough, Boy Wonder.”

“You see, everything was going just fine until those lunatics decided it would be fun to rob the Gotham museum. Penguin was behind this one this time.”

“And did you get him?” She asks, taking another sip of her tea.

“Not really… He escaped through the sewers, that bastard. Next time he won’t stand a chance, though!”

“You’ll get him next time, I’m sure.”

“Yeah…” He nods, running his fingers through his dark locks. “Sorry to keep you waiting for so long."

“Oh, don’t worry about it. Alfred here has kept me company while you were busy.” She states, looking at the butler so they could exchange an honest glance. “Though I believe he’s too polite to tell me to leave so I can stop distracting him from the important things he has to do."

“Nonsense, Miss Roth.” Alfred states, no hesitation in his voice. “Our talk has proven itself quite amusing.”

“I'm glad to know that. I really enjoyed our talk, too.” She states, taking the last sip of her tea before finally standing up. She takes a few steps to get closer to Damian, who almost instinctively, places his hand right on her lower back. Their eyes meet once more, and there’s a small smile playing on his lips.

“Good to see you two getting along. What were you two talking about?”

“You, of course.”

“Me?” He lifts an eyebrow, and she watches amusedly as confusion takes over his face. “Can you be a little more specific?”

“Sure. We were talking about this silly game you play with all the girls you bring home for dinner.” She teases, a sparkle lit inside her amethyst eyes. "Honestly, keeping us waiting all alone so close to Batman’s secrets isn’t a really good idea.”

“TT.” He scoffs, a pout decorating his face. “You're not funny.”

“I would have to disagree, Master Damian. She’s quite the spirituous one.”

“Thank you, Alfred.”

“You're welcome, Miss Roth.”

“I'm clearly outnumbered here.”

A giggle escapes her lips as she smiles at her new partner in crime. Alfred nods back at her, and once her attention returns tenderly towards her boyfriend, the butler clears his throat in order to get their attention. “Master Damian, why don’t you take Miss Roth to the living room to meet your father? I’ll be finishing the preparations for the dinner.”

“Great idea, Alfred.” Damian agrees, offering her his arm to hold as a true gentlemen would. “Shall we?”

“Of course.” She nods, accepting his offer and bringing her body even closer to his. Her emotions feel lighter, and her chest is warmer now that she is getting to know more about him and his life away from the Titans. Her conversation with Alfred was very pleasant and she really hopes she can get another chance like this in a nearby future. “Thank you for keeping me company, Alfred. It was a real pleasure meeting you.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Miss Roth.” He bows cordially, and she has no reason to doubt his words.

Both Alfred and Raven reach a mutual agreement, and carefully, she feels Damian carefully pulling her towards the corridor from where he came. The two lovers are about to walk away with their arms laced, but suddenly, the butler’s voice stops them in their tracks.

“Master Damian, if I may…”

“What is it, Alfred?” Damian asks, curiosity now taking over both of them.

“You've found yourself a very nice girl and my old heart can’t handle another emotionally inept Wayne. Don’t let her slip away.”

Her eyes widen at his statement and she can even feel a blush threatening to tinge her cheeks. A mix of feelings is running through her veins right now, and if anything, she feels her heart skipping a beat while waiting for Damian’s answer to this.

Is he going to laugh it off?

Is he going to opt for one of the rude answers he’s always giving Dick?

Is he going to—

Her train of thoughts is suddenly interrupted by the feeling of his other hand on top of her arm. His fingers caress her exposed skin, and for a moment, she hopes she doesn’t look half as dumbfounded as she is inside. His emerald eyes are now looking deep into hers and all of the words disappear from her mind.

“I won't, Alfred.” He answers, his voice an octave lower than before. “I certainly won’t.”

A soft smile slowly makes its way to her lips, and right now, she realizes how happy she is to be here. Not only she got to know the famous Alfred, but Raven also got the chance to know more about the man she holds so dear in her heart.

At last, they make their way to the dinning room where Bruce is probably waiting for them. They exchange smiles and a few words in order to catch up on the last couple of hours. There’s a chuckle, a sigh and even a muffled sound that shall be kept in secret by the walls of the mansion. Without a hurry in the world, their feet keep moving forward, their arms never once untangling.

fin.

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a/n: Hapy Damirae week! This is my first time participating and I’m so excited!! Thanks to this ship, I’ve met so many wonderful people and all I want right now is for our beloved ship to be showered with all the love and affection it deserves! Thank you all who have made me feel so welcomed and let’s have a blast during this week! Hope you enjoy this one, and please, tell me what you think!

#damirae #damirae week 2021 #damirae week may 3 #damian x raven #demonbirds #mydamiraefics

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starkerforlife6969 · 5 years

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Secretary Peter, Boss Tony. With a twist ;)

Tony’s the best goddamn salesman in the office. Hell, in Wallstreet. He can move stocks, he can sell stocks, he can throw a life raft to the drowning man or sink the ship himself.

He’s charismatic, handsome, and about as in style as his tailored three piece suits, which is to say- very and always in style. He’d graduated from desk jockey to cubicle drone to glass corner office in three short years and he has a floor full of people desperately in awe of him, vying for scraps of attention or pieces of wisdom.

And Tony loves his job. He loves talking to people, he loves working his charm, he loves winning and he loves money and he loves not having to answer to anyone.

And he doesn’t answer to anyone, except from- aside from that one pesky exception- in Nick Fury.

He owns the whole company, so technically Tony reports to him, but Nick’s practically never here so Tony’s the one in charge.

Apart from this week, apparently, because when he walks in on Monday morning it’s to see Nick in his office, that trademark furious glare that’s really poorly concealed behind what Tony supposes is meant to be a welcoming smile. He doesn’t break stride though, just saunters into his desk and grins. “I see you helped yourself into my office.” He says cheerily.

“It’s not your office, Tony.” Nick growls, closing the door and standing in front of it like he thinks Tony might run out. “They’re all my offices. Every thing in this building is mine, do you understand that? Even those ugly ass lion statues in the lobby, they’re mine.”

Tony sighs and eases into his leather desk chair. “That’s unfortunate. Maybe give ‘em to charity or something.”

“Stark.” Nick’s tone is flat, unamused, and Tony looks up at him with his best ‘I’m listening’ face. “I was able to just waltz into your office because I notice- you don’t have a PA.”

Tony’s eyes flicker to the desk just outside his office. Sure enough, it’s empty. “I wondered why I wasn’t getting any messages.”

Nick is, again, unimpressed.

“Pepper’s off on maternity leave,” Tony shrugs, tossing his stress ball into the air and catching it again. “I can go without a PA for a year, Nicky.”

“Don’t you ever call me that again, and no, you can’t. Do you know why I’m here-”

“-I’m sure you’re about to enlighten me-”

“I’m here because none of your sales have been recorded and stored, none of your hours, none of your billables. I haven’t had a hard copy receipt of any of your transactions and that makes you liable, Tony. And you may be one of my best workers, but I do not give a shit about you. But you being liable, makes me liable, which makes my company liable. And we wanna work as a team, don’t we?”

“That seems like a rhetorical question.”

“You are so backed up and you don’t even have a clue.” Nick growls, massaging his temples like he’d very much like to annihilate Tony right on the spot.

Tony feels a little bit bad. He may have forgotten about those pesky little paper trails. “It’s not like I’m breaking the law, Fury, c’mon-”

“Oh, I’ll just tell the bank that you’re not breaking the law and send them on their merry fucking way, shall i? Or, should you get a secretary?”

“Hire me one, then,” Tony rolls his eyes, bored with the conversation and reaching forward to grab a random sheet of paper off his desk. He peruses it idly. It’s a shopping list, and scanning the items, he’s not entirely sure what for. A baby shower? There’s too much alcohol for that- someone’s birthday? Whose list even is this? Is it in here by mistake?

“Do you know how many secretaries you went through before Pepper, Tony? Over a hundred. You have to hire one yourself. I do not want to be sued for abusive language again-”

Tony looks up sharply. “She was being an imbecile, Fury, and I stand by what I said-”

Nick lifts a hand to cut him off. “Hire a secretary before the week is out, Stark, or it won’t be such a friendly visit next time.”

He leaves in a whirlwind of leather and disapproval and Tony stares bemusedly.

He doesn’t even have to touch his phone before it buzzes and he sees the text from Pepper. Heard someone got a nasty visit. I’ll have someone for you before Friday.

Tony smiles softly. He misses her, he should buy her something-

suddenly, he remembers what the shopping list is for.

When Tony gets into the office on Friday morning, he’s riding on a bit of a high. Everything’s been going so well recently. He’s signed more clients than ever in a three day span, one of his biggest competitors missed a big meeting and Fury hasn’t left any menacing phone calls. Pepper had liked her presents, people still stare after him, and- life all around is good.

He’s in his office, just taking a moment to savour how triumphant and successful he is, when he reaches out for a sip of his coffee.

It’s a fucking delicious blend. Expensive and Italian and the stuff that you can only get from a very pretentious cafe on the other side of New York and-

He pauses in his drinking.

He never got himself coffee.

He looks at the cup in his hand and lowers it marginally. It’s hot and just the way he likes it. He looks around his office then too, and suddenly all the differences appear and slap him in the face. His desk is clear- not just clear, clean, and his laptop keys are shiny and polished like new. His papers are organised and there are highlights and annotations and his certificates are hanging on the wall and not crammed into a box in the bottom drawer of his filing cabinet where he left them. In fact, his whole fucking office looks professional and goddamn nice.

His dry cleaning is hanging neatly in the corner too. He gets up, and looks at the desk outside his office.

Sure enough, there’s someone sitting there.

A male from what Tony can see, with short brown hair and a headset on. He's typing into the computer and diligently scribbling onto a notepad. He looks like he knows what he’s doing.

Who the hell is he?

Tony’s laptop pings and he looks down to see a new email from Fury.

Well done, Stark. Everything looks to be in order. I knew you could be reasonable.

He clicks on the attachments, already knowing what he’s going to see. All his backlogs, all his logged hours, all his receipts, ordered and neatly filed and chronologically placed and there are even little notes underneath each one with extra details and- how the fuck does his new secretary know that yes, actually, the Milton case had required an extra emergency meeting when they’d discovered a conflict- Tony hadn’t made a note of it anywhere.

Curiosity truly peaked now, he takes his perfect coffee and saunters out, walking around the front of the desk.

His new secretary looks up and Tony’s penis twitches a little. Okay, yes, Tony Jr approves. He’s young, maybe twenty, with brown hair and big brown eyes, cream skin and a delicate nose. He’s slender, but in shape, in a white shirt with the top few buttons undone, giving a lovely view of those sharp collarbones. He’s wearing black trousers and the the microphone wire against his cheek and in his hair contrasts nicely with his pale skin.

He looks up at Tony and smiles pleasantly. “Mr Stark, is there something I can help you with?”

Tony spots a calendar on the corner of the desk. He picks it up and flips through it. His meetings and deadlines for the next six months are all neatly pencilled in. The most important ones are starred with a red pen. He sets it down carelessly and watches as the young man straightens it without a word. “So, how long have you been here, Mr...”

“Peter Potts, Sir.” Peter says, and ah, this makes sense. The only way Peter could be so clever was if he had the Potts gene. “I started on Tuesday.”

Tuesday, fuck. No wonder things have been going so well. “Pepper’s little brother?”

“Half brother,” Peter corrects, “and soon to be uncle.”

Tony can see the resemblance. The soft skin, the sweet eyes. “Well, Peter and Pepper. That’s cute.”

Peter doesn’t say anything to that, but his pretty pink lips twitch in amusement.

But Tony doesn’t have any qualms. Peter is quite clearly capable, he’s related to Pepper, he’s eye-candy, and he’s gotten Tony his favourite coffee. So, the older man simply tips his head and goes back into his office. But as soon as he’s sitting down, his curiosity flares up again. He presses the button on his intercom and clears his throat. “You go to college, Peter?”

He watches through the glass as Peter’s chair swivels around, and the boy talks into the microphone with an intrigued smile. “Yes, Mr Stark. Top of my class at Harvard.”

“What did you study?”

“I majored in Engineering with a minor in Journalism. Graduated last year.”

An early bird then, Tony can relate. That Potts gene really is something else. “And what have you been doing for the past year?”

“Odd jobs,” Peter says evasively. “But when Pepper said she needed my help, I was all too happy to oblige. I’m a very big fan of yours, Mr Stark. There’s no bigger name in Wallstreet.” The phone rings and Peter shoots Tony an apologetic, but polite smile, as he picks up the phone. “Tony Stark’s office.” He nods, turning to the computer as the person talks. “Yes, I can see that here. No problem. Thank you. Yes, yes, Mr Butler, I will let him know.” Peter chuckles and Tony stares: amazed. “Alright. Thank you, goodbye.”

“Mr Butler?” Tony shakes his head, “That was Jerry on the phone?”

“Yes, Mr Stark. Would you like me to get him back on the line for you?”

Jerry Butler is the coldest man in the world. He doesn’t laugh with secretaries. He’s no reason for any smile ever. But Peter had chuckled like he was talking to an old friend. Not even Pepper had achieved that. “No, no.” Tony frowns, “you carry on.” He clicks off the intercom and strums his fingers against his desk thoughtfully. Something doesn’t feel quite right- if something seems too good to be true...his mind warns.

Maybe the catch is that he can’t sleep with Peter and the more he talks to the boy, the more he wants to.

He does his best to ignore it for now.

Things continue to go brilliantly. Life is even more effortlessly amazing than it was before. Nick even drops the hints of a promotion in the future if things keep going like this. When Tony gets to work, his favourite coffee is waiting, sometimes even a bagel or a croissant like Peter magically knows when Tony hasn’t had breakfast. He eats or drinks in his office as he checks emails, before Peter comes in with a notebook and a rundown of the days events, and then Tony gets to work. Peter comes in throughout the day, silent and unobtrusive and sets down water or coffee or occasionally- an apple- and sets it by Tony’s elbow and leaves again.

When Tony steps out to meet a client for lunch, he sees Peter taking his lunch break at his desk- his headset is still on, and he’s still scribbling away, but it’s into an old worn science textbook. In his other hand is a sandwich he’s nibbling on.

Tony prods at the book as he pulls on his coat. Peter had it dry cleaned specially and waiting in his office before Tony even knew he'd be out for lunch. There’s probably already a cab waiting downstairs. “What’s this?” Tony asks, trying to peek at the cover.

Peter lets him easily. “It’s a bio-chemistry textbook. I’m thinking about taking some night classes. Work towards a masters, or if I don’t qualify- a second degree.”

Tony may not have much pull in the science world, but his father sure did. He knows that name and money can go a long way, and Peter’s been exceptional. “I can get you in for a Masters anywhere you wanna go.” He assures, and Peter looks up at him with wide eyes.

“Mr Stark-”

“It’s not a problem. Now, who am I meeting?”

“Mrs Aberelle. She loves shrimp and it was her granddaughter’s birthday last week.”

Tony’s not sure whether he wants to ruffle Peter’s hair or give him a filthy kiss on the mouth. He settles for neither.

Mrs Aberelle practically gushes and swoons in her seat when Tony orders her the shrimp platter and asks how her granddaughter’s birthday was. She makes a higher bid than Tony even asked for. Peter’s a godsend.

The next day, the CEO of of another major competitor comes down with the flu, and Tony’s pitch goes down brilliantly.

He’s on cloud nine.

Careful, a voice warns, when you’re this high, there’s only one way to go.

It sounds suspiciously like his father, but he listens to it. “Hey, Peter,” he greets one morning as he strolls in. Peter’s in his office, just setting down his coffee and a- fuck, a danish pastry. He might be in love. “I got you a little something.”

Peter blinks in surprise, but smiles sweetly, and crosses his hands in front of him as he waits. Tony sets his briefcase down and clips open the gold clasps and lifts out a brand new, just released bio-chemistry textbook. Peter takes it with wide, disbelieving eyes. “Mr Stark...” he whispers, shaking his head, “this was- I know for a fact that this was over a $100. I can’t accept this-”

“Kid,” Tony chuckles, shaking his head. “It’s pocket change. Besides, I’m not giving it to you for nothing.”

Peter’s eyes flash to his and Tony’s a little surprised by what he sees. Peter looks almost-fuck, almost dangerous- but it’s gone in a flash, replaced with that sweetness and hardworking, subtle smugness that’s usually there.

“I want you to attend the meeting with Lawson tomorrow. As a sit in, alright?”

Peter nods immediately, but frowns. “Is there any particular reason why, Mr Stark?” He’s clutching the book to his chest almost reverently.

“Not really,” Tony admits, rubbing his chin, “just wary. You up for it?”

“Always.” Peter murmurs, and Tony thinks he must be imagining the demure little almost-wink he gets.

It doesn’t stop him from thinking about it again that night.

He shakes Lawson’s hand in the morning as the man and his associates sit opposite him at the large oakwood table. Tony and Peter on one side, Lawson and his men on the other. Peter has his notebook out and is writing away- he always seems to be writing, Tony has no idea what- and then they start talking.

Tony’s not sure what he was worried about. The contract is brilliant, more lenient than expected and has nothing but benefits for both sides. He’s giving Lawson a hard time, but that’s just part of the game, and he’s about to seal the deal when-

Peter slides a piece of paper over to him without looking up. Tony frowns at him, but Peter doesn’t make eye-contact, continuing to write, and Tony looks down.

He’s lying. Don’t sign.

Well fuck, that’s a fucking thing to write. What is Tony supposed to do with that? He sets it down and tries to look unaffected as they keep talking but when Lawson’s side slide over the contract, Tony pauses with the pen in his hand. Peter isn’t making a sound.

“Let me just talk to my secretary real quick,” Tony grins, wearing his best winning smile, “why don’t you fine gentlemen wait outside, take five, catch a breather, and then we can come back and sort this out.”

They look a little confused, but they leave and then Peter and Tony are alone.

“What the hell is this, Peter?”

Peter looks up bravely, his jaw locked. “I don’t trust him, Mr Stark. There’s something not right-”

“I’m gonna need a little more than your hunch, kid. No offence, but I’ve been in this game a lot longer than you. You don’t know the contract, it’s a good deal-”

“It’s too good a deal,” Peter insists, lifting the thick contract up. “I’ve read through it, Mr Stark. I read through all the contracts you’re about to sign and there’s something about this that doesn’t add up. Why would they offer such a beneficial claim with us? Why not one of your competitors?”

Tony shrugs a little smugly. “My competitors haven’t been stepping up to bat, lately.”

Peter shakes his head. “I’m serious, Mr Stark. When things or people are too good to be true, they usually are.”

There’s something in his tone. Something...something Tony’s unsure of.

“Did you see anything in the small print that can back up- what is at the moment- just a feeling?”

Peter’s shoulders slump in defeat, and he shakes his head. “No, Sir.” He whispers.

The older man sighs, rubbing at his eyes. Only Pepper or Peter could ever make him feel like this- torn between the rational, sensible option, and listening to their fucking hunches-

“He knows!” A voice outside the door hisses, and both Peter and Tony look up sharply.

“He doesn’t know, Lawson-”

“He must know! Why would he tell us to leave like that? He knows about our deal with Oscorp! I knew Norman couldn’t make this go away, the dirty son-of-a-bitch-”

“There’s no way Stark knows, just calm down-”

The voices disappear again, down the hall, and Tony stares in amazement. Peter just looks earnest. “Do you believe me now, Mr Stark?”

“How the hell did you know?” He whispers, collapsing into one of the chairs.

Peter bites his bottom lip. “Sometimes i just get these feelings,” he says, as he scribbles on the paper in front of him.

Unfortunately, knowing that Lawson has a back door deal with Oscorp is not something that can be easily proven, and when Fury finds out that Tony blew would could be one of the biggest contracts of the year, he reacts with, what is understandably, a lot of anger.

Tony does his best to get Peter to screen all his calls as the two of them work all night to try and find a way to prove what they heard. Tony wants to think that maybe his word will be enough, but Nick’s always been a stickler for the rules and Tony...has not.

Even as absorbed in papers and numbers as he is, Tony can still appreciate Peter here beside him. The kid’s saved him a huge one here. And he’s still here, when he should probably be at home sleeping or watching Netflix, helping Tony try to prove the unprovable. He’s smart and quick and for someone who’s never worked with stocks like this before, he sure knows his way around it.

“Hey,” Peter whispers when it hits three am. “I bet they keep a hard copy of all their emails in a data storage room.”

Tony looks up and rubs the bleariness from his eyes. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Peter breaths, getting to his feet, more energetic now, “a lot of stock companies do it. It’s an automatically backlog, it can stop you getting into a lot of trouble. All we have to go is get in.”

Tony shakes his head, but gets to his feet, knees groaning. “How? I’m the most recognisable face in Wallstreet.”

“But I’m not.” Peter insists, already heading for the door. Tony’s hot on his heels. “I can talk my way in.”

“Not that I doubt your ability, because you’re a Potts, but do you really think you can just waltz in and-”

Yes, as it turns out. Tony just stares in awe as Peter plays the apologetic, desperate intern who just has to get this work done for his brutal boss Norman Osborn. Tony’s hiding behind a potted plant as he watches Peter’s performance. “I’m so sorry,” Peter weeps, eyes shining with tears as the large, female security guard clutches at her heart through her shirt. “I’m such an idiot, and it’s only my first week and I forgot my keycard and- I’m gonna get fired and I deserve it and-”

“Oh, no, honey,” the security guard croons, already unlocking the barrier for him. “No, baby, it is not your fault, okay?”

Peter sniffles, eyes red and smile grateful. “Thank you so much, I-you have no idea what this means to me and-”

She blows him a kiss. “Go, honey. Go.” Peter waves at her, and jogs around the corner.

They have to wait about fifteen minutes till she goes to the bathroom, before Tony runs out and Peter lets him through. “How did you- wait- how did you even unlock the door-”

“I pickpocketed her,” Peter whispers, as they get into the elevator. Tony stares at Peter in shock.

“Shit, kid. Where’d you learn to do that?”

Peter gives him a look. “We’re breaking into one of the most famous companies in the world, Mr Stark. I don’t think now’s the time.”

“Sure- I guess-” Peter grabs his hand and tugs him out of the metal doors as soon as they get to the right floor and shit- how did Peter even know what floor- before Tony knows it, Peter is picking the lock of a storage room and- seriously, what the hell-

and then he’s hacking into a computer and downloading a memory stick onto it.

Tony is staring in slack-jawed awe. “Seriously, Peter.” He whispers, as Peter scans through emails. “What the fuck?”

“Tony,” Peter murmurs, a little irritated, as his eyes flicker across the screen as he scrolls rapidly. “Not the time.”

“Not the time? You- you cried on cue. You knew all this stuff about me, you pick-pocketed her- you got into that locked room, you just hacked into a computer and a memory stick, are you- were you a criminal or something? Like a tech-whiz kid? You can tell me, I won’t judge-”

“I know you won’t,” Peter says softly, and suddenly there’s that doe-eyed, cocky secretary who smirks whenever Tony ends up liking whatever weird type of sushi Peter brings him when he’d insisted he wouldn’t. “But not right now. Later, I promise- ah! Look!”

There’s the email. It’s not explicit, but it’s interaction between Norman and Lawson which can’t easily be dismissed. Peter sends it to the printer and the two of them are waiting for the damn thing to connect, when footsteps sound along the carpeted floor around the corner.

Peter shoves Tony into a stationary closet and Tony watches through the crack as a middle-aged man comes around with a stack of papers to photocopy. The man blinks at the sight of Peter, surprised, and Peter half smiles. “Hey,” he greets casually, and Tony is seriously in awe of this kid’s acting. “All nighter for you too, huh? Osborn’s a real dick.”

The man chuckles, nodding, and comes to join Peter by the printer. “Yeah, I know. I’m Barney,”

Peter takes his hand. “Lucas,” he says easily, “It’s nice to meet you. You couldn’t help, could you? The damn thing’s not working.”

Lucas peers at the printer, and smiles good-naturedly. “You have to enter your user access code.”

Tony pales and if Peter panics at all, he doesn’t show it. “Fuck,” he sighs, smacking his forehead, “I forgot mine. I keep it written down on this post it- shit, I’ll have to run downstairs, unless-” he looks up at Barney hopefully, “I could use yours? Save me the run.”

Barney looks torn. “We’re not supposed to...”

For a second, Tony thinks Peter might pull the same crying act he used with the security guard, but he doesn’t.

Instead, Peter steps forward, lifts his chin and catches his plush bottom lip between his teeth.

Shit. Shit. Tony and Barney are both hypnotised. “Maybe we could forget the printer altogether,” Peter murmurs, his hands drifting to Barney’s belt as he fiddles with the loop. “Working for Norman gets me so stressed, you know? Sometimes you just want some-” he sighs a little, and the sound goes straight to Tony’s dick. “-some stress relief. You ever feel like that, Barney?”

Barney looks utterly besotted, and he doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands.

Peter pushes impossibly closer, tilting his head up more. “You can touch me, if you want,” he says, barely above a whisper, “I want you to. Right here.” He grabs one of Barney’s hands and places it on his perfect ass.

Tony’s leaking in his pants.

Barney grunts with desire, grabbing at Peter’s ass gracelessly, his other hand coming to do the same as Peter presses their groins together. “What’s your access code?” He whispers into Barney’s ear, palming at his crotch.

Barney looks like he might cum any second. He’s probably a virgin, Tony thinks. Or maybe Peter is just that hot. Either one is plausible. “A-ah, it-it’s 4598-”

Tony lets out a cry of surprise when Barney falls heavily to the floor.

Peter turns and taps in the code to the printer as Tony bursts out of the closet. “Holy shit,” he whispers, staring at the man. There’s no blood which is...a relief? “Is he dead?”

Peter rolls his eyes as the printer starts chugging out paper. He grins victoriously. “No, Tony, he’s not dead. I don’t kill people. He’s just unconscious.” He gives Tony a look like the older man is acting a bit slow.

There’s a wet spot on Barney’s pants, Tony feels for the guy, but there’s more pressing matters. “Peter, what the fuck, seriously-”

“Oh, come on, Tony.” Peter snaps, whirling on him with righteous indignation. His pupils are blown wide and Tony wants him so bad it hurts, but he’s also- he’s also confused out of his mind. “You’ve known this whole time. What- you think it’s coincidence that all your competitors have been missing meetings? Falling sick? You think these new clients are just falling into your lap? I’ve been doing all of this for you. You know that.”

Jesus Christ. Tony stares. “I-I don’t- how-”

“I like seeing you succeed. It gets me even hotter for you than I already am.”

Tony can’t form words.

“I know you like me too. I’d have to be blind not to- aha!” He lifts the papers happily, all printed and sorted. “As much as I’d love to have you fuck me right here on this printer, we need to leave.”

Tony’s pretty sure he’s forgotten how to form words, but fucking Peter is something he’d very much like to do.

“We’re gonna go back to your office, and you can do me right up against the glass, okay?”

Tony has to pinch his arm to not cum right then and there. Peter notices, and smirks, tiptoeing to kiss him lightly.

“Come on, Mr Stark,” he grins, his eyes twinkling with a satisfying mixture of innocence and mischief, as he guides them towards the door. “You have work to do.”

#starker #secretary peter #pa peter #boss tony #top tony #bottom peter #bamf peter #peter potts #stock broker tony #peter parker #tony stark #long fic #twist #based off the temp #seduction

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beauvoyr · 5 years

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Lazy People’s Club for the Sleepy and Tired | 20

decaying | 20 Pairings: Noctis/Reader Genre: Friendship/Romance/Friends-to-Lovers Tags: Fluff, Humor, Eventual Romance, Slow Burn, Abuse, Torture, asphyxiation, no beta we die like men, pre-Omen trailer route, pre-demon Noctis Chapter Rating: T+ Crossposted on: ao3 Summary: Rules to join the Lazy People’s Club for the Sleepy and Tired: 1) One must love sleep. Sleep is love. Sleep is life. 2) One must be tired. Physically or emotionally, both are acceptable. 3) One must love video games. Halfhearted interest in video games will result in immediate termination of membership. Fortunately, Noctis falls into all three categories. CHAPTER SUMMARY: Noctis sidesteps a scruffy man in chic boho ensemble of scarves and fedora, stopping across glassy automated doors dinging with every customer it receives. “We’re here.”

YOU WEAR SUNLIGHT IN THE MOST RADIANT way. It dusts you in a gossamer glow; sunlight dripping off your body, glistening, luscious enough for anyone to lick the sunny sweetness from your skin. A guilty part of him liked you against a backdrop of black with stars clustering your hair and sleep-heavy eyes lidding low, but he has a newfound appreciation for the way the sun sheathes your skin in subtle extravagance, colouring you in ways artificial lighting couldn’t.

Pocketing his hands, Noctis observes how you underwent the same transformation he’s seen time and time again.

You dash up the Crystal Promenade, crossing crowded roads and marvelling at the magnificent stained glass streets sprawled under your sandals. The breeze picks up, sheer lace bouncing off your thighs, and cooing doves scatter into flight. You dart through pockets of space between the crowd, examine silvery timepieces displayed in Chopard, perking up at the street performers orchestrating a waltz with a cello, a violin, and an Electone. Prompto’s habit must’ve rubbed off on you, for you snapped a picture of some jolly bystanders waltzing along to the sentimental tune, and then a few more of the merry musicians tapping their feet in tandem.

“It’s Je Te Veux,” you tell him once he reaches your side, bright eyes all eager.

He’s never heard of that one before, but he can count on you and your endless database of classical music ingrained in that knotty head of yours. He makes a toneless sort of hum, realises it couldn’t be heard over the vibrato, and tries again. “What’s that?”

“Satie composed it.” You palm your phone to your chest, eyes trained on the graceful glide of the dancers having a good time with one another. The brilliance of your smile seems to fade for a second and Noctis wonders what’s up—that is until you seem intent on avoiding his eyes. “It means I want you.”

Oh. Oh.

There are no cymbals in the waltz, but Noctis is sure his heart is beating to the sound of a toy monkey clanging brass cymbals together. Jarringly loud in his ears, all clang clang clang like some annoying alarm in that morning Marlboro cartoon show. The sunny warmth is starting to get to him, reaching his ears, and he fights the awkward urge to have a stiff, long walk through Insomnia just to get away from the teasing lilt of the violin.

All Noctis does is to rub his nape in faux indifference. He too avoids your eyes.

“Hmm. I see.”

THE SHOP HE’S LOOKING FOR is housed in the upscale part of the city, all cobblestones fanned in russet reds, blossoming shrubs edging the walkways, iron scrollwork fencing the pavements. Prompto’s always skittish on the rare occasions when Ignis drags them here, needing to complete a grocery errand or two. Either one of the buttons on Noctis’ jacket had vanished and only DKNY carried specific silver buttons with monogrammed engravings, or he needed to replace one of his scandalous-looking shirt garters—the ones that fit around the curve of his thigh like some contraption for the kinky. Noctis isn’t judging, but he has his own suspicions about Ignis because who doesn’t?

Whatever, he’d rather not think about it now. He’d very much like to concentrate on how you’ve gone ahead with locating what he needed, pointing at a sun-bleached signboard hanging overhead.

“Is this the correct store?” You crane your neck to decipher the neon-lit swirls scrawled on the board juxtaposing deep stonewalls. “Vivienne Westwood?”

He comes to a stop before the broad, polished glass popping out on the sidewalk. “Yep, that’s the one.” Reflected, you and him: A vision in white and shrouded in black, your head tipped aside, him toeing the pavement. A wireframe mannequin models an assemblage of scarf, skirt, and matching heels, not that he knows anything about fashion. It’s just that he enjoyed watching your animated reflection scrutinising tortoiseshell sunnies perched on its head, hand on your chin. A corner of his lips slants upwards at the sight. “Most of us have our stuffs personally tailored, so, yeah. Either from Vivienne Westwood or Roen.”

You tiptoe a little to get a closer look at another pair of paisley sunglasses hanging by a string. “Kinda like personal tailors? Since you guys have fashion labels working for the royal family?”

“Something like that.” He shrugs. “Why?”

“‘cause I noticed your boots have those pretty red soles,” you say matter-of-factly, pointing downwards to what seems to be his boots. Noctis gets that awkward feeling again, like some inside joke just went over his head. What does that have to do with anything when he’s out here with you? You’re not going to make him take off his shoes again, are you? Just to examine his toes, like some bizarre déjà vu of his first meeting with you? Thankfully, you seem to pick up on his confusion since you've gone ahead tilting your head with a smile. "Christian Louboutin, right?"

Yeah, he has no experience to go through this conversation. That’s up Ignis’ alley, not his. But he might have heard the name bounced back and forth during personal fitting sessions, might have something to do with a Loubouwhatever measuring his feet with tape. Safe to say, Noctis is just going to play along. “Uh—yeah. Personalized everything. Head to toe.” He pauses at your knowing nod, growing suspicious. As much as he’s flattered—and a tad bit pleased—that you always keep your eyes on him enough to notice the finer points to his clothes, red soles are incredibly specific knowledge only privy to those with a keen interest in fashion. Finding no harm in prying, he nudges you in the side. “…didn’t think you’re the type to like fashion.”

You sidle up to him, hands quick to return his jab with one of your own. “Not me, no. Byron’s a huge fashion nerd who keeps his Pinterest board full of fashion brands, that’s all.” Noctis huffs at your predictable action, swatting you aside. He’s way too used to your antics by now—not that he knows if it’s a good thing or not. Thwarted, you backpedalled, keeping your hands to yourself. “He’s always buzzing about new fashion trends or whatever’s hot in the market, and he has this huge stash of fashion magazines in his room, making scrapbooks out of the bits he liked. It’s also kinda creepy since he idolises Claire Farron enough to have her posters on his walls. After a while, you just pick up about stuffs like that when he’s around 24/7.”

That’s some unnecessary insight on the guy who continuously pisses him off at every waking moment of his life, but Noctis isn’t about to say that to your face, not when said guy is your childhood butler who took whippings in your stead. If Gladio likened him to an older, pissier version of Ignis, the truth might not be far off. Grunting, Noctis nudges the door open for you. “C’mon, let’s get inside.”

Apparently, the store manager witnessed his interaction with you, greeting them with a bemused smile when the waft of cool air hit him. Her silver nametag reads Magisa. “Welcome, Your Highness,” she says with her pencil thin eyebrows still parked high on her forehead. “May I help you and your companion for today?”

Dealing with sales reps hounding his every step and tailing him worse than Glaives is enough to seize him up. A quick shake of his head has the wrinkled woman peering him over her rimmed glasses, and Noctis lets his eyes wander the store to avoid her piercing stare. “Nah, we’re good. I’m just going to look around.”

“Of course, Your Highness,” she placates, even if her half-bow is stunted with the fact that she’s still sneaking stares at your general direction. “If you and your lady friend require assistance, please do not hesitate to approach any of us.”

With how she places great emphasis on the word, Noctis has the sense to grimace. Should he be worried if this will blow up when the tabloids lap it all up? Yeah, hopefully not. It's his first time entering the store without his usual duo flanking his sides, and sensational scoops are one way to get the readership spiking faster than the Citadel's PR Department's migraine.

"Uh. Thanks. Can you just…?" he makes some vague hand gesture, hoping it’s a loose interpretation of what he needs, eyes skirting around when her stare is harder than stone. "We just want to shop without—uh, things happening."

She seems to understand him that much with no questions asked, quick on her feet to flip the sign to Closed and drops the automated blinds over the storefront with a click of a button. The sudden hush accompanying his personal shopping experience has you teetering closer to him, wary eyes searching his face for any signs of reassurance. Your fingers worry the hems of his jacket, chewing on your bottom lip out of habit again. Noctis squeezes your shoulder to ease your nerves before Magisa turns.

“As much as I love celebrity news, I don’t want to see some clickbait article like You Wouldn’t Believe What Prince Noctis Did Last Weekend on Insomnia Daily’s website,” she announces, a corner of her mouth tugging upwards on one side. She looks like she’s seen her fair share of celeb mishaps in her own store and would love nothing more than to die of natural causes than a heart attack. “By all means, Your Highness, do be careful. The media circus is barbaric enough to tear your reputation into shreds if you drop your guard.”

And not even the Glaives can guard him against it. "…yeah, copy that.”

Magisa is sensible enough to keep a respectful distance from him when he strolls through the rolling racks, suede jackets, knitted sweaters, complementing accessories, an orgasm of colours reaching out to him. It’s easy to forget why he’s here when he’s here with you, taking in the slanted photo frames hanging off the walls, glorious lights dawning on you and him, stops at an eye-catching bomber jacket studded in stars across its back—until he’s distracted by your fingers tugging his cuff.

“What are we looking for, Prince? Anything specific in mind for Ignis? Or is there anything he’s been eyeing?”

That’s a good question. Walking into another aisle offers rows of men’s accessories hanging from sleek metal plates. Noctis eyes a leather belt with some punk rock aesthetic on it; Prompto’d like that. “No idea actually. Was hoping we’d just find something here for him.”

“Maybe I can browse the other side and see what I can come up with?” you offer, slinking backwards with a genuine expression of being helpful to the cause. Noctis turns on his heels, catching the flit of your fingers trailing in the air as goodbye. Your back turns to him when you wander through gypsum partitions, leaving an echo of your voice. “I’ll come back soon.”

That is not how he envisioned this to be, but uh. “Sure, I guess…” Noctis answers to an empty space, minding how awkward it feels when you’re not by his side. He has half the urge to chase you just because—and the other half is judging him through Magisa's pointed silence, having witnessed every waking second.

Deciding it's best to concentrate on the task in hand, he orientates his focus to a suave combo of a dress shirt, striped belt, and gradient aviators arbitrarily arranged on a wall-mounted shelf. The clashing colours don't scream Ignis Posh Scientia, so it's a solid No for Noctis. A cashmere scarf in tartan isn't Ignis Stylish Scientia either, and Noctis backs away from the section altogether. After rifling through three snazzy co-ords, four fitted pants whilst knowing nothing of Ignis’ size, two loafers and simultaneously thwarted by Ignis’ mysterious size yet again, Noctis is almost ready to call it a day.

Magisa, thankfully, steps up to her task after sensing his deathly desperation and escorts him to a selection of accessories for the subdued, wrinkled hands lifting one of the many displays for him to choose. Having her recommendations ironed out some of the hitches in his grand plan, deciding the subtle emboss of a skull on a pair of suspenders is better than the garish VW belt buckle, and with satisfaction, Noctis follows her to the cashier—

—or not, when a sharp glint has him making a short detour to a tiered jewellery display.

Hanging off the dainty hooks are little bits of silver with varying pendants, necklaces and chokers sparkling under a well-placed spotlight. Before he takes a step back to think why he’s here and what he’s doing and Magisa’s incredible concern with whatever he’s up to, Noctis threads his fingers through a delicate star necklace.

Diamante dotting all five points up to its heart, sleek silver chain neither too long nor short like his soon-to-be five months with you. Just right, maybe just right sitting at the base of your neck nestled between your collarbones. That’s not too bad of a thought, so before he overthinks things and dabbles into the mechanics guiding his rash action, he hands it over to a waiting Magisa, who accepts it with pursed lips.

“Shall I pack it separately?” she asks none too subtly, returning to the cash register to ring up his purchases. “Would you prefer a nondescript bag or a ribbon to go with it?”

Noctis cocks a brow, withdrawing his wallet and putting his card on the proffered tray. “Is this about the suspenders or?” She gives him a look, the one that makes him feel like he's in trouble after Ignis looted his unhealthy Nissin collection, and he instantly knows what she's referring to. "Uh. Separately packaged. Just a box will do." Maybe a ribbon? "Nothing too flashy for the ribbon. Simple stuff."

“Of course, Highness, she doesn’t seem like the gaudy sort,” she offers her opinion—not that he asked her for it, but it’s a little reassuring that Magisa seems satisfied with his choice. Deft hands slotted his card, nude fingernails key in numbers on the screen, making quick work of boxing up the necklace for him to hide.

And hiding your necklace is just a simple affair of attuning it with his armoury, stowing it deep where nobody else knows its presence but him.

The fracture of blue scattering over the countertop disappears in seconds, and it has Magisa pinching her glasses to lower it by a fraction.

“Well,” she comments, impressed, “that’s handy.”

Noctis smirks.

THAT PAPERBAG IN YOUR ARMS shouldn’t be getting under his skin, but it is. You emerge almost guiltlessly from the storefront with your purchase, a sizeable heft for its nondescript beige, smiling his way. Just what exactly is in it, that's the million Credit question right there. It could be something for your own closet since you've never gone shopping on your own before, but the irrational and conspiratorial Noctis whispers it's something for Byron, definitely for Byron, because when are you notthinking about fashionable little Byron and his four-digit leather gloves anyway? Your morning conversation said all that needs to be said.

The sun’s irritating his skin and feeding the irritation in his heart, but you don’t seem to notice any of it.

“So what’re we doing now, Prince?” you say, prancing by his side in that one-two skip you do whenever you’re excited, but you’re playing off your excitement just so he won’t say anything about it. “Is there anything else you wanna do?”

Crossing the Ladian Avenue together, heavily blossoming magnolia trees shaded the pavement, creamy innocence perfuming the air. Strips of grass overlay granite slabs, pink petals dusting the surface. Children play imaginary hopscotch on evenings when their parents are off from work, couples marvel over the bold jewels growing on these magnolias, and for people like Noctis, someone not exactly a parent or your boyfriend, he pockets his hands and tries to shrug off his misplaced displeasure. Tries, because he’s still not good at it, but at least he’s willing to try.

“You hungry?”

Cracked sunlight falls over a part of your face, highlighting the sheer luminance of your eye. “Yeah? I mean, I’m totally cool if you wanna go home now since we’ve got what you need, but…” you stop underneath a magnolia, leaning against the scrawny trunks clustered together, “if it’s not too much of a hassle for you, can we go to the bookstore together?”

“The bookstore?” he repeats—totally not distracted by how the sunlight fragments colours in your iris, totally not wanting to press his fingers to your cheek to feel how warm you are. “Sure, if you have something to do there. Not that far of a detour from here.” Pointing to some few blocks in the distance to show how close it is, his hand falls to his hip just so he’d avoid touching you out of your comfort zone. “You wanna head there now?”

You give a little stretch with your arms high above your head, making a sound of pure content. One that Noctis has never heard before. “Nah, later. Lunch sounds way more tempting. Where do you wanna take me this time?”

He can’t say he’s thought that far ahead, but he’s proud of himself for being able to turn the question right at you. “What do you wanna eat this time?”

“The ramen we had was really tasty,” you suggest, though you quickly retract your statement with a finger tapping your chin, “but I kinda wanna eat something different. Something like that, but not something like that?”

There you go again, all roundabout answers with no end in sight. Five months in and you’re still you. Shreds of magnolias drift in the breeze as he snorts, dusting off pretty pinks falling on his shoulder. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what it means, Prince,” you say, quick hands cupping a fluttering petal, delighted like you’ve never seen one before. Maybe Byron’s never pruned magnolias for your vases, that’s possible enough. “Kinda like one of those feel-good foods? Homely kinds of stuff, nothing fancy, just delicious meals straight from the heart.”

The wind picks up, sweeping through the boulevard, a flurry of flowers raining on you and him. Nonchalantly picking out a petal streaked in rich pinks fading in whites from your hair, Noctis drops it into your outstretched hands. You crane your neck to reward his gift with a smile, and it’s all he needs. “Ever had oden before?”

“Nope, never had them.” You shake your head as Noctis plucks off more pinks from your hair, his jacket, your shoulders, presents in the palms of the queen in white. “What’s oden like? Loads of rich broth? Warm, fuzzy foodie meals? Instaglam-worthy shots?”

“Your inner Prom is coming out,” he points out, and you laugh.

Just like this, it’s nice standing around, talking with you all casual like nothing else matters in this world. Pressing your back to the tree, cornering you like this—oh. Magisa’s warning throbs in his head.

Yeah, shit, he kind of forgot about that, didn’t he?

Noctis consciously takes a step back, catching questions in your eyes.

The Glaives tailing him 24/7 would peck all this up like Chocobo feed for the rest of the Glaives back home to gobble over, and if he’s hoping this won’t be #1 trending gossip in Insomnia, he better start praying to whatever Astrals’ out there watching over him. They say Ramuh’s the kindest of the bunch, right? So maybe Ramuh would listen and spare him all the media sharks who could’ve spied on him.

Out in the open space, anyone could be watching him—you. He doesn't have the cover of the night to help him out when it's bright and breezy like this, nothing like the privacy of a lake and the stars, nothing like Prompto’s presence warranting a friendly outing. Going out with him and Ignis is one thing while going out with you is on another scale altogether. He doesn’t enjoy freedom the way a commoner does, all because he’s the prince. And princes don’t get to walk around with you the same way Byron does.

There it is again.

He hates it. Hates the familiar edges of that moody, problematic prince coming up. All because he doesn’t think things through and his temperament is getting the best of him and he just can’t say it because he doesn’t know how to make it sound not so awkward since he doesn’t want to be your friend anymore but he can’t go past a boyfriend because what kind of shitty boyfriend is he going to be when he can’t even date you normally. And then there’s Byron too, feeding the unhealthy glutton for jealousy in him. So he’ll probably end up ruining this day in the end, won’t he?

Pretending the disappointment clouding your eyes is nothing more than confusion, he quirks a finger for you to follow. “C’mon, let’s go. I’m starving.”

The abrupt change in his demeanour isn't lost on you. Still, you seem to stumble out of whatever daydream cluttering your head, petals once clasped tight in your palms now scattering all over the ground. “…right, lead the way.”

He’s good at pretending, isn’t he? He’s been pretending he’s got his life together all these years, so he’s sure he can pretend to be your friend just a little while longer.

A MOUTHFUL OF PIPING HOT oden, you learn, is sunshine melting on your tongue: A hot ball of rich, savoury sun. As expected, Noctis memorised every alleyway right down to its missing tile, bringing you to the best place in the city to enjoy your lunch. You’ve never seen someone conducting business from a wooden cart curtained in red, but the novelty of the experience has you eager to sink onto the wooden stool for the pick-and-mix session to begin. The ancient owner, yet another friend of the prince, is all toothy grins when Noctis ducks into his stall, batting away all attempts at paying at the end of the meal.

“You’re definitely the People Prince,” you say, en route to the bookstore across a boulevard lined in street lamps. Paper bag bouncing by your side, you take a peek at his face. “I’m kinda surprised how many people actually know you—not like know know, but they know you like you’re friends from way before.”

Noctis shrugs like it means nothing to him, but you’ve long learnt his belligerent blue eyes are more honest than he is. “Used to hang out loads with Prom when I was in high school. Arcades, ramen stalls, oden carts, cinemas, karaoke, you name it, we did ‘em all.” He swoops sharp right into another street, plodding uphill past grey-bricked boutiques. “When you’re a regular, you’re instantly a level above most customers they get on other days.”

You tail him from behind, though momentarily, a woman walking her leashed Shih Tzu makes you coo for a second. Noctis flashes you a look for your unintelligible cooing, not expecting that form of a reply, and you fiddle for an answer. “Um—well, you’re the prince and you get along so well with them, so you’re everyone’s favourite.”

“Totally not,” he rebukes with less bite and more of a scowl. Curt, leaving the conversation in the dust, just like that.

Had you hit a sore spot somehow? He’s been testier ever since you got out of Vivienne Westwood a little later than he did. Is it because it's the usual cliché of guys hating girls when they go off on a shopping spree? And then they have to wait for what seems like aeons before their significant other comes back to reality? Free oden failed in cheering him up, even if the ecstatic old man loaded up his portion with more freebies, so hangry from both hunger and anger is out of the question since you’re full and he’s full and he’s still taking you to the bookstore like what you wanted.

So what was your fault?

You don't know.

Noctis sidesteps a scruffy man in chic boho ensemble of scarves and fedora, stopping across glassy automated doors dinging with every customer it receives. “We’re here.”

Catching up brings you to an uncommon bookstore, broad posters taping the front of the store in the latest literature fixes. Over three storeys of rosy stucco, wooden slats and hanging creepers swirling over walls, you assume it's a café bookstore with a vintage spin to it. The whole atmosphere matches a parked car next to its entrance, white racing stripes across chintzy pink convertible, silver Vixen on its antique hood. It even has a Moogle bauble on its antenna, making you smile at how cute it is.

Unfortunately, Noctis doesn’t share your sentiment and doesn’t share your thoughts. He just stares at you staring at the car, and you felt bad for pulling him all the way here. Maybe he doesn’t want to be here after all? And he’s just too polite to say anything about it?

Somehow, that sends your premature joy plummeting to the ground.

“C’mon, let’s go in.”

“—right.”

The brisk exchange falls flat with you following Noctis inside, chilly air-conditioning fleecing your sun-warmed skin. Coffee and contemporary fixtures are in place, rows of books on weathered racks, but it’s hard to concentrate on the people and the place when Noctis and only Noctis is in your head. You pissed him off, didn’t you? In some way you can’t explain since you don’t know how you screwed up. You knew this day would come. Just like how you fight with Byron over the smallest of things, this could cement the start of a dispute between you and Noctis over who knows what and Gods know why.

He’s walking ahead.

He isn’t waiting for you.

Wandering through stationeries shelved along the walls, fingers drifting over jutting pencils, you are lost. Shellac finishes to a wooden barrel fail to reignite your interest in purchasing and engraving a fountain pen for Ignis’ birthday. The bookstore is suddenly too cold, too lonely for you alone, standing in front of a glass display. You are a face among the many masks hustling about, giggling and chatting and walking along. You can’t share Noctis’ world when he’s not here with you.

A soft graze on your elbow has you looking up to your left, sinking into a trance when familiar blackness return.

Oh. Noctis is here all along, blue eyes unreadable. He’s doing something with his hand. Oh. He’s holding you. He turns his back, fingers laced through yours, leading you away from the crowd. Past uncaring apron-wearing helpers, past scampering children, past the broadest wall leading to an emergency exit. Heavy fire doors are bolted shut behind him. They erase all sounds, hiding you and him from scandalized eyes.

His hand is warm in yours.

Fluorescent bulb flickers overhead, the stairwell smells of dust and cement. You can’t hear your heart beating when Noctis tips his head, messy bangs turning blue eyes black. He has your back to the wall like he had you at the tree—only, there is no distance separating you and him. He presses into your space with the intent to take everything, leaving nothing behind. You let him. His leg nudges between your knees up your thigh and he bends close enough for you to feel his breath on your cheeks. You can't breathe.

Dry lips descend on your ear with a warm whisper.

“Ah. A white puppy.”

You feel him smile.

“It’s too bad, really, that I need a black mongrel instead.”

It shuts down in black. Your eyes are wide open but you can’t see. Noctis is gone but you still feel his knee brushing against your inner thighs. Crawling the column of your neck is his hand, and it settles with a thumb on your jugular. He breathes low and harsh and you can’t mistake the shudder up your spine as anything else other than fear. You can’t see him, but you feel him holding you down the cracking drywall. You can’t move. You can’t scream.

He is saying something, but you hear him no more, not over the Crystal humming in your ear. It drowns him out like summer bees and static TV, but his breath laving your lobe is warm, rank, smelling of death and decay. Clawed fingernails dig half-moons in your wrist. You flinch under his strength. He doesn’t budge. You are cold when it is hot and sweat starts from your scalp sliding to your shoulder. Knees are buckling underneath you and you are certain you are falling but there is no telltale pain bruising your knees. You don’t know if you are standing or you are kneeling or you are here.

Blackness thickens because it’s never gone from the start, and the Crystal grows louder like it fights to be heard over Noctis. Electricity slithers where the crescents lie on your wrist, tattooing your skin in short jolts. Ouch you gasp but your lips do not move and your voice is unheard.

You’ve felt this before.

It’s magic.

But there is no blue in the blacks, only frayed red seeping through. Blotting out the dark, blurring into greys.

The buzz snips off sharp as scissors.

A mouthful of piping hot oden, you learn, is sunshine melting on your tongue: A hot ball of rich, savoury sun. As expected, Noctis memorised every alleyway right down to its missing tile, bringing you to the best place in the city to enjoy your lunch. A woman walking her leashed Shih Tzu has you distractedly cooing for a second. Over three storeys of rosy stucco, wooden slats and hanging creepers swirling over walls, it’s a café bookstore with a vintage spin to it. Coffee and contemporary fixtures are in place, rows of books on purposely weathered racks, and the shellac finishes to a wooden barrel catches your fancy for Ignis’ gift.

The cashier hands your change with a smile and you exit the store to find Noctis waiting outside. Why is he looking all glum and sullen with his arms crossed over his chest anyway? Didn't that oden old man load up his bowl with all the grilled fishcake and sticky tofu skins? That can’t do, he can’t do all the frowning when you’re all happy from the food.

“Sorry for the wait!” You cosy up to him, tucking your packaged pen by your side. Noctis visibly jumps and looks at you as if you’ve grown a second head. His face is priceless and you can't help but laugh at him. "Gosh, Prince, what's wrong? Did something happen?”

“Uh—no, nothing happened,” he’s quick to sputter with a shake of his head, though he can’t seem to wipe that silly look he gives you. “You… okay?”

You’re confused, but not as confused as Noctis. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

And Noctis takes a hard, long look. Narrowed blue eyes, lips curled, arms uncrossing to drop by his sides. He surveys you how one surveys an advertisement, even if all you had for an offering is this white dress and two sets of gifts. After a while, seemingly coming to a decision, he guiltily rubs his nape. "No. Nothing. Forget it."

“What, all that and nothing?” you chide at the anticlimactic end, taking one step after another.

He doesn’t answer, walking past an empty parking lot, and you jab him in his side, inciting an undignified yelp at your pre-emptive attack. So maybe it’s not worth it when he turns around and you get a sense of belated uh-oh when he chases you up the street, but at least now you know Gladio’s training is paying off because hey, your sides aren’t hurting that much anymore.

YOU ARE WEIRD AND UNREPENTANT and everything in Noctis’ dictionary of a catastrophe. Here he is, trying his damned best in keeping a distance from you, and you all but kicked over the barricades and shredded the WARNING flyers he tacked on the signboards. What’s he supposed to do when you ran fast uphill—but he’s faster,duh, and it ends in him yanking you through backstreet detours to avoid a ruckus. You had the nerve to laugh at him with the biggest, most brilliant smile he’s ever seen—not that it’s forgiven anything you’ve done to him today, absolutely none at all.

He can’t believe he’s saying this, but he’s glad to see your chilly chamber of secrets, even if it means his toes have to freeze on marble again.

Incredibly in a good mood, you are humming. Clicking on your desktop, belting out Billboard’s Top 20 instead of dead people’s music, boiling hot water and making tea. Noctis drops on a chair and observes you with a palm propping his head. Observes, because he’s sure as hell never experienced something like this before, never seen the city life infecting you all the way to your room, never heard you singing softly under your breath to some crappy lyrics scrawled on restroom stalls.

Did the bookstore unlock some hidden part of your personality like some side quest in a prophecy? Visit the bookstore to gain a new skill: Humming! or something? Noctis makes a face at that. Five years with Prompto and his RPG obsession definitely rubbed off on him.

You balance two cups in a hand and a teapot in the other, clicking off the music. “Here you go, Prince.” When he makes a move to help, you all but shushed him to sit, bringing porcelain to his face and pouring a stream of gold liquid right in it. “Sorry I don’t have anything good, Byron’s been too distracted with Ignis’ birthday party until he forgot my groceries this week.”

Noctis takes a sip of the bland concoction and considers what you said—not that he’s surprised irritation’s rapidly overtaking his initial revelation at your good mood because it’s Byron and when are you not in a good mood about Byron anyway? “Hmm.”

Either you heard him or you don’t as you sit right beside him instead of your usual spot behind your desk, nursing your own cupful. “He’s been baking nonstop,” you say with a sparkle in your eyes, but it vanished when you continue, “and when he screws up, I’m his garbage can apparently. He’s okay with cooking but he’s still crap at baking so I kinda think he’s trying to impress Ignis with this cake but ah—but don’t tell him I told you, he’ll totally kill me.”

His tone darkens with another deep sip. “Hmm.”

Radiating the sun’s enthusiasm, you aren’t unenthused with the one-sided conversation. He sets down his polished cup a little too sharply and you take it as a chance for refilling, not that he’s in any mood to drink more.

“So anyway, thanks for taking me out today,” you cheer, attempting to duck your head just so you’d meet his downturned eyes since he’s gone ahead with slouching in his seat. “Things are really different in the morning, huh? The kids, the streets, the shops, I didn’t think it’d be that different from all the times we went out at night. I was so, so wrong.”

He says nothing and stares right back at you.

He’s an ass for sulking about Byron now, isn’t he?

He is.

Not discouraged by his off-putting silence, you reach by your chair to pull the VW paper bag in your lap, hands flattening crinkles at the folds. Great, seeing that stuff shoves his mood off a cliff faster than a dive. You’re not going to make him sit through you parading your purchase for Byron, are you? He’d rather leave before that happens. No way in hell he’ll stick around to drag that knife down his heart like a goddamn masochist who likes this shit.

The moment he tries to get to his feet, tries, your hands shoot out to dump the bag on him. Whump it goes on his jeans, and Noctis stays because his legs suddenly forgot how to walk.

“That’s yours, Prince, as thanks for today—and also kind of like thanks for sticking with me all the time—wait, no, that’s not what I meant—as in thanks for letting me stick with you.” Your voice is thin at your fumbling, eyes nervously sweeping from him to the bag, bouncing your knees, and he swallows. “I mean it. So. Yeah. Um, thanks for all these four months together and I’ll work really, really hard to make sure the fifth month counts. Yeah. Yeah.”

So maybe his brain can’t quite catch up because his mouth betrays him with a stupid, “Uh.” And that’s not what he’s trying to say when you look positively petrified at the dead sound like he doesn’t care when he obviously cares, damn it. “Wait no—I just.” He swallows the tightness in his throat because why is it so hard to say something when just a word makes the difference between life and death because you, too, counted all the months together like him? His mouth still can’t process the important message and he ends up with another dumb, “Um. Thanks.”

What else? What else? Should he add that he’s sorry for being an ass today just because a certain green-eyed monster kept taunting him with Byron’s name? That blew out of proportions—and that embarrassed him to the point of no return. Here you are, gifting him the same paper bag that haunted him all the way from Vivienne Westwood, and it’s not for your butler of decades. It’s for him. A five-monthiversary gift. For him.

And nobody else but him.

Because you only had eyes for him from the start.

The silence is deafening. He considers you considering him, you’re all wide-eyed silence, he’s all eyes lidded low silent. Your hands smoothen white cotton over your thighs. Teeth are back on your bottom lip, gnawing, pulling. He’s going to mess this up again, isn’t he? Yeah, he is. He totally is. How’s he supposed to say something, anything, when his thoughts are a jumbled mess of surplus jealousy and growing shame?

The next best thing for him to do is the good old adage of action speaks louder than words. Taking the advice to heart, Noctis snatches the ribboned box from his armoury in a burst of blue, tossing it to your lap. Not the best way to gift you, but it evens out the score since you threw his first.

You haven’t moved an inch as the box bounces on your thighs. You probably stopped breathing too.

Noctis clears his throat and remembers that conversation is a two-way thing, as bad as he is at it. “That’s… yours.”

On cue, trembling fingers scramble to lift it to uncertain eyes and he’s rewarded with the sight of a dumbstruck strategist trying to make sense of the package. Turning it in every angle in sunlight diffused by recessed lighting, examining the gold emboss on cool grey, and he’s willing to bet if he’s not there, you would’ve even sniffed the whole box like it’s an edible prank. In the end, you make a hapless sound, balancing it on your jittery lap with a rigid smile.

“Um.” You say, just as dumb as he did. “That was unexpected.”

Noctis tilts his head the other way round. “What, no thanks?”

Instantly, you seize up in panic. He meant it in a funny sense, just a friendly tease, but apparently, it's lost in the mathematics in your head. “No, no, I really, really, really appreciate it. Thank you so much, Prince, I—” you stop to make a strangled sound, pressing your palm to your mouth to stifle the noise. “—thanks, seriously, thanks. ”

Noctis catches your eyes turning glassy and hell, you’re not going to cry, are you? It’s already bad enough he’s struggling to deal with his internal issues; he can’t deal with a crying strategist right now. “Wait—stop. Don’t cry. Dude, seriously, chill.”

It takes a whole seven seconds for you to sniff like you’re draining your eyes inwardly, dabbing the wet corners with the back of your hand. “Not crying, but close enough.”

“Yeah, right.” Six, he hates it when someone messes up his hair, but his own hand is messing up his hair and he can’t get mad at himself, can he? Whatever. Noctis gives up understanding this whole thing and winds up gesturing haplessly at your gift. “You can open it if you want.”

“Sure—" you sniff and Noctis’ wary eyes are searching for any signs of tears as you wave at his gift hopelessly. “—you too, open that if you want to.”

So.

Now that it’s gotten to this point, he can’t imagine what’s in the paper bag or summon the last memory of receiving a gift outside of birthdays. All he knows is that he extracts a folded jacket from its depths, feels his brows meeting at the middle, almost did a double take when he gets a good look at the pin-sized stars dotting the back, physically refrained himself from doing said double take because it’s the same jacket he eyed the moment he stepped in the shop, and floundered for something to say. If you noticed his red soles, he can’t say he’s surprised you noticed how he lingered a second too long at the rack. Noctis leans deeper in his seat and stops trying to pin the precise point in the timeline to answer when you snuck behind his back to buy this for him. He finds none.

An awed gasp from your end tells him your reaction.

Now it’s his turn to dart back and forth from your face to the necklace dripping between your fingers. Your flushed face. One with a garbled series of stuttered ah, um, uh and more ah, um, uh until you abruptly swallowed all nonsensical noises and looked at it with the softest expression he’s ever seen on your face. Wet eyelashes quivering. Lips trembling. Soundless.

The silence returns.

Then, a quiet, “Star.”

Noctis searches for his voice for a while. He finds it, but he can’t release it from wavering. “Yeah.”

“Stella,” you say.

He gets that much. Star. Just like the ones on his jacket. “Yeah.”

“Stella,” you repeat, and a weaker, “Noctis.”

Noctis buries his hands in his jacket. He doesn’t realise when he’d done it. His fingers are burrowing deeper into fine fabric and hummingbirds are caged in his ribs. His name. On your lips. His name. Everything else matters little now. “Yeah?”

Slowly, almost unearthly, you return from your starry reverie with the lethargy of a woman drowning in the sea. Languid, lifting the necklace to your eyes—only, you are not looking at it, you are looking past the pendant, you are looking at him. “Just like the stars we saw that night, remember?”

Oh. Oh. The hummingbirds are loud. And fast. Noctis fishes something from his vocabulary along the lines of hey just so you know, it’s totally fine if you wanna call me by my name but some words end up omitted after an unexpected filtering and all he’s left with is a lame, “That’s my name.”

Your eyes are gentle when you say, “I know.”

The hummingbirds struggle maddeningly loud against his ribcage and Noctis thinks of come here, Noct, and come here and let me love you, and he knows what exactly he wants. “You know.” His voice has gone rougher in the edges. “You can call me by my name.”

The necklace ripples in the air. There is no breeze. Only your hand trembles. You don’t cry. You don’t smile. You don’t look away. “I can’t call you that, I’m sorry…” Your tongue twists each word with care, yet the undertones betray your want—your inherent need for his name. “I respect you as the prince, and it’s a reminder to me that you are my prince. It’s something I shouldn’t ever forget, as someone who wants to serve you.”

The reasoning behind your logic is solid but Noctis doesn’t want logic now.

Logic has no place between two people of a chance meeting on the 56th floor.

“I don’t want to be the prince to you. I want to be.” He pauses, looks mildly uncomfortable, and shakes his head. He wants it. Even if it’s pretending game for two. “Wanna be someone normal to you.” We aren’t normal, he says, we can never be normal with how things are, but I’ll keep pretending it’s normal if you’ll let me. “Not your prince, not your future duty. Just… normal.”

Someone normal enough to take walks with you on flowering promenades.

Someone normal enough to spend hours with you playing video games.

Someone normal enough to sleep together with you.

“So,” you murmur quietly, "is it okay," tipping your head aside, "if I," looping silver around your neck, "call you," clasp fixed securely in place, the star at home between your collarbones, "Noctis?"

He doesn’t trust his voice. Back to action it is, with a slow nod of his own.

You are the very image of his imagination, star sitting at the base of your neck, the centrepiece of your shoulders. You are too real. More than what his paltry dreams offered in his sheets, you are in your chair in a room too cold with his necklace on your neck and he stops hearing the hummingbirds and starts feeling them under his skin. They’ve escaped, fluttering in his nerves, almost guiding his fingers with enough force to touch the silver on your skin.

“Noctis,” you say, fingering his chain.

He nods again.

“Noctis,” you say, a finger stopping on the star.

He softly agrees with your echo, “Yeah.”

“Noctis,” you say, eyes falling shut, head downcast. “Thank you.”

He knows his name belongs on your lips when he, too, closes his eyes. There are stars on the backs of his eyelids and he thinks he’ll dream of them tonight.

IT IS ONLY MUCH LATER ON when you are in the company of your mirror that you allow yourself a moment to examine your reflection. You are twenty and your hands are still bloodied with people whose names you don’t know. You are father’s bundle of sins and your mother is dead. Your eyes are bruised black and your sickly pallor hasn’t improved five months removed from the House of Andronicus. You suspect the illness lies not within the house, but within you yourself. You are a decaying garden and it shows in your eyes, on your lips, on your tongue.

But one thing has changed.

Mother’s hands are gone from your neck.

And in its stead is the prince’s—no, he’s no longer the prince to you.

Noctis.

That is his name.

In its stead is Noctis’ necklace, a weight different from mother’s. It’s cold like her hands, but it’s not hers. It’s Noctis’. The edge of the star goes under your fingernail and you know it is a closure you’ve long sought. Her burial is long overdue.

“Goodbye, mama. Rest in peace.”

[tbc.]

NOTES:

in case anyone hasn’t seen it yet, Erion Makuo drew EXTREMELY FANTASTIC AND IMMENSELY BEAUTIFUL ARTWORK of Omen Noctis here so please go and check it out and send the artist HUGE LOVES! thank you so much for the gorgeous artwork!!! ;u; Bless Erion, bless the artwork, bless everything about them!!!

yells bc it took me ten thousand years to edit this chapter oh my god im so glad it’s done. cheers to plot devices trying to move the fic along! to those of you who are still reading, thank you so much for waiting roughly 4 months for this update! i’m really touched by all of the positive and encouraging moral support i’ve received through comments, kudos, and tumblr messages, especially through the tough times i’m facing and despite my inactivity on tumblr too. i’m still working in the same place, still floating along, still suffering, but coming back to work on this project and others, fuelled by everyone’s support, really gave a huge boost to my emotional health. thank you so much, everyone, you guys are the best, the biggest life-changers, the awesomest people i could ever ask for in times like this.

so what’s next in decaying? everything is going to hell, that’s for sure. more fluff, equally balanced with more questionable content. if you’re uncomfortable with darker themes and morally dubious actions done by the characters, as usual, i’ll include appropriate warnings at the beginning of each chapter and even a little tldr at the bottom as a summary should you want to skip it.

i’ll try to have the next update as soon as i can since my progress is slightly hampered by my bilateral hand conditions, so please look forward to the next chapter as soon as i can! do take care, my lovely friends and readers; stay healthy and hydrated, keep hustling, the times are tough and things are getting tougher, but remember you can do it!

PREVIEW: you’re drowning in air but the world isn’t swimming past you anymore, reality isn’t flitting and warping around in dimensions before your eyes, and you finally feel you’re conscious enough to understand that night has fallen yet again over insomnia, over your room. but why’s byron waiting in the dark without any light and why’s he bending over to caress your cheek and he’s whispering go back to sleep too loudly and all you can tell him is wait byron i’m scared please stay voicelessly when your limbs don’t move and you can’t move and it’s dark, it’s too dark, but why can you see gold eyes and the line of his smile shifting into a smirk and—

#final fantasy xv #ffxv #Noctis Lucis Caelum #noctis x reader #noctis/reader #lazy people #fanfic #thank you for reading!

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recentanimenews · 5 years

Text

The 6 Pokémon Trainers the Anime Forgot

Since 1997, over 1,000 episodes of Pokémon the Series have followed Ash Ketchum's journey across multiple regions, where he's met and battled many of the unique personalities that populate the beloved video game series. Not every character is created equal though, and while some have become pop culture icons like Brock and Misty, others have to feel grateful for even a single episode, and others have yet to appear at all!

However, it doesn't look like the anime is gonna be stopping any time soon, and in all likelihood will probably continue as long as new games are being made. So, with speculation swirling about the new season's return trips to Kanto and beyond, here's who we're hoping will finally get the spotlight they deserve.

Janine

Of the 59 Gym Leaders introduced before Sword and Shield (and if we count Gary as an adaptation of Blue,) each one has made an appearance of some degree in the anime… except Janine.

With Koga promoted to the Elite Four in the Game Boy sequels Gold and Silver, Fuschia City found a new Gym Leader in his daughter, Janine. The young girl only appeared briefly in the Kanto post-game and inexperience made her weaker than her colleagues, so it’s understandable that such a small role was forgotten. Even the English localisation team did, being mistakenly renamed in FireRed and LeafGreen as “Charine”!

The Nintendo DS’ HeartGold and SoulSilver made up for the lack of attention by exploring the adoration she has for her father: she won’t shut up about him, delivers his lunches to the other side of Kanto, and even argues with Falkner over who has the best dad! Basically, she’s absolutely precious.

When Ash returned to Kanto in Battle Frontier, I thought Janine was finally going to appear - there was even an episode about a young woman running a ninja school! But no, instead it was lead by the anime-original Angela, because reasons, I guess? With her recently being featured in the Pokémon Trading Card Game and the newly released Pokémon Masters though, perhaps a return to Kanto could finally give Janine the appearance she deserves?

Grimsley

While Gym Leaders are almost always guaranteed a spot in the anime, the same can't be said about a region's most powerful trainers: the Elite Four. Only 3 regions have had their full line-ups appear, and others like Unova have only had 1 - which is a shame, given that Black and White have one of the coolest and most complex line-ups.

Given the series' complicated history with gambling (like The Gamer Corner), it's surprising how important it is to Grimsley's design and backstory. The son of a disgraced noble family, he fell victim to a gambling addiction, before emerging as the dapperly dressed Dark-type master of Unova's Elite Four!

The world clearly hasn't been kind to young Grimsley, however. When we saw him again in Sun and Moon, he had bags in his eyes as he listfully lingered on the shore. In the Ultra variants, he reflects on the despair he felt after putting everything on the line and losing, referring to himself as a former Elite Four member. The circumstances about his fall from grace and who replaced him remain mysteries, but even though they're separate continuities, perhaps an anime appearance could clear them up? His brief cameo in the animated trailer for the Pokémon Masters mobile game gave us a taste of what he may look like in the anime, so hopefully we'll see Grimsley again in one way or another - if not the series, maybe Black 3/White 3? (Come on, Game Freak!).

Darach

One of my favorite stories in the Pokémon World is that of Caitlin, the quick-tempered overseer of Sinnoh's Battle Castle, who after mastering her runaway psychic powers, earned a place in Unova's Elite Four. While she briefly appeared in the anime however, her backstory and an important part of it didn't.

With Caitlin being unable to battle without her uncontrollable powers running rampant, her personal valet Darach assumed the mantle of Frontier Brain and fended off challengers himself. A refined gentleman and fierce battler alike, Darach is a class act all-round. And after Caitlin left to train in Unova, little has been said about her dashing butler, other than that he makes occasional trips to clean her villa. Should Caitlin return to the anime, hopefully she'll have Darach in tow, because they seem to make an awesome team.

Silver

If you were to ask old-school Pokémon fans who their favorite rival is, a good chunk would point to Silver. While Blue was cocky, Silver's a straight up jerk - I mean, we first meet him after he stole a starter Pokémon from Professor Elm! He has good reason to be a grump though: his dad's only the missing leader of Team Rocket, Giovanni! Rather than join the family business however, Silver would prefer to tear it down.

With Team Rocket's boss having a constant looming presence in the anime, you'd think his son would be a shoe-in, right? Wrong. While he appeared in the Pokémon Generations web short and had a cameo in side-story The Legend of Thunder, Pokémon's second most famous rival has yet to appear in the main anime continuity. It's a real shame too, as his presence could be a catalyst for a Team Rocket-focused story arc that brings Giovanni back to the forefront, and his more serious personality would be a great contrast to Jessie, James and Meowth's more jovial dynamic.

It's possible that Silver was the inspiration behind the Diamond & Pearl series' rival Paul, as he has a similar obsession with strength, an abrasive personality, and even similar hair! Their character arcs also had similar endings, with the two starting to show signs of actually respecting their Pokémon partners. While Paul is easily the anime's best rival to date though, seeing the real deal would be great.

Wally

If there's anyone who could have benefitted from the gradual character development that a series allows, it would've been Wally. A timid and frail kid, Ruby and Sapphire's other rival is determined to not let his shortcomings get in the way of becoming a great Pokémon trainer. Seeing his confidence grow in tandem with his abilities was the most rewarding part of his games' story, and the final battle in Victory Road was a perfect climax to that tale.

What made Wally's absence from the anime even more disappointing was that while May had the recurring presence of Drew on the contest circuit, Ash didn't even have a rival for most of his Hoenn adventure. The anime-only characters Morrison and Tyson were hastily introduced right before the Ever Grande Conference, leaving Hoenn's event with none of the build-up a Pokémon League should have.

The most important reason for a Wally appearance now though, is easily so a remix of his amazing Omega Ruby and Alpha Sapphire battle theme can be in the soundtrack. Name me a better battle theme, I'll wait. Although a good contender may be...

Zinnia

Sworn by a generations old duty to awaken the legendary Rayquaza and destroy a meteor, the fate of the world is on Zinnia's shoulders. After briefly appearing throughout Omega Ruby and Alpha Sapphire, she became the focal point of their post-game "Delta Episode" - perhaps the best addition to the series' lore yet!

Zinnia is a complex and fascinating character. Despite her goal of saving the world, she was prepared to put it in danger by awakening Groudon or Kyogre to lure out the emerald dragon. She can be quite playful (and dare I say flirty) at times, but she also has a pained presence. Her burden hangs heavy over her, as does the pain of losing her dear friend, and Whismur's namesake, Aster.

She could have made a great focal point for a Delta Episode-inspired storyline, and Iris' Village of Dragons could have easily been retconned to be the Draconid Tribe. With the X&Y anime already focusing on Zygarde, we weren't lacking in cool ways to feature her.

The events of Omega Ruby and Alpha Sapphire's endgame established the existence of a multiverse, with the GameBoy Advance originals existing in a reality where the lack of Mega Evolution makes it vulnerable to the meteorite. With the recent movies I Choose You and The Power of Us existing in their own continuity, perhaps a Hoenn-focused follow-up could see Zinnia having to save both of Ash Ketchum's realities?

What Pokémon characters would you like to see in the new anime, and what do you hope to see from the new anime? Let us know in the comments!

Josh A. Stevens is a freelance PR with anime industry experience, and a writer at Anime UK News. You can follow him on Twitter @Joshawott.

Do you love writing? Do you love anime? If you have an idea for a features story, pitch it to Crunchyroll Features!

By: [email protected]

#Anime #News #Latest in Anime News by Crunchyroll!

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acklest · 5 years

Text

Threesome, Party of Two

Pairing: Sam Winchester x Dean Winchester

Genre/Warnings: Wincest, One shot, Outsider POV, Top!Dean (implied), Bottom!Sam (implied), alcohol use, cursing. Nothing is truly all that smutty.

Words: 6,668

Summary: Whitney Evans meets two very charming and attractive FBI agents at a bar. Dean is intent on taking her home with both of them, but Sam clearly has some reservations. Fortunately for them, she’s a problem-solver by trade, and there’s definitely something up with these two.

Author’s Note: Inspired by an idea from @jbt111886 - thank you! Sorry Not sorry for all the gratuitous movie references. This was mostly an excuse for an outsider POV and some brotherly er, partnerly bickering. I’m hoping that if I officially post this, I’ll be less likely to delete it altogether.

✯✯✯✯

She had no intention of checking anyone out tonight, but his hands caught her attention.

Whitney had a thing for hands and picking up on small details was literally her day job. It wasn’t something she had ever managed to turn off.

He was leaning against the bar right next to her. His left hand was in a semi-relaxed fist that forcefully staked his place at the bar, and his right was palm-down with cash under it. They were broad, rough, and freckled, and three of his knuckles were healing up from bad abrasions. When he absently played a drum solo with the right, she noticed a couple more bruised knuckles and that his nails were short and clean, but cut bluntly across and chewed around the cuticles. No rings on either hand. The matte black watch on his wrist was more special ops than stylish.

The most intriguing part was that absolutely none of this matched the well-tailored sleeves of his suit, which was a tastefully muted blue-gray. A man with a suit like that should’ve had a manicure and a shiny watch, and a man with hands like that should’ve been in a biker bar with a jukebox, not a busy Irish bar in midtown with polished wood and delusions of grandeur.

Whitney almost turned to look but thought better of it. Nope, not here for that.

Then the pretty redheaded bartender leaned toward him, asking, “What can I get for… you?” That little hesitation should’ve been Whitney’s first warning. She had been here for an hour and a half, and had watched a half-dozen men flirt shamelessly with the bartender, and found her friendly but professional. But this guy, whoever he was, had gotten through.

Then he gave his order and Whitney was momentarily distracted by the sound of him. “I know it’s practically a felony to not order Guinness in a place like this, but I think that tap over there says Murphy’s Irish Stout on it.”

She grinned. “Sure does!”

The right hand flashed two fingers while she still was watching it. “Pints, please. Don’t go easy on the foam.”

The bartender seemed to twinkle up at him, Whitney’s second warning. “One of today’s specials is our bomber size, that’s our 22 ouncer for the same price as the pint.”

“Mmm. Hurt me, Riley,” he half-growled flirtatiously. She could hear his grin without seeing it. She also noted that in her time here, no one had bothered to learn Riley’s name, or if they had, hadn’t bothered to use it.

But his voice is what brought her up short at the moment. He spoke with a lazy, ambiguously accented drawl. His voice was low and rough, in that perfect Johnny Cash sweet spot between Barry White and Tom Waits. If he smoked, he certainly didn’t smell like it.

It was just one more thing that didn’t match the suit and Whitney finally gave in to curiosity and slightly turned to check him out.

Unfortunately, the stunned “oh” that played in her head was simulcast to her mouth.

Turning his head to glance down at her, his face softened from what she imagined was a resting smolder to a knowing half-smile that clearly stated, “I get that a lot.” But he seemed more pleased that she was pleased, rather than pleased with himself, which made the silent acknowledgement endearing rather than insufferable.

He was a few years older than Whitney and, though she was sitting down, seemed like he was about a head taller. In his suit, he looked kind of pleasantly solid all over, his thick torso balancing his broad shoulders. In American football, he’d be a running back, built for power and speed all at once.

Green-gold eyes appraised her with a not terribly subtle once-over. He had a well-defined jaw with maybe three days’ worth of stubble, a strong nose (ah, more freckles) that would’ve overpowered a lesser profile, and a generous, pouty mouth. With his dark hair in a frat boy cut swept up with product and a navy-blue foulard tie done up in a Prince Albert knot tucked neatly into his waistcoat, he was James Dean dressed up like Cary Grant and it shouldn’t have worked. At all.

Attractive men didn’t really impress her. Over the last few years, she had worked with hundreds of powerful, attractive men who wore even nicer suits than his, and had developed something of an immunity. But this guy had something else: Total, unabashed, panty-dropper confidence, earned through – if she dared to guess – years of rigorous study in the discipline. It radiated off of him in waves. She could almost guess that his first act had been to imagine her naked, and that his goal from that point on was to find out what made her tick.

He glanced down at her nearly empty glass. “Martini, huh? Can I get you another one?”

“Sure,” she managed a smile. “Thank you.”

His eyes lit up and he asked silkily. “Do you like ‘em dirty?”

That totally shouldn’t have worked, but he sold it through sheer audacity. She found herself almost as flustered as the time she met Gerard Butler at a party. Well, there was nothing she could do but play through the pain. “Yes, very,” she answered, then waited a couple of beats. “Wait, did you mean the martini?”

The smirk turned into a warm, appreciative smile, complete with the glimpse of teeth, that made little wrinkles fan out at the corners of his eyes. Okay, maybe the Cary Grant thing wasn’t entirely the suit.

He easily got Riley the bartender’s attention again. “Gin martini, stirred, extra dry, straight up, four olives, and —” He cut her a vaguely obscene sideways look. “Very dirty.”

“Wow.” Whitney was legitimately impressed.

She’d been right about the resting smolder, as he lapsed back into it while straightening a tie that didn’t need straightening. Just as she was starting to miss his big, open grin and all the crow’s feet that came with it, it snuck back across his face. “I overheard you orderin’ the first one. But, admit it, I almost had you.”

You had me well before that, she didn’t say. Besides, he clearly already knew, and it was a little late for her to play hard-to-get. Also, this meant he’d noticed her before she noticed him and since he continued to flirt with her, she liked her chances.

“Dean,” he told her, unprompted. Then, almost as an afterthought. “Gillan.”

“Whitney.” She mimicked his pause. “Evans.”

As the bartender deposited a fresh martini in front of her, Whitney asked, “So, Dean Gillan, what it is you do that you wear such nice suits, but also look like you start fistfights for fun?”

Dean stepped back to examine his suit, hands spread defensively. “A man can’t dress up for a fistfight?”

She was still laughing at this when another man walked up and stood behind Dean, flashing her an apologetic smile. He wore a nice suit as well, in a somber charcoal gray. His tie, she noticed, was the red version of Dean’s blue one, done up in the same knot.

This man was taller, broader across the shoulders but much narrower in the hips. His suit was cut to flatter both, and he seemed to wear his more comfortably. He had dark hair, too, but his was thick and collar-length and fell slightly into his face when he looked down. His deep-set eyes were either blue or hazel, or possibly neither, and he had a sharper side profile.

She didn’t get the same dirty “down for anything” vibe from him that she got from Dean. At the moment, she was thankful for that. She didn’t think she could handle two of them. However, the hand that gripped his phone was big, his fingers longer, but with the same blunt nails. No ring on him, either.

With his earnest expression, all he needed was a pair of half-rimmed glasses and a tweed suit, and he’d be that college professor who didn’t understand why so many students sat in the front row. How was it that they hung on to his every word and were still failing the course?

Without thinking, she asked faintly. “Are the hot guys traveling in pairs tonight?”

She glanced quickly at Dean, expecting him to bristle or look hurt since the two of them had been hitting it off. All he did was give her a small smile that she couldn’t quite interpret.

Dean turned to the other man and fixed part of his shirt collar that had fallen. He theatrically licked a finger and made a move toward the man’s hair, which was only narrowly avoided as he turned back to her with a smile. “Whitney, this is my partner, FBI Agent Sam Blackmore. Sam, Whitney Evans. She thinks you’re hot for some reason, so try to act like it.”

FBI agents. Now the suits and busted knuckles made a little more sense.

Sam briefly glared at his partner, a blink-and-miss sort of thing, before looking down at her to smile, revealing dimples in his cheeks. He turned back to Dean, showing him his phone. “Get this.”

The two of them stood with their heads almost touching to peer at Sam’s phone, eyes tracking back and forth, Dean’s lips moving slightly. Then the two had the most truncated (and possibly most dude-like) conversation she had ever heard in her life.

Dean leaned in closer to scroll his index finger down the screen as their eyes tracked some more. Dean straightened to look at Sam. “What the hell?”

“I don’t know.”

“Seriously, what the hell?”

“I don’t know,” Sam said, more insistently this time.

“And there were —?”

“Two.”

“They find ‘em both?”

Sam frowned. “Just one.”

Dean turned to Whitney for a moment, smiling apologetically. “Bureau business, sweetheart, don’t go anywhere.”

“Why?” Whitney asked playfully. “Am I being detained, Agents?”

This earned her a shy grin from Sam and a much more suggestive one from Dean.

Besides, two hot guys, and the one coming on strong was apparently secure enough that he didn’t mind that she thought the other one was hot, too? How often did that happen? Why on earth would she go anywhere?

Dean turned back to Sam, their conversation picking back up right where they left off. “If there’s only one —”

The two pulled back from the phone, processed something for a moment, then chorused, “Vernal equinox.”

Whitney laughed. “You guys have been working together too long.”

The two peered at her over the top of the phone and Sam smirked. “You have no idea.”

“When?” Dean asked him.

“Not until March,” Sam answered. “But then –”

“The other thing.”

“Right.”

“And?”

“Well they —” Sam looked furtively at Whitney and seemed to select his next words carefully. “We probably won’t hear anything back until Friday.”

“Friday?” Dean brightened and happily braced Sam by the shoulders, giving him a firm little shake that made him roll his eyes. “You know what I’m gonna say next, right?”

“No idea,” Sam answered sarcastically. “But I’m guessing ‘something something pick this up tomorrow something something see you in the morning, Sam.’”

“Then you guess wrong.” Dean handed him one of the two big glasses of beer that were waiting next to him on the bar, before ducking his head to look the pretty bartender in the eye as he passed her a tip. “Thank you again, Riley.”

Whitney didn’t think it was the tip that made Riley straighten a bit and smile up at him.

“Why do you always do that?” Sam muttered as they turned away. “Give her a chance to finish her college education, Hef.”

Dean visibly balked at “Hef” but moved one hand palm-up under his chin and along the side of his head as if displaying a game show prize. “This is just my face, dude. It does what it does. I can’t control it.” He turned to look conspiratorially at Whitney, voice mock-mournful. “God knows I’ve tried.”

Whitney didn’t actually know which of them she liked better.

Sam ignored him and looked down at the beer in his hand. “Why’d you get me a beer if I’m just going back to the room?”

“’Cause you’re not going back to the room, you’re coming back to our table with me and Whitney.”

Whitney was as taken aback by this as Sam seemed to be. Not that she was complaining.

“C’mon,” Dean prodded gently, like he was trying to coax a pet back in from the outdoors. “You gotta sit for serious drinking, not as far to the floor.”

Sam shook his head, but followed them to the corner-most table in the back. Whitney noticed that Dean had a sort of hip-rolling strut. Because of course he did. She wondered if it was an affectation for her benefit.

The two both moved to pull a chair out for her, but Sam surrendered the right of way to Dean. After she was seated, Dean squeezed around her to the chair wedged directly in the corner facing the front doors, and turned it around to straddle it and rest his arms on the back. The suit now looked more incongruous than it had back at the bar. She found herself wondering what he wore when he was off-duty. Or maybe he had been a cop before a fed and hadn’t ever shaken it off?

Dean made an abrupt “put it away” gesture at some books and papers that were in Whitney’s place and Sam swept them into an open messenger bag before she could really get a look at any of it, though it didn’t seem like official research materials. Then again, if their case really involved the vernal equinox...

Sinking into his own chair, Sam watched Dean’s face intently.

“What?” Dean wiped at his mouth with his hand. “Do I have foam?”

“Uh... no. You... you got it.” Sam took a big swallow of the beer and leaned back in what she immediately recognized as feigned relaxation.

An attractive blonde server in her thirties stopped to ask them if they needed anything, and Dean jokingly gestured at Sam. “Can we get a double milk for this kid?”

As the server laughed and walked away, Whitney perked up. “Was that a quote from U.S. Marshals?”

Dean grinned. “I knew I liked you. See, Sammy, some people watch fun movies.”

Did he say Sammy? Hmm.

“Wait.” Sam blinked a couple of times. “Are you talking about the sequel to The Fugitive? That’s a terrible movie.”

“Actually…” Dean paused to take an operatically prissy sip of his beer and raised his chin haughtily. “Since it doesn’t continue, expand, or resolve the story from The Fugitive, but instead moves existing characters to a new story, U.S. Marshals is not a sequel, but... a spin-off.” Dean gave Whitney a wink that should’ve come with some sort of warning and then smugly looked at Sam across the table.

His beer glass stopping halfway to his mouth, Sam asked, “Wait... was that... were you being me?”

Dean nodded his head with a smirk. “Huh? I nailed it, right?” He added, sotto voce to Whitney, “I’ve been practicing.”

Shaking his head as if disappointed in both of them, Sam’s thumbs moved quickly across his phone’s screen and then turned it around so they could see it. “Look, 26% on Rotten Tomatoes.”

“Yeah, you’re right, now I can never watch it again,” Dean said drily. “That’s a solid flick, man. You’ve got Tommy Lee Jones, RDJ, and that cute French chick who played Wesley Snipes’ girlfriend.”

“74% of the world isn’t as easily amused as you.” Sam winced at what he’d just said and looked at Whitney contritely. “Or... you. Sorry.”

Whitney shrugged, feeling like she was a supporting character in a buddy cop movie like Lethal Weapon. Dean probably liked that one. Sam probably pretended he didn’t.

“This kid looks up the reviews for dive bars before he’ll agree to go,” Dean told Whitney incredulously. “Dive bars. What’s the review gonna say? ‘I had seven beers, they were fine, I passed out on the pool table and no one drew a dick on my face, will recommend to my friends’?”

Sam glared. “What if they had a salmonella outbreak or rancid bathrooms? Wouldn’t you want to know in advance?”

“I’m with Sam on this one,” Whitney conceded. “I don’t want to end up at The Titty Twister.”

“First of all, I’ve spent my entire life looking for The Titty Twister like it was El Dorado.” Dean scowled at both of them, but rounded on Sam first. “Also, any respectable dive bar has a rancid bathroom, that’s why it’s a dive bar.”

Sam interrupted to huff in disbelief. “Did you just use the word respectable and --?”

Dean plowed ahead. “And... And, as we’ve been over so many times, you don’t use that bathroom under any circumstances. Not even to hover.”

He turned to address Whitney now. “And you… you lost a point by agreeing with him.” His forced stern expression faded back into a smile. “But then you got it back by referencing From Dusk Till Dawn. That was a close call.”

Sam groaned and spoke to Whitney with a mischievous air that she liked very much. “We have to change the subject or he will talk about the snake dance and I can’t go through that again. Last time he talked about it for an hour, and it’s only a four-minute dance.”

“Not if you keep replaying it.” Dean fixed his eyes on a point behind his partner’s head, and he must have been watching the video in his own brain because Sam waved a hand in front of his eyes to interrupt.

Whitney ate one of her four olives, looking from one of them to the other. “You guys are fun. I thought feds were supposed to have sticks up their asses.”

“He carries both of our sticks,” Dean said. Was that a little wink he gave his partner? “He won’t admit it, but I think he likes it.”

She didn’t know whether to laugh more at Dean’s proud “yeah, you heard me” expression or the dirty look Sam shot him from across the table. The comment would’ve seemed strangely sexual, but she knew that law enforcement officials had that unvarnished way of trash-talking that civilians didn’t often understand.

“What do you do?” Dean asked as Sam’s dirty look faded in intensity. “When you’re not being picked up by two federal agents?”

“I’m --” Wait. Had he said -- two? Did he mean “picked up” as in...?

It was obvious from his reaction that Sam had the same question, but Dean was looking only at her.

Whitney watched them for a moment and started again. “I’m a high-level intermediary for some of the corporate interests in the area.”

Sam squinted, then laughed under his breath. “So, you’re a fixer.”

Whitney smiled at him demurely, tilting her head slightly. “That term has taken on some unfortunate connotations. But... yes, I pay attention. I solve problems.”

The two of them exchanged a brief look, eyes widening and brows raised.

“Like Winston Wolfe?” Dean asked, intrigued.

“Or more like Michael Clayton?” Sam offered.

Dean had another one. “Madeliene White?”

Sam broke away from Whitney to look at him. “What?”

“Inside Man. You’re the one who wanted to watch it. We watched it.”

“I know the movie, Dean, I just didn’t think you were paying attention, since it didn’t have Salma Hayek dancing with a snake.”

Dean pointedly scratched the corner of his eye using only an extended middle finger, and Sam just as pointedly ignored him.

So, they watched movies together? Was being FBI partners not enough time in each other’s company?

“She was more of a power broker, actually,” Whitney said.

Dean frowned. “Those aren’t the same thing?”

“Power brokers are more about politics,” Sam explained. “Influencing things to turn out a certain way rather than trying to fix them. Like Henry Kissinger.” Sam added glibly for Dean’s benefit, “You might not have heard of him, since he’s not from a movie. He’s a real person.”

A nod and an obviously fake smile, all cheeks and no teeth, was his reward from Dean. There was just enough hostility in that look that she thought Sam might pay for this put-down in some small way when they didn’t have a guest.

Whitney took a sip of her martini to forestall laughing. “Well, if we’re sticking with fictional fixers, I guess I’m more like Alec Baldwin’s character in Glengarry Glen Ross. Though I’m much more diplomatic, I’d like to think. Usually.”

Dean leaned back, almost more in the corner than the chair. “Hmm. So when someone needs a fire lit under their ass, they call you.”

“Something like that.” She ate another olive. “When things are broken, they probably call someone else. But before that, they call someone like me to get things moving when they’re stopped, or stalled.” She smiled at Dean. “Not as many corpses to dispose of on that side of things.”

Smiling back, Dean raised his hand to get their server’s attention. “I’m orderin’ another round.”

Sam objected. “Dean, we haven’t even eaten anything.”

“Why do you think I’m ordering stout, dude?” Dean drained what was left in his glass and set it down with a thump. “The steak of beers. I bought you a burrito this morning, it’s not my fault you didn’t finish it like I told you to.”

Whitney sat back to watch them as they continued to bicker. There was no malice in it for them as near as she could tell. It seemed like more of a sport.

It wasn’t that they were excluding her exactly, and Sam especially would turn to her and loop her into it whenever he saw an opportunity, but the person they were trying most to entertain was each other. Which was fine. She usually preferred observing people to actually talking to them anyway.

As the give-and-take continued, she couldn’t help it. She started to notice things.

When she and Sam had started talking between the two of them, Dean would act out in some small way to get Sam’s focus back on him. She was flattered at first, thinking Dean didn’t want to share her. But when it happened the second time, she knew it was Sam he didn’t like sharing.

Dean was possessive then, jealous. Each time she watched it happen, Sam played annoyed but the rest of his body language betrayed that he was pleased. This was theatre.

They struck her as two very different people who shouldn’t have gotten along: Well-spoken vs. blunt, intellect vs. instinct. It was like the president of the chess club had hit it off with the motorcycle bad boy, and the two had bonded over some kind of shared experience, or maybe they had survived some kind of traumatic event. And now they filled in each other’s blanks.

But it was the little flickers of light between them as they argued that struck her the most. It was a little half-smile here, and a fond eye roll there, putting on a show for each other and, to a much lesser extent, her. The jaded, bossy senior partner and the eager, put-upon junior partner, each pretending they didn’t enjoy their roles.

There was more than friendship here. Or partnership. These two had tunnel vision that was only aimed at each other.

Whitney had guessed wrong: She wasn’t in a buddy cop movie. She was in a rom-com that thought it was buddy cop movie.

After they finished a second round, Sam started to relax, and Whitney was delighted that his cheeks flushed red when he was drunk. Sam touched them self-consciously. “It happens sometimes, I don’t know why.”

“It’s adorable, makes me feel like I just bought him his first beer.” And the little light in Dean’s eyes matched that statement of “adorable” with actual adoration that she wasn’t sure he knew he was showing. “Alright, this needs to be the last round, or we won’t be having fun tonight for very long.”

There it was again, that cryptic “we.”

Sam rose awkwardly, the handle of the messenger bag already in his hand. “I’ll leave you to it.” He turned to glance down at Whitney. “It was nice to m—”

Dean silently pointed his finger from Sam to the chair. After a moment, Sam sat back down.

The two of them then seemed to go into some silent discussion, somehow conveyed only through facial tics, Dean’s more forceful, Sam’s more uncertain.

If Sam didn’t want to be part of this, why was he? He was a big dude, the bigger of the two. He didn’t have to do what Dean was suggesting. He could’ve just gotten up, said “goodnight” and walked away. But he didn’t.

Did he want to be talked into it? And why did Dean want him there if Sam clearly didn’t want to be?

Oh.

Ohhh.

This was shaping up to be a very interesting evening.

As their secret sign language thing continued, Whitney looked up local hotels on her phone and found one that looked like it was very nice. “Let’s skip another round and just get to the main event.”

Dean beamed at her. “You are singin’ my song.” Absently, he reached over and slid the beer that Sam clearly wasn’t going to finish toward him, picking it up and draining it in one swallow, looking at Sam directly the whole time. Then, with another hand command that indicated Sam and then he and Whitney, Dean went to settle the bill.

Whitney had never made a wager in her life, but she was ready to bet money that these two were in love.

✯✯✯✯

When she got out of the bathroom and walked outside, they were standing together (very close together) against a shiny black muscle car. (She could guess who did most of the driving.) From the body language, it seemed that Dean was giving a pep talk, one hand flat against Sam’s chest.

She approached only to hear Dean say, “Think I’m gonna poke you in the eye? You’ll be at the other end.”

They didn’t see Whitney yet, so she decided she might as well eavesdrop.

“But it’s --” Sam’s hand was anxiously raking through his hair. “We don’t -- It’s weird, right?”

“Nothin’ you haven’t seen before, puritan boy.”

“Dean, those times weren’t by choice.” Sam protested. “They were usually because you forgot to hang the thing I made on the door.”

Hold up. Hold. The. Hell. Up.

Did these two... live together?

Dean braced him by the shoulders again. “Look, we only get to play it one day at a time, man.”

Sam stared at him, confused, then rolled his eyes and huffed. “Bull Durham? Right now?”

Dean’s laugh was in no way repentant. “Seriously, you’re good and lubed up and you’re probably feelin’ a little loose so you just have to go with the --”

Sam noticed Whitney standing there and slapped at Dean’s chest quickly in the universal “stop talking” gesture.

The two stepped away from each other slightly. Slightly. Sam was obviously considering the last words Dean had said, and his face flushed as if he was going to try to explain that Dean didn’t mean that kind of “lubed up” or that kind of “loose” but Dean held up a hand to stop this before it started and asked her, “You ready to go?”

“Absolutely, I already picked a place, but I need to make a stop on the way over, won’t be ten minutes.” She pointed at a silver Audi in the adjacent row. “Follow me.”

Dean’s grin was infectious as the prospect of sex grew nearer. Sam smiled, but also looked like he wanted a trapdoor to open beneath him and pull him down into the earth, never to be seen again.

✯✯✯✯

The hotel clerk was a lady in her 60s and, to her credit, when Whitney paid for a luxury suite with one king-sized bed for the three of them, her expression only changed subtly. It was that kind of place, with all the discretion that the rates could provide.

Dean caught the woman’s reaction and grinned back shamelessly, then turned to look at Sam as if sizing him up. Sam seemed to be carefully pretending that none of this was really happening, staring in feigned fascination at the shelf next to the front desk with all the different pamphlets for local tourist attractions.

“California king,” Dean amended, turning back. “If you have it.”

Whitney wasn’t sure what to expect when they got into the room. More small talk? Not that she hadn’t enjoyed their small talk at the bar. Should she call room service and have them send up more drinks?

The two of them shared a soft “huh” as they walked into the room. Likely, the FBI only paid for the minimum accommodations while they were on the road.

As soon as the door was closed behind Sam, Dean casually took off his jacket and draped it over the armchair next to the door, and she watched as Sam, who seemed to be foundering, followed his lead with their socks and shoes next.

Under his jacket, Dean wore a horizontal shoulder holster in soft brown leather that looked like it was out of the 1940s. Whitney was considering asking him to put it back on once he had taken off everything else.

Next was Dean’s waistcoat. Sam didn’t have one of those, so he went with his button-down next. Just as Dean was deftly removing his tie, Sam tried to do the same and hesitated. He looked at Whitney as if he hoped she wasn’t watching, but she couldn’t not watch this play out.

“Dean?”

“Hmm?”

Sam’s eyes darted back to Dean. “I can’t undo your stupid knot.”

Dean stripped out of his own button-down like he didn’t care if it still had buttons tomorrow or not. He had good, solid biceps. “I’ve shown you like three times, dude. Watch the YouTube video I sent you, and practice.”

“Whenever I try to untie it, it gets worse.”

Sighing wearily, but not at all convincingly, Dean stripped out of his white undershirt. He was just as broad and meaty as she had imagined, but none of it was fat. Given the amount of stout he had just put away, he must’ve had the metabolism of a hummingbird. If she knew him better, she would’ve warned him that metabolism slows down at forty, and she figured he was coming up on that.

When he turned around to rescue Sam, she could see every ripple and groove of his back. The deep valley down the middle looked more pronounced because of the bulk of muscle on either side. Out of the suit, and from the side, he looked almost svelte compared to how he looked from the front.

Sam raised his chin and exposed his throat so Dean could more easily access the knot. Dean picked at it from where Sam had tightened it and then undid it as effortlessly as he’d undone his own. Whitney wondered if Dean had picked out their ties this morning, and if he had tied Sam’s tie. She was wondering a lot of things.

Dean was unfastening his belt as Sam was still unbuttoning his shirt. When Dean turned, Whitney saw an ornate tattoo with a star at its center, just under his collarbone. She was actually expecting more ink on him than that.

After Sam pulled his undershirt over his head, she gaped at him, stunned. She wouldn’t have known it, but Sam was some kind of Greek god under that suit, his muscle was more structured, more by design, whereas Dean’s seemed more incidental. They were intellect vs. instinct even in this. Dean could’ve posed as Michelangelo’s David (though he was packing considerably more heat, given the outline of his black boxer briefs), but Sam was the Farnese Hercules.

Thank god both types coexisted. She wouldn’t want to live in a world where they didn’t.

As Sam reached up to smooth down his disheveled hair, Dean slapped his hand away. “No, we talked about this. You get that middle part every-thing-behind-the-ears thing, it looks stupid.” Dean stepped closer. “Here, look at me.”

She watched them, open-mouthed, enjoying this unguarded moment.

It wasn’t the way that Dean reached up with both hands to muss his partner’s hair further so that it hung messier around his face. It wasn’t the way that Dean stood back to admire his handiwork, and then stepped forward to make minor adjustments.

It was the few seconds before that, before Dean had made any move at all, where Sam had ducked his head with a good-natured eye roll, waiting patiently for Dean to “fix” his hair.

And then it was a few seconds after where Dean seemed to give his partner a critical assessment that was not only confined to his hair. “There. Looks better that way.”

Was she watching a live gay porno? That’s what this felt like. The “story” part of a porno before it got to the good stuff.

Sam turned to put his pants on the chair and she saw it.

The same tattoo that Dean had, in exactly the same location on his chest.

“Alright, guys, time out,” Whitney said finally, leaning forward.

Both men jerked toward her in unison.

They had literally forgotten she was in the room.

She smiled. “This is where I get off.”

Their bewildered expressions matched like their damn tattoos, and Dean’s eyebrows were raised, mouth quirked in a half-smile. He had only just realized that she hadn’t removed any of her clothes, not even her shoes.

“The ride,” she expanded. “This is where I get off the ride, now that I’ve got you two where I want you.”

As Dean put himself between her and Sam, he went through an abrupt transformation. Suddenly, he moved with military bearing and every muscle she could see was... not tense, exactly, but ready. There was no more Cary Grant; it had all burned away. There wasn’t even James Dean.

This, she ventured, was Dean Gillan. The real one, under all the charm and showmanship. She was looking at Mr. Fistfights-for-Fun, in the flesh. In almost all of his flesh, actually.

“What are you?” He asked, voice stripped of any sultry teasing.

In that moment, she could see the man who wanted to wrap his fingers in his younger partner’s long hair and fuck hard into him for those little disparaging remarks back at the bar.

As Sam stood just behind Dean to back him up, puppy face gone hard, she realized she was legitimately frightened of them both.

“I’m a fixer,” she said quietly, hoping to bring down the temperature in the room just a bit. “I get things moving when they’re stopped, or stalled.”

She indicated Dean first. “You want to be here. You want to fuck me. But, more importantly, you want him to see you fucking me. You want to show off, you want him to see how good you are. Because he’ll see what you do to me, and he’ll wish it was him, and you like the thought of that.”

Dean stepped just a little closer, but she continued.

Then Sam. “You do not want to be here. At least, not for me. You want to be with him, and you see sex-by-proxy, even sex you don’t want to have, as a way to get that. Something might accidentally happen between the two of you. That’s your hope. But me?” She smiled. “You don’t want me. You don’t want anyone else but him.”

Dean snorted derisively and glanced at Sam with an unspoken “can you believe this bullshit?”, but drew back slightly when Sam wouldn’t meet his eyes. She couldn’t help but notice that Dean made no specific denials of her assessment of him.

She went back to Dean. “You want him. Maybe more than you’ve ever wanted anything, but you don’t think you can have him.”

Then to Sam. “And the same for you. What is it, FBI regulations about fraternization?” Neither of them would look at her now. “Because I have a newsflash for you: It’s really obvious. You’re not subtle. Any supervising agent you have who hasn’t noticed is either oblivious or looking the other way because you’re good at your jobs. If I hadn’t had three martinis before I saw you at the bar, I would’ve picked up on it a lot faster.” She went back to Dean again. “You gave it away, almost right away, and I missed it at first. When I made the remark about your partner being hot, you didn’t get jealous. You didn’t get angry. You were... honored. Proud. You were gratified that someone else found him hot.”

She could tell by the hard line of his jaw and eyes that looked all but dead that Dean’s temper was barely in check, and even though neither of them could look at the other, Dean held one hand against Sam’s stomach as if holding him back.

“We could all still hook up,” she said calmly. “Or the two of you could hook up, and I could just watch.” To Dean, “You would like that, wouldn’t you? Why is it that when you’re fucking a woman and your partner’s around, you can’t seem to lock a door, or hang a sign? You want him to see you, just like that, in all your glory. All sweaty, red-faced and fucked-out.”

Sam shifted uncomfortably behind Dean.

“And you,” she addressed to Sam. “Your partner doesn’t strike me as being a particularly quiet lover, and I doubt the women he’s with are quiet, either. And you’re a trained FBI agent. You listen at doors before you open them. You already know what’s happening on the other side, so why do you open it? Why are you always so, so shocked by what you see?”

“You’ve got us wrong,” Dean said finally, but even he seemed to realize that this was a weak rebuttal.

“I’m wrong about a lot of things,” Whitney admitted. “But not people. I’m always right about people.”

Whitney stood now, hands spread placatingly with a plastic bag hanging from one wrist. “You can treat this room like a pocket universe if you want. A place where you can resolve all this tension and want and then, if you don’t feel like talking about it after that, you agree to never speak of it again. But I don’t think your partnership would survive. I think you’ll like what happens in here, if you give it a chance.”

She handed that plastic bag to Dean, who took it only reluctantly, letting it hang from two fingers like it was something foul.

“That’s what I picked up on the stop before we drove here,” Whitney explained. “I don’t think either of you have done this before, so I thought it might ease things along. For your bottom... or that is to say, Sam’s bottom.”

Dean looked a little smug at this appraisal, which Sam caught. As if fully realizing what he was being smug about, Dean’s face went carefully neutral.

“You’ve got the room until noon tomorrow.” Whitney put her purse on her shoulder. “It’s a luxury suite. There’s room service. You can simply decide that you’re going to sleep here and nothing will happen. But if I were you...” She smiled. “I’d make it memorable. I might even see it as a challenge to break the bed.”

Whitney walked past them, still not entirely unafraid but playing it off. Right before she closed the door, she said, “It was nice being an intermediary for something other than a multinational corporation.” Finally returning the wink Dean had given her earlier, she said. “Good luck.”

#wincest #dean winchester fanfic #sam winchester fanfic #spnfic #supernatural fanfic #dean winchester #sam winchester #i write things

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rainsonata · 5 years

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Icing and Frosting

Fandom/Pairing: Elsword; none Rating: K Word Count: 1,508

Summary: Cold harsh winters make it hard for Elesis to relax when there is much to do. She takes a break before she is lured out by the smell of freshly baked cookies.

**Notes: Secret Santa for Elsword Fan Art discord.

A sweet aroma summoned Elesis to the warm kitchen, eager to escape the cold frost with repaired armor and supplies for an anticipated snowstorm. An assortment of colors danced in her vision, the Empire Sword in awe by the confections laid and spread out on the kitchen counter for all to see. Gumdrops, candy canes, rock candy, blue frosting stuck at the end of a piping bag and sprinkles on a wooden board. Sugar cookies sat on a cooling rack, soft delicate pastries with a golden crisp and had Elesis salivating at the sight of it all.

Her face glowed from the kitchen’s warmth and having something to fill her stomach after a long day’s work threading through the busy marketplace for many stops and visits. It wasn’t uncommon to find tea and cookies downstairs in the guild house she shared with the rest of her teammates. Not the healthiest options, but they were welcomed in the winter where the weather grew dreary with dark clouds and frosty air freezing her fingers.

Dusting ice off her winter gloves, she tugged them off and grabbed a cookie from the cooling rack, a candy cane with red and white icing curved around the edges. Peppermint candy crunched in her teeth as she took a bite from the top, still warm and chewy from the oven. A fresh minty taste lingered in her mouth, Elesis hummed in delight to the sweet taste melting on her tongue.

Winter nights as a small child and telling stories to Elsword after a dinner of roasted meats while keeping the fire running flashed in the corner of her mind. They had cookies as gifts by a neighbor that rarely lasted beyond a week because of Elsword’s appetite. Elesis smiled at the memory before she heard footsteps in the form of a man with blue hair tied back into a lower ponytail.

“I...” Elesis covered her mouth, but there was no hiding the crumbs on her fingers and frosting on her left cheek. Glancing at the remaining cookies on the cooling rack, her mind raced with her heart. “Were you still making them?”

“Don’t worry, I’m almost done.” Ciel smiled, “You came in just in time. Want to help?”

“I don’t bake,” her cheeks turned pink.

“You don’t need to,” he said. “You can help me decorate.”

“Sure!” Elesis grimaced from how loud her laugh came out. Was she out of her mind? She cooked hunting meat from the woods and make a meal out of plants and herbs, but burnt bread was the norm. Well… it can’t be hard to decorate a few pastries!

She squeezed a bottle of food coloring into a ceramic bowl to mix with frosting. Bright cranberry dye pooled at the center of the bowl and drenched the white buttercream, giving it a watery consistency as Elesis gently tossed them together with a metal spoon. It became less liquidized the more she mixed, but it was becoming almost as red as her hair.

“You can use mine,” Ciel gave her the piping bag in his hand.

Was her attempt so poor that Cavalier had to swoop in to save her creation? Her eyes averted, sliding the ceramic bowl over to Ciel. The butler added extra buttercream to balance the color before transferring it over to a piping bag with a spatula, twisting the plastic bag from the top and cutting the tip off with a pair of scissors.

Tracing the shape of the cookie in her hand was simple enough, outlining the edges with a black outline before filling out the rest with cream colored icing. Now for the head… there it was! She smeared red frosting to make it into a hat with white on the rims.

“That’s a nice...uh.” Ciel looked up from his snowman cookie, “rabbit?”

“Phoru!” Elesis pouted and pointed to the brown tipped ears. “Can’t you tell?”

“Of course, how could I be so blind?”

Elesis sweat dropped to the man’s haughty laugh and sighed. The butler wasn’t a bad person despite his strange and questionable decision to form a contract with a demon, even if she didn’t agree with it for personal bias reasons. His attempt to hide his mistake was embarrassing to watch and didn’t make alleviate her own.

“I really am crummy at this,” Elesis groaned.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” he lowered his head. “You just looked tired and I thought you needed a break. I understand if you don’t want to do this anymore, but everyone had a chance to earlier.”

Everyone?

Elesis looked over to Ciel in confusion, perplexed by his strange selection in words. She pursed her lips, biting down to stop her gasp at the platter of cookies opposite to her on the kitchen counter. None of them held the consistency or simplicity Ciel put into his decorated sugar cookies - most of them were done sloppily in an assortment of colors. One of them was a purple cat with a pink scar around angry eyes.

“Did Add do this?” Elesis poked it.

“He said Dynamo will finish it,” Ciel said. He finished icing a star, “Although I think I prefer doing it by hand.”

Add’s cookies had that strange symbol sewn all over his clothes and machines: semicircles overlapping one another to form a power button. There must have been a dozen of cookies of his design! Another had flowers and trees etched into them in amazing detail. Rena’s? A few cookies had blue paw prints, and several had mechanical symbols in pink and gold icing. Those must be Chung and Eve’s.

Everyone helped Ciel while she was out...

Her gaze drifted away to the brown bag she left under the counter, weapons and supplies spilled out to reveal its contents. Mixed emotions rose to the surface of her mind - confusion, annoyance, bitterness? Where were they coming from? Everyone had their own things to do and she happened to place work before leisurely activities. Baking just wasn’t something she did.

Elesis refocused herself. The look Ciel gave her lacked the judgment her father’s men had when she first joined the army, but that didn’t alleviate the anxiety or the restlessness on being caught in a moment of vulnerability.

“Sometimes, we need to rest,” Ciel said. “Elsword is getting firewood and Rena should be back with food in the next hour. You did more than enough. Let us do the work too.”

“Is that what you think I’m worried about?” Elesis asked.

“You look like you had as much sleep as Add,” he transferred the newly decorated cookies onto a platter.

Her muscles tensed in a burning pain as if protesting with the redhead shaking her head. Was she that easy to read? Did joining the El Search Party weaken her composure and ability to keep her thoughts to herself?

“Then why did you ask me to help you?”

“You needed a break,” Ciel shrugged.

How thoughtful of him. Was this how people relaxed after training?

Even without her vision, she smelled the sweet aroma floating around her. It reminded her of the home she hasn’t returned since she was thirteen. Was it still a cluttered mess without her being there to remind Elsword to keep it tidy? With both siblings gone, would the villagers take over and keep it clean? Her shoulders slumped. Perhaps it was time to consider returning home once they sorted out the problems with the El.

“I don’t know how you do this every day,” Elesis voiced her thoughts.

Cotton-like texture brushed against her hand and redirected her attention to Ciel handing her a clothed bag. Elesis peeked inside to see dozens of cookies and a loaf of bread with dried meat and berries pooling at the bottom of the bag.

“That should be enough to share with Elsword and the others,” Ciel explained in response to the questioning look from the Empire Sword. “Dinner won’t be ready for another few hours, so that will suffice.”

“Thanks,” Elesis relaxed her shoulders and yawned. “But I think I’ll go take a nap first. Tell Elsword to leave some for me.”

He chuckled, “Of course.”

If not for the contract with Lu, Ciel could have opened a bakery for a living if he wished to, yet the man led a life as a hitman prior to meeting the former demon monarch. He baked loaves of bread every week on top of being a battle butler. Determination and composure kept him running and was comparable to the soldiers she used to train in Velder.

As unorthodox as he was to the red knight, she appreciated him as an addition to their group when he looked over them. That was something she could understand despite their differences. Before she left, she took a step back to look at the cookie she helped the butler decorate. Even if it looked nothing like what she hoped for, it was enough to tell her there were other things to look forward to after a hard day’s worth of work.

#elsword #eltag #Elesis (Elsword)#Ciel (Elsword)#my writing #elsword fanfiction #I forgot to post this before new years oops #happy new year everyone! enjoy this late wintery fic #mywriting

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nailtravels · 6 years

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The gypsy girl said it herself, the cards looked good. But what did that really mean? And good for whom? There was lots going on here. Were we now putting our faith entirely in the hands of the unknown, like buffalo teeth and painted chicken’s feet? When you believe in things you don’t understand, then you suffer superstition. Methinks this does not bode well.

Mercury was supposedly in retrograde, whatever the great Gravy Crockett that meant. And this was somehow supposed to translate into everything coming up wine and roses? With hindsight being twenty-twenty, the lens of wisdom would surely suggest nades. F’sho, no. Who could know that the red haired gypsy girl’s words would herald both delicious ecstasy and unimaginable peril? Such is the way here in the proverbial pocket of things. Welcome to the Mother Land. This is the briar patch and you, little mister, have enlisted in the Army of Northern Virginia. Don’t worry. We won’t have you hiking through the brambles. This is Thomas Jackson country and The Low-Brow Summer Tour 2018 has come to a close with the nailtravels team mounting a guerrilla offensive on Lockn’ Festival. Mission accomplished, it’s Lockn’ 2018: The Lowest Brow.

Ambassadors extraordinaire, Lockn’ 2018

Lockn’ Festival, formerly known as Interlocken Music Festival, is an annual four-day music festival held at Oak Ridge Farm in Arrington, Virginia. It is a headier-than-thou, jam-band, wavy gravy, funk heavy camping/music experience in the gentle hills of southern Virginia. It gets it’s name from the rotating stage that showcases performers as the end of one act overlaps the beginning of the next. Bands like Lettuce and Umphrie’s Magee played to and with each other as the musical transition took place to the seamless delight of thousands.

Past artists include Gov’y Mule, String Cheese, moe, John Fogerty, Greensky Bluegrass, The Avett Brothers, Ween, Phish, Twiddle, My Morning Jacket, John Butler, Chris Robinson Brotherhood, Little Feat, Robert Plant, Jefferson Airplane, Carlos Santana, Tom Petty, The Wood Brothers, Willie Nelson, Hot Tuna, Zac Brown, Jimmy Cliff, Col. Bruce Hampton and who cares? That’s plenty.

Main stage, LOCKN’ Sat. night: photo by Jessica Brightsen.

For once, Baitbucket felt reasonably healthy. The yellow foam had stopped seeping from the corner of his right eye and his back felt strangely quiet. The knees and ankles were holding together and, barring an unforeseen incident, he might be able to run the gauntlet. A gauntlet to be sure. infinity Downs Farm is a gigantic property littered with rvs, tents and ez-ups. Laid out over miles of hippies and clay trails, every exploratory adventure covers several square miles of travel. And that doesn’t include the multiple unexpected detours that seem to be popping up all the time. Jubba jubba.

Bobby

New friends.

Dead & Co. LOCKN’ 2018: photo by Kevin Crowley

Johnny and Bobby, LOCKN” 2018

The fam. LOCKN’ 2018

Dead & Co. with Branford Marsalis, LOCKN’ 2018: photo by Neal Hart

Sugarplum and Huckleberry get hitched at Church, LOCKN’ 2018.

Argentina, John and Sugarplum, LOCKN” 2018: photo by Liz Riddick

Scott and Joe solving the mysteries of the universe, LOCKN’ 2018.

And another thing, LOCKN’ 2018

Jaime and Argentina, LOCKN’ 2018

So pretty, LOCKN’ 2018

Lockn’ 2018 Breakdown:

Wednesday: Welcome to the Leaning Tower of the Yoga Machine. Broken beads, broken backs, cool nights and warm days are the order. For festival fun, it doesn’t get any better. It’s way too early to be having this much fun and besides, the cards wouldn’t lie. Please be sure to check your gluten at the flap. The yurt was set up in High Field RV with three recreational vehicles, three tents, three awnings, two ez-ups. It’s true, the Huckleberries and the Baitbuckets of the world can come together and let PBR and Natty Light fans play together as one single neck of color. It’s a fact, some people should not be in charge of putting up the yurt. Namaste.

Thursday: By Thursday evening, cat head mushroom chocolates had turned many of the festivarians into silly puddles of unraveled string. There were even reports of dead people. Go figure. Imagine live Lettuce into Umphrey’s into Lettuce with the funk and back into Umphrey’s. Some of the Umphrey’s show was, as usual, hard to wrap the head around. Kind of like Chinese math. In the words of Lord Buckley, “They stomped on the terra.” Joe Russo’s Almost Dead closed out the night with a set that included an Easy Wind and Row Jimmy. Thank you Sarah and Steve for the late night fellowship at the Jerry Garcia Forest. It’s better when we camp together.

Late night on the mountain, the light fog blurred the edges of the rising moon. By Sunday Funday, it would be full and the patients would surely be running the asylum.

Friday: Umphrey’s Mcgee did what they do again, and along with Jason Bonham and Derek Trucks, they shredded the Zeppelin cover, “Whole Lotta Love”. After a complete afternoon of funk it would be up to WSMFP and the Spreadnecks to deliver the big punch Friday night and, as always, they were up for the challenge. Clayopheus III the Destroyer showed up toward the end of their set and things would never be the same. Late night on the way to the Jerry Garcia Forest heralded the arrival of a new, bright green planet in our own solar system. Imagine the surprise.

JRAD Friday Midnight Setlist

Tell Me, Momma Viola Lee Blues St. Stephen The Eleven St. Stephen reprise Ophelia Atlantic City Viola Lee Blues jam China Cat Sunflower I Know You Rider Feel Like a Stranger Shakedown Street

The Friday night party ended up at the Jerry Garcia Forest for a night of Jerry bluegrass and dancing in the street. Baitbucket couldn’t yet locate the Michiganders, so he found his way back to J’s Dablature Experiment for late night cordials and low-temperature silliness. He was last seen, walking around in small circles looking for his campsite until the wee hours of the early morning. Worm hole Watusi of the first order, to be sure.

Saturday (SNUCKN’): The Lowest Brow–Stonewall’s festival experience had found the perfect rhythm. He’d ingested a virtual cornucopia of unknown chemicalia into his blood stream and his head was all right. He’d lined himself with such a bouquet of uppers and downers, just to let them fight it out, leaving him somewhere close to level. The Mafioso had come bearing enough gifts, like Shawsville strawberry moonshine and recreational bath salts, to weaken a large pack animal, and throughout the tents and shade canopies that lined the festival fields, candy was being tossed around like Mardi Gras Tuesday. It was around four in the afternoon and the day had left him careless and fancy free. He was heading in to see Pigeons Playing PIng Pong thinking about E A Sy. For a gangster, he loved that band and never missed a chance to see them. It would be cooler if he was here packing a vat of his crotch whiskey. Not a single care in the world. Walking through the security checkpoint, he broke the fourth rule of adult caution and forgot about the container of contraband in the lower pocket of his cargo shorts. Oopsie…Upon detection, Stonewall made a confused mumbling sound and turned to walk away in a reserved and patient manner. In retrospect, he might should have hauled some serious ass, but he liked to think that the days of barefootly climbing chain link fences were behind him. For some reason that can’t be explained here, the security volunteer alerted the legitimate gestapo and they lit out in pursuit of the unsuspecting perp, faster than a West Texas jackrabbit. What was happening? In one nanosecond, he was back in the clutches of the pigs and they were already predictably obstinate. Things had turned due south and this was certainly not one of those “good choices” that Sunshine had suggested, in some other place and some other time. As he strode away from the security guard he removed the small vial from his pocket and began dumping out it’s contents into the Virginia brush, until a police officer donned in a black golf shirt, rudely snatched it from his hands. He pushed into Stonewall’s face and shouted, “Why did you try and dump it out?” “I figured if I dropped the whole thing it would be conspicuous,” forgetting, yet again, that honesty is never the best policy when dealing with law dogs of any kind.` With the click of the handcuffs, he accepted the fact that this was definitely on and he had finally managed to reach the lowest brow. Having penned the term, Darth Waffle would be pleased. Things were finally getting colorful. He was tossed into a cop golf cart and taken to a cop single wide modular home where his fate lay in the hands of cops on computer monitors. Visions of Spring Reunion began flashing in his mind’s eye. Never tie a pit bull to a wheel barrow.

Seated in the well-lit room next to a gaggle of child cops, the next immediate goal was to hold it together and not appear too faded. Apparently, it can be a crime. Who can imagine how his outward appearance physically looked under a careful and prolonged examination by these trained Nazis? In a well-lit room, it seemed like a real long shot. If these Virginia puerco even suspected what drugs he’d ingested, he’d be on his way to the hospital for a good old fashioned stomach pumpin’. Hell, he couldn’t even remember what he’d taken during the first half of this day, which seemed so far away. The walkabout had lasted most of the morning, visiting the headiest folk around the site and ingesting God only knows what. Here in the mid-afternoon, his innards could only be characterized as a chemical toilet. Mission accomplished yo.

As the interrogation lingered, his mouth began to fill up with what he imagined creosote would taste like and the sweat, once again, began to foam and burble. There was still the business card of acid in his wallet and a couple ten strips already cut. Hopefully he wasn’t sweating so much as to render it useless. When the pigs looked closer, and they surely would, they’d find it and ship him off to Red Onion State Prison for the rest of his days. Finally, the silly dream of freedom would be, once and for all, put down like a rabid cur. As he spoke with the local magistrate via skype, things continued to get increasingly foggy. There were so many questions. The whole thing seemed to be going to hell as he began to turn into warm mush right in front of the magistrate. “Did you get a DUI in Colorado?” “Nope. Detained but no charges.” Complete lies. “Are you sick?, Do you have any needles in your pocket?” Stonewall replied, “Not sick and no idea what’s in my pocket.” The next few minutes blurred into each other and accurate reporting was impossible. The magistrate switched off and he asked the young cop a questions. “Can you please let me know when this process has moved upstairs, past your influence, so I’ll know when to stop worrying?” “We’re going to need to go to your campsite and go through your tent to check it for contraband,” they mused. Stonewall’s face hardened as he considered the idea of sheriffs loaded up in golf carts assaulting the camp site of his new friends. “That’s gonna have to be a no,” he finally said. “It would not be classy to pull up, in front of the campsite, with a bunch of unshaven gestapo. Besides, I don’t even know what’s in the tent.”

“Why are you saying that you don’t know what’s in the tent?” “It’s not my tent. Those thugs are from North Carolina. Who knows what kind of contraband they’re hauling around. Just leave me out of it.” For some reason, this seemed to placate the law dogs and they forgot about raiding the campsite. All good news, but they weren’t handing over the keys to the city just yet. A cop sat next to him, while they waited for the magistrate’s decision and struck up a little small talk. “Thanks for being cool about everything. We appreciate your cooperation. We had another guy come through here and shit everywhere. The walls. The chair you’re sitting in. Everything. He sprayed his filth all over the place before we got him out of here.” Stonewall considered the raw nature of man and the unfiltered savagery that might reveal itself as the cold gates of the underground begin to seal itself. The possibilities were endless. Stonewall looked over at the cop, “I have to admit, I considered it. If you knew you were going to jail, it might be a pretty funny way to go out.” The cop smiled, “Plenty of people think that. It’s not funny.”

O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!” Good news from the magistrate. This was just one spun hippy and these nice folks had bigger fish to fry. There would be free air to breathe for one more day. Park employees, however, were waiting with scissors in hand. “If you are found on the property you will be arrested” the supervisor grumbled. He was given one more free golf cart ride, past the cars and tents, by the front gate and all the way to the Thomas Nelson Highway. It was a dark time but it was better than jail. This whole trip was had cost a pretty penny and now he was going to spend Saturday night in a local saloon. Weak.

Heading west on highway 29, he walked against the traffic on the gravel shoulder and considered his options. He could continue this way until he found a gas station. That would supply him with enough cigarettes and beer to make it to a hotel or a bar. He still had his phone and wallet, even if the rest of his paltry possessions were still at the yoga machine. It would all be fine. He would find a hole in the wall bar and drink scotch until he felt better. Then, he would take his first shower in days and sleep in a freezing hotel room. Not too bad for a plan B.

The whole idea made him absolutely sick.

He knew the people he was leaving behind and the fun they were going to be having together. He was reminding of Thatcher at Spring Reunion and how the family suffered after Live Oak law dogs took him away in chains. The party goes on, but profoundly suffers for the lost soldier. He would also be spending somewhere in the neighborhood of two-thousand dollars before this exercise was finally concluded, and that was worthy of a most serious effort.

Maybe there was another idea.

As he walked toward the interstate, he surveyed the layout of the surrounding fields and thicket. It was dense forest patches separated by farm fields and a few houses. For about a mile, he studied the lay of the land and began to consider the possibility of sneaking back into the festival without a bracelet. It would be straight out of Vinny’s book. Or Scotteesha. Or even Thatcher. Heckfire, this was out of Thomas Jackson’s book. Just down the street from Danville and Apomattox, welcome to the Army of Norther Virginia. Wearing flip flops, he was going to hump four square miles through country forest and sneak back in like a damn hippy. Cheyenne was right. He was the wook his parents had always warned him about. He turned off the road into the treeline, ate a five strip of acid and headed south. He would stay in the shade until he was off the main road, then all he had to do was follow the music, all the way home. For the moment, things were looking up,

As he hiked through the Virginia underbrush, sunset brought out the woodland critters. Deer and owls joined him in his hunt for the back door. Day turned to night and he took his time through the brush. He figured being impatient would lead to injury or cause him to be discovered traipsing through the brambles. Flip flops seemed like a silly way to navigate the streams and fields, but at least he wasn’t barefoot. The briars and thorny vines clung to his arms and legs as he lumbered through the dense thicket. The moon was going to be a waxing gibbous, which would surely assist with navigation and each time he drifted too far south, the sing-song voice of Susan Tedeschi guiding him back through the Virginia woods. The distant rumble of such tunes as Statesboro Blues, Alabama, by Neil Young and Mahjoun with Brandford Marsalis, kept him on the right trail. Behind Tye River Elementary School, back into the brush and then to cross Diggs Mountain Road. He was guided by the Aretha Franklin cover, “I Never Loved a Man (The Way I Loved You)”, “Bound For Glory” with Ivan Neville, “A Song For You” by Leon Russell. into “Little Martha” and “Whipping Post”. Thanks for the breadcrumbs, lady. After walking for a couple of hours, he came across some tents in the woods. This would be Forest Tent Camping, which happened to be directly across the street from High Field RV and his campsite. Things were beginning to look up. It was time to change the shirt and hat and sit down for a cold brew. The party would just be getting started.

He wasn’t entirely ready to give up on the music. He came to this festival to see Dead & Co. and that still needed to happen. Stonewall poked around the VIP area and behind the stage, looking for a chink in the armor, some place he could slip in. He spied an opening in the fence and started up a conversation with the nearby security guard. The guard lamented over the piece of broken wooden fence. “These hippies try to sneak in here, legs all slashed up and with no bracelet. They even broke my fence.”

Stonewall’s brain lit up with a new idea. “It’s real interesting that you should say that, because that’s exactly what I’m trying to do. I need you to let me get through that opening in the fence.”

He asked, “Do you have a bracelet?”

“Nope. They cut it off when they threw me out. But it would be real cool to get back in and rejoin my people before Dead & Co. kick off.”

The security guard began looking over his shoulder at the other gates and leaned in. “There’s folks working inside that fence and if they see you, they’re going to say something, so here’s what we’re gonna do. I’ll take you by the shirt like you’re in trouble. We’ll walk right by everyone and when we get out of sight, I”ll lose you.”

“That sounds perfect.”

Dead & Co.: Back into venue just in time for Oteil’s birthday. Both the rail and field were thick with the best vibe ever. Something about the good ol’ Grateful Dead. They just make everything so much fun. It was a night for adventurous lurking. The first set brought out a Ramble On Rose-Alabama Getaway-Cassidy. The second set blew up an, Oteil-led Fire On the Mountain into a celebratory China Cat Sunflower. Two hours earlier he’d been alone, hiking through the back field of Ol’ Virginny, now he was sitting on a blanket, surrounded by the most beautiful people ever. Colorful.

Highlight of the festival: Saturday night’s midnight set included Lettuce with Eric Krasno Celebrating JGB, joined by Bob Weir, John Mayer and Oteil Burbridge in a set that tore up the mountain and set the beat for the rest of the night.

Finders Keepers I Second That Emotion Stop That Train (Oteil Sings) After Midnight ( John in for the jj cale spectacular) Sugaree (let Bobby sing) Tangled Up In Blue (that makes sense) That’s What Love Will Make You Do (it’s too serious to be funny) How Sweet It Is to Be Loved by You (the alpha and the omega) Cats Under the Stars (second one of the weekend) They Love Each Other (holy moly)

Lettuce called it a celebration of the Jerry Garcia Band after it was all said and done, a celebration is exactly what it felt like.

Dead & Co. Another Saturday Night, LOCKN’ 2018: photo by Karley Bear

Sunday Spunday: All hail a festival that uses it’s Sunday for a good cause. Bloody Mary brunch was served at Chris’ Opium Den near the Jerry Garcia Forest. Thank you SolarWolf and LunarWolf for the most seriously fun time ever. Thank you El Capitano for physically removing all the love governors. You’re headier than thy? The party got riled up when Cheyenne began lopping off her dreadlocks to trade for hugs. Fortunately, she was sedated before she could do too much damage. God willin’ and the Creek don’t rise. Check out the new Google map application that allows you to easily search for “tweakers near me”. Congratulations to Sugarplum and Huckleberry for getting hitched at Keller Williams and Grateful Gospel during Eyes of the World. These folks met at the same show, at the same spot three years earlier. It certainly is the dismal tides when Cook County trash can come down south and pilfer our own belles. It has been a proven formula for the ages, church is a great place to meet girls. Go Cubs.

Dead & Co.: And things were going so well for Stonewall. Left by Clayopheus, his recently acquired Staff bracelet was no more than a tattered chicken bone of a thing, held on by other bracelets and falling off every few steps. It was so frayed and torn, it looked as if he’d eaten if off of his wrist. Even the beer girl noticed when he wasn’t wearing one, and beyond the recognition, said nothing. All in all, he was back into the venue, this time enjoying the entire Tedesci-Trucks show into the night’s Dead. Then it happened… “I take a little powder, take a little salt, put it in my shotgun, I go walkin’ out…” Oh lordy, not this. The first set smattering Grateful ettoufee spun into a Mr. Charlie→Tennessee Jed→Althea that tripped every breaker on the mountain. The second set showed an Eyes of the World and Morning Dew with Branford Marsalis that left tears staining the front of tie dyes everywhere. Wolly bully. Mr. Charlie told me so.

Sugarplum and Huckleberry, Sunday at Tedesci-Trucks Band, LOCKN’ 2018.

Bob, John and Oteil join Lettuce and Eric Krasno for the JGB tribute Sat. night, LOCKN’ 2018.

Be sure to check out Roadtripmojo for more LOCKN’ gibberish and follow their social media channels on Facebook and Instagram.

Headed back to South Florida, for days the toenails would still be dyed with Virginia red clay. Charlotte storms postponed our flight and the guitar was destroyed by baggage carriers. That’s three guitars since Hulaween. This lifestyle is getting expensive.

“Does this mean I can use your ticket for Floydfest?”

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For our first Lockn’, it really had a little of everything you look for in a festival. Deer, dead people, research-grade narcotics, moonshine and spilled wine. Everyone brought their best effort and after it was all said and done, very little was left on the vine. Old friends came together with new ones and alliances were formed that would last a lifetime. We are on the lookout for Brian at Live Oak and his Mr. Clinkies. October is one of the best times for festivals at the Spirit of Suwannee Music Park in North Florida. Get ready for Suwannee Roots Revival and Hulaween coming up fast. See you under the Thunder Chicken.

LOCKN’ 2018: The Lowest Brow The gypsy girl said it herself, the cards looked good. But what did that really mean? And good for whom?

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