#Warner bros count your fucking days
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Nobody touch me Salem’s Lot starring Lewis Pullman has been shelved by Warner Bros.
IM SICK
#Warner bros count your fucking days#I literally can’t live in these conditions#somebody sedate me please#lewis pullman#salems lot#top gun maverick#ben mears
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CANDIED YAMS TOUCHING THE MAC N CHEESE OMG
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The Agreement (Austin Butler x Producer!Reader)
Okiiii here we go - my first smut. This was an experience whew. Okay, a few things. Firstly, I’ve chosen to fuck around with the age timeline here a bit. So, although I don’t mention it directly Austin is 30 here. Also, this has the potential to have a few more parts, not many, but a few so let me know if you’d be interested. Ans yes, yes I do suck at making GIFs but it is what it is. I need to extend my gratitude to @eu-whoria for all the smut writing tips thank yewwwww. Also, special mention to @presleysnotes my new bestie, here’s your homework reward.
Feedback is appreciated but please be gentle lmao. Other than that let me know if I’ve made any grammatical errors or any of that. And my requests are always open!
Warnings: SMUTTY SMUT NUT!!! swearing, smoking, drinking, sub!Austin x dom!reader, morally grey subject matter, tiny bit of blood, handcuffs, blindfold, mentions of Brad Pitt (I think that’s it please let me know if I missed any!)
Word Count: 3806
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Austin knew it was wrong, but he had been desperate. After dedicating basically his entire life to acting and still not catching a big break, he felt helpless. So, he did whatever it took to propel his career to stardom. He knew he was talented, hardworking and attractive, he just needed the right connection. It just so happened that you were that right connection.
Three years after your initial meeting, he was finally posing on the Cannes red carpet for the ‘Elvis’ premier. With you next to him.
Three Years Ago
It had been a long and gruelling day for you and it was only 5:30 in the evening. As a producer at Warner Bros., you spent the majority of your days in meetings with old men (they preferred the term ‘investors’ apparently) who thought you were nothing more than a pretty face although you had proven them wrong repeatedly by putting out blockbuster after blockbuster. You were a businesswoman, one at the top of her fucking game.
Today, you had spent the last two hours in a conference room trying to work through details for an upcoming Elvis biopic. The project had been approved by the higher ups and you were given free reign for the creative as well as business decisions for the film. But the ‘investors’ were under a misguided impression that they had a say in any of these decisions. The only thing they had agreed on so far was the involvement of Baz Luhrmann as the director. Other than that, all your ideas for the script, cast, crew, promo structure etc. were met with push back and bogus objections.
Your patience and sanity were hanging by a thread so naturally you lost it when your secretary decided to barge in and let you know that you were getting late for a social appointment, “Goddamn it, Jack! How many times have I told you not to disturb me during a meeting unless someone was fucking dying. Get out of my sight before I throw something at you.”
Okay so you had a temper, but you had earned it. You had worked your ass of since you were 19 to reach where you were. It paid off too, you were Warner Bros.’ youngest producer at only 26. Anyway, as Jack scurried out of the room you decided to remind the ‘investors’ who was really in charge.
You put your hands on the conference table to lean forward and say very quietly, “Now, I want to make sure everyone understands this - I don’t give a rat’s ass about who you are or how you reached this table but I know my job better than anyone else in this industry. I make the decisions here, not you. Everything I tell you from here on out about this project is just me being courteous and it is most definitely not up for two hour long discussions. Is that fucking clear?”
You stared them down as some of them slowly gulped and others nodded their heads. You straightened up and walked out of the room, oozing with confidence. When you got closer to your office, you caught site of Jack sniffling and dabbing his eyes. You rolled your eyes at the unprofessional display of sensitivity. I mean you weren’t even that mean.
“Make sure the car is ready to leave in 20 and for God’s sake clean yourself up.”
Being one of the most influential people at Warner Bros. came with a few advantages. Such as having a stretch limo at your disposal, an en suite bathroom in your office and also a personal stylist made available to you for social events like the one you were currently headed to. Your stylist, Marie, was more like you in the sense that she was one of the few capable people around who knew their job and stuck to it. This helped create a bond between the two of you, despite an age gap of almost a decade. Tonight, she chose to put you in a dress that made you feel so confident that you remember thinking to yourself, “Woah, I’d fuck me.”
Today’s social event was less of an ‘event’ and more of a party being hosted by your dear friend, Brad Pitt. He was currently in the pre-production phase of the new Quentin Tarantino film, a role he got after he asked you to call up Quentin and make a recommendation. It was just simple business.
When you finally reached his house and rung the bell, the door swung open to a slightly wobbly Brad, “Y/NNNNN! So glad you could make it. Come on in, I’ve got some people who’ve been dying to meet ya.” So, he took you around the room and introduced you as ‘the big shot producer.’ You watched people’s expression change from disinterest to admiration.
It was common for people to change their behaviour around you in the hopes that you would take notice and cast them in one of your films. Unfortunately, it didn’t work that way but you would be lying if you said you didn’t enjoy the special treatment. It made you feel powerful and in control.
“You’re an awful host, Pitt. I’ve been here for like 20 minutes now and you haven’t even offered me a drink, yet. I am seriously not in the mood for anymore work talk for the rest of the night. It’s been a long day as it is.”
“Oh shit, sorry, my bad. But you just gotta meet one last person then you can get as wasted as you want. Y/N this kid’s work ethic is fucking insane and he has so much raw talent. He got me kinda jealous for a minute but I couldn’t even bring myself to hate him. He’s gonna be working on the new Quentin Tarantino.” His eyes scanned the room for only a second before raising his hand and yelling, “Yo Butler! Austin! Come here a second.”
You watched the head of jet black hair perk up and turn around. The closer he came, the more you realised that you had never seen a man as beautiful as him. He belonged in a fucking art museum. But, you had a reputation to maintain, so instead of blushing when you made eye contact with his electric blue eyes, you stood up with you head high. You made sure your dress was fanned out to show the thigh high slit and arched your back just a little to do your boobs a favour.
“Mr. Pitt,” he gave Brad a firm handshake, “Fantastic party, sir.”
In that moment, you were sure you had experienced your first ever eargasm.
“How many times do I gotta tell ya to just call me ‘Brad.’ Anyway, it’s alright you’ll get it right someday.” You watched the brunette’s eyes sparkle like a fucking Disney prince when he smiled at Brad’s comment. “I’d like to introduce you to Y/N L/N. She’s the producer at Warner and I believe she’s had a long day so get her a drink, kid.”
You had extended your hand for a handshake but he tenderly brought your hand up to his lips and placed a soft kiss on your knuckles - all gentlemen like, “Austin Butler. It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am.” Something absolutely feral stirred in you at the title he had used.
You were quick to pull your hand back and say, “Well, aren’t you sweet?”
His cheeks flushed with the most enchanting blush you had ever seen. Your mind immediately thought about how that pretty pink colour would probably extend to his chest as you ride hi-
“What would you like to drink?” You could have imagined it, but you thought you saw his eyes flick down to your wine coloured lips for a brief moment. Once you told him what you wanted, he walked away from you to get it and you found yourself ogling his ass in those dress pants. As he walked back to you with the drinks in his hand, you could feel his eyes drinking you in from head to toe and this time you knew you hadn’t imagined it.
After a few minutes of small talk and drinking you could finally feel the stress of the day catching up with you and the knots in you shoulder screamed for a cigarette. “I’m just going to step out for a quick smoke,” you announced.
“Let me get you another drink and I’ll join you...i-if that’s okay I mean?” he fumbled over his words. You nodded your head to indicate that it was, in fact, okay.
You slipped out into the empty balcony and opened your clutch finding your cigarette pack. You took one out and put it between your lips and started looking for a lighter but you couldn’t see it. For fuck’s sake, you were going to strangle Jack, he was responsible for prepping your clutch.
Just when you were about to give up, you heard a click and looked up. Austin stood in front of you with his lighter flared up and said in his velvety low voice, “Allow me, ma’am.” So you took a step closer to him, perhaps closer than you need to be, and leaned in cupping the flame with your hand as you stayed still for a second to let the tip of the cigarette catch the flame. Then, you took a long drag and tilted your head up so that you would exhale the smoke right at him.
You heard his breath get caught in his chest. You smirked to yourself and it was only when you walked away that he exhaled. You leaned over the railing with your drink and cigarette in hand as Austin lit up his own cigarette. He walked over and leaned next to you. Close enough that both of your upper arms were touching.
You took another drag and asked, “So, tell me Austin, why is it that I have never heard of you before?”
He was taken aback for a second, then chuckled and explained his entire career trajectory - right from his humble Disney beginnings to the latest Tarantino role. You noticed that the calibur of his roles had only increased with time but he hadn’t quite gotten to the big break. Maybe it was about time for that, you thought to yourself.
“I just feel like I’m stuck you know? Of course, I’m very grateful for everything I’ve been able to do so far but it just hasn’t been what I want it to be. It seems like such a waste but somewhere, deep down, I know that given the opportunity, I can be great.” Although he wasn’t looking at you, there was a dangerous gleam evident in his eyes. Almost like a hunger. But, it only lasted a second before he cracked a charming smile and changed the topic, returning to his formal tone, “Anyway, forget about it. I know you don’t want to talk about work tonight, ma’am.”
“You know, I think you’re older than me. You shouldn’t be calling me that,”
“Really? How old are you?”
“26��
He let out a low whistle, “Wow, you must be one of the youngest producers around.”
“The youngest ever at Warner.”
“And that’s why I will continue to call you that. It ain’t about the age. You’ve earned the respect...ma’am.”
He was still looking at the view rather than at you and something in you fluttered at his acknowledgement of your hard work. You started looking at his side profile attentively. The strong jaw, the high cheek bones, the pouty pink lips. He was star material, in fact, you were surprised that he hadn’t been picked up yet.
Suddenly, in your mildly inebriated state a thought crossed your mind and before you could stop yourself you were dragging your perfectly manicured finger across his cheek to turn his head to you, “You’re right, Austin. You can be great. I’m going to make you greater than you could ever dream. But only if you and I could come to an agreement.”
“Wh-what kind of agreement, ma’am?”
You couldn’t bring yourself to say it so you decided to just show him instead. You leaned up and give him a chaste lingering kiss. You felt him pull back so he could look into your eyes. Confident as ever, you held his gaze and could see the gears turning behind those dazzling blues that shone despite the low lighting of the party.
A beat later, he had moved so that your body was trapped between his and the balcony railing. One of his, rather large, hands was on your hip and the other was on your cheek pulling your lips to his.
This kiss was different. It was desperate and hungry, almost like he was trying to show you his ambition through the kiss. But it wasn’t messy, it was slow, deep, calculated. The hand on your hip had travelled down to give your ass a harsh squeeze. A little yelp parted your lips and he took the opportunity to slip his tongue in and massage yours with it.
It looked like you were losing a dominance battle and you felt the need to take back some control. You moved one of your hands to give his hair a sharp tug. He let out a sinful moan against your lips and you felt him roll his hips against you. You pulled again, this time to break the kiss. You were both panting like dogs and you said, “We’re leaving.” He nodded enthusiastically.
Soon enough you guys were in the back of your stretch limo. You told the driver to take you home and put the partition between him and you up. Immediately, Austin’s hands were on you and they were everywhere. The long and deep kisses had turned into quick pecks on your lips, cheek, jaw and neck till he found the spot that made you dig your nails into his thigh. He sucked on that spot hard enough to make you mewl. You carded your hand through his hair and heard him suck in a breath.
“You like when I play with your hair, baby?”
“Yes ma’am.”
You made sure to keep that in mind for later at night. You dragged your hand from his thigh to the bulge in his pants. You just ran your fingertips over it and felt the car lurch to a stop. You were both out of the car in a flash.
The elevator ride to your penthouse was spent making out like you were a bunch of horny teenagers. Once you were finally in your house, both of you kicked off your shoes and he looked like he was ready to attack you again. But before he could you put a hand on his chest.
“Woah boy, slow down there. We have all night. Take off your jacket and go sit on that couch. Oh, and don’t touch yourself till I’m back.”
He nodded and fast walked to the couch. Meanwhile, you sauntered over to your room and took off your dress, adjusting your lingerie underneath, silently thanking Marie for making you wear Victoria’s Secret tonight.
You opened the bedside drawer and pulled out a few things to take with you to the living room.
You found him sitting in his all black glory, a wonderful contrast against your white couch, his legs spread, arms splayed against the back of the couch and his face was turned up to the ceiling with his eyes closed. He heard the clicking of your heels and opened his eyes.
He whispered, “Fuck,” and brought one of his hands up to tug his lower lip between his thumb and index finger. He took in the swell of your breasts and ass, feeling desperate to take the curves in his hands but, at the same time, he felt like he couldn’t move without your permission. He noticed a few things that you brought from the room kept on the coffee table.
“Did you touch yourself, baby?”
“No ma’am”
“Good boy”
Austin felt like he couldn’t breathe. He had always been the dominant one during sex with past partners. This time he felt completely at your mercy and he was loving every second of it.
You straddled his hips and kissed him, hard. Taking his bottom lip between your teeth and biting it, tugging at it so that when you let it go it made a ‘pop’ sound. You smiled to yourself when you saw the little bit of blood where you had bit his lip. You kissed him again, making sure to lick up the blood, and you felt him buck his hips up over and over again. He let out a couple of heavenly whines to let you know how bad he wanted you.
“Pleaaaase,” he whined.
“Please what baby?”
“Please need more ma’am,” bucking his hips again.
“Aw come on you can beg better than that.”
“Please please please. Need to be in you so bad, ma’am. Want you to own me, please ma’am.”
“Oh, I own you alright,” you ripped his shirt open and heard the clatter of buttons flying everywhere.
You were very slowly, almost negligibly, moving your hips in circles against him. You put your mouth next to his ear, licked the shell and said, “Now, you gotta tell me if at any point, any point at all, you want me to stop. Just the word and we’ll stop. Do you understand, baby boy?” He nodded again.
You sat back to look at his face, “No baby, I need to hear you say it.”
Your index finger ran from his bottom lip, down his chin and your nail lightly scratched his Adam’s apple. As soon as you did that, his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, indicating that he swallowed harshly, “Yes ma’am, I understand.”
“Such a good boy. Put your arms behind your back.”
You pick up the silver metal handcuffs you had brought from the room and cuffed his wrists together. Then you picked up the black satin scarf from the same place, carefully folding it and tying it around his eyes as a blindfold. You felt his breathing pick up. You stood up from his lap and took in the delectable sight before you. Only wearing his black dress pants, chest heaving up and down, blindfolded, handcuffed and waiting for you.
You get down on your knees, between his legs and keep your palms on his knees. You shift a little and nuzzle your nose against his straining cock. His hips shoot up, making you smile. You decided to let him catch a break and took his pants and boxers off, discarding them to the side. His hard dick sprung up against his stomach, precum already leaking from the red tip. You touched only the tip with your middle finger to pick up the liquid bead.
“Hnghhh aahh,”
You laughed at his reaction and cooed, “My poor baby, so desperate for me.”
You put the finger in your mouth and hummed at the taste. This time you wrapped your hand around his length and jerked him off as hard as you could. At this point he was basically screaming for you. His body thrashing around uncontrollably. The loss of sight and touch heightened every other sensation for him. But you wanted him to come while he was inside you so you stopped your actions. Grabbing the last item from the coffee table, a condom that you tore open and slid on his cock.
You stood up again and took your panties off. Once again, you straddled him and asked, “Ready?”
“Yes ma’am please wanna cum so bad.”
You lifted your hips and started taking him in inch by inch. His pink lips hung open and you just couldn’t stop yourself from kissing those lips. You had to take a second to adjust because, at this angle and with his size, he was so deep that you thought you could feel him in your gut.
You started out with grinding against him. However, as your pace got faster, your hands came up to his hair again and tugged them hard. His teeth were bared in a way that kind of reminded you of a wolf and he was grunting every time your hips came down. Soon enough you couldn’t stop the moans from tumbling out of your mouth.
“Please ma’am need to see you. Need to look at your pretty eyes to cum.”
Your hands went around his head and undid the blindfold. There they were, those blues that had turned a few shades darker because of the intense lust. He let out a high pitched moan as your pussy clenched around him. After a couple more minutes he had planted his feet firmly on the ground and began thrusting up into you as your hips came down. You had never felt pleasure like this.
It was your turn to let out a loud, “Aaaah God- fuck Austin so good. So fucking. Good. For me.” The last few words accentuated with rough thrusts.
“Fuck ma’am, I’m close so clo- fuck bout to bust. Ple-please let me come.”
You felt right on edge too and said, “Cum baby, cum for me. Only for me.”
His hips left the couch to thrust up into you for the last time as his back arched. His head fell against the back of the couch and you could see his abs twitch every few seconds as he released into the condom. The sounds that left him pushed you over, to your end. Your forehead came in contact with his muscled shoulder as both of you spent a couple of minutes just taking in as much oxygen as you could.
He broke the silence, “Wow”
You laughed and got off his lap, throwing away the condom and using the key to unlock the handcuffs. His wrists has turned an alarming red against his otherwise pale complexion so you gave each wrist a small peck.
“Does it hurt? Should I get some ice packs?”
“Oh no I’m alright.”
“And what about your lip? Are you okay? Was it too mu-”
He stood up and cupped your cheeks with his unfairly long fingers, “I’m alright I promise. It was mind blowing. Let’s just go to bed.” His eyes shifted down and he cockily added, “Your legs are shaking.”
“Shut up”
You led him to the bedroom and both of you got in the plush bed. He pulled you to him so your head was on his chest. You let out a yawn and said, “I’m taking you to the Warner offices tomorrow.”
Austin felt his heart drop but before he could even say anything you had drifted off to sleep.
So Part 2 anyone?
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“Hard Boot” - Dean x Reader
Part of the “Control Panel” Series
Rating Mature
Dean x Reader (Newly Established Intimate Relationship)
Tags: Dean Angst and Self-Loathing, Inability to Word, Adult Language, Dean POV
Word Count: 2500
After one night of sexual exploration, a case lured you both back into hunting mode. There was hardly time to breathe, let alone figure out how you were collectively supposed to handle this new aspect of your relationship. Is it any wonder Dean had to go and mess it up? That’s his expertise.
Note: You don’t have to read the first part, Factory Reset, to get the gist of this “What the heck are we supposed to do now? Friends to lovers” trope. But if you’re intrigued by these two, please try it.
I'm participating in @jacklesversebingo and this part will fill my "Admit it." square.
Image created in Canva (credit for photo used: Supernatural/Warner Bros.)
The shot glass tinks atop the counter. It’s barely audible. Dean glances up and the bartender appears, summoned by the tell tale call of a drunk.
Not just any drunk. The Fuck It Up Seven Ways To Sunday kind of drunk. Also known as Dean Winchester.
The bar is deserted. It’s 1:00 pm on a Wednesday outside the touristy parts of New Orleans.
The bartender tips the whiskey bottle in her hand. Dean nods. She pours.
“So, what exactly are you tryna drown, cher? Cause it might be easier to head a little north and walk into Lake Pontchartrain.”
Dean snorts. “Trust me, that’s crossed my mind.”
All the wrinkles in the older woman’s face droop along with her frown. “It can’t be that bad. Unless you’re broke… or your heart is.”
Dean shifts atop the stool. “My wallet’s full, thanks. Leave the bottle.”
Dean grunts at his inability to put one foot in front of the other trekking down the hallway to the hotel room. The air is spinning around him in a vortex, forcing his body to lean to the right even though his brain tries to rationally push forward. He’s in an anti-funhouse of his own creation.
He doesn’t remember how he finally gets into the room. Just that he is. He flops on the bed. Breathes in deep and holds it. Staving off the nausea that he deserves.
You should be here. Beside him. Celebrating a win.
He closes his eyes and lets the pain and loss keep him company instead in the late afternoon.
Sleep eludes him. He tosses. Turns. Spends time with his head hanging over the toilet bowl.
He stares at the alarm clock on the nightstand as it ticks over into 10 PM territory. When his eyes peel open again, it’s sometime after 1 AM.
He sniffs the air.
He smells you.
Before he can realize it’s a mistake, he springs to sitting. The hammer nailing together a house in his head takes a back seat to the elation seeing you sat at the foot of the bed.
You look demure in your side saddle position. The patient stare has Dean wondering how long you’ve been watching him sleep.
He wants to ask. But he’s afraid anything he says is going to be wrong. So he just stares back.
Your face is void of any discernible emotion.
And that freaks Dean out more than anything. Because even when he couldn’t read you like a book, he could at least hazard a guess. Even if it was wrong, it was something.
But all he sees now is a shield. A wall that he’s caused.
“I’m gonna head out.” You state in a curt tone that leaves no room for debate.
“You already were out.” The head pounding irritation preoccupies him enough that the sass spills out, uncontrolled. Your lids slit for a second. Well, he got some reaction.
“I-” You straighten up. A sorry attempt at a laugh huffs out. “Forget it.” You’re up off the bed and snagging items dropped around the room. Things are stuffed into your bag with haste.
Dean wants the elation to return to the room. Twenty-four hours prior, you were smiling. Eager to track down the Djinn. It had been a day’s drive from Lebanon to New Orleans, with a 6-hour stop in between at the Cradle Rock Motel.
Dean would have done whatever you wanted in that motel room. All that possibility and you had him flying high on adrenaline. You’d handled him with kid gloves and given him an experience he’d cherish, even if he was still sore. He would have let you strap on Marvin again and fold him like Origami. He wanted that again. He wanted it all with you.
But all you had wanted in the end as you laid in bed was to curl up and sleep in his arms. You wanted to rest before getting back on the road in your separate rides.
And the simple act of being with you. Static. Stationary. Silent. That was wonderful, too.
There was the promise of staying in bed for days after you took care of the monster together. Lingering lips. Suggestive smirks. Greedy gropes.
All of that was a distant memory now.
You throw the duffle over your shoulder. “Bye, Dean.”
He bungees off the bed. Rushes to the door to wedge between you and the exit. “That’s it?” His stomach roils at the exertion but he pushes it down.
Your voice doesn’t waver. “For now. Yeah.”
Dean holds his ground for another second. Two. Three. Four.
“Don’t make it worse.” You plead.
That reminds him the ownness of this whole mess is in fact on him. And he relinquishes.
And watches you walk out the door.
Dean clinks down the iron bunker stairs. Three weeks of hunting non-stop has joints creaking, muscles aching. He plans to beeline it to the showers and let the glorious water pressure ease some of the pain. There’s also an 80-year old bottle of Macallan in his bedroom that will ease everything else.
Sam’s out at Eileen’s. The texts back and forth earlier were short and mainly for informational purposes. Sam gave up trying to find out what was going on with Dean two weeks back. As long as he checked in and provided proof of life, Sam didn’t pester for details.
Dean marches through the war room, into the library, weaves the labyrinth of halls to get to his room.
He keeps his head down when he rounds the final corner. He doesn’t want to glimpse the door marked number 16 at the end of the hallway. It’s your bedroom. Well, whenever you crash at the bunker it’s yours.
There’s a twist in his gut when he realizes you might never sleep in that bed or cross the threshold into the Men of Letters homebase again.
He’s been avoiding returning because of all the reminders of you. The wound is as fresh and festering as it was when you left him in New Orleans. He can distract from the pain during moments occupied with cases and bad guys. This, not so much.
He opens his door, good ole number 11.
When he left this room last, you were here with him.
And goddammit. You’re all he can see no matter where his gaze lands.
The duffle drops onto the mattress. Another musty bed in another room in another hallway might be a better alternative tonight.
He considers it. He’ll decide for sure after his shower.
Dean grumbles when he gets back to the room.
It shouldn’t be possible and his mind must be playing tricks on him, but he thinks he catches the scent of you.
Yeah, he can’t sleep in here tonight.
He runs a hand through his towel dried hair and peels off Tad’s robe. He toes out of the slippers and tugs on a pair of sweats and a well-worn henley. The realization he’s donned the shirt inside out takes a backseat to the more important matter of grabbing the bottle of Macallan.
He shuffles over in bare feet and squats by the cabinet under his desk. His mouth is watering in anticipation of that smooth amber-colored nectar coating his throat.
“What the fuck?” he mumbles in confusion.
The bottle is gone.
“Looking for this?”
Dean stills at the question floating over his shoulder.
The voice isn’t something he expected to hear back at the bunker anytime soon. Maybe ever.
He rises, inhales through his nose. Mentally prepares for when he turns and faces you.
When he does rotate on his heels, he purses his lips into a tight line. He can’t let the impulse to smile win out.
You're wearing one of his flannels. It’s the black, white and gray one he hasn’t worn in ages. And the way the sweatpants hang loose and baggy and obscure your feet; well, he’s pretty sure those are his, too. Leaning against the doorsill, you look as if you’re trying way too hard to appear casual about any of this. The bottle of Macallan in your grip is displayed as a peace offering.
There’s the tiniest grin quirking up your lips. You look at the bottle, then to Dean. “I was keeping an eye on it.”
Dean inspects the liquid level of the scotch as a distraction. If he stares at that mouth of yours a second longer, he’ll forgive you for anything. “That’s about four fingers lighter than when I left.”
Your brows raise. Mouth opens. Dean knows you're ready to dispute his measurements. But something else clicks in Dean’s head and he doesn’t give you a chance.
“How long have you been staying here?”
You sigh and enter the bedroom. The bottle rests on the tiny corner table. You collapse into the chair beside it. “This’ll be my third night.”
Dean stands there. Blinks. You settling in is hopefully a good sign.
“Sam gave me a heads up that you were coming back some time tonight.”
“Why didn’t you high tail it out of here when you got wind of me?” Dean asks.
Your mouth tilts into a frown. “I came here to wait for your slow ass to return, Winchester.” You thumb at the bottle. “I may have needed some liquid courage during my stay to, you know, stick around.”
Dean crosses his arms, determined not to give an inch. Doesn’t matter how goddamn sexy you look. How your hair’s mussed from laying in bed. How his oversized shirt is unbuttoned enough at the collar to display the lovely expanse of skin from the column of your neck to the round of your shoulder. He prepares for the flailing you must have been wanting to give him so badly that you camped here for days. He tries not to think about how much he’d love to bend over so you can give him a spanking.
You stare up at him from the chair. “Oookaayyy.” Palms run over cloth-covered thighs. “I wanted to explain myself. Back in New Orleans.”
Dean shrugs, his crossed arms lifting up with the movement.
“We were a mess on that hunt.” You start. “All sorts of wrong. Second guessing. Getting in each other’s way. That Djinn got the upperhand on us because we were sloppy.”
Dean scoffs. “It wasn’t that bad.”
“You tackled it while I was about to kill the fucking thing.” You counter.
“You were getting choked out WHILE it was lighting up like an electric smurf.” Dean’s voice rises.
“I had the silver knife to its throat UNTIL you hip checked and then rolled around with Mr. Sandman doing the horizontal mambo.”
“Who was trying to pull it off me only to get a nasty throat punch?”
You raise both hands. “Look, my point is we were off our game. And I’ve never, ever had to worry about you having my back. Until that hunt.”
Dean rolls his shoulders like he’s ready to take flight. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Do you think I’m a good hunter?” you ask.
“What the hell kind of question is that?”
“A simple one.” A tap on the table precedes your rise. You stroll with purpose towards him. “Do you think I’m a good hunter?” you repeat.
“Of course I do. You might even be the third best hunter on the planet.”
You smile and, dammit, Dean melts a little. You clear your throat and the smile fades. “Then why didn’t you let me do my job?”
Dean stills. He watches your frame relax. The bravado seeps from your posture.
“Things are different between us now.” You sigh. “I hoped that what we did would bring us closer. More in sync on a hunt. But it did the exact opposite.” Another step brings you right up into Dean’s space. You latch onto a forearm. “Your head wasn’t in that hunt with me.”
“It was.”
You shake your head. “No. Your heart was. And so was mine.” Your voice breaks a little. “All I could think about was how I needed to protect you.”
“When do we not think about protecting a hunting partner?”
“That’s gotta go hand in hand with the mission, though; not take over.” The warm fingers drop from Dean’s arm. “I told Sam what happened.”
Dean rolls his eyes. “And what did Mr. Know It All have to say?”
Your shoulder lifts and almost touches your ear. “He said ‘welcome to the club.’”
“Huh?”
“Sam said you must care about me an awful lot if you were constantly undermining my ability to actually get the fucking job done. That sacrificing yourself is part of your DNA.” A full-watt smile - the one that makes Dean’s insides warm up - graces your face. “That you’ll die a hundred times over to prevent the recipient of all that care and concern from even getting a splinter in their thumb.” The snark in your tone is sharp and cutting. “Admit it.”
“Well, that’s just a flat out exaggeration.”
Suddenly, all of the playfulness in your expression is gone. You frown. “You don’t care about me like that?”
“What? No. I mean, yes, of course I care about you like that.”
“Good.” The smile returns. “Because I know for a fact that none of that is an exaggeration where Sam is concerned. You’ve figured out how to make it work with Sam. You and I are going to have to make that happen, too.”
Dean’s grinning back. “Any suggestions?”
“You could follow my lead and do what I say at all times.” You offer.
“I’m all about that in almost every scenario. Except when we’re hunting.”
You nod. “We’re not hunting now.” Dainty fingers clasp over his hand. “I’m sorry I ran away.” You whisper, staring into his eyes.
Your small frame belies your strength and formidable capability when it comes to a hunt. And though Dean’s only had one taste of your dominance in bed, you handled him with care and exerted contained control. But now Dean needs you to know how much he intends on proving his worth to you. He’s more than a deft hand wielding a machete. More than reliable backup. More than a decades long friend who can keep up with the tequila shots. He wants to be more than all of that for you.
He wriggles from under the grip to clutch your face with both hands. “I wanna tough it out with you.”
Your head tilts up and down in his hold. “Me too.”
You raise on tiptoes as he dips his head. Your lips meet in a gentle brush of skin. Dean’s skin tingles all over.
It’s only a peck. Dean pulls back so he can witness the bliss on your face. Eyes closed, mouth parted. You release a sigh. “Can we…” you start to ask.
“Anything,” Dean murmurs.
“Can we go to sleep? Start fresh in the morning? I missed you.”
Dean thinks his face will crack at the force of his smile. “Absolutely.”
#jacklesversebingo23#dean x reader#spn fanfiction#angst with a happy ending#dean x you#dean x female!reader
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burst your bubble - chapter one
Pairing: Dieter Bravo x F!Reader
Series rating: M
Chapter rating: M
Summary: After a booking error, you’re forced to share an adjoining room with Cliff Beasts star Dieter Bravo, who seems hell-bent on making your life miserable. He’s soon to find out that you give as good as you get.
Word count: 4,532
Notes: I’ve had this one in the works for a while! It’s a true enemies to lovers style fic as they really can’t stand each other. Or at least, Keys (our reader) can’t stand Dieter. They’re both gremlins in this and aren’t afraid to fight dirty. This is likely going to be two parts. It is unbeta’d but I’ve spent weeks annoying @ezrasbirdie about it, thank you for allowing me to go on and on about my plans and ideas for this, lovely.
This fic is cross-posted to AO3 under the same name and my taglist can be found linked in my bio as well as my masterlist which is linked below.
Comments/reblogs appreciated.
Chapter warnings: Mentioned drug use, prejudice, enemies to lovers, swearing, fighting dirty, getting even, miscommunication, sex mention, divorce mention, food/drink mention, insecurities
next chapter || masterlist (main) || masterlist (dieter bravo)
When you were told that you would be script supervisor for an important, game-changing, necessary movie, your first thought was that it would be a new, modern classic like Citizen Kane or Gone With the Wind.
You were wrong.
No, the first movie you’re working on as a script supervisor fresh out of film school isn’t a new, bold classic. But the sixth movie in a franchise that no one, not even the producers give a shit about except to save their floundering studio. Cliff Beasts 6: The Battle for Everest: Memories of a Requiem. You had to hand it to Omnipresent Studios. Not only had they conned you into agreeing to do it with their deliberate bad-faith take on their own movie, but they also came up with a title so long and so pretentious it circled around to being impressive before circling back into even more pretension.
And you fucking turned down working on Retribution for this. You suppose you only had yourself to blame, really. Here you are, a fresh graduate from NYU’s film school, eager to impress. You’d submitted your resume to literally every film studio you could think of, even the big ones like Netflix and Warner Bros. You’d gotten a few nibbles of interest here and there before directors went with other people. More experienced people. Two directors had replied with promising interest: Darren Eigan and John Remington. Your thought process, along with the fucking con that Paula the producer had fed you, was that Darren is on a hot streak right now. And, wanting to be a screenwriter one day, you thought, stupidly, that working on a movie of “cultural importance” (cultural importance, your ass) would get your foot in the door.
Which is how you find yourself here. Here being Heathrow International Airport. You had said goodbye to New York, your friends, your life for three and a half months of this. Of fucking Cliff Beasts. Your first order of business had been sprucing up the script. Darren had told you to take a chisel to it, not a sledgehammer. You needed a fucking wrecking ball. But you had diligently followed his instructions. You need him as a mentor. If you get in good with him, he can open the door to bigger and better things.
Looking over the cast list as you wait in line for customs, your eyes freeze on the fourth name from the top. Dieter Bravo.
Oh, fuck no. Anyone but him.
In school, in order to pay the bills not covered by your scholarship, you’d worked as a barista. This asshole had come in on a near daily basis, ordering the weirdest drinks and just generally treating you like shit. Like you were his own personal assistant. When you had politely called him out for it instead of spitting in his drink or spiking it with a laxative like you had wanted to, he’d just laughed in his stupid fucking sunglasses and loungewear, strung out on whatever and said, “It’s your fucking job, sweet cheeks.”
You’d just smiled your tight fuck you smile as he handed over his black Amex card (that he had probably used to snort lines with earlier) and charged him triple, pocketing the remainder as a nice tip for yourself.
Christ, you really should have gone with Remington instead. A tension headache is already beginning to form and you haven’t even done anything apart from a few revisions on the script.
Exhaling deeply, you hope that he’s grown up since then. You have authority over him; you don’t have to worry about him. It’ll all be fine, you tell yourself. Nothing to worry about.
The gate agent waves you forward. Handing over your passport and your work visa you wait while they verify your information. It doesn’t take long and before you know it, you’re in the black car that the studio had sent over, taking you to the hotel where you’ll be staying for the duration of the shoot.
Forty-five minutes later, the car pulls up on the hotel property. You take out your wireless earbuds, putting them in the charging station. “Wow,” you breathe, stepping out of the car. You’re just about to grab your suitcase from the trunk but the driver is faster. You’re not used to people doing that for you.
“Right this way ma’am,” a staff member says. “Welcome to England. I’m Bola, the… well, everything.”
You wave, telling him your name. “But you can call me Keys. Script supervisor.” Before Bola can say anything else a lanky looking man strides over, swab kit in hand.
“Gunther, hi. You must be the script supervisor. I’m the health officer. And we’re just going to do a quick Covid test. You know of course that we require all the cast and crew to self-isolate for two weeks.”
He sticks the swab up your nose, forbidding you from saying yes. You just make a sound that you hope sounds affirmative. He sticks the swab in a container thingy.
“Right this way,” Bola says, leading you to one of the check-in desks where a woman maybe a year or two older than you is waiting at the ready.
“Name?” she asks with an Eastern European accent. Her name tag reads Anika. She seems sweet. You tell her and she types in a few keystrokes, her smile fading, replaced by a frown. “Hmm, that’s odd,” she mutters to herself. “Ronjon?” she calls her boss. A man wearing a smart suit comes over. “I thought there was only supposed to be one person per room,” she mutters to him.
Ronjon puts his glasses on and peers at the screen. “No, you’re right. But that’s not the same room. He’s in 702A and she’s in 702B.”
You’re starting to worry. “Is everything okay? I know we’re supposed to self-isolate.”
The manager gives you a smooth smile. “Everything is fine. It’s just a bit of a booking snafu. Would you mind terribly if you were in an adjoining room to one of the cast members?”
You frown. “No. There would be privacy, right? Like they couldn’t come into my room?”
“That’s correct. There’s an adjoining door inside each of the rooms that connects them, but it needs to be unlocked on both sides to get in. In addition to the hotel room door. It’s totally private for both of you.”
With a sigh, you nod as you readjust your laptop bag on your shoulder. You just want to go upstairs, unpack and lie down. International travel always wipes you out. “Sure, yeah. Fine. Who is it?”
“Is anyone going to tell me the meaning of this? Having to share a fucking room?” a voice you know all too well shouts at the other check-in desk.
Answering your question.
Dieter fucking Bravo.
- - - -
You’re lying on the bed face down. Just your luck that you would have to basically share a room with the one person on this production you had wanted to avoid.
Idly, you wonder if it’s too late to quit and see if John Remington still needs someone.
You’re not a quitter. And it’s only three months. Three months. You can do this. You can kick ass, learn as much as you can and move onto something else. And with any luck you can work on your script while you’re here. You’re only twenty minutes into your two week quarantine period. You brought a lot of reading material, a lot of movies to watch as well. You’ll be good to go. Two weeks will go by in a flash.
You hear a crashing noise from your quasi-roommate’s room. Fuck me with barbed wire, you think. It’s tempting to just pretend that he isn’t here. To just ghost whenever he’s in the same room as you. But three months of that? Plus the accusations of unprofessionalism would stick to you so quick your career would be over before it could really start.
Gritting your teeth, you pull yourself up into a sitting position. You just have to introduce yourself, maybe bury the hatchet if you can. Maybe he was just having a bad day… or weeks, when he was in New York filming that movie. Doesn’t excuse it but it sure does explain it.
You open your part of the adjoining doors and knock. You wait a minute. Two. And then you knock again, louder this time.
It takes him forty-five seconds to open his part of the adjoining doors. He’s wearing an open brown robe and a pair of boxers. Nothing else except for some socks. Charming.
Professional, Keys, you tell yourself.
“Can I help you?” Dieter Bravo asks.
You stop short. “Um… I’m your roommate. In a manner of speaking. I’m the script supervisor.”
Dieter frowns, clearly thinking something over. Does he recognize you? “That’s basically like a PA right?” He ignores your no. “I don’t… I have a rule. I don’t fuck the cast or crew of any movie I’m working on.” He makes an exaggerated grimace and wink.
Your skin crawls. “Do you….? No, that’s not why I’m here. No. I just — I recognized you, I don’t know if you remember —”
Dieter continues as if you hadn’t been saying anything. “Never had a self-proclaimed fan of mine work on a movie and hit on me. They usually hide it. You’re kinda hot. Maybe I’ll make an exception just this once.”
Your eyes nearly roll to the back of your skull. “If you would just shut up and listen for once. I’m not here trying to fuck you. I just wanted to say… water under the bridge. I’m sure you have a very good explanation for treating me like garbage that time in New York.” It’s a lie, but at this point you are fully aware of how collosolly stupid this is.
“What are you talking about?” Dieter asks. Of course he doesn’t remember.
You shake your head. “Nothing.”
“Hey wait a minute,” Dieter says as you’re about to shut the door. You pause. “You’re a PA, right? Can you get me a coffee?”
“Not my position and even if it was, I’m not getting you another fucking coffee ever again. Get it your fucking self if that’s not too hard for you to do. Bola said that UberEats delivers.”
Slamming the door in his face gives you a moment of satisfaction before you realize just how horribly bad that went. “Ughhh.” You scrub your hands over your face. Three and a half months. You can do this. You can.
Vaguely you can hear a snorting-sniffing sound come from next door. If you didn’t hate him so much, you’d ask if he can share.
You can do this.
- - - -
As it turns out, Dieter Bravo makes the worst fucking roommate ever. At odd hours of the night he will ask if you can get him stuff or if he can charge his… toys in your room. He has no respect for your boundaries, always wondering why you don’t keep your side of the door unlocked.
Just think about the experience and the money you keep reminding yourself. Sometimes the mantra needs to be repeated multiple times. Like when he decides to test out the karaoke machine at 11pm. You bang on the door but it goes unnoticed. It’s day eleven of this.
Maybe he has a lot of pent up energy, you tell yourself. But you’re not going to be the meek pushover who’s only there to stroke the actors’ egos, least of all Dieter Bravo’s. He can stroke his own all he wants to. He needs no help from you.
Grabbing your laptop you begin to type a strongly worded email. It toes the line of professionalism and bitchy perfectly.
You have only met Darren once officially in person and it was when you checked in. The only other time you’ve corresponded has been over email or zoom. And it’s always been polite and excited. You’d been hoping to avoid this but it’s getting past the point of absurdity.
Shoving your noise-canceling headphones in, you put on a “go to sleep music” video on YouTube and hope that that will work its magic.
It must because next thing you know, your earbuds are yelling at you to charge them. Groggily you take them out and scrabble for the charging port in the dark, putting it down in the bed. It’s silent next door, thank Christ.
You get an email from Darren the next afternoon after fielding yet another request for food delivery. It just says some inane wishy-washy bullshit about how he values your opinion and will look into it. Maybe you should talk to him in person. You’ll see how things go when shooting starts in a few days. You know there’s a cocktail party for the cast and crew in two days. But you won’t bother him with it then.
- - - -
Once filming starts, Dieter’s shenanigans seem to calm down. All of his energy is put into filming. You’ve heard him rehearse for the movie every now and again, usually when he’s run out of things to do. You don’t question the accent. It’s Cliff Beasts 6, you’re not aiming for high art. At least not in the traditional sense.
Dustin Mulray is a thorn in your other side. He won’t stop pestering you about script changes. Finally you say to him, “Don’t touch my fucking script. I know it’s shit but we’re literally making a sixth movie in a franchise that no one cares about.”
Sean whistles approvingly and low-fives Howie. Apparently you’re not the only person Dustin has pissed off. Or more likely no one has ever dared to fight back against him.
Other than a few hiccups here and there, filming seems to be going well so far. But then, three weeks into production, there’s a positive test. And it’s back into isolation you all go. It gives you a chance to work on your script when you’re not having to put up with Dieter’s bullshit. He never listens, always talks over you, implied that you slept with someone to get this job the other day. You had responded with, “You know the song Fucked My Way Up to the Top?” Dieter had nodded. “I always thought Lana wrote that about you.” And without another word, you had stalked off to the craft services tent. Later that night you had gotten out your pencil crayons and written in elaborate print I am a dragon, you’re a whore and left it outside his door.
On night four of the second isolation, you’re lying in bed, drifting off. It’s late and Darren had just sent out a group text saying that filming is back on again tomorrow. Word on the street was that Dieter had been going around asking people if they wanted to have sex with him with no takers.
You’re nearly asleep when a deafening sound comes from next door. From the sounds of it, Dieter has found the fitness mirror. Only the problem is, he has it at full volume so it’s like you’re getting fitness training too. You crack your eyes and look at the time on your phone. Jesus Christ, it’s two in the morning. Your earbuds are dead, in need of charging.
“Change me!” Dieter grunts and you jump, not expecting to hear him. You can hear the fitness trainer just fine, too. A few minutes later you can hear moaning and panting and grunting. Is he…? That doesn’t sound like any exercise sounds you’ve heard —
Jesus Christ on a bicycle.
It doesn’t stop. It keeps going on a loop. With a truly beleaguered and aggravated grunt, you throw the blankets back and storm over to the adjoining door, pounding on it as loud and hard as you can stand it. “I’m sorry – I’m sorry – I’m sorry,” Dieter repeats.
“I’ll give you something to be sorry about!” you shout.
Sometime around three-thirty the sounds stop. But there’s no point in trying to sleep now. The call time is at five. Even if you fell asleep right now, you’d need to be up in an hour. You want to hide under the blankets and not have to go to work on Cliff Beasts ever again. But this is allegedly your dream. So you get up and turn on the shower and stand under there for as long as you can. At one point you can hear Dieter pound on the wall. “Some of us are trying to sleep!” And you kind of want to kill him.
You’re not going to kill him. You’re going to get your revenge. Bola had told you the other day about the bluetooth speakers in each room. He has stories about Dieter too so he’ll be easy to convince for his help in the plan that you’re concocting. And of course, Dieter has no idea how to work bluetooth.
But first, you’re going to talk to Darren. This will be fine.
An hour later, Krystal is staring at you half-awed, half concerned. “What happened to you?” she asks.
“Ask Dieter,” you say as the man of the hour strolls into make-up.
“What did I do?” he asks.
“You mean you’re not a changed man? You certainly wanted her to change you.”
Dieter looks at you blankly.
Krystal is completely disinterested in your back and forth. She takes you by the hand. “Come on. You look like a zombie.” And she sits you down in the makeup chair, telling Donna to do some work on you before shooting starts.
You manage to catch Darren. “Hey, Darren. I was wondering if I could talk to you about something?”
“Sure, Keys, what’s up?”
You hesitate, resisting the urge to rub your eyes. “Well it’s actually a followup to that email I sent to you a few weeks ago. The one about Dieter being disrespectful and treating me like trash?”
Darren sighs. “Listen, Keys. Being a script supervisor is very different to being an actor. We’re here to guide them, tell them about character and story. But we can’t disrespect the process an actor has. Each one is different but equally valid.”
Stifling a sigh, you say, “But this isn’t a process. This is blatant disrespect and insults.”
It’s clear, though, that Darren is done with this conversation. Okay, peaceful negotiations are now off the table.
Time to do things your own way.
- - - -
“Thanks so much for doing this for me, Bola,” you say that afternoon. Shooting had ended early. You were originally saving these days for script writing on your own project but today is different.
“Do not thank me, I should be thanking you.” Bola taps a few buttons on your laptop screen. “That man has been driving me up the wall since he first set foot in my hotel. There. All set. If anyone asks, I was never here.”
You nod and set to work on your playlist of revenge. You have the perfect first song. Relax, by Frankie Goes to Hollywood. A song about attempting to avoid coming prematurely. Appropriate, you think.
On filming nights, Dieter usually goes to bed at about eleven and is usually out no later than midnight.
Your own headphones are charged and ready to go if need be. At eleven thirty, you connect the bluetooth speakers in Dieter’s room, setting the volume all the way up as high as it can go before you press play.
The reaction is immediate. “What the FUCK!” Dieter shouts.
He jumps a mile high out of his bed. At first he thinks he’s having a bad trip, remembering a song that was playing one time he was high. But then a different song comes on. Just as loud.
It soon becomes clear that this isn’t a hallucination. He isn’t even high right now. Mostly.
“Can you hear this?!” he shouts.
Halfway through the playlist, right as the third What’s New Pussycat? gives way to the fourth he starts banging on the door. Either he’s figured it out or he’s checking to see if you’re affected as well. You don’t bother to press pause, just open the door.
“Turn that off!” he snarls.
“Say please,” you reply.
“What?”
“Say. Please.” Your voice is pure ice.
Dieter sighs. “Will you please turn that off! Jesus Christ. Can’t a guy sleep?”
You press pause and turn on your feet. “Funny. I said the same thing last night when you were doing your exercise.” You see the moment when confusion turns to realization.
“Oh Christ,” he murmurs. “I thought that was a dream. Anyway, you’ve proven your point. I hear you loud and clear.”
This you hadn’t been expecting. “You do?”
“Yeah. You wanna have sex with me. You didn’t have to go to all this effort though, honey.”
You blink several times in quick succession. “You… think I did this because I want to have sex with you?” you ask slowly.
“Well, yeah. Duh.”
Putting on a faux-thoughtful face, you say, “I’m confused. I thought that sex was something that was supposed to mutually beneficial.”
Dieter frowns. “It is.”
“So… what would I be getting out of it? You’d be getting sex and pleasure, but what would I be getting in return?”
It takes a second for Dieter to realize what you’re saying. “Funny. There’s one person I still haven’t asked and she’s working tomorrow. AKA our day off.”
Poor Anika, you think. “And here I was, going to work on my romance dialogue.”
“Listen to me, sweetcheeks, I got some advice for ya. If this is the best you can do for your first gig you’ll never make it as a writer, especially with your piss-poor edits.”
Turning away from him, you blink away the tears that have suddenly formed in your eyes. Dammit.
You are not going to give Dieter Bravo the satisfaction of knowing that he made you cry.
“And yet, here you are,” you spit out, turning to face him, changing your mind about not letting him see that he’s made you cry. Let him feel bad. “Mr. Award-bait movie star in the sixth movie in a franchise that is already six feet under so he can keep paying for his lifestyle.”
He sees the glassy look in your eyes and his snarl softens, whatever retort he had dying on his lips. “Shit – I didn’t mean –”
“Get the fuck out of my room and leave me the fuck alone.”
He doesn’t need telling twice.
Huh. He does have the ability to listen to you.
- - - -
After firing off a quick text to Anika, who quickly agrees to your idea, you type up said “romance dialogue” and send it to her as soon as possible.
She’s going to say yes to Dieter asking her to have sex with him. Just as soon as he’s met and received the approval of Anika’s father.
It’s simple dialogue but it’ll drive home the last point you have to prove to him. Flipping the script of discomfort on him.
Your phone pings. He’s here.
Good luck, you reply.
Anika is supposed to reply back when everything’s done, mission accomplished. Instead she texts you Code red. He saw the lines on my phone screen.
Oops. You put down the arts and crafts project that you’re working on. A homemade version of the Hunger Strike poster that you’re going to burn in effigy. There’s a knock on the door.
You open it, homemade miniature poster still in hand. It’s the last person you were expecting to see.
“Can I come in?” Dieter asks. “I’m really sorry about… well… everything sums it up well, don’t you think?” You could be knocked over with a feather. Dumbly, you nod, opening the door so he can come in. His eyes are clear, his sunglasses nowhere to be seen. He catches the makeshift poster in your hand. “Fanart?” he asks.
“Effigy,” you hear yourself reply. “Thought buying a real poster would take too long.”
Instead of being insulted, Dieter smirks. “Hot.” There’s a pause and Dieter sits down on the couch. “See that’s what I like about you, Keys. You suffer no fools.”
“And yet here you are,” you can’t help but say.
He smiles to himself. “I deserved that. Because I’ve been an idiot this whole time. And the last time.” So he does remember. “Good trick, by the way, charging me three times the original price. I was an ass. But, um, not that it excuses anything, I was kind of going through it at the time. My ex-wife had just filed for divorce. Turns out she had been sleeping with her pilates instructor. Cliche I know. But I thought that it was the first solid thing in my life since my, as you called it, award-bait movie. And you know what she said to me?”
You can guess, but you shake your head.
“She said that I was just this pretentious, washed-up lowlife of a person. And she wasn’t the best person, I’ll give her that. But I believed her so hard that my persona of Dieter Bravo took over my real identity. And interacting with you has made me realize that. Because so many people just bow and scrape and nod and say yes. I know you complained to Darren about me. And that asshole’s the biggest pushover on this set, always goes for the highest bidder and I guess in his eyes the actor outranks script supervisor.”
You don’t know why he’s telling you any of this. “Dieter, why… What does this have to do with anything?”
Dieter sighs. “I just — I’m so used to being in persona mode that I forget sometimes. Forget that… David Lucas Bautista isn’t an asshole. He’s actually a really nice guy. And I respect you, more than any of these pukes on set.”
Your surprised snicker is quickly disguised as a throat clearing. “David Bautista? I can see why you have a stage name. But why change the whole thing?”
“Never half-ass two things. Whole-ass one thing,” Dieter replies.
“You stole that,” you accuse, understanding the reference right away.
Dieter’s eyes twinkle. “You don’t miss anything. Anyway, I was downstairs, propositioning Anika, who clearly wasn’t into it. And her eyes kept darting over to her phone.”
Busted. But he doesn’t seem mad.
“I’m sorry that I’ve been… less than pleasant, Keys. For insulting you and not respecting your boundaries.” His apology sounds genuine. It’s his eyes that tell you he’s being truthful, his words unscripted. It’s a lot of guts laying his cards on the table like this.
You swallow. “I appreciate you saying that, thank you. I forgive you. And I’m sorry that I was such a raging bitch to you. There were other ways to prove my point…”
Dieter snorts. “But none that would have gotten my attention. I’m a stubborn ass. And you’re creative. It wasn’t anything I didn’t deserve. You give as good as you get. Better, even. I respect that about you. Friends?”
He sticks out his hand to shake, his brown eyes hopeful. It takes a minute of contemplation; Dieter’s on tenterhooks the entire time, his entire body exhaling when you stick your hand in his. “Friends,” you agree.
#dieter bravo x reader#dieter bravo#pedro pascal#my writing#my fic#enemies to lovers#the bubble#the bubble movie#pedro pascal character fanfiction#pedro pascal fanfiction
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i was so caught up in the beautiful possibility of anya taylor-joy alia that i did not think of the possibility of NO alia at all in dune part 2 . and if that’s the case, warner bros count your fucking days
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Helldivers 2 (PC)
This post comes about a week after launch, for what it's worth, in case post-launch support happens to go down foul roads (more likely due to Sony's influence)
Having dumped 28 hours into it, my biggest impressions are that Sony did Helldivers 2 fucking dirty with their advertising, it was granted justice in spite of that (1 million shifted in a hyper-busy window!) and it is a marked example (though not a perfect one!) of how to do right what all the recent live service failures do wrong
The "dual-track" battle pass-esque unlock system (one behind premium currency, of course) existing is shit, and the lack of offline play is a reminder that it will in time vanish and die, which is agonising because it's really good (especially as Helldivers 1 has offline!). But, I got the premium stuff unlocked from the stuff doled out for free within a week of normal play, so it manages its disease well. On top of the clusters of premium currency in the normal unlock pile, small pockets of it can be found in missions with no 'session limit'; if there is one, it's quite generous.
Where Helldivers 2 stands out is a mix of the good ol' Helldivers 1 "Verhoeven's Starship Troopers but we're leaning in even harder" comedy taken a bit further again, and being an actually good game. Unlike Sony's other first-party shite it's comfortable in its skin as a game and provides ample challenge with engaging mechanics, and unlike the glut of service games it's not a spreadsheet misery propagator coated head-to-toe in pointless numbers and percentages, and has actual mechanics with actual design intent behind them. It is a third-person shooter by considered choice, not because that's The Template.
On the one hand, it has comedic ragdoll physics and will send your body hurtling whenever it can, and it will also chuck around enemy bodies and make them hilariously flop in from on high after big explosions completely naturally. On the other, Helldivers 2's actual mechanics are actually a bit complex and brush up against simulator territory at times; guns in particular, for example, hit military-sim with realistic ranges and behaviours (shotguns will still hit and kill targets at 10s of metres out, ranges most others would consider sniper ranges; guns that reload by loading rounds can be fired mid-reload process, etc), you have to hold a button to check your exact ammo count as it's not on the UI, there's burst/full auto/semi-auto firing modes and adjustable scopes with a first-person view, and reloading dispenses of any unused ammo still in the mag you're discarding. It's an interesting contrast that really works, and the willingness to use such mechanics gives Helldivers 2 a real sense of character, as well as making it just plain fun and engaging unlike shite like Warner Bros' recent slop.
It's super fucking fun, alone or with friends, it perfectly continues Helldivers' special brand of chaos with its cavalier attitudes towards resources, death and players and willingness to let things spiral hard. And that's something Helldivers makes great use of: the chaotic spiral, that element some would call "emergent gameplay".
And it launched at £35 new, day 1 on PC alongside the console release, with proper cross-platform play! Not £70 with a £30 Season Pass and £15 Battle Pass on PS5 only with PC a year later on the Epic Game Store only! Miracle of miracles!
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guess fucking what? my inbox is so fucking full right now i'm unloading all of this shit in one post.
For the 11th gotham memes: gothamites react to bruce being jacked in a tiktok he made with kids, like super yoked, ripped as hell
fucking hilarious thanks. i think i did it in one meme post, but i genuinely don't remember which one
i dunno which of the batfam would do this but one time i was sleeping over at a friends house and ended up on the floor bc the bed was so very small and i just stayed there because the rug was soft
that's a drunk jason move i don't know what to tell you
tim and jason are "i listen to pop punk" solidarity. whenever jason highjacks the batmobile theyll go on long ass car rides blaring mcr and paramore and then never talk about it again
as they should!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
tim: no jason it's my turn using the aux cord i gotta put on my jams
jason: don't you dare put on weird shit
tim: don't worry, you're gonna love this *plays fearless (taylor's version)
hear me out hear me out,
red hood stans 🤝 nightwing stans
t h i g h s
holy shit yes.
SNL au: Bruce breaks character when pretending to superman and says something like "I'm not superman! You've seen his gps!! It's from 2001!!!" @sabeanybabe
superman flies past the snl building the next day just to say 'actually it's from 2005, i'm not a heathen'
does your back hurt from carrying the batfam fandom
it hurts more from the exotic rock collection i keep in my backpack, but thanks for the concern.
I love your posts by why would you always leave the best parts in the tags?
as a treat for the people that check the tags ;) (and also because i'm committed to the short post aesthetic)
somehow your playlist was everything i never knew i needed. i mean it. this is my new favorite playlist.
and don't you dare get a new favourite playlist!
babe ur stoner tim playlist is exactly too perfect, earth is literally blessed by ur existence
babe thanks so much! i love my stoner tim playlist because it's just my usual playlist but people think it's an artistic choice that i put taylor swift and britney spears in there, when it's just what i unironically like listening to
JANDKSKDK BILLY RAY CYRUS ON THE STONER TIM PLAYLIST I LOVE IT IT
again it's not even an ironic choice, i know every single word and i genuinely like the song
The last chapter of Fundamentals of Casework has me crying at work. Thanks I love it @dudelookitsalesbian
oh babe, i'm sorry, but also, not sorry i love chapter 4 so much it's my lovechild with the 'mental illness' tag
soooo....stumbled on your tumblr by some stroke of fate??? read your DC fanfic first. which is PHENOMENAL btw. then found all the batmemes; the funniest thing EVER bc everyone forgets about regular old gothamites. kept scrolling and your blog pops up as recommended. clicked on the ao3 for shits and giggles and waddaya know?!?!? it's YOU!!! you're LEGEND!!!! ever seen that meme? it's a video of a cat that got into a baseball field and the two announcers get really invested in his escape attempt and start giving a play by play of the cat instead of the game. memeable moment: "GREAT stuff from the Cat!!!"
i seriously think about this ask every single day and it's so fucking funny to me that i've never seen the meme you're referencing, but i still find myself going 'GREAT stuff from the Cat!!!' whenever i see something funny. but wow i'm glad you liked this steaming pile of garbage
Fav dc character overall? And fav batfamily character?
don't ask me to pick between the loves of my life, but i can tell you i've cried about every single batfamily member and also wally west (my beloved)
What's your opinion on fans having a problem with batfam being "too big"? And some even claim that batfam is just "Bruce Alfred Dick Damian" and the rest of them are just "friends and allies" (source: reddit) Personally, I like batfam because of this reason but idk
stupid. a family can never be too big. i'm not that big a fan of like huge batfam stuff with everybody from every single universe, because as much as it's funny for bruce to have like 30 kids, it just feels a little too OOC for me.
This is the best tag I've seen involving the batfam, thanks for thinking of it
This is canon now @nctxrejects
lmao yeah i think at that point alfred has had to sit through like at least a dozen coming out talks and just has a pride flag collection in the attic that he pulls out whenever a kid comes out
idk why batfam hits different as compared to any other superhero family
bc it's found family and usually the other superhero families are almost all genetically related in one way or another
I don't know if you watch the umbrella academy but I saw your last post about batcest and saw the similarities. But the thing is (although I think it's weird) in TUA, they addressed it by saying "they were raised as weapons, not siblings" or something along those lines, which is simply not the case with batfam.
yeah i watched tua but i also thought it was ridiculous and they still treated each other as siblings so i didn't like the luthor/allison thing, and am glad they stopped doing that shit bc it fucking sucked.
Hot take: Batcest shippers are the same people who believe adopted siblings are not actual siblings
smoking hot take: batcest shippers are the people who watch 'my sister got stuck in the washing machine' porn
Duke was adopted by Bruce?
not technically no, but do i, tumblr user batarangsoundsdumb, look like i care?
True story but I had to change my freaking name because it used to be "Damien" and most people would go "OH LIKE DAMIAN WAYNE" like please I'm just tryna live
true story, but i don't actually think of damian when i hear the name damian, literally the first thing that pops up is damian darkh like bruh what?
apparently dc comics company supported comic stores by giving out new titles and stuff during the beginning of the pandemic to help them run and I just think that's wholesome
ah yeah that's so fucking cool, still don't like dc, the company, because this world is a capitalist hellhole and we're all owned by warner brothers or disney with no in between.
ayo looking at tumblr head canons and finding out bruce is actually a terrible father is a punch in the gut
lmao yes, in like 50% of comics bruce is a terrible father and it gives me whiplash
oooh I just saw the jason todd vs winter soldier post and the real question is: batman vs iron man
while iron man has like hundreds of cases of armor, batman could throw out an emp and have the guy dropping out of the sky in 2 seconds.
dickfast = fastdick = quickdick = quickie
magnum hot take
hey bata(?) just thought I'd let you know I have copied the obnoxious emoji and Billy Ray post for use on simping men going forth
thank you 😘🌷 (@spacebarsidecar)
why would you do that to your followers???? i get why i did it, but why would you???
what is scarecrow made the nightwing funko pop himself, like those diy-ers that paint over other ones
oh god no, horrible take, horrible take, that's a disgusting thought oh no
I see your HC that Bruce and Oliver fucked and raise you this: Dick and Roy ALSO fucked
yes they did and it was a horrible moment for jason to find out dick has fucked both of his best friends
"at this rate bruce adds like 1 child to his family every decade or so" Duke is introduced in 2013, Damian as Damian, not as an unnamed child, in 2006. And he is already 14 years old, Robins rarely remain Robins after 16 😬 It looks like a new Robin and Batkid will appear in a couple of years
i mean i can't wait? but somebody will probably die first tho, we're due for another major character death. my money's on either cass or duke this time.
BRO you're so right all of your Bruce's ex headcanons are amazing but they aren't ships, that's kinda wild. Like I don't want any peeks into how their relationship was I just want to see everyone make fun of them
lmao YES it's just i love bruce being a slut, like good for him.
I am in love with your posts your honour thank you
omg thanks are we like,, gonna kiss now?
The justice league needs to have a meeting to discuss how many of their members/partners have slept with bruce. Because through a combination of cannon & fannon (if DC wasn’t homophobic) we have AT LEAST:
1) clark
2) lois
3) oliver
4) dinah
5) john
Thats not counting villains or random civilians @dudelookitsalesbian
yes yes yes, they'll have a yearly meeting about how many of their collective exes could be out for revenge and batman's list just keeps getting longer.
tim was like "i'm drake now" and everyone was like ahh so your fursona is a dragon and tim was like pffffft no. ducks.
and what about it?
when steph's fighting livewire and she zaps her with lighting and nothing happens and then they both just. stand there awkwardly for a second and talk. yeah i couldn't stop laughing at that batgirl steph is the BEST
oh yeah that was fucking hilarious and i think it would be so cool and sexy of dc to give steph a little comic series,,, as a treat
Hi I absolutely adore all of yours "Bruce and Oliver very badly pretending they didn't fuck each other" memes
lmao i do too
I need you to know that “Bruce Wayne had frosted tips” is one of my favorite Bruce takes of all time it’s so galaxy brained. you’re right and you should say it
he also painted his hair blonde once when he was travelling and in conclusion, this is why he's being blackmailed by the gotham gazette.
you know my thing about gordon being branded as the only good cop in gotham is its a load of shit like arguably he's a good person and not working to screw people over or anything but the fact that he also works w. batman makes him a shit cop. like yea batman is better than the mob but its still illegal its still an abuse of power he just not making bank
babe, all cops are bad cops. (but yeah youre absolutely right, working with vigilantes makes you a shit cop, but also working against vigilantes just makes you an asshole cop yanno?)
ruh roh i think i’m about to add “so not yeehaw” every time i don’t like something
that's a very good vocabulary upgrade
somehow i feel like steph already knew. like babs obviously knew but i feel like bruce got high/drunk in front of steph and started telling his boarding school stories and steph was just like “oh you fucked up i’m never gonna forget this”
steph and bruce have weird uncle/rebellious niece dynamic and they just hang out sometimes and bruce will be like 'i once broke my arm when i tripped over a hedge when i was drunk so oliver drove me to the hospital on an electric scooter' and steph will just have to sit there with that knowledge in her head.
Hello I just wanted to tell you you are So right in all your steph opinions bc she is, in fact amazing and I think that's very sexy of you.
Ps. Your Bruce/Oliver fic is hilarious
babe, thank you so much and yes steph is amazing and i love her and she deserves the world and she's the best member of the batfam hands down. also thanks
In Supersons we see a couple of kids that are implied to be Damian and Jon's children and the boy has laser eyes and can fly, so I asume he's not adopted. The girl, who calls Bruce grandpa, can also fly, btw. So it's canon (probably by accident) that Jon can have kids and he must have married one of Bruce's kids. (I'm hoping for Damian, mostly because any other of his children would be waaaaaaaaaaaaay too old.) @artemisa97
lmao that was probably an accident seeing as jon is a 17 year old superhero in the year 3000 (by the jonas brothers)
You know, I'm a die hard fan of your memes, but I gotta say one thing: if Gothamites actually took gas mask everywhere with them, then the Scarecrow would just be a weird dude in a weird costume, and not a villain oh so scary. DC really should just takes notes from you.
bold of you to assume there's no gothamite anti-maskers
How does it feel being the funniest person on this app?
horrible, next question.
I can't listen to Green Day or Billy Joel without thinking of your post about how Bruce got arrested at a Billy Joel concert @nightwings-kid
yeah that's your mistake, i on the other hand can't enjoy billy joel without thinking about the glee rendition of 'uptown girl'
I've FINALLY been watching the Batman animated series and I gotta say, after watching "the gray ghost" I am CONVINCED that Batman is a closeted super hero geek who was 100% freaking out the first time he met Superman and is just REALLY good at hiding it.
superman: so what do you do in your free time?
batman, thinking about the superman fanfiction he's writing on the batcomputer: i have no free time
bruce and oliver be like
boyfriends to co-workers 401k (do the justice leagues get 401ks??? not that bruce and ollie would need them, but-)
lmao yes just 400 thousand words of bruce realising 'oh dip oliver is such a fucking dumbass' (also i don't know what a 401 k is but i assume they don't?)
Gothamites would totally boo superman as he saves Gotham while batman is out. @meenje
he's like 'okay think about that next time you want to be saved from an alien octopus'
I just took long break from dc comics and I come back to see ric grayson ??
i think it's very cool and sexy of dc to see dick and just think 'you know what? let's just give him a traumatic brain injury' and then didn't develop his character in any real way
SPEAKING OF RIC GRAYSON, gothamites making confused memes out of ric grayson is much needed
'dick grayson is my taxi driver? can anyone explain what the fuck happened he looks like an italian plumber?'
i hate to say it but batfam are def "marvel characters" in that sense they are characters who are human but become superheroes unlike most dc characters who are gods trying to be human maybe this is why I like batfam
fair enough
#this is only like half of it#but at least you can get like a few answers#yanno fuck it#bataranswers#ask#asks#anon
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Sleep Talk
Prompt: Persons A and B are cuddling on the couch together watching a movie late at night. Person B (who tends to sleep talk) falls asleep, and A doesn’t notice. B begins saying progressively weirder stuff until they finally mutter “I love you.” A internally freaks out and grabs B’s hand, then says, “I love you, too.” Person B wakes up confused and terrified because it was the first time they ever said “I love you” to each other. (Source of prompt in link at bottom of post.)
Word count: 2,026 words
Author's note: Spoilers for Wonder Woman. I also didn't quite follow the prompt to a T.
∘₊✧──────✧₊∘
‘It’s movie night!’ I said in a sing-song voice upon entering the living room, fresh out of the shower and in my best jammies, a set cut from cat-printed periwinkle blue cloth. George, sadly, wasn’t wearing his matching set. Shame; I’d packed this set with the intention of us spending this iteration of a three-year-old tradition in couple jammies. That’d have been such a sight — and the Instagram story.
‘The best night of the week — which also happens to be Friday night,’ he said, grinning. He patted the space next to him. ‘Saved you a seat. Best one in the house.’
‘Thank you, my darling.’ I put down the bowl of popcorn mixed with funfetti and chocolate, a recipe I nicked off the Internet, and bottle of Coke, and joined him on the couch, its real estate reduced to fit us both as snugly as bugs in a rug by all the pillows he’d added to the living room’s already hefty count. His idea of home improvement made it difficult for me to ever want to leave this couch and live life off of it. Could I put in a request to work from home like this next week? Senior management were strong advocates of ‘flexible arrangements’ and ‘work-life balance’ after all, and none were more deserving of the latter after the week’s events than I.
‘What are you in the mood for?’
‘What are you in the mood for? It’s your turn this week to choose,’ he said.
‘I was being democratic.’
‘For once, you can pretend my opinion doesn’t matter.’
‘“For once”?’
‘Oi.’ He sank deeper into his seat.
The corners of my mouth ached from chortling a little too much at his expense. I almost choked, actually, to which he said under his breath, ‘Karma’, his face gleaming with smug glee. Fair enough.
I reached for the remote and also handed him the popcorn to keep his mouth busy while I picked our poison; I knew, too, that what he’d said about his opinion not mattering this time had to be a bluff. George? Not having an opinion about movies? The next Pope being Buddhist was far likelier. I counted myself fortunate that we had similar tastes.
So, what was I feeling this week? Last week was Ingrid Goes West, which reinforced his decision to stay the fuck away from social media and reinforced my crush on Elizabeth Olsen. It was one of the unspoken rules to not repeat genres to keep things interesting. If there were no such rule, I’d have watched the entirety of Netflix’s sci-fi thrillers, and he its dark comedies, twice over. I navigated to the superhero movies section. I wanted something loud, light, and that wasn’t too long because of the late start.
The cursor found itself on Wonder Woman. Excellent: it was familiar — this would be our second time watching; we had no compunctions about re-watching stuff on movie night, as long as it was within ‘reason’ (whatever that meant — for instance, watching Thor: Ragnarok five times was perfectly acceptable to me) — and didn’t require a tremendous amount of cerebral effort to follow. It was what the doctor ordered for capping off a long, pretty shitty week. I needed the reminder that it was possible, and worthwhile, to find hope in and remain optimistic about such a bleak, ugly world. Besides, what was more cathartic than watching a superheroine, the world’s first, doing her thing in a movie that was, for the most part, also tastefully done? I didn’t want to enter the weekend continuing feeling like shit, so I hit play without further ado.
‘Hey, don’t finish that,’ I said to George, who’d been popping fistfuls of kernels and chocolates into his mouth like there wasn’t a finite supply.
‘You were taking so long to decide.’
‘I’ve decided!’ I gestured at the Warner Bros logo that flashed on-screen.
‘I’m hungry.’ His pout signalled the being of a sulk. ‘We don’t usually start this late …’
I put down the remote and curled up next to him. Our arms made their way onto each other’s bodies: mine across his abdomen, and his over my shoulder. He took my hand and lay a soft kiss on my fingers before setting it back down on his lower stomach, where he preferred it belonged. Fine by me. I burrowed deeper into his side. His scent, fresh and a little sweet from all the candy he’d taken, provided warm solace, as always.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘It wouldn’t have if I hadn’t been made to stay late.’
His fingertips skimmed the curve of my jawline. ‘It’s okay. I was kidding. I know your manager’s a prick with no respect for other people’s time,’ he said. A finger landed on my lip; it tasted faintly of vanilla. ‘Now, shh. Movie’s started.’
For something we’d watched before, Wonder Woman continued to hold our attention. Neither of us succumbed to the temptation of checking our phones nor started conversing with each other about our day, whether the Internet would implode if Chris Pine were to ever join the Marvel Cinematic Universe, weekend plans, whatever. None of that was verboten on movie night. Our attention spans weren’t perfect, and we’d never pretend they were; and some movies, like it or not, were better enjoyed as background noise in the comfort of one’s home. Sometimes we could accomplish so much on movie nights.
‘How’d you think I’d look in that?’ George piped up during the famous No Man’s Land sequence.
‘In what?’
‘Her outfit.’
‘That’s something you could consider for next Halloween.’
He grunted.
‘I’d love to see it.’
‘I want cheese. Cheese in bread. Cheese on bread. Pizza?’
‘You can’t be that hungry.’ I patted his stomach. It emitted a loud, watery rumble.
‘’m puckish.’
‘“Peckish”?’
‘That’s what I said.’ His speech had a slurred quality to it.
‘There’s still popcorn left.’
‘Not chicken wings.’ How’d wings come into the picture? ‘Or Sprite.’
‘Gross, Sprite.’
Despite his and his stomach’s grievances, he didn’t take the popcorn or Coke, or get up to order whatever it was that he wanted. I wasn’t about to surrender the position into which I’d worked myself. Likewise, I was genuinely into Wonder Woman (I attributed that to the fatigue I felt toward all things Marvel after Endgame and my excitement for Wonder Woman 1984) to consider taking any interruptions in my stride. His stomach did stop its fussing after a while.
‘Are my Neopets dead? Is there a Neopets Heaven?’
I didn’t answer. I didn’t know how to. Because he didn’t need to know I was still on Neopets and could therefore tell him with full confidence that no, Neopets wouldn’t starve to death, and no, the concepts of death and Heaven didn’t, and would never, exist on the site because its staff continued to delude themselves about the average age of their current userbase. Look, I put in too much work on my account, which I’d had since the site’s inception, to simply let it rot in the site’s current state of virtual limbo. Actually, maybe I should come clean and reintroduce him to the site … it was getting a little lonely for little ol’ me in Neopia.
‘What do you think happens to Tamagotchi when they die?’
Okay, what the fuck.
I peeled my gaze off of Gal Gadot — a herculean task — and looked up at him. Oh, God. He really was the old man he proclaimed himself to be. I let him sleep. He, too, had had a rough week at work, and I needed him at his best for what we had planned for the weekend … which, for now, was nothing. I was planning for the both of us to work on it when Wonder Woman entered standard blockbuster fare territory! Once again, work had thrown a monkey wrench into the fine-tuned machinery that constituted our countdown to the weekend: sending texts about weekend plans to each other during office hours and bringing them to fruition once our asses found themselves out the door at six o’clock and not a second later. This was called making efficient use of our time at work. Our managers should be so proud.
George’s sleep talking soon eclipsed Wonder Woman in terms of entertainment value. Frankly, Wonder Woman lost its lustre in its third act, where the filmmakers attempted to convince the audience that Remus Lupin and the fearsome Greek god of war were one and the same. That moustache? In what universe —? The nerve of Patty Jenkins, expecting me to extend my suspension of disbelief to such lengths.
Tonight’s highlights included:
‘Fucking parrots, always stealing my hot dogs in the park.’
‘I am not eating that banana without a fork.’
‘Look, that dog is wearing a tea cosy on its head.’ (I really would’ve loved to see this.)
‘Dad’s going to regret not letting mom pursue that degree in apartment science.’
When I couldn’t resist and asked him what apartment science was: ‘You know, when an apartment and science love each other very much …’
‘Government’s come out and made sex on bicycles illegal. That is a goddamn shame.’
‘Pudding’s never hurt anyone. Not physically, not emotionally.’
I was … a little fascinated, honestly. His episodes, as moderate as their occurrences were, tended to consist of brief, simple sentences and max out at four or five. Did I need to be concerned? Or was work taking a heavier toll on him than he’d let on? That was it: our weekend was going to revolve around relaxation. The beach! Massages! Studio Ghibli on Netflix! Spending the entirety of either day in bed was a need, a must; I wouldn’t care to hear otherwise.
‘I love you.’
‘I love you, George.’ I rested my head on his chest and interlaced my fingers with his.
The realisation of what the words that’d left our lips, been said in our voices, and hung in the air above our heads, begging, screaming, to be acknowledged, were drove me to undo what I did and pause the movie. Why did that sound so … natural? Why was I even questioning this? Our relationship — what we had — wasn’t invalid because those words hadn’t been said — until now, where ‘now’ happened to be borne of a sleep talking episode. Love didn’t have an on-off switch. The things we did together, the things we did for each other, the things we did to each other, said volumes louder about what we were than those three words.
Still, it felt fucking magical.
George stirred next to me. ‘Has it ended?’
‘No.’
He snuffled. ‘Did I fall asleep?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Shit. Did you stop because I —’
How was that sentence supposed to have ended? Because he talked in his sleep? Because of what he said? Do you know what you said, and did you mean it? I wanted to ask. His recollection of what he said while unconscious was a crapshoot; at least it wasn’t convenient whenever it might suit him — like now, perhaps. And I did. I meant what I said. Come on, Y/N. Don’t sweep this under the rug. Don’t play it off as a joke. Do it. Ask him. We were adults, whether or not we liked it. I couldn’t have the weekend start on a note like this.
He pressed me closer to him. His lips brushed the top of my head. ‘I’m an idiot for not saying it sooner — or more often, and when I’m awake,’ he said. ‘I love you. I love you. I love you. It sounds divine.’
Heat danced across my cheeks. ‘It does, doesn’t it?’ Our palms touched. ‘I love you,’ I said softly. ‘I love you, George MacKay.’
I resumed the movie, both better able and more unable to focus on it now. There wasn’t much left to it. Chris Pine had long left the picture, as my interest would’ve, too, notwithstanding what’d transpired.
‘What else did I say?’
‘You wanted to know if your Neopets are dead.’
‘Oh. Well, are they? Can you help me check?’
‘Why are you asking me?’
‘I know you still play.’
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Title: Arranged {2}
Yahya Abdul Mateen II x OFC Nyorie Kane
Warning: None besides semi-slow start
Words: 1.3k
Summary: Yahya is thirty-three, and his friends and family all seem to believe that it is long overdue for him to have a wife. He’s been set up more times than he can count and with his busy schedule and rising Hollywood star, it is becoming even more difficult to meet people, well people who aren’t looking for a come up. In the beginning, he said he didn’t want anything serious; his motto was “I’m was here for a good time not a long time.” Then it became he didn’t want anything that would distract him from where he wanted to go and what he wanted to accomplish. Now that his fame is rising and he’s approaching a sweet spot in his career he decides what the hell the time might be right.
In comes “A Match”, an exclusive matchmaking company run by his best friend Ramel’s wife Tamika. He gives Tamika and Ramel free rein and all his trust to find him someone he’d mesh well with. Instead of going through her clientele Tamika has just the right woman in mind, her best friend, Nyorie. Things are done a little unorthodox at “A Match” though. This unconventional route is credited for a near perfect success rate.
**Loosely Proofread/Edited**
**Interactive**
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Chapter Two
Rashawn actually looked happy. He looked happy, happy. The happiness that began inside, wrapped around your heart and filled your soul. He stood and watched his friend of damn near fifteen years laugh and hug onto his new wife. He didn’t even look to give a damn that she had him in a petal pink tie and pocket square even though he swore he’d put his foot down and tell her no pink. He smiled completely at peace with the knowledge his friend was happy.
“You okay?” Beside him, Tameka warmly smiled. He nodded.
“Yeah, I’m good. Ya girl did it, finally got his ass down this aisle.”
Tamika snorted and fanned him off. “Please, Rashawn not fooling a damn soul. He couldn’t wait for this day.” He smiled and nodded then continued to watch the newlyweds and it was then it hit him. He was the last one.
“So, any idea when you’re going to be making one of these trips?”
He knew Ramel spoke to her, he knew they probably gossiped about him. He shrugged and sipped his drink.
“Eh, whenever I’m meant to I guess.”
“You know you have to actually be making an effort to make it happen, right?”
He knew that and he knew just where this conversation was going.
“Is it the commitment you’re afraid of or the actual act?”
“Ah, I’ve never been afraid of commitment, and the act itself is trivial,” he confessed.
“Then what has you dragging your feet?”
“I can’t meet people Meeka, you know that. LA is so jaded, so superficial, it’s impossible. Plus, I’m crazy busy. How in the hell can I even maintain something?”
“Where there is a will, there is a way.” He wanted to laugh because she sounded so sure. He wasn’t.
“You’re not there yet. When you are, none of these concerns will matter,” Tameka assured with her hand on his shoulder. She then walked away to join the others.
The wedding was a beautiful thing. Love was always a beautiful thing he thought. Rashawn looked genuinely happy and anytime black love was celebrated it was always a good time. The dancing never ceased, nor did the laughs. Of course, when the cha-cha slide came on everyone was up on their feet and that started the precision of every black get together song. Everyone danced, laughed and hollered well into the early morning hours.
By the time he made it back to his hotel room, he knew the sun would be peeking through the windows soon. It made no sense to sleep, so he knocked out a workout in the gym. He pushed himself to the brink of exhaustion, pushed the levels his body could go. He learned long ago that change doesn’t happen by remaining in your comfort zone. If someone wanted real change they would have to step it up and be prepared to be uncomfortable.
When he was rounding the finish mark he began to wonder if that was what he had to do. Did he have to get outside his comfort zone and push himself to find what everyone seemed to think he needed—what he knew he wanted? It was an interesting thought, one he mulled over during his shower and on a call with his mother.
“You sound like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders,” she voiced. He rubbed the back of his neck. Sometimes he felt like it.
“At times it seems that way.”
“Poor baby, remember life is meant to be enjoyed not squandered by work and stress.”
He nodded, remembering his father used to say the same exact words before he passed. The thought of his father—his best friend he was filled with a melancholy feeling. He missed him.
“I miss him too honey.”
The silence stretched giving them both time to reminisce on the man that was no longer with them, the man who made him everything he was, the man he strived every day to make proud and honor.
“I think maybe it’s time I opened myself up to someone,” he slowly expressed.
“Someone or thee one?”
A soft smile stretched across his lips. She was always good at reading between his words and hearing what he didn’t say. “Yes.”
“Good. I was just talking to your sisters the other day about you being the only one still yet to find someone who brings sunshine and ocean breeze.” Another smile spread across his face. this was something she’d said from his childhood. She said that is how she knew his father was the one; he brought sunshine and ocean breeze to her life.
“I just don’t know if sunshine and ocean breeze is in the cards for me maw.”
She softly snickered. “Please boy, it’s there waiting for you. You just have to find her,” she reassured.
Maybe she was right, he thought. Maybe there was a woman out there that had everything he wanted, a woman who didn’t give two shits that he was this movie star, a woman who could see the real him, the boy from New Orleans who stayed outside till night time hanging in Oakland. Maybe it was possible.
“We never loose by letting love in, baby. We loose when we close ourselves off to it.”
With those final words, his decision was made.
~~~~~~~~
Two days later he was driving down the highway trying to get to a meeting for a new role he wanted. It was then his phone rang.
“Yo, Yo, Yo.”
“What up man? I got your text. You serious?”
“Yeah. I thought about it, talked to my mama. Why not man,” he informed.
“Okay cool. I had the best idea--Tameka’s matchmaking company.”
“Wait, wait,” he began to protest.
“No, nope. You know her company’s been doing the damn thing. Yeah, it’s a little unconventional but it works. She’s about to break into a different class of success,” Ramel bragged.
He knew what he was saying was true. It actually made sense. He didn’t have the time to meet people the traditional way and it was what she did.
“All right man what the hell!”
“Word?”
“Yeah. Tell her, let’s see what happens.”
“My man, that’s a good look. Finally. You can stop looking like the pitiful one when we all get together,” Ramel teased. He kissed his teeth and ended the call. He wasn’t gonna just sit by and listen to him fuck with him like that.
When he was finally in front of the executives of Warner Bros he easily dazzled them for the role. They went over his previous roles and asked him questions to get a feel of his personality and then had him test read for the role. The more he read of the script the more he liked it. After an hour or so he was done and fielding an email for his manager Dara informing him “that” episode of Watchmen was airing that night. When he was told it was definite he would be in the nude for the role it was a little nerve-racking, but he’d expected it, it was Dr. Manhattan after all. Now he had to get right with the world seeing his business. A message came in pulling his attention.
MSG Tameka: Mel told me. Are you sure about this?
Sighing he laughed to himself. Ramel sure moved quick; it hadn’t even been three hours since he’d told him to move on it.
MSG: Yeah, I’m sure.
MSG Tameka: You do know my company does things differently, it’s not just flip through a book find a look you like and bam matched. It’s an intricate process.
MSG: I got that Meeka.
MSG Tameka: Come by my office tomorrow, come through the back entrance. We’ll see how sure you are.
He didn’t like the sound of that one bit.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
***If you want to be tagged please SEND AN ASK SO IT WILL BE EASIER FOR ME TO KEEP TRACK OF. Thank you for reading!!!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
TagList:
@chrisgalore @thatrandomhetaliachick @missdeerstalker15 @queenbetter @jesseswartzwelder @briellableu @titty-teetee @zaddysqueen7 @melaninhawtie @simplyyamberr @airis-paris14 @ashanti-notthesinger @afraiddreamingandloving @ajspencer1892 @wakanda-inspired @chillavesss @drsunshine97 @cleothegoldfish @builtalongthewayside @theunsweetenedtruth @geeksareunique @aykanna @hanasamara @profilia @ollieveracity @autumn242 @missyperle @sup3rn0va13 @chaneajoyyy @forbeautyandlife @kreolemami @designerwriterchic @trillistb @minton131 @@purplehairgawdess @write-fromthe-start @anonymousmadame2911 @essaysbyciara @wakandalivesforever @yourwonderbelle @wellthirsted
#arranged fic#yahya abdul mateen ii#yahya abdul mateen ii fanfic#Yahya Abdul Mateen ii x reader#Yahya Abdul Mateen ii x you#Yahya Abdul Mateen ii x black reader#black fanfiction
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The Losers’ Club | Tom Holland
masterlist found here
pairing - Tom x reader
word count - 1,796
warnings - oral (f receiving)
A/N - for the anon who requested this! I hope it’s what you were looking for. I slid the smut in because I was feeling it *shrugs shoulders*
summary - After fearing your career wouldn’t progress due to your fame in the MCU, you were thrilled to get your new role. Everyone was proud of you... some more than others.
When you were first offered a role in the next Avengers film, you were pretty hesitant. Like many actors who had rejected parts in the past, you were afraid your future roles would be limited due to your participation in the Marvel Cinematic Universe. You didn’t want to be type casted, and you didn’t want to forever be known only as Black Cat. However, when Robert Downey Jr himself called you, he sufficiently convinced you to take the role. With time, you fell in love with the hero you played and her alter ego, Felicia Hardy. Not to mention, you got to play the love interest of Peter Parker.
Along the way of faking feelings for Peter, you developed real feelings for Tom. You couldn’t help it. He was kind, charming, funny, and super handsome. It wasn’t hard to fall in love. The only thing that worried you was the age difference. When Tom turned 23, you were still only 18. To you, the five years was nothing. You were mature, responsible, and -most importantly- legal. You were worried though that Tom would see it differently. Hell, you couldn’t even have a legal drink in the US. To him, you were certain you were still just a child.
One day, you were proved wrong. After filming the last shot of your first Avengers film, Tom pulled you aside and asked you out on a date. You hid your astonishment as best as you could and accepted. Things went well, and your relationship bloomed from there.
If you had one thing to be thankful for when it came to your role in the MCU, it was your relationship with Tom.
Still, you worried from time to time about your future in Hollywood. Since you had gotten the role of Black Cat, you hadn’t received any other offers. Granted, you were only 18 and had a long career ahead of you, you were getting nervous. What if you just weren’t a good actress? What if that was why you weren’t getting any roles?
Thankfully, your luck quickly changed.
Though you were 18, you looked young enough to play Beverly Marsh in the remake of It. When you went to the audition, you didn’t get your hopes up. You had learned that going into an audition assuming it would go poorly made the eventual rejection hurt a lot less.
A few weeks after your audition, you started to forget about the role altogether. Tom knew you didn’t want to talk about it, so he distracted you with lovely dates and cuddly days in. You were currently spending a day at his apartment. You were dressed in a pair of pajama shorts and one of Tom’s t-shirts, and you were both cuddled under the covers on Tom’s bed with Tessa. Per your request, you were watching A Quiet Place. It was one of your favorite movies. It was a perfect balance between scary and almost heartwarming.
During the scene where Emily Blunt’s character was hiding in the basement after stepping on a nail (which always made you cringe), your phone started ringing. You and Tom both jumped as the sound rattled the silence from the movie. “Jesus Christ,” you said with a laugh. Tom chuckled and paused the movie so you could answer the call. “Hello?” When the person on the other end introduced themselves as the casting director for It, you held up a finger to Tom and left the room so you could take the call in private.
Before you knew it, you were in the Loser’s Club. You were ecstatic. Playing a kid terrorized by a crazy clown monster was going to be a lot different than playing a superhero dressed in a black leather suit. You were up for the challenge.
After thanking the casting director a million times, you hung up the phone and did a happy dance in the kitchen. You quickly composed yourself and made your way back to Tom’s room. He was scrolling absentmindedly through Instagram but looked up as soon as you walked in. “Who was that?” he asked, locking his phone and opening his arms for you to cuddle again. You smiled widely and jumped into his arms. (Tessa had left the room, so you didn’t worry about accidentally landing on her.) “Whoa,” he laughed in astonishment. “What’s going on, love?”
“I got the part!” you cheered. “I got Beverly! I’m gonna be Beverly!”
“No way!” Tom said, a wide smile on his face. He sat up slightly and pulled you onto his lap. “I’m so proud of you!”
“I can’t believe it!” you said with a giggle. “I’m gonna be in the Loser’s Club! It was like, the first scary movie I ever watched. I can’t believe it.”
“Well, I always knew you were going to get it,” he said with a shrug. “My talented baby girl.”
You blushed and leaned in to kiss Tom. He smiled and wrapped his arms around you, pulling you flush to his body. “So,” Tom muttered in between kisses. “How should I congratulate you?” You bit your lip and rocked your hips against Tom’s. “I just want to show you how proud I am,” Tom said softly. His thumbs rubbed circles on your hips, your shirt raising slightly. “Because I’m so proud of you.” You whimpered as he placed soft kisses across your neck. “Tell me what you want,” he cooed. “Want me to fuck you? Touch you? Whatever you want.”
“Mm,” you hummed, feeling his tongue lick your neck. “Your, your mouth. I want your mouth.” You felt Tom grin against your skin before he pulled away and nodded.
Tom turned you around so you were laying on your back. He ran his hands down your body, pushing your shirt up but not taking it off. “Love when you wear my clothes,” Tom said. He brought the shirt over your breasts and sucked on your nipple. You breathed in shakily and knotted your fingers in Tom’s hair. You couldn’t help it. You pushed his head down your body, making him laugh. “Not in the mood for teasing, huh love?” he cooed. “Just want to celebrate?”
“Mm,” you hummed, not being able to form any coherent words.
“Okay,” he chuckled. “Whatever my girl wants, she gets.”
Tom hooked his thumbs in your shorts and underwear and pulled them both down together. Tom kissed up your thighs slowly and spread your folds with his fingers. He just stared at you, smirking at how much you were already dripping. You could feel his breath on you, but he didn’t put his lips where you needed him. You lifted your hips up desperately, letting Tom know what you wanted. “Please,” you whined. “Quit teasing. This is my reward, not a punishment.” Tom looked up at you through his eyelashes and smirked.
“If you keep complaining, I might have to make it a punishment,” he warned. “This may be a celebration, but I’m still in charge here.”
“Sorry,” you whispered with a nod. “I’ll listen. Just-” You cut yourself off with a heavy sigh. “-please do something.”
Luckily, Tom didn’t waste much more time. He pressed a kiss to your clit before sucking it between his lips. You arched your back, but Tom brought his arm across your waist to hold you down. He flattened his tongue against you, giving you one long lick before flicking your clit. He did that a few times, licking from the back of your cunt all the way to your clit. His movements were slow and careful, and you relished in the feeling. He buried his face in between your legs, putting his mouth around your opening and licking it mercilessly. Every time his nose brushed against your clit, your body jolted. He focused now on your clit, sucking it and rolling it around with the tip of his tongue. Slowly, he eased a finger into you, pumping it in and out slowly.
“P-Please,” you stuttered. “A-Another finger.” Tom grinned against you and obliged, pushing another finger into your opening. He continued to pay careful attention to your clit, careful not to overstimulate you. You were right. This was no punishment. This was all about celebrating your latest career victory.
“I can feel you’re close,” Tom cooed, keeping the pump of his fingers steady. “Cum for me, baby girl. Show me what a good girl you are.”
Your thighs squeezed around his head, arching your back as you came around his fingers. Tom coaxed you through it, keeping his lips around your clit. Your breathing finally slowed back to its normal pace, and Tom trailed his lips back up your body. His smile was lazy as he kissed you gently. “‘M so proud of you,” he muttered, kissing your cheek, down your jaw, and back to your lips. You giggled and ran your fingers through his hair.
“Thanks,” you said softly. Tom crawled back into bed beside you, putting his arms around you and pulling you into his chest. You reached for your phone and unlocked it, seeing you had a text from your manager:
Congrats on the part! Feel free to post about it on your social media! Warner Bros already announced it.
“Lelia said I can post about it,” you told Tom. Tom watched as you figured out how to make the announcement. You eventually opened up Instagram and decided to post a picture:
Pennywise better watch the FUCK out! Beverly Marsh isn’t here to mess around. Catch me in Andrés Muschietti’s “It” remake coming out next year!
Love flooded in your comments section within minutes. You smiled at the support coming in from your Marvel costars.
@chrishemsworth: I always knew there was talent in you somewhere!
@prattprattpratt: Nice job! So proud!
@elizabetholsenofficial: That’s my best friend everyone! I knew you’d get it
@renner4real: Way to go kid!
@letitiawright: YES
@gwynethpaltrow: I did not want to see this picture on my feed! (proud of you)
@lexi_rabe: So scary! I might try to watch it for you ❤️
@doncheadle: That’s my girl! You’re killing it!
@imsebastianstan: Nothing but respect for my strongest avenger
@robertdowneyjr: Feels like just yesterday I was making you join the MCU. You’ve joined the big leagues now kid! I knew Black Cat was just the beginning for you. Prouder than words can describe!
You had no regrets about joining the Marvel Cinematic Universe. Sure, the endless photoshoots, complete lack of privacy, and spotlight shining on you constantly was a lot to handle, but you had made a lot of new friends. They were your cheerleaders and your number one fans.
Yes, Tom was one thing to be thankful for when it came to your role in the MCU, but the others were a nice plus, too.
#tom holland#tom holland imagine#tom holland x reader#tom holland fluff#tom holland smut#smut#marvel#request
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So..what have I done?
Tagged by @scatteredstoryteller, thank you!
Driven 100 mph - Pfff, no. I drive like someone’s stoned grandma. My license plate holder says “Time’s a’wastin Speeeeedy,” which is a quote from the tortoise to the hare in an old Warner Bros. cartoon. I’m going 70 in the slow lane and you can either go around me or die mad about it.
Ridden in a helicopter - Nah, all that noise and I would NOT be friends.
Gone zip lining - I did some kind of rope climbing course when I was in scouts and I think it had a zipline? Fun times.
Been to an NFL game - No, but I went to an MLB game when I was 8. To give you an idea how memorable it was, I just had to google “baseball league” because I couldn’t remember what the fuck pro baseball’s acronym was.
Been to Canada - No, but I seem to attract Canadians?
Visited Florida - Heat and humidity are my mortal enemies.
Visited Mexico - No, despite having grown up just a few miles away from the CA/Mexico border. I do hope to go eventually and see some of the natural and historical sites.
Visited Las Vegas - Yes, and it is not a good place for introverts. Its hot, loud, bright, cramped and expensive. I spent most of my time alone in the hotel room reading a book and doing crosswords. Good buffets though.
Eaten alone at a restaurant - Yes, just not anywhere fancy because I think I’d die out of sheer embarrassment at my own existence if someone was forced to wait on me and only me.
Ability to read music - No, regrettably.
Ridden a motorcycle - Not by myself.
Ridden a horse - Yes, but not for... 20 years? Horses are majestic and gorgeous AF, but the more I learn about them, the more I want to appreciate them from behind a fence with both of my feet on the ground.
Stayed in a hospital - Errrr.... I was in a mental hospital for 2 days once... I had a really stressful job at the time and my choice of coping mechanism freaked out my coworkers.
Donated blood - No. My blood type is as common as dirt and I get headaches and dizzy spells enough as it is.
Been snow skiing - Yeah, I hated it. But I do love snow and the cold. I’ll come with you on your road trip to ski country, but you’ll lose me as soon as I find a good hiking trail.
Been to Disney World - Nope. No desire to go.
Disney Land - Twice as a kid. Fun enough I guess? I liked the rides, but I don’t really care for Disney stuff in general *gasp*.
Slept outside - What veteran of the scouts hasn’t?
Driven a stick shift - I can barely drive an automatic. I didn’t even learn until I was in my 20s, hahafffff.
Ridden in an 18 wheeler - Not to my knowledge.
Ridden in a police car? - Got to do a ride-along on a police obstacle course with a sheriff deputy once. I thought I was gonna die, but in a good way.
Driven a boat - Do bumper boats, kayaks, pedal boats, or milk carton canoes count? Cause I’ve driven all of those and had a damn good time doing so.
Eaten Escargot - I want to say I have, because I have a memory of wanting to keep the shell because it was pretty... Can’t recall the taste though. I think it was... buttery?
Been on a cruise - No. I’d only go on one if it were one of those river cruises through Europe that doesn’t allow kids or aerobics classes.
Run out of gas - Nope. I always fill up at a bit less than a quarter tank because my anxiety will go nuclear if I don’t.
Been on TV - Yes. As a teenager I won a writing contest and tasted the giddy fame of local public access television.
Eaten Sushi - As often as possible. Plain ol’ salmon nigiri and spicy tuna rolls are my favorite.
Seen a UFO - Unidentified Farting Object? Yes, until I identified it as being my older brother doing drive by cropdustings outside my room.
Been Bungie jumping - Nah. Not my thing. Plus, I’d be afraid of losing my glasses, which I’d have to wear because I can’t see shit without them, dfASDaw.
Been stuck in the house for days - ...I’m poor, a homebody and an introvert... Staying home for days at a time is oftentimes my preferred reality.
Tagging @lettersnorth, @duskblackbird and whoever else is okay with my prying into their personal history like the secretly admiring lurker that I am. : D
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Part Five now on AO3 (Final Part)
Sneak preview below. (look @romanoffsbite - i finally did it)
One Year Later:
Thirty-two shades of lipstick—exactly thirty-two; she had counted them one-by-one as she waited somewhat patiently—with their caps off stared at Darcy. Divided into groups, there were circles of nudes, berries, pinks, and reds. Some even sparkled, as if they had taken a trip back to the 90s when glittery lips was all the rage. That was the 90s, though, wasn't it. Always making an unwanted comeback. Heaven forbid she walk outside with frosted shadow and bright pink blush. MJ wouldn't do that to her. Hopefully. Everything else on the vanity looked modern enough.
She chanced a look in the mirror. From where she sat about a foot away from the set-up in her director-style chair, she picked apart the flaws marring her face that would soon be hidden by a pound or two of makeup. Deep purple bruises lined her under-eyes. There was one angry, red spot that would not disappear no matter how hard she tried riding high on her left cheekbone. Her skin held an almost permanent sallowness. Sleep deprivation did not look good on her. Nor did copious amounts of stress.
This was her new normal. At least, that was what everyone kept telling her.
Say goodbye to sleep. Say goodbye to free time. Say goodbye to your social life.
Not that she had much of a social life outside of Loki and Jane and MJ. And MJ's boyfriend, Peter. And Peter's best friend, Ned. Occasionally Maria would join in on the fun, but nowadays it was rare their schedules lined up. Darcy was just so busy all of the time. The only reason she even saw Loki in the first place was because they lived together still. And the only reason she saw Jane was because her fiancé was Loki's brother. And because the wedding was fast approaching, and Darcy was doing everything in her power to ensure Jane would not search elsewhere for a maid of honour. The lead up to the wedding was not going to turn into a Bridesmaids situation on her watch.
To her surprise, everyone on her team, and everyone involved behind the scenes, was amenable enough to her polite demands for time off. The show hadn't even premiered yet and she was already getting what she wanted. MJ, the cosmetology student who started working at Warner Bros. Latte when Darcy needed to cut back her hours for filming, was chosen as her makeup artist above a slew of applicants because Darcy had asked nicely. After a couple of weeks of begging, Darcy managed to snag Loki a guest appearance on the series. He had three lines and was nameless, but Loki was still thanking Darcy every time they saw each other. Which was practically every morning in the apartment.
Phil kept telling her the reason people were giving into her requests was because of how wonderful she was. How this was really and truly the big break she had been looking for since moving from San Fransisco. Everyone in Hollywood had heard through the proverbial Californian grape vine that her performance as Patricia in The Earth Is My Grave was revolutionary, so watch out, because here comes Darcy Lewis to take over the world.
But she wasn't convinced. It was all too much too quickly. She had auditions left, right, and centre. Even following the leak—the fucking leak that kept her up at night months and months later—Phil sent her scripts every other day. Then he sent her on auditions. Then on callbacks. Then he sent her directly to whichever lot she needed to be on for filming. All before the miniseries that started it all aired. It was as if all the big name directors in Hollywood had her name whispered in their ears as they slept one night. Everyone woke up the next day with her on their mind.
And God, how stupid was it of her to feel any sort of resentment for this catapult into fame. After all, it was what she had been dreaming about endlessly since she was a child. It was what she had worked so hard for. But it really did feel like someone had strapped her inside a human-sized catapult and sent her flying into the air without a parachute.
It felt like soon enough she was going to crash land.
Pressing her hands against her cheeks, Darcy pulled back, forcing herself to smile. It was amazing to her how much of her spare time lately had been taken up by Red-Carpet-Smile practice. Prettiness at all times, no matter what, was part of the job description. She had settled on a pouty smile and a barely-there, lazy smile as her staples. Loki had applauded when she showed them to him, so she hoped they were good enough for the rest of the world. She would find out tomorrow once all the celebrity reporters had an opportunity to compile their pointless, shallow articles about what everyone looked like, facial expressions included, at the premiere that was taking place in less than two hours.
Less than two hours.
Darcy dropped her head. She stared at her crossed legs. God, she had been waiting for almost a year for this night, but as the seconds ticked forward, all she wanted was to be home with her father in San Fransisco watching Singin' in the Rain.
She wasn't ready. For any of what was to come. Not the cameras, the reporters, the screaming fans. Not him.
She wasn't ready to see him.
#wintershock#darcy x bucky#bucky barnes#darcy lewis#loki laufeyson#celebrity au#guys i finally finished this story#please go read it#(said by someone who never begs)#@romanoffsbite#i recently saw your cover edit#and it did help re-light the fire
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Criminal Minds S07E03 “Dorado Falls” review
Episode 03 – Dorado Falls
Hey y’all!
So this episode’s name is too vague for me to make speculations about what might happen ... hoping for something witty and awesome.
Let’s see what happens.
And she’s officially back :)
“Hey, good morning.”
Okay, now I want Prentiss as my BFF. Seriously. Free coffee in the morning before work? Perfection.
“Oh, look at you spoiling me. Thank you.”
“Where’s yours?”
“Oh, I quit caffeine. Trying to relax more.”
“Well, don’t relax too much. You got ten hours of takedown and arrest procedure training to rectify.”
“Since when?”
“Since the hearing.”
“Am I the only one?”
“Prentiss, you’ve been away.”
“Oh, yeah. I guess I can’t complain.”
“Well, especially not to your trainer.”
“Oh! You’re doing it?”
“Don’t get too excited. I’m about to put you through the wringer.”
“You can believe that.”
Oh my goodness, Prentiss’s look of excitement and then confusion is killing me.
Though I’m totally with her on that one. Why is Derek so excited on putting her through the wringer?
“Workplace massacre this morning at Synalock Incorporated. That’s in Charlottesville, which his practically in our backyard.”
“That’s a high body count.”
“Yeah, eight victims in total. All employees, including the CEO.”
Damn.
”Five shot, three were stabbed to death.”
“A gun and a knife. That’s highly unusual.”
“It could be two killers.”
“That would be the first time for a workplace killing.”
“Their business in Internet security for corporations. They didn’t have video surveillance?”
“They just moved into a new building. They didn’t have time to set up their system yet.”
“How is it no one saw anything?”
“The killer was prepared. Highly organized. This was premeditated.”
“He kept his emotions contained.”
“Pretty hard to do for the typical workplace killer who’s mentally ill or outraged about some perceived injustice.”
“The high body count indicates a hell of a lot of rage.”
“One employee, John Owen, was MIA. Local PD haven’t been able to locate him yet.”
Oops.
“Any unhappy clients?”
“Or a domestic situation among the employees?”
“Don’t know, but your friendly neighborhood genius girl will find out.”
“Bottom line is a mass killing is a classic show of force. It’s a way to become known. Which is why suicide, often by cop, is usually part of the plan.”
“So where’s the unsub?”
“He has a reason to stay hidden. He’s not finished yet.”
Well, fuck.
Franklin D. Roosevelt: “Men are not prisoners of fate, but prisoners of their own minds.”
“Absolutely. These are Agents Rossi and Jareau and Dr. Reid.”
I love his cutesy little wave.
“Of course. As soon as we make our assessment.”
Someone needs to put a plug in that whole media coverage before the cops arrive thing.
“So what do we know about the missing employee so far?”
“You said the CEO’s office was ransacked.”
“JJ.”
Let’s go investigate.
“The position of the body suggests he was one of the last ones killed.”
“He tried to escape and almost made it to the exit.”
“Jane Burney and Vinia Dev were here. Jane tried to run, Vinia didn’t.”
How does he know that? Because he’s the most genius genius to ever genius my genius.
...
And, you know, maybe he’s good at his job ... maybe.
“She’s half under her desk, which means she tried to hide and the unsub found her.”
“So these three were stabbed and the rest were shot to death.”
“Yes, but the bloody footprints all seem to come from the same pair of shoes.”
“Given the evidence, if there were a second killer, he’d be hard-pressed to get away without leaving tracks.”
“If there was only one unsub, he used his gun first, emptied his magazine, didn’t have a replacement, and resorted to using his knife.”
“He’d have to be physically fit or at least intimidating enough to subdue so many people.”
“If this were highly premeditated, he would have brought enough ammunition to kill everyone.”
“Unless he had a single target.”
“He killed the rest of them because they were witnesses.”
“We need to figure out who his first victim was.”
“These are contracts Synalock had. What was the unsub looking for?”
“Maybe he was a client searching for his own contract to hide any connection to Synalock after the murders.”
“Ah, everything’s digital these days, though. The hard copy’s just a backup.”
Oh my cute fossil, Rossi.
“So the unsub’s looking for an object, an old record, something not on a computer.”
“Huh. Rossi, check this out.”
“So, uh, Werner was worried enough about his safety to be armed.”
“And he didn’t have time to go for his gun or didn’t perceive the threat to be immediate.”
“Or keeping a gun around was out of force of habit.”
“He was a veteran.”
“A naval officer by the looks of it.”
“A decorated one at that.”
“He was awarded the Navy Cross in 2000.”
“Something else used to be here.”
“Another picture frame.”
Ruh-roh.
“Blood splatter overlay patterns indicate victim number three was over here.”
“Victim number two right here.”
“And finally victim number one right here.”
“Adam Werner was killed first?”
“Looks that way.”
“Which means the unsub made it all the way in here without alarming anyone.”
“He wasn’t threatening.”
“That’s why Werner didn’t pull the gun we found in his office.”
“He could have been the missing employee.”
“He may have taken that photo form his office if he was in it.”
“Why would an employee be interested in Synalock’s contracts?”
“Maybe this is about one client.”
“He could be after specific company information.”
“He had another motive besides killing.”
“It was clean and fast.”
“He sliced through the left carotid and abdominal aorta, major arteries that would bleed out quickly.”
“They all took two .45s to the chest, except for Adam Warner. He took four body shots and one to the head, execution style.”
“Definite overkill.”
“Somebody was angry with the boss.”
“Somebody with hunting skills.”
“Or a law enforcement background?”
“Talk to me, little genie.”
“Well, since you know how to rub my lamp, your wish is my command.”
Facepalming, grinning and giggling all at the same time here.
“I checked the Synalock client list, and the Defence Intelligence Agency is new to them, so there really isn’t anything to report, and everyone else is crazy happy with their service.”
“No complaints logged in?”
“Zero. I’m talking every high-tech blog, every chat room, glowing accolades. No one had anything contrary to say about Synalock.”
“Any employees have a history of domestic disturbances or stalkers?”
“Not that I’d violate privacy laws to check, she says, but the answer is no.”
“So Synalock is clean.”
“As a whistle.”
“Which reminds me …”
“You know how to whistle, don’t you?”
“You just put your lips together and blow.’
Oh my goodness, I love this ridiculous goddess and hunky chocolate adonis so freaking much.
“I love it when you talk old movies. Later, baby girl.”
“With all the overkill on Werner, there’s got to be a personal connection.”
“We’ve located John Owen, the missing employee. He’s been at a Doctor Who convention in San Diego since Saturday. It was a scheduled vacation.”
“Lucky guy.”
“I’ll say. That’s supposed to be an awesome convention.”
Dead here. Because I know I will never find a man as perfect as Spencer in real life.
“So if it wasn’t someone connected to the workplace, who is it?”
“You know, given the precision of the kills, it could be someone with a military background.”
“Or a professional hired by a business competitor.”
“A hit man would just kill Werner. Killing the entire office seems unprofessional.”
“Werner was a Navy veteran. He had DIA contracts. He had close ties to the military. It could be someone from his past harboring an old grudge.”
“Trooper, issue a Be on The Lookout to law enforcement for a physically fit male in his 30s to 40s, possibly a veteran. He appears nonthreatening and blends in easily. He’s armed and extremely dangerous. He most likely will kill again, either himself or others, very soon.”
You know, as serious as this is, the whole “Luke, I’m your father” thing is just too much for me and I cannot control my giggles.
“Are we sure the unsub is their son?”
“Luke Dolan called Synalock early this morning. Garcia confirmed it.”
“Know many 60-year-olds with a boombox?”
Not anymore. Which is sad.
“Trying to mask the sound of gunshots?”
“Could be. Or he was torturing them with sound.”
That metal music was definitely torture, bro.
“Why were they bound and gagged in the closet? Why not just kill them right away?”
“Maybe he was trying to get information from them.”
“About what?”
“Go ahead, Garcia, you’re on speaker.”
“Okay, Luke Dolan was in the same Navy unit as our CEO Adam Werner. That would be the 212th. They were both communication clerks at Camp Patriot in Kuwait. I’m sending all this information to your emails now.”
“Any other family?”
“He has a wife, Jenna. They’ve been separated for years. She lives in Bethesda with her eight-year-old daughter.”
“We need to bring her in for protective custody and to interview her. Send local PD and have our nearest unit meet them.”
“Done and done.”
Duh.
“Okay, it looks like he served thirteen years, honorable discharge in 2005. And now a VP of a biotech company. He was never a Synalock employee.”
“So what happened to this guy?”
“He was separated from his wife about a year ago, but that’s a bit far back to be a trigger.”
“Well, he’s on a rampage of some kind. What if mentally he was reliving a combat situation?”
“It could be post-traumatic stress. Everybody could look like an enemy.”
“Prentiss, this was a close-knit family.”
“Look at them.”
“They couldn’t have been more proud of their son.”
“How bad would his disorder have to be to make him kill his own parents?”
“Post-traumatic stress disorder rarely turns people into killers, but soldiers with PTSD have been known to strangle their wives in bed while having flashbacks or nightmares, believing they’re on the battlefield.”
“In 2005, an Iraqi war vet assaulted two people in Las Vegas, believing them to be enemy combatants.”
“So Dolan’s having a sustained flashback.”
“Pathological disassociation is one of the markers of complex PTSD, although Dolan has been stateside for six years. An escalation of the symptoms is possible, but it would be rare for them to appear out of nowhere.”
“Well, he seems to have made a successful transition to civilian life.”
“Well, at least on paper it does.”
“We should find out if he’s had any symptoms since he left the navy. It could have been the catalyst for the separation.”
“I’ll have Garcia check his records.”
“Hotch, Dolan’s been going through this.”
“Look, old mementos and journals from his days in the service.”
“He didn’t come here just to kill his parents. He came to get something.”
“He’s on some sort of mission.”
“The car’s washed, spotless inside, there’s no paint separation or rust.”
“This accident was recent.”
“I agree.”
“The Navy’s in his blood. he would never let that go without getting it fixed immediately.”
“It might have triggered his condition.”
“I’ll have Garcia run the plates, check for any recent accidents.”
“So, Dolan left his sedan and didn’t take the parents’ car.”
“He was smart enough to know it’d be tracked.”
“He’s either on foot or he’s stolen another vehicle.”
“If he’s capable of doing this, he’s rational and clear-headed enough to evade his perceived enemies.”
“So despite any mental incapacity, he’s still performing at a high level.”
“Just got word the local PD’s at the wife and daughter’s house.”
“Dolan’s unpredictable when he’s on a rampage. We need to go wide. We need to get the profile to the press.”
“Luke Dolan is a Navy veteran we believe is suffering from PTSD.”
“A recent trauma may have triggered this. He is experiencing pathological disassociation and may believe he’s in a combat situation.”
“What this means is, to him, everyone is a potential enemy. Do not underestimate him. Despite his mental state, he has extreme survival skills.”
“Right now, we believe he’s within a 250-mile radius of Roanoke. He is armed and extremely dangerous.”
“It is important that you do not approach him. He believes that he is on a mission, and if threatened, he will kill. So if you see him, stay away and notify the authorities.”
I’ll tell you whatever you want, gorgeous.
“One thing’s been bothering me is the first victim, Adam Warner, was given the Navy Cross in 2000.”
“We weren’t at war.”
“Exactly.”
“You have to show extreme sacrifice, risk life and limb to win the second-highest medal of valor.”
“So what did he do during peacetime to deserve it?”
“So, Garcia’s discovered part of Dolan’s military records were encrypted.”
“I just got the complete file to the Pentagon. He wasn’t a clerk. He was a Navy Seal.”
“Let me guess. Adam Werner was, too.”
“Yeah. Werner was the seal team leader, Dolan was his number two. Their unit was part of JSOC. They were involved in twenty highly classified missions.”
“Which missions were in 2000?”
“Uh, only one. Operation Dorado Falls.”
“See what you can find about it.”
“Will do.”
Good.
“That changes the profile.”
“Definitely.”
“How so?”
“Navy Seals are screened carefully for vulnerability to PTSD. They’re resistant to it.”
“So why would a trained Navy Seal kill his commanding officer and his own parents?”
“I don’t know, but it’s gonna be a lot harder to find him. Very few people on this planet are capable of stopping him.”
“Luke Dolan just evaded a roadblock near his wife’s house. They searched the surrounding area. There’s no sign of him.”
Well, this just turned from crap tp shit.
“Did you notice any recent changes in Luke’s behavior?”
“Did he ever mention Dorado Falls?”
“A mission he was on.”
“Is that why you two separated?”
“You weren’t a priority to him?”
“He had an exit strategy.”
Oh that poor woman. Her husband had an exit strategy from life and she took it personally.
“Okay, so it turns out 6:20 Friday night, Dolan got in a car accident in Bethesda.”
“That must have been after he dropped off his daughter.”
“He suffered minor injuries, he refused medical treatment.”
“Well, his wife said he was fine when he left her.”
“What was his mental state after the accident?”
“Normal. Field sobriety test came up negative.”
“That wouldn’t rule out drug use.”
Well, crap.
“I’d consider schizophrenia, except he’s the wrong age for the first psychotic break. It could be an aneurysm or a brain tumor.”
“Well, one thing’s for sure. He’s having a mental breakdown, but what are the specific features of it?”
“He’s not living in a past time and place, he’s living in the present, with the capacity and intelligence to evade law enforcement.”
Wow, that woman is rattled. Though any sane woman would if her husband was forced out of their house at gunpoint and she was left wondering what the fuck is going on.
“Mrs. Milgram …”
“Ma’am, listen to me. The FBI is in charge of looking for your husband, but I need you to try to remember what Luke Dolan said.”
“Yes, you can.”
“Just close your eyes.”
“Ma’am, I believe that you can.”
“Just listen to the sound of my voice and you’ll be fine.”
“Just try.”
“Close your eyes. There you go.”
“Just relax and breathe. Very good.”
“Now, what were you doing before he broke into your house?”
“Does he think your husband did something to them?”
“Does he mention Dorado Falls?”
Yup.
“All of the Milgrams’ cars are still here, so he must have taken the General in whatever vehicle he came in.”
“He talked about gaslighting. He thinks someone’s trying to purposely distort his reality.”
“He said his parents had been replaced.”
“He sounds delusional.”
“You know, he might have Capgras syndrome.”
Huh?
“It’s a delusional disorder in which one believes that their friends and loved ones had been replaced by impostors.”
“Sort of like Invasion of the Body Snatchers.”
“It typically involves only one sense, such as sight.”
“Basically, the neural connection between the visual cortex and the emotional center of the brain becomes severed, so that looking at a loved one doesn’t elicit the same emotional response one would expect.”
“So you think they’re an imposter.”
“And the interesting thing is that the auditory connection remains intact, so that if they were to hear a loved one speak and not see them, they’d think that they were real.”
“What causes this syndrome?”
“It’s unknown in 60% of the cases, but the rest have an organic cause, such as a tumor or head trauma.”
“He was in a car accident Friday.”
“People with delusional disorders don’t become killers, though.”
“True, but Dolan’s background as a Navy Seal, his knowledge of secret missions, plus Capgras syndrome, could result in extreme paranoia.”
“It’s the perfect storm.”
“Is there a cure for this?”
Nope. Shit.
“So this guy’s stuck with it.”
“He’s not killing for the thrill of it, he does it because he believes he has no other choice.”
“He murdered his best friend and his parents because he believed they were imposters.”
“So if he were to see his wife and daughter, the results could be deadly.”
“Dolan kidnapped the General and didn’t kill his wife because he had never met them before.”
“There may be another reason. He wants contact.”
“Our primary goal right now is the safe recovery of the General.”
“We could. But your help would speed things up.”
“You’re smart enough to see the upside, I’m sure.”
“You help and it goes well, you get your ticket punched.”
“You don’t and it goes south, well, the weather’s not too bad outside the beltway.”
“You know why Dolan’s so worried about this mission?”
“Were there complications?”
Oh damn. She don’t mess around.
“We think his car accident triggered a delusional disorder.”
“We need to know who Luke was close to.”
“Is this Lieutenant Luke Dolan?”
“Sergeant Major David Rossi, United States Marine Corps, retired.”
“I volunteered to call you.”
“I knew your dad, Luke. We were in boot camp together at Parris Island.”
“He’s a good man.”
“Still triangulating a location. Hold on.”
“Now, we can talk, but first I need to know that General Milgram is safe.”
“What’s up with the music?”
“I have no idea.”
You know, I am getting real tired of these writers stealing my thunder.
“Why did you kidnap the General?”
“Do you think we’re holding them?”
God. This guy is off his meds. And pretty bad.
“What have you got, Garcia?”
“Getting closer. We’re in the warehouse district. Stand by.”
“Got it! 3352 Spring Street.”
Go! Go! Go!
“Let’s go.”
“Release the General and then we can talk about your family. He’s innocent.”
“Luke, do you think your father would approve of what you’re doing?”
“Start what?”
What the fuck is this nutcase talking about?
“Why don’t you tell us your side of the story?”
“All right.”
“Dorado Falls was the name of a boat off the coast of Cape Town. It was owned by a South African diplomat who was selling nuclear secrets to Iran.”
“So what’s the big secret?”
“There isn’t one. Don’t get me wrong, lives were lost, but there’s been far worse missions.”
“His mind chose Dorado Falls to build a conspiracy around.”
Well, shit.
“This can’t be it.”
“Garcia, it’s an empty lot with a cell phone repeater. Give me a rundown on the buildings in the area and the years that they were built.”
“All over it like cat hair on a sofa.”
Someone zap her here so I can kiss her.
“Btw, I can usually locate a cell phone within three meters, but sometimes there are circumstance beyond my control, like physical barriers blocking a signal, not being in the satellite’s direct line of sight, which bounces the signal to a repeater.”
“Garcia, tell me you’ve got something.”
“Oh, sorry. Yes, I have something.”
Oh my God, she is the cutest thing ever.
“There is a hotel built in ’74 that is scheduled for demo, and there is a warehouse scheduled for loft conversion that was built in 1928.”
“All right, walls were thicker in the twenties.”
“What’s the address of the building?”
“More GPS signal interference.”
Come on, baby.
“Exact address is … 291 Hope Street.”
“291 Hope.”
“Intel failed to identify … two children aboard the boat.”
“You had to shoot those kids, didn’t you? They were witnesses. Just like everyone at Synalock.”
“Listen, Jenna and Ally are safe.”
“I’ll make you an offer. You let Milgram go and I’ll take his place.”
“But you need insurance. I get that. Let me take his place. Because I’m not just a guy behind a desk.”
“I was a Marine with boots on the ground, just like you.”
“I know what you’ve been through.”
“I want you to get your family back.”
“Where’s Hotch and Morgan?”
“The Spring Street address didn’t pan out. They’re searching the warehouse right now.”
“Luke, I need your exact address.”
“Clear.”
“We got the General. He’s still alive.”
Where the fuck is Dolan?
“Yeah, he used the radio to mask the sound of his movements.”
“We’re on the move.”
“This was all part of his plan to find out who was holding his wife and daughter.”
“But you never said you were FBI.”
“He saw the number I called from. He recognized the FBI prefix.”
“So, what, he’s on his way here to Quantico?”
“I know the head space he’s in. he feels alone right now. There’s no risk he won’t take.”
“As a Navy Seal, he did training here. He knows this place.”
Seal everything.
“An FBI police officer was just found shot to death in the academy parking structure.”
“He’s already here.”
Shit.
“Dolan’s photo’s already been sent on all internal servers.”
“He’s probably changed his appearance already.”
“And he’s got thirteen floors to hide on.”
Fuck.
“We should make a general PA announcement.”
Hey, I know that weirdo.
“No. He believes he’s on a rescue mission that he can pull off. As long as he thinks that, he’ll stay calm.”
“I’ve got hundreds of employees in here and you want me to do nothing?”
Seriously, dude?
“Garcia, I need you on the building’s operations computer.”
“Ready and able, sir.”
“Dolan’s got a police radio. I want all alerts sent through ha secure tactical channel.”
“We can’t take that risk. You’ll be safe in here.”
Good, keep them safe.
“He knows how to be invisible.”
“I got him. He used the dead officer’s ID to enter the seventh floor.”
“Seal if off. Nobody in or out.”
Oh boy.
“Navy Seals never start a mission without an exfiltration plan. Check the exterior and elevator shafts for riggings.’
“Turning exterior cameras now.”
“A member of the seal team said Dolan’s an expert in explosives, disabling and building them.”
“Also be on the lookout for explosives.”
Fuck.
Wack calling, let Rossi handle it.
“Hello.”
“Yes. I was hoping you’d call, Luke.”
“Where are you?”
Shit. He’s there with a fucking bomb and fucking shit I am not okay with this.
“Okay, okay. Easy, easy.”
“Oh, my God.”
“All right, Luke, you don’t want to be aiming that around.”
“Snipers have the building covered.”
“You’re in the crosshairs right now, I can guarantee that.”
“I’m the one you want. You can let my team go.”
“Start an evacuation.”
“Can we evacuate everyone in three minutes?”
“Prentiss, I need his wife in here.”
“No one is seeking revenge here. You’ve created this conspiracy in your own mind.”
“To protect them from you after you murdered your own parents.”
“Your real parents are dead.”
DUDE! What the fuck are you doing?!
“You want to know what’s really going on? You were in a car accident three nights ago and you suffered a head trauma.”
“You don’t believe that’s her?”
Shit.
“Jenna, can you talk to him about something personal, something that only the two of you would know about?”
“When you see your family, you think that they’re imposters, but it’s all caused by an illness.”
“You’re sick, Luke.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“Luke, you have to close your eyes.”
“Because you need to know that your wife is real and your eyes will trick you.”
“Close your eyes.”
“First Jenna’s gonna cover up your eyes.”
Shit.
“No! No!”
“JJ, let me have him.”
“Get him out of here!”
“Get him out of here!”
Ah crap, it all went to shit.
Orson Welles: “Only through our love and friendship can we create the illusion for a moment that we’re not alone.”
“No, I didn’t mandate it.”
Wait. So Hotch didn’t mandate the training? Oh boy, my puppy really stepped in it this time.
“Hey.”
“Uh, Hotch didn’t order my takedown recertification.”
Busted.
“Do you want to tell me what’s really going on?”
“I just thought we both could use a refresher.”
“You mean you thought I could use it.”
“You’re nervous about me being back.”
“Emily …”
��What … you think I’m gonna mess up the team’s rhythm?”
“I get it. But just come out and say it.”
“Morgan.”
“Okay, fine.”
“Yea, I am nervous.”
“But not about you.”
“About me.”
“Emily, I thought I lost you, and I blamed myself.”
“Now, you’re back, but I don’t want to be worried about losing you again and get distracted.”
“So you wanted some reassurance.”
“Yeah, something like that.”
“Morgan, I cannot imagine what you went through.”
“It was seven months of hell.”
“How can I make it up to you? I will do whatever it takes.”
“Just give me ten hours of training.”
“Okay, you got it.”
“Shooting range on Sundays.”
“I’m there.”
“And my morning coffee and a neck rub every day.”
“Oh, buddy, you are really pushing it.”
Morgan, you little shit!
Whew. So aside from the craziness of this entire episode, because - hot damn! - this episode was so cute! Morgan dealing with his mixed feelings about Prentiss coming back and being worried he might lose her again, it’s just the most adorable subplot there is.
Also, I just found out that Reid likes to go to Doctor Who conventions, and it just made my day.
Also, I love how they address PTSD and general trauma-coping in military veterans. It’s seriously refreshing how they keep addressing all issues in human psyche around the vast country of the USA. Amazing.
And so, on this ... positive? ... note, I thank you all for keeping on following this stuff.
I’ll see you all next time and - in the meantime, enjoy the rest of the photos of Shemar Moore I’ve been hoarding.
#Criminal Minds reviews#Criminal Minds#reviews#s07e03#dorado falls#aaron hotchner#Thomas Gibson#derek morgan#Shemar Moore#dr spencer reid#Matthew Gray Gubler#Penelope Garcia#Kirsten Vagnsness#Jennifer Jareau#jj#aj cook#emily prentiss#Paget Brewster#david rossi#joe mantegna#max martini#franklin delano roosevelt#orson welles#poodle#puppy#baby boy#god of chocolate thunder#chocolate adonis#baby girl#tech kitten
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Replacements - For Sale: Live at Maxwell’s 1986
The Replacements, pre-this new live album - Photo by Greg Helgeson
I’ve been to Maxwell’s in Hoboken, NJ, many times. @newbombturks played there a few times. There’s even an official DVD with a few tunes from a wild night we had there. But I wasn’t around NYC in 1986. I saw the Replacements on this tour while still growing up in Cleveland, a few months before this show, if memory serves.
“If memory serves” serves as more than just the ubiquitous rock’n’roll maxim when it comes to the Replacements. Drinking, specifically cheap beer, really was essential to being in, and into, the Replacements. Luckily, I wasn’t yet seduced by the gut-scraping joy of Natural Light when I first saw the Replacements back then. So memory is fully subservient here.
My friend and I went because we’d heard a little bit of them on college radio, probably, and went to any show with a band that had a vaguely punk-sounding name. I think Death of Samantha was opening, and I saw them every time I could.
Stone sober I sat there as the Replacements jumped into their set. And by the third song, I knew this was something to sink myself into fully, I told my pal, who preferred sitting and watching if the choice was there, that I HAD to go down front, which I did during what I thought sounded like “Rock My Up” (which I later learned was “Take Me Down to the Hospital” -- why “hospital” sounded like “rock me up” to me, I have no clue. But again, not drunk. Maybe the ears were already ringing...), and stood agog and bopping for the rest of the show. To this day, it’s the closest I ever felt to what it must’ve been like to see the Beatles at the Rathskeller, the Stones at some London underground dive in ‘65, the Velvet Underground at La Cave in Cleveland in ‘68 -- a show you instantly know to commit to memory, something you can impress the youngins with years later.
Side story: While working at CMJ in 2008, someone was quitting, it was their last day, and we all decided to go to lunch with him that day. So one person decided to start a conversation: “Name a band you saw live who later got really huge.” After a bunch of interns scratched their heads and at best came up with “Uh, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah,” it came around to quitting guy who said, “Well, I saw [forgotten 2002 hype band], and a little someone named Ted Leo opened up.” Murmured “Ooooo”s arose. When it came around to me -- being at least 13 years older than anyone at that table -- I didn’t have the heart to name drop the Pixies, the Replacements, or Jesus & Mary Chain (all three of whom have done recent reunions, but man, it was way better back then, man!), and feigned a french fry getting caught in my throat.
So anyway, yeah, that Replacements show was one of the most exciting I ever saw. They perfectly fit my evolving notions of all-decades post-war trash rock smelted into one whiz-bang rock’n’roll gang, a tiny corner of “my generation’s Rolling Stones.”
Photo by Caryn Rose
But over the years... well firstly Don’t Tell a Soul came out, so, yeah. Then the cult of the Replacements slowly over-mythologized them, and suddenly by the turn of the century, they seemed to be the reason “no depression” existed, and no one wants to take credit for that. How did that ragged Johnny Thunders punk, constant self effacement, dumb hair, and ‘70s thrift store clothes morph into bearded dudes in flannels offering their left nuts to be able to write “Answering Machine” as an NPR essay? The Replacements were so deft (when “on”) at concocting that midwestern mix of a goofy sense of humor, severely pissed sonic squalls, and a predominant sense of swingin’ fun. But here they stood -- well their myth anyway -- as solipsistic neo-folkers just because “Here Comes a Regular” was so fucking good.
Not unlike R.E.M., the earliest moves of the band seemed to have been swallowed up by the (relatively, in the Replacements case) latter day hits and staid reputation as “serious influence.” So with R.E.M. you had Live and Counting Crows name-dropping them; with the Replacements, Built to Spill and Ryan Adams Hey, fun-stompers -- the Replacements liked the DeFranco Family and the Sweet at least as much as CCR.
(The brief rumors that the Black Lips were going to play the Replacements in a kind of quasi-biopic? Now THAT made sense, even if whatever that idea was seemed to have gotten ground down into this.)
Thankfully, Bob Mehr’s excellent biography, Trouble Boys, came along in 2016, right after the short-lived Replacements reunion tour, to more roundly realign the band’s brazen garage band spirit and shit-stirring, shit-faced, and sometimes just plain shitty sides.
Photo by Caryn Rose
And now we get aurally realigned with this new, top-notch live double-album, For Sale: Live at Maxwell’s 1986; recorded, superbly, with Warner Bros-backed pro shit in lieu of a promotional live album that never happened, since guitarist Bob Stinson was kicked out not long after this 1986 tour. Compared to my memory of that Cleveland show the same year, and given that if there is one constant in the Replacements story, it’s that “some nights they were great, other nights they were even more drunk,” I recall way more funny in-between song banter and bitching. As the fine liner notes (by Bob Mehr) cop to in this release, this was not a night for witty banter. Whether that was from simple mood -- and the fact that for 3/4 of this show, the band really does blaze from one song to the next, so no fucking complaints -- or the fact that the band’s relationship with Bob Stinson was disintegrating exponentially right around then, and so the no chat/go fast rhythm here may be railroading emotions. That is often the default gear for most great rock’n’roll bands.
Photo by Caryn Rose
Ripping versions of “Hayday,” Hold My Life,” and God Damn Job” are just some of the highlights from the first half. As the drunken but not completely sputtering, 1/4-baked covers of ‘Mats’ fame start to roll in, the album takes a slightly woozy turn into the moodier side of the band. If my aforementioned platzing about solipsism implied that I don’t deeply revere the band’s melancholy impulses, I apologize. The Replacements and their Minneapolis brethren of the time (Husker Du, Soul Asylum, Magnolias) were the best in r’n’r’s history at effortlessly brewing up bawdy adolescent swagger coin-flipped with engrained, five month-long winters stuck in a dank basement brooding and coming up with riffs until adulthood might most likely make that 12 months.
So as they make T-Rex’ “Baby Strange” their own slicing garage song, “Hitchin’ a Ride” a stein-hoister, and pulling out the amazing dark tunnel drive of the shouldabeen A-side but lost comp track “Go,” they aren’t just the drunk band filling out the set because they’ve forgotten which originals they already did, though they were. Admittedly, it was notoriously hard to just stop and leave Maxwell’s stage because of no easily sneak off-able side door. Bands tended to go five songs too long there. But also -- as somewhere in there Westerberg mumbles about “This ain’t the most rocking show we ever did,” self-effacing to the end -- there is a shadow slowly descending on this set. The crowd is noticeably having a hoot, but there could’ve only been about 125 people there. So this is no posthumous, classic rock band triumphantlism stadium live document, with massive crowd cheering, of course. It’s an amazing American rock’n’roll band, if not to be recognized as such outside of the college radio crowd until much later.
It’s a band just on the brink of starting to lose energy and patience for their already sloppily sculpted myth. It feels like a true pouring out of everything they got. Partly as it was supposedly a favorite club of theirs to play; partly because they knew some dough was being dumped into this promotional folly; and partly because a few nights before they performed the perfunctory middle-finger flip Big Apple show that all the big wigs were at who could’ve helped them get more popular. But mostly because the Replacements were a really fucking great rock’n’roll band, maybe at their greatest as a seasoned touring band right here on this cold February night. Not that spring was right around the corner or anything...
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Playing With Fire - Mick/Sin
Title: Playing With Fire
Fandom: DC's Legends of Tomorrow
Rating: Teen
Pairings/Characters: Mick Rory/Sin, Mick Rory & Sara Lance, mentions Sara Lance/Leonard Snart
Summary: After Rip drops everyone back in Star City May 2016, Mick stays with Sara. After Sara can't find Laurel right away, but before she goes to the Bunker, she tells Mick she needs to check on one other person: Sin.
Timeline: during 01x16 (Legendary)
Word Count: 4,737
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership over these characters. I am merely borrowing them from Berlanti Productions, DC Entertainment, and Warner Bros. Television. Some dialog borrowed from episode.
Betas: Thank you to angelskuuipo and shanachie for looking this over for me.
Author's Note: Written for @mick-rory-appreciation-week Day 2: Favorite Relationship. I saw this as the perfect opportunity to indulge in my very rare pair, of which I am practically the only person to ship.
"You sure you don't have somewhere else you'd rather be?" Sara asked Mick as they approached Laurel's apartment building. "Isn't Central City your home?"
Mick hesitated before speaking, "Central is… That's Snart's city."
"I get it," Sara said.
"'Sides, if I went to Central, I'd have to find Lisa, and I'm not ready for that conversation. Yet," Mick admitted.
"Okay. Just don't be surprised if my sister goes for her baseball bat when she sees you. As a D.A. turned vigilante, she'll probably hit first and ask questions later if I show up with a known criminal."
"She knows you used to associate with assassins, doesn't she?" Mick asked.
"Yeah, but I'm her baby sister," Sara said, cheekily.
"Family's weird," Mick grumbled. "Think I'll just wait out here."
"You really don't have to wait for me," Sara insisted. "I don't know how long I'll be here. I mean, I'm planning on staying with Laurel, so if she's here, it's not like I'll be coming back out."
"Fine, then I'll come up," Mick said.
"Why'd you even want to come with me?" Sara asked as they made their way into the building. "It's not like I have a couch you can crash on since I'll be doing the sofa surfing thing myself. I'm sure if you call Ray he'd be more than happy to put you up."
"Put up with me's more like it," Mick countered.
"Hey, I'm not trying to get rid of you," Sara said, sincerely. "I just don't have my own place in Star City and I can't make offers on other people's behalf."
"Could say I'm your boyfriend," Mick suggested. "Then they'd have to take me."
Sara raised an eyebrow at that suggestion, until her face crumpled. "We both know why I can't do that." She paused, and then met his eyes. "You do know, don't you?"
"I do," Mick acknowledged, somberly. "I shouldn't have suggested it."
"Under different circumstances, I would have enjoyed seeing my family's reaction to that situation."
"Me, too, Blondie," Mick said. "Look, I'll call Haircut once I know you've found your couch to sleep on. Deal?"
"Deal," Sara said as they arrived at Laurel's door. She knocked, but there was silence on the other side of the door.
Sara pulled out her phone and tried calling Laurel's cell, but it went straight to voicemail. She shrugged and put her phone in the back pocket of her pants. "She's probably working late."
"You didn't call her before we came here?" Mick asked.
"I did, but it went to voicemail then, too," Sara said. "Figured I'd take a chance."
"So, what now? Off to Arrow Central?" he asked as they headed back to the elevator.
"Got one other stop to make first," Sara said. "Since I can't find my big sister, I want to check on my little one."
Mick frowned. "Thought you only had the one sister."
"One by blood," Sara confirmed. "Sin's my little sister by choice."
Mick smirked. "Sin, huh?"
"Don't you go getting any ideas," Sara said, poking him in the chest as they rode down in the elevator. "She's ten years younger than me."
"Snart was fifteen years older than you," Mick pointed out. "And I haven't even met her yet. What makes you think I'll even be interested?"
"Good point. You know, I don't think I've ever seen you show interest in anyone. Are you even interested in women? Or was Snart a partner in more than one sense of the word?" Sara asked as she led them out of the elevator and building and began to head towards the Glades.
"That's because it's been none of your business," Mick said. "But to set the record straight, when I fuck someone, it's a woman."
"Then my warning stands," Sara said.
"You planning on walking all over Star City?" Mick asked after a few minutes of scanning the parked cars they walked past.
"You afraid of a little exercise?" Sara teased.
"Yes," Mick answered, eyes landing on an old Ford pickup truck. "Come on, that one will be easy to steal."
Sara sighed, but all she said was, "Make it quick."
It only took Mick a couple of minutes to break into and hot wire the truck. Sara directed him to Sin's apartment and he found a parking spot near the entrance.
"You sure you're not bored following me around?" Sara asked before getting out of the truck.
"I haven't had this much fun following someone in a long time." Mick smirked.
Sara groaned. "Now you're starting to sound like him."
"Someone's gotta," Mick said with a shrug and opened the truck door. Sara did the same a moment later.
This time, when Sara knocked on the door it was opened by a young woman with short spikey dark hair. Mick had never seen an expression go from annoyed to delighted so quickly as the girl squealed, "You're alive," and pulled Sara into a fierce hug.
Mick stood back as the two women hugged, giving them a moment.
When they separated, Sin looked up and spotted Mick. "Who's he?"
Sara turned and gestured him forward. "This is my friend, Mick. He was on the mission with me. Mick, this is Sin."
Sin ran her eyes over him and said, "No offense, man, but you don't look like a hero."
"None taken," Mick rasped. "I'm no hero."
"Can we come in?" Sara asked, not wanting to have this conversation in the hallway.
"Yeah, of course," Sin said, holding the door open wide. "Do you want something to drink?"
"Beer," Mick immediately answered as he stepped inside and the door was closed behind them. "Are you even old enough to buy beer?"
"My ID says that I am," Sin answered with a wink as she went to grab three beers from the fridge. She called back, "Make yourselves comfortable."
"I like her," Mick said as he settled into a ratty arm chair while Sara took a seat on the old couch.
"Mick." Her voice held an edge of warning to it, which he ignored.
Sin returned with their beers and after handing them around, curled up close to Sara on the couch.
"So, where have you been?" Sin asked. "Five months ago you said you'd see me in a few days and then nothing. I thought you might have died again. Especially when you didn't show up for the funeral."
Sara pulled Sin closer, keeping an arm wrapped around her. "I know; I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be gone for so long." After a beat, Sara asked, "What funeral? Who died?"
Sin realized that Sara must not know about Laurel dying yet, and she didn't want to have to be the one to tell her. It was cowardly, but she didn't want to be the one to cause Sara that kind of pain.
"Oh, you know Star City, there's always funerals going on. Um, you said you were on a mission. Was it for the Green Arrow?" Sin asked.
Mick snorted, but otherwise remained silent and drank his beer.
Sara took a moment to glare at him, then returned her focus to Sin, wondering who had died but deciding not to press if Sin didn't want to talk about it right now.
"No, this was a different kind of mission. We were on a time traveling spaceship on a mission to stop an immortal wizard from destroying the future," Sara said.
Sin sat back so that she could properly look at Sara, her eyes wide. "You're shitting me."
"We shit you not," Mick said. "Time travel is real."
"Then why have you been gone for so long? Wouldn't you just come back to when you left?" Sin asked.
"An excellent question," Sara said. "One our captain did not care to share the answer to before he just left us here."
"I guess that explains it, though," Sin said.
"Explains what?" Sara asked.
"Why you're different. You seem older. Sadder," Sin commented.
"It's only been five months," Sara bristled, deciding not to mention the two years she spent in the 1950s. "Not that much older."
Sin shook her head. "Something happened to you on that mission. You can't fool your sister."
"We all changed," Mick agreed. "Some of us more than others."
"You, too?" Sin asked, looking at him. "How were you before? Talkative?"
Mick grunted. "Not quite talkative. Not entirely sane either."
"You saying you're sane now?" Sara asked.
"More than I was," Mick admitted. "Time Bastards did one thing right."
Sara choked back a sob at that.
"Sara?" Sin asked, her voice filled with concern.
Sara shook her head. "I'm fine."
"No, you're not," Sin stated.
"I had a partner," Mick explained when saw that Sara couldn't. "Snart and I were thieves together in Central City before we were recruited for this mission."
"Leonard Snart?" Sin interrupted. "You're Mick Rory!? Heatwave and Captain Cold?"
"Heard of us here, did you?" Mick sounded pleased.
"You're famous," Sin said. "Some of the guys I know would kill to meet you. Possibly literally. Wait a minute, where's Snart now?"
"Jumping ahead in the story, kid," Mick admonished her, impressed by her connecting the dots so quickly.
Sin glanced back at Sara and saw her friend trying to blink back tears.
"You were with him and he's not here. He died?" Sin asked.
"He died to save the world just a few days ago," Mick said, his voice thick. He finished off his beer in one go.
"We weren't together," Sara said, quietly. "We were heading that way, but we weren't when he died. I got to kiss him once. A kiss good-bye."
Mick nodded, having guessed something like that had happened; he'd known how Snart had felt about the assassin. Apparently, the feelings were mutual.
Sin wrapped her arms around Sara, pulling her into another hug.
"Need more beer," Mick grumbled as he stood, needing space from all these feelings being exposed. He made his way into the kitchen and helped himself to another beer, drinking down half the bottle in one long pull.
Sin entered the room a few minutes later, carrying hers and Sara's empties. "Sara's washing her face," she offered. "Were they in love?"
"Boss and I didn't talk about feelings," Mick started, "but if they weren't yet, they were getting there. Anyone who looked at them could tell."
"I'm sorry for your loss," Sin said, quietly.
Mick looked up at her, surprised.
"You lost him, too, right?" she asked. "After knowing him for how long?"
"Thirty years," Mick acknowledged.
"That's longer than I've been alive," Sin murmured in wonder. She took a step closer to Mick, causing him to straighten up from his slouch against a counter. "I'm going to hug you now," she warned him.
"You don't have to," Mick said, suddenly craving the human contact, but not wanting to hurt her.
"I know," Sin said as she finished closing the distance between them and wrapping her arms around Mick's torso. Mick lowered his arms so that they hung loosely around Sin, not really hugging her back, but not pushing her away, either.
That's how Sara found them.
"Am I interrupting anything?" she asked, amusement in her voice.
"No," Mick said, quickly, taking a step back.
"Not yet, anyway," Sin said. "Feel better?"
"A little, yeah," Sara said. "I think it's time for me to find Laurel. You coming, Mick?"
Mick looked down at Sin and raised an eyebrow, who shrugged in response. "You go on ahead, I think I'll stick around here for a bit."
Sara cocked her head to look at them. "Are you sure?"
"Like you said before, no reason for me to trail you around the city looking for your family," Mick said. "Besides, Sin has beer."
"You're okay with him sticking around?" Sara asked, surprised.
Sin ran her eyes over Mick in a way that had Mick's blood suddenly heat up. "Yeah, I'm sure," she answered.
"Mick, call to let me know where you land tonight."
"Sure thing, Bo--, um, Blondie," Mick stumbled, surprise on both their faces at what he'd almost called her.
"Walk me out," Sara said to Sin, her saccharine smile fooling no one.
Sin followed Sara to the door. "This the part where you tell me to watch myself around him?"
"He's way too old for you," Sara said. "And dangerous."
"I thought he was your friend," Sin said, frowning. "And he seems like he could really use someone right now."
Sara's expression softened. "When'd you get to be so smart?"
"Probably while you were dead," Sin half-joked. "We can joke about that now, right?"
"Yeah, we can. And I won't lecture you about Mick. Just, be careful. I don't know if this mission is going to pick back up again and if it does, I don't know how long we'll be gone for. I don't want you hurt if you get attached and he suddenly disappears."
"At least I'll know why ahead of time," Sin said. "And who said I'll get attached? Maybe I just want to take advantage of him." She winced and blushed faintly when she heard Mick snort in the kitchen, but what the hell, he was hot; she was going to own it.
"Stop, I beg you. I don't ever want that image in my head," Sara whined.
Sin laughed and pulled Sara into a quick hug. "Try to say good-bye next time, just in case."
"I promise," Sara said.
Sara stepped out into the hallway and Sin called after her, "If you're looking for Laurel, go talk to your dad."
"Okay, thanks," Sara said, looking at Sin curiously as she closed the door.
Mick was staring at the food delivery menus on the fridge when Sin returned to the kitchen.
"You know what I missed the most on that ship?" Mick asked, turning to face Sin.
"Sex?" Sin guessed.
"That, too," Mick agreed. "But I was thinking of Big Belly Burger."
Sin grinned at that. "C'mon, there's one just a couple blocks from here. We'll get some burgers, then see about the other thing."
Mick nearly choked on his last sip of beer. "Yeah?"
"If you play your cards right."
"Cards were really more Snart's thing," Mick said with a frown.
"And what do you play with?" Sin asked.
"Fire," Mick automatically responded.
"I have been told that I'm a little spitfire," Sin smoothly said.
Mick laughed, the sound foreign to his ears. "I just bet you have. Let's hurry up and get our food."
The walk was made mostly in silence. They found a booth and once they'd ordered, Mick asked, "So, Sara tell you not to get involved with me?"
"Pretty much," Sin confirmed. "Pretty sure you heard that, too. You?"
"Before I even met you," Mick agreed.
"She doesn't want us to get hurt," Sin tried to defend her friend.
"Not really up to her," Mick said. "Not that I'm out to hurt anyone."
"Me either," Sin agreed. "Just looking for a little fun. It's not like I expect you to stick around here."
"Just so we're clear," Mick agreed, wondering why that thought made his chest hurt just a little bit.
Their food arrived a few minutes later and Mick couldn't wait to pick his burger up and sink his teeth into it.
"You're not going to take those off to eat?" Sin asked, gesturing to his gloves.
"Don't take them off in public," Mick said around a mouthful of food.
"Why not, if you don't mind me asking?"
"Got caught in a fire a number of years back," Mick said, unashamed. "Got some pretty serious burns on my arms and back, including my hands."
"Do they hurt?" she asked, nibbling at a fry.
"Not anymore," Mick answered. "Hurry up before your burger gets cold."
Sin knew better than to press the topic any further and picked up her burger and began eating.
Mick polished off his burger in half a dozen bites, or less, licking his gloves clean. Settling back in the booth, he said, "If you were serious about your other offer, I should probably warn you that it's been awhile since I've been with anyone."
"Yeah, Sara said you were gone for five months," Sin said.
"Been a bit longer than that for me," Mick admitted. "See, while we were gone, the Time Masters got their hands on me. Brainwashed me into being their bounty hunter and assassin for a couple hundred of years."
Sin looked at him skeptically. "Now you're just pulling my leg. You are not a couple hundred of years old. You look like you're in your forties."
"Time Masters operated outside of time. Could live for hundreds of years in the span of one earth year," Mick said.
"And you were never with anyone during that time?" Sin asked.
Mick shook his head. "Didn't even occur to me. I was their loyal puppet, only did what I was told."
"That sounds terrible," Sin said, aghast.
"It was," Mick agreed. "Team got me back to myself. Mostly myself. One good thing they did was take away the need to burn everything. Don't get me wrong, I still like to burn shit up, but the need to burn isn't there anymore."
"Glad something good came out of it at least," Sin said. "And that you were reunited with your partner in the end."
"Yeah," Mick somberly agreed.
Sin wiped her mouth with a napkin and threw it down on her empty food basket. "Let's get out of here. I think we've been serious enough for one night."
"You still want me to come back to your place?" Mick asked, surprised. "Even knowing I was a bounty hunter, a killer?"
"Sara used to be an assassin, too," Sin reminded him. "You're not still a bounty hunter, right?" Mick shook his head. "Not a killer?"
"Not if I can help it."
"Then we're good."
"You're something else," Mick said in wonder.
"I've seen a lot of crazy shit in this city," Sin said. "Good people forced to do bad things and bad people suddenly doing the right thing in times of crisis. I've learned not to take everything at face value."
They kept the conversation light on the walk back to Sin's apartment and Sin led Mick straight to her bedroom when they arrived.
"You're not even trying to be coy," Mick said approvingly.
"What's the point in being coy?" Sin asked, pushing him lightly until he sat on the bed. She bent to kiss him, a light press of lips with a promise of more. "Scoot back against the wall," she murmured against his mouth.
Mick yanked off his boots and jacket before doing as requested. "Bossy little thing, aren't you?"
"Only if you want me to be," Sin said, slipping out of her own jacket and boots. She crawled up the bed and straddled Mick's lap. Mick's hands gripped her hips as she settled against him. "Hi," she said, wrapping her arms around his neck.
As Sin leaned in to kiss him again, Mick pulled back and swore. "Shit, sorry, before we do anything else, I gotta make a phone call."
"Seriously?" Sin pouted, rolling her hips. "You have to make a call right now?"
Mick groaned as he felt his body react to the movement. "I can either do it now or after we're done. Figured now would be better. I'll be quick," he said, pulling phone out of his pocket. Sin started to move to get off of him, but Mick reached out to hold her in place.
He quickly pulled up Sara's number, glad that she picked up after only one ring. "Hey, Sara, just wanted to let you know that I'm set for the night."
"Are you still with Sin?" Sara asked, her voice sounded strained.
"So what if I am?" he returned, his defenses rising.
"No, that's good. You should be around good people tonight," Sara said.
Mick held the phone away from his ear to see if he'd heard that right. "You okay there? You sound off."
"I'll talk to you tomorrow, Mick," Sara said, evading his question and ending the call.
Mick frowned as he set his phone on Sin's bedside table.
"Everything okay?" Sin asked, her fingers scratching lightly at his neck.
"I don't think so, but she didn't say what was up. I'll find out tomorrow," Mick said. He shook his head then leered at Sin, who was still on his lap. "Now, where were we?"
Sin grinned and met Mick in a heated kiss.
They didn't talk again for a very long time.
~~*~~
After a couple of very enthusiastic rounds of getting to know each other better, Mick fell asleep curled around Sin.
They woke the next morning in the same position.
Sin declared that breakfast at her favorite diner was in order. They were seated at a table for four and soon after they ordered, another person sat down at their table.
"Hey, Mick."
"Haircut," Mick said in greeting.
"Hi, I'm Ray," he said, holding a hand out to Sin.
"Sin." She looked at Mick as she perfunctorily shook Ray's hand. "Friend of yours?"
"He was on our mission," Mick reluctantly admitted.
"I-I thought we should talk," Ray said to Mick.
"How'd you find me?" Mick asked.
"I triangulated the signal on your phone," Ray said.
"I'm gonna go use the little girl's room," Sin said, excusing herself. Mick's eyes begged her not to go, but she rolled her eyes and left the two teammates alone.
"What do you want, Haircut?" Mick asked, sipping his coffee.
"To apologize, sort of. For Snart. I was the one who was supposed to die, and I can't help feeling that…"
Mick interrupted him. He didn't want to deal with all this feelings shit before breakfast, if ever. "It wasn't your fault. It was his. Son of a bitch never did anything without a plan."
"Maybe you're right," Ray said, a little too brightly. "Maybe he wanted this." He gestured between the two of them.
"What are you doing with your hand?" Mick asked, warily.
"Maybe he wanted us to, you know, be partners."
"Think I'm going to be sick," Mick said. He couldn't imagine being partners with anyone other than Snart.
Ray didn't seem to notice his reaction and continued. "I think Snart knew. He knew that I'd keep an eye out for you, and you'd keep an eye out for me."
"While doing what?" Mick found himself asking.
"What we haven't finished doing," Ray said, earnestly.
"The mission?" Sin asked, sliding back into her seat.
"You told her about it?" Ray asked in surprise.
"No, Sara did. She's Sara's friend." Then Mick quickly added, "Mine, too, now."
"So you're going back already?" Sin asked with a pout.
The server arrived with three plates of food. Sin and Mick looked surprised as an egg white omelet was set in front of Ray.
"I ordered at the counter and told them I was joining you," Ray explained.
"Is he for real?" Sin asked Mick.
"Unfortunately," Mick said.
"Hey!" Ray objected.
"You're the one to interrupt our morning after breakfast, buddy," Sin said. "If you wanted a welcome reception, you should have called first."
Ray had the decency to blush. "I guess you're right, I'm sorry. I didn't really think that Mick would have met someone so quickly."
"Apology not accepted," Mick said, biting into his bacon. "Besides, how're we supposed to finish the mission if Rip just left us here?"
"I think we can call him back," Ray said, then lifted something out of a bag on the floor. "With this."
Sin and Mick looked at the device, then at each other, then at Ray. "What's that?" they asked in unison.
"Quantum entangler." At the blank looks on his companions' faces, Ray continued, "The Waverider would have left a Quantum signature. We can use this to send a signal to the Waverider so Rip knows we want him to come back."
"Let me think about it," Mick said, looking over at Sin.
"We should really do this sooner rather than later, before the signature dissipates," Ray said.
"Let me eat my breakfast and then I'll give you my answer," Mick snapped.
"Yeah, sure, okay," Ray sputtered.
"And I think you should take your food to the counter," Mick added.
Glancing between Mick and Sin, Ray nodded his agreement. "Okay, sure. I'll just…" He put the Quantum entangler back in its bag and then took his food to an empty seat at the counter.
"You're going to go," Sin said as soon Ray was out of earshot.
"I know," Mick said. "Hasn't felt right leaving the mission incomplete. Doesn't mean that I want him to know I'm just as determined to see it out."
Sin giggled at the small smile tugging Mick's lips. "You're terrible."
"He makes it so easy," Mick said. "I'll call Sara on the way back to your place so she can come say good-bye."
"Thanks," Sin said, sincerely.
"Not letting her break her promise to you," Mick said.
"You sure you're not one of the heroes?" Sin teased him.
"Eat your pancakes," Mick huffed.
Ray was practically beaming when Mick told him that he'd be going with him and insisted on paying for their breakfast. They let him.
Ray drove them back to Sin's apartment, and Mick called Sara to let her know they were getting the Waverider to come back. She said she'd be at Sin's apartment in ten minutes.
Mick told Ray to wait with the car while he and Sin went upstairs, supposedly to get something Mick had left behind.
Really they just wanted to make out until Sara arrived.
Sara pounded on the door to announce her presence, startling them apart. Sin opened the door to admit a very pissed off Sara.
"What's wrong?" Sin asked her.
"You really think you can get Rip to come back?" Sara asked Mick.
"Haircut made some device last night that can get him back, yeah," Mick said. "You don't look okay."
"I'm not," Sara agreed. "But Rip can fix it."
Sin wondered if they would be able to go back in time and save Laurel.
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you yesterday," Sin rushed to say. "I wanted to, but I thought it would be better coming from your dad. You know I'm no good with stuff like that."
Sara's eyes welled up with tears. "I figured that out. I'm not upset with you, but I can't talk about this right now."
Sin pulled Sara into a hug that the other woman gratefully accepted. "You just go do what you have to do." She met Mick's eyes as she said this. "Then you come back to me."
Mick smirked, but nodded.
Sara pulled back and wiped her eyes. "I'll miss you."
"Me, too," Sin said. "Now go save the future."
Sara went to the door and turned to wait for Mick.
"Go ahead, I'll be down in a minute," Mick said. Sara's eyes narrowed at him, but she went down to Ray's car.
"What was all that about? What's Rip gonna fix?" Mick asked.
"Her sister was killed about a month ago," Sin told him.
"Bastard knew it and brought us back late on purpose," Mick realized. "Looking forward to Sara ripping him a new one."
Stepping in close to Sin, Mick asked, "You mean what you said? You want me to come back to you? Or was that all just for Sara?"
"That was for both of you," Sin said. "I had a good time last night."
"So did I," Mick said. "Looking forward to next time."
"You just make sure there will be a next time," Sin said, pulling on Mick's jacket until he bent over to kiss her.
Mick's phone began to ring and without even looking at the caller ID he answered, "I'm coming."
"I'll see you soon," he growled, kissing Sin quickly one last time.
"You better," she licked her lips, "better hurry up before Sara comes back up here."
"Wouldn't want that," Mick agreed and took his leave.
A smile was teasing his lips as he slid into the passenger seat of Ray's car. Sara was already in back, playing with one of her knives.
"Let's go find Rip and end that crazy sonofabitch once and for all," Mick said.
The End
#mickroryaw2017#mick rory/sin#mick rory#sin#sara lance#Fic: Playing With Fire#legends of tomorrow fic
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