#also he has a room in the back of his apartment FULL of newspaper clippings surrounding residuum & the briarwoods tht he's collected
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pov: modern!percy trying to explain to you that necromancers killed his family
#ooc.#tbd.#i have so many thoughts abt this#i set up his modernverse with the thought that magic is largely in the shadows#& most people DOnt Know Abt It#& if they do they generally know better than to put it out there#but percy was one of the younger De Rolos so he didn't know abt their hand in the magical community#until tht hand came to Destroy them#but anyways i replaced the being kept in a cell to having to live w delilah & sylas for a year or so before he starts to talk#& the people who hear are like#haha yeah ncromancers & vampires are not real :|#& then he goes on grippy sock vacation#where his psychiatrist ( ripley ) is also aware of magic & on the briarwood's payroll#so he learns what to say & it's never the truth#but if he trusts someone he will try to tell them his truth#which is not always pretty#but he's desperate to be heard#also he has a room in the back of his apartment FULL of newspaper clippings surrounding residuum & the briarwoods tht he's collected
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Happy Friday ya'll and happy Day 8 of Harringrove April from chrisbitchtree's inspired list. Today we are working with "window" and full disclosure, I immediately read it wrong and thought today was tomorrow so now I'm already finished with tomorrow's prompt. Anyway! Read yesterday's response here!
Steve's bedroom window looks out over the pool. He has blackout curtains now to keep the cool blue light from entering his room. The curtains aren't usually opened unless his mom has been home to let some light in. She doesn't understand why Steve hates the pool now, but Billy does.
Billy knows why Steve hates the pool and the view out his window now. Why he won't go in, even if the kids do or Billy does. Why he's not scared of swimming or the quarry or the public pool, but his private pool is too much to bear. How he's never been able to shake the guilt of what happened, even after Nancy and claiming it hadn't been their fault. Steve wishes he could still be so naive, but he settles for blocking out the pool.
His window faces east, so the blackout curtains are also nice in the morning. No sunlight to shine in and disrupt any beauty sleep. They also serve to conceal any actions inside the room, so they're multi-purpose and Billy wouldn't ever think to take them down anyway. But he hates that Steve won't look out his window anymore. That the curtains are always closed tight and that the sight of the pool late at night is enough to make him freeze up.
So he starts looking for a different window. Maybe one facing a different side, away from a pool full of memories and one lonely girl. They're old enough for their own place anyway and they're both working. Someplace close enough for Billy to keep working for the parks department and for Steve to make his commute to the school. There are lots of windows in the state, Billy knows he's going to find a good one for Steve.
He doesn't tell Steve right away, visiting places on his own to check out the windows. None of the places he looks at have pools, but it's still good to check. The first place has a terrible view from the window. It looks out at the highway and Billy knows it's going to be loud. The second place looks straight across into a neighbor's apartment which could make for some awkward situations. But the last place is perfect. The bedroom window faces a community garden, cold and hard now, but it will soon be full of life. The apartment has a balcony that overlooks the parking lot, but the windows are perfect. They're tall and wide and they open on the top and bottom. There are no bodies of water around and no lonely girls haunting the shadows. He pencils in another showing with the housing agent, one Steve can come to. He knows Steve has been looking too, but his looking has been passive, done through newspaper clippings and word of mouth.
When Billy tells Steve, he's sitting by his window. The curtains aren't cracked, but Billy has his leg outstretched to touch the opposite wall. There is no cigarette in his hand, Steve's ashtray hasn't been dirty for years now. But it's a comfortable spot, good enough to tell Steve what he's done.
"I found you a new window," Billy says, clearing his throat. He looks over at Steve who is leaning up on his elbows, brows furrowed.
"What?"
Billy stands up and stretches. He cracks his back and walks over, his jeans are still undone. "I went looking for an apartment for us to share and I found one," he explains, sitting on the edge of the bed.
Steve blinks, brows drawing down deeper like he's working through a complicated math problem. "What do you mean?"
Billy puts his hand in the center of Steve's chest. He drags his nails through his chest hair and smiles, flushing. "I want us to live together so I found a window you would be comfortable looking out of."
Steve lays there, staring at Billy. He blinks again and shakes his head slowly. "You found us an apartment?"
"Two towns over. Two bedrooms, lots of windows and a balcony. No pool," Billy tells him patiently. "Close enough for work, far enough for you to start healing."
They don't talk about Steve's healing because Steve brushes it off. To him, Billy's the one who has gone through it. The one who needs time and space. But Steve hasn't been dealing with it and he needs to. And Billy thinks this could be a start. Maybe Barb Holland can finally rest in Steve's conscience.
Steve smiles a little and shakes his head. "I can't believe you wouldn't take me with you," he mutters, mouth curling up at the end. "But I trust your judgment." He leans up to pull Billy down for a kiss, sighing against his lips. The blackout curtains in the corner stay firmly shut.
***
Steve doesn't cry when he sees the apartment, but it is a near thing. He drags his fingers over the windowsills and walks around the apartment with light footsteps. The one thing holding Billy up had been the mirrored closet doors in the bedroom, but Steve loves them. He tells Billy wicked things when they're alone, all of the things he's going to make him watch.
The blackout curtains don't move with Steve when they move in together. He takes his bed for their bedroom and his dresser. They have to get their own living room furniture and table for the kitchen, but the only curtains they put up are just enough for privacy. Now, Steve will sit by the window after they have sex, letting the cool breeze blow across his heated skin. He'll smile at Billy and look out at the garden, eyes half-lidded. He doesn't talk about Barb and he doesn't dwell on the pool, but he's lighter, Billy can tell. He settles into his skin better here where he can open the window and not wonder how Barb felt in her final moments.
The kids like the new apartment too and Steve lets Will paint a stained glass mural on one of the windows with special paint. When the sun shines through it, it lights their living room up in brilliant color and sometimes Steve lays in it like a cat, covered in hues of blue and pink. And seeing Steve like this, able to face the windows and not shrink, he can let go of being woken up by the sun in his eyes every morning. Not like the sun can really outshine the beam of Steve's smile anyway.
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Only One Choice, Part 2, Chapter 18
Read it here on AO3 / Tagging @today-in-fic
“Autopsy bay, this is Trudy...yep, one second.”
Trudy shoves her rolling chair across the tiled floor, delivering the cordless phone to Scully with a flourish.
“It’s your man candy,” she says with a smirk, and Scully suppresses an eye-roll as she takes the phone.
“Hi, what’s up?” she greets. Now that he has his own office and more privacy (save for Monica, who’s a friend) he’s taken to calling her more often at work.
“Hey honey, you studied German, right?”
“Yes,” she answers, an expectant lilt to her voice.
“What does ‘unruhe’ mean? U-n-r-u-h-e.”
“Mulder...is this a work call or a personal call?” she questions in a lecturing voice.
“Work, it’s for a case we’re looking at,” he answers plainly.
She sighs, moving the phone to her other ear and turning away so Trudy can’t hear her.
“Mulder, we’ve discussed this. I don’t mind you calling me for help on cases, I don’t even mind looking over medical files for you. But if you’re calling me as a colleague, then I need you to address me as one.”
“Shit, sorry, let’s start over,” he says, and she hears the squeak of him shifting in his chair. She imagines him sitting up straighter, putting forth a professional image, and it makes her smile.
“Hi, what’s up?” she repeats.
“Hello, Dr. Scully, I was wondering if I could ask you to translate some German phrases that appear in a case Agent Reyes and I are investigating, if you have time to spare,” he says in his most distinguished, Special Agent voice.
“Of course, Agent Mulder, I’d be happy to help.”
———
The elevator dings, the doors opening to a quiet and nondescript hallway with a few lonely shelves lining one wall. She steps out, suddenly regretting her insistence that she could find her way to Mulder’s basement office without escort. She makes her way down the hall past a set of bathrooms, and finally arrives outside a closed door.
Fox Mulder
Monica Reyes
Only the names of the occupants, not their division, department nor area of expertise are included, presumably because anyone who ends up down here is already aware of what they are walking in to. She knocks three times and waits, smiling in relief when Monica appears on the other side.
“Hi, Dana, you found us!” she muses, then steps aside so Scully can enter.
It’s an odd office, in so many ways. Oddly shaped, with daylight basement windows and a glass-encased annex, the space is long and narrow which makes it feel big and crowded at the same time. The decor is odd; newspaper clippings and kitschy knick knacks on the walls and every available surface. She smiles at the sight of the house-warming gift she’d purchased for Mulder; a full sized poster of a UFO hovering over evergreen trees with “I Want To Believe” emblazoned across the bottom. Mulder had told her about one just like it he’d had in “the good old days,” and she spent the better part of a week tracking one down after they’d gotten word that the files would be reopened. Though they’ve only inhabited this space for a few weeks, it already looks very lived-in.
Mulder is sitting on the corner of his desk, remote in hand and a slide projector cart situated in front of him. On the wall across from it is a blown up image of a severed head, the eyes partially closed and the lips hanging open. Scully smiles at Mulder and then glances at the screen, frowning at the image but otherwise unaffected.
“Well look at you,” she says with pride in her voice, crossing the room to stand before him where he touches her waist and places a kiss on her cheek. “And who’s this?” she asks, turning again to the screen.
“This,” Mulder says, standing and moving closer to the image, “is Leonard Betts. Or it was, anyway.”
“What’s so special about Mr. Betts that he’s found himself in an X file?” Scully asks.
“Would you believe me if I told you that after Mr. Betts was decapitated, his headless body got up and walked right out of the morgue?” Mulder asks with a cheeky grin, and she glances at Monica, who just shrugs.
“No, I wouldn’t, I’m afraid,” she answers.
“Well, since seeing is believing, Reyes and I will be heading up to Pittsburgh for a few days to have a look for ourselves,” Mulder says as he turns off the projector and wheels the cart into a corner.
Scully’s heart sinks just a little. Mulder had set the expectation that there was quite a bit of travel involved with being assigned to the X files, but this is the first time he’s actually needed to be away overnight for work. Wanting to be supportive, she keeps her expression neutral, betraying nothing.
He approaches her, standing close so that their conversation feels private, even with Monica seated a few feet away.
“Tell Missy and Byers I’m sorry to cancel our dinner plans tomorrow,” he says with a sympathetic frown.
“Will you be home by the weekend?” she asks quietly, “I was hoping to celebrate your birthday on Sunday.”
He smiles sadly at her. The topic of his approaching birthday has been one they’ve both grappled with for slightly different reasons. He proclaims to have never cared much about his birthday, but knowing that it will mark one year since she walked down the aisle with Ethan makes her want to do something special, to reset the date, in a way. She wants it to be Mulder’s birthday, not the anniversary of the worst decision she ever made.
“Probably, but I can’t make any promises. I’ll do my best, okay?”
She nods, and he leans down to kiss her softly in the middle of her forehead.
“I’ll need to swing by the apartment to pack before we leave this evening, so I’ll see you in a bit,” he continues.
She bids Monica farewell and good luck, then rides the elevator back up to a world where headless bodies don’t roam the streets.
———
Mulder flies home Saturday afternoon, giving her just enough time to throw together a small birthday celebration at the Gunmen’s the following night. Sunday evening she’s sifting through her closet, deciding whether to dress up a little for his benefit. Mulder is lying behind her on the bed fully dressed, pretending he’s on standby to offer fashion advice but in reality he’s just staring at her as she walks from the closet to her dresser in her bra and panties. He has confirmed no fewer than six times that birthday sex is a tradition that she believes in, then suggested that it might be applicable on both the day of his birthday party as well as his actual birthday, which is tomorrow. He seems to be looking forward to that more than getting together with his friends.
“What do you want me to wear, Mulder? It’s your birthday, you pick,” she says in a defeated tone, feeling uninspired by everything she owns.
“What you’re wearing is great, just go with that,” he retorts matter-of-factly, and she looks down at her underwear before giving him a sarcastic sneer.
“I’m sure Frohike would love that,” she says, and he makes a face.
“Maybe just jeans and a T-shirt then. I honestly don’t care, honey, wear whatever you want. I’m just going to take it off later anyway.”
As he finishes speaking, there’s a knock at the door and he stands to answer it, stopping to give her a quick kiss on the crown of her head as he leaves the room.
She pulls out a pair of dark wash jeans and tugs them on, listening as Mulder opens the door and has a muted conversation with someone. It’s a little bit late in the day for solicitors, but they don’t seem to have any boundaries these days. She’s slipping her arms through the sleeves of a blue sweater when Mulder reappears in the doorway.
“Hey Scully?,” he says, his tone strange and unreadable.
“Hm?” she responds, slipping pearl studs into her ears.
“Someone’s here to see you.”
She gives him a quizzical look. “Who?” she asks, and he purses his lips in response.
With a mix of curiosity and trepidation she walks out to the front door, which is slightly ajar. She pulls it open and finds Ethan standing on the other side. Her stomach drops, a flush of adrenaline running from head to toe as ringing sounds off in her ears. She gapes at him, unable to take any kind of action.
“Hi, Dana,” he finally says, somewhat sheepishly. “Sorry to drop by like this, I just, um...I found a spare key to the apartment,” he says, holding up a single key between his thumb and forefinger. “I figured I should return it.”
“Oh,” she replies, then holds out her hand.
He places the key in the center of her palm and she closes her fist around it, then drops her arm to her side. They stand there awkwardly, an expectant feeling hanging between them. Though she’d momentarily forgotten Mulder was there, he suddenly appears by her side.
“I need to go run to the store for something, I’ll be right back, okay?” he says, locking eyes with her on the ‘okay.’ She understands it to be him asking if they need privacy, and if she’s comfortable being left alone with Ethan. She nods with a grateful smile.
After Mulder has retreated down the hallway, she stands to the side and gestures for Ethan to come in. He enters the apartment cautiously, looking around. She closes the door but stays near it.
“Looks different in here,” he remarks, standing behind one of the dining room chairs and resting his palms on it.
She nods and shrugs.
“Was that, uh...is that your boyfriend?” he asks, hitching his thumb towards the door.
Her shoulders drop, a pained expression falling over her face. “Ethan...” she begins, ready to ask him if he came here just to guilt trip her.
“Sorry, forget I asked,” he interjects, shaking his head. “I didn’t come here to give you a hard time, Dana, I promise. I just…” he looks around again, pulling in a deep breath. “You know it will be a year tomorrow, since...and I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry. For what happened, and also how things ended.”
She furrows her eyebrows. “What do you have to be sorry for?” she asks.
“I might have said the same thing earlier this year,” he says with a self-deprecating laugh, “but I’ve done a lot of reflecting since we split and I realized that I wasn’t paying a lot of attention to the signals you were sending me. In retrospect, it was pretty obvious that you were having doubts, and I just kind of crossed my fingers and soldiered on. And then after the wedding, you were so unhappy. I just chose not to see it, I guess. And that was wrong of me.”
She feels tears welling in her eyes and her throat becomes tight. She doesn’t trust herself to speak so she just nods.
“I recently started seeing someone,” Ethan continues, “and it’s pretty new, but it’s really made it clear to me that you and I just weren’t a good match. Not because anything was wrong, but...it wasn’t right either, you know?”
She nods again, crossing her arms over her chest as a tear spills over and runs down to her chin.
“So, anyway, I won’t take up any more of your time. I just think a lot about how things ended the last time we saw each other, and how angry I was, and I wanted you to know that I get it now. I understand why you did what you did. And I’m glad that you didn’t spend twenty years suffering through it just to prove a point. We both deserve better than what we had.”
Her face is now contorted into a grimace as she tries to keep from falling apart entirely, overwhelmed with relief and gratitude, and this opportunity to atone. Ethan moves to the door, pulling it open. As he steps into the hall, she clears her throat and forces out the only words she can muster.
“Thank you,” she squeaks, and he turns to look back at her.
With all the anger and resentment faded away, the grief and the guilt washed clean, she sees again the man she once loved very much, who was a good partner to her, even if he wasn’t “the one.”
She moves towards him and he opens his arms, enveloping her in a tight hug. When he loosens his grip, she steps back so she’s just inside the apartment, sniffing and wiping her nose on the back of her hand.
“Goodbye, Dana,” he says with a sad smile.
“Bye,” she says, and closes the door.
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Cigarette Burns
☼ Pairing: Seokjin x reader x Taehyung
☼ Genre: angel!reader, angel!Taehyung, horror, angst, some fluff, smut
☼ Count: 10.6K
☼ Warnings: 18+, death (minor characters), blood, mentions/descriptions of injuries, mentioned mutilation, hallucinations, oral (m receiving), double blowjob, cumplay, cum sharing, deep throating, face fucking, teasing, ball play, dom/sub themes, hair pulling
☼ Summary: Seokjin’s been tasked with finding a film that is thought to be a myth. A legend that caused a theater full of people to turn to violence and then was never seen again. With the mystery that swirls around the film and the increasingly strange things that happens as he hunts for it, is he fully prepared for what waits for him at the end of his journey?
☼ a/n: This is based on my favorite horror movie ever, Cigarette Burns! The story is changed some, but I can’t explain in a way that doesn’t spoil both the film and the fic. I’ve pulled back on some of the gore from the original film too. I hope you enjoy, as I’ve not really written a horror fic before! Let me know what you think! My ask box is always open ~ 💙💙💙💙
☼ Written for @btsholidaybingo to fill the square Blood, Sweat, and Tears
The theater is quiet as Seokjin enters it, understandably so since it’s almost closing and the theater is so small that there’s likely no one at the last showing. One of the downsides of a more indie theater, he supposes. But it had been his dream, keep the older films alive, even if it didn’t necessarily prove to be super lucrative. Which is where his second job came in, that people (Taehyung) would argue should really be his primary job considering how good he is at it.
Seokjin doesn’t want his primary job to be hunting down rare prints. He likes it well enough, sure. It’s thrilling to find a new piece that was thought to be lost to time (and to negotiate into the deal that he’d get to hold a showing of whatever he found too). But it’s really only something to help keep the lights on at the theater. Taehyung also suggests adding newer films to the theater's showings to draw in new crowds and get them interested in the older ones so Seokjin chooses to ignore most of Taehyung’s “helpful” suggestions.
He makes his way to his office, where Taehyung is sprawled out in a chair, perking up once the older man enters.
“What’s the film this time?”
Seokjin chuckles as he sits down at his desk, setting a thin file down. Taehyung might be more invested in Seokjin’s side job than Seokjin is. Maybe he should teach Taehyung how to do it so the younger can take over. He’s inquisitive and bright enough that he’d be good at it. “Hi, how are you, Tae? Oh, me? I’m doing good.”
Taehyung rolls his eyes. “Oh come on, I saw you this morning. Now what film are you looking for?”
Seokjin eyes him up for a moment. He’s never seen Taehyung so interested; he seems more interested than usual and he doesn’t even know what the film is yet. He’s not sure if he’s interested in the film or hearing about the process Seokjin goes through to find them. Seokjin’s good at his job, good at finding the relics of an era where everything couldn’t be easily backed up. And while he makes sure to get a favorable deal and be able to show what he worked so hard to find, Seokjin maybe also makes duplicates for the sake of preserving the content of the old films. Taehyung always seems delighted to go through the unofficial prints that Seokjin keeps stored in the theater (or at his house because multiple copies is always best when it comes to preservation).
“I don’t know if I’ll find this one. It’s pretty legendary and notably thought to be either fake or destroyed.”
Taehyung leans forward, eyes wide with barely contained interest. “What is it?”
“La Fin Absolue du Monde.”
There’s a flicker of something in Taehyung’s eyes that Seokjin can’t decipher and it’s gone too fast for him to even try. “Isn’t that that film that only ever had one showing and everyone at the showing killed each other or themselves?”
Seokjin nods, pulling a yellowed newspaper clipping from the folder he brought. It’s all in French but there’s a translation written in the blank space of the paper the clipping is attached to. It details the bloodbath that the theater turned into before the film even finished and how the only print of the film was destroyed right after.
Taehyung looks up at Seokjin, expression unreadable. “Do you think it still exists?”
Seokjin shrugs. “The guy, Bellinger, seemed very positive that it does. Said he would know if the film had been destroyed. I didn’t ask how because that seemed like a path I didn’t really want to go down. He was weirdly obsessed with the props he had from it. But he gave me the information he had and said that if I couldn’t track it down within a month that he would admit that it was gone. But he paid half up front for the whole month. Double my rate too. He seems to really want this found and to honestly believe that it’s still out there.”
Taehyung nods stiffly before he’s flashing Seokjin his usual boxy grin. “I’m sure you’ll find it. You are the best after all.”
Seokjin snorts. He wonders if he should question Taehyung’s sudden shift at the mention of the film. It’s not like him to be so serious about a film. “I don’t know if I’d go that far, but thanks.”
“Do you have any leads?”
“Not really.” He flips open the folder and shows that besides the article clipping is just a printout of the poster from the film’s only showing and another printed page with a film review on it. He taps the review. “This was written by a critic who was at the showing. As far as I can tell, he’s still alive. But he seems to have become incredibly reclusive in the decades since the showing. I’m going to ask around and see if I can track him down.”
Taehyung stands and drums his fingers on the desk. “Well good luck. Keep me updated as always.” He turns to go, pausing in the doorway. “Seokjin… whatever you do, don’t watch the film.”
And then he leaves, leaving Seokjin confused because it seems like Taehyung believes the film still exists and that somehow something bad will happen if Seokjin were to watch it. Maybe he just believes the stories around it and thinks that the crazy stuff that happened was due to the film and not something more easily explained like the crowd being poisoned or something much more logical than the movie made them do it. He shakes his head, it’s probably just a friendly warning out of worry. Turning to his computer, he starts digging into the sole survivor of the film’s only showing.
It takes some time, hours of staring at the screen, to find anything substantial on the critic. It’s nearly morning, gray light filtering through the slates in his closed blinds, but he finally finds where the critic has most likely holed up. For what reason, no one seems to really know, just that he disappeared after his review and hasn’t really been seen since. But it’s as good a place to start as any. Seokjin saves the address onto his phone and leaves the theater, stopping at his apartment for a moment to shower, change, and pack a quick bag before he’s grabbing some coffee and heading to the airport.
Upstate New York is far more woodsy than Seokjin had expected. Although he supposes when he’s only imagined New York City when thinking of New York, that’s an easy mistake to make. The foliage makes navigating to the critic’s house in his rental car a little difficult since it’s seclusion means that the road to the house is nearly completely overgrown. He wonders how the guy gets food if the path there looks as if no one’s been on it in months. The house itself is simple, but appears abandoned given the lack of care to the outside and the way all the rooms that Seokjin can see into are darkened. Still, Seokjin isn’t one to be deterred, the porch looks nice enough, he can always just wait a while if there happens to be no one home before maybe finding an open window or door to check out the house. But first he approaches and knocks on the front door. He gets no immediate response but when he steps back to look in the windows on the far side of the door, he’s able to pick up the sound of a typewriter.
Well someone’s definitely home. He moves back to the door, knocking again.
“Mr. Meyers?” He calls out, the typing stops and he gets an answering ‘go away.’
“I just need to speak to you for a moment.” There’s a resounding ‘no’ in response and the typing starts up again. “Please, it’ll be quick. I wanted to ask you about your review for La Fin Absolue du Monde.”
The typing stops again and then there’s a loud buzz and the door swings open an inch. Eerie, but Seokjin pushes the door open and steps inside. The house is dark, blanketed in shadows caused by the only light that streams in through the cracked curtains. There’s a stale quality to the air, like the house has been closed up for months and there’s a gray cloud of smoke that clings to the ceiling, swirling with the sudden air flow. As Seokjin looks around, he sees that there are stacks and stacks of paper piled everywhere that there is space, leaving just a narrow pathway from the entrance to the living room. He rounds the corner into the living room and there’s even more stacks here, piled high around the critic as he sits hunched over his typewriter, typing away once more.
“Were there press notes?” He asks, glancing over one of the nearby stacks, skimming the top page. It talks about the film. He gets a curt ‘yes’ in response to his question. “Did you save them? Could I read them?”
“Dangerous.” Seokjin frowns at Meyers’ statement. They’re just notes, how could they possibly be dangerous. “The back said ‘Film in the right hands is a weapon.’ He was right and we didn’t even know it.” There’s a heavy silence before he continues. “We trust film makers when we go and watch films. We sit there, in the dark, and trust in what they’re going to show us. That it’ll affect us but we trust that they won’t go too far.”
Seokjin waits but Meyers doesn’t seem inclined to continue now, though his words haven’t been particularly helpful anyway. He’s not even particularly sure what he’s talking about. It’s almost like Meyers has used up all his words on the pages taking over his home or that he’s forgotten how to hold a conversation. Has he been here since the film release? If so, he’s been out here alone for decades.
Seokjin decides to try directing the conversation back to the film. “I’ve read your review. A few times on the plane. And I still have no idea what the film is even about.”
“Hans Backovic was a monster. He took that trust and abused it. He didn’t want to just hurt us, he wanted to absolutely destroy us.”
Seokjin feels like they’re having two different conversations. He’s not even sure that Meyers heard what he said. Backovic was a director, how could he possibly have destroyed an entire audience? “I’ve seen extreme gore before. It didn’t drive me to violence. Why is this film so dangerous? Surely all that violence in the theater was exaggerated?”
Meyers leans back in his chair and he looks older, exhausted. His eyes seem slightly unfocused. “Oh no, not at all. If anything, it was downplayed.” He pauses and takes a slow breath. He’s staring at his desk but the look in his eyes says he’s somewhere far away, reliving something he doesn’t want to be reliving. “I watched four people die. Blood slicked every inch of that theater floor. The chairs, the walls, the screen. It reeked of death.”
There’s a charged pause and then Meyers leans forward again, looking at Seokjin and Seokjin feels unsettled, that faraway look is gone, instead replaced by a wild almost manic look. “Backovic knew what he was doing. He told me exactly what would happen when that film played.” He chuckles and it’s completely humorless. “I thought he was joking.”
Seokjin moves closer, suddenly interested. Meyers had spoken to Backovic? About the film specifically? Finally, a possible lead, something to have made this trip worth it. “You spoke to him?”
“Yes. Before the film. I recorded an interview with him.”
“Do you still have that tape? Can I listen to it?”
“No one’s ready for that film. They weren’t then and they aren’t now. I failed in my one job as messenger for the film. That review was a joke. But everyone will know, once I finish my new review. They’ll see what the film is really about.” He seems to be almost talking to himself as he pulls the sheet of paper he’d been typing out of the typewriter and adds it to the pile beside him. He slips a blank sheet into the typewriter.
Seokjin glances around in alarm, gesturing to the stacks of paper. “Is that what all this is? Your new review?”
He lets out a slightly maniacal laugh. “I’m almost done!”
Seokjin swallows. There’s easily a million typed pages here. And it’s all about the film? Unease fills Seokjin as he casts his gaze over the stacks again. What happened in that theater that could drive someone to spend decades typing this much? And to call it a review? He doesn’t want to ask more about the review and what could possibly be compelling this man. “Well, there’s a chance that there’s still a print out there. I’ve been paid to find it.”
Meyers stares at him for a long moment and Seokjin shifts in discomfort. There’s so much mystery around this film and this talk with Meyers has only increased that. Then he laughs again and stands. Seokjin thinks maybe he should leave, for a split second he fears that Meyers has been so hard to find because he’s killed anyone who’s come to find him before. “You should know what you’re in for.” He says cryptically before moving to a trunk nearby. He rifles through it for a moment before pulling out a tape.
He presses it into Seokjin’s hands, but when Seokjin goes to pull away, Meyers’ hands tighten around his, keeping him in place. “Promise me. Promise when you find it that you’ll let me see it again. I’ve dreamt about that film every night since I’ve seen it. This film it… it crawls inside you. It just doesn’t leave.”
He releases Seokjin’s hands and goes back to his desk, staring at the typewriter for a long moment before he starts typing. It’s as clear a dismissal as anything and at this point, Seokjin is more than happy to leave Meyers to his stacks of papers.
Paris is the next stop for Seokjin. He has a friend, Henri, who works at one of the bigger film archives in the city and he might have leads for him. But first he needs a moment to himself, so he spends his first night in the hotel. Where he figures he might as well listen to the interview while he’s got some time. It could give him some help in where to look when he goes to see Henri tomorrow.
The interview seems normal enough. Backovic talks like most of the more pretentious indie filmmakers. Those who believe that their art is superior and above so much else of what’s out there, especially what comes out of Hollywood. Seokjin vows to never tell Taehyung about the interview because he’ll only use it as fodder to mock him and how he has the same ideas with his theater. Which is not true. Seokjin shows plenty of films aside from indies. They’re just usually classics, films from the 70s and 80s, cult classics that don’t really show in theaters that much. Things that draw specific crowds but aren’t always popular with most but the theater does just fine with how it is now. He sees no reason to change.
Halfway through listening to the interview, a searing pain flairs in Seokjin’s head and he jerks the headphones off as he tries to blink the orange ring from his vision.
His heart is pounding for the start and he sees the flash of something out of the corner of his eye. He stumbles off the bed to move towards the bathroom where he saw the shadow. The room is empty, which should be unsurprising since Seokjin is alone in his hotel room, though now he can’t remember if he had left the light on or not.
But it seemed so real, like there really was someone else here. He glances at the mirror and for a brief second, he swears that he sees Taehyung. He rubs at his eyes, heels digging in almost painfully. He blinks the spots from his vision and stares at the mirror a little longer, like if he stares at it enough, something will happen. Like Taehyung might appear on the surface again and prove that Seokjin is not losing his mind right now. But when nothing happens, he finally, reluctantly, moves back to the main room, sitting heavily on the edge of the bed. His hands shake as he picks up his phone to send a quick message to Taehyung.
He gets a response within a few minutes and it makes discomfort settle in him when Taehyung confirms that he’s at the theater right now working. He even makes a joke how he’s sure people come to see the old films on the days that he hangs around not for the films but to see Taehyung’s face. He knows Taehyung’s just trying to draw a response from him, to tease and coax him into some flirtatious banter. But Seokjin’s suddenly much too exhausted for that. He lays down without responding, but it takes him a long time to fall asleep and even when he does, it’s restless and plagued by dreams that leave him the second he wakes. But while the images fade with the growing light, the sound remains; the chilling screams that sound so much like Taehyung that Seokjin almost calls him just to confirm that he’s okay.
In the morning, he makes his way to the archives to speak with Henri, who apologizes that he can’t be of too much help since they’re in the process of moving, but he says he can help direct Seokjin in the right direction if he tells him what movie he’s looking for. Seokjin is a little reluctant after the meeting with the critic. He waves off the help, telling Henri that he’ll just look around on his own to not get in his way. Henri insists, saying that the move will make it harder for Seokjin to look.
When Seokjin mentions the film, Herni’s entire demeanor shifts, the friendly man suddenly cold as he tries to warn Seokjin away. When Seokjin won’t, Henri tells him he’s welcome to use his assistant’s office, though there’s not much on the film and that the film is certainly not there. He leaves him with an ominous warning about having to earn this film, hand tucked firmly in his pocket.
Seokjin pours over what little information there is. The most promising thing he gets is the crew list for the film, something that Seokjin didn’t see listed anywhere online and it really only lended to the idea that this film wasn’t real. But now he has some physical evidence that people worked on this, that they saw the film unfold in person. His joy at the discovery is short-lived though when he realizes that this is proving less and less useful with each name he has to cross off because they’re dead. Of the eleven crew members, all but two are dead. He goes out to find Henri, showing him the paper.
“How easy is it to find either of them?”
Henri looks at the list and nods, almost like he knew this was coming. Seokjin wonders how many people he’s seen come through here looking for the movie. “Patton was blinded after filming. And he won’t speak on the film. He nearly killed the last person to ask him about it.”
Seokjin gestures to the other name. “And Backovic? Surely he’d have some idea where his film ended up.”
Henri scoffs. “Backovic is dead.”
“How do you know that? There’s no death certificates or records or anything.”
Henri shoots him a look. “Trust me, Seokjin. Backovic is dead.” When Seokjin goes to speak again, Henri interrupts. “I’m sorry but I have nothing else to tell you.”
Seokjin knows that Henri’s not telling him something. Years of working together and he’s learned a thing or two about his friend and his tells. He doesn’t know what, but there’s something he knows that Seokjin knows he’ll need to be able to find this stupid film. He stops just outside the door, hidden from sight and he hears Henri make a phone call. He doesn’t know much French, but he knows that he mentions the film. Seokjin leaves quickly, making plans to come back later and force Henri to tell him what he knows.
Henri seems startled when Seokjin appears again a few hours later. He really should’ve expected it. Seokjin’s never been one to give up so easily and they both know that.
“I know you’re lying. You know more than you’re telling me.”
“You don’t understand what you’re asking.”
“Yeah, I don’t understand anything that’s happening. There’s so much mystery around this film, how can I possibly know anything. Fuck, last night I saw…” Seokjin trails off, he doesn’t know how to explain last night. Maybe it was just jet lag and exhaustion and the unknown of this film that caused the hallucinations. Or maybe he dreamed the whole thing.
Henri straightens, eyes wide with alarm. He moves closer to Seokjin. “A circle? Like the reel change in a movie?” At Seokjin’s nod, Henri pales. “Then it’s too late. You’ve already started a process which cannot be stopped. It’s only going to get worse. I’m so sorry.”
“What started? I don’t understand.”
“When you look for the film, it does something to you. You see those burns. It’s payment for every step closer you make to the film. You need to stop now. Before it’s really too late. You don’t want to continue on this path, Seokjin. You have to ignore the curiosity. The itch to dig a little deeper, find out a little more. Walk away. I know it’s hard. But you have to.”
“You know?”
Henri nods and pulls his hand from his pocket where he always keeps it tucked, revealing severe burns, so bad that his fingers have fused together. Seokjin takes a small step back in surprise.
“But… How?”
“I was the projectionist at a private screening of the film. I was curious about it too. Much like you. Much like everyone who eventually comes searching for the film that’s only been shown once, twice now. But most don’t know that. It was kept from the public and the film disappeared again.”
Henri pauses and takes a deep breath. “I chickened out. I got scared once it started and I looked away.” He closes his eyes. “When the screaming started, I tried to stop the projector but it wouldn’t stop. So I grabbed the film reel. I saw that some circle you did and I… I blacked out. When I came to, my hand was burned and the film was over.”
Seokjin swallows. This film is starting to seem more and more like a bad idea. Taehyung’s warning flits through his mind as well, telling him not to watch the film. Maybe he should’ve told him to just give up the job. Not that Seokjin would’ve listened. Maybe he should’ve charged more to find this. “I won’t watch it. I’ll just take it and give it to the collector. But… I could really use the money for the theater. I can’t just give up looking.”
Henri’s gaze darts over Seokjin’s face and then he gives a small nod. There’s a sadness in his eyes as he picks up a small piece of paper. “I wouldn’t call this man if I were you. He has an… extensive collection but he’s dangerous.” He hands the number over to Seokjin.
“Does he have it?”
Henri shakes his head. “No. But he’s been given things from the Backovic estate. He can possibly get you in contact with them.”
“Thank you.”
Henri shakes his head again. “Don’t thank me for sending a friend into danger.”
Seokjin takes a taxi to the address given to him when he calls the number that Henri gave him. The warehouse is run down looking and at a dead end about halfway up a big hill. The only other buildings are some houses further up the hill from the road and the town he can see over the road barricade looking down. He pays the taxi driver extra and tells her to stay then makes his way towards the two burly men who have appeared at the massive open doors to the warehouse.
The warehouse is shadowy, lighting sparse and everything appears to be covered by a layer of dust with the exception of a few items in the room that they lead him to.The room is large and another man stands almost in the middle of the room, he’s wearing all dark leather and has his back towards Seokjin. He stands just behind a wooden crate that’s been set on a chair. It has a printed label that reads ‘La Fin Absolue du Monde.’
“It’s not for me.” Seokjin begins. Might as well start with that. Maybe it’ll make it easier for him to get the film.
“But you’re curious.”
“I suppose a little. Have you seen it?”
“No. But I would. Who wouldn’t?” The man walks a few steps away to a camera and begins to fiddle with the settings. “I admire a man like Backovic. So unafraid to be real. I detest the fakeness of Hollywood. I want to be great like Backovic. Groundbreaking. Real.”
Seokjin moves to the crate, opening it up. He’d idly hoped that maybe it was the film and he could take it to Bellinger and be done with this. But the crate is only about half full, mostly with filler to keep a film reel cushioned during transport. Other than that, there’s a few different manila envelopes.
The first envelope has a return address to Katja Backovic. If Seokjin’s remembering correctly, that’s Backovic’s wife and according to Henri, is actually his widow. That’s certainly a good lead. There’s not a lot of information out there about her in recent years either. He sets it down and picks up another, it’s blank on the outside and so he slips the pictures out that are contained within.
The first is of a winged figure, one that appears to be a woman, her face turned away from the camera and surrounded by other people. Her wings look beautiful even through an image, glossy black and full. The next is a silhouette of a figure holding a knife and it looks like they’re in front of a window or some other light source.
As he shuffles through the photos, they become increasingly bizarre. A photo of someone on a neighborhood street and the sky is red but looks off, like someone has overlaid another image over the sky. He thinks they’re set photos. The last one shows two winged figures, both facing away from the camera and chained to the wall. Their heads are bowed towards each other. One seems to be the woman from the first still and the other seems to be a man, but there’s a table or something that blocks Seokjin from seeing much more than his wings and back of his head.
Seokjin is suddenly grabbed from behind, the photos falling from his hands to scatter on the floor as the two men drag him a few feet backwards. The other man, the one who he’d been speaking with has a syringe now. Seokjin’s blood runs cold.
“Oh, you can’t leave already. We have so much left to discuss.”
Seokjin squirms, trying to fight the men off, but their hold on him is firm and in a matter of seconds, the needle is in his neck and consciousness is leaving him.
Seokjin comes to some time later, he has no idea how long but there’s light filtering through the window so it’s either not been that long or he’s been out for a whole day. He’s tied to a chair and duct tape firm across his mouth. He feels foggy and when he looks around, he sees the two burly men are now operating the camera. There’s a woman tied to another chair in front of him and the man from before is now shirtless and holding a machete. Seokjin feels like he’s going to be sick.
He fights against his bonds, but he’s helpless to stop as the man approaches the woman and, with no preamble, embeds the machete in her neck with one strong thwack. He pulls it free and pushes her head so blood sprays his bare chest, head tilting back like he’s being hosed down on a hot day.
Seokjin screams, though it's muffled and continues to fight against his bonds as the man pulls the machete out and makes quick work of getting through her neck. Her head is dropped to the ground and then the man approaches him and Seokjin tries to push himself away. He talks about how he turned her into art, about the realness of what he’s created, but the words barely register to Seokjin in his panicked state. Maybe he should’ve told the taxi driver to call the authorities if he took too long.
The man leans closer. “Something happens when you point the camera at something terrible. The resulting film takes on power.” He grins and rips the tape off of Seokjin’s mouth.
“Snuff is not power! It’s just fucked up! It’s murder.”
The man laughs and straddles Seokjin’s lap and Seokjin feels his heart in his throat as his stomach turns in revulsion. He can feel the blood soaking through his jeans where the man sits.
“You’re not listening to me. You came all this way but you won’t listen. You want to know why the film destroyed its audience?” His hand squishes Seokjin’s cheeks and Seokjin tries not to think about how slick they feel against his skin. “Backovic was an exceptional editor. He understood the value of a cut. But there was more to it. They say the movie works subliminally while you watch it. But the thing that made the film a weapon?” His grin is deranged. “Blood. Spilled blood. What if you got hold of an angel? A divine being with the blood of God flowing through its veins. And what if you sacrificed it on camera?”
Seokjin gets a flash of the circle again, the sharp sting as his vision is suddenly obscured. He sees a flash of a woman, chained to the ground, shuddering and emaciated, a pair of glossy, black wings mounted on the wall behind her. His breath shudders through him as the man bleeds back into focus.
“Something that profound, that personal. It changes everyone who was a part of putting it on film. And everyone who sees it. The closer you get to the film, the more you’ll be changed too. That’s Backovic’s secret. ‘Film is magic,’ he said. And he was right.”
Seokjin sees another flash. A split second of a circle with Taehyung in the middle of it, face full of anguish.
“What do you see? What haunts you? Will they be waiting for you on the other side?”
Seokjin’s vision goes white.
When he comes to again, he’s standing, completely free of his bonds and machete in hand. He drops it immediately, it looks bloodier than it had before. He catches sight of the man laying on the ground not too far from him but he tries not to look at it. Vaguely grateful for the fact that the man has fallen half behind a crate. The camera’s been knocked over as well. The two burly and the woman’s body are gone. He doesn’t want to know what happened. He has a gut feeling and it’s not one that he particularly wants to think too hard on. He’d really just like to forget that this entire warehouse ever existed.
The box is beside him now and he digs through it quickly, finding the envelope with Katja’s address in Vancouver on it and runs, taking the road back to the main street on foot. When he gets to the main road, it’s getting dark and he takes a cab. Shakily handing the driver a few extra bills in the hopes that they won’t ask any questions about his state.
He takes a scalding shower once back at his hotel, scrubs himself raw but he can still feel like blood, no matter how hard and long he scrubs for. He stuffs the bloody clothes into a paper bag and gets dressed. He hastily packs the rest of his things and goes down to check out. He shoves the bag with the bloody clothes into a trash can on the street before getting into a taxi and heading to the airport. He’s ready to be fucking done with this. He’s ready to be away from this city.
Taehyung texts him while he’s on the flight. Asking how the search is going. He’s too exhausted to even think and so he leaves Taehyung unanswered.
He takes another shower once he lands in Vancouver, but he still feels dirty. He stares at himself in the mirror and tries to make it look like he’s not on the verge of a breakdown and leaves his room to Katja’s address.
Seokjin presses the button beside her name on the building.
“Yes?” Her voice is softer than he expected, though he’s not really sure what he was expecting.
“Mrs. Backovic? Can I speak to you for a minute? I’ve come a long way.”
He’s answered by the door buzzing open and he moves quickly through the lobby to the elevator. Seokjin presses the button for the penthouse, scrubbing his hand over his face once the elevator starts moving. Maybe he should make this his last film job. It’s far more than he expected it to be and he’s just so tired. There’s a jolt and then the elevator stops and the lights go out.
He feels a body press to his back and he tenses. It’s not real, he thinks, eyes squeezing shut. Just like everything else.
“Save her. Please.” When Seokjin turns and thrusts his hand out, he’s met only with air. The voice had been hauntingly familiar. It sounded like Taehyung. It’s not real, he repeats to himself. Taehyung is back home. Probably asleep right now. He can’t be here. It’s completely illogical.
The elevator dings and Seokjin opens his eyes to see the doors sliding open to reveal he’s at the top floor. He’d been moving the whole time. Seokjin blinks a few times. He needs to get this film and hand it off. Now. He walks towards the living room, revealing a woman standing there. Katja.
“Something happened in the elevator.” It’s a statement, not a question.
“Sure. Something like that.”
“You must want this very bad to have some so far. I must admit, you’re the first to ever make it here.”
“I have… so many questions.”
She smiles, but it doesn’t quite touch her eyes. “I’m not sure I have your answers. But we’ll see.”
She leads him a little further into the room, taking a seat in an armchair and gesturing for him to take a seat on the adjoining sofa.
They sit in silence for a while, Seokjin taking a moment to think and gather his thoughts before finally speaking. “Do you have a copy of the film?”
She smiles that half smile again. “That’s not what you’re really curious about. You want to know if the stories are true.” Seokjin nods, though both are true. “They are. Unfortunately. Why are you looking for the film?”
“I was paid to.”
She lets out a bitter laugh. “That’s not the real reason.”
Seokjin chews his lip. “I… I don’t know anymore. There’s… I just have to find it.” He doesn’t understand. He’s walked away from lesser jobs. He has no idea what keeps compelling him to push here, what’s making him want to find this so badly.
Her head tilts like she didn’t expect his answer. She observes him quietly before nodding to herself, like Seokjin just took some big test and she’s pleased with how he did.
Silence settles again before Seokjin asks a question he’s had since he saw the crew list. “Who produced this film?”
Katja’s eyebrows raise. “You’re quite direct.”
Seokjin just gives a small shrug. “I just want someone to say it.”
Sadness softens her features as she looks down. “I asked Hans the same question. Many times. The producers of this film produce many other things. Chaos, sorrow, suffering, famine.”
Seokjin’s brows furrow. “What does that mean? The devil? Demons?”
Katja gives another sad smile. “Hans never put a name on it. ‘Evil is evil,’ he would say, ‘does a name really matter?’” They stare at each other, the real implication of her words settling between them, and then she stands. “Come with me.”
She leads him to a film editing studio. It’s a little dated, but the equipment is well taken care of. Reels still set up and ready for editing. Like any second Hans might walk in to begin working. Seokjin glances at her.
“How did he die? There’s no official records or anything about it.”
She glances away and Seokjin regrets asking only a little bit. This film has done so much damage, he has to know how the creator met his end. “He became… obsessed with La Fin Absolue du Monde. During the last year of his life, all he did was watch it. Over and over again. Like it was a punishment for what he had done. He got too close to the fire. The film worked the way it was meant. He became paranoid, skittish. It got to him.”
Tears gather in her eyes as she continues. “He grabbed a knife on the way to find me in the bedroom. Only when he slit my throat,” she pulls her scarf down to show a scar running across her throat, “he just disfigured me. When he did it to himself, he died.” She laughs bitterly. “I don’t know who got the better end of that. I was left to watch over the film. I hate that film. I hate everything that it caused. I hate that it was always going to be too late to make it better.”
Seokjin swallows. That’s a lot to take in. It still doesn’t really answer why there’s no record, though he supposes that given enough infamy and money, keeping a death quiet is easy enough.
“Can… I have the film?
She stares at him for a long moment then moves over to a rack of reels. She goes to touch it but her hand stops shy of making contact. “I put it here. I hate even having it in the house.”
Seokjin moves over when she steps back, fingers brushing the shelf just below where the film sits. He honestly can’t believe that he’s here. That he actually found it. What’s more baffling is that it seems that no one ever thought to check with Backovic’s wife for the location of the film. The easiest place to hide, in the most obvious place. “Ever since I’ve been tracking this, I’ve been seeing flashes. Circles with images inside.”
“The cigarette burns?” Katja’s eyes fill with pity at his nod. “When did they start?”
“I heard this interview, with Hans, from the night of the premiere-”
“You were marked. That’s how potent the film is. You don’t even have to watch it to be affected by it. As soon as you start getting close to it, it’s got you. Slowly, like sinking into quicksand.” She gives him a last sad smile, like she already knows what the future holds for him. “Take the film. It’s already too late.”
Seokjin takes the films from the shelf. He feels strange, something not quite sitting right with him. He’s not sure if it’s her cryptic answers or the way the films feel heavier that film reels should. But he leaves, flies back home because his current employer happens to live within driving distance of his apartment. He takes them as soon as he makes it back to his apartment. He wants them gone as soon as possible.
He leaves the reels in the trunk of his car because they make his skin crawl to have them on the seat beside him. He doesn’t want to touch them anymore than he has too.
When Seokjin arrives at Bellinger’s house, the man in question and his butler are both waiting on the steps. Seokjin pops the trunk open and Bellinger is quick to rub his hands across the cases, a pleased hum leaving him. Then he’s pulling them out and handing him to his butler with the instruction to go set up the projector.
Bellinger turns back to Seokjin. “I never showed you how I knew that this film still existed. Would you like to see before you leave?”
Seokjin shifts. He doesn’t really want to. He wants to go home, forget that he ever looked for this film. Go back to his normal life, taking care of his theater and spending time with Taehyung. But it seems rude and so he nods. Bellinger leads him into the house and down a short hallway. When he opens a door, Seokjin feels like all the air has been sucked from his lungs with what he sees.
It’s the woman from the circles. Chained to the floor and wings mounted on the wall. Bellinger enters the room and she immediately cowers, giving Seokjin a view of her back and where two long, red cuts sit. Right about where wings would attach. They look fresher than decades old wounds should look. Because Seokjin knows she must be the one from the stills. One of the angels in Backovic’s film. The man from the warehouse’s words comes back to him as he’s staring at her. Divine blood spilled on camera. Seokjin’s chest aches.
Bellinger runs a hand across her head and she curls more into herself. “I happened to be lucky enough to acquire a few props from the film.”
Seokjin’s stomach turns at a being, an angel, being referred to as nothing more than a prop. “Can I have the rest of my payment?”
“Ah! Of course!” Bellinger reaches into his pocket and hands Seokjin an envelope.
Seokjin doesn’t even care if it’s the right amount. He needs to get out of here. He wants to claw his skin off the longer he stays. He turns and leaves, missing the look the angel sends him.
Seokjin rests his forehead against the steering wheel once he’s in the car. He allows himself a few deep breaths before finally pulling away from the house. He needs to just not think about this for a few hours. And then he can figure out what he should do with the new weight of information that’s been bestowed upon him. He taps the console, dialing Taehyung.
“Hey! You’ve been pretty quiet lately, you good?” He answers cheerily.
“Better now.”
“Oh?” Taehyung sounds excited. “What happened?”
“I found it. Fuck, I can’t… I can’t even explain anything properly. But… fuck, Tae, I really found it. I found La Fin Absolue du Monde.”
“Where is it now?”
Seokjin frowns. That’s a weird question. Taehyung knows pretty well how this works, plus Seokjin left Bellinger’s information in his office in case he needed Taehyung to get in contact with him should something go wrong. “Tae, what-” He cuts off when his call waiting pops up, revealing that Bellinger is calling him. “Sorry Tae, that’s the other line. I’ll talk to you when I get home.”
“Seokjin no! Wait! Whatever you do, don’t watch-” Seokjin cuts him off as he switches to Bellinger’s call.
Bellinger starts babbling, it sounds like he was babbling before Seokjin even answered the call. It’s hard for Seokjin to follow most of what he’s saying. Eventually he gathers enough that Bellinger needs him to come back. Had he grabbed the wrong film? Had Katja switched them on purpose? Or lied about it still existing? That seems unlikely, but he supposes he’ll find out when he gets back to Bellinger’s mansion. He turns the car around the first chance he gets.
Bellinger’s house is quiet when he enters after he receives no answer to his knocking. But he makes it only a few feet past the foyer when the butler staggers out from a room, covered in cuts and knife still in hand. He points a finger at Seokjin.
“This is all your fault. You brought this evil here!”
And Seokjin can only watch with a horrified expression as the butler stabs the knife into one eye and then the other. Panic wells in his chest and Seokjin moves quickly through the house, finding the small theater room with ease after heading the direction that the butler had come from. There’s no one in the seats, but he sees movement in the projection booth so he heads back there.
Bellinger stands on the other side of the room, next to an empty projector. He murmurs something, though Seokjin’s unsure if he meant it for him or if he is just talking to himself. He lifts a straight razor, setting it on top of the projector like it’s a normal thing to do. He’s sweaty and winces every so often as his arm moves behind the projector. Seokjin wants to help, but he has a feeling he might be a little too late for that. And he’d prefer to not get closer and see just what Bellinger did with that straight razor.
“I’ve done some terrible things,” he gasps out. “You have to to become this rich.”
Seokjin sees a flash of the angel and realization washes over him. “You watched La Fin Absolue du Monde.”
Bellinger jerks forward, wincing at the sudden movement, but there's a wild look in his eye. He seems unphased by the jarring motion that caused him further harm, too engrossed in the need to tell Seokjin about the movie. “Yeah… I recommend it.” He shakes his head and groans. “It’s not a movie though. Just a preview. The coming attractions of the soul.”
“You said you needed help.”
“I was going to ask you to find another movie for me. But… I don’t need it anymore. I have been… inspired.” There’s a disconcerting squelch and then Bellinger flicks the projector on and a second later something red and gooey slides through the projector like a film reel. It takes Seokjin only a second to realize what it is and he covers his mouth in horror and backs out of the room as he retches. Bellinger’s wheezed laughter follows him out as he sits heavily in one of the theater chairs. He just needs a minute to collect himself. He’s never been faced with so much blood and death in person. Movies sure, but those are fake. Actors with makeup and corn syrup. People who get up and walk away after the scene is done. Not this.
He buries his face in his hands. He has no idea how long he sits there, but when he looks up, he’s horrified to realize that the film restarted. He has no idea if it was Bellinger doing it and that’s why he called him here, compelled by the film to get someone else to watch or if there’s some other force at play that started it. Taehyung’s warnings float through his mind.
He squeezes his eyes shut. He can’t watch this. He doesn’t want to, he wants to leave and never come back. Maybe never watch a movie again. But then there’s a scream and something makes him open his eyes. And there, projected on the screen, is Taehyung. Strapped belly down on a table as a masked man laughs and hacks at the base of Taehyung’s wings. Screen Taehyung lets out another anguished scream and Seokjin forces his eyes closed again.
He’s not going to watch. He won’t. There’s a need to do something in his chest but he can’t figure out what it is. A woman screams on screen and with a sudden, bright clarity, Seokjin knows what it is that he needs to do. He scrambles out of his seat, blindly feeling his way out of the room as best he can. Once in the relative safety of the hallway, he heads immediately towards the angel. She’s staring directly at the door when he enters, like she was expecting him. And Seokjin would be disconcerted if he hadn’t just seen his best friend and the guy who he’s maybe interested in getting his literal, actual wings cut off. Seokjin thinks that nothing could ever phase him again after this. He moves to the desk on the far wall, tearing through the drawers until he finds the shackle keys.
He approaches slowly, getting to his knees and crawling the last few feet to her. He reaches out just as slowly, but she doesn’t move an inch. He’d think she was a statue if he hadn’t seen her moving before. He undoes each of the cuffs then slides himself back to give her space.
She doesn’t move at first and when she does, it’s to look back to the door, a small smile gracing her lips. “Taehyung,” she sighs.
Seokjin jerks, turning to see Taehyung standing in the doorway, shirtless with the film reels tucked under one arm. He quickly approaches the woman, completely ignoring Seokjin’s presence. The lack of attention gives Seokjin the opportunity to see Taehyung’s back and see that the same two marks that marr her back also marr his.
The two press their foreheads together and stay like that for a long while. Seokjin begins to feel like an intruder and so he tries to quietly stand and slip out. But he only makes it to standing before Taehyung is turning towards him.
Seokjin…” His eyes are watery. “Thank you.”
Seokjin gives a jerky nod and quickly leaves. He doesn’t know what he’d say to Taehyung. He just found out that he’s actually an angel. What do you even say to that? Sorry some asshole film director mutilated you on film and someone else captured your angel… friend? Partner? Seokjin doesn’t want to think about it. They seem to know what they need now that they’re in possession of the films. He’s not needed anymore.
Seokjin tries to get back to normal life. He really does, though Taehyung’s disappearance leaves a bigger hole in his life than he would’ve thought. It’s a little heartbreaking too. He’d been seriously considering seeing if the younger would be interested in something more.
Plus he’s now lost some of the help he had at the theater. He hires someone else, a sweet kid named Jungkook and he lets him help find more current or interesting films to show alongside some older and more indie films and business steadily picks up. Yoongi questions his sudden change of heart on the films he shows and Seokjin staunchly refuses to admit that he did it in honor of Taehyung who always nagged him to get newer films in. He spends more time with other friends and tries not to think about how much he misses Taehyung.
That is, until he’s home one night and there’s a knock on his balcony door. Which is baffling because Seokjin lives on the 25th floor and it’s a fucking balcony. Cautiously, he slides open the door, jaw dropping when he sees Taehyung and you, looking full and happy and with pretty black wings folded neatly behind you both. Seokjin rubs at his eyes. There’s no way. He’s got to be dreaming.
Taehyung moves in to give Seokjin a hug but Seokjin takes a quick step back. Taehyung’s face falls slightly and you reach out to rub his arm comfortingly.
You give Seokjin a soft smile. “We wanted to come thank you.”
Seokjin flushes. “It was nothing.”
You shake your head. “No you don’t understand. It was everything. Taehyung and I were bound to that film. As long as it existed, we were trapped and broken. But you saved us.”
“Seokjin…” Taehyung’s voice sounds so small and Seokjin aches to hold him.
But he can’t. Not yet. He has to know. It’s been festering in his mind ever since Taehyung disappeared. “Did you befriend me just so I’d find your film?”
Taehyung’s eyes widen and he’s quick to shake his head. “No! I was your friend because I wanted to be! I was trapped here. It was so lonely without Y/n. But I found you and… I don’t know. Something just drew me to you.” Taehyung ducks his head in shame. “I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you what I was. I didn’t want you to think I was crazy and stop being my friend.”
Seokjin’s heart breaks and before Taehyung can utter another word, Seokjin is crushing him in a hug. Taehyung lets out a watery laugh and they stay like that for a long minute before finally pulling away.
“You two should probably come in so people don’t see the wings and think I’m hiding mothman or something.”
Taehyung perks up. “Oh, we can fix that.”
And before Seokjin can ask what he means, the air around the both of you shimmers and when it clears, you’re both standing there, wingless.
Taehyung grins. “Angel powers are pretty cool, huh?”
Seokjin blinks. “Y-yeah… Uh, you can still come in though. Wings or not.”
Taehyung grins and ushers both Seokjin and you into the apartment. You all sit and an awkward silence settles on the room.
“So… Where did you disappear to?”
Taehyung grimaces and you reach over to take his hand before turning to Seokjin. “Hand to find a creative way to get home without powers so we could get the film destroyed and recover. The recovery didn’t take long. But trying to find the way home proved tricky when we didn’t have our powers to locate other angels.”
Seokjin glances at you then at Taehyung, a lump forming in his throat. “Are… you going to stick around?”
Taehyung smirks and slides closer to Seokjin. “Depends. Do we have a reason to stick around?”
Seokjin gulps. “We?”
You rise and settle on Seokjin’s other side and both your hand and Taehyung’s come to rest on Seokjin’s thighs in perfect synchrony. “We.” You confirm with a coy smile. “We’d really like to thank you properly first though.”
“Can… Can angels even do that?”
He gets two giggles in response and then both you and Taehyung are slipping from the couch to kneel before him. Seokjin wonders how much you’ve done this to be so in sync with one another. It makes him equals parts aroused and jealous. Two hands slide up his thigh, playing with the waistband of his sweats. Taehyung looks smug and you have a matching expression as you bat your eyelashes up at him, looking every inch like an innocent angel despite the hand that is dangerously close to his rapidly filling cock.
“You can say no,” you offer, when his silence continues to stretch.
“No!”
Taehyung snickers. “I told you. We already had a thing almost going. And who wouldn’t go for you.”
You nudge Taehyung playfully. “Stop that. This is about Seokjin.”
Taehyung turns back to Seokjin, grin much darker than before as his hand tightens on Seokjin’s waistband. “You’re right. So? Will you let us thank you?”
Seokjin blinks. He’s still trying to figure out how he ended up here. The two of you look far more salacious than Seokjin thinks a pair of angels should ever look. He wonders if you’re not just some demons pretending. He can’t deny that the thought of both of you doing whatever you deem as showing your thanks is intriguing. And Taehyung’s not wrong. They had been close. He just didn’t expect that to work out this way. He doesn’t think he can find a thing to complain about when he looks at how pretty you both look between his legs and eager to please.
“Hm, do you think he’s distracted by the thought of what we’ll do to him?” Your gaze slides towards Taehyung.” “Or how we look together?”
A groan rumbles in Seokjin’s chest. Fuck, he hadn’t even thought about seeing the two of you together. You both smile at the reaction and take that as consent to tug Seokjin’s pants down and off. His cock rests hard and heavy against his belly as the both of you greedily drink in the sight.
Your tongue darts out to lick your lips as Taehyung presses Seokjin’s legs a little further apart so that both you and Taehyung fit between them. You make eye contact with Seokjin and wink before turning to Taehyung and pulling him in for a kiss. The kiss is immediately filthy and Seokjin groans at the slick sounds coming from you both. It’s clear that you are familiar with each other, an ease that oozes from you both as you kiss. Taehyung’s hands tangle in your hair, drawing a loud moan that he’s quick to swallow.
Seokjin starts to feel a little like an intruder, but as soon as he has the thought, there’s your hand is sliding up his calf. You stop at the bend of his knee and Seokjin only has a moment to ponder what you’re doing before you’re tugging him closer until his ass is perched on the edge of the couch. He’d be a little scared at the casual display of power if it didn’t turn him on more. Not breaking contact with your kiss with Taehyung, your hand continues its path up his leg until you can wrap your hand around his cock.
Seokjin’s hips jerk into your grip and he can see the slightest edge of a smile tugging at your lips. You give him a squeeze before sliding your hand up the thick length. Seokjin wants to squeeze his eyes shut but he’s too drawn to the way you and Taehyung look together. He almost wants to bat your hand away and see what the two of you do together.
Jolting, his gaze drops to where Taehyung’s hand has joined your’s on his cock, thumb circling the head and gathering precum. Then he’s pulling his hand back and slipping his thumb between your mouths. Seokjin sees your tongue brush the pad of his thumb and then brush against Taehyung’s to share the taste of Seokjin with him. It’s unfair how erotic the two of your are together.
Seokjin just might die. Actually, maybe he’s already dead. Maybe that film actually did kill him. If this is the afterlife, he certainly can’t complain. Your hand settles at the base once again and you use your grip to tilt it closer to your and Taehyung’s mouths. You both shift closer, until your tongues brush the head of Seokjin’s cock just as much as they do against each other.
Groaning, Seokjin’s hands curl into fists where they rest on the couch, at a complete loss of what to do as the two of you seem content to torture him by making out with his dick trapped in the middle. The two of you continue like that, tongues brushing the sensitive head of his cock with every brush against each other, lips occasionally dragging with the movement.
Seokjin kind of hopes that he is dead, because he might die with how slow the two of you decide to go. He hesitates for only a moment before he’s unclenching his fists and resting his hand on each of your heads. Getting a pleased hum from you, he takes that as encouragement to push a little more and he pushes both of your heads further down his cock. Your lips barely touch Taehyung’s now that Seokjin’s cock is properly between you, girth forcing you too far apart. You work your tongue, moving lower as Taehyung moves back towards the tip.
You trace a vein until it disappears at the base of his cock, shifting then to lap at his balls. Taehyung’s tongue swirls around the head, taking his time playing with the slit before wrapping his lips around and sucking. Seokjin moans, hands tightening in both yours and Taehyung’s hair.
You let your hand closest to Taehyung trace his thigh before you’re pressing against his clothed erection. Taehyung whines, accidently sliding further down Seokjin’s cock and making himself gag. You smother your laugh against Seokjin’s thigh and Seokjin uses his grip of your hair to pull your face up.
You blink up at him with wide eyes at the sudden action and Seokjin smirks. “I don’t think that was a very nice thing to do, princess.” He gently pulls Taehyung off his cock. “What do you think, prince? Was that very nice?”
Taehyung stares up at Seokjin with wide, blown out eyes, lips plump and spit slick. He licks his lips and shakes his head and Seokjin gives him an indulgent smile and cups his cheek. Taehyung leans into his palm, eyes slipping closed. Seokjin turns back to you and the soft look melts away and you gulp.
He smirks. “Why don’t we give her a taste of her own medicine, my little prince?”
Taehyung shoots you a smug look and nods again, making Seokjin chuckle. He releases Taehyung, who shifts slightly out of the way. Seokjin grips his cock with one hand and guides you down onto it with the other. You open easily, squirming as Seokjin slowly feeds his cock into your mouth until he hits the back of your throat.
He drags you back, just as slow, before pushing you back down, cock hitting the back of your throat with more force and you gag. Taehyung’s hand finds yours, giving it a squeeze as Seokjin quickly works up a rhythm fucking your mouth. You struggle to take him, Seokjin thrusting before you have a chance to catch your breath.
Tears spring to your eyes and Seokjin chuckles. “Where’s the laughter now, hm, princess? It was so funny when Taehyungie was the one gagging on my cock.”
You whine around him and Seokjin picks up his pace, thighs flexing beneath your hands. Taehyung’s nails scratch along Seokjin’s thighs, sliding up to cup his balls and give them a tug. Seokjin moans and takes only a few more thrusts before he’s cuming in your mouth. You suck him through until he pushes you off and you sit back on your heels waiting for him to look at you.
When he does, you open your mouth to show the mouthful of cum and then you smirk and pull Taehyung back in for a messy kiss, swapping Seokjin’s cum between you both. Seokjin groans, watching the time you take to make sure every drop is cleaned from your lips.
Once you’re finished, you both crawl back onto the couch, each straddling one of his thighs. Seokjin cups each of your faces with one of his hands. Taehyung leans forward to press a soft kiss to Seokjin’s lips and when he pulls back you lean in to place a kiss of your own on his lips.
Taehyung grins when you both press your foreheads to Seokjin’s. “We’re gonna stick around for a while.”
Seokjin can’t say he minds having two angels stick around. It’s a good thing he’s got a king sized bed.
#btsholidaybingo#bangtanarmynet#hyunglinenetwork#btsguild#kwritersworldnet#thekimlinenet#ksmutclub#magicshopnet#btswriterscollective#bangtanhq#bangtanshadowfamily#bts x reader#bts smut#bts fanfic#seokjin x reader#seokjin smut#seokjin fanfic#taehyung x reader#taehyung smut#taehyung fanfic#taejin x reader
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Lewis Nixon’s family drama (this one was not inflicted by Stanhope)
Be aware of family drama overdose...
Lew’s grandmother Sally Wood Nixon died in 1937. His grandfather re-married in the summer of 1938. His bride was the 37 yr old Mrs Mary Martin (whose ex-husband was Mr Arthur Tenant Martin). That’s fine. Nobody expected him to live in a cave after his wife died.
Lewis Nixon the shipbuilder died in 1940. His obituary showed that he had two sons. Stanhope (age 46) from his first marriage, and Joel from his second marriage. Stanhope has always been an only child in all the other sources.
I was shocked how virile he was at age 77, although it’s not impossible.
Since he married Mary Martin in June 1938 and he died in Sep 1940, Joel can’t be older than 2 year old in 1940, right?
Again, don’t assume anything. Because in the 1940 cenus, Lewis Nixon the shipbuilder lived in a rented apartment in upper east Manhattan with his second wife Mary and his son Joel. However, in this document, Joel’s full name was “Joel Martin Nixon” and he was not a baby, he was a 10 year old boy, attending 4th grade elementary school.
Flipping back to the 1930 census, Mary Martin was still married to Mr Arthur T Martin (who was 26 yrs older than her. She was always married to older men?). In 1930 they had a son Joel Martin (age 6 months).
The strange thing is, if Joel’s father was Mr Arthur T Martin, he shouldn’t be described as Lewis Nixon’s son in his obituary. Divorce was not so uncommon back then and the obituaries from that time were always very specific about which children were from which marriage. For example, Michael was not mentioned at all in the obituary of Kathy’s husband.
However, going by the fact that Joel’s surname has been changed from Martin to Nixon, maybe he was adopted officially. If so, it would affect Stanhope’s inheritance.
Indeed, 10 years after the death of Lew’s grandpa, the young widow Mary was still suing Stanhope (the newspaper clipping below was from 1951).
############### UPDATE ####################
I was assuming that Joel’s biological father was Mr Arthur Martin, and he was adopted by Lewis Nixon the shipbuilder after he married Mary Martin in 1938. He loved her so much that he not only bestowed his surname on her, but also on her 10 yr old son from her previous marriage.
But but again, never assume anything...
I’ve mentioned before that there was a society called “Sons of The American Revolution” and both Stanhope (in 1915) and Lew (in 1937) had its membership (because their great great great ... grandfather was John Nixon who was a private under the Captain Nathan Reid in US Revolutionary War. I don’t know why it’s of any importance but apparantly it means a lot to the Nixons, that every Nixon heir should apply for the membership when coming of age.
I found Joel in this database (among application forms in 1947):
What’s going on???? Like, Lewis Nixon the shipbuilder was his biological father????! The marriage date was a blatant lie (maybe made up to match his date of birth). Because the Manhattan marriage license database showed the actual date of marriage of Lewis Nixon shipbuilder and Mary Martin was June 28 1938.
This is insane...Lew’s grandfather, in his 70s, had an affair with Mrs Martin, had a son out of wedlock. What happened to Mr Martin? Has he died or divorced her? How can they be so sure who was Joel’s father? There was no paternity test in 1930s. They had blood type test but it can only rule out paternity possibility. It can only tell “no” but no positive answer. Unless Mr Martin was ruled out by blood type...
Anyway, on the signature page we can see the address of Joel Martin Nixon in 1947. It’s “40 Central Park South, New York, NY” and his occupation was “student”, so let’s move on to dig in the yearbook database
Joel’s record in the US yearbook database (name and address all matched up):
Joel Peter Martin Nixon, a brilliant student in Philips academy and he was going to Princeton University (This yearbook was in 1946, he was only 16, but all Nixons went to college before 18). His classmates also called him “Nix”.
Post-war, Lew settled down in Princeton. The city directory of Princeton (1949) showed that Lew, Irene and Joel were all living in Princeton. Joel was in room 62 of Campbell Hall of Princeton University (it’s only 1.4 miles to Southern way). After he graduated, he moved to Prospect ave., only 0.3 miles away.
Did Lew choose to live in Princeton to take care of his baby uncle Joel? I don’t know...
When Joel grew up, he dropped “Martin” and usually use Joel P Nixon as his name. He started his career as a journalist and eventuraly became a president of some media company.
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You’re Mine
Pairing: Beefy!Bucky x Reader
Requested by @rebelfleur22 - Okay reader (me 😂 i wish) and bucky were dating for a long time but they broke up due to the fact that they grew apart but they still love each other, so at one of Tony's parties, bucky brings his new girlfriend to finally meet the Avengers and secretly annoy & make his ex jealous 😂 unknown to bucky his new girlfriend is a huge fan of reader (which she's also an avenger with super powers) and super nervous to meet her. So the guys are convincing the reader to be nice to her which eventually agrees even though she's still loves bucky. Can i please request one more thing 🙏🏻 i want it to be angsty with some sassy reader and if you don't mind having a smutty ending?
Warnings: Lots of angst, insults, argument, sassy reader, fluff, SMUT 18+ Oral sex (female receiving), squirting, unprotected sex, language, reconciliation.
Word Count: 4457
A/N: Thank you so much for the request my love!!! I really hope you like it. I really can’t feel my fingers but it’s so worth it!!! There are references to One Tree Hill, the dance part was inspired by a clip from the vampire diaries and the argument was heavily inspired by an episode of Friends. Hope you enjoy :)
Bucky saw you smile a lot more these days and it broke his heart because he couldn't remember the last time you smiled as brightly as you did.
You and Bucky had been in a very serious long term relationship. A relationship that was full of love, passion, trust but in the end, distance. You grew apart and decided it was better to remain friends than in a distant relationship with each other.
Bucky still loved you very much. He loved you with every fiber of his body. He would never tell you, but when he started sleeping alone in his bed at night, the nightmares would return more frequently. And he would never tell you how many mornings he spent crouched down on the shower floor crying until his chest was physically hurting.
And it's been 5 months since the breakup. He needed someone else to fill the void that was in his chest. He needed someone to love him again. And he thought his new girl Sima would be perfect.
She was perfect. With her beautiful long curly blonde hair, her natural eyelashes, her flawless figure. A girl who looked after her nails and spent hours at the hair salon bleaching her hair.
There was just a small problem. Sima might have been a gorgeous woman, but she wasn't you.
It hurt more because though you both agreed on staying friends, you rarely talked to each other. He also noticed you had stopped following him on Instagram and though that burnt a hole in his chest, he couldn't find it in him to bring it up simply because it seemed so petty.
But truthfully, the only reason you did was because of his happy posts and selfies on him smiling, the smile you didn't see on his face for a long time. Seeing Bucky so happy and thriving without you, it killed you from the inside out.
Each day, you had to force a smile on your face just so the team wouldn't worry about how you were coping with the breakup. Everyone knew how close you and Bucky were, how in love you were. And if they paid close attention, they would see the dark circles under your eyes. You were not coping well at all.
You missed him and you still loved him, so very much. Each morning you would find yourself curled up into a ball on the side he used to sleep, cradling his pillow in your arms. You refused to wash the pillowcase since you could still smell the scent of his apple shampoo on it.
But it was all in the past, and you knew if you cried a river it wasn't going to bring you and Bucky back together.
You were sat on the bar stool with your fingers wrapped around your hot cup of freshly made coffee talking to Steve about Tony's upcoming extravagant party.
"Do you really think he will invite lots of people this time?" You asked, nervously biting your lip.
Steve shrugged and looked over his newspaper. "It's Tony." You nodded in agreement.
"Hey Steve." Bucky greeted as he walked in. His white shirt pulled tightly across his muscles.
"Good morning Buck." Steve greeted back but eyeing the two of you suspiciously.
"Oh Buck. Thank you for wishing me a good morning." You said with sarcasm laced in your voice, cocking an eyebrow in his direction. "I'm so miserable without you here it's almost as if you are here."
"And thank fuck for that." He replied almost instantly with an eye roll.
You scoffed, amused and sipped your coffee.
"Hey Steve." Bucky started, getting his attention. "Have you ever looked at your ex and wondered if you were drunk the entire relationship?" Bucky smirked.
"Ha ha. Well you know what they say. If you're happy, thank your ex. At least I don't have to put up your excessive grunting when you're on top of me."
"Y/N!" Steve warned.
"Fuck you, you crazy bitch." Bucky scowled, hurrying up with making his coffee so he could leave.
"That's enough you two!" Steve intervened, sensing an argument about to break out soon.
"She started it." Bucky accused.
"She started it." You mocked, angering Bucky more.
"You know what Y/N. I'm fucking glad we broke up. You talk about my grunting, but you know what I'm grateful for? Not having to taste your disgusting fucking pussy and having to stick my cock in it anymore."
"Oh yeah." You chuckled, standing up to follow Bucky into the common room where the rest of the avengers were seated on the large couches in the room. "I'm grateful for not having to fake my orgasms anymore and not having your disgusting shit smelling breath in my face." You barked back.
"Ohhhh oh oh." Sam cackled from the couch, and immediately dipped his head when Bucky glared at him. Daring him to continue what he was going to say.
"That makes two of us you arrogant bitch and if my breath was bad, it's only because of where my mouth was moments before I was on top of you. Oh and hey. Forgot to tell you, saw something that reminded me of you today. But then I flushed it and left the bathroom." Bucky clicked his tongue as he took a seat next to Wanda.
You kept your facade up. Not wanting your friends to see what his words do to you. And you realized he called you a bitch twice.
You stomped towards the door and stopped to turn around a final time. Bucky's eyebrows raised waiting for your final blow.
"And just so you know. It's not that common, it doesn't happen to every guy and it IS A BIG DEAL!" You yelled, walking out of the common room and heading towards your room.
In the distance, you heard Sam laugh and mock Bucky with a "I knew it old man!"
You should have been delighted. You kicked him whilst he was down, but you didn't feel proud. The insults you threw at each other were harsh and you knew it. And you wondered if he meant everything he said. He probably did, right? If he didn't hate you before, he surely does now.
Bucky sat on the couch bewildered. He wondered where this sudden argument came from but he knew it was your way of coping with the hurt. Because it was what you did best, to hide your true feelings, you would become this sassy little brat and he hated it, he hated your attitude.
He was more shell shocked by the last insult you threw at him. It happened just once, he was really tired but he wanted to have sex. It didn't matter how hard you massaged his cock through his pants, he still couldn't get hard. You had told him it didn't matter, that he just needed a good night sleep and you could try the following night.
He never once expected you to bring it up and use it against him. It was private, and he was pissed because you had said that in front of his friends and teammates.
Bucky ignored the snickers around him. His phone buzzed in his pant pocket and he pulled it out, his face slightly lighting up when it was a text from Sima.
Sima: I'm outside. Are you ready to go shopping with me? ❤
Bucky quickly typed a reply back.
Bucky: hi baby. Yes, give me a few minutes.
He left the heart out. He felt weird adding emojis to Sima's texts because his heart emojis were reserved for you only.
Bucky quickly excused himself. Taking his cup to the kitchen and going to his room to throw on a jacket and give his teeth a quick brush. He then left the compound without saying goodbye to anyone.
He needed a suit for tonight's party. Tonight would also be the night he would introduce Sima to the team, to you. He was nervous and scared. He was scared about his conflicted feelings.
You sat in your room alone, your back against the headboard staring at the wall in front of you.
You were honestly not looking forward to the party tonight. Natasha had told you days ago she would stop by your room to give you one of her dresses and Wanda would come along to do your makeup and curl your hair.
It was a futile attempt to try and get out of the party since Tony had made it clear you could be excused only if you died. Meaning, he was putting a lot of money into this party and it was mandatory that every single avenger in the compound had to be there, no ifs and no buts.
Tony wasn't even a little bit sympathetic about your breakup. You recalled him saying "at least you'll find a real man now kid."
Bucky was more than a man though. He was your light in the darkness of days. He cuddled your body close to his when you were sad for no reason. He was never cruel towards anyone. You believed he loved you as much as you loved him. But with his cruel words replaying themselves in the back of your mind, you begin to wonder about that like many other things.
You've been called a bitch many times in your life. Witch, weirdo, freak were among the list of names people had for you.
You once had beautiful naturally brown hair. Until you absorbed a portion of Thanos's force, and over time it turned your hair completely white. The only thing stopping you from having a breakdown down was the fact Bucky really liked your beautiful hair. He said you reminded him of Khaleesi from his favorite TV show Game of Thrones. And when you styled it. Oh my God. Bucky was a goner.
You curled up once again on the side he used to sleep. Cuddling his pillow against your chest as tear drops escaped. You sniffled once, and then the dam broke.
You broke out into small sobs. Your eyes screwed shut tight.
"I miss you Bucky." You cried out into your empty room. Those words repeatedly falling from your lips. You stayed like that until there was a brisk knock at the door. You peeled open your eyes opened and you were now shrouded in complete darkness.
What time was it? The pillow was soaking wet from your tears and mucus. But you didn't care.
The knock sounded again and you groaned.
"Come in." You yelled. The door opened and the light was turned on. You instinctively shielded your eyes from the sudden brightness.
"Were you asleep?" Wanda's thick accent entered your ears.
"No I was fucking skiing." You replied sarcastically, hiding your face in his pillow.
"With Bucky's pillow?" Natasha snipped with a smirk. "Come on girl. Get up, we gotta get dressed and get down to Tony's party. So, up, up, up!"
You groaned but pulled yourself up nonetheless. Natasha hung a dress on the hanger that was hanging from the little knobs on your closet doors.
"Get showered." Natasha ordered and you didn't bother to fight her. You couldn't. You were just too exhausted emotionally.
*************************************************
Bucky was standing in the corner of the party with Sima on his arm talking to Steve. The elevator doors dinged open and everyone's eyes were drawn to the three women who stepped out in linked arms.
Natasha, Wanda and you.
You were breathtaking in your gorgeous tight white dress. Your white hair curled to halfway down your back, and your minimal makeup really worked together. You looked exactly how he imagined you would on the day he would eventually marry you.
"Oh my God. Is that Y/N???!" Sima asked Bucky, her eyes wide. Sima was a huge fan of yours. She saw what you could do with your powers. She was there to witness what you did to Thanos before he snapped his fingers. Sima admits you, and hoped one day you would be friends. But giving the current circumstances, she knew that was never possible.
"Yes." Bucky sighed. Then an idea popped into his mind and he smirked. "Wanna meet her?" He winked and grabbed a hold of Sima's hand as they walked through the crowd towards you.
Your face dropped considerably when you saw Bucky. Hand in hand with another woman. You recognized her as another avenger, on a different team. Your breath hitched when you saw how Bucky looked tonight. A tight all black suit, his hair slicked back into a tight man bun with that beautiful stubble on his face.
"Good evening Y/L/N." Bucky greeted with no emotion on his face. "This is Sima, my girlfriend."
The blonde girl reached her hand out for you to shake but you couldn't register anything that was going on around you.
"Oh my gosh. It's such an honor to finally meet you." She grinned so excitedly but you just stared forward. Forcing one of your fake smiles on your face.
"Ditto." You kept your hands by your side and Bucky was annoyed by your rudeness. Sima awkwardly retracted her hand and adjusted a bobby pin in her hair to hide her embarrassment.
"Y/N. Sima was just-"
"Excuse me." You cut Bucky off. Marching towards Natasha and hauling her to the nearest empty room.
"What is going on?" Natasha asked, folding her arms across her chest.
You scoffed and paced the room. Your heels click-clacked against the stone floors.
"I CAN NOT believe it!" Your hands flew through your curls and tugged at the ends.
"What? What are you talking about Y/N?" Natasha pressed.
"That WHORE STOLE MY MAN. She's out there right now. Hanging from his arm like a fucking lazy sloth. Oh God have they fucked yet?!"
"So? Y/N. It's been 5 months. Bucky is allowed to move on and so are you. I hate to break it to you honey but he's not your man anymore."
"I don't want anyone else to have him and I know what you're gonna say. I know I'm being selfish but… it kills me Nat. He's killing me."
"You still love him." Natasha stated more than asked. A nod of your head confirmed what she already knew. "Then babe if you really love him-"
"Don't tell me to let him go because that could never happen." You deadpanned.
"I was going to say - if you really love him. Go and get him before his relationship with what's-her-face gets too serious."
Natasha was right. But dread filled you. After the words exchanged between you and Buck earlier, there was no way on this planet he would ever feel the same way about you again.
Right? Wrong. When you stormed off with Natasha, Bucky had excused himself to see what was going on. He stopped outside the door and listened. He heard every word.
He couldn't believe you still loved him. And he knew if the tables were switched and it was you here with another man, he would feel exactly the same way.
But Sima. Oh God. What was he going to do about Sima. She seemed to already understand the war he was having in his mind. About making people happy, about doing what is right. Sima knew he loved you still, when they were together he would talk about you a lot and he wouldn't even realize. To save him the hurt, Sima walked up to him and hugged him tightly.
"It's okay Bucky. Go get her. I just hope we can stay friends." She said in his ear and he hugged her tighter.
"I'm sorry."
"Hey, hey." Sima cupped his stubbed face and smiled. "You love her and you were right for each other." Bucky nodded with a small smile. They embraced for the last night and Sima decided to leave the party.
Now all Bucky had to do was wait for you to come out from the room. And once you did, you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear as you walked back into the party. Only to be grabbed to your wrist and your body colliding with someone.
“Buck-let me go.” You scoffed, trying to break free.
“Come on doll. Just one dance.” He smirked down at you. His hands holding onto your waist as you danced together. His cologne was intoxicating, but it was your favorite. “How are you?”
You scoffed once again and rolled your eyes. “Where is Sima?”
“Broke up amicably.”
“Why?” Your brows furrowed. They seemed very happy together at the beginning of the party.
“That’s none of your business doll.”
“Oh come on Buck. Don’t be an asshole. I’m not in the mood.”
“What are you in the mood for, pretty lady?” He flirted and you were confused. Where the hell was all of this coming from? Thor wasn’t at the party so it wasn’t the mead that was making him talk like this.
Could be his hard dick that you found yourself brushing up against accidentally as you were dancing.
“Hmm, let’s see. Sleeping naked on top of the covers.” You decided two could play this game.
“That was my favorite.” He twirled you around and pulled you back against his chest and grounded his erected clothed cock into your ass. A gasp fell from your lips as you grinded slightly into him.
“God, you’re so hard.”
“Mmmm. And I’m bettin’ you’re soaking wet.”
*************************************************
Your back hit the mattress with a loud grunt as Bucky hungrily crawled on top of you. Nibbling the sensitive skin on your pulse point and pulling your dress from your shoulders.
Bucky traced his soft lips from your neck to your jawline and down your throat. Nipping and biting the skin before continuing his path down between the valley of your breasts.
He took a nipple in his mouth, swirling his tongue around the erected bud and sucking it between his lips. His touch sent electrifying bolts through your body and your arousal was pooling in your panties.
You missed his touch. His lips on yours. It’s been 5 months since you’ve felt him and though you wished you could take your time with him, you were just far too horny for the slow and sensual sex.
“Bucky please.” You begged, pushing his head further down your body. Bucky chuckled against your skin as his fingers hooked on your dress and pulled it down as he ventured more south.
“Please what, doll?” He teased, kissing above your navel area before sinking down on the floor and pulling your dress completely off. Leaving you in just your white laced panties.
“Don’t be a cocky fuckin’ bastard. I haven’t had sex in months and I need you.” You huffed impatiently. He was still chuckling against your skin and you were close to telling him to forget it.
And you would have if it wasn’t for him pulling your panties down finally and growling at the evident arousal seeping through your lips.
“Jesus Christ baby. Got my mouth waterin’ here.” His large hands opened you up before him, his thumbs opened your lips as he ran his tongue from your warm soft clit down to your seeping entrance. The beautiful feeling of his warm delicious tongue caused you to clench around nothing. And Bucky absolutely loved watching your desperate hole contract.
His lips enclosed around your clit. His tongue swirling around the bundle. Your back arched off the bed and your heels dug into his shoulder blades as he ate you out like a starving man.
The sinful sounds of your wetness against his mouth and his groaning were pornographic and you thrived off of it. You were so horny that it didn’t take you too long to reach the peak. And when you were close, you were a squirming mess trying to writher out of his strong grip.
“BUCK!” You screamed loudly, your hands locked in his hair as your hips went flush against his mouth. He licked your clit with the pressure you liked. Driving you absolutely insane with need. A final lick and you were gone. Your hips jerked forward when he continued to lick from the intense orgasm and he drank every single drop that oozed out from your entrance. He watched it with great interest as it ran down between your butt cheeks to your puckered hole.
Bucky groaned in delight as he pulled away from you. Looking down through your hooded eyes, your arousal soaked his stubble and cheek. You didn’t even realize you had squirted. You were embarrassed, but Bucky seemed to love it.
“You’re too dressed Buck.” You smirked and kept your legs opened.
“That I am.”
You sat up on your forearms and watched him undress himself. Throwing his clothes in all corners of the room. He climbed up on the bed and kneeled between your opened legs. Your legs wrapped around his waist as he walked on his knees to the top of the bed and laid you down on the pillow you used to sleep on.
Bucky hooked your legs with his forearms and leaned forward. He teased your waiting cunt with the tip of his cock.
“Doll, I don’t think you’ve ever been this wet before.” Bucky moaned as he watched his cock gather up your juices.
“It’s been months for me Buck.” You closed your eyes and whimpered each time his tip skimmed over your tingling clit. “Please fuck me Buck.”
Something in him changed. His eyes turned from blue to a dark brown/black. His engorged tip prodded against your entrance and then he slid home. Both of you moaning at the familiarity of him filling you up. His pubic bone bumped against your clit, causing your cunt to clench around him.
“Doll. I won’t last if you keep doin’ that.” He warned through gritted teeth. You loved how he was losing control already. And to be honest, so were you.
Your insides were tingling as your walls hugged his hot cock tightly. It was almost like a welcome home hug, we’ve missed you.
“Good. I don’t want you to make love to me Buck. I want you to fuck me! Hard and fast. Don’t be a fuckin’ pussy and just do it!” Your arms curled around his shoulders and he growled as he sat back and perched your legs on top of his shoulders.
“You and your fuckin’ attitude. You want it hard and fast? You fuckin’ got it.” And with that, he snapped his hips into you with a fast and brutal pace. His balls playing ping-pong against the skin of your ass and the position you were in meant he easily grazed your fucking G-spot perfectly. So perfectly that your cunt was permanently clenched around him. Your thick white slick gathered on his pubic bone. He rocked the bed harshly, the brass headboard knocking against the wall behind you and the mattress squeaking under your weight.
“Yes Buck! Come on baby just like that! Don’t stop.” You begged. Your skin covered in a sheen of sweat as you felt the tension rising in your tummy. “Fuck yes Buck. I’m so fucking close. Please don’t stop. Harder!”
And harder he went. The consistent rhythmic knocking of the headboard and skin on skin rang in your ears. Bucky angled his hips slightly and that was it. That was where your spot was and he hit it. Every. Single. Thrust.
“OH MY GODDDDD!!!” You screamed so loud that your voice cracked painfully. Tears spilled from the corner of your eyes as your hands massaged your breasts and pinched your nipples. “I’M CUMMING!” You announced. Not that it was necessary. Bucky could feel you were close and he went faster. A few more final hard thrusts and you were coming undone all over his cock. Your juices sprayed over his tummy and he moaned so fucking loudly you could have cummed again just from the erotic sound. Bucky was right behind you, spilling his hot cum deep in your tummy. You were both spent, looking at each other with love in your eyes and no signs of regret. Reluctantly, Bucky pulled out and you winced at the loss of contact. He walked in the bathroom and you heard the water running. A few moments later, he reappeared. His half-hard cock bobbing with every move he made.
“I’m running a bath for us.” He said sweetly, placing a kiss to your forehead. You smiled and reached your hand out to stroke his cheek.
“I’ve missed you.” You said truthfully. “I cried every night for you.”
“Oh doll. I’ve missed you too. And I’m never fuckin’ lettin’ you go again either.”
“I hope not.”
“You’re mine.” He dominantly said and you chuckled a little. “Don’t ruin the moment.” He warned and you chuckled again.
“Yes Sergeant.” You went to sit up and hiss. The ache in your groin was starting to catch up to you now. “Okay maybe you were too hard.”
Now it was Bucky’s turn to laugh. “I’m always hard doll.”
You rolled your eyes. “I meant the sex.”
“Well, you were yelling at me to fuck you hard and fast.” He shrugged.
“Just… take me to the bath please.” You playfully hit his shoulder.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Buck?” You mumbled into his neck as he carried you to the bathroom bridal style. Bucky hummed in response and you continued. “We’re back together, right?”
Bucky sat you in the tub. The temperature of the water was just perfect and it immediately helped your aching muscles. Bucky climbed in behind you. His legs raised and he pulled you back in between them. Your back rested against his chest as he gathered bubbles on your tummy.
“Maybe you didn’t hear me clearly Y/N. I said you were mine and I’m not letting you go again. So yes, we’re back together.”
Tags: @criminal-cookies @jobean12-blog @marvelgirl7
#bucky#Bucky Barnes#bucky barnes x reader#bucky barnes smut#James Buchanan Bucky Barnes#Bucky Barns#bucky barns x reader#bucky barns fanfiction#bucky barns imagine#bucky barns fic#fluff fluff fluff#angst#bucky barnes angst#smut#beefy!bucky#argument#reconciliation#lovers to friends#friends to lovers again#imagines#one shot#requested#rebelfleur22#itsunclebucky#4k fic#stories#fanfiction#fanfic#ff#angsty
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I'm about to be a basic bitch and ask for andyeddie for the domestic ship meme please and thank you?! 💜
fuck yeah you can, i want all of these!! and if this means we’re basic then call me bottom-line PH neutral, my dude - this is an andyeddie brain rot zone, you know this and i thank you so much for it!!
DOMESTIC SHIP MEME - AndyEddie
who reaches out to new neighbors
Andy. mr personality over here got it all. smooth voice, soft accent, award-winning smile. some neighbours take a while to even realise the tall, scary-looking guy in the blue pickup lives in the same house.
who remembers to buy healthy food
Andy, sort of. he buys a range but he does love his fresh fruit and veg. Eddie, on the other hand, shops simultaneously like he’s only got $5 and is on death row. not necessarily unhealthy just… bread. pasta. bacon. ready meal shit. bags of snacks. buy in bulk, Andy, it’s cheaper.
who fixes the oven when it breaks
Eddie, more practical knowledge from the machines. Andy would rather just call someone but has accepted just watching. (Eddie wears a dirty vest when he’s fixing it. got it tucked into his jeans with that big ol’ belt he wears and his tattooed arms are out so Andy just sips his drinks like cool, cool, please hurry up or this is going to turn into a bad porno.)
who waters the plants/feeds their pet(s)
Andy waters the plants because he loves his plants. he has a flowerbed when they get a garden but even in an apartment he had flowerpots on the windowsills; he loves gardening. (pet wise, when they get a dog, they both feed it. they share cleaning, though Eddie is more maintenance and Andy more cleaning.)
who wakes up earlier
Eddie. six in the morning, without fail. marine clock, baby, that shit will never die. (not without heavy drinking or an all-nighter anyway.)
who makes the bed
Eddie. because Andy’s shit at it. military-corners Eddie’s fucking ass; Andy’s terrible at keeping things tidy. he’s clean but he’s not neat.
who burns breakfast
Andy. Eddie is a great cook, he does deliciously simple comfort foods and he makes dinner every night. full-on stereotypical house-husband in that regard, because Andy’s the breadwinner of the two in the boring hetero sense. Andy can cook, as in he can follow instructions and not set the kitchen on fire, but he’s the only one who’ll burn anything.
how do they let each other know they’re leaving the house
Andy always kisses Eddie on the forehead. he’ll probably smooch him properly first – or worse, because he’s a a bastard, and will grab his ass before leaving – but he always marks that he’s actually leaving by kissing his forehead. he will go find Eddie specifically to give him his goodbye kiss.
Eddie shouts. hollers he’s going out in the shortest, blunted transfer of information. a grunted “Goin’ work” kind of deal. unless it’s spontaneous, he’ll also give Andy a kiss. it’s always on the lips and its chaste but heavy, pressing hard like he’s trying to remember the sensation. then he’ll get out of bed or grab his keys or go shower or whatever, and leave with a shout to mark him actually opening the door.
how do they greet each other when one of them gets home
Andy’s talkative. he’s “You have a good day?” or “You’ll never guess who turned up this afternoon!”. first one is default if nothing interesting’s happened. he wants to start a conversation, even if he talks and Eddie grunts. he doesn’t get up to greet; he knows Eddie will come find him and either sit down in his lap or come up behind him and wrap two strong arms around his waist. whatever suits, no rules
Eddie wanders out to meet Andy. he’ll come downstairs or walk into the entrance hallway. he’ll always have his arms folded, because he wants Andy to tell him what happened while he was out. (he doesn’t consider himself very interesting, yet he always wants to hear about the most basic shit Andy does.) normally he’ll add a “How was it?” or “Evenin’”. then he’ll wait because Andy usually answers him but not before he’s given him a greeting kiss.
who brings home little gifts like flowers/chocolates more often
both. Andy on the chocolates, Eddie on the flowers.
Andy knows the flavours Eddie enjoys and likes popping them into his mouth while Eddie berates him about wasting money. Andy buys things he thinks Eddie likes, but he also buys things Eddie needs and will not buy himself. lighters, jeans, shoes, wallets, picture frames, glasses cases. things that are worn down to the bone and need replacing. but also things like books and records.
Eddie’s a traditionalist, even if his reasoning might be a little tainted by heterosexual bullshit and toxic masculinity. he thinks flowers are beautiful, he knows Andy loves them, even memorised what kind he loves most, but there’s a-whole-nother level of gears in his mind about buying them. eventually he does because he desperately wants the ‘romance he can never have’. it’s a semi-special occasion the first time, like he’s picking Andy up from the station. he brings his bouquet and he looks way more uncomfortable holding it than Andy ever could be receiving it. (Andy, of course, is overwhelmed with joy. he puts them in the front window so everybody can see and he prunes them daily and he changes the water so they last longer and he plays with Eddie’s hair while looking at them and talks about how much he loves them. Eddie starts buying him flowers a fair bit after that.)
their favorite kind of movie to watch
I’ve been doing these for canon-era (1950s) so for that it’s any western movie and specifically The King and I. (they’re a couple of gays who love a good musical.) they don’t enjoy all the war movies, particularly since most of them are about Europe and are just completely surreal.
modern AU: shitty horror movies – they’ve seen every Final Destination and can rate them in order of ‘watchability’ – and 1990s classics like Jurassic Park and Jumanji, they’re simple guys.)
who first suggests a pillow fort
Andy. he secretly wants to give Eddie the childhood he’s certain, by piecing together a lot of clipped information, the man never had. so, he’ll make sure he’s already halfway down with it in the living room when Eddie comes home because then they might as well finish it and sleep there, right?
who builds the pillow fort
Andy starts it, Eddie watches and considers whether he’s going to participate. then Andy smiles at him and asks if he can help tie up a blanket to make one of the walls and yeah, Eddie’s building it too.
who tries to distract the other during the movie
Andrew Fucking Haldane. stupid fucking horny man does not have the attention span for movies. he’s impossible. luckily, he’s polite and will just entertain himself, running his hands up Eddie’s sides and kissing his neck even if Eddie himself wants to know whether Dorothy makes it to the Emerald City or not.
who falls asleep first
Eddie. in the marines, you have a time when you sleep and it is limited. he lays down, shuts his eyes, switches off his problems, and sleeps. dead to the world, he’ll be up at six. Andy doesn’t have trouble falling asleep usually but he can be known to lie awake and think too hard. Eddie’s occasionally found him downstairs reading the newspaper or pacing or sipping tea at the early hours when he’s really stressed. (and hiding it as best he can.)
who is big spoon/little spoon
both. Eddie will happily wrap himself around Andy protectively and just listen to the man talk. he’ll squeeze him tight and breathe deeply so Andy can feel it and simply let him know he’s there, he’ll keep them safe. when Andy’s the big spoon, he’ll kiss the back of Eddie’s neck and whisper in his ear and thread their fingers together. he tells Eddie that there’s nowhere else he’d rather be and how warm he feels and wonder what they’ll get up to tomorrow. they also both like to come up behind each other for a standing-spoon, if you will.
coffee, junkfood, movie night pick ones here
#you and i in Basic Town thank you very much#is andyeddie basic or Gourmet#a-beautiful-struggle-of-life#andyeddie#the pacific
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"Do you want the room or not?" Ben asks, pushing his hands in the pockets of his sweater. It's so jarring to her. Every story she has ever heard that involved Ben centered around his confidence, his anger, the way he could just command a room.
None of it matched with the image in front of her.
"Yeah," she finally responds. "Yeah. I do."
----
In which Ben learns Rey's nightmares, her favorite tea, and how to sneak into her heart.
Fandom: Star Wars
Pairing: Rey/Ben Solo (Reylo)
Note: None of this would ever have been written if it weren’t for @andyouweremine Not only is she a fabulous beta who makes my writing better, but she’s the one that sent me the post to Reylo Week and said we should write something for it. Also, she listened to me go on and on about this song and all of the feelings it gives me. Seriously, I have no idea what I have done in my life to deserve such an amazing and supporting friend, but I love you a whole lot. Thanks for being my shipping soulmate and spiraling with me on this.
This was written for Day One of Reylo Week 2020 Favourite Song Lyric or Quote. "For Island Fires and Family” by Dermot Kennedy is the inspiration behind this, so I definitely recommend listening to it.
Read on AO3 or below.
But she’s bringing the moon and stars to me
Damn permanent reverie
***
“What do you mean Ben Solo says he has a room I can rent?” Rey asks Poe. “This is the same Ben Solo that seems to personally enjoy making your life a living hell?”
“He’s a defense attorney. I’m a prosecutor. That’s literally his job,” Poe explains, shrugging. “He’s just… annoyingly good at his job.”
“Thanks Poe. I really needed that brilliant explanation as to how the adversarial American legal system works.”
“I’m just saying,” Poe wraps a glass in a piece of newspaper before placing it in the box next to him. “He’s also one of my oldest friends and despite… well, anything you’ve probably heard about him, I know he’s a good guy.”
"And he just happens to have a room available to rent out to a grad student who can barely afford ramen?"
Poe's smile is more like a grimace as he raises his hand to awkwardly scratch at his neck. "That's what he tells me."
Rey grabs a stack of plates from the cupboard, setting them down on the counter to start wrapping. "I still don't know why you would ask him. We barely know each other."
"I was with him when you texted me," Poe holds his hand out for Rey to pass him a plate. "And he offered.
"Why would he do that?" Rey asks, crossing her arms across her chest. "He doesn't even know me."
"Like I said," Poe shrugs, taping the box closed. "He's a good guy."
***
"That can hardly be considered fair rent for living here, Ben," Rey argues, her eyes wandering around the apartment. It is in a much better location and is at least three times the size of her last apartment.
It also isn't in a building that is being condemned.
Ben blushes, looking away from Rey. "It's the friend of a friend discount."
Rey snorts. “I would think the friend of a friend discount would be letting a complete stranger move in with you on, like, twelve hours’ notice. Not offering a bedroom and free reign of the rest of your apartment for less than what I was paying for an apartment that is being condemned.”
“I really don’t need the money,” Ben says shyly.
“They pay you pretty well to make sure the bad guys remain on the street?” Rey asks. She regrets it as soon as she sees Ben tense, the bashful look gone from his face.
"Ben, I didn't… I'm sorry," Rey sighs, glancing at the floor. She counts to three in her head before looking back up at Ben. She ignores the way it almost hurts her to notice that he's stepped back away from her. "I didn't mean it like that. It's your job. And I'm sure not all of your clients are actually guilty. But even if they are you're still just doing your job."
Ben doesn't say anything. Rey is working her way through her mental list of friends that she could call for a place to crash at least for the night. Certainly Poe and Finn wouldn't mind her staying just one night. And even if they did, it was Poe who thought that her staying with Ben would work out and clearly it wasn't going to work.
She reaches in her purse to grab her phone so she can start looking for hotels. She tries not to think about how she decidedly cannot afford to stay in a hotel for any length of time.
"Do you want the room or not?" Ben asks, pushing his hands in the pockets of his sweater. It's so jarring to her. Every story she has ever heard that involved Ben centered around his confidence, his anger, the way he could just command a room.
None of it matched with the image in front of her.
"Yeah," she finally responds. "Yeah. I do."
***
Rey has nightmares.
Ben doesn't mention them and he doesn't ask questions. But he does make sure to brew the coffee extra strong the next morning and to hand her a cup first thing when she walks into the kitchen. He doesn't know her yet, but he knows enough to know that Rey isn't comfortable talking about herself or her past.
And he knows enough about nightmares to know that they are rooted in the past.
So he stays away. He wakes up when he hears her rustling around the kitchen, hears the soft whistle of the kettle when she makes tea.
But he stays away.
Rey doesn't mention anything to him and he knows that she would if it was something she wanted to talk about.
The more he gets to know her, the harder it is to stay away. She opens up to him slowly, small glimpses into her past when she talks to him about her day while he makes dinner after work or when they are walking around the farmer's market on the weekends planning meals for the week.
He wants to know everything about her. He enjoys being someone that she's comfortable with to talk to about her days, her dreams, and her past.
But he doesn't want to push her. He doesn't want to be too much.
He's always been too much.
He's never had a roommate before and he isn't quite sure where the appropriate boundary line lies for these kinds of situations.
He's scared of pushing too hard and crossing it.
It's just past three am when he hears her whimpering in bed. He stays quiet in his room, rolling over in bed to his side. He listens as she walks out of her room and he hears her sob, and he can't stay away.
She isn't alone, she doesn't have to be alone, and he needs her to know that.
He holds her and she cries against his chest. All he wants to do is comfort her, to bring her peace the way she does for him without even trying.
So he takes her to the roof and opens himself up to her.
***
Rey curls her feet under herself as she settles into the couch. Ben moves around the kitchen, pulling a mug from one cupboard and honey from another. Her eyes follow him, taking in all of his small movements, the way he squints his eyes in concentration to make sure he is squeezing just the right amount of honey into the bottom of her cup before adding hot water and tea. She still doesn’t quite understand exactly how she got so lucky to fall into being his roommate, let alone someone he cares about.
There was a time when Rey’s only knowledge of Ben had been what she had heard from other people, stories of a rather closed off defense lawyer, all tall, dark and brooding. Full of anger. Rumors that Rey knew were based in truth, but did nothing to actually describe who Ben was underneath the facade that Snoke had helped create. If Poe hadn't offered Ben and Ben’s apartment as a lifeboat when Rey needed a place to stay, Rey never would have known anything different.
Ben had only been a part of her life for six months, but the thought of not knowing him hurts her. The idea that she could have gone about her life without knowing the depths in which he could care, the almost constant actions he took to ensure that the people he cared about knew they were cared for threatens to overwhelm her. Rey spent her entire childhood bounced from one bad foster home to the next. Believing that people cared about her isn't natural, but she believes Ben.
Ben who knows what kind of tea she likes to drink after a long day and knows how much honey she adds. Ben who teased her for her odd precision the first time he watched her make tea after she moved in, but remembers it all the same.
Ben who now makes the drink perfectly for her, because he notices without her saying a single word that she's had a bad day. His reaction is to make her feel better, even when Rey knows that Ben's day has been worse.
He first takes care of her.
“Tell me about your day?" Ben asks, stirring the tea a few times before he walks out of the kitchen and holds the cup out for her to take.
“Or," Rey begins, taking the cup from him, "you could tell me about your day instead."
Ben stares at her, eyes narrow as he sits next to her.
"Don't look at me like that." Rey blows on her drink and presses her feet against his legs. "You made me tea for my day, which has already made it infinitely better. You can tell me about your bad day first."
"And what makes you think I had a bad day?"
It's the way he says it that sets her off. The self-deprecating tone of his voice, the attempt to hide from talking to her by pretending that everything is okay.
As if she can't read him as easily as he reads her. As if she didn't hear the clipped way he ended their call when she called asking if he needed anything when she stopped at the market. Like she didn't notice the lack of grammar and unusually high amount of typos in his messages to her at the end of the day.
Or the way he moved around the kitchen making her tea. His shoulders tense and his thoughts loud. The way he kept brushing his fingers across her ankle as they talked.
How when she walked into the apartment he looked at her like she was something he wasn't sure he deserves. And how he only looks at her like that when he is convinced that there are two versions of him: the monster he is at work and the person he is with her at home. When he starts to believe that maybe he's nothing more than a monster and she just hasn't noticed.
Or that she hasn't had an opportunity to leave him for it yet.
She doesn't tell him any of that though.
"I know you," she summarizes. "Tell me about your day."
"You don't need to hear about the things I do at work." Ben's laugh is hollow. "Some days you're the only person who looks at me like I could be something more than I am."
"I hate when you do that," Rey admits, shaking her head. "When you act like what you do at work makes you a bad person."
"I am a bad person." It's an absolute truth when Ben says it and the clear intensity in which Ben believes it breaks her heart.
"The things I do, Rey," Ben shakes his head, his sentence trailing off. “It’s not something that’s up for debate.”
“You’re not a bad person, Ben Solo,” Rey whispers, glancing down at her tea for a moment before back up at Ben. “I hate watching him try to convince you that you are one.”
"Rey," Ben sighs, "It isn't that easy."
"But it is Ben," Rey says, her voice soft. She knows that she can't push, that every time she tries to push him on this he snaps and shuts down and that she hasn't and won't get anywhere that way. And she knows that she has to get somewhere. She refuses to even think about what will happen if she can't. "It is that easy."
***
Ben knows that something is wrong as soon as he walks into the apartment. For starters, the apartment is almost completely silent. He can hear Rey’s footsteps, but there is no background noise.
Rey hates silence.
Usually when he gets home he can hear whatever movie or show Rey is playing in the background, or, if she’s studying, he can hear music coming from her bedroom. Or, he’ll hear Rey mummering to herself as she reads through her notes or textbooks, or she’ll be humming under her breath.
But he’s taken off his jacket, and hung it on the coat rack by the door, and he’s toed off his shoes and slid them next to where Rey’s are and all he has heard are Rey’s footsteps.
The second sign: Rey is pacing.
Ben has only ever heard Rey pace after a particularly bad nightmare. It’s barely 6:30 and Rey is pacing in silence. She hasn’t shouted at him asking how his day was or what he’s making for dinner.
For the first time in six months, Ben is apprehensive about what he is going to walk into when he finds Rey.
“Hey,” Ben says as he walks into the living room, a tight smile on his face.
Rey stops pacing in front of the TV, which is on a news channel, but the volume is muted. Ben doesn’t need to hear the words to know that the coverage is focused on the trial he won earlier in the day.
The case itself was a high-profile case. It’s the reason the results of the trial are being aired on the news. It doesn’t take a lot to sensationalize a brutal murder and sexual assault. Hux had originally been the attorney Snoke had assigned to handle the case. It was reassigned to Ben after a case review when Ben pointed out the inconsistencies in the interviews Hux had conducted with the detectives about when, or even whether, the arresting officers had read the client his Miranda rights.
Ben hadn’t wanted the case. Ben usually was assigned the more white collar crimes, embezzlement, fraud. Occasionally, Ben would get assigned the larger drug trafficking or prostiution rings. But the homicide and violent offenses were hard for Ben to stomach.
But at the end of the day, Ben doesn’t choose his clients. He represents who he is told to represent.
And in this case, Hux overlooking the inconsistencies in the interviews had just been the start to the amount of holes and deficiencies in the prosecutor’s case.
“How do you do it?” Rey asks, her voice almost cracks and Ben knows that this isn’t a conversation he wants to have with her. “How do you represent people like him?” She points back toward the television. “He murdered that girl, Ben. He tortured her for days, he raped her, and then he murdered her. And he just, he gets to go home?”
“Rey.” Ben leans against the wall behind him, folding his arms over his chest. “You say that he did those things, but 12 of his peers returned a not guilty verdict.”
“Because you convinced them to,” Rey shouts, throwing one hand up in the air. “Your job was to convince them that he was innocent and you did it. And I just, Ben, I don’t understand how you can do it.”
“It’s my job,” Ben shrugs. “He is innocent until proven guilty. And there were procedurally a lot of issues. It’s not my fault that the investigation that led to his arrest was flawed.”
“Is that how you justify it?” Rey asks, shaking her head as she steps toward him. “The investigation was flawed? Some human made a mistake while investigating a horrific crime scene and somehow that’s justification to allow a murderer back into society? Is that what makes it okay Ben?”
“Yes,” Ben argues, watching as Rey moves around in front of him. “I did my job. Maybe next time the police and the state will do theirs better.”
“You mean the next time this guy decides to take another girl and kill her?” Rey glares at him and Ben knows that he should walk away now before the conversation goes any further. He’s angry, and she’s angry, and nothing good is going to come from this conversation. “How is that blood not on your hands too?”
“That’s not how it works,” Ben yells. His voice is too loud, too demanding. He flinches when he sees Rey flinch and pull herself back from him.
In that moment Ben knows that he is everything everyone says: too loud, too tall, too stubborn, too proud. He’s everything everyone says he is.
He’s never hated it more.
“That’s just not how it works. I am not out committing crimes or, God, Rey I’m not murdering people,” Ben says, his voice lower and more controlled. “I don’t disagree that the system we have is flawed. But my job is to advocate for my client and to protect the constitutional rights he is afforded. That’s the society we live in, one that believes that it is better for ten guilty men to be free than for one innocent man to be jailed.”
“That’s not how it works,” Rey throws his words back at him with venom. “And you know it Ben. You take advantage of a broken system.”
“I do the best job that I can for those that I represent.”
“You represent monsters.”
“And does that make me one, Rey?” Ben asks quietly, his fingers pressing at her chin to stop her from looking away. “Do you think I am a monster now? Just because of what I do?”
“I don’t know,” Rey responds and Ben drops his hand, taking a step back. “I don’t know what that makes you.”
Ben takes a deep breath, running his hand through his hair.
“I have to go,” he says after a moment, taking another step back from her before turning around to walk toward the entryway.
He hesitates at the door, his hand resting on the doorknob. And he waits for her to call to him. For her to follow him and to keep the conversation going. He’s almost certain that she will, that she won’t let him leave thinking that she believes him to be a monster.
Only she doesn’t.
Ben’s standing in the entryway in silence again, and when he opens the door to walk away, he’s pretty sure a part of his heart breaks.
***
"I thought I would find you here."
Rey refuses to turn her head to look at him. Instead she focuses on the moon shining bright in the sky, on the feeling of the hard cement under her fingers.
She tries not to think about how Ben knew where to find her because he was the one to show her how easy it was to pick the lock to the roof. She tries not to focus on how it made her feel to be a part of something secret with him.
It’s too much.
The constant reminder that the Ben she knows, the one that she knows she is starting to fall for, is the same Ben that passionately advocates on behalf of deplorable people who commit horrific actions.
She can practically hear Poe telling her that it’s his job. And she knows that people aren’t defined by what they do for a living. She's told Ben countless times that his job didn't define who he was as a person, and she never thought that she could be someone who would hold someone’s job against them as a fault. But she can’t quite wrap her head around how Ben, her Ben, can be someone fighting for the wrong side.
How is it possible that the same person who knows without her saying anything that she's had a bad day and makes her favorite tea and sits with her in silence until she chooses to open up be the same person who represents murderers? And does it well enough that they walk away free of a guilty verdict to go back to society to commit the same crimes. It doesn't make sense to her.
She isn't sure she wants it to make sense. It shouldn't make sense.
"I'm sorry I yelled at you," Ben says and Rey finally looks back at him, taking a deep breath as she takes in his appearance.
He looks like a wreck.
She hates it. Hates that their fight is clearly affecting him. She hates that they are fighting at all.
She looks away, pulling her knees up closer to her chest, and says nothing.
It's a beautiful night.
The sky is clear of clouds and the moon is bright. There's too much light pollution for her to really make out too many of the stars, but she can imagine them and it's comforting in a way.
The first time Ben showed her how to get to the roof had been after a particularly bad nightmare two months after she had moved in. She had thought that she was doing a better job at hiding them, but Ben proved that he noticed her more than she thought.
He walked out of his room while she was making tea and hugged her. He just held her until the kettle started whistling.
He didn't say anything about the tears on her face when he pulled away, just finished making her tea and asked if he could show her something and took her to the roof.
He stayed up with her, sitting on the cold cement without any complaints, talking to her about the stars and the stories behind the constellations. He talked to her about his childhood and his own nightmares.
“You left,” Rey notes, breaking the silence. She doesn't say how that hurt her. She knows that she doesn't have to. It's almost painful how well Ben knows and understands her.
“I came back,” Ben points out, sitting down next to Rey. “That counts for something, right?”
Rey nods, because it does matter.
Ben doesn't say anything, just sits next to her in silence and looks up at the sky.
"You aren't a monster," Rey says after a moment. "I shouldn't have… I shouldn't have even insinuated that you are. I'm sorry."
"You don't need to apologize," Ben reaches for her hand, intertwining his fingers with her. "I understand. There is truth to what you said. The work I do sometimes has consequences. And the clients we get at First Order… you aren't wrong about the kind of people I represent."
"Why do you do it?" She asks, turning her head to the side to look at him. "Is this really why you went to law school?"
"No, I went to law school because I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life. But I had to do something. Crim law was interesting and it was kind of romanticized, protecting people from the over zealous reach of police and the state, all humans that can be wrong and corrupt. And being recruited by Snoke was prestigious and I liked that." Ben sighs, "Plus it pissed my mom off, which was a pretty big deal to me when I was 25."
Rey rolls her eyes, slowly shaking her head. “'I guess I get how you ended up here. I just don't understand why you stay or even how you can stay. You hate your job, Ben. I know you do."
"I do," Ben admits, looking away from Rey. "But it's all that I know. And I'm good at it. What if it is all that I'm good at? What if I leave and I fail? What if I am only good at defending criminals?"
"That's Snoke," Rey interrupts him. She moves until she's kneeling in front of Ben. She cups his face with her hands, her thumb caressing his jaw, and she waits for him to look at her. "You are so good, Ben. You would be great anywhere."
"You don't know that."
"I do. You're smart, and you listen. You could never be anything less than successful. I absolutely believe that."
"Why?"
"Because I know you. And you, Ben Solo, are a good person."
Ben stares at her, resting his hands on her knees, and his expression is so open and vulnerable. His eyes full of wonder and hope. He looks at her like she's something that he cherishes.
Rey leans forward and presses her lips to his. The kiss is chaste at first, then Ben pulls her into his lap, deepening the kiss as he wraps one arm around her waist, the other in her hair.
Rey pulls away first and Ben grins, his sharp and crooked teeth on full display, and he has never looked more gorgeous.
She has no idea where they go from there.
***
Ben still can't believe that Rey agreed to come with him.
She had been apprehensive about going with him to the Christmas party. But she's here, talking with one of the firm's new associates, champagne glass in her hand. She stands tall with a confidence that Ben knows is all her own. The red dress she spent hours picking out sparkles under the light.
She looks like she belongs.
Rey smiles when she notices him. It's small and private, really it's barely noticeable. But Ben notices and for a moment the room seems brighter. Her smile brightens as he walks toward her and his breath catches in his throat. He has no idea what he has done to deserve for Rey to look at him the way that she does. Let alone for her to smile at him alone.
“Where have you been?” She questions, raising her glass to her lips to finish off her drink. “You spent weeks convincing me to come with you tonight and then you leave me alone with the wolves minutes after we get here.”
“I don’t know that all of my coworkers are wolves,” Ben jokes, trying to get away with not answering Rey’s question.
Rey notices. He knows that she does.
“Wolves. Lawyers. Same thing right?” Rey sets her glass down on the table behind her. “Dance with me?”
Rey knows that Ben doesn’t dance.
But Rey asks, and Ben finds that when it's Rey asking, he isn't very good at saying no.
And so they dance.
Ben places one hand across her back, grinning at her as she mumbles something about his height. She's teasing and he knows it because no one has ever quite fit into his arms so easily before.
Ben's not a terrible dancer. Dancing isn't his favorite thing and he doesn't particularly enjoy the attention that actually dancing brings on, but he can dance. He knows all of the steps and movements for the basic dances. It had been important to his mother, making sure that he knew what to do at all of the different events she needed for him to attend.
If Rey asked, Ben is confident that he would be able to lead in whatever dance she requested. But she seems happy to just sway with him, her cheek pressing against his chest.
"You were gone for awhile." Rey's voice is soft, Ben almost doesn't hear her over the music. "Where did you go?"
"I left my two weeks' notice on Snoke's desk," Ben responds just as quietly, pressing his hand against her back, holding her to him.
He doesn't need to see her face to know she is proud of him.
It's clear in the way she says his name anyway.
"We might actually want to get out of here before he finds it," Ben laughs, enjoying how easy it is to smile with Rey in his arms and the weight of his job off his conscience. "I know you were looking forward to dinner, so we can stay, but--"
"I don't care about the food," Rey interrupts, matching his smile with one of her own. "Let's go home. Maybe I'll even make you dinner."
"I just quit my job Rey, I don't have a death wish."
Rey swats at his shoulder, her eyes narrowing as she glares at him. Ben's smile grows.
***
"Mmmm, no, stop" Rey says, trying to yawn away the sleep in her face while grabbing the books back from Ben's hands. She sets them back down on her desk, rapidly blinking her eyes as she tries to take in her surroundings.
"I wasn't asleep," she lies, glancing up at Ben, trying to ignore the concerned look on his face. "I couldn't have been. Because my final is in three days and I am not ready and I need to keep studying and--
"And you need to sleep," Ben interrupts her, placing his hand on her shoulder. Rey tries to resist the temptation to tilt her head toward him, but his hand is so warm and there and-- "You've barely slept all week. You're going to do great. But only if you sleep."
"What if I don't?" She whispers, looking back at the desk and the stack of notes and highlighted sections of books she still hasn't gotten too. "What if I fail? And I don't graduate? And I never become a social worker? Then what?"
"Then you'll figure something else out," Ben says like it's the most obvious answer in the world. "And you'll be great at it too."
"And if I'm not?"
"I'll still be here to support you, to take care of you."
Rey's heart races at the promising look he gives her.
"It's not your job to take care of me."
"It could be," Ben smiles at her, running his thumb along the side of her face. "It's not like I've got another one at the moment."
***
Rey stretches her legs out in front of her, pointing her toes toward the television. The documentary that Ben is watching is playing and even though Rey has been there the entire time it has been on, she really has no idea what the documentary is playing.
Ben is sitting on the couch behind her, running his hands through her hair. It's nice, the way he massages her scalp with his fingers. Rey hums her contentment, pushing her head back further into Ben's hand.
"You're squirmy," Ben points out as he tugs on a piece of her hair.
Rey grins when Ben separates the piece of hair in his hand and starts braiding. "Is that a problem?"
"Only if you want me to finish braiding your hair. It's hard to do right with all the moving."
"You'll figure it out." Rey leans her head back flat against the couch, her smile growing as she watches Ben huff. He takes apart the braid he had started.
"Brat," he says under his breath, his fingers combing through her hair again, pulling the strands stuck underneath her head out, so that he can start another braid. "Give me the hair ties on your wrist?"
Rey pulls the hair ties off of her wrist and hands them to him. Then she closes her eyes, enjoying the feeling of Ben's hands in her hair, the comfort of having him so close to her. She wishes all of her days could be spent like this.
"Your hands are magic," Rey says after Ben finishes the first braid, right when he's starting on the second.
His hands freeze. Rey smirks, but keeps her eyes closed. She doesn't need to open them to know the expression on Ben's face, or to know how his eyes would be darker than they had been before.
Rey has been more and more blatant with her flirting with Ben since she kissed him, waiting for Ben to kiss her again, or make a move, or, really, to do anything.
Ben resumes the second braid, carefully pulling strands of Rey's hair apart and weaving it through the other strands.
Rey knows that she could have brought the kiss up, but she hadn't. She mistakenly assumed Ben would bring it up and that things would progress from there.
Only he didn't and Rey had felt too awkward to bring up the kiss or her feelings for him.
Which she also knows is stupid because it's Saturday afternoon and she is sitting on their living room floor pretending to be interested in some documentary she couldn't care less about just because he asked her to watch it with him. And his hands are in her hair and all Rey can think about is how nice it feels and how badly she wants to kiss him again.
Ben finishes the second braid and Rey immediately misses the feeling of his hands in her hair. She regrets not moving more and making Ben start over again and again.
She sits up straighter, pressing her back against the couch.
She tries focusing on the documentary, which really should be over but is somehow still going on, but her thoughts keep drifting back to Ben, and the kiss, and her hands.
And, God, how she really wants to find out just how magical those hands could be if he would just touch her the way she wants him to.
Rey pulls her legs up, twisting around until she's resting on her knees and facing Ben. She's mostly eye level with him with the way he's lying on the couch.
"Do you like me?" Rey blurts out. She grimaced at the awkward silence that follows, crinkling her nose as she imagines all of the ways she could have approached that better. "I just, I'm sorry, that's not quite how I wanted…"
Rey groans, closing her eyes. She presses her hands into the couch and stands up, moving away from Ben. If she wasn't so focused on being mortified by the situation she put herself in, she probably would have found the speed and awkwardness of the way he got off the couch and followed her amusing.
"Do you like me," Rey repeats in horror, shaking her head. "I sound like a teenager getting ready to ask the pretty boy in school if he wants to go to steady."
"You think I'm pretty?" Ben asks, placing his hands on her waist. He's smiling at her, and it's that same stupid smile he gave her after she kissed him, and Rey would give anything for that smile to stay on his face forever.
"Yes," Rey answers honestly. "I think you're very pretty."
Ben laughs. "So, is this the part where you ask me if I want to go steady?"
"Maybe." Rey teases, rolling her eyes, while Ben pulls her closer. She places one of her hands on his chest, smiling as she feels how fast his heart is beating. "I guess that depends on what your answer would be."
"I think that you'll find when it comes to you, Rey, my answer is always going to be yes."
***
“I love you,” Rey says without much thought one morning while Ben is placing pancakes on two plates next to the stove. She knows exactly which plate is hers, because the stack of pancakes is at least twice the size of the other.
She isn’t surprised with the way she just blurts out the words without any context or pretense. Honestly, she’s surprised that she’s managed to keep from saying them so many times before. Because she loves him with such an intensity that she feels like she could burst at any moment.
He freezes for just a moment, before he resumes making them breakfast, pouring more pancake mix onto the griddle.
“Ben?” She asks, tilting her head to the side.
“I love you,” she says again.
“Okay,” he responds, carefully flipping the pancakes.
“Okay?” She asks, huffing as she looks at him. “That’s all you have to say?”
Ben doesn't say anything and he doesn't turn around. He stays completely silent as the pancakes finish cooking. He slides them onto his plate before reaching across the counter and grabbing two bananas.
"Ben," Rey huffs, unsure if she's upset that he isn't responding to her telling him that she loves him or if she's upset because he's ignoring her. She's pretty sure it's a good combination of both. "Is that really all you have to say?"
Ben turns the griddle off, unplugging the cord from the wall. He picks up the plates and walks over to the dining room table where she is sitting. He sits across from her and slides her plate across the table.
"Is that…" Rey pauses, biting down on her bottom lip as she looks at him.
She knows that Ben loves her. She honestly knows that to be a fact. And even if she didn't know that, she knew in her bones that Ben would never purposefully hurt her.
So she really couldn't figure out why Ben's only response to her had been 'okay' and complete silence.
"Is that really all you have to say?" Rey finally finishes, dropping her eyes down to her plate.
"You love me," Ben says and Rey looks at him just in time to see him slightly shrug his shoulders. "Okay."
"Ben--"
"Rey. You love everyone that brings you food. So, yeah. Okay."
Rey laughs. She doesn't mean to laugh because this is absolutely the wrong time to laugh. But Ben thinks that she blurts out 'I love you' to anyone bringing her food and not because she's in love with him.
"You think I said that I love you because you brought me food?"
"Sure. Why else would you say it?"
Rey almost misses it, the way Ben's lips twist up for just a second in a smirk.
He is messing with her.
She tells him she loves him for the first time and he is fucking with her.
"I sort of hate you." Rey breaks off a piece of her banana and pops it in her mouth. "Just so you know."
"I sort of love you too," Ben grins. "Just so you know."
***
Rey giggles, honestly giggles, when Ben slips out of her again.
She's already bent in an awkward angle, her hands keep slipping against the tile of the shower and she can't quite hold herself the way she needs to for Ben to stay inside of her.
Not that it has stopped him from trying, numerous times.
He's too tall and the shower is too small for them to have sex. She had spent fifteen minutes explaining this to him when he had joined her in the shower.
She's pretty sure that only made him more determined to prove her wrong.
He drops one hand from her breast to her stomach, using it to hold her back up and he's sliding back inside of her.
It takes Rey's breath away every time. The way he stretches her, how full she feels in that moment, especially with the angle. It's exquisite.
His thrusts are shallow and slow, and it's far more intimate than anything Rey thought she would be comfortable with. But it's Ben and Rey quickly discovered that her relationship with Ben was going to destroy all of the walls that she had spent her entire childhood building.
It scared her at first, the way he could hurt her. The fact that she had let herself care enough about him that he could destroy her.. Now it's just comforting, knowing with everything in her that Ben wouldn't hurt her.
So even though Rey knows that he's going to slip back out because Ben has almost no self control when they are together and he won't be able to keep going at this pace for long. And even if he could, she knows that she'd never be able to come this way, she wraps one of her hands around his wrist, the one that's planted firmly against the tile, and moves her hips back to meet him and enjoys it.
He groans when he falls back out, resting his forehead in the crook of her neck.
She giggles again, turning her head to look at him while he backs up.
He looks so determined. His eyes are narrow as he glances at her and the edges of the tub, as if he's trying to determine the different ways he can have her stand and place her hands to make this work. There are water droplets dripping off of his hair and sliding down his chest. He's so absolutely beautiful that it takes her breath away.
"Maybe if you weren't laughing this would be working," Ben mutters, leaning down to kiss her.
"Yeah. It's my laughter that's causing this problem. Not your apartment having ridiculously small bathtubs," Rey points out, standing up and stretching her arms over her head. "You didn't test your shower out before signing the lease?"
"I can't say 'is my shower large enough for me and my future girlfriend to have sex in' was very high on my list of thoughts when I moved in."
Rey shrugs. "Your fault then."
Ben glares at her, but he's biting his bottom lip and Rey knows he's trying really hard not to smile.
"You could just admit that I'm right and take me to bed so you can fuck me like we both want," Rey offers, tilting her head toward his bedroom.
She can see the corner of his bed in between the gap from the shower curtain and the wall, and she would kill in that moment to be on it with Ben above her.
"Oh no. You are not right." Ben shakes his head, spraying water on her. He leans forward, pressing his lips to her forehead. "I still have ideas on how this could work."
"Ben," she whispers, taking his hand in his. She lifts his hand up to kiss his knuckles. "Take me to bed, please."
"Okay," he agrees, just like she knew he would. "Okay sweetheart."
***
"Move in with me?" Ben asks, his voice low and just above a whisper. He runs his fingers through her hair, grinning as Rey somehow manages to pull him closer.
Rey giggles, her breath warm across his chest where she presses her lips against him in a barely there kiss. "We already live together."
"That’s not-- I'm trying-- I mean--" Ben falters over his words, rolling onto his back.
Wordlessly Rey follows him, adjusting herself until she's mostly laying on top of him and not the mattress. Her elbow is pointy and is pressed into his rib. It's not the most comfortable position Ben has ever been in, but Rey sighs and it's almost as if he can feel her happiness and contentment wash over him.
He can't imagine ever wanting to move.
"Move in with me," he repeats. "And I don't mean live in the same apartment with me with a separate room and a separate bed. I want this to be our room, for this to be our bed. I don't want us to have separate anything."
Ben takes a deep breath, glancing down to meet Rey's gaze. "I love you and I just want to be with you. Stay with me?"
"Yes," Rey breathes, stretching up to kiss him. "Always."
***
"Thank you," Rey says, pulling on his hand and leading him toward their bed.
"For what?" Ben presses his lips against her neck.
Rey tilts her head, giving Ben better access as he continued to trail kisses along her collarbone.
"For giving me a home."
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Coldflash “Punish Me” (Rated NC17)
Summary: The things that serve Barry should also serve Len, even if Len isn't his husband's sub. So when Barry comes home and finds Len kneeling in the dark, he's curious to find out why. (2953 words)
Notes: A part two to 'Waiting on his Knees' but also written in concert with this post I made about D/s, BDSM, and communication, specifically as it's portrayed in fanfiction, which can be toxic due to lack of research or ignorance.
Read on AO3.
Barry spends the afternoon clock watching, tallying minutes as they flip by, anticipating them down to the millisecond so he can catch the numbers turn. He doesn’t need a clock to know the time, but it’s habit. It gives him something to do in the moments between everything else. But it also reminds him how damned slowly time moves. So he does his best to ignore it, hoping he can get so wrapped up in work that he forgets about the time, then be pleasantly surprised when he checks it and finds that half the day has gone by.
But no luck.
At most, he wastes six minutes.
But Barry zooms off the second the numbers switch from 7:59 to 8:00. He’s dying to get home, dying to get to his husband, more so tonight than any other night. He made Len a promise that he’s been lousy at keeping. He intends to fix that.
He intends to spend all night fixing it.
But above that, Barry has a feeling. Not a foreboding feeling, per se. Nothing urgent. He’d know if his husband were hurt, if for no other reason than Len would text every single contact he has programmed in his phone who knows Barry to let them know he’s in danger.
Len is a brave, strong, capable man, but he has no qualms calling in reinforcements en masse.
Still, Barry can’t get it out of his head that something is wrong.
It takes him no time at all to make it home, managing to expertly avoid Caitlin and her stack of files that have the potential to bog him down for an hour at least. He pauses at his door and puts an ear to the wood.
Nothing.
He can’t detect any movement.
He becomes anxious as he listens for a clue, as if whatever is going on with Len has found a way to settle inside his chest, latch itself to his ribs and crowd his heart and lungs. But their apartment is silent.
Completely silent.
And with Len, as with children, silence is not a comforting sign.
The hairs on the back of Barry’s neck begin to rise.
He unlocks the door and walks inside.
Darkness greets him.
Cold, too.
Unnatural cold.
And quiet.
But it’s not an easy quiet, like the simple quiet of no one being home. It’s a tension-filled quiet. An anticipating quiet.
A quiet like the world holding its breath, waiting for Barry’s next move.
And he’s not alone.
It takes a moment of quelling his stuttering heart and his eyes adjusting for him to notice his husband there, in the center of the room, shirtless and on his knees. Barry breathes a sigh of relief, but not one Len would notice. He goes about his business, doesn’t stop to stare, even if Leonard Snart on his knees makes Barry hotter than asphalt in August.
When he requests it.
And since Barry hadn’t, he has to process this image correctly. He does so by adopting his Dominant persona. It helps him think logically, react rationally, without emotion applied.
“Hello, Len,” Barry says, putting down his bag and hanging up his coat.
“Master,” Len says, more experimentally than confidently, and Barry knows why. Len isn’t sure how Barry will respond. Because this isn’t their dynamic. Len isn’t Barry’s sub. But they’ve discussed this. The things that serve Barry can, and should, serve Len, too. Something about kneeling in the dark serves Len for the moment.
But Barry wants to know what he’s kneeling over.
“Can I help you with something?”
“I need you,” Len says, voice soft but dangerous - so unlike any sub Barry has ever met, it makes him bite his lower lip to keep from grinning. “I need you to do something for me, Sir.”
“Oh? And what’s that?”
“Punish me.”
Barry stops fussing. The room becomes colder, darker than before. “Repeat that for me, please?”
“I need you to punish me,” Len repeats through gritted teeth.
“And why do you need this?”
“Because I’m evil,” Len growls.
“How do you figure?”
“I’m a thief. And a killer.”
“You are,” Barry agrees matter-of-factly. There’s no denying that those things are a part of Len’s personality. Part of Len’s past. It would be a slap in the face to his husband’s intelligence and the hard work he’s put into redeeming himself to sweep those under the rug. Confront them at every corner, whenever they pop up, Barry told him the first few months they were together, when flashbacks and urges piled up in his brain and Barry would find him warming his favorite stool at Saints and Sinners, trying to drink his anxiety away. That’s one of the reasons Barry introduced Len to the Dom/sub scene in the first place, in the hopes of keeping him away from the kinds of temptation that might land him in Iron Heights permanently, convicted of things even The Flash couldn’t swing getting him released from. Confront them, accept them, then put them in their place. “You were. But you’ve put those things behind you. And you’ve worked hard at it. So what’s happened in the past few hours to make you change your mind?”
Len raises an arm, holds something out to Barry - a folded-up clipping from a newspaper, it looks like. Barry takes it from him, fighting another smile. Most of the modern world gets their news from the Internet, but his husband still goes down to the corner store every morning for a daily paper.
Well, Barry is going to do everything in his power to ensure that The Central City Citizen never goes under.
Barry unfolds it carefully. The clip has jagged edges. His husband probably tore it from its page instead of using a pair of scissors. Barry marvels at how neatly he accomplished it. The outer portion is an ad for a local furniture store, but on the other side, the part folded in and therefore protected, is the article Len had saved. Barry reads the header out loud.
“Man fatally shot in alley way.”
Barry glances Len’s way when he notices movement at his feet. Len bows his head, hands folded on his knees like he’s praying, but Barry knows better.
He’s thinking.
Thinking hard for a man in this position.
“A man was found stabbed to death in an alley Tuesday evening, and police are investigating the killing as possibly gang-related …” Barry skims the article, searching for pertinent information. “The victim was identified as 33 -year-old Ricardo de Salva.”
Barry looks to his husband for answers. Len doesn’t see the expression on Barry’s face with his eyes cast to the floor, but he doesn’t need to. He can probably feel Barry’s eyes burning through the top of his head.
“He was a good guy,” Len starts softly, “and I don’t say that often about anybody. Family man. Didn’t wanna be a criminal. I strong-armed him into it.” Len’s voice cracks. The sound reminds Barry of an old growth oak weathering a storm, the way it complains as the wind does its best to knock it over, but can only get it to bend. “He needed a couple bucks, just wanted to take care of his wife and kids. He did one job with us. Not our normal payout, but enough to keep a roof over their heads for a few more months. And he was fine with it - ready to roll and never look back. But after that, we kept him on the payroll anyway, had him run petty errands. I gave him a beeper, told him to call whenever I paged him or else.” The catch in Len’s voice returns. He clears it gruffly this time. “We didn’t need him. It was amusing to have him around, acting as our gopher. When it stopped being amusing, I sort of forgot he existed. Always thought he made it out, but …”
Barry nods. He doesn’t ask Len to continue. He doesn’t need to hear any more. He folds the article up and hands it back to his husband, crouching an inch and holding it in his sight line until he reaches up and takes it.
“So you’re looking for penance? Is that what this is about?”
“Yes,” Len admits with a barely audible hiss, as if, of all the things he could ask his husband for, this is the farthest down on the list. “That’s what I want.”
“But I’m not your Dom.”
“No, you’re my husband!” Len snaps. “And you’ve Dominated me before!”
“That’s different! That dynamic is different! When we do that, we’re playing! It’s stress relief! And we have those parameters outlined! We know how far is too far!”
“But you could do it!”
“Yes, I could! But I’m not just going to break out a whip and some cuffs and beat you! There are steps we have to take! Discussions we need to have! Contracts we have to draw up!”
Len huffs under his breath and rises to his feet, the air around him dropping in temperature with every inch till he reaches his full height. “You’re not the only show in town, Red. There are clubs all over Central City, owned by guys who owe me favors. I’m sure there’ll be a Dom at one of them that will give me what I need.”
Barry swallows those words - spoken without any hint of warmth or compassion whatsoever - so hard his throat aches. He doesn’t know what to say. He never imagined it would come to this, not over this of all things! “We’re adults,” he says without condescension, though Len might see things otherwise, “in an adult relationship. If that’s how you feel, you’re within your rights. I won’t … I won’t judge you for that.”
Len bares his teeth in anger. “I don’t want them, Red! I want you!”
“You have me! But what you’re asking …” Barry extends his hands with palms upturned, pleading for his husband to listen to reason “… is not something I’m willing to do right this second! We need to talk about this more. A lot more!” He steps forward, puts his hands on his husband’s biceps and kneads gently. “I’m not saying no. Believe it or not, I understand why you might want to do this. I do. I’ve felt this way myself, that I’ve done so much more harm than good in my life that I deserve to have the shit kicked out of me. But it also seems to me like you’re doing this out of self pity.” Barry presses his forehead against Len’s, needing to be closer, needing more touch, and to look deeper in his husband’s eyes. “If I do this for you, it won’t bring Ricardo back. It won’t help his wife and kids. It won’t do anything but make you feel better, and I honestly don’t think it’ll do that.”
“So what are you saying?”
“Let’s make a plan,” Barry suggests. “Let’s write out a list of things that will actually solve the problem, not cover up how you feel. Because that won’t solve a thing. This pain and anger you feel, this hatred of yourself, will always be there, hiding underneath, waiting for its moment to throw a wrench in your sanity.”
Len sighs, drops slowly back to his knees. Reluctantly, Barry lets go so he can. “The problem is Ricardo’s dead. And if it hadn’t been for me, he might not be.”
“The key word there is might,” Barry points out, holding to it hard. “You can’t make someone else’s mind up for them.”
“You can if you threaten them enough. If you threaten their life or … someone they love. And you have to admit, I have a talent for getting people to agree to pretty much anything.”
“I’ll give you that one,” Barry mutters, squelching the part of himself that occasionally makes him doubt his life choices - particularly his choice in spouses. The part that second-guesses whether or not he did the right thing by trusting Leonard Snart, regardless of how many times he’s proven he can be trusted, that he is a changed man. That he loves Barry Allen more than his own life and would do anything to protect him. “I suggest we start by attending Ricardo’s funeral … talk to his widow … make some kind of amends.”
“She won’t talk to me.” Len sniffs. “I know she won’t. She’ll probably try to have me arrested.”
“Luckily you have a friend or two on the force who’ll vouch for you,” Barry teases. It doesn’t land as he’d intended. “You can write her a note. I’ll take it to her if you think that will make her more comfortable.”
“I do,” Len admits. “Though, to be honest, it seems like the coward’s way out. I should go up to her, let her slug me.”
Barry rolls his eyes. Len does have a point, but he also has a flair for the dramatic.
Len exhales. The breath leaving his body slumps his shoulders, makes him look surrendered. “If I do this … if I go … will you go with me?”
“Oh, honey.” Barry puts a hand on Len’s head. Len leans towards him, rests his forehead against Barry’s thigh and hides his face in the denim of his jeans. Barry runs his nails lightly over Len’s scalp. This is a side of his husband he rarely sees, a side he associates with Len’s memories of his father; the man’s terrible, soul-crushing abuse; of a teenage Len raising his sister - traumas that Len has never gotten adequate help with even though Barry has offered time and time again to help him find it. Barry hopes this will be the positive step in the right direction he’s been waiting for. “Of course, I will.”
***
Knock-knock-knock
“Yeah?” Len grunts in frustration. “What is it?”
Barry opens the bathroom door a sliver and peeks around the edge. He sizes up his husband standing in front of the mirror, navigating the mechanics of a Windsor knot the same way he would any other technical task - with pursed lips and a tightly furrowed brow.
“May I come in?”
“Sure.” Len eyes his husband in the reflection and sighs. “Sorry I’m taking so long. This tie you bought me refuses to cooperate.”
“That’s all right.” Barry slides up behind him, pushing a wealth of off-colored jokes to the side. “We’ve got plenty of time.”
“So you checkin’ up on me?” Len asks uncomfortably, his gaze flicking to his husband’s eyes, then back to his own reflection again. “Makin’ sure I’m not backing out?”
“No. I know you wouldn’t do that. You’re a man of your word. Actually …” Barry chews the inside of his cheek, not so much contemplating, but gauging “… I wanted to give you something.”
Len smirks. “I’m not sure this is the right time for a quickie, Red. I mean, we’re headed to a funeral and all. Might be considered in poor taste.”
Barry rolls his eyes. “Here.” He shoves a document into Len’s hands, then turns Len towards him, taking over with the tie so his husband can read. “I drew this up last night. It’s a full Dom/sub contract …” Barry’s voice softens “… with a few addendums. Addendums that are time sensitive. We have to discuss the finer details together, re-visit your soft and hard limits, that sort of thing.” Barry fastens the tie into a Trinity knot, just to show up his husband, then smooths the tail down his chest. “You’re doing what we discussed. You’ve made a plan … a good plan. But if this is what you feel you need, then read through this, sign on the bottom line, and I’ll give it to you.”
Len flips through the pages, eyebrows raised in surprise. Barry probably dashed this out in minutes, but Len wonders how long he’s been thinking about this. It’s incredibly thorough. “You’re willing to do this for me?”
“Yes, Len. I am.” Barry loops his arms around Len’s waist. “I love you. If you need this, then I would like to be what you need … if you’d let me.”
Len grins, draws his husband into his embrace and squeezes him tight. “You’re what I need, in more ways than one.” He buries his nose in his husband’s neck, breathes in deep the spicy scent of his cologne. “But …” He moves back a step but doesn’t leave his husband’s arms. He looks Barry in the eyes, holding him the way he does whenever he’s about to impart something important “… I’ve been doing some thinking and … I want to talk to someone. A---a shrink. Like you suggested. But not someone here. In another city. I don’t want to go to someone who knows me. Knows who I was. Could you help me find someone?”
“Absolutely,” Barry agrees with a smile that refuses to stop. He hugs Len again, with so much enthusiasm, a wave of electricity seeps through Barry’s skin and shocks his husband. Only a little. “I am so proud of you!”
“Thanks,” Len says, mildly embarrassed. Barry can hear the eye roll in his words. “For everything. For being willing to help me.”
“Hey. That’s what superhero husbands are for, right? I guess we won’t need this then …” Barry reaches for the contract but Len pulls it out of Barry’s reach. Barry watches Len roll the stapled pages together tightly, then slide it into his back pocket. A wicked grin quirks his lips as he leans into Barry’s ear and whispers:
“I’m not saying no.”
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Lady Liberty and The Captain / Part One
Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader, Bucky Barnes x Reader (1940′s Brooklyn AU)
Summary: You are a rising young star and the newest breakout actress in Hollywood’s Golden Age! When war finally descends on the west, your reputation as America’s Sweetheart finds you cast in a promotional picture alongside Captain America himself.
Yet, he looks eerily familiar, like your Stevie from childhood…
Word count: 4.7k+
Warnings: fluff!!
A/N: hello, everyone!!!! I hope you’re staying home, warm, and safe during these crazy times. I’ve been snuggling with my doggie and continuing with my university’s online classes in my final semester..absolutely crazy how things are rn. I hope this new story can help brighten up your day just a little bit.
First of all, I just want to say thank you💖💛for all the love that old and new readers alike have shown this blog recently. I’ve been writing on this platform for a little less than a year and I never thought l’incendie would blow up as much as it has. You guys are amazing. I’m really excited and eager to share new pieces and hope you enjoy the content I have coming! Please don’t hesitate to pop in and say hi, or shoot me a message. I’ve really enjoyed connecting with readers and would love to know your thoughts on my fics, or just to talk about fandom stuff! Timmy included! PAHAHA
So, this chapter is gonna be a part of a mini-series for a 1940′s writing challenge and I’m using the prompt of wartime romance! This will probably be split into two or three parts and I will tag the host as soon as the last chapter goes up, I’ll most likely make a masterlist in the end as well. Reader has a name in this fic, but hopefully the choice of name will make sense later on :D
As always, feel free to drop a ask/message if you’d like a tag in the next update.
ENJOY!
THE NEW YORK TIMES
Film: ‘Apple of Discord’, Lola Swanson’s Dazzling Debut!
By NICHOLAS WATTS September 1, 1943
----------
The film drama from the original screenplay written and directed by Andrew Campbell opened to a roar of applause and acclaim at the Radio City Music Hall yesterday evening. Apple of Discord is a reimagining of the myth and Plato’s allegory, focusing on the tumultuous, profoundly elegant life of a young noblewoman during the Trojan wars.
The film’s frontrunner and leading lady is Hollywood newcomer, young and fresh-faced Lola Swanson. Swanson’s performance is so thoughtful, so unfaltering, so intelligent and controlled that it is hard to believe this is little Lola’s long awaited motion picture debut. And what a debut this is!
Starring opposite Hollywood veterans Sean Schultz, Kash Dennis, and Gracie Smith, this star-studded cast packs punches and sizzling chemistry and yet, Swanson does not fizzle out but confidently holds her own, demanding your attention in every scene, and rightfully so. Watching Swanson in this picture is watching a major actress in the making.
Born and raised in the heart of Hell’s Kitchen before moving to Brooklyn to pursue acting, some may recognize Lola from her daytime television roles in Insanity and Passion, It’s a Date! and as Jessica in Jessica Davis Returns.
Now we know these roles were preparing Swanson for the debut of the decade.
“APPLE OF DISCORD” is now showing at the Radio City Music Hall and Cinema 2. Tickets at 25 cents. Running time: 139 minutes.
★★★★☆
——
APPLE OF DISCORD, written and directed by Andrew Campbell; director of photography, Laszlo Kovacs; edited by John Wright; music by John Barry; released by Universal Pictures.
----------
The newspaper trembles hard between your fingers, threatening to tear its edges. Pulse pounding, ears ringing. You can’t stop smiling. You feel like crying.
You reread the words again and again, the words written by legendary film critic Nicholas Watts, the man you’ve only dreamed of making an impression on, that he’d someday see you in a picture. And here he’s written a glowing review of your major motion picture debut.
You erupt in a fit of giggles and screams, twirling around the small space of your apartment in a swirl of nightgown, pinned curls. A neighbor, Mr. Krisinski, you think, pounds on your wall to shut you up.
It’s still early morning and you had gone downstairs at first light to buy a paper from a newsboy. Outside your window, the streets of New York already yawn and bustle with morning commute. The movement of people, gleaming automobiles against the red brick buildings and muted gray of Manhattan. Warm sun washes over it all, your heart brimming and full, mirroring the glow of golden dawn.
You feel on top of the world. Maybe you’ll finally make it here.
Your phone rings. You rush over to the mint blue rotary telephone on your bedside table, snatch up the receiver before Mr. Krisinski can break down your door with all the racket you’re making.
“Hello?” You say into the mouthpiece, cradling it between your hands. You feel breathless, high strung and buzzing, like you’d just downed a whole case of Coca-Cola, whirring with the taste of sugar and success, bubbling with starpower. Maybe it’s Kash or Gracie calling to congratulate you. Hell, maybe even President Roosevelt.
“Lola! It’s me. Have you read the paper?” The cool voice of Peggy asks you through the receiver. You quietly laugh at your own fantastical expectations. Of course it’s Peggy. Punctual, collected Peggy.
Peggy Carter is your talent agent and manager at MGM. Peggy had snatched you up while you had been working as a background actress on Michael Curtiz’s Casablanca, so hopeful and beholden just to be in the presence of such respected artists, willing to stay the extra hours even after the other girls had gone home when realizing they wouldn’t be seen in the shot. It hadn’t been your first time on a hot set, you were used to the itchy costumes, long hours of endless waiting, and the empty stomachs, but no way you were going to miss a chance to see Ingrid Bergman and Madeleine LeBeau up close.
Back then, only a few years ago yet a lifetime away it seems, Peggy had been a casting assistant, seeing your dedication and marching right up to you between takes to hand you her card. On the back, written in smooth blue ink, a time the next morning for an audition at MGM Studios in downtown New York. Eight o'clock sharp.
You didn’t sleep at all that night after you wrapped.
She’s worked at getting you into audition rooms and meetings for years, pushing you onto writers, production assistants, riggers, directors. She had secured you an audition with Andrew Campbell after “accidentally” leaving your headshot in his mailroom and later calling his assistant with threats of stolen property. MGM’s new fresh face had been penciled in for a side read the following week.
Fierce, ingenious, and your own bright star, you’ve risen through the ranks and fought your way up with Peggy at your side.
“Yeah, Peg. I have it here in front of me. This is...absolutely nuts.”
“Not really, you were brilliant in the picture, darling. But it’s a comfort to know Watts has finally replaced that cotton in his brain with some sense.”
Another laugh from you, twirling the telephone cord around your finger.
“Let me have this one, Peg.”
“If you insist.”
You hear the rustling of newspaper from the other end. You can practically see Peggy sitting at her desk, perusing the paper over a morning cup of coffee, her hair curled, makeup and nails all scarlet red and perfect. The golden placard glittering on the frosted glass of the door.
Margaret Carter, Casting Director.
“I’m calling to tell you about an offer we received this morning from Paramount. I think you should take it.”
That rush of giddiness burns bright again in your veins, pulse skyrocketing.
“Paramount? Geez, what did they say?”
“They want you for a promotional picture that’s being produced by Senator Brandt. Brandt is hoping to boost the homefront’s war bond sales with a little starpower from you and from Captain America. You’ve seen his posters, haven’t you? That costumed bloke?”
You have. Plastered everywhere and looking like an absolute buffoon. Nice physique, though.
The disappointment that settles in your stomach is ugly and cold, like a fruitless pit, hard, rough, a sour taste in your mouth. It’s stupidly childish, yet your own expectations for your first movie, first box office hit, for that very first taste of the promised fame and fortune of success, begin to blink out. Expectations you’ve held on to since you were a little girl, since you realized this is the type of work you want to do for the rest of your life.
You’ve managed to impress Nicholas Watts, the most cynical film critic in all of Hollywood, and this is your big break? A Paramount picture featuring you and a tights-wearing mascot?
Peggy is practically asking you to star alongside Mickey Mouse.
“Is that all they offered?” You respond. You wince at the demanding, ungrateful tone. Afterall, showbiz has hardened you to go after what you want, to take and take because this lifestyle does not guarantee anything. You’re told no more than you are yes, the constant rejection having molded you into a diamond tough girl, glitzy and solid, unbreakable, beautiful.
But how many girls would kill to be in your place?
“The only sensible deal. They also offered you the role of Violet for It’s a Wonderful Life, and Ruthie in The Grapes of Wrath.”
“What?! Peggy, contract me for those instead!”
“Well, I’m not going to. And you listen well as to why.”
You twist your lips together. Peggy’s voice filters clipped and disapproving through the phone line, the way she always gets before she offers you damned good advice.
“Not just Watts is impressed with your work, Lola. You’re finally turning heads and for all good reasons. Anyone can get in front of a camera if they have the right look. But you’ve shown them that you have the look and the raw talent. Critics are saying you’re rivaling Judy Garland, darling. And you’re telling me you want the part of a lousy love interest? A secondary daughter? All because the pictures have big names behind them and people may go see it?
“No,” you mumble.
“No is right. You know better than anyone that people expect young stars to burn out fast so they can take their place. It’s all business. If I put you in for those roles, we’d be playing right into their hand. We’d use up all your potential in one summer. The public would get sick of seeing your face in every big picture. We have to earn their affection, darling. It’s slow and tame and not always glamorous, but this deal is smart.”
You listen, silently.
“Morale is low. War is when people turn to familiar pastimes and simple pleasures. To treat themselves, to take their minds off all the grizzly headlines. Captain America embodies all of that and more. If we take this, I promise you, Lola, that people will remember you as the girl who got them through the darkest times. This will do wonders for your career years down the line. And then, if you still want to play Violet, I’ll phone Frank Capra myself.”
You close your eyes and draw in a breath, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.
“Well, it looks like I don’t have much of a choice, do I?”
“Wonderful. I’ll phone Paramount now. We’ll be in touch.”
--
Growing up with poor Irish immigrants for parents, the rare moments you could afford to splurge on luxuries, you spent them at local cinemas and theaters with your brother. Any day was a good one when you and Samuel bought tickets for a noon screening, the cheapest showing of the day, scraping together pocket change to split a popcorn if you were feeling extra special.
And reclining in a nearly empty theater with refreshments and goodies between the two of you, you’d watch the silver screen with hope in your mouth and stars in your eyes. In here, it no longer mattered how little money you had, or the discrimination your family faced, or the war in Europe, or the meager apartment you’d go home to, lucky if the electricity and heating had been paid for. In here, nothing else mattered but the visual stories.
And you realized that you wanted to help tell them. You wanted to be in front of the cameras, to embody characters and personas and let audiences worldwide empathize and identify with your performances.
You’ve loved playing make-believe since you were a little girl, having never really grown out of it. You could do it, you think. Dangerous dreams, perhaps, but what child doesn’t hold this wish within them? To see their name in lights and to be admired and commended, but most of all, to provide for their family?
How hard could it be?
**
At sixteen, you land your first speaking role. It’s pathetic. You’re working on set as background, per usual, only this time, the director picks you out from the crowd and gives you the line of, “Good morning, sir.” You’re to look off camera as the actor playing Kent entered the scene and you would then say your line.
You’re stupidly excited. Three simple words. You’ll be uncredited, of course, but your face would finally be seen! With butterflies fluttering in your stomach, the scene resets, Kent takes his mark, the cameras roll, and you deliver.
The scene is cut from the final reel.
**
You pound the pavement. You scour newspapers and flyers for casting calls, you phone agencies and playhouses, you save up to get your picture taken on glossy photo paper. You keep looking. You keep working in background until you can land a steady role.
Then, you finally get one. A miniscule part of a friendly neighborhood girl on a TV drama for CBS. You only have mere minutes of screen time, but the checks that arrive in the mail from Columbia Broadcasting System after your first few episodes air say otherwise.
You open a savings account. You plant your paychecks and watch them grow into a comfortable sum of money. You land another guest starring role for a daytime soap, the secretary of the title character. Combined with your parents’ salaries from your mother’s sewing and your father’s work on the railroads, you become the main breadwinner.
You move your family out of Hell’s Kitchen, out of your cramped, dark apartment. You sign a new lease under your new stage name and move to Brooklyn together.
**
Brooklyn is slightly cleaner, but the familiar hustle and bustle, the noise of shopkeepers and dialects and children and cars is comforting, grounds you in your roots. When your CBS drama wraps months later with your last check in the mail and you’re looking for your next gig, your brother works odd jobs to help shoulder the burden. Brick laying, chimney sweeping, milk and mail delivering, Samuel becomes no stranger to any and all work, so long as it pays. You become a typist on the side as you wait for auditions and callbacks.
Samuel tells you his aspirations to be a poet, a writer. He hasn’t said a word to your parents, but he shows you the small bound notebook he carries with him, leafing through pages of prose and verse. You encourage him to submit his work to newspapers, publishers. He gives you a shy smile, says he’ll consider it as soon as you get your motion picture debut. You shake on it. Together, your already close bond of brother and sister grows stronger as you each work to support your art.
**
You’re waiting for Samuel to finish his shift so you can catch a late showing of His Girl Friday, a warm September day when you first meet Bucky Barnes down at the wharfs. He’s tall, lean, and glistening with sweat when he rounds out of the warehouse with an armful of crates and nearly knocks you off the pier.
“Hey, watch it!” he snaps. His eyes flash like the water around you, blue and cold and dangerous. Brown locks curl with perspiration against his forehead, the sleeves of his workshirt rolled up over his shoulders, the exposed skin of his throat and arms flushed and tan.
Embarrassed, you try to steady him, to which he growls in annoyance and spins out of your reach. He makes a great show of bearing the weight himself, grumbling as he sets down his load. You don’t miss the way the muscles in his back flex and dip. It isn’t until he slowly stands back up, wiping his palms on his khakis, that you get a good look at each other.
The hostility in his eyes softens ever so slightly, simmering into a look that cinches your chest tight when his gaze travels shamelessly up from your kitten heels to the curves of your lips and cheek. His breathing is still labored as he surveys you and you can feel heat and color blooming against your skin. When his eyes finally settle on your face, you can’t decide whether you want to slap or kiss him.
“You lost or something, honey?” He asks with a whisper of a smile. He strolls in a lazy half-circle in front of you and moves to go back up the ramp to the warehouse. Then, he pauses and turns back to you.
“Have we met before? I swear I recognize you from somewhere.”
This delights you deliciously, that a handsome young man you’ve met by chance has seen your work. Not glamorous, acclaimed roles by any means, but recognition nonetheless. You bite the inside of your lip to suppress your smile and give him a coy, bashful flutter of your eyelashes.
“If that were the case, I’m sure I’d remember you.”
He grins wolfishly, pleased, and takes a step closer. “Yeah? Think you’ll let me take you out for dinner tonight?”
“She’s got plans with me, Buck.” Samuel’s voice carries across the water. Your brother emerges with wooden boxes and sets them between you and Bucky in a huff, as if he’s implementing a physical barrier, both childish and endearing. Bucky glances at you and Samuel.
“Are you two..?”
“Steady? No. She’s my sister.”
Bucky snorts and his eyes find you again, glittering in the evening light. “You never told me you had a sister, Sammy. And such a looker too..”
“Makes you wonder why I never brought her up,” retorts Samuel and gives him a playful shove, traps him briefly in a headlock. “At least Steve wouldn’t ogle.”
“Stevie would get a nose bleed and pass out.” You hear Bucky grunt back. Samuel moves as if to dump him into the drink and Bucky pinwheels, scrambling. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it!”
Satisfied, Samuel releases him and socks him in the shoulder for good measure. Bucky stumbles, looking boyish and smooth despite his shirt and hair all disheveled.
You’ve seen his type in casting offices all across New York; bold, alluring, and charismatic. It’s a look and type you’ve longed to act opposite of someday, as all young starlets dream of, but a look that simultaneously sparks the feminine temptation that shivers between your breasts. You wonder if Bucky would look the same in a dark bedroom, with him on top of you and your fingers running over his back…
Bucky grins toothily when he catches you staring and shoots you a wink. None of those movie star hopefuls hold a candle now to his rugged, spirited charm.
Samuel guides you back up the pier so he can punch out his time card and the two of you can be on your way. And as you’re about to set foot on solid ground, you hear Bucky call out to you.
“What’s your name, honey?”
Samuel sighs and shakes his head. “Cripes.” He mutters to himself. Before Samuel can stop you, you laugh and turn back to the water with a fresh and girlish aire, warmth and excitement whispering through your veins, young and naive and sixteen.
“Dolores!” You give him your full name, your real name. For once, you don’t want to be Lola Sparks. You want to be your natural, honest self, the girl who deserves young love and joy and an untroubled adolescence. The sound of your voice rings clear and strong, the diva that you are, and Bucky’s mouth curves upwards.
“See you ‘round, Dot.”
**
Much to Samuel’s displeasure, you tail your big brother around the docks like a lost pup whenever you have time. And being a C-list actress and a part-time typist, you have plenty of it. You loiter with the excuse of bringing sack lunches, waiting on Samuel and Bucky at the edge of the warehouses. It’s lonesome and bores you to no end being all by yourself, until one afternoon when someone is already waiting at your spot by the pier.
Small, skinny as his own shadow with a fringe of blonde hair, he leans hunkered and folded within himself, timid and seemingly conscious of how he occupies space. His jacket droops over his shoulders, eyes downcast even as you approach. He has a sketchbook in his hands, concentrated as the pencil moves across the page in fast, gentle strokes. You see an impressive likeness of the piers and Bucky’s distant figure in charcoaled lines.
“That’s really something.” You say.
He jolts so hard the paper tears and he crumples it into his fist in a single motion. “Huh?” he answers. When he looks to you, you realize his eyes are a pretty shade of teal. He flushes, petrified, the tips of his ears coloring pink. You feel horrible when he goes to pocket the ball of paper.
“I’m so sorry for scaring you,” you breathe. Gently, you offer your palm to him. “If you’re not keeping it, do you mind if I have it?” You ask softly. A few seconds pass and he shakes his head before placing it in your hand. You unfurl the paper, carefully smooth it out as he watches you from the corner of his eye.
Shyness is a barrier of art you’ve known all too well, from your own experiences in audition rooms to your brother’s reluctance to find a publisher, you understand that sting of insecurity better than anyone. So, you let him watch you as you admire his work, let him know of his talent and let your actions speak for you. You smile and slip the drawing into your purse.
Then, his stomach grumbles audibly, almost comically loud. He folds his arms around his stomach, so tight you’re afraid he’ll snap in half. You quickly reach into one of your paper bags and hand him a sandwich wrapped in cellophane and a can of lemonade.
“Here, let’s trade.”
“That’s awfully kind of you, but I can’t accept..” he starts. The timbre of his voice is surprisingly gallant and sure, pleasant, sweet. You have a gut feeling that the world has been taking advantage of that kindness his whole life, scaring him away from genuine compassion, that everything must have a catch. It makes you press harder.
“I insist. Please. It’s the least I can do for sneaking up on you.” He eyes you warily and again that feeling of regret washes over you. “Consider it payment.” You smile.
Finally, he takes Samuel’s lunch from you and unwraps the sandwich. He eats quickly and quietly, draining the lemonade only minutes later. Perhaps it’s his bony statue, but you feel happy to see this stranger eat.
When he’s finished, he wipes his mouth and turns to you. His lips, pretty, pink, part as if about to speak, yet no words leave him. Instead, he stands frozen with that transfixing blue-green gaze keeping you still, lingering.
That is until a stream of brilliant scarlet red dribbles down his chin and splatters onto his dress shirt. He pinches his nose, doubling forward and his flustered complexion matching the blood spilling from his nostrils.
“You must be Steve,” You laugh lightly and quickly hand him your handkerchief of cream yellow lace and embroidered flowers. You help steady him as he keeps his head tilted down. “Bucky’s told me all about you.”
Steve groans and presses the handkerchief to his face, blushing all the way down to his neck.
**
Steve returns your handkerchief days later with an embarrassed hush, carefully cleaned and laundered. It smells of lavender and clean linen and the image of him working the fabric between his thin fingers with soap and suds warms your heart.
You tell him it’s his. He blooms and keeps it neatly folded in his breast pocket.
You and Steve quickly grow close in the hours you spend together waiting on Bucky and Samuel. You pack extra lunches for him and sit by the piers chatting, skipping stones as Steve sketches the Brooklyn skyline day in and day out.
“Draw me!” you tease. “Isn’t that the request that all artists want to hear?”
But surprisingly, he does. He always draws you and Bucky and Samuel with striking, intimate familiarity. His sketchbook gradually fills with portraits and pictures of you, sketches that could put your very headshot to shame.
**
After their usual shifts, the four of you head to the drugstore for your ritual of sodas and sundaes. Two pairs, brother and sister and brothers by blood enjoying a rare wartime treat. With the rations on sugar, it’s a special and memorable circumstance just to be together and sharing something sweet.
It’s there, at your corner booth in Wolfe’s Pharmacy over ice cream, that Bucky opens up a paper for that night’s television network schedule and sees your name.
His eyebrows shoot up. “Dot,” he says. “What do others call you?”
Defeated, you twist your lips, hesitant to break the short spell of normalcy you’ve had with your new friends. Samuel sips at his Coke with a silent grin.
Time for the truth to come out.
“Well, ‘doll’, by Stevie,” you giggle and toe Steve’s foot under the table. Steve shyly shrinks back into his seat. “But CBS calls me Lola.”
Bucky’s jaw drops.
“Get out of here. You’re pulling my leg..”
“I absolutely am not.”
“Sammy, tell me she’s pulling my leg.”
“She’s not.”
Two pairs of brilliant blue eyes dart between you and your brother. Bucky’s face breaks into an open smile, laughing. Steve lurches forward.
“Have you ever met anyone famous?” Steve prods with a hint of that honest, innocent charm.
You wrinkle your nose sheepishly. “Mason Cook?”
“Who?” Bucky asks around a mouthful of sundae.
“Exactly.” Samuel snorts.
“Well, I’m sure he’s very talented.” Says Steve.
You swipe his maraschino cherry and let the stem dangle between your lips. “At least Stevie believes in me.”
“Dot, honey. I saw your pilot episode. If anyone’s a fan, it’s me.” Bucky feigns hurt, hand to his chest.
You stick out your bottom lip before sucking in the stem, working it into a tight knot in your mouth. “Are you still gonna be when your girl is signing autographs with John Wayne?”
You place the knotted stem on your napkin. Bucky nearly chokes.
“I better be.”
Samuel coughs. Steve giggles.
**
You thank your stars that your secret doesn’t change anything between Steve and Bucky. They treat you just the same; as Samuel��s baby sister who tags along with the boys. The teasing, the fleeting looks all unchanging.
Girls, you’ve unfortunately realized, are catty and mean. You’re competing for roles, after all. But with Bucky and Steve, your first taste of homecoming since moving to Brooklyn, you don’t have to worry about silly competition, or fame, or being the best in the room. They keep you level-headed, reminding you of your girlhood and life’s simple pleasures.
Bucky drives you and Steve around town in the company truck on weekends. Hopscotch and jacks on brick roads and warm nights, watching sunsets until the sky blushes peach and mango yellow at Coney Island.
A Saturday afternoon on Rockaway Beach, a vacation for you all after a draining week of work and auditions when Bucky promises to win you a stuffed bear when he sees you eyeing the one on careful display.
“Buck..Bucky, give it a rest, we can try the next one.” Steve chides.
Another plastic ring pings off the neck of a glass bottle. Bucky curses, rings his hands together and slaps another dollar onto the counter.
You and Steve trade looks. Bucky’s been at it for ten minutes. At this rate, you know you’ll be walking on the train tracks home tonight.
So, you and Steve huddle close and cheer him on. Do it for our doll! says Steve. Finish it so you’ll stop wasting money, you dolt! you cry. Hell, even the vendor finds it humorous and joins in.
And when Bucky wins that grand prize and you’re handed a teddy bear as big as Stevie, you hoist it on your back, careful to not let it touch gravel or dust as the three of you walk in line with the train tracks later that evening.
Paradise, a sheltered haven from the broken landscapes and realities that the European newsreels broadcast home in grim black and white.
**
True to Bucky’s word, they become your biggest supporters, helping you run lines and monologues and accompanying you to auditions. Bucky’s not bad for a scene partner, and Steve’s awareness of emotion and character motivation is impressive.
The attention you receive from casting directors and auditionees doesn’t hurt your chances either, lanky Steve and smoldering Bucky wishing you luck before stepping into the green room.
You book a drama. Then, a short film. Then another. You call them your lucky charms.
And when your humble little short film “premiers” at the corner cinema, squeezed in between an empty noon showing of a cartoon rerun, Steve and Bucky whoop and holler when your character is shown on screen. They throw popcorn and gumdrops, jostle you by the shoulders. Bucky even runs down the aisle and mimes kissing the projector screen.
“That’s our girl! That’s our Dot!”
The usher threatens to throw you out. Steve tells him you’ve paid good money for your tickets and you’ll stay and watch as long as you please.
The following week, you’re scouted by Peggy Carter.
Your world, your career will never be the same.
#steve rogers x reader#bucky barnes x reader#steve rogers x female reader#steve rogers x you#bucky barnes x female reader#bucky barnes x you#captain america x reader#captain america x female reader#captain america x you#winter soldier x reader#winter soldier x female reader#winter soldier x you#steve rogers fanfiction#bucky barnes fanfiction#steve rogers imagine#bucky barnes imagine
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momma’s boy united (pt 1?)
I need to go soon but I wanted to post this as soon as I’m done, I’ll fix it up later.
Ryuji was on his knees as the little girl continued to cry in front of him. He really didn’t mean for all of this to happen. It was an accident, he swears ! He was just jogging in the park when a little girl bump into him at full speed. The girl was fine at first after she fell into the ground with a small ‘oof’. She was staring at Ryuji in surprise and it was all fine until her gaze fell to the little stuffed hamster in her hands.
‘It looked expensive too.’ Ryuji thought as he and the girl both stare at the large gash on its stomach it’s mouth as left wide open as if it was screaming silently before its death. With the way the stuffings falls down to the floor and the girl’s mournful look it really looked like Ryuji commited accidental murder then and there. It was the first sniffle that dragged Ryuji out of his thoughts. He lightly touched the girl’s shoulder and gently coaxed her to look at him or at least have her look away from the corpse.
“Mii-tan is dead!” The little girl screamed out. “Mii-tan is broken!”
Geez, he feels really bad now. Where’s the kid’s mother? The girl was still crying from the top of her lungs, while people from young mothers to bored elders walked around the two each showing their distaste on the two for making a racket.
Incidents like these have been happening more often lately. People ignoring others in need in order to satisfy their own happiness because of that Tokyo has been seeing a rise in crimes in the past two years. It’s like everyone has been hit by a magic spell that made them assholes are something (Ryuji was sure he saw that plot in a movie long ago). Back to the kid, she was still crying and Ryuji still has no idea of what to do.
What would his friends do? How would they help the girl out? The best solution is to help the girl fix her stuffed animal right? But Ryuji has zero skills in sewing and he doesn’t want to bother his ma over his mistake especially since she’s been taking later shifts for the past few weeks.
“We should take Mii-tan to the hospital.” He blurted out. The girl looked up her eyes wide and hopeful. “The hospital?”
He nodded. “Yeah, that’s where we take sick and injured people yeah? There’s a special hospital just for uh- Mii-tan.”
It was something that Ann has mentioned during lunch a few weeks ago. When she was younger she used to bring a stuffed cat everywhere has one day lost it’s ears because of her constant tugging. Her caretaker at the time send her broken doll to a “doll hospital”. A few weeks later she received her fixed doll along with pictures of the doll’s “stay” at the hospital. His mom also mentioned something about it too. How there was a stuffed animal hospital inside the fabric store run by an old lady. It shouldn’t be far from his place. He picked up the kid and place her on his shoulder, adjusting his grip so he doesn’t accidentally drop her.
Kids like these types of things, Right? He remembered wanting his father to do the same when he was younger. So here he was jogging with a little girl on his shoulder while making ‘wee-woo’ sounds. The girl was laughing now as the wind picked up and a light breeze blew in his hair.
Twenty minutes later and they arrived. It was an old fabric store surrounded by a 100 yen shop and a convenience store. It looked very out of place between two modern shops but who was he to say anything about it. The apartment he lives in was about thirty years old which is pretty old compare to all the other buildings in Tokyo. He carefully place the younger girl on the ground,the young girl- Meika was grabbing his ring finger with her little hands tightly as Ryuji slides the door open.
“Welcome, how may I help ‘ya.”
What he expected to be an old and withered lady turns out to be a broad shoulder young man with slick black hair and sharp eyes staring at the two. Meika immediately hid between his legs leaving Ryuji to fend for himself.
“We uh- we heard this place is an uh- hospital for stuffed animals.”
The young man’s eyes soften at the sight of the girl. “Yeah bring the patient here.”
Meika gently pushed the back of Ryuji’s knees as the two approached the front desk and Mii-tan was lying on the cold counter. The man carefully lifted the doll up to assess the damage. He pointed at the chairs by the door.
“Take a seat, this little guy won’t take long.”
The two awkwardly shuffled to the chair and sat down. Ryuji spend his time looking around the store. Little dolls and knick-knacks litter the shelves. Picture frames of old newspaper clipping and print out of some news article. Most were about twenty year old. There are nothing recently.
There were also sign up sheets of classes offering to teach how to make some knitted dolls, run by someone of the name Tatsumi Kanji. His eyes went back to the dolls on the shelves. His mother’s birthday is coming soon, with all the phantom thieves stuff going on and with his mother increasing shifts as of late they barely have time to sit and chat with each other. It would be nice to give her something that he put effort in-something to remember him by. He doesn’t have a lot of money to buy a ring or a necklace but maybe he can make her a good luck charm. He dug into his pocket and surprisingly found a pen, he clicked it open and drew a little lightning bolt on his wrist to see if it works-it does. He stood up and head over to the sign up sheet and write down his name and number. The class is scheduled for tomorrow afternoon. From the other two names already written on the sheet Ryuji can tell that the class will be filled with girls and as exciting as it is to be stuck in a room with him and the teacher being the only guy. The idea of it also sounds a bit awkward.
Ryuji:
Free tomorrow afterschool?
Akira:
Yeah
Ryuji
Cool wanna join this class with me
Akira:
What kind of class?
Ryuji send a picture of the poster.
Akira:
Sure
Ryuji knows that his friend likes these sort of things, no matter how much he tries to deny it, the growing collection of gatcha and stuffed dolls in the attic speaks for themselves. He made sure to put Akira's name and number on the poster as well.
Mii-tan came back healthy. It had white cloth around it’s head and was wearing a hospital gown and it even had a little band around it’s wrist. It was like the doll really went to a hospital. Meika was happy as she carefully carried the doll trying her hardest to not ruin the “bandages”.
The girl then carefully looked between the man and Ryuji. “Thank you very much for helping Mii-tan.” She said. “It’s almost dinner time, I have to go home now.”
The man grin and gently pat the girl’s head. “Hurry on home then. Make sure ‘ta look both way when crossing.”
The two men happily waved goodbye at the girl as she left the shop, once she was gone Ryuji took out his wallet. “Thanks for everything man, how much do I owe ya?”
“A thousand.”
A thousand? It was much cheaper than he thought. He decided he should introduce himself since he’s coming back the next day. “I’m Sakamoto Ryuji, thanks for helping us out.”
“Tatsumi Kanji, I’m helping out my ma’s friend who owns this place. “
Tatsumi Kanji, that’s the name of the guy doing the class tomorrow isn’t it? He voiced his question to the other man.
Kanji nodded. “Yeah, you got a problem with that or something?”
He shook his head. “Nah, I’m just askin’ since my friend and I are going to join tomorrow. My mom’s birthday is next week and I wanted to make her a present.”
“Is that so?”
Before Ryuji could say anything else the man roughly placed his hand on his shoulder. “It’s getting late, you should head home. I’ll see you later, you better not be late.”
As if Akira would let him be late in the first place. “Gotcha.”
And as Ryuji walked back towards his house he can’t help but to feel the captain somewhere in his head buzzing the same way he would feel whenever he’s around his friends. ‘It’s probably nothing,’ he told himself as he continue on his way back.
Is this the start of a new friendship? I just wanted the two blond momma boys to play nice. Also the image of a little kid on ryuji’s shoulder as he shouts ‘wee-woo’ won’t leave my head. If I do decide to make a part two it would be the class.
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Rubber Ducky Road Trip
Fun Fact: the rubber duck actually surged to popularity after WWII when a sculptor started manufacturing a cute yellow version of it as toys for kids instead of just dogs! Anyway, Joe’s photo with the weird creepy roadside giant duck statue? 100% inspiration for this. Thank you @badgerms for editing this for me!
Post War AU, Snafu still left Sledge on the train. One day Snafu gets it in his head to go see the newly constructed World’s Largest Rubber Duck on the side of the road somewhere in Oklahoma, and he decides to stop at Sledge’s first because Eugene’s letters say Eugene is taking up bird watching now, cause ducks totally count. Also they adopt a dog.
Snafu doesn't understand civilian life. The things most of his neighbors consider commonplace - well balanced meals, regular showers, polite conversation, underwear - Snafu no longer has the patience for. He was never a good civilian before the war, and he's an even worse one after. Not like Eugene with his perfect manners, and stalwart ideals, and easy conversation. If Snafu imagined a model upstanding citizen, Eugene Sledge's face was the first to pop into mind. A deep indefatigable ache came with it.
Eugene's face also brings to mind guilt. In two forms - one: guilt for having cut off all contact with him, and two: guilt for having had any contact with him in the first place.
Snafu doesn't kid himself - Sledgehammer probably would never have gotten through the war on his own. But Eugene Sledge always deserved better. Snafu knows Eugene got off that train to meet a welcoming party, exactly like Burgie. He'd been watching Eugene's face when Burgie hugged his little brother tight. Eugene was looking at them with understanding, empathy. He wasn't baffled by the scene, like Snafu was.
Snafu got off the train to nothing but crowds of strangers. He disappeared. And hoped Eugene would imagine a lie when he thought of Snafu. Maybe a father who stayed up all night just to be there at the station at three am, a mother who had food waiting just for him, a house warm and clean for his little sister to actually have a childhood in. Anything Eugene could invent is probably better than the reality Snafu never told him about.
When Snafu imagines Eugene's civilian life, he imagines white picket fences, and a hoard of smiling extended family wearing bright clothes in the sun, and lots of unnecessary hugs. That's where Eugene would fit in. That's what Snafu wants for Gene.
All the things a good civilian is supposed to have in their life. None of which make any damn sense to him. He's still young, which keeps off most of the pressure to become respectable. But he sees the odd looks thrown his way, he knows the talk. Every bit of gossip compounded now that he's a veteran, and suddenly that means his vices can be overlooked - that means he's eligible. But only if he keeps up appearances. Only if his nightmares stick to night.
What a joke.
He expounds upon this topic loudly and at length to anyone who will listen. Very often this means to his coworkers during after work drinks, sometimes over a game of cards. It doesn't make him many friends.
On one such night, a few years after V-J day, one of the coworkers tosses a strange yellow toy into the betting pool.
"What the fuck?" Snafu asks, snatching the thing up, "You trying to cheat us? Ain't no way this is worth anything."
Apparently, though, it is. The little yellow toy is called a "rubber duck" and it's the latest craze to hit the United States. The things are selling out everywhere, and they're on every child's wish list this winter. Not that Snafu would ever know what the latest trends are. He doesn't follow fads or styles. He understands them even less than he understands civilians complaining about things like slow service or cold weather. And this new yellow toy is the worst trend yet. Personally, Snafu thinks it's the ugliest thing he's ever seen - plus it looks nothing like any duck he's ever seen.
His coworkers laugh at him and chide him for being a confirmed bachelor with no kids at home throwing tantrums over toys. As if that's something Snafu could even begin to understand. This generation of children - demanding toys instead of being grateful for what they got.
He wins the card game and collects his money, but promptly tosses the duck to the first child he passes in the street.
Somehow word gets around that Snafu Shelton is giving away rubber ducks, because the next time he steps foot outside of his apartment, the grubby neighborhood kids swarm him like he's Santa Claus or some shit. He barely escapes with his life.
Luckily Snafu knows a friend in the rubber manufacturing business, and a week later a sack full of duck toys just happens to fall off the back of his friend's truck. Snafu distributes them amongst the neighborhood. It's not a free for all, he carries one or two around in his pocket and hands the ducks off to the weird kids. The small runty ones wearing castoff clothes too big for them, who come home from school with bruises and empty stomachs. Snafu remembers what it's like being small and watching fads pass by instead of taking part.
So Snafu is less like Santa Claus and more like a kingpin throwing wrenches into the carefully balanced schoolyard popularity hierarchy.
This being a poorer neighborhood on the outskirts of New Orleans, no one really has the means to designate social status. It's all just silly things like who can afford something as small and inessential as a rubber duck and who can't. Snafu himself rents a shitty top floor apartment with a private entrance that doubles as a fire escape. It isn't so much an apartment as it is a room with a twin bed. But there's trees all around, and a big window at the foot of his bed, and a narrow decorative balcony (the useless kind not meant to hold humans - another part of life Snafu doesn't understand) attached to the window.
The first thing Snafu bought after the war, even before he bought a bed frame, was a beautiful stone birdbath. The kind like the one in the park his mom used to take him to. They'd sit on the park bench, and spend hours watching the birds splash around, and it bored Snafu to tears but it was the only time of the week his mom didn't cry so he learned to sit as still as he could.
Snafu put his brand new birdbath on his useless balcony and for two years every spring morning he woke with the sun, crawled down his bed, and watched the birds sing their thanks through the open window.
This year, as winter approaches, Snafu looks at his now empty birdbath and gets an idea. He didn't keep any of the rubber duckies for himself, but luckily his friend in the business has connections and manages to get him one extra. And Snafu's lonely winter mornings are assuaged when he wakes to see a friendly yellow face bobbing happily in the cold bath outside his window.
Snafu thinks he's simply cleverly besting migratory bird patterns until more yellow ducks start showing up in his birdbath. This time wearing hand sewn floral bonnets, or flower crowns, or top hats, or in one particularly painful case - a tiny toy army helmet.
The little neighborhood shits are climbing his trellis to his balcony and putting the damn things in there at night. Every couple of days the rubber ducks will disappear only to be returned wearing new themed outfits. When Christmas comes and Snafu wakes to discover he has a completely full bird bath containing not only a duck wearing a santa hat but also all twelve reindeer ducks - one of which has a painted red nose - Snafu finally admits this fad is here to stay.
And that is how Snafu becomes known around town as the weird bachelor who collects rubber ducks.
It gets so bad even the secretary at the lumberyard where he works saves him a newspaper clipping about a town two states over. The girl sneaks it to him during lunch and Snafu reads the article over his shitty thermos of soup.
The world's largest rubber duck is being erected somewhere in Oklahoma by some hodunk town hoping to put themselves on the map by throwing excess rubber, no longer needed by the war effort, into a useless vanity project.
Idiots.
A few days later Snafu is playing cards, and winning as always, when he finds himself rethinking his stance. He stops mid-sentence when he realizes he is having a conversation with his coworkers about ducks. And it's normal. And he doesn't want to roll his eyes right out of his head.
Maybe he is adapting to civilian life after all.
He collects his winnings and goes home. He ignores the New Years themed duck floating outside his window and goes straight to the crooked chest of drawers wedged in between his bed and the wall. He opens the top drawer, pries off the false bottom, and lets the stack of letters and all his life savings fall to the floor. He gathers up the letters carefully, leaves the money, and sits on his bed to read.
There are a bunch of letters - each addressed to Snafu in the same beautifully written cursive. The handwriting inside is neat, and elegant, and never strays from tight measured lines, as if the author places the blank sheet of paper over a lined page to use as a guide. If each letter wasn't signed with a no nonsense, perfectly legible "Eugene", Snafu would never guess they came from the same man he watched scribble away in a bible - writing that looked more like chicken scratch than actual words.
Snafu shuffles through the letters until he finds the one he's thinking of. Eugene's letters are full of normal things Snafu no longer relates to. They're artificially pleasant in the way of small talk, and say the kinds of things people who have nothing in common say to each other. Snafu doesn't like to think about him and Eugene no longer having anything in common. Whenever Snafu receives a letter, he reads it, feels his heart shrink two sizes smaller, and then slides the letter into his secret drawer to forget about it. If he hides it and doesn't reply he can pretend civilian Eugene would still care about him, no matter how all fucked up Snafu feels.
He never forgets what he reads though, and this letter in particular from a month ago details Eugene's new found hobby - bird watching.
Finally, they have something in common.
He scoops all his savings off the floor, adds his week's paycheck and tonight's winnings to the pile, and calculates how much gas he'll need. Then he fills up his truck, borrows a tent from his friend, and starts off down the road.
A day later he shows up on Eugene's porch.
He knows he made a mistake when a butler answers the door. It's shock that keeps him rooted to the spot for the few minutes it takes for Eugene to be called in from whatever activity Snafu interrupted. He knew Eugene was one of them rich kids, but a butler was beyond even his imaginings.
Shock keeps him there initially, but it's amusement that keeps Snafu on the porch when Eugene appears in the frame, takes one look at him, listens to Snafu's brief "I hear you like birdwatching" quip, and slams the door in his face without another word spoken.
Snafu can hear Eugene's mother's scandalized outrage through the walls of the house.
The door opens and an older woman with an aristocratic but comfortable air takes Eugene's place.
"I'm so sorry," she says, slightly out of breath, "Please, come in. Sit. I'll get you a glass of iced tea. I don't know what's gotten into that boy sometimes."
He and Mrs. Sledge exchange introductions, and she immediately recognizes his name.
"Oh, you're the one Eugene's been sending all those letters to," she says. She doesn't mention the tiny detail that Snafu never sends any letters back.
Snafu smiles and perches on a stiff chair in the parlor. He accepts the glass of tea, and drinks it to avoid awkward conversation.
Mrs. Sledge bustles around rearranging things to make more room, and also to avoid awkward conversation. "Eugene Bondurant Sledge!" she calls, "Get out here!"
Eugene obediently appears in the doorway, a petulant look on his face that Snafu knows well. Eugene's stubborn presence does nothing but force Mrs. Sledge and Snafu to carry the conversation.
"Your friend's come all the way from New Orleans to see you," Mrs. Sledge prompts.
Eugene remains silent. And standing.
"A stop along my way, actually," Snafu says. His charm is turned up as high as it will go. Partially out of respect for the mother of his best friend, and partially to see Eugene's blood pressure rise with every obsequious word out of Snafu's mouth.
"Oh, where are you headed?" Mrs. Sledge asks.
"Out aways, into the middle of nowhere. Woke up one morning and got it into my head I wanted to see the world's largest duck," Snafu may be talking to Mrs. Sledge but his eyes remain unwavering on Eugene.
"I dare say," Mrs. Sledge says, "And what species of bird is this exactly?"
"Can't be sure, ma'am," Snafu says, "That'd be more Eugene's area of expertise."
"Well, how big is the world's largest duck?" Mrs. Sledge asks.
"Don't know, haven't seen it yet," Snafu drawls with a grin.
Eugene looks fit to burst.
"How far do you have to go to find this bird?" Mrs. Sledge asks.
"Just a couple of days drive, maybe a week round trip," Snafu says, "Was gonna ask Eugene if he wanted to come along."
"What a splendid idea," Mrs. Sledge is delighted, "Eugene doesn't have any plans scheduled for the next few weeks. It'd do him good to get out for a while."
Eugene's petulance slowly transitions to horror as the conversation goes on and he realizes there is no polite way to extricate himself from this situation without disappointing his mother terribly.
Which is how Snafu ends up with a silent and surly Eugene sitting next to him on the bench seat in his truck's cab and a basket full of gifted provisions neatly tucked into his truck bed next to his borrowed tent.
Snafu fiddles with the radio, switching stations whenever he gets bored with whatever murder mystery radio play or big band music is being broadcast until they drive too far out into the sticks to get any kind of signal.
The minute he switches the radio off, Eugene finally speaks up.
"Since when are you interested in birdwatching?" Eugene's tone is accusatory.
"It was kinda forced on me," Snafu shrugs, "Or I forced it on myself. On accident."
"And we're going to see the world's largest duck?"
"Ahuh," Snafu agrees.
"And where would that be, exactly?"
"Oklahoma."
Eugene screws up his face. He pulls the atlas out from underneath the bench seat, and flops through it till he hits the southeastern United States.
"Alabama is not in between New Orleans and Oklahoma," Eugene points to the map. As if Snafu doesn't know his geography and Eugene needs to prove to him the position of Oklahoma and Mississippi.
"Never said it was," Snafu says calmly.
"You said picking me up was a 'stop along the way'," Eugene argues.
"I said it's a stop along my way. Never said my way was the most direct."
Snafu keeps his focus on the road, but he can feel Eugene's eyes on him.
"Yeah? Missed you too, Snaf," Eugene says as if that answers an unasked question and settles more comfortably in his seat. He props the map up on his lap and traces the spider web of roads with his finger.
Everything goes smoothly the first day. They eat lunch on the side of the road. It's warm, and the heat of the truck's engine makes it warmer, but they prop the doors open to let a breeze flow through and make sandwiches from the food Eugene's mom packed. Snafu provides the desert. He brought a slender bar of chocolate, provisions in case Eugene turned him down.
Now he breaks it in half and shares it with Eugene and watches him suck melted chocolate from his fingers.
Eight hours of driving later when it's almost too dark to see they stake out the tent on a dirt field to sleep. Snafu tosses and turns until he rolls to face Eugene and finds wide unblinking eyes staring back at him. They decide sleeping on the ground isn't for them, and set the tent up in the bed of Snafu's truck instead. The wooden slats are hard and a little uncomfortable but it's different enough from memories that they're finally able to fall asleep pressed back to back.
The next morning is quiet, and still. They snack on fresh snap peas for breakfast and strike the tent in silence. They don't need to talk about it. Snafu senses Eugene's understanding. For once it's nice to not need to explain his particular brand of insanity.
Later on the road again, in between casual conversation, Eugene brings it up.
"Best sleep I've had in months," he says.
"Me too, Sledgehammer," Snafu admits.
On the second day it rains. At night they park at the edge of a small town in the lot of a gas station run by a friendly old lady who lets them use the outhouse on her property and the outdoor shower behind it. Snafu laughs at Eugene becoming so spoiled he needs daily baths now. And Eugene retorts that not everyone can have as nice of a natural musk as Snafu, and it's enough like a compliment to shut Snafu up quick.
Snafu leaves Eugene toweling his wet hair dry in the truck cab, and runs across the few feet of muddy gravel to use the outhouse. When he comes back he starts to hastily climb into the truck, but stops when he notices a strange shadow under the carriage hiding from the rain.
He reaches over the bench and pokes Eugene awake.
"Flashlight," Snafu whispers, gesturing to the floor.
Eugene hands him the flashlight. And then pulls the blanket over his head to go back to sleep.
Snafu crouches on the runnerboard of the truck to keep his feet off the ground for an easy escape, bends down, and shines the light underneath.
A head lifts up and a pair of reflective eyes look back at him.
Snafu flicks the light off, lifts himself back into the cab and digs through the picnic basket for the leftovers from dinner.
"Snafu, what are you doing?" Eugene complains from under the blanket.
"Just give me a minute," Snafu says.
He jumps to the ground and waves a bite of chicken to the darkness under the truck.
"C'mon, boy," he says.
It doesn't take much to get the big shaggy dog out from underneath the carriage and into the cab. Eugene gets a rude awakening, however, when the dog decides to make a bed out of his lap.
Snafu can see Eugene jolt awake, but instead of kicking the weight off his lap, he just shifts to accommodate it.
"Snafu, next time warn me if you're going to sleep on me," Eugene grumbles.
"S'not me, boo," Snafu says with a grin.
Eugene peeks from behind his blanket, sees the dog, and promptly sits straight up in his seat. He grabs his towel and starts drying off some of the water and dirt matting the dog's fur.
The dog chooses that moment to fart.
Snafu starts laughing at Eugene's scandalized face that looks so much like his mother's, until Snafu starts choking from the smell, and then he leans over Eugene to roll the window down. Just a crack, enough for fresh air but not enough to let rain in.
It's rather cramped in the truck cab, with the tent (more useful keeping out mosquitoes than rain), and the picnic basket, and the two boys, and the dog, but they manage.
Snafu wakes up to whines. At first he thinks it's the dog. It's the middle of the night, there are no street lamps all the way out here, and he can barely see. Until there's a jerk of movement on the other side of the cramped bench seat and the dog climbs over Snafu to shelter under his feet.
"Eugene!" Snafu exclaims. He takes Sledge's arm and then remembers what happened the last time he watched someone being held down mid-nightmare. He keeps a safe distance and says loudly, "Sledgehammer!"
Eugene snaps awake. He lurches forward, and stops when he sees Snafu sitting up and watching him.
Snafu takes his hand then. Eugene twines their fingers together. He's still breathing hard with his mind half out of this world. Snafu can see it in his eyes. The dog wanders over and places his head back on Eugene's lap. Eugene looks down, sees the dog for the first time since he woke. He turns to Snafu.
"I didn't hurt you did I?" Eugene asks.
"No," Snafu says firmly.
Neither of them fall back asleep for a long while after that.
The next morning the dog plods slowly along when they walk to buy groceries. He patiently waits outside the door for them to finish and plods along after them when they go back to the car. When they open the car door to wedge the grocery bag into the picnic basket, the dog jumps up and sits on the bench seat between them.
"I think you accidentally adopted a dog," Eugene tells Snafu.
Except it's Eugene who feeds the dog, and Eugene's lap that the dog chooses to sleep on most of the time, and Eugene who names the dog 'Fred'.
"What the fuck kind of dog name is that?" Snafu asks.
"Like you're one to talk Merriell," Eugene retorts. Eugene uses a fond tone for Snafu's given name like it's a good thing, and that throws him for a bit of a loop.
"Sure thing, Bondurant," Snafu croons.
Eugene throws a slice of turkey at Snafu's smiling face in response, which is a dreadful waste of food, but Freddie happily eats the discarded turkey and licks Snafu's face clean.
At one point the car breaks down. Fortunately it happens on a flat stretch of road so not only can they see the gas station in the distance, but it's also fairly easy to push the truck along. Snafu jerry-rigs a contraption to keep the steering wheel pointed straight, and off they go. The dog lumbers into the truck bed, watches them push for a bit, and then falls asleep in the sun.
When they reach the station, Snafu pays for use of the tools, but does all the repairs himself. The mechanic who runs the station is jovial and sharp tongued. He and Snafu trade stories and exchange barbs while Snafu works.
Eugene sits and waits in a camp chair off to the side, the dog in his lap and his fingers stroking the dog's fur. He watches Snafu with keen eyes, but doesn't say a word.
Snafu winks at Eugene when he peels his sweaty button down off and bends over the engine wearing nothing but his undershirt.
"Come on, Freddie, let's go for a walk," Eugene stands and leads the dog out of the garage.
They're not gone long. Fred isn't the 'go for a walk' type of dog. Eugene shows up again twenty minutes later carrying a large panting dog bundled in his arms.
"He got tired," Eugene explains.
Snafu hastily grabs a clean tin from the mechanic and fills it with water for the dog. When Eugene takes it from Snafu's hand, their fingers brush.
Snafu thinks about that brief second of contact for the rest of the day.
With the car up and running again, they finally reach their destination. It's around four pm, and the sun is beginning to set, but the baked dry land around them is still warm. The large rubber duck is not actually in town, though they have to drive through town to find it. The buildings still show the ravages of the dust bowl - peeling paint bleached by the sun, splintered wood, missing planks, weeds everywhere. Feels like home.
They take a turn onto a single lane of freshly paved road at the edge of town and drive to the end till there is nothing but fields around them.
"Snafu…" Eugene starts. Neither of them have gotten out of the truck yet. Fred is fast asleep between them, farting as usual.
Snafu grins wide, his hand tight on the steering wheel as he pulls the truck into park.
"Snafu, that is the ugliest sight I have ever seen in my life," Eugene states.
"Surely not the ugliest, don't you remember Leyden?" Snafu asks.
"I thought we were going to find the largest duck in the world?" Eugene asks.
"And here we are," Snafu gushes, gesturing to the view outside their windshield.
"You failed to mention the duck is rubber," Eugene says.
"Never asked," Snafu responds. He kicks the truck door open and jumps down excitedly.
In Snafu's mind, the world's largest duck does not disappoint. It's a good few feet taller than him and the duck's bill comes right up to his head. And if he leans his face forward enough he can make it look like the duck is either eating or kissing him.
"Snap a photo," he calls to Eugene with his head still in the duck's mouth.
Eugene clambers out of the truck to comply. Once done, Eugene sits on the curb and watches Snafu examine the duck.
Snafu circles the statue. He pokes at it and tries to gauge if it's actually made entirely of rubber.
"Think this thing's hollow?" Snafu asks.
"Like your head," Eugene drawls.
Snafu leans around the duck to grin at him.
"He's got your eyes," Eugene comments.
"You've been paying attention to my eyes?" Snafu goes round to the front of the duck and notices the eyes are painted an unnaturally vibrant shade of robin's egg blue.
"Hard not to Snaf, when you ask me if they're yellow every time I turn around," Eugene says.
"One time," Snafu says.
"Once was enough," Eugene says.
Snafu remembers that time. And if he remembers that time, the first time he touched Eugene's skin for reasons other than necessity, he also then remembers the more recent time, with the dog bowl. And his fingers start to itch.
He places his palms flat against the hot rubber of the duck. It smells like car tires, and wood chips, and fresh air and summer. There's no gasoline or any other rotting stench to remind him of other days involving the strong smell of rubber. This smell is childhood, and innocence.
Snafu looks over at Eugene.
Eugene meets his eyes. "I can't believe we drove all this way for a rubber duck," he says.
Snafu smirks and picks his way over to sit next to him. Their shoulders brush, and that is also a familiar touch.
"Not just any rubber duck, the world's largest," Snafu counters.
"They all look the same," Eugene says.
"Not true," Snafu says, thinking about his ever changing birdbath.
Eugene stands, marches to the truck, grabs the rubber duck off Snafu's dash, and sits back down. He places the duck in Snafu's hands.
"This one's got a hat," Snafu points out, flicking the little green helmet on the duck's head.
Eugene rolls his eyes, "This and the big one in front of us could be cast from the same mold except for size."
"What, you think I oughta curb my enthusiasm?" Snafu taunts.
Eugene looks at him deadpan.
"Get it?" Snafu nudges him with his shoulder, "Cause we're sitting on a curb?"
"Oh good lord," Eugene puts his head in his hands.
Snafu laughs.
He doesn't laugh for long because Eugene removes his head from his hands, cups them around Snafu's face, and pulls him into a soft kiss.
And if Snafu failed to mentally prepare himself for the excitement of seeing the world's largest rubber duck, he certainly didn't prepare himself for this.
It's wonderful. And suddenly it makes sense. All that affection, rattling around in Snafu's empty tin heart like glass marbles. It didn't have anywhere to go. But now it does.
He still doesn't know what to do with his hands.
So he clasps them on his knees, leans in as close as he can get while staying seated on the curb, and lets Gene kiss him.
They sit there necking so long they miss the sunset. It's twilight by the time Eugene pulls away. He doesn't go far, keeps his hands on Snafu's face, and caresses Snafu's cheek as if unwilling to actually part from him.
"Gene," Snafu breathes.
Eugene smiles.
The dog wakes up from where he was sleeping behind them and sits straight so he can rest his head on Eugene's shoulder. Gene laughs, takes the Marine Corps rubber duck from Snafu's hands, and tosses it a few feet away.
The dog immediately becomes alert. Freddie watches the rubber duck fly, watches it bounce to the ground, watches it stop moving, then slowly trots over, picks up the duck in his mouth, and slowly trots back. Freddie sets the rubber duck in Eugene's lap, lies down across both of their feet, farts, and then goes to sleep.
"I think we've accidentally adopted an old dog," Snafu observes.
Eugene grins and leans in closer to Snafu's side. Eugene's arm wraps around Snafu's waist and he kisses his neck before settling his head comfortably against Snafu's shoulder.
"I think we can teach him new tricks," Eugene says, patting the dog on the back.
"In Mobile or New Orleans?" Snafu asks.
"New Orleans," Eugene replies, "But not before Sid's wedding in a few months. You'll have to come to mobile for that."
"Good thing it's on the way," Snafu drawls.
"Yeah," Eugene laughs, "Good thing."
"I ain't gonna be the most agreeable person to have in the wedding party, Sledgehammer," Snafu warns. He lights a cigarette and turns so the smoke doesn't blow in Eugene's face.
"Me either," Eugene says.
Snafu snorts, "Naw, you're always a delight."
"Not always," Eugene says, a little more seriously, "Not always."
Snafu pulls away. He doesn't stand because he doesn't want to disturb the dog, but he moves enough that Eugene takes his hands off him. Because it's not the same. It's not the same and he needs to convince Eugene somehow.
"Why don't you find a nice girl, Gene?" Snafu asks, "Someone who could be a bridesmaid. Or a bride."
"You sound like my mother," Eugene complains, "I don't want some girl. Never have." He stays quiet for a minute and then voices his own insecurities, "Have you? I mean, I know you used to flirt with all the girls on the journey home…"
"Never have," Snafu says.
"Then why…?"
"T'make you glare at me," Snafu smirks, "Make you jealous. Always figured it was me getting the girls you were jealous of though."
"Nope," Eugene sighs, "Afraid it was the other way around. Didn't like that the girls got you"
Snafu laughs. They sit quietly while he finishes his cigarette and the last bit of light fades from the sky. Somewhere behind them a street lamp turns on and illuminates the giant rubber duck in an eerie orange glow.
"Shit, it got uglier," Snafu drawls.
Eugene's shoulders shake with laughter. Snafu likes how the movement transfers into his own body. He likes how close they've drifted together again. Like they can't keep apart, even when not deliberately touching.
"Always knew I wanted you, Snaf," Eugene says.
That's a sobering thought - Eugene wanting him.
"Situation Normal All Fucked," Snafu says. He leans as close to Eugene's face as he can get and smiles at him, "I guess if you leave out the 'up' my nickname could be fun."
He can't imagine how he could be of any use to Gene. Aside from the obvious. It'd be a lie to say he never recognized the heat in Eugene's eyes when he looked at Snafu.
He tells Eugene as much, while also trying not to say anything.
"Oh for goodness sake," Eugene says, "I don't love you because you're useful. That's not how it works."
Eugene kisses him quiet. And this time Snafu holds his chin and kisses him back.
_____
Here is snafu's truck: ^_^ 1946 chevy currently in the process of being rebuilt but you get the idea
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Do you think the duffer's will ever stop being cowards and give Will powers? they've hinted at it enough and really missed some good reveal opportunities in s3. if they do do you think they'll be like El's powers or something unique to him.
It might actually be a bit of both- I talked a while back about this. But my subscribers have literally doubled in like the past week . So I might as well talk about it again. XD
El’s (unique) powers
Telekenisis- The power to move or manipulate objects with the mind. It can evolve to the point that a Telekinetic can control anything at a subatomic, particle and universal level (like when she tore apart the demorgon cell by cell in s1).
Levitation- To use the mind, and cause a person to rise into the air and float in apparent defiance of gravity. El’s does this at the end of s2 when closing the gate.
Remote viewing - is the practice of seeking impressions about a distant or unseen target, purportedly using extrasensory perception (ESP). She does this when Kali asked her if the man (she was planning on killing was alone). It’s not foolproof, since she can only focus on one person at at time. Which is why she assumed he was alone, when his 2 daughters were simply in the other room. She seems to rely on psychometry to do this with people she doesn’t know well.
Psychometry- ability to discover facts about an event or person by touching inanimate objects associated with them. She does this in s1 when she takes Will’s d&d wizard piece and tells the boys he’s in the upside down and his exact location. And she does this with newspaper clippings of Terri- and uses this power to track her down and find where she lives. And she also uses a photo of Heather to find her/sense something bad happened to her.
The void- The prequel novel, “suspicious Minds” explains this ability.Terry after getting pregnant (temporarily) gains her baby Jane’s/El’s power to tap into the ‘void’. In relation to seeing normal people in the void, Terry learned they will not notice you observing and eavesdropping on them, and they generally cannot hear or see you (according to the book) … so we can probably assume they also cannot touch others without them fading away, as well (like in the show). El uses this ability to observe Hopper, Mike, and a Russian spy (in s1/2).
But the void is different if you try this on another psychic, Terry accidentally summons a young Kali- and finds out it’s a way for other psychics and only other psychics to have a private place to talk to one another- without anyone realizing. So yep, Will is psychic- the fact Will could touch, see, hear, and talk to El in the void wasn’t a coincidence! Debate over! Also Joyce is def. clairvoyant like one of the other characters in the book (especially since she spoke to El in the void in s1, and the book confirmed having powers was hereditary.)
Powers they share (this is based on the show/Will comic/ d&d powers)
Technopathy (ability to manipulate electronic devices) also able to use this ability to communicate through other dimensions. (El also has this power, but she used it to communicate from our world to the upside down- with the walkie talkie, and the school radio that she causes to catch fire). When Will first calls Joyce through the phone, he actually used a walkie talkie (which is not how electronics work- it was simply his psychic abilities), also Joyce’s phone exploded because of this. After she buys a new phone, and Will tries again using their actual phone this time, it once again explodes on her end. And then Will uses the radio and the lights in the house to communicate.
And to make even more clear this is entirely because of Will, and not simply how electronics work in the upside down – When Joyce gets the Christmas lights out, she says “blink once for yes, twice for no.” And that’s literally what he does. He blinks (AND USES HIS MIND) to get lights to flicker from another dimension!
Portal manipulation/dimension travel / teleportation -. They both opened portals from the upside down to the real world. And although most of the evidence for dimension travel/teleportation is more evident in Will. Technically El did teleport/dimension travel at the end of s1 to the upside-down.
In the show, 2 scientists, Barb , a deer, and 2 hunters were violently dragged to the upside down, and simply died due to blood-loss. The comic showed this to be the case, showing one of the hunters bleed to death. He explained the demorgan dragged him there before he died. In both the comic and show , Will wasn’t dragged like the others. He sent himself accidentally to the upside down (the lightbulb , in both the show/comic glowed just like all the lights in Hawkins did when El closed the gate to the upside down in s2).
This is made even more clear in the fact that the demogorgan is far away from him at this moment (in the comic).
Biokinesis? -This is a very broad ability. It’s the ability to psychically manipulate anatomy, physiology, internal body processes, and DNA. She caused Troy to pee himself - which is a bodily process.
However most people associate this power with the ability to alter traits of ones own physical appearance. I don’t think they’ll be a mystique or anything. But I did point out a while ago that when El and Will use their powers to their absolute limits- their eye color changes. El’s when using her powers to their limits, has her eyes turn red in both s1 and 2. And in s2 Will’s eyes slowly change from green, to brown, to black (maybe they changed color since he was fighting his possession with his powers?).
Imagination Manifestation- The ability to bring anything from one’s imagination into existence. I explained in a crazy amount of detail, here, why I believe El made the upside down/demorgorgans and how Will created the mindflayer and demodogs… and how it’s not only an allegory for Will and El’s (cannon) ptsd, trauma, and darker intrusive thoughts (but because of their powers), became a physical manifestation (with a life of it’s own).
Will’s ( possible unique) powers
Shadow Walking- They said in s1, Will ‘shadow walked’ . In D&D shadow walking is – “ largely illusory, but ‘quasi-real’. characters can use this spell to travel rapidly by stepping onto the Plane of Shadow (the upside down), moving the desired distance, and then stepping back onto the Material Plane.” This quote perfectly summarizes Will’s power - which he was shown to be using in s1 & s2 (before his possession)- he can be partially-present and can physically interact with both dimensions at the same time. Although he has little control of this power- constantly flicking between both dimensions. This explains how he was standing in the real world next to Mike and later Joyce in the field, while at the same time, the mind flayer took possession of him in the upside down version of that same field. And how on Halloween he was in the upside down calling for Mike, but was seen on camera in the real world calling for Mike ‘having an episode’.
Electro-kinesis – He has lightning come out of his hand, and this is also a power that Will drew of his wizard character (in the show) before he was sent to the upside down.
Pyro-kinesis- He drew his wizard character shooting green fireballs in s1 and in the first ep he rolled the dice and yelled fireball, he had the ‘shadow monster ‘ excorcised out of him with fire, and in the comic he shoots a demogorgan and yells “fireball”. Will in the comic easily kills 2 demogorgans using pyrokinesis (fire) eviscerating 2 of them to dust – it’s a bit ambiguous, but he shoots fire out of the gun, and it appears the bullet wasn’t properly placed in the gun.
And in d&d lore the only previous human apprentice of the mindflayer, also had fire powers.
Scrying/clairvoyance- “ An ability the MF has, the ability to see and hear a creature at any distance…, the sensor has your full visual acuity, including sensing any magical effects-detect chaos, detect evil, detect good, detect law, detect magic, and message.” (all of which Will could do in s2-detecting the feelings/intentions of the mindflayer, seeing all those people die while in his hospital bed, knowing that the demodogs were approaching, giving the message to close the gate, and finding Hopper (a cop/’the law’) and knowing that he would die without their help). So it’s like a mix of clairvoyance/being able to see at great distances.
-“The target (of the scrying) must make a Wisdom ( cough …’Will the Wise’) saving throw, which is modified by how well one knows the target and the sort of physical connection you have to it. If a target knows you’re casting this spell, it can fail.” (It failed in the shed, how the Mf found him)
“On a failed save, the spell creates an invisible sensor within 10 feet of the target. You can see and hear through the sensor as if you were there” (How the mindflayer found him so quickly).
Also, when Will uses scrying for tracking he always closed his eyes. So it’s interesting that in s2, before the mindflayer possessed him, he draws himself with closed eyes (in wizard garb) with a crystal ball (which according to wikipedia , “is generally associated with the performance of clairvoyance and scrying”.And Will in s3 did say he sees the future.
True sight- In the show Mike says he thinks Will has “true sight” (which Mike may be mixing up with scrying as it is similar). In the show it is said to be the “power to look into the ethereal plane”. However, in D&D it’s slightly different because they can see through the eternal plane, and are immune to illusions (so theoretically Kali’s powers wouldn’t work on him), and they have the ability to see the true form of any creature that has been mutated.
Temporary super strength- Maybe it’s comic-book logic. But a small 4’11 , 12 year old (let alone most adults) would not be able to bang a chair with such force that it would smash into pieces like this. Not to mention the way they frame it- seems to hint that it’s important and that we should notice how much he smashed the chair. And in D&D some Wizards do have spells that give them temporary super-strength? Also while possessed by the Mf (using 1 hand) he was stronger than both Joyce and Jonathan using all 4 of their hands, at full strength.
Astral projection? -Later (in the comic) he hears a television report saying they found his dead body, he freaks out and tries to prove to his mom he’s alive- and in the show (after his body was found) he does this to prove he’s alive…
They never explain how he did this in the comic but it appears that he used astral projection ( El might have this power?).
Invisibility?- In regards to invisibility, in the show multiple characters mention Will’s ability to hide. When Hopper is looking for Will in s1, Jonathan warns Hopper that when Will is scared, he hides, so he should go to Lonnie’s instead of Hopper. “If he sees the cops, he’ll think he’s in trouble. He’ll hide! Y’know, he’s good at hiding!” The fact that Jonathan thinks Will (a literal child) has hiding abilities so great that he could stump a sheriff from finding him in Lonnie’s small house is extremely suspicious, to me. The comic double downs on this seemingly irrelevant line, saying “Will Byers has always been very good at hiding. For games, from bullies, when he just doesn’t feel like being seen.And he’s hidden himself way in darkness so deep that he’s not sure anyone will ever find him.” Plus, teleportation and invisibility seem like something a kid who hid from his abusive father might of accidentally used A LOT- unbeknownst to Jonathan!
(super crazy/prob not true) but there was a weird thing in s2 , that may have been time travel? link here
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Dating T’Challa would include:
Tagging @idontgiveaflyinggrayson69
(If you have a character you want to see written, or you want to be tagged, PM me and I’ll add it/you to the list.)
You met at the Wakandan outreach centre’s opening night as an American journalist covering the event.
Everything there was so nice, pristine and pure and proper. Diplomats from across the world were crowded in the large ballroom, wearing fine clothes and expensive jewellery, drinking expensive wine and laughing politely at one another. It was very hoity-toity, and very not you.
You were a total fish out of the water. You were a total misfit. You were, well, a reporter, and judging by the harsh glares the diplomats were giving you, they knew it.
You had given up on trying to talk to anyone a long time ago, and left annoying the king’s guard, wakandan security teams and anyone else who looked vaguely important to the other reporters. Instead, you snuck down a corridor and found yourself in the museum area of the Outreach Centre. It was empty, and part of you knew you probably shouldn’t be there, but it was so beautiful and you couldn’t bring yourself to tear away and go back to that loud room full of stuck-up people.
Glass cases lined every wall displaying Wakandan artefacts. You loved all of it, becoming more entranced by the second. In fact, at one point, you completely blocked out everything around you and just walked the room, reading and rereading every tablet, every piece of information. It startled you, and it excited you.
This was new and amazing and incredible. You blocked out the outside world so much that you didn't hear voice calling out your name until someone placed a hand on your shoulder. Instantly, you snapped back into reality, pulling away and shrieking like a banshee. It was not a particularly lady-like sound. You turned to face your attacker, ready to throw a mediocre-at-best punch or swear up a god-damn storm, and found the beautiful chocolate brown eyes of the king of Wakanda himself staring back at you.
OH SHIT.
You quickly tried to regain your composure. "Your majesty, I'm so sorry. I know I’m not supposed to be here. I just..." You mumbled, looking down at the ground, embarrassment evident in the blush on your your cheeks. "I'll leave..." You said, moving to his left. He softly grabbed your arm, stopping you.
"Don't be absurd, it was my fault. I shouldn't have snuck up on you like that. Didn't you hear my approach? I called your name." He paused. "You are Y/N, correct?" He asked.
Holy shit, he knows your name. The king of Wakanda knows your name. for a moment, you hated yourself for taking up precious brain space in his gorgeous mind.
Wait, what?
You shook your head, trying to gather yourself and not appear like a total idiot. "Yes, I'm Y/N." You said, holding out your hand for him to shake. You got a pleasant surprise when he raised it to his lips and kissed the back sweetly. You could feel your cheeks reddening and butterflies taking flight in your stomach.
"Thank you." You said, subconsciously rubbing the back of your hand with your thumb where he had kissed. You looked around nervously at the empty room, which seemed much smaller now he was here. “If you don’t mind me asking, how do you know my name?“
“I memorised the list of journalists we invited, in case we have a issue with any of them.” His face darkened for a second and your mind flashed back to the reporters flocking around his sister like pigeons, asking her a thousand stupid questions, and her overwhelmed and slightly scared expression.
“I’m sorry about that... About them. This is a special occasion and a beautiful gala, and you shouldn’t have to put up with them.“ You said, following his distant gaze.
”Speaking of which, you don’t seem to be enjoying yourself? What brought you here?" He asked, walking around a glass case of tribal masks.
"I'm an international reporter- or, at least, I'm trying to be- My paper keeps trying to clip my wings, making me do those stupid little buzzword Facebook articles with no real journalism, just pandering to an aisle for click-bait." You groan sadly, thinking about your seemingly dead-in-the-water-career.
T'Challa spoke thirty different languages, and yet somehow he only understood half of the words in that sentence.
"So I gotta make this article good, you know? Not that that will be difficult, this place is amazing!" your entire tone shifted as you fangirled relentlessly. "I mean, look at this!" you said, gesturing to the cabinets with a childish sense of awe and wonder. You pointed to your favourite things, asking questions and rambling facts about African life that you knew like an overactive toddler. You couldn't help yourself. You were so interested in this stuff.
He smiled. You were making an absolute idiot of yourself but damned if you weren't also absolutely adorable.
You were there for about half an hour, just talking about your respective lives. He told you about Wakanda and the lives of his people and you told him all about America and the way thinks happened here. Eventually one of his guards came in and guided him back to the gala, but before he left he gave you a number on a napkin.
“If you’d like, you can interview me one-on-one sometime. You know, for your article.”
“Yes, I love that.“ You paused, pursing your lips into a subtle smirk. “Do you give this opportunity to all the journalists you invite to events?“
He chuckled and shook his head. “No, this is just for you. You're special.” He said, throwing a subtle wink at you that made your heart leap up into your mouth. Then his guard whisked him away and he was gone, and you were left alone in that museum.
One date turned into two dates and then five and then ten and then, in the blink of an eye, before you could even properly process it, you were dating the king of Wakanda.
He works a lot, and obviously lives in Wakanda while your career keeps you solidly in America, so Skype dates are a big thing in your relationship.
At the start of your relationship, he wasn’t that into public displays of affection, and you’re both able to keep your relationship secret for a few months before word slips out and you two make the decision to go public.
Once you’re revealed as T’Challa’s partner, your career did a MASSIVE 360 and skyrocketed upwards. Every magazine, newspaper and TV show wanted a piece of you, or rather a piece of T’Challa they though that they could get through you.
You’re far too smart for that though, and you never give it to them.
After your relationship went public, he became slightly more affectionate, holding your hand as you two walked and pressing kisses to your hairline when he knows there’s a camera watching.
He keeps the photos every time.
He takes you to fancy events whenever he’s in America, charity galas or state dinners, and when he does he shows a side to him that you very rarely see. The possessive side.
He keeps one arm around your waist practically the whole time you’re there. He looks at you like you’re made up of stars, so beautiful that he couldn’t look away.
This bastard has NO CLUE the value of money. He’s INSANELY rich and he’s been catered too by a horde of people basically his entire life, so he has an understandable distance from the value of currency. So naturally, he showers you with affection economically.
These aren’t small gifts either. For your two month anniversary, he sent you traditional Wakandan jewellery laced with vibranium and precious stones. For your six month anniversary, he bought you a solid gold rose worth more than your car. For your birthday, he paid off the mortgage debt on your apartment.
And for your one year anniversary, he took you to Wakanda.
Wakanda is the most beautiful place you have ever had the honour of seeing. You loved the forests and the rivers, and the clothing and the beautiful foods. You wanted to explore every inch of this beautiful plain.
Standing on his balcony, overlooking the bustling heart of Wakanda, you turned to him, smirking. “Do you give this opportunity to all the journalists that come your way?”
T’Challa chuckled, threading his arms around your shoulders to pull you close to his chest. “No, this is just for you. You're special.“
The Wakandan people aren’t quick to trust you. Shuri and Ramonda are kind to you but you get the sense that they don’t trust you just yet. You understand. You’re not from around here, and you know they need time and you need to prove yourself worthy of there trust.
The Dora are similar but they honestly scare you a little bit. You know that they are kind women and they don’t mean to be so intimidating towards you but there weaponry knowledge and cold demeanours makes it hard.
You know you’re not universally accepted, but you don’t really mind.
You are so unbelievably in love with him, and he loves you right back.
#T'Challa#T'Challa x reader#black panther#black panther x reader#Avengers#avengers fandom#avengers x reader#black panther fanfiction#black panther fanfic#Avengers x you#Avengers x Y/N
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381. It Came From the Daily Show: one episode from August 1999, and one from September 1999
(June and July here)
August 26, 1999
I have a treat for the episode for August -- I uploaded my vhs copy of it!
By August, Jon is still walking to his desk at the beginning of the show -- I still can’t remember when he stopped doing this. Jon has to get through the show quickly tonight, it’s their back to school episode, and he has to go out and buy notebooks, binders, and toughskins. Sometimes he chafes! Ya’ll are like what on earth are toughskins? Toughskins were these ugly pants for kids that Sears used to sell in their catalog back in the day. They were supposed to be more durable, but I can’t imagine they were very flexible. Here’s a commercial.
Headlines - Pilot to Coke-Pilot : American Airlines employees caught smuggling cocaine. There may of been an incident of cocaine leaking out onto the food in a food cart...”resulting in an entire coach section running up and down the aisles with sandwiches held aloft screaming, ‘WOO-HOO! HAM AND CHEESE! YEAH!’.”
American Airlines had to change their slogan:
Clinton Vacation Diaries: Day 5 - Bill is on vacation golfing at Martha’s Vineyard. People were watching him and began singing “God Bless America”, which is creepy.
Tough Glove - Little League World Series heats up. Kids from all over the world come to a little town in PA to learn new ways to call their teammates homophobic slurs. Hey, Jon said it, I didn’t. Winners will either be sent to their rooms ... or their looms depending on where they are from. This is one of the crueler segments that I’ve covered from this series, and something Jon and crew got away from come late ‘99 and into 2000.
Correspondent Piece - Stilt Stalkings: Stephen Colbert interviews Uncle Sam who says that his ex wife is stalking him. “I want you to leave me alone!” he says.
Stephen: Did you ever go through his garbage?
Ex-wife: no....
Stephen: Good, because he peed all over it.
After commercials, Jon asks, “...is it a bad sign if someone in the audience says to me, ‘GET IN MAH BELLY!’?”
Other News - Going Going, Gun : “Los Angeles bans gun sales at gun shows. Gun Lobbyists say, ‘gun shows don’t kill people, people shows kill people.’”
Interview - Nia Long: I usually skip the interview in these entries, due to time constraints, but this one is special. Nia teaches Jon what a ho bag is. Nia lost her luggage three times on this promotional tour. However, she says that he mother always told her “no matter where you go, always carry your ho-bag”.
Nia: you know, your toothbrush, your condoms, a clean pair of underwear, your protein drink...
Jon: My apartment is a ho-bag!
Jon was just reading Family Circus.
This Just In - Nice Cans: Campbells introduces a new soup label. Because that was news in 1999. I love this stupid thing so much, Jon and Crew makes something as trivial as soup funny. This was the Daily Show I loved for years that sadly went away.
“Many say collectors will be rushing out to stores to buy the old cans, and place them on a trophy shelf alongside the bittersweet dream that was Crystal Pepsi.”
“The new label also features a photo of soup in a bowl, which will come as a revelation to the millions of consumers who up until new always ate their soup of out a hat!”
I actually remember those new labels, haha. The Campbells can had stayed the same all my life until then. So when that changes, you notice it.
Out at the Movies - Summer, 1999 wrap up: Jon says in the introduction that Frank will tell us why the Summer of 1999 movies went so “horribly, horribly wrong” -- but I’ve read articles where people declare 1999 as one of the best years for movies. Maybe 20 years ago, people were focused on the disappointment of The Phantom Menace, and Eyes Wide Shut? I mean, in the How Did this Get Made podcast episode about Lawnmower Man, Jason Mantzoukas even says that he CRIED when he saw how bad Phantom Menace was.
[from my hometown newspaper, Daily Press]
September 30, 1999 -- I uploaded this one from my old tapes too.
Here we are, bby. This is one of my all time favorite episodes. Jon learns all about Garth Brooks’ alter ego, Chris Gaines. Oh boy, Chris Gaines. Garth Brooks like, wanted to be a rock n roll star, and star in a movie or something so he created this character named Chris Gaines? Garth even went to make believe land, and gave him a whole backstory. I remember one was his mom or his dad coached swimming in Australia? There was even a faux Behind the Music on VH1 about Chris and how his bandmates died?! It was seriously one of the dumbest things from 1999. By the way, The Lamb never became a movie.
Headlines - Alter Egomaniac: Garth puts on a TV concert of his alter ego, but he performs on stage as Garth? Will he ask himself for an autograph of Chris Gaines?
I found the entire interview that played in between songs for the special, including the music video for Chris’ first band Crush (because that’s an original name for a band). Garth is totally lost in Chris Gaines when he’s explaining the faux musical video. You have to watch it. The bizarre “did you know?” about Chris’ fictional life are also in the clip. Was this music video made for the movie that never got off the ground? So many unanswered questions.
Jon says we can’t care about this stuff because CHRIS DOESN’T EXIST.
Media Responsibility - The correspondents are here to criticize the media. Yada Yada, this is all Chyron jokes:
It also includes a clip of a guy in a bullfight where his pants were removed by the bull. Classic Daily Show clip.
Stephen Colbert has to go freak on some bones? I wanna know where that shower was. Is it the one in Jon’s dressing room? Did they got to a co-workers apartment just for that shower scene?
Ooh! This episode has its commercials intact! There’s gonna be an SNL marathon Friday night in honor of Superstar. Also, a Phantom Menace Playstation game came out about four months too late.
Other News - Web of Receipts: amazon.com becomes an internet flea market with the launch of z shops. They’re gonna offer more than just books n cds. e.
(the interview is missing from my clip)
Out at the Movies with Frank DeCaro: For the Love of the Game - My boy Frank didn’t like it. Kelly Preston looks like Lisa Loeb, Kevin Costner has a bunch of crow’s feet.
“Isn’t this a long way to go just for a full head of hair?”
--
For more entries similar to this, check out my Daily Show favorites from 1999-2001 zine over at my etsy shop.
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#the daily show#1999#jon stewart#tds#american airlines#toughskins#stephen colbert#uncle sam#nia long#ho bag#campbell's soup#soup cans#soup#garth brooks#chris gaines#vance degeneres#mo rocca#steve carell#vhs tapes#zines
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Holding On (Why is everything so heavy?)
Summary: The world keeps turning after Tony Stark’s untimely death. Peter is stuck in place.
Word count: 3.2k
A/N: Finished just in time to post before going to see Far From Home! I just really hope I can get in tonight or I won’t be able to until Friday. If there’s anything weird, it’s because I don’t usually write in present tense, and this has only been very lightly edited because I started it in the aftermath of Endgame and finished it on a whim yesterday, soooo.....
Content warnings: Grief and unhealthy coping in the way of non-graphic self-harm and one (brief) instance of suicidal ideation (blink and you might miss it).
=================================================
The first time he sees it not even a month has passed, and it catches him completely off-guard, knocking the breath from his lungs.
He’s walking casually down the street with Ned, desperately searching for some sense of normal, and it catches in the corner of his vision, stopping him dead in his path.
“Oh,” Ned breathes when he picks up what Peter is staring at. “You didn’t know.”
Across the street, at the corner of the park, is a memorial. Candles half burned, art work, photos, newspaper clippings. All of it of Iron Man.
Peter feels as though the rug has been pulled from under his feet yet again. He thought he was past this, but his eyes are burning, and he can’t stop staring, and the hurt surfaces anew. He only manages one word. “Why?”
Ned swallows, takes a deep breath, speaks the hard truth: “You’re not the only one hurting. He was their hero, too. This is how they cope.”
He wishes it wasn’t.
===========================================
The second time he spots one, he’s out on patrol for the first time since then.
The memorial is a spray painted mural taking up a good chunk of the side of a brick building, and he wonders who in the world managed to make it. He sits and stares -- for a few minutes, a few hours, who knows -- before shooting a web towards a building in the opposite direction. Queens is quiet tonight; he heads home early.
He slips in through his bedroom window even though he doesn’t need to anymore, and it’s only when the mask comes off that the grief hits him full-force once again. Two months have passed already, and despite that he knows grief has no timeline, he thinks he should definitely be passed the tears he can feel pressing and the tightness caving his chest in.
He doesn’t realize he’s not breathing until suddenly he’s sitting on the floor (how did he get there?) and May is crouched in front of him (when did she come in?), telling him to “breathe, baby; breathe. Everything’s okay. Just breathe.”
He does eventually, but he wonders if he really wants to.
===========================================
The third time one shows up, he’s getting dinner with May at their favorite Thai place.
It’s the smallest one he’s seen, sitting innocently in one corner towards the back. More candles, more photos, placed under a sign, the text in Thai. (He doesn’t know what it says, but he can guess.)
He says he’s not hungry anymore, and when May sees it too, she lets out a long-suffering sigh.
“You can’t keep doing this to yourself, Peter.”
“I can’t help it. It’s not like I chose to lose my appetite just now.”
She doesn’t understand, he knows. He was there, and she wasn’t, and he can’t just move on like the rest of the world has.
Or, rather, maybe he could if he tried, but he’s tired. He can’t find it in himself to want to.
He knows she wouldn’t understand that either, so he forces down the grief and the guilt, and when their food arrives, he eats. When they finish, May pays the bill, and they leave, and still he shoves it all down. Maybe if he stuffs it far enough back -- sticks it in all in a box and buries it, he can at least pretend to be normal for awhile.
He decides that night that maybe numb isn’t such a bad thing to feel.
============================================
The fourth one is, even after four months, new. It would seem that the people of Queens haven’t given themselves enough even yet.
This time, he feels nothing.
It’s just another mural on just another brick building.
The night is quiet again, and he swings home from patrol early. May is out, and he thinks it’ll be nice to have the place to himself for a little while.
He slips in through his window, leaves his suit in a heap on the floor, and goes to hunt down something to eat in the kitchen as he pulls a t-shirt over his head. He can hear the distant whisper shoved in one corner of his mind escaping its box: “Kid, I know I’m practically made of money, but put that away properly, please. Take care of your stuff so it lasts, ya know?” He promptly ignores it, and puts on water for mac ‘n cheese. It’s way past dinnertime, but he doesn’t care.
Distantly, as he watches the pot, he wonders when he stopped caring about anything at all. The cork on his bottled-up emotions threatens to pop out, but he tamps down on it quickly. If he cares, that means he has to feel, and he doesn’t want to feel. If he doesn’t feel anything at all, then he doesn’t have to deal with the bad feelings either. It’s all or nothing, and nothing is decidedly better.
Some part of him knows that being numb isn’t really a good thing, but it is better than too much all at once. ...right? If only there was a way to feel the bad things in moderation, on his time, only when it was convenient.
But there isn’t.
He turns away from the stove and leans back against the counter. That’s when he sees it, and a whisper of a thought folds itself into his mind. He takes this idea, grabs it, holds onto it, mulls it over. There’s more than one way to feel pain, after all, and maybe if he can let himself a little of that, then he can feel a little of other things -- good things -- again, too.
No one would ever even know.
He takes two steps across the kitchen and opens the drawer where his aunt keeps the knives. He can’t control grief -- can only keep it safely bottled up -- but he can certainly control pain and when he feels it.
Numb isn’t so bad, but he decides measured pain is better.
==============================================
The fifth one he finds while avoiding Pepper.
He takes the long way home from school that day, knowing that she’s waiting at the apartment for him. Despite all other previous attempts on her part, he hasn’t seen her since the funeral. Seeing her and Morgan is just too much. But, apparently, his excuses to avoid her for months have finally run out, and he can’t avoid it any longer.
He can’t avoid it, but he can put it off as long as possible.
So he purposely stays on a stop past his, and plans to walk his way back as slowly as he feels he can get away with.
He turns the corner out of the station, and it’s right there in front of him. It’s not the largest he’s seen, or the most detailed, but it hits hard regardless. Painted on the side of the building is the Iron Man helmet and around it are painted the names of people he’s saved over the years. There’s a wooden sign standing next to it inviting people to add their name, to ask the shopkeeper for paint to do so, and he can’t help but wander over to read the names sprawled over the wall.
There are a lot, but he’s not surprised.
He wanders into the shop, and before he can think about it too much, he asks for paint. The man behind the counter smiles fondly if not a little sadly and hands him a can and a brush.
Finding a space as close to the helmet as possible, he squeezes in his name in careful white letters. The man had saved him in more ways than one, and he knows he’ll have to bleed out the grief later, but he doesn’t regret doing this. It’s the only thing he can do.
He returns the paint and brush with a quiet ‘thank you’ and continues on his way home. He’ll be even later than he’d intended, and he knows May is getting worried when she calls.
“I’m two blocks away,” he replies, heart dropping into his stomach at the thought of facing Pepper. “I missed my stop.” And he knows she’ll worry more at that because he has unintentionally missed his stop before, stuck in his own head, but he’ll deal with that later.
Pepper is sitting on the couch when he enters, and it’s only after he greets her that he realizes she didn’t bring Morgan. He’s grateful, though. Seeing her five months ago had been difficult enough, and he isn’t sure he would have been able to hold himself together right now if she was here.
He goes to drop his bag in his room, and he considers just not going back out. He does anyway.
May is nowhere in sight now, and he wonders why but sits across from Pepper without asking.
She doesn’t beat around the bush. “Tony had hoped that everything would work out, but he was also prepared for it not to.” She picks up a package wrapped in brown paper from beside her that he hadn’t noticed before. “I’m not sure what’s in here, but it’s got your name on it. I would have given it to you at the funeral, but… I didn’t find it until about a week after.” She stood and set it on the table in front of him. “I know this has been hard on you. You can open it when you’re ready.”
He picks it up, thanks her, and after she leaves, buries it in the bottom drawer of his desk.
That is one thing he knows for certain: he’ll never be ready to open it.
==============================================
The sixth he sees on purpose but not by choice.
It’s a Saturday, barely passed noon, when Happy shows up at the door. ‘Surprised’ didn’t even begin to cover it. At least Pepper has been texting him these last six months, but he had shared a pained look with Happy at the funeral and that had been it.
“Let’s go, kid. Put your shoes on. We’re taking a little trip.”
He’s too stunned to protest, and Happy doesn’t offer any more information during the silent car ride. He’s only more confused when they pull into a cemetery.
And then he sees it.
Tony may have been cremated, but that hadn’t stopped someone from erecting a monument here anyway.
Happy gets out of the car before he can protest, so he gets out, too. “Happy, why did you bring me here?”
Happy stops but doesn’t turn around to face him. “Because I’ve talked to Pepper, kid. And I’ve talked to your aunt, too. You’re avoiding this, and that’s not healthy. You’ve got to face this eventually.”
“I’m not avoiding anything.”
Happy spins around. “Yes, you are. You’re more or less ghosting Pepper and Morgan, and according to May, you won’t talk about Tony at all or go anywhere you know there’s a memorial erected. That’s not coping, Peter.”
Something inside him snaps. “So, what? I’m just supposed to pretend like everything’s okay? LIke I wasn’t there to hear his heart stop? Like it doesn’t kill me to talk about him? Because I can’t do that. I can’t!”
“No one is asking you to fake it,” Happy replies quietly. “But it’s okay to feel. It’s okay to be angry.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t have the right to be.”
“But you still are.”
“Why did it have to be him, Happy? Why did this happen at all? He should have just...left it alone! I don’t know! But it shouldn’t have been him!”
“I know, kid; I know.” Happy sighs. “I keep asking myself that, too. But that was just Tony. Couldn’t leave anything alone.”
He’s crying now, but he doesn’t care. He’s angry and he can’t stuff if down any longer.
He’s so, so angry, and he doesn’t know what to do about it anymore.
=============================================
The seventh time, he’s desperate.
A week has passed since Happy showed up at his door, and he decides that maybe the man is right, and he remembers the package Pepper gave him.
He’s still not ready -- not really, because he never will be -- but he opens it anyway.
It’s a leather-bound book, and when he opens it, he finds his mentor’s handwriting scrawled across the unlined pages. The only thing on the first page is “This probably isn’t healthy, but I don’t care. Because maybe someday it’ll all be okay again.”
He turns the page and his eyes grow wide because he doesn’t believe it. He turns another and another and another, and he finds the same on every page. It’s a book of letters, photos tucked between the pages. To him. From Tony.
He wants to look away.
But he can’t.
So he keeps reading.
He reads about their small wedding ceremony and finding out about Morgan, and Tony even tells him about all the projects he was working on. But they all end the same way: “Wish you were here, buddy. I miss you. -- Tony.”
He’s about halfway through -- Morgan is two now -- when he breaks.
The letter starts out normal enough, but when he gets near the end, it shifts. The ink is smeared and the writing is even shakier than usual, but he still manages to make it out.
“Having Morgan has changed me a lot. Losing you did, too. There are a lot of things I regret in my life, and losing you? Yeah, that trumps them all, kid. I never said it before, so I’m saying it now. You mean a lot to me, and I love you, Pete. Happy birthday.”
He curls up in his place on the floor, and he sobs because it hurts, and he just wants it to stop, but he’s not sure it ever really will.
He cries until there’s nothing left, until his eyes are dry and burning and his chest aches, but it’s not enough. It’ll never be enough.
When he can finally catch his breath, he sits up from where he had tipped over to lying down and picks up the book again and turns the page because it hurts but he still has to know what else Tony wrote in those five years.
And he reads more about Morgan and Pepper and the lake house and Tony’s projects. And they all end the same way: “Love you, kid. Wish you were here. -- Tony.”
He reaches the last letter, and he’s terrified to read it.
He thought he didn’t have any tears left, but by the end, he is definitely crying again.
“You’re better than I could ever hope to be. You had a future, and it was stolen from you so easily. But now… If this works? You’re gonna go places, kid. I just know it.
“We have a chance to get everyone back again. I have a chance to get you back again. I don’t want to lose everything I have now, but Peter…
“I would give ANYTHING to get you back.”
He reads the last line over and over and over again. Tucked between the pages is the photo of them with his SI certificate, and he cries harder because there’s nothing else he can do.
And then he’s running.
Out the door, through the apartment with May’s worried voice echoing behind him, down the stairs, out of the building.
He doesn’t know where he’s going, but somehow he ends up at the cemetary Happy brought him to last week, and his feet carry him all the way to the memorial.
He screams at the sky -- no actual words, just pure anguish, because he doesn’t have any words left to say.
He falls to his knees, he sobs until he feels like he might throw up, and he finds one word tearing through his lips over and over again.
“Why?”
“Why?”
“Why?”
But there is no one to answer, and he doesn’t expect anyone to anyway. After all, the only person who can is gone forever.
He doesn’t know how long he sits there, but here’s movement behind him, and after a moment Rhodey sits down next to him.
“Happy thought this is where you might go. May is pretty worried, you know.”
He doesn’t reply. He has nothing to say.
He thinks Rhodey will make him leave, but he doesn’t. Rhodey just sits with him in silence.
“Did you know?” he finally croaks. “Did you know why he did it?”
Rhodey sighs softly. “He’d been adamant at first to not even try, so, yeah, I did ask why he changed his mind. And, ya know, he looked me dead in the eye when he said, ‘I’d do anything to get my kid back. I know everyone who lost someone feels the same. We have a chance, and I can’t rest until I know.’” He pauses then adds, “I’ve never seen such conviction from him. He was a father who had lost his child. Nothing can stand in the way of that.”
He feels another tear break free and he whispers, “Then why don’t you hate? You and Pepper and Morgan and Happy? He did it because of me. It’s my fault.”
“No. The only person to blame is Thanos, and he already paid for what he did. It doesn’t feel like enough, and it probably never will, but putting the blame on you for his choices?” Rhodey sighs again. “Tony knew what he was doing. Can’t blame anyone for that -- not even Thanos.”
“If you’re trying to make me feel better, it’s not working.”
“Good thing that’s not what I was going for then. Sometimes the facts don’t make us feel better, but that doesn’t change them. We have to take what we know and somehow learn to feel better in spite of that.”
“What if I can’t?” He finally looks over at Rhodey.
Rhodey meets his gaze. “You will. It’s not easy, but you will.”
“How did you do it?”
“Who says that I have?”
He’s not okay, but, then again, maybe no one else is either.
=============================================
The eighth time, he’s there because he wants to be.
He has a framed photo clutched in his hands, and he’s a bit nervous, but he’s not alone. May and Pepper and Morgan. Rhodey and Happy and Ned. They are all there with him, and they give him strength.
He steps away from them and finds a space to add his photograph among all the other mementos people have left. It’s one of his favorites -- one Pepper took of them in the lab when they weren’t looking.
He takes a moment to take in the memorial itself, the words ‘Whatever It Takes’ etched into the stone over reliefs of both Tony and Natasha. His lips quirk up in something reminiscent of a grin as he thinks about what they would say if they saw all of this.
Despite his resolve, tears find their way down his cheeks. He’s not okay, but he’s not pretending anymore.
“Thank you for everything. You gave me a second chance, and I won’t waste it. I won’t.”
He won’t waste it. That’s all he can do, but maybe it’s enough.
#avengers endgame#spiderman#ironman#peter parker#tony stark (referenced)#post-endgame#cw: self-harm#cw: suicidal ideation#cw: grief#cw: unhealthy coping#cw: self-injury#stay safe my lovies#is 7+1 a thing? no? well IT IS NOW. lol
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