#like everyone is telling you his name is bob why are you insisting | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

tropes-and-tales · 1 year

Text

Team Prime, Part One

CW: Unrequited love; pining; heavy angst.

Word Count: 5349

Other pieces: This is part of a mini-series.

AN: Not beta-read; barely proof-read. An angsty companion piece to @youvebeenlivingfictional's Jake Seresin piece (and upcoming Bradley Bradshaw piece).

When your sister, Hannah, gets engaged to her long-term boyfriend, she chooses you over your other sisters to be her maid of honor.

“Maid of horrors, more like,” you grumble, but you’re secretly touched by the trust she puts in you. She and Eric have dated since high school, and they’ve been through a lot—mostly long-distance during the years as she went to college and graduate school and as he joined the Navy. And yet here they are. Still together. Still in love. Ready to make it official-official.

“Eric’s best friend from the Navy will be the best man,” Hannah tells you. “I met him a few times. Bob Floyd. He’s nice. You’ll like him.”

Bob Floyd. Something about the name puts you in mind of a middle aged man with strong opinions about lawn maintenance and grilling meats, so when you finally meet the baby-faced Bob with his bright blue eyes and stammering flush at the engagement party, you find yourself surprised, knocked back on your heels.

-----

You were never the sort of girl who dreamt about her wedding day, but when Hannah foists much of the wedding planning onto you, you decide then and there to elope if you ever meet someone you want to marry.

The cake tasting wouldn’t be bad, but Hannah has an entire binder of ideas she gleaned from the internet. It’s difficult to enjoy the white cake with raspberry compote, for example, when you’re worried about how the pearl luster dust will hold up under the California sun.

The venue only rents out some things in-house, so you spend two entire weekends tracking down a dance floor, chairs, linens. You pick the wrong linens (white instead of cream), and you have a minor breakdown that night, crying in the shower at the stress of planning a party that isn’t even for you.

It’s a moment of weakness. At the engagement party, Bob gave you his number and mumbled shyly, “if you need help. You know, with the planning or anything.”

You hadn’t thought of it originally, but you’re tired and figure, why not reach out? He offered to help. Worst he can say is ��no.’

He doesn’t say no. He says tell me what you need.

-----

What you need: help with the menu. Help with the seating arrangements. Help with the joint bachelor and bachelorette party.

For the menu, the two of you do a whirlwind tour of the local catering companies. Two of the three companies confuse you and Bob as the bride and groom, and you laugh to see Bob’s face turn bright red, the way he stammers to correct them.

“I apologize,” one woman tells you. “You make a really cute couple.”

Afterwards, pleasantly stuffed from peach and goat cheese crostini and tri-tip, you reach across the driver’s seat to where Bob sits to your right. You poke him lightly on his still-flushed cheek, call him really cute…which makes his face burn even hotter.

For the seating arrangements, he spends an evening at your apartment in Monterey. You split a pizza and a six-pack, and you pore over the massive guest list. You list out the people who can’t sit together—old family grudges, friendly rivalries—and you get a rough chart pulled together for Hannah’s inspection.

For the joint party—by then, you and Bob work like a well-oiled machine. You book hotel rooms in Vegas. You book tickets to shows, reservations to restaurants. You book dance lessons, since Hannah insists that everyone in the wedding party learn how to not stumble around the dance floor for the first dances. You send out itineraries, details. You collect money.

When it’s done, you sit back on your couch and heave a sigh of relief. Your head lolls back, and you turn to look at Bob.

“Team Prime strikes again,” he says with a soft smile, and you hold up a hand for a high five. It’s an inside joke between the two of you, a dumb joke about how you’re the first bridesmaid and he’s the first groomsman, the best of the best, the chosen-above-all-others. The Primes.

“Hell yeah we did,” you reply with an answering smile, and that’s when you first feel it: the pleasant little dip in your stomach at the sight of his smile, his blue eyes. The first little tremor of infatuation. Of burgeoning love.

-----

Two months pass, and after the initial press of planning, things stabilize. With Bob Floyd’s help, the wedding plans firm up, and you can breathe.

You stay in touch. You trade daily texts, checking in on each other. Sharing funny memes. Talking about movies you’ve seen, books you’ve read. Joking on the side about the main wedding party group chat.

Then the bachelor and bachelorette party in Vegas in upon you. You text Bob about your fear of flying.

Reassure me that it’s safe, you plead via text. Tell me I’m safer flying than driving.

You’re safer flying than driving.

You snort. Funny, you type back.

He doesn’t text anything in reply. Instead, he calls you.

Bob Floyd, graduate of Top Gun, walks you through the physics of flight. His soft voice, his slight drawl that comes out when he’s comfortable….he soothes you with his matter-of-fact discussion of lift and thrust, of yaw and roll. He tells you that planes are stringently designed to be safe, maintained for safety. That pilots train rigorously while any dumbass can fumble their way into a driver’s license.

He talks to you for an hour. He doesn’t quite talk you out of your fear; he doesn’t slay that dragon entirely, but he makes it smaller. Less scary.

“We’re on the same flight out tomorrow,” he points out. “We can try to switch seats and sit together.”

That first little dip in your stomach was nothing compared to the roiling now. It’s such a damned cliché, yet here you are: the maid of honor falling for the best man. Like a stupid Hallmark movie, yet you can’t stop the wide grin from splitting your face.

The next morning, you are able to switch seats after all, and for the entire short flight to Vegas, Bob holds your clammy hand in his, twists himself in his seat so that he can talk to you, low and soft, explaining each bump and lurch of the plane, making them seem like nothing scary at all.

-----

“You’re more sure on your feet than I would have expected,” you tease, and Bob gifts you a shy smile as he turns you gracefully across the dance floor.

“I guess I’m full of surprises.”

You hum in agreement, then look around the studio at the other coupled-off bridesmaids and groomsmen. After an hour-long lesson in ballroom dancing, few people other than you and Bob have grasped the steps of the easy waltz.

Two couples have given up altogether and are standing haplessly where they stopped on the dance floor. One couple is sorta doing their own thing, that awkward swaying shuffle that kids used to do at middle school dances.

Hannah and Eric are giving it an honest shot, but even from where you and Bob are, you can hear them bickering over who needs to lead, over which step is next. You glance at your own partner and see him watching them too. There’s a faint frown on his face.

“I think we’re the best dancers of the bunch,” he whispers, conspiratorial.

“I think you’re right,” you whisper back.

He turns his gaze back to you, and his returning smile makes his blue eyes crinkle at the corners. “Do you think if we show them up, they’ll kick us out of the wedding party?” he jokes.

“Oh, please,” you groan. “If there’s even a chance, I say we go for it. I’m so damned tired of earnest, late-night discussions about freesias and cake toppers.”

He laughs, and he squeezes your hand lightly as he turns you, an advanced move the instructor showed you earlier. “It can’t be that bad.”

You settle back into his hold and look at him. He’s been the most surprising part of the entire miserable wedding planning, this buddy of the groom that you’ve been paired with. Not a typical military guy at all. Bob is too sweet, too kind, too polite to be a complete dork…but even if he was, you’d still like him. He’s an easy guy to like. An easy guy to fall for.

“Nah,” you reply. “It’s not that bad at all.”

-----

The first day in Vegas is dance lessons and a nice dinner. The second day is a helicopter tour, which you politely skip, and then dinner and then dancing at a club. You and Bob had managed to book a VIP space, and you both volunteered to stay sober to help wrangle the drunks at the end of the night.

So for the first day and much of the second, you remain ignorant. You lean into all the feelings of your growing infatuation, but it doesn’t feel like your usual harmless crush. You like Bob Floyd. You really like him. There’s not a single ounce of artifice to him—he is genuinely just himself. Smart. Driven, in a quiet, steady way. Kind and funny. Despite his outwardly nerdy appearance, he seems fairly comfortable with who he is. He possesses a quiet confidence that you’ve never noticed in a man before.

You’ve dated in the past. You even had a semi-serious boyfriend, dated him for three years and talked vaguely of getting engaged, getting married. But nothing ever came of it; neither of you felt that elusive tug on the heartstrings that the other person was the one. So you broke it off amicably, and a month later, he met his would-be wife.

You remain single, and it rarely bothers you. You’re alone but not lonely, and you like your own company. You have your sisters. You have your coworkers and friends.

But in meeting Bob Floyd, you start to see the possibilities of finding someone and building a life with them…as long as that someone is…well…Bob Floyd.

For the first day and much of the second, you lean into the burgeoning fantasy. You play out how the wedding day will be. The reception. You wonder if Hannah will aim her bouquet toss at you, and if Eric will aim the garter at Bob. You wonder if there will be a moment on the dance floor, or maybe somewhere quieter. If Bob doesn’t make a move, you decide, you will.

The night at the club starts out great. The VIP area is elevated and set apart, so you can watch the dance floor but still have space to yourself. The champagne flows, then everyone switches to liquor. You and Bob are like hovering parents, easing glasses of water into people’s hands, checking in with them to make sure they are still coherent, cognizant.

It’s so damned easy to fall into the fantasy for these last few moments. There’s a sort of fraternity among the sober people in the club or bar: the clear, alert eyes that find each other. The knowing head nod, the little shrugs as if to say, “what can you do?” as you corral and tend to your drunken charges.

You and Bob—you catch each other’s eyes as you get a fresh pitcher of water. You smile at each other in the dim club lights. He rolls his eyes once, elaborate, and you laugh.

And when he wants to talk to you, he stands close, dips his head. Puts his mouth right near your ear so he doesn’t have to shout over the bassline, and that sets a low, licking flame of desire deep in your core, his warm breath fanning over you as he gently makes fun of your sisters, the other groomsmen. You wonder what he would do if you kissed him, if you took his hand after everyone was tucked in their beds and drew him into your room. Maybe you could kiss him, you think, you could press even a soft kiss to his cheek and see how he reacts. Maybe you could—

“I told Eric I don’t want any of this,” Bob says. You turn and look at him, and he gestures broadly with his hand. At the bridal party, half-debauched and fully drunk. At the wider space of the dark, loud club.

“Sorry?”

He dips his head near your ear again. “I said, I already told Eric I don’t want a big production.”

“For what?” you ask, but you already know—your body already knows, even if your brain hasn’t quite caught up. The flickering heat of your nascent arousal is doused, and your stomach flips like you might throw up.

“For my bachelor’s party. I just want a beer and poker night. Nothing wild. My fiancée would kill me anyway, but laid-back is more my scene.”

“For your…” you start to say, and then your brain catches up. “Oh. Oh.”

And then sweet, unassuming Bob Floyd tells you all about her: the high school sweetheart, the long-distance fiancée who is finishing up grad school. The woman finally ready to set a date and make it official-official after all these years.

The woman who will be Bob Floyd’s wife someday soon.

“Congratulations,” you manage to say, and you manage to make it sound convincing, and then you manage to make it to the restroom where you clutch the edge of the sink in a white-knuckle grip. You manage to take deep, gulping breaths as you choke down your sudden, bitter disappointment.

-----

Bob, Eric, most of the bridal party…they don’t really know you, so it’s easy to mask how you’re feeling.

Your sisters? Hannah? They recognize your poor acting performance from the start.

They must have conferred together, and they must have elected Hannah as their spokeswoman because on the second to last morning, she comes to your room, links her arm through yours, and says, “let’s grab breakfast, just you and me.” Her voice has that artificial cheeriness to it, so you guess what’s up.

“I’m not hungry.” You tug your arm from hers, turn away from her. You walk over to the window and peek out around the curtains to see the sun about to rise, the sky a pink wash of color.

“Bullshit. You’re always hungry.” Hannah follows you into the room, and at the window, she wraps an arm around your waist, hugs you from behind. A few inches taller than you, she hooks her chin on your shoulder and gazes out the window too.

“My stomach is off,” you lie. “I think I ate a bad oyster at that buffet.”

She hums, doesn’t reply for a long moment. The two of you watch the sun break the line of the horizon, washing the cityscape in a bright yellow light.

“You know you can always talk to me, right?” Hannah asks. “I know I’ve been a lot the past few months, but I’m always here for you. Always.”

You swallow thickly against the lump in your throat. “I know.”

“You like him, don’t you?”

You don’t bother to deny it. You nod.

“You love him?”

You shrug, jostle her where she’s perched on your shoulder. “I thought I did.”

Another hum, another beat of silence. “Probably wouldn’t hurt so bad if you didn’t love him.”

“What makes you think I’m hurting?”

“You’re my little sister. I know when you’re in pain.”

You huff out a quiet breath, a near-laugh. “When did you get so damned wise?”

She chuckles, squeezes her arms comfortingly around your waist. “I was born wise.”

You sigh, lean your head against hers. “That makes one of us.”

Hannah squeezes you again, then lays a smacking kiss on your cheek before releasing you. “C’mon,” she says. “Seriously, let me take you out for breakfast. Everything seems easier on a full stomach.”

“Hannah—”

She’s a few inches taller than you, and she’s much stronger. She man-handles you away from the window, turns you around to face her.

“I’m the bride-to-be. You can’t tell me no,” she teases, but then her expression turns serious as she studies you closer.

“You know there’s someone out there just waiting for you,” she adds, somber, and she gazes at you so earnestly that tears prickle in your eyes, and before you can stop yourself, you start to cry.

-----

It’s dumb, you decide. A dumb crush.

You’ve known the man a handful of months. He was helpful, and you were stressed, so maybe the help seemed outsized. Bob Floyd is just a regular guy, you decide, and you got wrapped up in his orbit because he seemed nice and kind and helpful and funny. Which he is all of those things, but to fall in love over it?

Dumb. Dumb, dumb, dumb.

You make the decision over breakfast with Hannah. Your wise older sister. She’s right, you think: life seems a little less unbearable when your stomach is full of eggs benedict and mimosa.

The rest of the day is sightseeing before another group dinner that evening. It’s your last day and night in Vegas; you fly out in the morning. You and Bob are on the same flight home, and you think—you honestly think—that you can get through it.

It’s just a crush. It will die off soon enough.

But over the course of the day, once the group has reconvened, Bob sticks close to you. He’s always right there. He’s in your line of sight, or right at your shoulder, close enough that you can hear his quiet breathing, or when he chuckles under his breath. Close enough to smell the cleanly masculine scent of him.

You aren’t sure why he never mentioned being engaged before. You suppose it never came up naturally, even though the two of you did the bulk of the wedding planning together. There were a hundred opportunities, you guess, for him to say, “oh, I��ll have to keep this in mind for my own wedding” or “I should tell my fiancée about this.”

Over the course of the day, and now that the fact of his own engagement is out, Bob chats with you about it. You get the entire fucking story. High school sweethearts who broke up briefly when they went to college in separate states. How they reconnected over summer vacation their sophomore year. How they’ve been together ever since.

How Bob proposed once and was rejected. “It was too soon,” he tells you with a rueful shake of his head, and you bite your tongue to stop yourself from pointing out that when he proposed, the two of them had been dating for years.

How Bob joined the Navy. How he kept his budget tight to save up for a better ring. How his fiancée—Jessica, her name is—finally said yes.

And now, he tells you how the engagement has stretched on and on, so much so that his parents stopped teasing him and started asking when the hell he and Jessica are going to finish the thing.

“Eric and Hannah,” he says, jerking his chin in their direction. “They were the kick in the ass we needed. Once they got engaged, we finally set a date.”

“Yeah?” Your voice comes out a rough croak, and you’re grateful for the huge sunglasses hiding your eyes from him.

“Next June. A little more than a year from now.”

You force a smile. “That sounds lovely.”

Bob nods, then grins at you. “All this planning, it was good practice for me. Now I know what to look for in a caterer and a linen-rental company.”

“I’m glad.” You try to keep your voice light, conversational, but something in your tone must clue him in that something is off. His grin fades, and he peers at you closer through his thick glasses, his blue eyes swimming behind the lenses.

“Everything okay? You seem…off.”

You force the smile back on your face, and you swallow back the shakiness in your voice. Of course Bob would notice that you aren’t yourself. Any other guy wouldn’t even register your more taciturn nature over the past few days, but Bob seems to miss very little, and he’s kind enough to care, to ask after you.

“Just tired. I never sleep well in a hotel room.”

He peers at you a moment longer, then nods, but his expression looks doubtful. “You should head back to the room early and rest,” he advises.

It’s a good idea. It would get you away from him, at least. You nod, and then you go to find Hannah, tell her you’re dipping out early and will meet back up for dinner.

-----

It’s the final dinner when you finally snap. You reach the end of your ability to sit and smile and nod your head, and your earlier bravado melts away.

Of course Bob sits beside you. Of course Hannah and Eric are the picture of true, enduring love. Of course you’re feeling sorry for yourself, positively maudlin, and then Bob—between bites of steak—tells you that Jessica can make it to the wedding after all, and not to worry because Hannah was able to find space for her at the reception.

“No need to redo those seating charts,” he chuckles, and then he tells you how excited he is for you to meet Jessica, how much he’s told her about the wedding planning, how much he’s learned, how much he can’t wait to get started on his own wedding planning.

It’s too much. Too much to take. You nod weakly at him, push your own meal around your plate with the tines of your fork. You keep your head bent, and you miss the looks people start to shoot at each other as they finally notice that the usually-chatty, usually-chipper maid of honor has gone sullen and silent.

It’s Hannah who gets up, makes a show of saying she needs to use the restroom. When you lift your head to look at her, she makes a “come along” gesture, and you stand up and follow her.

In the bathroom, she cups your face and stares at you, frowns.

“You look like shit,” she declares after a beat. “Seriously, are you okay?”

“’m fine,” you lie.

“I know you’re not. Why don’t we get out of here, huh? Get some air?”

You shake your head. “It’s the last night here. Please don’t…don’t let me ruin it.”

She laughs, then smushes your cheeks together. “You couldn’t ruin it if you tried. C’mon…you did all the shit-work for me, planning this wedding. The least I can do is get you out of here.”

You shake your head again, more emphatic. “No. Why don’t I just go? You can make up an excuse that I’m not feeling well.” You bite your lip, swallow hard against the lump in your throat. “I just can’t be around him anymore right now. I just need space to get my head right.”

“Oof, you got it bad,” she says with a sympathetic cluck of her tongue, but then she nods. “Why don’t I go grab your purse, and then I’ll make something up.”

You offer her a shaky smile. “Thank you.”

She nods again, then kisses your forehead, more motherly than sisterly. Hannah always had a maternal streak to her as the eldest sister, always was the first to tend to you and your sisters’ scraped knees and bruised hearts. She’ll be the family’s matriarch someday, you realize: the person who will hold you all together, who will gather you up for holidays and celebrations and moments of grief long after your parents are gone.

“A little distance from Bob Floyd will cure what ails you,” she jokes, and you have to agree. Tomorrow you’re supposed to fly out with Bob, and the thought of his hand in yours, his reassuring voice right by your ear…you can’t do it. You’ll snap and say something you won’t be able to take back.

That evening, in the hotel room, you call the airline and cancel your ticket. You book a rental car instead.

-----

You don’t see Bob Floyd again. The two of you are supposed to meet in the lobby the next morning to share a ride to the airport, but you wake up earlier and leave alone, bound for the rental car part of the airport.

Decided to drive back, you text Bob. Enjoy your flight and thanks for all your help!

He doesn’t text you back. He calls.

“Is everything okay?” he asks, and for the first time since you’ve met him, his voice is deeper, edged in real concern. “You’re driving back to California? It’s eight hours or more.”

“I just wanted to clear my head.” It’s not a lie, and the reason falls easily from your lips.

“But you’ve not been sleeping well, and you were sick last night,” he points out. “Should you even be driving? Flying is safer anyway, and it’s only a two hour flight—”

You cut him off gently. You tell him that you’ve already cancelled your ticket, that an eight-hour drive is nothing. That you want a little alone time to think. That a road trip through the desert with the music blasting is sometimes just the cure for what ails.

“I promise I’m okay to drive.” You’re touched by his concern, and you realize that your bravado was false, that it isn’t just a dumb crush. Bob Floyd is a genuinely good man. Of course you fell for him.

And if it isn’t just a dumb crush, then the only way to handle it is to endure it. There’s no cure but time.

“Well, let me know when you make it home,” he finally concedes. “Team Prime looks out for its own.”

You smile in spite of your crushing self-pity. “Team Prime. I’ll text you when I’m back.”

You end the call, and you situate yourself in your rental car. Challenging situations always make you want to flee, but you were right too: a road trip is a good time to think, to turn over your muddle thoughts and sort them out. To clear the head, ease the heart.

You pull out into the Nevada sunshine and turn towards home: the sun rising at your back in the east, and maybe the possibility of finding love, as Hannah said, to the west.

*****

Bob frowns when you cut that call, and for the entire plane ride home (the seat beside him still empty; there were no standbys), he mulls it over.

You had been so gregarious, so funny and sweet in the months since he’s met you. Despite the overwhelming pressure of the wedding planning, you were level-headed. Managed to joke about it all. When he stepped in to help, you thanked him profusely, called him a life-saver, called him your hero.

It was easy to let it get to his head, a little. People rarely noticed Lieutenant Robert Floyd, and it made him feel good to be seen by such a sweetly cheerful woman.

Something happened in Vegas, and he couldn’t put his finger on it. It’s like a switch was thrown. The chipper demeanor disappeared, but it wasn’t like you were sullen or angry. You seemed pained, almost, on the verge of tears a few times that he noticed. You tried to pretend you were okay, and that made it sadder, more perplexing. Whatever you were going through, you were trying to power through it, hide it.

He tried to draw you out by talking about his own impending wedding, talking about Jessica…but after a while, something about that line of conversation made his stomach dip and twist unpleasantly.

He had been looking forward to the flight home. That got to his head too, the way you clung to his hand the entire flight to Vegas, the way you needed him to get through it. The shaky exhale you gave when the plane finally touched down. The shaky, embarrassed laugh, then the half-hug in your seats, the two of you twisted towards each other, as you wrapped your arm around his shoulders and thanked him profusely.

He likes being needed, he finds. Not in an extreme way, or an unhealthy codependent way. He just likes being needed by someone once in a while, for little things like that—sketching out a seating chart, being a bulwark against a fear of flying. Jessica never seems to need him, and it—

Bob pushes the thought out of his head. He won’t compare the two of you. He won’t.

The entire flight home, he mulls you over. The drive back to base too. He calls Jessica to hear her voice and he gives her the abridged version of the Vegas trip. He runs errands: restocks his refrigerator, does laundry, presses his uniform shirts and pants. He goes for a jog, then hits the gym on base, lifts until his arms burn.

He goes home and showers, and then he settles in front of the TV. He dozes off and wakes in the middle of the night with a start, his heart hammering in his chest and the taste of pennies in his mouth.

He has no idea what’s wrong until he checks his phone, notes the time…and notes that you haven’t called or texted.

Bob scrubs his face with his hands. He makes his way to the bathroom, splashes himself with water. He studies his own reflection, and even with his glasses off, he can see the worry writ all over his expression.

Maybe she got tired and pulled off for the night, he thinks. Or maybe she just forgot to let me know she’s home.

That’s what he imagines when he moves to his bed and tries to fall back asleep—he imagines you home in your own apartment, the cozy little space that is so perfectly you. He imagines you returning the rental car, showering off the road dust, then turning in for a long, well-earned sleep.

When he finally drifts off, his dreams are unsettling, and he wakes early, coated in a thin sheen of sweat despite the AC running at top capacity.

“Something’s wrong,” he mutters aloud to the empty bedroom. He can feel it in his gut. Something is off, and just as he makes up his mind to call you, to check in on you, even if it’s rude and even if he wakes you up, his phone lights up with an incoming call.

From Eric.

Eric, his best friend, his oldest friend. Eric, who rarely calls and who prefers to text. Eric, who only calls—especially at four-thirty in the morning—when there’s bad news.

Eric, the most unflappable man that Bob has ever known, openly, obviously trying to hide the tears in his voice. In the background, Bob can hear a woman crying—Hannah—as Eric relays the news: the only other member of Team Prime, the best of the best like him, was struck in a head-on collision by a speeding driver.

That you were life-flighted to the nearest trauma center, but that the prospects for your survival are so bleak that the attending surgeon told your father over the phone to not entertain much hope. That the doctor asked if you had a religion, if there was perhaps a priest or pastor or rabbi…someone who might come and offer final blessing, last rites, whatever.

“We’re trying to get everyone here,” Eric says. “Dude, what do I…I mean, what can I even do? If a doctor says…fuck, Bob, I don’t know what to do—”

Bob says the only thing he can think of, an echo of what he texted to you all those months ago.

“Tell me what you need,” he says, and he keeps his voice level despite the emotion—shock, sorrow, burgeoning guilt—coursing through him like electricity. “Tell me what you need and I’ll do it.”

#bob floyd #bob floyd x reader #bob floyd imagine #robert floyd #robert floyd x reader #robert floyd imagine #top gun maverick #tropes and tales

468 notes · View notes

sometimes-i-write-good · 1 year

Text

5 + 1

Top Gun: Maverick - Robert ‘Bob’ Floyd x f!pilot reader (callsign: Fallbeil)

4.4k || 5 times Bob remembers your little quirks and habits, and 1 time you remember his.

===

Genre: Fluff, crushing, love confessions

CW: mentions of drinking, swearing

Author’s Note: Bob is such an acts of service kind of person - I can feel it deep in my soul. Also, I thought the idea of him ending up with someone who has a scary ass callsign like Guillotine (which is Fallbeil in German) despite him being a cinnamon roll would be the funniest thing in the world. || cross-posted on ao3

===

The first time you noticed something was because Hangman had that stupid ass look on his face again. That same one he always had, the only one he had in all honesty. The one that, recently, only ever seemed to be directed at you and that pissed you off most of all.

“What?” He asked, but the smirk pulling his lips back into the stupid, smug fucking smile told you clearly: he knew exactly what.

“Leave her alone, Bagman. I’m not in the mood today,” Rooster said, and you could tell he meant it. HIs voice sounded surprisingly tired considering mornings were his prime time of existence. Maverick insisted on calling these meetings earlier and earlier, chinking away at everyone's stability, and it was proving to be too much for even the earliest of risers.

Hangman scoffed, pressing his hand to his chest, and feigning offense. “Why am I always the bad guy? What if today was the day Fallbeil finally snapped and did something to me instead?”

You rolled your eyes. “If I snapped, you wouldn’t be holding a conversation with me. Your head wouldn’t even be attached to your body.”

“Living up to your name as always, doll.”

Rooster slid into one of the empty chairs at the conference table, slapping down a notebook, and turned to look at you. “I’ll punch him if you want.”

“I’m perfectly capable of throwing my own punches, thank you.” The look on Rooster’s face said he didn’t trust you not to take it too far.

“And coffee mugs.” Hangman glanced over his shoulder; eyes trained on the spot where a cracked, open travel cup lay open. Opened and spilled, everywhere. “Which I managed to dodge.”

“Try to dodge my-” but your insult was cut short by Rooster saying, “Coffee? You hate coffee.”

You set your lips in a thin, embarrassed line. “He told me that it was tea.”

“And you believed him?” Rooster snorted.

You slunk back into your chair, crossing your arms with a pout. “It’s early! I’m basically the walking dead right now, birdbrain.”

As with every mission of this sheer level of importance, your anxiety had been too great to let you sleep. Usually Bob or Phoenix or Rooster, the early risers of the group, would be up to go for a job or hit the gym with you. You were up well before all of them today and had taken it upon yourself to go for a run, shower, and be painfully early to this briefing. You had hoped Bob would be the first one there, he typically was, but the universe was out to get you because instead of those sweet, doe eyes behind some thick-lensed glasses all you got was a stupid pair of lips messing with a toothpick.

“Don’t be too hard on, Rooster.” Phoenix called out, walking into the hangar with Fanboy, Payback, and Coyote in tow. “I already smoked him during our run this morning. He’s fragile.”

Before Rooster could get all up in arms or Hangman could jump on a moment of vulnerability, Maverick walked in. He had his way to the head of the table while everyone else found their seats. “Good morning, everyone.” Tired, disjointed voices repeated the sentiment, pulling a smile onto Mav’s face. “I see we’re all ready for a busy day. What do you say we get started?”

“Sorry, I’m late, sir!” Bob’s voice comes from behind you. “I couldn’t find the kettle.”

Kettle, you thought to yourself, but Maverick just waved for him to sit down and continued talking. Before Bob headed over to the only open seat, by Hangman of all people, he placed a small cup of tea in front of you without a word. In your favorite mug, too. You brought it up to your lips to taste it… and it was perfect. Exactly the way you liked it.

‘Thank you,’ you mouthed at him after he sat down. Bob just nodded and focused his attention on Maverick. You did the same, not even registering that he didn’t have a cup of anything for himself.

–

The second time you noticed something nice Bob did for you was during poker night. Fanboy and Payback had decided tempting fate and coming out the other side had bonded you all for life. A point any of you could hardly disagree with. That mission was not something any of you were supposed to come back from. So, the idea of a movie night had been tossed around, but Payback always tried to guess the endings and Hangman tried to outdo the one-liners and Rooster just had to know if he knew that actor from another movie - needless to say, movie nights were shelved very fast.

Then the idea of bar hopping came about, followed by karaoke night, followed by trivia night. Each of which ended up in all of you spending too much money on booze and drunkenly embarrassing yourselves with horrible vocals or blatantly wrong answers to obscure history questions. You all settled on the idea of a game night. It seemed to work well enough. A ‘family’ dinner followed by a board game. Except for the fact that Payback instead of placing bets no matter if it was CandyLand or Monopoly, which Coyote would double, and Hangman would triple. Leaving you all spending just as much money as you had at the bar.

It was Bob who brought up the idea of having poker nights. Something with betting already designed into it so that none of you had to worry about emptying your bank accounts at the end of the night. That was the problem with setting elite competitors against one another, they never knew when to quit.

You’d all been kept relatively close to TOPGUN, usually stationed a few hours away max. Months where distance wasn’t a problem, you all tried to meet once a week. If one of you weren’t stateside, then once a month worked just fine. Six months into poker nights so far and you’d been able to have at least one every month. Every time the list of things to bring shifted down a person, so that each time a new person would be in charge of chips or appetizers or the main entree, etc. It was a system that worked with military precision.

Until the one time it didn’t.

Bob was the last through the door of Payback’s small apartment. At least, it looked small with so many people crammed in there. “Here, I got special plates this time.” He raised them high above his head like a prize. Large, sturdy, and compartmentalized. Like the trays you’d get in the mess hall or for a school lunch.

The statement caused immediate uproar.

“I was on plates and napkins!” Coyote said around a mouthful of sour cream and onion chips, brought by yours truly. And Hangman started making comments about how if no one was going to follow the list, then he wasn’t going to either.

“You weren’t in charge of plates, Bob!” Fanboy tried his best not to get too worked up over it. He had created a spreadsheet of everyone’s responsibilities. Verifying everyone knew their roles was his main role in making sure this whole operation ran smoothly. “Please tell me you still brought dessert.”

“I’ve got dessert. My grandma came out this weekend and made a peach cobbler.”

The mention of his grandma’s baking ensured the pitchforks and torches were put away, for now. That woman had godly skills in the kitchen. You would gladly sit down and eat an entire cobbler of hers by yourself in one sitting.

Coyote, still hurt by his duty being impeded on, asked, “So then what are the plates for?”

“Fallbeil doesn’t like when her food touches,” Bob said as though it were the most common knowledge in the world. “You guys always insist on getting plates that are way too small.”

He set down the plates on the counter, followed by the pie, and went to take off his shoes and didn’t bring anything like that up again for the rest of the night.

–

The third time you noticed something nice that Bob did for you was a day he had to leave early. A helicopter was coming to pick him and Phoenix up to take them overseas. Just for a few days, or so said those in charge, and you knew how easily a few days could change to a few weeks to a few months.

The thought of possibly not seeing them for a while aggravated you. It meant being stuck on a ship hundreds of miles from the nearest shore without your two best friends. You’d known what you were signing up for when you first started. The military liked to keep their secrets. At any moment you could be swept away for a mission, but it still felt unfair when you woke up only to realize that your wingwoman and her WSO are replaced by strangers.

Back soon, take care.

Not signed but the handwriting was so obviously Bob. Cursive with careful, purposeful loops. Hangman tried to tear him apart for taking so much care in his notes during the pre-briefs before the uranium mission. The insults died out fast once everyone realized he had chicken scratch for handwriting. Funny how spreading a rumor Hangman deserved the callsign Rooster over Bradley could put him in his place so quickly.

Back soon, take care.

You stared at the sticky note, so carefully pressed against the outside of your locker. It was easy to imagine the conversation among him and Phoenix.

“I’m leaving her a note.”

“She’ll be fine, Bob. We’ve got to go.”

“Four words.”

He’d gotten into the habit of leaving sticky note updates in between lengthy letters. They held more emotion than an email or text, and you found that you liked it more than digital words on a screen. You could trace your fingers over each letter. Pretend as though he were pressed up in the seat next to you like when you’d go to the Hard Deck on a busy night and everyone would shove together in a few booths. A closeness you’d found yourself longing for in all moments spent together despite there being no reason for the two of you to share an armchair in the common room.

You had crushes before. A few relationships littered your history of schooling, but you, like many others who had graduated from TOPGUN, assumed the sky was to be your first and only love. And then Bob showed up with his quiet, gentle ways and your heart would soar every time he walked into a room. There were days you went without talking, but you could count on some kind of a note to be waiting for you on your door or waiting for you on the control of your jet.

Reminders that he was thinking of you. The way a best friend would. Surely. That’s all it had to be. No sense in constructing something out of nothing. Something that could wreck this perfect routine the two of you had created in one another’s lives.

You peeled the sticky note off the front of your locker to place inside, out of harm's way. Your finger traced each letter. It was likely he and Phoenix were off somewhere with Coyote or Rooster or Hangman doing something far more dangerous than the intelligence patrol you’d been assigned to. As you swung open your locker, you wished you’d had enough sense to write him a letter before he’d left. Something reminding him and Phoenix to be safe, but you hadn’t known he was leaving. You hadn’t even let the thought cross your mind.

“Oh, Bob,” you sighed.

A smile tugs its way onto your face. He’d left a mug in your locker. Not filled with tea this time, but with pens and highlighters and all your favorite stationary to use on your paperwork. You usually had a pencil case with you filled with pens that flowed smoothly and didn’t smudge or highlighters that didn’t bleed through the page.

He must have packed extra in his bag in case you’d forgotten that pencil case, which you had. But that wasn’t the best part. Somehow he’d managed to keep a rose alive and blooming to stick amongst the stationary. For, what it seemed to you, the sole purpose of making you smile.

–

The fourth time you noticed something nice that Bob did for you was at Coyote’s birthday cookout. You were running late. Very late. More late than you’d ever been in your whole life to a point that you would have turned around if you could have, but you had been stuck on a highway without an exit for miles on end. The need to pee had never been stronger.

Stuck in the literal sense. Construction fed into traffic fed into cars stopping for no reason at all fed into fender benders fed into your frustration. “Please just move!” You shouted at the trail of brake lights in front of you. All you had to do was make it to the next exit two miles away.

But no one met your frustrated request. Instead, the standstill continued. You were destined to never arrive at this party. It had been weeks since you’d seen everyone together in one spot. Poker night had been postponed to tomorrow. Bound to be a dismal affair of hangovers and stale chips left out in bowls overnight. A slice of heaven on earth. Though, you would say that for just about anything if it meant being released from a fucking prison of a car.

Your phone went off. The distinct sound of big band music filling your car. Bob’s ringtone.

“Where are you?” His voice came through the other line at the same moment you shouted, “I want to rip my head off!”

An amused chuckle filled your car which only caused you to fume further. “I’m serious, Robert. This two-hour drive has become four- maybe five. I lost count when I had to come to a full and complete stop for the three millionth time today. It would be so much easier if Coyote had a runway in his backyard. Then I could just fly there-”

“Fallbeil,” Bob cut in, “are you almost here?”

“I’m a mile from my exit. I should be there in twenty. If I’m allowed to take my foot off the brake for more than a few seconds.” You let out a loud groan. “I’m going to stop at a gas station because I think my bladder might explode. So expect me in thirty actually-”

Bob laughed and spoke once more, saving you from yet another breathless tangent. “I’m excited to see you.”

You smiled to yourself. Grinning at the stopped cars in front of you like an idiot. “Yeah?”

“Have I ever not been?”

“I’m excited to see you too.” You could envision Bob’s own shy grin. No, you couldn’t hear the sounds of the party going on around him. He had closed himself off alone in a room to talk to you, which would mean the smile would be big and beaming. “Coyote enjoying himself?”

“I think he might have cried when Natasha put on the birthday playlist she made for him.”

“She’s good at that.”

“Good?” Bob laughed. “She’s elite at it.” Then, after a moment of comfortable silence fell over the two of you he said, “Want me to stay on the phone until you show up?”

If it were a normal poker night, you would have jumped on the offer. Phone calls with Bob had become a staple in that routine in one another’s lives. Letters and notes were not nearly enough to tide the two of you over. But today was a special occasion.

“No,” you told him. “I’ll be there soon.” He deserved to go enjoy the party. Not be tied up in a phone call where you were bound to blow your lid if the car in front of you did not speed up.

“Be careful. Drive safe.” The line clicked.

Be careful, you turned the words over in your head wondering what they would sound like punctuated with a kiss every morning when you headed out the door.

You turned down Coyote’s street, knowing exactly what you’d find. Cars taking every spot. Coyote was the most popular out of the crew. Charming personality, willingness to help everyone so much as passing by, and good looks. The combination needed for a party of the century.

And the shouts of excitement that flowed from his backyard told you just that was happening. Without you, and it would continue to go on without you if you couldn’t find an open spot to park. Bob waited at the end of Coyote’s packed driveway, hands stuffed into his jeans. A surprising amount of muscle strained beneath the button up shirt he wore to every part. More cars shoved onto the asphalt and spilled over onto the lawn.

Bob waved, waited patiently for you to park the car in the middle of the street, and then came around to the driver's side of the car. “Hey,” he said as he popped open your door. “How was the drive?”

You shot him a look. One that immediately set that bright, beautiful smile on his face. “Funny.”

“Here, get out.”

“What?”

“Get out. Go inside and say hi.” He leaned over to unbuckle you and the scent of his cologne tickled your nose. “I have a plate of food for you in the oven, on low so it stays warm. There’s one in the fridge too with the cold stuff.”

“Bob-”

“They’re all separated.” He waved you out of the car, grabbing your hand to help, and pressed a kiss to your cheek. “I’m glad you’re here, Fallbeil.”

You saw him again ten minutes later because he had to park two blocks away and walk back.

–

The fifth time you really noticed Bob going out of his way for you was a few months into the two of you moving in together. Solely as roommates, two best friends making the most of a perfect situation. Rent was going up, you had an extra room, and Bob had just gotten hired as an instructor at TOPGUN. The timing couldn’t have been better.

In truth, nothing could be better. The two of you fit perfectly into each other’s lives. Bob with his early habits. Having tea on the table for you alongside the crossword section of the newspaper he insisted on reading every morning. The hardest word always filled in as a starting point. He’d saved you the frustration of straining your mind over a word you couldn’t have dreamed up in the wildest corners of your imagination.

The preference over sticky notes as communication over texts still remained the same. Left on the mirror in your shared bathroom always signed with “be careful” or “take care.” Sometimes there is nothing of importance to say, but Bob would write those two words anyway as a reminder.

You’d leave voicemails if it was something that needed your immediate attention - talking on the phone to Bob became a bright spot in your week. You tried your hardest to leave them only for emergencies but hearing his voice every day had spoiled you. Sometimes your mind would lock on something you would absolutely have to tell him. Then you would find yourself pulling out your phone, typing in his number, and putting it away with a great sigh. You had planes to fly, he had students to teach, and the torture of being apart for a few hours each day made returning home to him all the sweeter. Returning home to movie nights or long walks on the beach or stories of students who remind Bob of each member of the Dagger Crew.

Phoenix would crash often when she got called back to TOPGUN, and Bradley hung around often enough seeing that Mav and Penny had made their lives here. Everyone cycled through at some point. Even Hangman had a welcome place on your couch if he ever needed it.

There was one night Jake had spent the night. Out of the blue and completely inconvenient as was the case with Hangman, but he offered to cook dinner while the two of you were at work and you came home to a good meal and surprisingly good company. What a sight to see the three of you laughing at a small table.

You hadn’t minded Hangman staying over. Though he did scare the shit out of you when he knocked on your door and let himself into your room to talk. “You know he likes you,” he had said, perched on the corner of your bed with that same stupid ass look on his face that meant trouble. “I think he might even be in love with you.”

“Bagman-”

“Hey, I come in here to tell you some life-altering news and you start with insulting me.” Hangman had let out a low whistle. “Think about it, Fallbeil.”

“What if it ruins everything? We’re doing so well.”

“What if it changes everything for the better?”

You hadn’t expected those words to play in your head as often as they did when Hangman finally left. It had been weeks since you’d last seen him. Poker night was tonight. He was hosting, and you had a feeling he was going to corner you with all sorts of questions as to if you’d made a move on Bob yet. A foolish notion. Bob might not be a skittish dog, but making a move on him still might cause spontaneous combustion. You were just trying to figure out which one of you it would be.

What could be the right time to tell your best friend and roommate that you loved him? That you have always wanted to be more?

You thought it over as you wiped sleep from your eyes and made your way into the bathroom. Bob had left earlier than usual this morning. It was a test day for the students and he was nothing if not prepared. Likely that kind, painfully chirpy teacher in the early hours of the day.

There was a sticky note on the mirror. As expected. Longer than usual. Unexpected.

Took your car this morning. Saw you needed an oil change. Be home late, then he can head to Bagman’s. Hope that’s okay. My keys are on the counter. Be safe. Love you.

You traced those last two words with the tip of your finger. It was the first time he’d added those two words.

And they fit so naturally on the note. Like they always belonged there.

–

The one time (the first time) you realized you were going out of your way to do things because you loved Robert Floyd when you went into the mall with a head full of ideas to get for Rooster’s birthday and came out twenty minutes later with one thing. One thing not for Rooster.

A model plane for Bob. Before he’d gotten so overwhelmed with his responsibilities at TOPGUN to cease having many hobbies, he’d built model planes. It’s what had gotten him into a love of planes. At least, that’s what he had told you one night at the Hard Deck, when the two of you were shoved up against one another.

Growing up in a small midwestern farm town didn’t give him many chances growing up to be around planes, but he’d watch the ones that flew over crops with rapt interest. He memorized flight patterns, sat alongside fields, and watched them every chance he got. Then, in the late nights where he only had his imagination to keep him company, Bob built model planes and memorized their histories.

“I’ve always wanted to be around planes.” He had slurred the words a bit back then. One too many sips of beer between handfuls of peanuts. “I kept them around me as much as I could.”

You hadn’t been able to figure out how crop planes became fighter jets in his history, but more stories came out as the two of you moved in together. Dismissive comments about school bullies. Talks about how he knew he wasn’t the strongest, but had always felt the need to prove himself. It seemed to fit into this idea people created of him - always a bit behind the rest. You respected him for sticking to what people told him he couldn’t do and making a name for himself in spite of it all.

And you loved that he trusted you enough to bring you in on those hobbies of his. Building fighter jets in the low light of desk lamps and night lights. Reminding you of the purpose of each piece. Telling the history of each plane. But your favorite part of all was when the two of you would build a jet you were flying and he would include all your statistics, everything you’ve accomplished, and, when you caught him in rare form, things Bob imagined you would do that would etch your name into the very fabric of history.

“Did you get a present for Bradley?” He asked, hearing the click of the door behind you. There was a rag thrown over his shoulder. Bob turned to face you with a smile. In the midst of cooking, glasses slightly fogged from whatever it was he was cooking, and your heart couldn’t take it.

“N-no,” you said, tripping up on your words. “I, um, I forgot.”

“But on the phone you said you couldn’t wait to show me what you got?” He tilted his head, watching as you kicked off your shoes, and placed your shopping bag on the table. “I hope you’re not trying to sign your name onto my gift, Fallbeil. I spent three months finding a vintage record of ‘Great Balls of Fire’ for him.”

You smiled at his thoughtfulness. “No, Robert, I will not steal credit for your gift. He’ll know it’s from you anyway.” You took a deep, shaky breath. “I got something for you instead.”

Bob’s brows scrunched in confusion. “Me, but it’s Bradley’s birthday?”

You pulled the model F-18 from the bag and held it out towards him. Your hands shook slightly. Silly considering the two of you were always going out of your way to do things for each other. Plates and oil changes and parking cars. Small things. Nothing as momentous as a declaration of pure understanding of one another.

He said your name with a softness you’d never heard before. As though he were praying.

“I love you.” You said it at the same time as him. And the words fell so naturally from both your lips. Like they always belonged there.

===

ask and you shall receive (taglist): @whoeverineedtobe @dhwanishah09

435 notes · View notes

bradshawsbaby · 7 months

Note

Are you still doing the “Trick or treat!! 🎃” thing? Ahhh… I’ll send it anyways, so Trick or treat!! 🎃 👻 🧙‍♀️

Happy Halloween! 🎃 I’ve got a little bit of Bob for you!

“Um, Bobby?” you murmured, squeezing your boyfriend’s hand as you came to a sudden halt on the dirt path leading towards the aptly named House of Horrors, from which you could already hear shrieks of terror emanating.

You’d been psyching yourself up for this all week. Ever since Fanboy had come up with the idea that all of you should attend a local Halloween festival, featuring a haunted house that had recently been dubbed “the scariest in San Diego,” you’d been mentally preparing yourself to swallow your fear and join your boyfriend and his friends on this terrifying expedition.

But you couldn’t do it. Now that the moment was finally here, your fight or flight instinct was kicking in and telling you to run, run, run.

Bob, instantly picking up on the thread of anxiety in your voice, stopped immediately and turned to look at you, concern glowing in his big blue eyes.

“Hey, guys, wait up!” he called quickly over his shoulder, not taking his eyes off you.

Over his shoulder, you noticed Phoenix turn back and then get the others to stop as well, the group of Daggers standing off to the side of the path up ahead.

“What’s the matter, honey?” Bob asked, his voice gentle and soothing as he rubbed your arm lightly, guiding you off to the side so that others could pass you more easily.

“I can’t do it, Bobby,” you admitted, trembling like a leaf as you heard another round of shrieks coming out of the haunted house. “I’m sorry. I thought I could, but I can’t.”

“Hey, hey, hey,” he murmured calmly, wrapping his long arms around you when he realized how much you were shaking. “It’s okay, sweetheart. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

“I don’t want to ruin everyone else’s good time. I’ll just head back and sit at one of the tables near the food trucks,” you mumbled, embarrassment and guilt coloring your features.

“Not by yourself!” Bob exclaimed, his eyes widening behind his glasses as if he was shocked you would even think to suggest such a thing. “I’ll come with you,” he said, lacing his fingers securely through yours.

“No, stay with your friends,” you insisted, shaking your head. You felt silly for making a scene over your childish fear of haunted houses.

“They have each other. They’ll be fine,” he smiled sweetly, his mouth curving into an adorably crooked grin. “I want to be with you.” Before you could attempt to argue with that logic, he turned to call back to his fellow Daggers. “You guys go on ahead! We’ll meet you by the food trucks after.”

He was met with a chorus of surprised exclamations and groans, but he waved them all off, confidently squeezing your hand and leading you away from the House of Horrors.

“Bobby, I’m so embarrassed,” you confessed, chewing on your bottom lip as you followed along beside him. “I should have just gone inside.”

“Why should you have had to do that?” your boyfriend asked, his voice ringing with sincerity as he asked the question. “For me? I wouldn’t want you putting yourself through something that upsets you for my sake,” he reassured you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and holding you close to his side. “We’re here to have fun. And you know what I think sounds like a lot of fun right now?”

“What?” you asked, snuggling against his shoulder as you relaxed in his arms.

“Getting one of those pumpkin funnel cakes we spotted earlier,” he told you, his eyebrows lifting behind his glasses as he gazed down at you.

Giggling, you nodded in agreement as the two of you headed in that direction.

About ten minutes later, as the two of you sat side by side at a picnic table, your fingers coated in powdered sugar, Bob leaned closer to you and murmured against your ear, “Can I tell you a secret?”

“Mhm,” you smiled, munching on another piece of pumpkin funnel cake.

Bob grinned sheepishly, the tips of his ears turning pink. “I didn’t want to go to the haunted house either,” he admitted.

Laughing, you leaned in and pressed a kiss to his blushing cheek. “I knew you were perfect for me, Bobby.”

#ask box trick-or-treat 🎃#bob floyd #bob floyd x reader #bob drabble #lewis pullman

75 notes · View notes

darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 2 years

Text

Made for Him III

Warnings: this fic includes dark content including rape/noncon, blood and gore, violence, death, grief, and other potential triggering elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Peter finds himself alone after the loss of those around him, so he decides to find a cure to his grief.

Characters: Peter Parker

Note: Part 3! Happy almost-ween.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. Thanks to everyone who reads this one and thank you for all your energy.

Love you all like Garfield loves lasagna. Take care. 💖

The Creation

Peter. His name was Peter.

That was the first thing you knew. He was gentle, kind, and patient, if not overbearing. You knew these things because he told you, because the movies, because the letters he pointed to and the numbers he counted, the words he recited. He showed you all the wonderful things about being alive.

That's what he said. That you were alive. He didn't say what you were before. That concept; 'before', that was scary.

He also told you how beautiful you were. Even as you watched Audrey Hepburn's porcelain skin and compared it to your own scarred complexion, even as you tried to speak and your voice scratched shrilly compared to Judy Garland's silken tones, or when you tried to move like Ginger Rogers and found yourself stumbling. Those women were beautiful, you were anything but.

It was when you were watching a very funny movie, a spectacle called Singing in the Rain, when you thought of the question. Peter always liked your curiosity, it made him smile and he proudly answered, the all-knowing creator.

"Peter," your syllables were stiff and fractured, it was still hard to get your voice out, to shape the sounds on your tongue.

"Yes, precious," he looked over, his arm stretched over the back of the couch as you sat with your legs bent in front of you.

"How…" you carefully constructed your question, sometimes you still missed some words, "how old am me?"

His eyebrows rose and his forehead wrinkled. He retracted his arm to scratch his throat as it bobbed.

"'I, how old am I," he corrected you, "why do you ask?"

You blinked and mulled his question. You didn't know how to answer. You didn't know why you thought of it.

"Am me– I very old?" You eked out, "or very young?"

He squinted and let out a sigh. His hand fell to his chest as he sat up.

"You are alive, does it matter?" He asked.

"Well…" you began, again pausing to let your words catch up to your thoughts, "are you old?"

"I am… young, relatively," he replied as he slid forward on the cushion.

"Re-la-tive-ly?" You echoed.

"I am older than some, younger than others," he explained.

You nodded and brought your fingers up to tap your lip. You looked at the actors on the screen. When you asked about them, he was happy to talk all about them. He told you about their lives, about how they knew each other, he even read to you from a book about all the scandals after your lessons. But when you asked about you, he didn't like to answer and when you asked about him, you could tell he didn't say all he knew. You knew, because he had the same look as a witness in a court scene, describing bad things you never imagined possible.

"Am I old and young like you?" You looked back at him.

His lips pressed tightly, "yes." He stood and put his hands on his hips, "you should turn that off. We have a lesson today."

"But it's not…" you scrunched your nose as you searched your mind, "done. Yes, done. See, no need lessons."

"Please, you can watch the rest later," he said as he took the books from the shelf, "you've done very well but you can't be lazy."

"Lazy?" You wondered.

"You have to do it," he insisted.

You hit the screen and the movie stopped. You pressed the slender button to darken the tablet and stood. You followed Peter to the room with the table and sat. He waited as sometimes you were still unsure on your feet.

You took a chair as he unfolded the book and slid over your notebook. He handed you the thick pencil and you wiggled it impatiently as you watched him flick through the pages.

"Peter," you said.

"Yes, precious," he replied without looking up.

"I… die?" Your voice cracked as the question made you dizzy.

"What?" He glanced up.

"I die? Do I die?" You set the pencil in the creases between the pages.

"Will you die?" He said carefully, "well, everyone d--"

"You die?" Your eyes rounded as you curled your fingers into fists.

"One day," he said evenly.

You stood so suddenly the chair toppled. Your entire body shook with that same feeling you got when the sky was booming. You touched your head as your heart beat furiously.

"Die!?" You shouted.

"Precious," he stood, "please, don't be upset. It won't be for a very long time."

"Time," you waved your finger at him, "time… head doesn't know."

"It's… hard to understand," he cooed as he touched your shoulder gently, "you're not ready."

You frowned and crossed your arms. You pulled away from him and stomped.

"Want to know," you said, "want to… un-der-stand."

"Shh, please," he took your hands and unbent your fingers, "not now."

"When?" You pouted.

He sighed and closed his eyes. His nostrils flared and his dimples deepened. He wetted his lips and looked at you, endless pools of eternity luring you in.

"Just… later," he said, "you trust me?"

"Trust?" You remembered that word, it was in that one scene, the tears, the terror.

"Trust," you repeated, "but… fear?"

"You're scared?" He prompted and tilted his head. You nodded and he gave a sorrowful smile. "You don't have to be, not with me."

He pulled you to him, wrapping his arms around you. He did that often, sometimes for no reason at all. He pet your head, the short crop of new hair growing around the scars under the glossy blond wig. You chose that yourself, it made you feel pretty. Like Greta Garbo or Grace Kelly.

He drew back, for a moment, framing your face with his hand. His dark eyes bore into you and his thumb touched the bottom of your lip. His pupils grew big and it was if he wasn't looking at you but through you.

He let his arms fall away entirely and turned away with a sigh. "Sit, you have things to learn."

You hesitated. He seemed angry. At you? The idea of displeasing him was worse than the unknown promise of death. He was always so kind, you didn't ever want him to be mean.

You sat in the chair again, pulling it straight and folded your hands across the table. You waited as he paced, peering past the sheer curtains. You straighten your spine as it reminds you of a scene from Our Fair Lady, of Eliza Doolittle learning to be a proper woman. You were much like her, ignorant and sloppy. You wanted to be graceful and elegant like Audrey, not lost like Eliza.

"The rains in Spain fall mainly on the plain," you declared proudly.

Peter let the curtain fall straight as he unhooked his finger and bowed his head. His fingers twiddled and the veins of his arm pulsed. His skin was like silk, smooth and unblemished. How was it that he was flawless but you are so scarred? Why?

"What?" He turned slowly to face you.

"You're like Pro-fes-sor Higgins," you enunciated with difficulty, "you're teaching me to be smart."

He gripped the back of his empty chair and leaned on it. He looked at you, the line between brows receding. He smiled as he pulled out the seat and dropped onto it.

"Yeah, something like that," he agreed as he bent to glance over the open book.

You admired his reddish brown locks, the ends starting to curl as it dangled down his neck. You could see the sweat glisten on his brow and in his hair as the heat kissed his pale cheeks. But you didn't feel the cold or the hot, not very much.

His eyes flicked up as he turned the page and he met your gaze, "what?"

You blinked and twined your fingers together, "hm?"

"What are you looking at?" He asked, a crooked smile, "me?"

You put your attention to the table guiltily and pushed your shoulders up, feet kicking below the table. He gave a soft laugh and stood, dragging his chair around the corner of the table to sit closer to you. His hand rested on the table top, cautiously moving to touch your elbow.

"Look at me again, precious," he urged.

You bit your lip, cheeks burning with a curious fire. You shook your head and tried not to giggle at the way your insides squirmed. He grabbed your arm more firmly and you gulped.

"Please," he said softly.

You lifted your head and looked at him. His touch slid up your arm and he guided you to turn in your seat, facing him completely.

"I have a question for you," he said.

Your eyes flitted back and forth and you reached for the pencil. He chuckled and stopped you, rolling the pencil away from you. He caught your hands and rubbed them firmly with his thumbs, looking down at them as if they weren't heavy and harsh.

"Can I ask you?" He tilted his chin up.

"Ask," you confirmed.

His cheek dimpled and his throat bobbed, "precious, do you think… I'm handsome?"

You searched his face, the straight nose, his long brows, his square jaw, and thin lips. Your eyes rounded as you thought of the question. You were too shy to confess it.

"What… handsome?"

He frowned, "don't play dumb. You told me you thought Laurence Olivier was handsome. So… am I handsome?"

You smiled even as you tried not to. "Yes. Handsome. A lot."

He smiled too and sat up, "really?"

"Yes!" You tugged on his grasp and he clung to you. You wiggled free and covered your face, "but ugly!"

"Ugly?" He wondered.

"Me! Me ugly." You hid from him and turned back to the table, planting your elbows on the wood.

"No. Not ugly," Peter moved closer and touched the smooth locks of the wig, searching beneath until he found your shoulder, "beautiful."

"No. Wrong," you argued as you kept your face behind your hands.

He took your wrist and wrestled down your arm, strong but gentle. You squeezed your eyes shut and shook your head. He tugged and made you face him again.

"If you aren't beautiful, then why do I want to kiss you so bad?"

You gasped and opened your eyes, your other hand dropping, "kiss?"

The idea both excited and startled you. You saw it on the screen, the romantic, leaning, entwined kisses and declarations of love. You fluttered your fingers and bounced on the seat.

"No!" You exclaimed, "you don't. Lie."

"I do," he said, earnestly as his chest rose and fell noticeably, "do… can I?"

"Can… kiss?" You nearly shouted in surprise.

"Yes," he laughed, "please?"

You gaped at him. You felt like you were shaking. You tore your eyes away and clapped your hands together, "if… want. Yes."

He stood, taking your hands and pulling them apart as he helped you to your feet. You let him as he pressed your hands to his shoulders and swooped and arm around you.

"Look at me, precious," he said. You obeyed, jittering.

"What do?" You pushed your fingertips into his firm chest, feeling the muscle, inhaling his scent.

"Close your eyes," his voice was low and gritty, "and do what I do."

You shut your eyes and he brought his hand up to your chin, tilting your head back. You held your breath and felt his gloss over your mouth. His lips met yours with a shock, sparks surging through you. His tongue poked along the crease and you parted for him.

Baffled and bubbly, you let him hold you, let him kiss you, the star of your own movie.

#peter parker #dark peter parker #dark!peter parker #peter parker x reader #frankenstein #au #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #made for him #mcu #marvel #spider-man #avengers #horror au

253 notes · View notes

i-think-i-have-too-many-fandoms · 1 year

Text

Friends Don’t

Based off the song ‘Friends Don’t’ by Maddie and Tae

Jake (Hangman) Seresin x reader (callsign Valkyrie)

Warnings: little angst, mostly fluff (I don’t think there’s any cussing but just in case I’m putting a warning for it.)

They don’t cancel other plans

Have conversations with nothin’ but their eyes

They don’t hear each others’

Names and forget to concentrate

Hits a nerve and lights your up like dynamite

You and Jake Seresin have been friends since you’d both started in the naval academy. And over the years you’ve become best friends which is what you tell yourself as you look across the bar at Jake who’s silently asking you to save him from some girl flirting with him with his eyes. Any other day and he’d be perfectly happy with flirting with the random girl on front of him but today you almost lost Phoenix and Bob and it’s been rough on everyone. As you’re about to go over to him to save him Rooster calls out to you, “Hey Val, goin to save ur boyfriend” winking at you, face turning bright pink, he turns around and leaves. Rooster is the only person other than Phoenix that you told about your long time feelings for your best friend and even then it was by accident. You were drunk and Penny insisted that he drive you home because she wouldn’t be able to. On the drive you burst into tears causing him to become extremely worried, until you started ranting to him about your more than friendly love for your best friend. You told Bradley everything that night. You told him how Jake would cancel plans if it meant you needed him, how you spoke to each other with your eyes, and how you forget to think when his name comes up. And when Bradley parked in front of your house he held you and said that it was all going to be okay. So as you walk away from him to save Jake, you thought of he could be doing something as mundane as taking out the trash for you and it would still make your heart flutter. Every. Single. Time. once you’ve finally made it over to him you hike your thumb behind you and say that Maverick needed to talk to him about something. As you’re walking away from the girl he mutters a quiet ‘thanks’ and the night goes on.

Friends don’t call you in the

Middle of the night

Couldn’t even tell you why,

They just felt like sayin’ “hi”

Jake would often call you on nights that he couldn’t sleep and he knew you’d pick up. You’d talk about anything and everything, and as you fall asleep on call with him you try to tell yourself that this is just what friends do. That all friends call and fall asleep on the phone with each other. “Its normal” you whisper to yourself as you hangup the phone the next morning.

Friends don’t stand around

Playin’ with their keys

Findin’ reasons not to leave,

Tryna hide the chemistry.

Drive a little too slow

Take the long way home

Get a little too close.

We do but, but friends don’t.

There was one night about a year ago before Hangman left for a rough mission. He stood by your front door fiddling with his keys trying to find reason after reason to stay with you even after you’d just spent ALL day watching movies on the couch together. He tried to tell you that it was too late for hime to drive, which you responded with the fact that if he stayed he would just have to wake up earlier because you lived much farther from the base than he did. He convinced you that you should stay with him so that he didn’t have to take an Uber. So the next morning you drove him to the base to drop him off, he drifted into sleep and rested his head on your shoulder. He grabbed your hand from your steering wheel and rested it in his own. He woke you up a little earlier then should have so you decided to drive the backroads to the base. And again you sit there telling yourself while stopped at a red light that your best friend cuddling into you while you drive him to base is completely normal for a couple of friends to do.

They don’t almost say “I love you”

When they’re downtown somewhere, just a little drunk

They don’t talk about the future and put each other in it

And get chills with every accidental touch.

After the big mission when you almost lost Maverick and Rooster. Everyone went to the Hard Deck to celebrate not losing them and completing the mission. You left early, exhausted from the day you’ve had.

You were cuddled into bed and almost asleep when you heard a soft knock on your front door. You check the time as you get out of bed. 11:55pm. You sigh knowing that there’s only one person who’d bother you at this time of night. You drag yourself to the door, opening it you see the man you thought but he’s nearly blackout drunk hanging over Coyote and Fanboys’ shoulders. You were about to question them when Coyote noticed your confusion and started speaking. “We were putting him in the truck to take him home when he started blubbering about not wanting to be alone and he told us to take him here, we had to ask around for your address but we finally got it out of Rooster. We’re sorry if this is weird…” You said it was fine and led them to your spare room that had some of Jakes clothes on the floor already. You could see their faces as they tried not to make it obvious that they were being nosey. They looked like they wanted to question you about you friendship with their friend. They decided against it and set him down on the bed. They left not long after making sure he looked comfortable on the bed. When they left you went back to the guest bedroom where Jake was, you moved to remove his shoes for him. Guessing that it would be more comfy for him. As you’re pulling the laces on his shoes he starts mumbling to himself, “mm, val?”

“Yep its me Bagman.”

“S’ not my name. How’d I get here?” He slurred his words when he spoke to you, eyes still closed. “Coyote and Fanboy brought you here from the bar, Jake” putting emphasis on his name so that he heard you. “Oh, ok. You wanna know something?” You simply hummed in response. “I think about you a lot more than a friend should, like ALL the time. And I think about our future and no one else is there except you and me…” he drifts off smiling to himself. Once you’ve gotten both his shoes off he makes grabby hands at you like a child. You move to give him the hug you know he wants, but he pulls you down and moves to lay on top of you. “Jake, I have to go to bed.” You gasp as you tap him to get him off you. “Sleep here, like old days.” He slurs into your hair, petting it and pulling you closer. “Your not gonna let me go are you?” He makes a noise that sounds like ‘no’. So you stay how you are and get comfy so you can sleep.

Friends don’t call you in the middle of the night

Couldn’t even tell you why, they just felt like saying “hi”

Friends don’t stand around playing with their keys

Findin’ reasons not to leave tryna hide the chemistry

Drive a little too slow, take the long way home

Get a little too close. We do but, but friends don’t.

The next morning you wake up before Jake, you got out of bed to grab some water and Ibuprofen for his headache that he’ll be bound to have when he wakes up. You set them down on the bedside table and go to take a shower.

When you get out you go downstairs to make some breakfast, you see Jake standing at the kitchen island holding his head in his hands. When he hears movement on the stair he looks up. He notices its you and he smiles. “Mornin darlin’” his texan accent coming out more than usual in his morning voice causing you stomach to flip more than usual. “Morning Jake.” You move through the kitchen getting everything together for breakfast. At some point Jake started moving around the small space to help you. He turns on some music so you both can get a rythym going.

By the time its mid afternoon he says he should probably get going but the longing look on his face is begging on hands and knees for you to let him stay but because it isn’t something friends should do you agree with him and walk him to the door. He gives you a soft disappointed look turns around and leaves.

I keep telling myself it might be nothing

But one look in your eyes and, God, there’s something

You can lie to me and say you don’t

But I know you do, and I love you too

It’s been three days since you saw Hangman last. You’ve seen some of the others because they’ve come by but you haven’t left your house since the night Hangman blacked out drunk on top of you. You two have done stuff like that before but somehow this was different. You saw the desperation in his eyes and saw the same in yours and yet you still sent him out the door.

But tonight you were finally leaving your house to go to the Hard Deck. It was some of the aviators last night so Rooster and Phoenix Gathered you up and put you together for the night so you’d be there to see your teammates altogether for the last time.

When you three got to the bar it was packed full. You guys moseyed your way to the back where the pool table and darts were. Speaking of darts, you looked over and saw exactly who you’d thought you’d see there, Hangman, playing darts and making perfect shot after perfect shot, even with Coyote holding a hand in front of his eyes. He only missed once because Bob called you over to play 2 v. 2 with him against Phoenix and Rooster. You knew it an impossible matchup that you wouldn’t win but it wasn’t to win it was to have some fun.

After about four games of pool two shots, and enough time to be able to drive everyone was tuckered out and chose to go to each respective home for the night. You all hugged each other goodbye and to your separate cars to leave. Your hand Reached out for the handle of your car when someone cleared their throat behind you. Turning around you the familiar blonde hair of the man you grown to fall in love with. “Hey, Jake how’s it going, have a good night.” You asked him the simple questions but he let out a bitter laugh at your words. “Am I okay. I haven’t seen you in three days. And part of that is my fault for not reaching out. And I know that after that night it was weird because I probably said something. But right now I’m about to say something that we’ve both been feeling but haven’t said. I love you.” He sighed and took in all the air he possibly could. “I have been in love with you since the moment I laid eyes on you but at the time I was young and naive and just wanted to sleep with as many women possible but I never involved you in that. And for the life of me I couldn’t figure out why I held onto you this long but I know now. I’ve held onto you because I love you, because I was subconsciously waiting for the right time to tell you this and ever since that mission last year when you drove me to the airport I’ve known. if you don’t feel the same way that’s fine but ill have to leave cause I can’t stand being just friends anymore, but if you do feel the same then be mine, be mine forever and go everywhere the navy puts me so that I never have to leave you again for so long.” He panted after his speech, and continued, whilst moving to wipe the tears that you didn’t know were coming down your face. “Be mine so that I can love you unapologetically.” Without warning he leans in and presses his lips on yours moving seemingly in-sync. You pull away first, chest heaving before breathing out, “I love you too.” Giggling to yourself when he picks you up off the ground and twirls you.

Friends don't call you in the middle of the night

Couldn't even tell you why

They just felt like saying hi

Friends don't stand around, playing with their keys

Finding reasons not to leave

Trying to hide their chemistry

Drive a little too slow (slow), take the long way home (home)

Get a little too close (close)

We do, but friends don't

Oh oh oh

Friends don't

#top gun x reader #top gun fanfic #top gun #top gun fanfiction #top gun angst #top gun fluff #hangman x reader #jake seresin x reader

75 notes · View notes

steelycunt · 2 years

Note

15 please <3

slow but steady!! im getting there!! i am so sorry i am the worst but uhhh yeah!! i think everyone should let r do the angsty drunk confessions more often. for the culture really. sorry this is so long!!

Sirius watches Remus’ fingers fumbling over his keys for nearly half a minute before he can’t stand it any longer, and resorts to snatching them off him: “fuck’s sake,” muttered under his breath. “Just give it here.”

It’s harsher than Remus deserves—(well, when has he ever been what he deserves?)—but frankly its been a pretty fucking horrible night, sleazy bars and stale air, and he’s not exactly in the mood to wait for Remus to sober up enough to open his own front door.

Three lukewarm beers. Four Rum and Cokes and two shots of vodka. Grime-thick tiles of the men’s bathroom, heavy smell of piss and smoke and booze. Remus, boxed in against the far wall by the insistent press of some ginger cunt’s arm by his head, his hand on his waist.

An old, gaping would opening up, low in Sirius’ gut: sluggish black blood, skin in raw tatters.

Hello? You should really get that checked out.

There are no clean glasses in Remus’ kitchen. After propping him up in the hallway, Sirius fills a mug (blue, logo from a car dealership plastered across it, god knows why he owns it) with tap water, brandishes it in front of Remus like a threat. “Here. Just water. Drink it. All of it.”

Remus looks down at the mug with undue confusion, his eyes blank and shiny in the hallway’s dim light. He’s doing this drowsy, bobbing thing with his head—like he’s trying not to fall over, or fall asleep, or both. He always has been a rather docile, sulking drunk—Sirius usually finds it horribly endearing.

Slack smiles. Flushed cheeks. Thumb-smudged face.

“M’not very thirsty,” Remus confesses, soft and slurred. But he takes the mug from Sirius anyway, peers at him over the rim. He’s hazy, half-there—where have you gone? Sirius wants to know. And why didn’t you tell me you were going?

“Well,” he says instead, folding his arms. “You ought to drink it all anyway. It isn’t my fault that you decided to get pissed beyond comprehension for no good reason.” Then (because it’s him): “Come on, Moons. It's late. Drink that and we’ll get you to bed, alright?”

One clumsy gulp, and then another. A wayward lock of hair has fallen into Remus’ eyes, and Sirius needs to rectify it. He’d probably not even remember, he thinks. Oh, he thinks immediately afterwards, but you would, wouldn’t you?

His hands stay where they are.

“Thank you f’taking me home.” Remus rests his head against the wall. Sighs. “I think you might be…feel like you’re angry w’me? Sorry.” Gesturing to himself: “I don’t know why. Just felt like it. You know? Sometimes…”

“I’m not angry with you. Not for…it’s nothing like that.” He takes Remus’ wrist. “Finish your water. Do you feel sick? Do you want a paracetamol?”

“I—” Remus’ sentence dissolves into an unintelligible mumble. He frowns for a while, then says, as if it just occurred to him: “that boy wanted to fuck me. The one from the bar. Red hair.”

Sirius lets go of his wrist. “Yes,” he replies. “I know. I was there.”

“That’s why we went to the…the bathroom. I wanted him too. Liked his accent—did you hear? Can’t remember where it was from. But then you…you came and found us. You wouldn’t let me.”

“No.” Sirius’ body seizes up. He feels like he’s being taxidermized. Some strange, nothing of a bloke, leaning in too close: Remus? Funny name. “It was time to leave. And I don’t think you were in any fit state to tell anyone what you wanted, so I’m not very sorry about it, either.”

Remus scrunches his mouth up, sets it to one side. “That’s not true. I know—I know the things I want. I don’t ever tell you…” he shakes his head. “You’re the one who wants to go out. Always you. And—and you, with all those boys, but when it’s me—”

“Well, it’s different,” Sirius snaps. When he tries to pry the mug from Remus’ hand, he is batted away. “Very fucking different, Remus. He was sober as anything. And look at you. I wasn't just going to stand around and—”

“But he wanted me. Me. Just for a bit. Why can't I let him? What...what am I supposed to do? I have to have someone. If I don’t get to have him, and—don’t get to have who I actually want…” Remus curls his arm over a stomach; he strikes Sirius as some dying animal, trying to protect its softer parts. “I don’t get to have who I want, Sirius.”

“What are you talking about? Who do you want?” Sirius asks, speaking slowly. Remus turns his face away, so Sirius steps forward and turns it back: gentle touch of fingers to cheek. Because there’s this wound in his gut, you see. Been there for a while now.

“Remus? I don't understand. What do you mean? Who is it?"

Drunken little sway. Expression like a frightened rabbit. Sour, rotten smell of alcohol on his breath. Hands and faces and eyes. Remus wets his lips.

“I want…” he says. And then he glances down at his shoes (it's all over). “I want, er—you…you were saying about paracetamol? And…I think I do want some, now? Please?"

#i like that you can interpret these as specifically or broadly as you like. sorry there is no car we just didnt have time #anyway. give it up for paracetamol everybodys girlfriend paracetamol #my fic #r/s #ridi drabbles

69 notes · View notes

mostlydaydreaming · 11 months

Note

So, under that great French doc about Gene on YouTube (that's now in English-hurray) I commented about Gene being a wonderful man and was immediately contradicted by some moron named MissGelly who wanted me to know that he was a bully, hated by all his co-stars. Well, needless to say, I pinned her ears back and wondered if you wanted to add a few salient points, too. I forgot a few things: I didn't tell her Michael Crawford says he owes his fabulous career to Gene Kelly or mention what Patricia Wilson had to say about working with the Hollywood legend in "Take Me Along." Also forgot about his dance assistants, Coyne and Haney, being totally loyal to GK. Indeed, one of them was head over heels in love with him. I don't know why some people insist on spreading this nonsense; I suspect it's because he's very sexy and his choreography is sensual. Sexy is not in vogue these days and always suspect. Some seem intent on making him the face of Classic Hollywood's Me Too. As you know, nothing could be further from the truth. In a world of Bob Fosses, be a Gene Kelly. Cheers!

Ah, the whole purpose of my Mostlydaydreaming Tumblr & YouTube channel. When I discovered Gene Kelly (thru YouTube videos!) I loved him🥰 When I started trying to learn more, there’s a top layer of nothing but Debbie Reynolds quotes and a Cyd Charisse quote taken out of context.

When I dug deeper I found a wonderfully complex man with a huge heart. Faults and weaknesses? Of course, everyone has them. He had a white hot drive to succeed, to prove himself and leave his mark on the world. But he was also an honorable, loyal and loving family man. Yeah he could be hard to work with, but I knew he was more than that. I wanted to defend him.

That’s why I’ve posted interviews from other people who had a completely different view of him: Leslie Caron, Mitzi Gaynor, Cindy Williams, Michael Crawford, Rita Hayworth, Paula Abdul, Betty Garrett, Vera Ellen, etc. etc. etc.

I’ve tried to deal with haters before.

I remember posting a long answer, with links to interviews, articles, videos, trying to show them a different point of view. But all I got was a short smart ass answer that infuriated me, leading to me block them and take down my GK rant. I’m not getting baited again. You did ok. Offer things for them to check out, like YT interviews, and move on. You can lead a horse to water…🤷🏻‍♀️

All most people do is google him and read the first few pages of the same Debbie Reynolds stories and the same negative (usually incomplete) anecdotes:

Debbie’s horrible “french kiss” from Gene. First, this was likely a misunderstanding. It was on camera, it’s not like he trapped her in a dressing room. No other co-star ever claimed that Gene was sexually inappropriate in any way. This kiss was in the final scene. The rest of the kisses in the movie were chaste and he likely wanted a big kiss for the finale, like he had in a few of his other movies. He knew she had practiced screen kissing with another actor, like Judy Garland had done with him for his first movie. He probably didn’t think she would freak out like she did.

Debbie’s bleeding feet & Fred Astaire teaching her how to dance. First bleeding feet is nothing new to dancers. Ginger Rodgers danced with Fred Astaire with bleeding feet but you didn’t hear her bitch about it. Second, Fred Astaire didn’t teach her how to dance (I see this reported a lot). He let her watch him rehearse, which he normally didn’t do. He did it so she could see how much work dancing was, even for him. She watched him get frustrated and even throw his cane. All so she would know, if this is what she wanted to do, this was how much work it was going to take.

Cyd Charisse’s comment about how her husband knew who she danced with because if she danced with Gene she’d be black & blue. No she wasn’t implying Gene beat her! Gene was more physical than Fred with lifts and such, that’s all. They always forget her other comment when people tried to get her preference between the two: They were like apples & oranges, they were both delicious😘

The competitive dinner parties. I’m sorry, it was Gene’s house and he could put on any kind of party he wanted. He liked informality (He and Betsy knew when strangers came because they were the only ones who knocked) He liked sports and competitions. If you don’t like that stuff, don’t go!!! The people who complained most weren’t even real friends of Gene & Betsy at all, but people who tried to use them and their parties to get close to other influential people.

He only wanted young women. Again, most people only look at the surface on this one. Yes, his 1st wife Betsy was 17 when he married her and even younger than that when they started dating. But his girlfriend before her was in her early 20s. (Per articles I’ve found, they were either engaged or very near).

When Betsy left him, she was in her 30s (he in his 40s) and by all accounts, he didn’t want a divorce. If he wanted a younger one, it was the perfect time. But 2nd wife Jeannie was also in her 30s while he was in his 40s. No robbing the cradle there. After Jeannie died, in the late 70s and early 80s he dated women like older actress Jean Simmons and Tony Bennett’s separated ex, Sandra. Not excessively young. As for his 3rd wife, she did have what all his wives had, intelligence. They both loved words and literature. We may question her motives but Gene didn’t pick dumb bimbos. But to say he only wanted much younger women wasn’t true.

And he didn’t just seek young women to take advantage of them. Betsy loved telling the story of how when they dated and she tried to push for more than hugs and kisses, he reminded her that she was still too young for all that.

My GK rant is done🥵 I admire you’re enthusiasm but I don’t feed trolls anymore.

#gene kelly #ask box #I know she’d probably just piss me off #if she really wants to know more - it’s out there - but she probably prefers her bubble #to people like her everything is black and white - no greys - no complexity #btw #I like Debbie but her Gene stories became part of her schtick - her stories to get a laugh between songs #he didn’t reciprocate I’m sure he had a few Debbie stories he could have shared

8 notes · View notes

duckapus · 1 year

Text

Fish Out of Water

So, the thing about the Boopkins species is, they’re fish. Even though they have legs and lungs and can stay on land for a good long while they’re still fish. They need to go in the water at least sometimes or they’ll dry out. And let’s be real, The Goomba is way too self-absorbed(despite what he may think) to notice that his “helpful buddy Fishy” is slowly dying of dehydration.

And this wouldn’t be such a problem, Boopkins probably could have told him, except The Goomba has a habit of grumbling under his breath about things he doesn’t like, and Boopkins Listens so he won’t do those things(because let’s be real, he’s a people pleaser and kind of a pushover, and those mixed with this particular brand of mind control are a match made in hell), and one of the things he doesn’t like is people who complain a lot which is a bit ironic all things considered but if Boopkins mentioned that it’d probably be complaining, so when his scales start itching and he remembers what that means he doesn’t say anything.

……..

Working with The Goomba is…well, it’s Right, it has to be Right, even though Boopkins is tired and itchy and it’s a little awkward being called by his first name when he’s gotten so used to being Boopkins but that’s not really the biggest deal, Dad still calls him Fishy too he has a hard time remembering the last time he saw Dad, so Boopkins doesn’t say anything. Even when they’re asking other people to come help including kids why are we taking kids, and getting money for their projects he’s pretty sure it’s still robbery even if the bank tellers are "willing" participants, and borrowing the studio for The Goomba’s broadcast and every cell in his body is screaming at him to jump in the ocean he doesn’t say anything.

He’s so tired.

……..

You’d think that with just about everyone listening to The Goomba now there would be less for Fishy to do. You’d be wrong, because he’s The Goomba’s Right Hand(and Left Hand. No arms, you know?) so now that he’s in charge of everything they both have so much more to deal with and so many more complaints to grumble and adapt to, especially with the hunt for Mario and his friends going longer than it should. And Fishy keeps slipping up because he’s always so tired and having trouble thinking through the headache and the rules and the itch and The Goomba’s urging him to get more rest but rest won’t help I NEED WATER I’M A FISH IT’S IN MY NAME IT’S IN THE NAME YOU INSIST ON USING YOU STUPID FUCKING MUSHROOM and the only small relief he gets is the sword armed man who he feels like he should remember and who keeps “accidentally” spilling drinks on him(because even brainwashed Bob is a bit of a rebel, and bound and determined to look after his best friend in what little way he can) and he’s

Just.

So.

Tired.

………

Fishy can’t think.

Fishy doesn’t know how he’s standing.

Fishy can barely hear.

Except Goomba. Fishy can always hear Goomba.

Goomba’s talking to new people, the ones on the Wanted Signs he can almost remember putting up. He’s angry.

And then Fishy’s somewhere else, trying to catch more monkeys than a block man. Fishy doesn’t know why.

And then Fishy’s in a staring contest with an angry robe sword girl. Fishy thinks she looks like the drink spilling guy.

And then there’s…singing? There’s bright lights and loud sounds all over and it hurts.

A green girl with a big sword and a purple man with a beard and three floating glowing people that Fishy doesn’t think were there before do Something to Goomba and the world

shifts

and Boopkins is falling, but somebody catches him, and he knows he’s safe now because there’s only One Person who could hold someone so gently with cold razor-sharp steel.

“Boopkins, you with me bro?”

And he wants to say yes so badly, doesn’t want Bob to worry more than absolutely necessary(and it’d be hard for anyone to tell with That Voice but he’s already absolutely frantic), but he’s still sorting between what’s real and what’s the dehydration headache and what’s The Goomba, and he remembers something important.

“was s’posed t’ pick up Jubjub…”

Bob chokes out something between a laugh, a sob and a scoff, which just sounds weird coming from him if you’re not used to it, “already handled it. C’mon, let’s get you fixed up before the dead fish smell sets off Karen’s instincts.”

And less than a minute later he’s in one of Steve’s cauldrons, and it’s cramped and Minecraft water’s always had a weird texture and he doesn’t care because in his state a swamp would feel like a hot spring and this is definitely better than a swamp. For the first time in weeks he can think and he’s wet and he’s happy and he’s Boopkins.

And he’s still tired

And that’s finally okay.

10 notes · View notes

autumntouched · 1 year

Text

Talk to Me | Ch. 5

Fic Summary: Phoenix isn't sure she made the right call in leaving Maverick and Rooster behind on the mission. Rooster, Bob, and Hangman each try to cheer her up, in their own, very different ways.

Pairings: Past Natasha “Phoenix” Trace x Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw, Natasha “Phoenix” Trace x Jake “Hangman” Seresin

A/N: Natasha turns to the Floyd family chat

Natasha reminds herself, for the third time in the span of a minute, that Bob's intentions were pure if not his execution.

If Bob wins, Hangman has to do what he says for the rest of their time in North Island, including an immediate halt to any and all jokes and comments about Natasha’s gender. No side glances, quips, or sarcasm. It’s enticing.

But if Hangman wins, Bob does what Hangman says. For some reason, that means Bob going to The Hard Deck at least once wearing only his helmet, a diaper, shoes, and a pacifier around his neck and replying “they call me baby on board” to anyone who asks about it.

“No,” Natasha puts her foot down.

“I don’t even want to see that,” Payback adds. “No offense, Bob.”

Hangman looks like he was expecting their resistance. He leans back on his hands with a half smile. “What makes you so confident in my braiding abilities, Phoenix? Otherwise this is an easy way out for you.”

“You could, you know, just stop being a dickhead,” she offers.

He would not have made the bet if he weren’t confident he could win. And while she has an inkling of how Bob came by his knowledge, Natasha has no idea where Hangman might have learned and perfected the art of french braiding. She tries to ignore the other question nagging for her attention. He keeps saying her name like there's some secret between them he’s waiting for her to acknowledge.

Rooster leans against the wall beside her bed. “I told you she wasn’t going to go for it,” he gloats.

Hands on his hips, Fanboy throws his head back in exasperation. “Fine, can we get back to the game then? Payback and I were making a comeback.” Everyone turns to look at him in only his nautical boxers.

“That seems a little…optimistic,” Bob offers with a genuine look of concern.

Natasha is going to need leave from her leave with the four of them. “How about you two make another bet that doesn’t involve me and get out of my room. This is my personal time!” Too late she catches herself and does her best to keep the sinking horror that drops her heart into her stomach from reaching her face. Bob’s mouth forms a silent ‘O’, and Payback looks at her like she just blew their training exercise on a stupid error.

Hangman rolls his toothpick along his lips, somehow managing to make the gesture obscene. He is practically giddy, his green eyes dancing mercilessly. “Are you telling us I’m not the only one you enjoy giving the finger to regularly?”

If Natasha doesn’t strangle him, Rooster looks like he will.

“Dude, what the fuck?” Payback stands up and takes a deliberate seat farther down the bed.

Fanboy points at Hangman. “That’s it, Mister! You just lost your brain privileges.”

Natasha holds her hand out to Bob. “Unlock and give me your phone.” It’s halfway out of his pocket before he thinks to ask why. “Because. I need to know how good you are at french braiding.”

“I know how to braid hair,” he insists. She gives him a look that threatens his well-being on their next flight, and he scrambles to hand over the phone.

Hangman sits up. “What are you doing?”

Natasha goes to Bob’s messages and scrolls to the group chat she saw earlier. “I’m making sure Bob can win and shut you up for the rest of our leave.”

FFF (Fab Floyd Four Group Chat)

Natasha tosses the phone back to Bob who scrolls through it to check the damage. She looks at Hangman. “Whatever Bob says?” she checks.

He grins. “Whatever he says.”

“And I’m the judge?”

“It has to be objective.”

“I am objective,” she snorts.

Hangman glances at Bob. “Who did she just text?”

Bob looks at Natasha to see what she wants him to answer. She shrugs. “My sisters.”

“Uh uh! No!” Hangman waves his arms across one another. “That’s absolutely not objective.”

She folds her arms over her chest and tosses her head at the other guys. “And you trust any of them to judge?”

Hangman glances around and realizes she has a point. He thinks for a moment. “What about your ma?”

“My what!” Natasha yelps. How has this entire situation only escalated?

“All of you except Bob get to call on one person to be the judge,” he says generously.

Rooster smiles wryly under skeptical brows. “Have you considered, Hangman, that we’ve all complained about you to someone else?”

A crestfallen look flashes through Hangman’s eyes as a scan of their faces confirms the truth of Rooster’s words. Natasha almost feels bad for him but of course he rallies before she can feel too much regret and gives Rooster one of his most dazzling smiles. “Guess it will have to be a blind vote then. To be fair.” He waves a hand at them. “Go ahead, line up your folks. And careful what you say because I will be the one sending the pictures for them to vote on. No cheating.”

Natasha cannot believe she is actually texting her mother to judge a braiding contest. Valerie responds a little too enthusiastically. Jamming her phone into her pocket, she looks between Hangman and Bob. “Who’s up first?”

Bob feels around in his pocket for a coin. “Heads or tails?”

Hangman cocks his head. “Tails.”

He goes first. Not that she wants to be alone with Hangman but nor does Natasha want all eyes on her while Hangman and Bob play salon. She kicks the rest of them out to wait in the hall.

“I didn’t wash my hair this morning,” she warns, taking a seat on the room’s stiff sofa with her back against the arm. She unwinds the hair tie from her ponytail.

“Makes it easier,” he says, getting up to stand behind her.

Natasha isn’t sure what she was expecting, but his sure fingers combing gently through her hair catch her off guard. He touches her forehead to tilt her head back.

“Where did you learn to braid?” she asks to push away the strange silence. His fingers and hands move confidently and deftly as they weave the strands of her hair. It took her years of practice to get the braid as tight as he keeps it. Not that he ever needs to know that.

“At home.”

She rolls her eyes at his literal response. “I mean, who taught you?”

“My sister.” He lightly nudges her head forward. Natasha follows the motion of his knuckles, trying to ignore the way her stomach flutters when he brushes her scalp while gathering her hair or when his fingers graze her neck.

For some reason, she didn’t know until now that Hangman has a sister. There were a few short days when they first met in training at Meridian, before his personality overtook his looks, that Natasha was intrigued by the chiseled jaw, megawatt smile, and mercurial sea glass eyes. But the most she learned then was that he bled Texas and drove to Mississippi with a trunk full of Big Red soda.

“Older or younger?”

“Older. She hated having long hair but Ma insisted so she wore it in braids. She taught me when she broke her arm so I could help her.”

That is a side of Hangman that Natasha’s never seen before. Going out of his way to be helpful instead of a dick. She wonders what his sister must be like for him to take such care in learning. A saint, probably. Or an even bigger dick. Natasha would love to see someone hand Hangman’s ass to him.

He interrupts her train of thought. “If we’re asking questions, where’d you learn to play football like that?”

Is there a note of respect in his voice? When Maverick first put them on the same team for dogfight football, she had considered trading places with Halo to play with Rooster and Bob. But in the end, she wanted to prove she could play well with anyone. And to her—and Hangman’s—surprise, when he didn’t use her as bait, they made an exceptional team. Turns out, his need to be the best and hers to win made them a good match.

“At home,” she says, returning the favor.

“Fine. From who?” There is a smile in his voice.

“My brothers. They used to make me run routes with them. Mostly as an excuse to pick me up and throw me on the ground.”

Hangman chuckles. “No wonder you’re so tough.”

There are many words Natasha had guessed Hangman would use to describe her but ‘tough’ was not among them. She tries not to let herself feel too gratified to know that’s what he thinks of her. Before she can probe those feelings further, he finishes off the braid, carefully wrapping her hair tie around the ends until it is snug. And then he does something that Natasha wishes someone else saw so she could be sure it actually happened. What he does is so strange and out of character.

Hangman caresses her braid, lightly running his hand along its length from her neck to the ends. His touch is achingly tender before it disappears. He is oddly quiet when Rooster, Bob, Payback, and Fanboy crowd back inside. Payback, the best photographer among them, positions Natasha closer to the window so he can take well lit pictures of Hangman’s work from every angle.

Fanboy watches, worried. “You sure you can beat that, Bob? It looks pretty good to me.”

That shakes Hangman out of his silence. “Time to break out those Depends, Baby on Board.”

Bob merely smiles. Natasha hopes he has an ace up his sleeve because when Payback shows her the pictures, she has to hold back an exclamation of appreciation. The braid is neat and tight, each of the sections evenly gathered. For Bob’s turn, Hangman insists on remaining in the room so he can be sure Natasha doesn’t give him a hand. Rooster complains about them all being able to stay but she shoves him out too.

“No talking,” Bob bargains with Hangman while Natasha settles back onto the sofa after combing out her hair.

“Actually, I want to hear more about your secret sister,” she says. Bob takes longer to shake out her hair.

Hangman lays back on her bed, pillowing his head on his arms. “She’s not a secret. Maybe you just need to get to know me a little better.”

“Consider this my effort,” she retorts.

“Someone’s not her usual sunny self.”

“You tend to have that effect on people, Bagman,” sighs Bob. He’s moving gingerly through her hair, his motions slower and less sure than Hangman’s. She hopes she didn’t make a mistake agreeing to this. For his sake.

Natasha heads off the conversation getting sidetracked again. “What’s her name?”

“Colleen. I’m three years younger. She was furious that I turned out to be a boy instead of the sister she asked my parents for so she made me do all the girly things with her. My Little Pony, Easy Bake Oven, dress up. At least she liked Star Wars.”

“Why did girls like Easy Bake Ovens?” Bob complains. “The food was always so gross.”

“Extremely but not as gross as the time Colleen convinced me to drink half a bottle of vanilla extract when I was six. She kept telling me a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down and next thing I knew, I was drunk and barfing into a fresh basket of laundry.”

Natasha forgets Bob is trying to do her hair and turns to look at Hangman in disbelief. “How do you get drunk off a bottle of vanilla extract?”

“Phoenix!” Bob yelps, trying to tug her head back.

“Oops, sorry.”

“Hey! There’s a lot of alcohol in vanilla extract. That stuff should come with a warning.” Hangman sits up. “That’s not a french braid.”

“Is too.”

“Is not.”

“Just because your braid was basic,” Bob scoffs, and Natasha hides her laugh in a cough. “My sisters washed my hair with the expensive conditioner my mom kept in her cabinet. Turned out it was Nair. It was worth it for the look on my sister’s face when clumps of my hair started coming out in her hand, but people did end up thinking I was sick for several weeks after until the bald patches grew back in.”

Natasha cackles at both their misadventures. By the time she was five, she had earned so many bumps, bruises, and breaks trying to keep up with her brothers that her mother enrolled all of them in ballet in the hope it would moderate their more rambunctious tendencies.

“How did we survive sisters?” Hangman shakes his head.

“Sisters!” Natasha interjects. “My brother pushed me off my uncle’s truck because I told a girl he had a crush on her.”

“Why would you do that?” Hangman and Bob ask in unison.

“Geez. I was ten.”

Bob ties off her braid.

“What did you do?” Hangman demands, coming over to them to examine Bob’s work

“It’s a french braid but a fishtail,” Bob explains.

She reaches up to touch the braid. Gabby had tried to teach her how to do this style for their cousin’s wedding but Natasha was too impatient to learn. So Bob did have an ace up his sleeve.

“You should be disqualified but I’ll let it slide,” Hangman says, letting in the guys from the hall.

Payback whistles when he sees Natasha’s hair. “Dang Bob! That’s fancy.”

Natasha goes to the bathroom so she can see the back with the mirror and her phone camera. Rooster and Fanboy follow her to the doorway.

“How did he do that?” Fanboy marvels.

Rooster’s FaceTime rings. In the mirror, he gives her a sheepish look before he accepts the call.

“Wait, who did Sash’s hair!” Gabby exclaims.

Natasha whips around from checking her profile. “Why do you have my sister’s number?”

Like a dog with a nose for trouble, Hangman pops up behind Rooster. “Yes, tell us, Rooster, why you have a pair of stunning sisters in your phone.”

Before a very stricken Rooster can answer, Gabby says cuttingly, “And you must be Bagman.” For the doubletake Hangman does as Fanboy howls behind his fist, Natasha will put up with her sister’s insistence on worming herself into Natasha’s life.

“Don’t believe everything your sister tells you about me,” Hangman replies with his charm dialed up to full blast.

“Well she didn’t lie about your looks.”

Natasha takes back any goodwill toward her sister when Hangman turns to her and lifts his eyebrows.

"Is that so?" he drawls.

And to her horror, she blushes.

Masterlist | Chapter 4 | Chapter 6

#top gun maverick #top gun fanfiction #top gun fanfic #natasha phoenix trace #natasha trace fic #bradley rooster bradshaw #jake hangman seresin #phoenix x hangman #phoenix x rooster #hangman x phoenix #hannix #robert bob floyd #floyd family group chat #trace family call #natasha trace has a sister

12 notes · View notes

arithecreatorsstuff · 1 year

Text

Mondays Suck

Triggers: office drudgery, bored Rabbit, surly anomalies, Clef being... Clef, teasing the boss for a change.

After a blissful two days off under the Plague Doctor's expert care, I'm back at my desk, facing a mountain of paperwork. Ugh. We're allowed computers and cell phones, yet O5 insist on causing the death of entire forests in the name of record keeping. There's no way we need all this crap. But... a surprisingly squishy orange blob of mercy is squelching his way toward me, carrying a cup of tea... and a small flower arrangement. Judging by the single red rose surrounded by lavender, my dear Doctor was thinking of me.

"Aw, thanks Little Dude. You didn't need to do this, but I appreciate it." I take the gifts, and hug the little gleeful glob. Maybe today is gonna be okay. "Hey, would you tell 049 thank you as well?" A quick squeeze and a nod. I look around... and slip my buddy one of my secret stash of peanut butter cups. Happy gurgles, then everyone's favorite pal heads off. I tackle my reports, tea in hand.

Iris comes in after a while, looking less than happy. Apparently Big Brother is being... his normal self. Which means, picking fights with his guards, despite me trying to explain that this is a bad idea. Yeah... I need to talk to him. Preferably before anyone dies.

"Hey, I just saw 999. He might be helpful. He's still nearby, grab him and meet me at his quarters. If anyone needs a good tickle fight, it's Abel."

"Don't tell me, Abel's misbehaving again?" Clef pops his head in. "Better stock up on candy if you're bringing 999, Abel scares him."

"Dr. Clef. We're Abel's sisters. And Abel in full rampage scares US. Believe us, we know how he is." Iris chimes, annoyed. I grab extra sweets, and we get ready to deal with Abel. Dr. Clef grabs a shotgun and follows. But... no Tickle Monster. Grr. Fine. Time for plan "B" for "Bad Ideas in Site (REDACTED) History".

I'm the first in, and seeing my big brother is just about to do something we'll all regret, I throw a discarded ammo clip at the back of his head. It hits him dead on, but he ignores it.

"Oi! Knock it off, Abel. We know you want to kill something. I get it. But... poor Bob here has a wife and three daughters. He, I imagine, would like to go home to them. Why not let him?"

He's still got Bob by his collar, ready to strike. But he hesitates. He looks Bob in the eye.

"You should be grateful my sisters are here to talk me out of killing you. They are right, you do not deserve death by my hands. Get out of my sight." Abel releases Bob, who does the sensible thing and legs it. Abel then turns to us, still ready to kill.

Okay, Plan "D" for "Dumbass" it is. I open my mouth, and order Clef to get everyone else out. I draw my shock baton, and wait.

"He's gonna kill you, Rabbit."

"Yeah? I'm expendable. Get out, Clef. Take everyone with you. Big Brother and I need to have a chat." Clef nods, then sets his shotgun by my feet. And I'm alone with Abel. He's still got murder in his eyes. More importantly he's still holding a sword. He charges at me, and I dodge. A few more attempts, and then he's really angry. Angry enough to be stupid. He forgot about the shotty. I grab the gun, swing, and knock him across his enclosure. I then fire at his chest, both barrels. This staggers him, little more. But, he stops.

"You... shot... me." He drops to one knee. No normal man would even still be conscious, let alone speaking. Not with two huge holes in his chest.

"You tried to kill everybody. Again. We talked about this."

"Can't... can't.... help..." He starts coughing, blood flying out of his mouth. "I'm... sorry." I toss the empty shotgun to one side, and hold my brother as the life fades from his eyes. "Proud... of... you.., Little Sister."

"Knock it off, we both know you'll be back in 6 months."

"Still... had to... to... say it." He reaches up and musses my hair. A gesture of brotherly affection. Then... he's gone. The MTFs, Clef and Iris come back as I'm crying over his rapidly decaying body. Iris hugs me.

"Rabbit, I'm sorry."

"It's okay, Iris. We know how Big Brother is."

"Young lady... you're under orders to take the afternoon off. Mondays suck in general, but this is a bit extreme. Iris, go take Rabbit, and do something, anything not related to the Foundation for a while. Hell, give her a full makeover or whatever you need to, she's done enough today."

"Dr. Clef, you're babying me. This is pretty par for Abel, as far as records go. Just give me an hour or so and I'm good. I do not qualify for special treatment just because the big meathead adopted me. Did Strelnikof get time off for shooting Abel? Did Fitzsimmons? No? I shouldn't either. I'm even willing to stay after hours, I just want to forget it happened. C'mon, Sis... I need a shower, then we're gonna go bake cookies or some crap. Although... it's kinda tempting to give YOU a makeover, Doc. You think he'd look good in dark eyeliner, maybe hot pink nail polish, Iris? Oh, and I just got this stunning green velvet dress, might fit Cleffy better though."

"Blue would bring out his eyes more. All three of them."

"I'm trying to be a compassionate boss here, and you're mocking me."

"Sorry, Doctor Clef. Trauma response is strong in this one. We're going. So... Iris, the eternal debate... chocolate chip or double chocolate chunk?"

"Double chocolate chunk. Easy."

"And that is why you're my favorite sister. You are a young woman of culture as well. We should, however, set some aside for Doctor Clef, as he's been very helpful. You think two dozen is enough?"

#scp foundation #scp 076 2 #agent rabbit #tales from site redacted

8 notes · View notes

thewarriorspecial · 11 months

Text

Greenhill High (CH3 - First Class)

*Archive Edition* Previously only linked to AO3, full work now available under the cut.

Read on AO3

Rating: Teen | Guy Gardner/Kyle Rayner, Hal Jordan, John Stewart, Dinah Lance, Oliver Queen, Wally West, Katma Tui

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence

A little something special for @hobicat!

Kyle steps up to the challenge of teaching his very first class. He gets caught ogling Guy from afar and he gets pulled deeper into the plots afoot at his new job.

Kyle takes a deep breath to steady himself and heads into his new classroom. Two steps in he realizes.

He doesn’t have his bag.

He doesn’t even have pencils.

He’s not ready.

He feels like he’s in one of those Naked In Math Class dreams as he crosses the front of the room. Twenty-five teenagers, armed to the teeth with finely honed trolling skills eye him up like a pack of piranhas.

“Hey everyone!” He says awkwardly, standing in the front of the classroom like a lump.

No one moves. No one blinks.

“So,” Kyle says, clearing his suddenly dry throat, “I’m Mr. Rayner. I’ll, uh, write that on the board,” he stammers, looking for chalk and finding a black marker. “Right. Whiteboard. Okay.”

“No, wait!” One of the students cries out as Kyle gets the first few letters out.

Kyle looks down at the Sharpie in his hand, “Ah, fuck! I mean shit! Oh boy.” He frantically rubs at the growing black smear with the heel of his hand. Several students burst out laughing.

The pink-haired girl appears next to him with spray-cleaner and paper towels. “Here,” she says gently, “Just don’t use that spot. It has to be re-waxed.”

“Ohmigodthankyou,” Kyle whispers.

The young girl returns to her seat.

Kyle slowly turns to face the class. The students that were laughing have covered their mouths. Some have looked away. They all appear to be attempting to compose themselves. Kyle appreciates their restraint.

“Man,” Kyle says, leaning on the desk, “I was gonna come in here and just jump in and like wow you guys. Like, I was gonna start with art philosophy and criticism and how not feeling it is also a valid experience.” He hangs his head and laughs at himself. “Hopefully I got my damage out of the way for the day. Alright!” Kyle walks to the front of the desk and leans back on it, shaking his shoulders out and taking a more relaxed pose. “Let’s do the normal thing and just, like, tell me your name and why you picked Art for your elective. I’m Kyle,” he says, pointing at himself, “I went to art school because I love to paint and I picked this class because I like paying my bills on time. Let’s start here with my hero,” he points to the pink-haired girl, “and we’ll work our way around, yeah?”

“So, everybody knows I’m Sarah!” The pink-haired girl says excitedly to the whole class. Everyone responds warmly with smiles and a playful drone of ‘Hi Sarah’. “So, I draw all the time. I love pencil the most and I love trees and birds but like, I love anime too, though! Oh and I do photography sometimes! I’m just all about it, yeah.”

“That’s awesome, Sarah. I’m really excited to have you. Go ahead,” Kyle says and points to the blonde girl next to her.

“I’m Heather,” the petite, pale girl with freckles says, tucking one side of her perfectly smooth long bob behind her ear without looking up. “Um, Sarah really likes my flowers. Um, I paint but like it’s just the cheap dollar store stuff like, I’m not—“

“You are!” Sarah insists.

“I am not!”

“You so are!”

“Ok, like I’m a painter, I guess. So yeah I wanna be like, better,” Heather finishes, still looking down but smiling.

“That’s great, Heather. You know I love painting, too. We’re gonna have fun. Alright, next?”

The girl next to Heather is in complete contrast. Heather is wearing pastel clothes in fitted, classic cuts with chunky, white-rimmed sunglasses resting on top of her platinum blonde hair. She sits perfectly straight, hands in her lap and ankles crossed.

The next girl sits slid halfway down her chair with one elbow slung across the back. All of the tears in her black clothes are held together with rows of safety pins. Dozens of patches adorn her jeans and hoodie. Her dark hair is in elaborate patterns of braids with some of them dyed a deep red. When she smiles, her canines are pronounced and sharp. “Everybody just calls me Ray cuz they can’t spell my name. Normally, I’m in music or with my band doing drums however,” she slides out from the table, showing off the calf-high cast full of drawings and signatures, “I broke my foot doing a really cool jump on my skateboard soooo, I’m taking a little break.”

“That’s awesome! You’re in a band?” Kyle asks.

“Yup. Thrash. Speed metal. That kinda thing.”

“She’s literally the best,” says Sarah.

“Soy la mera mera,” Ray laughs, pointing both of her thumbs at herself.

“Muy bueno! We’ll make sure to incorporate music into our lessons. Okay, next?” Kyle continues around the room getting answers that mostly fit the typical art lover molds. A few more students are trying something new.

The round-robin introductions arrive at a tall, lanky boy with strawberry blonde hair sequestered in the back corner with an empty chair between himself and the next student on either side of the table. Kyle can’t see the boy’s face because he’s holding a large ice pack over his eye.

“I’m Dave. This is the only elective that still had seats, so,” he says quietly with a shrug.

“That’s cool, man. You don’t have to be good at art to appreciate and you don’t even have to like art to do well in my class,” Kyle says and that makes Dave perk up. “All I ask is that you use what I teach you to tell me why you think something sucks and that’s good enough for me.”

“I could tell you that your favorite painting sucks and you’d still pass me?” David asks.

“You can tell me my paintings suck. As long as you show me you understand the concepts I’m teaching you can tell me: Hey, Mr. Rayner, you’re paintings are very colorful and realistic but they don’t say anything. I don’t feel anything when I look at them. And then use what I taught you to explain why and, yeah, you can tell me my paintings suck and get an A.”

“Oh. Cool.”

Kyle smiles to himself. He couldn’t have asked for a more interesting group of students. His head is already buzzing with new directions he wants to take the next days’ lessons.

He finishes letting the students introduce themselves, and with the little bit of time he has leftover he lets them vote on which medium they want to start learning with. Paint wins out by a huge margin. He decides they’ll start monochrome, looking at line and value. He already has several famous paintings in mind to discuss at the end.

——

Kyle finds himself unoccupied during his break period. Without any papers to grade and his lesson plan mapped out, he finds himself lamenting this whole adjunct/part-time thing. He really, really regrets forgetting his bag because now he has nothing to draw with.

Kyle leans back in his desk chair and resumes trying to balance a pencil on his forehead. How did he keep himself busy back in high school? He can’t even remember a time when he didn’t draw every minute he was awake.

He remembers going to the movies and haunting local diners late into the evening. He has fond memories of himself and his friends packing into the arcade. He remembers cutthroat Dance Dance Revolution competitions. Anytime he wasn’t drawing he had a pack of friends to pass the time with. They shared earbuds and mixtapes. They laid on the ground and watched clouds go overhead.

It’s a gorgeous day outside and the windows of Kyle’s room give a beautiful view of the sky and part of the nearby houses. The stadium sale seat that surround the football field cut a sharp, metallic line just below the homes on the tallest hills.

The sharp screech of a whistle draws Kyle’s attention. Either gym class or one of the teams is out there. Kyle walks to the window wondering what the school’s colors even are.

A quick glance down and Kyle sees shiny helmets shimmering above maroon and silver football uniforms. He feels his cheeks flush as he can’t help but scan the field hopefully for that trademark flash of red hair.

Kyle spots the only person not in a football uniform and he hears the distinct timbre of Coach Gardner’s voice. He’s too far away to make out what he shouting even at the extreme volume.

Guy’s demonstrating some kind of running drill involving cones and turns and just entirely too many steps in Kyle’s opinion. Guy takes off sprinting in perfect form, big chest bouncing and back flexing under his tight, polo with every step.

Kyle’s hands grip the windowsill and his throat goes painfully dry.

When Guy stops and turns, the long, long line of his legs bunches and flexes. The fact that he’s got super-tight Underarmor covering every inch of skin from neck to ankle does nothing to hide his statuesque figure. When he finishes his demonstration, he lifts the hem of his shirt to wipe the sweat from his face.

Now Kyle really, really regrets forgetting his sketchbook.

“Do I really want to throw this job away to get tangled up with another teacher?” Kyle thinks. In his mind, he imagines cartoon devil and angel versions of himself perching on his shoulders and arguing about it.

“Look at him. He has abs. He has the things!” Devil Kyle sighs, gesturing at his hips.

“We have a job.” Kyle thinks.

“Look at him! Fuck this job,” says Devil Kyle. And he has a point.

Kyle turns to look at Angel Kyle who is adjusting himself uncomfortably under his robes.

“It’s been two years. We’re not Kardashians; we don’t have to be sloppy about it.”

“Really?!” Kyle thinks.

“I’m just saying, we’re all adults here. Coworkers have sex all the time. We weren’t planning on doing it at school,” says Angel Kyle, quite reasonably. After a pause he asks, just to clarify, “Were we?’ He almost sounds hopeful.

Kyle shakes his head to pull himself out of his daydream. There’s more unintelligible shouting and then he hears Guy laugh. It is a gorgeous, honest sound and Kyle feels himself sigh. He wants to press in close and fell that laugh rumble through his own body. He wants to reach his hands under that tight, sweaty shirt. He wants—

“I see you like the redheads.”

Kyle nearly jumps out of his skin. He sees Jordan standing not two feet away and wonders how long he’s been there.

Jordan raises the steaming mug he’s holding to his lips as he raises an eyebrow. He glances down at a small, tan bird with a red head sitting on the outside windowsill and then back up at Kyle. He smirks.

“Uh?” Kyle grunts. He looks at the little bird. It looks up and cheeps at him.

“House finch. Very pretty song.”

“Oh. You’re a birdwatcher.”

“I watch everything,” the English teacher says, bouncing the tea bag in his mug. “Which reminds me, there’s this little café some of the staff likes to visit. They have a projector and we watch bad movies. Very MST3000. Guy will be there.”

Jordan lifts the teabag out of the hot water, letting it drip for a moment. The he places it in his mouth, sucking the tea out of it. He winds the string around his finger. He licks the bead of warm liquid off of his top lip very slowly. He keeps his eyes locked on Kyle the whole time, looking immeasurably pleased with himself. “You should come.”

“Uh. Okay. Cool.” Kyle manages to squeeze the words out. He knows his eyes helplessly followed the path of Jordan’s tongue from one corner of his mouth to the other. He knows Jordan watched, unblinking.

Jordan tosses head, flinging his bangs out of hi face, “See you there.” He turns to stride elegantly out of the room. He makes it two steps before he slams his knee off of a table leg and hisses.

Before Kyle can ask if he’s okay he hears Jordan mutter, “Fucking kill myself,” as he stomps out of the room, licking spilled tea off of his wrist.

The little bird in the window sings its high, lilting song. It sounds like a schoolgirl’s giggle.

“What. The fuuuck?” Kyle whispers to himself.

——

Guy walks towards a 20 year old, dented Dodge Neon. Most people identify it because the driver’s side door is red and the rest of the vehicle is blue, but Guy wasn’t gifted with color vision. The thing’s got so much damage it looks like a trash can that’s been tossed in a rainstorm a hundred times.

“Ay, Oscar da Grouch,” Guy hollers, rapping his knuckles on Hal’s car window.

Hal is laid back in the front seat with his jacket over his face. The collection of fast food bags, paperback books, and spare clothing doesn’t help the comparison. “Go. Away.”

“Fine. Get your own snacks.”

“Wait,” Hal shouts, sitting up and pulling the jacket off of his head. He spies Fruit Roll Ups and Flaming Hot Cheetos in Guy’s hands. He can’t let Mr. Piggy abscond with the best snacks the gas station across the street can offer.

Hal pulls the door handle to its limit and kicks it several times to get it to creak open. After he gets out, he forces it shut with a groan and crunch. “Hey!” He shouts again.

Guy tosses a Fruit Roll Up over his shoulder, smacking Hal directly between the eyes.

“Uncivilized wretch.”

“Weird way’a sayin’ thank you,” Guy says over his shoulder. He slows down a little so Hal can catch up. They head towards their bench that sits near the school entrance.

Hal sits crosslegged on the bench, gathering the offered packages of snacks in his lap like a basket.

“You done bein’ mad at me now?”

“I accept your generous peace offering,” Hal says, looking at Guy sideways and through the curtain of his bangs. “I thought you enjoyed our jesting.”

“Well, Lancelot, the jesting used to come with a lot more kissing. Now it just feels like jousting.” Guy pushes his sunglasses onto his head and looks over at Hal.

“Oh,” Hal says softly. He turns to fully look at Guy for a long moment, immediately seeing the confused scrunch of his eyebrows and the sad, sideways pull on his lips. Hal’s heart still skips a little at Guy’s half-pout. It’s still cute. He asks, “Do you want me to stop?”

“Nah, I just…” Guy trails off, shoving a few Cheetos in his mouth as he thinks it over. “I just don’t know how to tell when you’re playin’ and when I’m really pissin’ you off anymore. I don’t wanna lose you,” he says, meeting Hal’s eyes again.

Hal looks away.

Guy puts his hand on Hal’s shoulder, “We’re cool, right?”

Hal takes a deep breath, swallows hard before he turns back. “We’re cool,” he says, mostly honest. He wants to be. He wants things to be like they were when they rode their bikes to the park and played D&D on the weekends. Before his car broke down and he noticed all the freckles on the back of Guy’s hands as he changed the serpentine belt. Before that goddamn French project that paired them up alone in the back of the library.

“You’re a tough nut to crack sometimes, Hal.”

“Je peux être en peu difficile,” Hal offers with a shrug and a lopsided grin.

“Tu pouvez être un peu belliqueux,” Guy’s thick American accent lopes heavily on the consonants, thumping and clumsy compared to Hal’s near perfect, nasal vowels. He pronounces the last word less like belliqueux and more like belle à cou but Hal holds back the vampire joke.

“Tout est jutse dans l’amour et la guerre,” Hal plays on the word Guy meant to pronounce instead. He offers a rare, warm smile as well.

“Alright, we have our little signal now. I can live with that.” Guy can’t help but smile back.

“Will you come to Radu’s this weekend?”

Guy pauses to think about his practice schedule, “Probably won’t be till like, six?”

“That’s perfect.”

“Alright man. Here,” Guy offers the rest of the Cheetos to Hal, remembering they’re his favorite. “See you Saturday.”

“Later.”

Hal’s glad they had this talk. He’s looking forward to his setting his plan in motion. He wants to see his best friend happy.

Even if his heart still aches a little.

A/N:

I'm new at Spanish and I haven't actually used French since college. Don't judge me! :'<

Also, sorry for the slow-burn I've accidentally created. So many ideas! So many!

#*myfic #guykyle #highschool au

0 notes

sobsicles · 3 years

Text

claire's not expecting them to be at the door. she blinks at the sight of four men all huddled on the stoop with flowers and what appears to be bags of food flowing from their arms. jack is peeking above a bouquet, beaming at her.

"who's at the door?!" jody calls from the kitchen, her voice muffled by the sound of grease popping and the clanking of pans and spatulas meeting over and over.

"god," claire calls back, because she likes to think she's funny.

there's a beat of silence, and then jody's sticking her head out the kitchen. the moment she sees them, she breaks out into a grin and saunters over, shoving the spatula in claire's hand as she chatters away.

"what's going on out there?" donna asks as claire escapes back to the kitchen to poke at food jody is apparently willing to burn just because the winchesters decided to show their faces today of all days.

"judgement day," claire says dryly.

donna shares a look with patience. "haven't we dealt with that already a few times?"

"only by association," claire admits, "but i wouldn't put it past them to bring it along with 'em now. the boys are here."

"oh, isn't that nice?" donna chirps, already popping up from her chair. "i didn't know they were stopping by today."

"wonder how sam's doing," patience agrees, wandering out the kitchen right along with donna. claire can hear everyone cracking up and talking in the living room.

trust the winchesters to shake things up just by showing up. can't have one goddamn day, can they? well, that's not true. in their case, as far as claire is concerned, they're shitty for showing up and shitty for not. someone has to knock 'em all down a peg or two, so she might as well be the one.

"what did that chicken ever do to you?" kaia asks teasingly as she sidles into the kitchen and stops by the stove, hip-checking claire out of the way to take over.

"the boys are here," claire informs her.

kaia raises her eyebrows. "like, the boys as in the winchesters, or is this a milkshake pun?"

"i can only be so gay, sweetheart," claire says, shooting her a flat look.

"raise the bar a little. could be gayer. you can always be gayer," kaia teases, reaching out to sneak her hand around claire's hip, her eyes bright with amusement.

"you know what? you're right," claire agrees and immediately tries to cop a feel while kaia laughs and dances out of range.

jack appears in the doorway. "hello," he says, whispering for some reason. "claire, i need your help."

"no," claire says, not even glancing at him. she continues to try and put her hand up kaia's shirt, just to see her laugh.

"can i borrow twenty dollars?" jack asks.

"no. aren't you god?"

"yes, but i don't get paid to be."

"well, sucks for you. borrow money from cas," claire mutters, settling in behind kaia as she focuses on the food on the stove, swatting lazily at claire's roaming hands.

"he'll just borrow money from dean."

"borrow from sam."

"he'll just borrow money from dean."

"borrow from—wait, why does it matter if it's from dean? just borrow from him."

jack huffs. "i can't. i need the money for dean. i have a card, and i read online it's customary to give money with a card. also, will you sign it?"

"you got dean a card?" claire asks, craning her head around to stare at jack skeptically.

"yes."

"don't tell me it's for what i think it is."

"mother's day," jack confirms unironically.

claire wheezes out a laugh. "oh my god."

"there's a pen in the catty on the fridge," kaia says, clearly amused.

"yeah. yeah, this is—yeah." claire chokes on more laughter and stumbles towards the group of pens in the magnet container on the fridge. she waggles her fingers at jack, clearing her throat, lips twitching. "hand it over, beanstalk. you're a fucking genius."

"oh! thank you," jack declares cheerfully, passing over the card. "so, can i borrow twenty dollars?"

"hell no," claire says. she braces the card against the fridge and swallows down a laugh. sam has already signed it. this just gets better and better. happy mother's day, old man, aka the secondary source of my mommy and daddy issues. you're going for gold with this double-whammy, she writes.

"but i need it," jack insists, staring at her with wide eyes.

claire shrugs. "tough break, kid. what, cas doesn't give you an allowance? is it just me, or are dads getting stricter these days?"

"i didn't think about it in advance," jack admits sadly. "i want to do it right for the holiday. it's mother's day, claire."

"i'm well aware. sorry to break it to you, kid, but last I checked, your mom's as dead as mine," claire tells him, her voice flat. he frowns and she forces herself not to feel bad. everything that sucks for him sucked for her first, so her sympathy levels are a little drained. "father's day will roll around eventually, and you've got a long line of those, so wait your turn."

"i've already done something for my mother today," jack says slowly, his eyebrows furrowed. "i visited her in heaven."

claire snorts derisively and passes the card back over. "must be nice."

"it was," jack agrees, completely missing the point. "i really can't borrow twenty dollars? i'll pay you back."

"nah," claire says. "who cares anyway? wait, why is dean the mom?"

"well, castiel is my father."

"ah, so it's about them having the hots for each other, then? really, kid, you coulda just made dean your step-dad."

jack blinks. "they have the...hots for each other? you mean sex. they have sex?"

"you know what?" claire points at him with her free hand. "i'm not gonna burst your bubble on that one. you've got enough issues on your own without wondering if mommy and daddy still have a spark, so I'm gonna leave that alone. i've got five dollars. take it or leave it."

"deal," jack says immediately.

money is exchanged, and jack looks like he's on cloud nine. claire's just stoked to see the expression on dean's face when he gets the card. it's a homemade card and everything, nothing like the two claire, kaia, patience, and alex got for jody and donna.

claire helps kaia finish up the chicken, which promptly gets set aside to wait on the rest of the food in the oven. sam wanders in at some point to drop off the food they brought. dessert, by the looks of it. pies and cakes that go in the fridge. it's kind of them, but claire would shoot herself in the foot before she ever admits it.

she lets kaia tug her into the living room where everyone is already at, rolling her eyes at how cheered everyone seems just because the winchesters happened to grace their doorstep. really, they all suck.

but also—and claire will never admit this, not even to save her own life—it's nice to see 'em again. it's nice that they've come to celebrate the day in jody and donna's name, giving them flowers and such. it's nice that they hang around for a bit and don't bring the world crashing down on everyone for the duration of their stay.

and, well, it's nice to see cas, too.

he perches up next to the couch that claire is squeezed on with alex, donna, kaia, and jack. kaia is practically in her lap, but claire is secretly glad for the excuse. while everyone talks and has conversations across one another, cas focuses entirely on her.

another thing claire will never admit is how reluctantly pleased by that she is. it warms her. stupidly, it turns soft and gooey in her chest that he automatically gives her his undivided attention over everyone else, even jack. but, then again, it's not cas' day, so she doesn't have to look too close to that feeling. it's mother's day, so it's not about him.

when the food is ready, they reconvene in the kitchen, and that's when they crack out the cards and gifts. claire is practically vibrating with laughter before jack has even brought his card out. before that, though, she smiles softly and strokes kaia's thigh under the table as jody and donna read their cards and chuckle at the messages, their gazes warm and their smiles sweet. they look happy. they deserve to be.

"okay, last one," claire announces, grinning at jack. she's starting to think she likes this kid if he's an agent of chaos like this.

and okay, maybe she hates him a little in abstract, but in detail, she finds that she does actually like him. you kinda just wanna put him in your pocket without meaning to, she's learned. there's too much to explore with the whole psuedo sibling thing and parents that aren't parents, as well as parents that are but didn't choose to be, only he did choose one of them, and it wasn't her. it's complicated, but underneath it all, there's a vibrant love there that she can't look directly at. sometimes, she despises that she's included in it; yet, just the same, she's thankful that she is.

"oh hell," dean mutters, swinging his gaze between alex and patience. "one of you...ya know? did we miss something?"

claire snorts.

"what? no," alex replies, grimacing. "i have no idea what claire's talking about. claire, what the hell are you talking about?"

"jack?" claire prompts in a wheeze.

"here you go," jack chirps, holding out the card to dean, beaming. "happy mother's day."

the expression on dean's face is somehow even better than claire imagined. she howls with laughter while sam buries his face in his hands, his shoulders jerking. cas squints at jack, and jody's eyebrows fly up at the same exact time that donna grins.

"is this a joke?" dean sputters.

"no, no, nope," claire chokes out, nearly fucking crying with laughter. "happy mother's day, dean."

"you gotta take it, man," sam agrees, clearing his throat and biting back a smile as he bobs his head dutifully towards the card.

dean fixes sam with a flat look and snatches the card. "you're all so fucking—sam, you signed it?!"

"happy mother's day," sam says, his mouth pinched, visibly trying not to laugh.

"do you like it?" jack asks earnestly. "i made the card, sam signed it first, and claire provided the money."

"i—" dean stares down at the card, then heaves a sigh and looks up at jack. it's clear to him that—out of everyone—jack is clearly taking this very seriously. he offers him a weak smile, then swallows. "yeah, s'great, kid. thank you. sam, you are dead to me. claire, i will be spending this on something you hate. cas, this is somehow your fault."

"yup, sounds like a mother to me," jody declares, holding up her beer with a smile.

"welcome to the club," donna agrees, holding hers up as well. "everyone else annoys the shit out of you, but you love 'em anyway."

dean sighs and clinks his beer to theirs.

#sobs adventures in writing #happy mother's day to all the spn moms!!!#dreamhunter #destiel adjacent #sort of?#look i just wanted to write something cute okay let me have this lmao #sobs says things #claire bear #jack jack #dean bean #cas bby #jody mills #donna hanscum #kaia nieves #spn ladies #sammeh

1K notes · View notes

miraculouscontent · 3 years

Video

dailymotion

It’s heeeeere! Another summasalt, this time with nearly twice the length of the first one!

(Turns out that not having caffeine doesn’t help me talk any slower.)

Script below:

Anonymous asked:

Thoughts on Rocketear?

Can you Rocketear the newest episode apart with your salt, my beloved Salt Queen?

Penny for your thoughts on Rocketear?

Aw, anon! You can have that for free! I'm a generous goddess.

"Rocketear" begins with Chat Noir and Carapace - just Carapace, really - holding back a pack of what I presume to be the physical manifestation of the writing staff's age, or at least a representation of how behind the times the writing seems.

Just as the dinosaurs break through Shellter. Ladybug shows up with the scientist who revived the dinosaurs in the first place and said scientist uses a whistle to calm the dinosaurs down. There's also a line from Bob Roth about putting the dinosaurs in a theme park to make money and I know what it's referencing but it's so incredibly random that it doesn't really come off as a proper joke.

Carapace was notably sad right after battle, but insisted that he was fine when Ladybug asked. Rena, sporting a... - I would like to say "new design" but it's a recolor in every sense of the word - is hiding behind part of a building and smiles after the heroes before walking off. Ladybug takes Nino's miraculous back but sees that he's still upset and asks him again what's wrong. Nino asks where Alya was and Ladybug claims that she only needed Carapace for the job, which cheers him up but only until Ladybug is already gone.

Mm, I guess Nino and Adrien relate in heroism not being enough for them unless they have their respective love interest to flirt with.

Also, I know this is an obvious set-up, but the show can't tell me that Ladybug just always brought Nino and Alya whenever she needed one of them. Season 3 required her to go to Master Fu to get the miraculouses, and unless she already knew that Nino and Alya would be in the same location - which, okay, the show does basically shove the two of them together whenever Nino is onscreen, fair, if two characters are in a relationship in this show then it's weird for them to NOT be with that person - but it just seems like a gamble, not to mention proof to Shadow Moth that the two are close if Ladybug constantly brings both of them.

Anyway, Ladybug goes into the sewer and asks Rena if she's seen any sign of Shadow Moth or his traps. Rena didn't see anything and they de-transform. Marinette is about to leave when she thinks of something, but Alya assumes it's about her new look, which was apparently not voluntary on her part and the suit automatically adapted to Alya's new role as Rena Furtive, which she has now named it as.

Marinette reminds her that this is supposed to be a secret and that they agreed that the fox has no owner. When Alya is evasive about whether she told Nino that she won't be Rena anymore, Marinette stresses that everyone needs to believe that Alya won't be using a miraculous anymore so that she can remain an undercover spy.

What's the point in changing the look if you're not going to show yourself anyway? I mean, insurance, I guess, but still.

Alya, exasperated, parrots what Marinette has apparently told her before: that she helps Ladybug with Mirage in case Shadow Moth tries to follow her so Rena can follow him instead. Marinette stresses the situation again and Alya tries to get Marinette to agree on her telling Nino that she's Rena Furtive, but Marinette refuses.

At Marinette's house, Alya talks further and explains that she doesn't know if she can lie to Nino since they don't keep any secrets--Alya, babe, you kept Rena Rouge from him and didn't tell him that you knew he was Carapace until Ladybug was forced to give you your miraculouses at the same time. I don't wanna hear it.

Marinette states that it's too late for that and also not technically a lie, but Alya gets upset and says that Nino will never trust her again if he finds out that she kept something from him. Marinette brings up how she had to keep secrets from Alya too, but they're interrupted by Tom appearing and wanting to play games with them. Marinette makes an excuse about homework that she's repeated many times, as Tom comments that the teachers give her too much. After Tom is kicked out - hang on, lemme just... - Marinette uses the moment to show Alya that she's lied to her family a lot and hasn't played games with her father in months. She states that there's no other option as they have to protect their identities, and Alya agrees to talk to Nino.

In Alya's room - I just presume at this point that Nino's house doesn't exist and Chris is an illusion - Alya tells Nino that they need to talk, but stammers and states that it's hard to talk about. Nino thinks that she wants to break up with him, but Alya assures that she loves him. She finally gets to the cover story that Rena herself made up in "Sentibubbler" and Nino understands, sad that she won't be around anymore but agreeing if it's what Ladybug thinks is best.

Is it weird that Nino respects Ladybug's wishes more than Alya does?

Nino hugs her and is confused by why Alya was nervous to tell him, as she can tell him anything and nothing will change their relationship. Alya feels guilty and hugs back, murmuring about how they don't have any secrets; that's not what Nino said, but sure, push this plot to its already predictable conclusion. I mean, I thought it was vaguely sweet that Nino switched to seriousness immediately when Alya said that she wanted to talk, but how am I supposed to be invested in this couple when their dynamic boils down to "STRONG, INDEPENDANT WOMAN who wears the pants in the relationship because her boyfriend is portrayed as a wimpy coward"? Like, the show constantly dragged Nino down to make Alya look "powerful" by comparison, and then when it comes to characters like Marinette, we get a girl who works very well outside of her relationship with her endgame love interest.

It's the fakest form of "girl power," dragging guys down to raise girls up or actually making a strong girl character but having her love interest be a weakness that creates flaws in her that weren't there originally and having that love interest be who she's "destined for."

I'm rambling, sorry.

In class, Marinette assures Alya that she did the right thing and Alya agrees. As they're leaving school, Marinette talks about how their "night walks" start soon, and Alya non-subtly talks about how Rena Furtive will be on the lookout while Ladybug and Chat Noir patrol. She stops, however, as gets excited about some pictures she took of herself as Rena Furtive, which has a lot of details that Marinette hasn't seen. I don't know whether to groan at what I just heard or remind everyone that Rena Furtive is literally just a recolor and therefore this is the writers patting themselves on the back for this design, so let's just move on.

Alya then shows Marinette her phone--AUGH, MY EYES--and suggests making a poll on her Ladyblog so people can vote for their favorite Rena design. Marinette has to stress again that Rena Furtive is supposed to be a spy and thus invisible, which Alya admits that she forgot about.

Okay, I've been holding off on talking about this, but now seems like the best time to bring it up. Alya has been a trash friend as well as a trash confidant, and her role as Rena Rouge boiled down to, "it was convenient for her to be the fox at the time it was needed." She's not particularly stealthy like one would expect of a fox, and she was easily one of the worst candidates to be told Marinette's big secret. I'll get more into this later, but I have to stress that Alya has treated Marinette no differently since learning of Marinette's identity and has already gone against Marinette's orders once before at the time of this episode airing. Episodes are constantly torn between validating their decision to have Marinette tell Alya, having Marinette be worried about the decision while the show considers her to be ridiculous for it, and then having Alya either consider or make choices that clearly don't gel well with what's good for her role. Much like Marinette, she lacks a sense of self-control and--wow, a female character who's impulsive, never seen that stereotype before.

Point being, "Sentibubbler" stressed over and over that Alya was the right choice and deserved to be both the permanent fox and the understudy for guardian, but then we have "Rocketear" here where Alya is making basic emotionally-driven errors that I'm not even remotely sympathetic to when Marinette has gone through so much worse over the course of three+ seasons.

*sigh*

Alya laments that it's hard to find new content for the Ladyblog - ah, yes, tell me more about your struggles, Alya - but figures that at least she can post stuff about Chat Noir instead of--I don't know--making fake Ladybug theories to lead people off Marinette's trail. Marinette says that it's a great idea, though Alya still doesn't look too happy. The scene then rewinds to a little bit to show a different point of view, this time with Adrien and Nino. Wait, this feels familiar, wasn't there another episode that did something like--ohhhh no, this is going to hurt.

After saying good-bye to Adrien - something I wish I could do every time he's mentioned or on-screen - Nino catches the bit of conversation where Alya talks about the Ladyblog. Nino talks as if Marinette isn't there and asks Alya out to the movies because Marinette is chopped liver and this is about Alya and how sad she is, guys.

Wow, she's turning into Adrien faster and faster.

Alya hesitates, but Marinette assures her that there's still time. Alya excitedly runs off with Nino and they watch what I presume are previews given the narrator, featuring recycled footage from the Ladybug PV. Nino is upset because Rena is mentioned but not Carapace, and the preview features Rena telling Chat Noir to forget Ladybug because it's Chat and Rena herself who are trulu made for each other.

I don't know what's funnier; the complete lack of self-awareness or the suggestion that a biracial couple would exist in this show outside of a special that gives them maybe a minute of screentime and acts more like suggestive canon anyway. I think I might've been too generous with that line about dinosaurs.

Nino is offended by the preview and Alya brushes off his comments, stating that it's just a cartoon and it's made to entertain people, though Nino himself is certainly not entertained. Can't say I entirely blame him considering that Alya doesn't really try to say anything substantial or even agree with him. No cuddling or reassuring kisses, she just gets slightly sad and turns to her phone for a bit.

After the movie, Nino is cheered back up again until he catches Alya on her phone once more. He offers to take her home, but she's distracted, and he comments that what she showed to Marinette looked pretty nice; I don't know because they didn't show it. Nino asks what it was and Alya evades the question, stating that her battery is running out. Nino is suspicious, but spots Andre's ice cream cart and the two head over there. Andre calls them his favorite couple and asks what they want, but Alya sees Ladybug gesturing for her and has to run off, giving Nino a cheek kiss as she goes which feels like too little too late at this point.

Nino catches some conveniently-placed kids arguing over who Chat Noir loves, but they settle on the fact that girls in general love Chat Noir. Nino is then seen at the Seine watching the Ladyblog's latest video, where Alya is talking up how amazing Chat Noir is. I hate to stop every five seconds to complain - okay, actually I don't - but I presume this video must've been made after the movie since Nino seems like the type who would actively follow his girlfriend's blog, yet not only is this video perfectly set up to echo the kids and the movie preview, but Alya - despite apparently caring about her boyfriend soooo much that she kept trying to convince Marinette to bend the rules - didn't even try to warn Nino or text him so he doesn't take it too seriously. It's like "Sentibubbler" with the conflicting messages about identity rules; Alya cares about her boyfriend but both isn't thinking about how he'll take the things she says and apparently doesn't know him well enough to realize that he wouldn't be mad over her keeping a secret that she was told to keep. I already talked about how they play up Nino to be the emotionally weaker one of the relationship, but then they don't have Alya try to cover or make up for that. She's been acting very much not like Alya - you know, the one who in "Sapotis" practically bragged about how great she'd be at covering for Ladybug - with her stutters and weak excuses, so I can't completely blame Nino for being upset after everything that's happened when he sees the writers projecting onto Alya as she talks about how Chat Noir is brave and funny and cute and showing all these images of him as well. I don't agree with all of his actions, but--oh yeah, speaking of which--

Nino calls Adrien and is talking to him about how Alya must be in love with someone else. Adrien dismisses the idea, as Alya and Nino are together basically all the time, and asks who she could possibly be in love with. When Nino suggests that it's Chat Noir, Adrien laughs and jokes about it being Fang instead. Nino points out the video but Adrien did see it but is overall unphased and convinced that it means nothing. Nino says that he'll find proof and hangs up, but Adrien is certain he'll find nothing. Plagg comments that Nino will find someone because Plagg's charisma has definitely contaminated Adrien.

Ugh.

Adrien expresses concern that he put on the cat's charm too much and accidentally made Alya fall for him, and decides to visit Alya as Chat Noir to be sure.

Meanwhile, we get a reference to film noirs as Nino narrates. That's the second blatant reference this episode and now I feel like they wrote this script while doing a movie marathon.

Chat Noir arrives at Alya's house and Trixx hides before Alya opens the curtains to reveal her surprise guest. Nino is nearby watching the scene with his phone as Alya wonders aloud if something's wrong. Chat assures that everything's fine, but brings up the video she posted. He insists that it made him happy, but points out that she's been following him and Ladybug since the beginning and that they know each other much better due to everything that's happened. He has some conveniently-worded dialog as he starts to say that he hopes something's just an illusion and Alya gets worried that he's about to bring up Rena. Chat continues and clarifies that he wonders if she started to feel something for him, though adds that he understands because just look at him.

UGGGGH.

Chat clarifies by making a heart with his hands, which Nino sees. Alya laughs at this gesture and states that she has a boyfriend, doing the same heart gesture and suggesting that her love for Nino is even more than that. Chat Noir apologizes - hm, I didn't know he had the capacity to do that - and hugs Alya, saying that he was just confused.

An absolutely unnecessary hug for two people who, at least in terms of their current selves, have had very little screentime together, but this is also the show where making eye contact basically means your friends and it's all just to push the plot along so Nino inteprets that Alya is in love with Chat Noir, so whatever I guess.

Alya states that Nino is far more irresistable than Chat, then adds that she doesn't even know his secret identity, and she'd never fall in love with someone she doesn't know. Nino then runs away upset and the scene cuts away to the next day where--

Wait, wait, wait, hang on a second. Two things right off the bat there.

First off, we're just gonna sidle past that "wouldn't fall in love with someone you don't know the identity of" while ignoring the existence of the love square? Not even Chat thinking about how he doesn't know Ladybug's identity and trying to excuse that he doesn't have to? This guy is that certain of their relationship?

Secondly, Nino is practically sobbing and Shadow Moth doesn't take this as his opportunity? Same guy who akumatized Mr. Pigeon 72 times and has akumatized Gigantitan more than once? What is this pacing???

But--alright, so Adrien comes into school and sees Nino, still dressed up in his detective gear, which gets ignored completely as Adrien goes to tell him about Chat Noir and Alya. Because the show doesn't know how Adrien would convey this within reason, Nino interrupts him, taking him down into the lower part of the school where he has a desk and chairs set up. Adrien goes to ask when Nino had time to do this, but Nino slams his hand on the desk to cut him off. Nino presents the evidence he took and they go back and forth, likewise with Adrien turning off the background music while Nino turns it back on. Adrien insists that it's a misunderstanding, but pleads innocent when Nino asks how he knows. Adrien states that Alya is just a superhero fan and that she and Chat Noir have nothing in common.

Again, the complete lack of self-awareness is astonishing.

Adrien repeats what Alya said about secret identities and how she wouldn't fall for someone she doesn't know - they're really ignoring this, aren't they? - and continues hitting Nino's soft spots about how unlikely it is until Nino decides to tell Adrien something he's not supposed to.

He tells Adrien, not only that Alya is Rena Rouge, but that he's Carapace. Adrien goes through a range of emotions beyond sAD for once, shocked at the fact that they know each other's identities. Nino states that they don't keep secrets from each other, except now Alya is with Chat Noir. Adrien still doesn't understand and brings up how secret identities have to be protected, or else Nino wouldn't have told him because Ladybug wouldn't agree to it.

Oh, here we go. So that's why they waited.

Nino states that it was Ladybug herself who gave them their miraculouses at the same time; not giving the reason why, of course, nor pointing out that they're temporary heroes so there's understandably some leeway. Adrien is having a moment, but manages to bring the subject back to Alya and Chat Noir, who he still doesn't think are a thing. Nino argues that it's because Adrien doesn't know Chat Noir, but he does because he's Carapace and knows how Chat Noir acts. He says that it's all flowers and confessions when Ladybug appears, but he gets rejected because Ladybug thinks that he's annoying, and she's right. He adds that Chat flirts with Rena Rouge and that's all that needs to happen, with Chat stepping in on the first mission Carapace lost in. Nino laments the loss of the love of his life and wishes to shut Chat Noir up forever; we all do, Nino, we all do. Shadow Moth finally steps in with - oh, less than eight minutes left in the episode, yikes - and Nino is akumatized into Rocketear.

Rocketear rejects Adrien's pleas to stop, insisting that Chat Noir is who he's after, not Adrien, and Adrien transforms in sad fashion despite Plagg's reminder of who Rocketear is after. Alya, meanwhile, is in the art club with Marinette - wait, since when was Alya in the art club - telling Marinette about how Chat Noir thought she was into him due to the video, which Marinette groans at. There's an earthquake and they peek outside to see Rocketear firing his tears at Chat Noir, shouting that he stole Alya from him. Chat Noir tries to tell him otherwise, but Rocketear won't listen.

Alya groans at Nino doing this, then she and Marinette set off to find a place to transform. They conveniently go to the same place Adrien and Nino were, so they see the desk that Nino had set up.

Genuine question, how seriously does this episode want me to take itself, because now when I recount all the unnecessary love square drama in my head - because you know that's where this is going - I'm going to have to think, "Nino, dressed in a detective outfit, ripped off his fake mustache and told Adrien both his and Rena's identities, and also that Ladybug was totally cool with it and thinks that Chat Noir is annoying."

Gettin' two completely different vibes here. The episode clearly wants to be important but it doesn't take itself seriously either, which it totally could while including enough jokes to keep things light. Instead, I'm just left scratching my head and wondering what tone they're going for.

Marinette finds Nino's phone on the desk - I'm calling continuity error on that one because he at no point put it on the desk, at least not on-screen - and she questions Alya on the video she sees. Alya insists that nothing happened, apparently completely unphased by her boyfriend having spied on her, and says that he wouldn't have misunderstood if he'd heard the actual conversation.

The two transform and Ladybug immediately uses Lucky Charm, receiving a projector. Ladybug is clueless and Rena Furtive suggests creating an imaginary movie like Nino. Ladybug gets an idea, remembering Alya's earlier comments, and Rena confirms that she remembers every word of it.

Aaaaand, just like that, all of the tension has been completely sucked away. You know, "Backwarder" was a trash episode, but at least when Ladybug was showing every step of her plan, she didn't tell us what it was.

Meanwhile, Rocketear and Chat Noir are still arguing--I started zoning out at hearing the same thing over and over again at this point, so I just presume they were fighting over who does stuff behind their love interest's backs better; I don't think they came to an agreement but they're both losers anyway.

Chat Noir says that he'll prove his innocence, tossing his baton aside to show him giving up, but Rocketear points out that it proves nothing and strikes Chat Noir with his tears.

Our endgame love interest, everyone. Straight As yet about as smart as a sack of bricks, and that at least won't flirt with anyone non-consensually.

Chat Noir makes a point that he doesn't want to hurt Rocketear, and Shadow Moth tells Rocketear to take his miraculous before finishing him. Chat Noir can only weakly tell him not to before Ladybug snags Rocketear's wrist and diverts the shot. Ladybug explains to Rocketear about the projector and how it'll let him hear the audio of the recording he took. She adds that she doesn't know what Chat said, but she trusts him.

Marinette, I'm sorry, I feel so bad for you.

Ladybug turns on the projector and Rocketear relaxes at actually hearing what was going on. Rena then de-transforms and hurries out to meet with Rocketear, hugging him as Rocketear apologizes for doubting her. Alya also kinda sorta apologizes in a way I don't understand and Rocketear then breaks his akumatization, very casually, all on his own.

Yeah, just--casually, in a matter of seconds in fact. You know, it's really sad when people resisting akumatizations are more tense and emotionally compelling than them breaking them. This is twice in one season now and has zero impact considering that Nino's reason for being akumatized was already taken care of so he had no reason to stay akumatized anyway. Him breaking his own object to release the akuma would've at least been different, but instead it's just a repeat of what Alya went through with even less tension considering that Alya's wasn't even that good in the first place, relying on her relationship to Ladybug rather than who she knew to be her best friend.

Moving on, Ladybug captures the akuma and uses Miraculous Ladybug to bring everything back to normal. Shadow Moth monologues about how love and secrets don't go well together and he's sure that she has a lot and I'll talk about this later.

Ladybug hands over the magical charm, which Nino takes but insists that he won't need it, as he'll never let Shadow Moth use his love to manipulate him again. Plenty of other things to get akumatized over, but they gave the supposedly ace character a robot to help him stick out and also gave the supposedly aro character a miraculous back in season one to give her more importance. If characters aren't in love then they need something to ceompensate for it.

Nino apologizes to Chat Noir for being wrong and Chat Noir assures him that everyone has doubts, even him. He gets sad and Ladybug asks him what's wrong, but he insists that he's fine - officially throwing away his right to be upset at her later as far as I'm concerned - and they do their usual fist buuuuu--

...Really?

Everyone then splits up and Chat Noir sulks by himself instead of--you know, talking to Ladybug, or asking her anything, or making any sort of excuse for her because that would mean he actually has faith in her and understands that their partnership is different from temporary heroes, even if the excuse was as basic as her wanting to protect him more than the others because he would be that egotistical if they didn't want to stretch out this unnecessary drama.

Later on, Adrien is staring at a picture on the Ladyblog that might be a metaphor for the show considering how "in the foreground" Chat Noir and Rena are.

Adrien vents about Ladybug giving miraculouses to Alya and Nino, but Plagg states that she's the guardian. Adrien clarifies that he's referring to Alya and Nino knowing each other's identities, but Plagg doesn't see the issue. Adrien gets huffy and asks why the rule exists for LadyNoir but not Ninya, but Plagg again points out that she's the guardian, so she makes the rules, though obviously he uses cheese metaphors to convey it.

Okay, Plagg is only, like--half-right because he doesn't have all the information. If you don't mind me rambling for a bit, I'm on the fence here because, on one hand--yes, I agree that Marinette should be allowed to make her own rules, and I often do that in my writing because I think she should be permitted leeway in order to let herself be happy, but on the other hand, it's not technically her rule, as she had to let Alya and Nino in on their identities back in the Season 2 finale, so Fu was still around for a season. She wasn't even guardian yet!

Now, presumably so the fandom could blame Marinette if anything happened, Marinette never discussed this with Fu on-screen, so I can't say whether or not Fu knew, but I feel like he must've since Marinette had to have told him the heroes' identities off-screen, given "Party Crasher," and thus I imagine that Marinette would tell Fu everything that happened, which is consistent with what she does on-screen even if she'd keep things from him for a little while.

"Furious Fu" had also established that not even Master Fu followed rules completely, meaning that Marinette is in this awkward spot of mostly following what Fu taught her, which aren't all guardian rules anyway, and having to break the rules on occasion for various purposes. I can't say what Fu approved of and what he didn't, because episodes spend so much time on the love square that they forget about Marinette as a person and how she interacts with everyone else. From an emotional standpoint, I can't blame Marinette for not revoking the miraculouses of people whose identities get discovered because of her, as I imagine she feels guilty and it probably doesn't seem fair to force them into another miraculous or have them be entirely without one because of a mistake that she made, meaning that someone needs to be throwing a lot of red flags for Marinette to be through with them.

Though obviously, from the show's standpoint, it's just an excuse to not make new models, but I complained about that enough in "Sentibubbler" and this episode even went out of its way to design a detective model for Nino while spraypainting Alya's bodysuit in the same breath, so this is the world we live in.

Anyway, Marinette is essentially in this position where she still has Fu's rules hovering over her, but she's also trying to step out on her own and make her own decisions to varying degrees of success or failure depending on your point of view. Tikki--wait, no, bad idea--Su-Han then, could easily give input on these things, perhaps with Marinette discussing a modern day set of rules for someone her age and going back and forth with Su-Han on what the right choices to make are, finding something that's comfortable but within a realm of predictable control. Su-Han was okay with some rules being broken after seeing how Ladybug handled them and they could've easily made this episode about that instead, but instead, we get rules being set and then being broken on a writer's whim.

Which now brings us to the end of the episode, where Marinette is on the phone with Alya and apologizes for causing trouble between her and Nino. Alya tells her not to worry and she'll fix things - you know, those things that, to Marinette's knowledge, have already been fixed - and asks if Marinette trusts her. Marinette does, and Alya hangs up in order to face Nino.

Yeah, that feeling of dread in your stomach? That means you know how predictable the writing is and what's about to happen, good for you.

Alya explains that she has to tell Nino something and he's worried, this time trying to sheepishly break the tension. She explains that she's still Rena Rouge, much to Nino's shock, and adds that she's in hiding, which is why Ladybug didn't want her to tell anyone. Nino asks why she's telling him if she's not supposed to tell anyone - proving my point from a while back that he wouldn't have been upset had she kept it a secret - then asks if Ladybug agreed with it.

I want to give him a pat on the back for considering Ladybug, but he didn't even tell her when he had the chance that Adrien knows his identity now, so I'm just beaten down at this point.

Instead of answering the question directly, Alya says that she can't hide her identity from him because she loves him and they don't have secrets.

You know, like Nino telling Adrien about Rena's identity, or Alya saying specifically that she's a permanent holder, which I'm sure both of them will confess to since they said that they don't have--aaaaand the episode ends on happy triumphant music, okay.

I mean, I guess Alya at least didn't tell him that Marinette was Ladybug, but that is such a low bar and not even remotely worthy of congratulations when Alya told Nino the specific thing that Marinette told Alya not to tell; the thing that they had agreed on.

Nino wasn't upset anymore. He won't be getting akumatized either. Alya endured the supposed hardship of being a permanent fox holder for four episodes before breaking down and telling her boyfriend. Even her excuse doesn't hold any water because, again, they're both still technically keeping a secret, particularly Alya who knows Marinette's identity as Ladybug. The episode also apparently forgets that Alya and Marinette's friendship must not be as strong by her logic of telling Nino specifically everything, as Alya kept Rena Rouge a secret from Marinette for all of Season 3, but tells Nino about continuing to be Rena Rouge in Season 4. Boyfriends before BFFs without explicitly saying it, or to be more specific, whatever screws Marinette over the most, because that's what this comes down to, made worse by "Optigami" where Marinette told Alya that she'd tell her everything and I guess that doesn't go both ways.

"Sentibubbler" had Alya stress that no one would ever know. She promised Marinette and told Marinette to trust her, and the episode spent its entire running time talking her up and assuring Marinette that she was the right choice, even considering Marinette ridiculous for worrying when Alya had done something without Marinette's permission the episode right before it. Then, three episodes after "Sentibubbler," when Marinette is finally comfortable and trusts Alya completely, Alya betrays that trust. Nino betrayed that trust, knowing he wasn't supposed to do so but telling Adrien his and Rena's identity anyway, because he was losing an argument and needed to PROVE something.

Marinette gives them an inch and they take a mile. Marinette bent the rules so that they could continue to have the miraculous they'd started with and they disrespected her because it was hard for like a day.

And if this bites them back, it won't reflect poorly on them, it'll reflect poorly on Marinette.

It's not like Alya just overrode Marinette. She didn't go, "Hey, I'm telling Nino, I'm sorry," or tried her hardest to go back and forth with Marinette until they both agreed. No, she did what she told Marinette she wouldn't do without saying a word to her, because LOVE and SEEEECRETS.

And this only applies to her, of course, because don't think I didn't notice the parallels between this episode and "Truth," because WOW.

Episode begins with Marinette hoping for something and it blows up in her face? A date at the cinema that ends on a sour note? Plot-centric couple trying to get Andre's ice cream and the female with a secret needing to leave in a hurry? Boyfriend character getting akumatized over their girlfriend's secret? Boyfriend assumes/suggests that the girlfriend's secret involves Aaaaaadrien - or his alter-ego in "Rocketear"'s case - and the episode hints as much to him even though he's completely wrong? Akuma's colors are blue and black? THE BRIDGE?

But, ahhh, little difference, here and there, y'know, like how Marinette was forced to break up with her boyfriend while Alya got to keep hers, and Nino got to have long talks with Alya while Luka got little to nothing with Marinette.

Because do note that Alya, while trying to convince Marinette and talk to Nino about not keeping secrets, at no point suggests that Marinette deserves to be happy and deserves to have a boyfriend and that Marinette should be allowed to tell Luka her secret so they can get back together, so you have Alya here selfishly prioritizing her relationship with Nino while making no comment about Marinette's relationship, essentially asking Marinette to allow her what Marinette herself didn't have the luxury of, and Alya knows this because Marinette told her. It is both incredibly insensitive of Alya and incredibly insulting of the show to make so many parallels between this episode and "Truth" just to have everything crash down for Marinette because she's Marinette while everything goes well for Alya and Nino because they're not Marinette.

We've talked before about the formulas that are literally baked into the show, and one of those is how Marinette makes a mistake in every episode and has to learn from it. What that mistake is in this episode, I don't know, but considering that she apologizes for Alya and Nino's problems, I guess the show blames her for what they themselves had taught her.

Point being, there's a clear karma system in place, but it only applies to Marinette, and forcing her to mess up in every episode means that she is literally not allowed to be with Luka because had she been able to clear things up between them, he would've eagerly accepted her and they could've been happy. It'd be too difficult for her to mess up when Luka doesn't put mountains of pressure and expectations on her like everyone else. Factor that in with how she can be herself around him and it leads to situation that are too difficult for her to screw up in because her mistakes - more often than not - center around Adrien or her role as guardian.

And because another rule in the show is to bring up Adrien so they don't "lose him for too long," she can't avoid bringing him up either. If he's not in the plot, he has to be mentioned, leaving Marinette in a lose-lose situation that she'll never be free from.

So, let me just get this straight then:

The guy who spied on his girlfriend instead of talking to her about his assumptions gets to keep his girlfriend, not because he realized it was wrong regardless of whether he was correct or not, but because the situation had been cleared up for him, yet the guy who actively resisted his akumatization, saddened by his girlfriend's secrets but wanting her to share them when she was ready, gets broken up with and tossed to the wayside because he's not a rich blond boy who got a miraculous because he happened to be within the twenty meters of space where Fu was searching for new holders?

Meanwhile, the girlfriend who has gone against the wishes and insistence of her best friend - guardian of the miraculouses, by the way, so she calls the shots, something that Alya herself said in "Optigami" BEFORE GOING ON TO DO HER OWN THING IN THE SAME EPISODE AND BEING REWARDED FOR IT - is allowed to go against the wishes and insistence of her best friend again for the sake of "all love, no secrets" with her boyfriend and so she can have the happy ending she wants, yet the girl who was chosen for a miraculous without her consent, forced to screw up and talk about a random boy who doesn't even go out of his way to spend time with her, treated like absolute trash by writers who find humor in her misery, and is the only one to receive overly harsh and long-lasting consequences for her actions while also covering up and forgiving the actions of others within the episode where they do it...

doesn't get her happy ending, and won't ever get her happy ending. That thing Shadow Moth said about love and secrets not going well together? Yeah, only goes as far as the writers want it to, because both Nino and Alya still have secrets, and some of the ones they did tell each other were forced by someone else and kept until that very moment. This idea that people in love have to tell each other everything and that it makes a relationship stronger makes me immensely uncomfortable, and that lesson is also in "Guiltrip."

People should be allowed their secrets, and obviously there are exceptions for things that are being hidden with malicious intent, but being essentially forced to share everything or risk not having a "full and complete" relationship is stifling and sounds like it'd only cause stress.

This episode sucks. It furthers and confirms everything I've already thought about the show, Nino's screentime continues to be dependent on Adrien, Alya, or both, there are pointless references that completely take me out of the experience, and the utter betrayal from Alya and supposed message of the episode just reminds me that Marinette is inevitably going to be stuck with a guy who didn't even DO anything in this episode and is going to let himself stew instead of asking for any sort of clarifications from someone he apparently trusts so much.

So the takeaway is that Marinette's life is awful, she'll be forced to apologize for rules that she didn't even come up with herself, her best friend will walk all over her for the sake of her relationship with a guy - not even for the sake, really, they were going to be fine, it was more for HER personal comfort if anything - and the guy who actually makes Marinette happy and could've known her identity instead BECAUSE HE AT LEAST DIDN'T HAVE A TRACK RECORD OF SPILLING HER SECRETS gets treated in the exact same way that she does; like nothing, just something to abuse unfairly.

What a waste of an episode.

#MC's Videos #category: episode summaries #category: salt #salt: adrien agreste #salt: chat noir #salt: alya cesaire #salt: nino lahiffe #video: critique #MC's Renders #render: persona #episode: Rocketear #((I would usually apologize for rambling but you guys seem to like it lol.))#((I could still afford to trim down the summary probably and repeat myself/ramble a BIT less but yeah.))#((I'm also feeling a little more comfortable this time around))#((which might come off in my inflections.))

525 notes · View notes