#technically all the shit in his study might be for sale??? like there's no way he can hang on to it all when he gets back home | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

stevenbasic · 3 years

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“Hi Dr J, I’m glad we finally get to chat…”

Holy shit.

——

Earlier that day, I’d been told at the front desk that there was a lady from Evolution Pharmaceuticals on the line, and that she’d like to speak with me. Aubrey had always been good about screening out the sales pitches, the irate patients, the people with whom I really never needed to actually talk. So that she was pulling me aside for this call told me that this one might be something I should probably take...

But - ugh. No. I didn’t want to. This had been a long day, a long week so far - and it was only Tuesday! God, the past few months had been more and more exhausting, humiliating and emasculating with each passing hour. And the more I learned, the more it seemed that this company was at the heart of my troubles. Yes, it offered the opportunities of great financial rewards for the practice with this clinical study trial in which we were going to be participating. Since Jeanette, my previous Office Manager, had left, the mismanagement of the business had us in dire straits. Without the money from Evolution’s study and the “Lean In” grant from the women’s advancement group, I’m not sure we’d still be afloat. So, yeah, maybe I should have taken the call.

“I’ll call them later,” I told Aubrey, and grabbed the films I needed for my next patient.

That had been three hours ago, before my little hallway meeting with Melissa. Since then Gianna - some woman who’d wanted to speak to me about the trial - had called two more times. Left messages. Really wanted just fifteen minutes of my afternoon. Needed to speak with me. I refused each call.

Finally done with patients, sitting in my office at the end of the day as darkness crept in from outside, I sighed as Brittni from the desk buzzed me. She said that Gianna was on the line again. “Can I transfer her?”

“No,” I replied on the intercom, noticing that a little green light had blinked to life on the camera I had clipped to my monitor. I hadn’t seen it before, this light. In fact...when did I get a camera on this computer?

“Tell her I'll call tomorrow...” I finished.

I had set back to finishing some patient notes on my desktop when, suddenly, my screen flashed to black. For a quick moment I thought - oh no, a crash - but then a new, unfamiliar window appeared, and my mouse pointer began moving on its own accord. What the…? The window went full screen and next thing I knew I was in a video chat with-

“If I didn’t know any better I’d think you were avoiding my calls…” the woman onscreen spoke, laughing casually as she tossed her hair...

“oh, uh…” I was immediately agape. This was who’d been trying to call me all day??

“Anyway...Hi Dr J, I’m glad we finally get to chat…”

Holy shit. This girl was gorgeous. Look at those tits.

As I stared, still shell-shocked and speechless from having my computer hijacked out from under me by a bosomy corporate careerist, she went on to introduce herself as Gianna Albertini, from the clinical trials department at Evolution Pharmaceuticals. She explained how excited she and her team was to get the study off the ground at the practice. Things had been fast tracked at the FDA, they were just waiting for some rubber stamps, and everything looked very promising for their product. She apologized for not being able to meet in person, at least for a while. “I’m on some new retroviral treatment, and they have me quarantined at home,” she explained with surprising nonchalance, “yadda yadda yadda…”

Finally, after a good several minutes of watching her talk - and she held my attention easily, her rack possibly rivaling Melissa’s - she let me get a word in edgewise. I was still confused by how in one moment I was working on my patient charts, and then in the next I was in a video chat. “H-how did you…?”

“Sorry,” Gianna laughed, casually waving away any privacy concerns I was currently about to voice, “I had to remote in, take over your desktop. I really needed to speak with you.” Beyond the blatant intrusions tactics she was obviously willing to employ, there was something in this woman’s eyes, her demeanor, that was making me more and more concerned as the conversation - such as it was - continued. She may have been acting relaxed and friendly, decidedly informal, but there was a seriousness just below the surface that even I could see, even through the screen, and even in the face of those enormous tits. “Plus, maybe it’s actually better we do it this way, rather than on the phone,” she said, as she sat up nice and straight, “So we can see one another’s...smiling faces.”

Gahh...

As she got down to brass tacks, this young woman went on to describe to me some of the details of the new wings in our building into which the office would be expanding, how much more space we and Evolution be acquiring to fulfill the needs of the trial, and when it would all be ready. “Construction is ultra-fast tracked,” she said, “should be done within a few weeks.”

Weeks?? I marveled, silently incredulous. I’d seen the plans; it was a huge project. I’d figured months, if it ever really got done at all. But, the teams did seem motivated, and there were a lot of them, working day-in and day-out, all through the night. Maybe, perhaps? Could they pull it off in weeks?

We also talked about the structure of the trial, what it would involve day-to-day, and the long-term forecast. Evolution seemed ready to set up permanent shop with a clinic in the building, by taking over much of the lease of the new space, with the study just the first step in the door.

“You’ll be listed as the lead investigator,” Gianna explained, continuing on to detail the ins-and-outs of the trial, “but don’t worry. We’ll have plenty of people in place. You really won’t have to do too much, or deal with anyone at the main office. You’ll be reporting just to me...”

“r-reporting to you?” I asked, trying to ignore the impressive bosom which filled the screen, cowed me. That had taken me back a bit...'reporting to her'? I had noticed something in this young woman’s tone, through our chat, that led me to believe that she and I possibly had different views as to the, uh, hierarchy of this whole thing. I was the doctor around this place, and had gotten used to expecting a little respect, being top of the food chain. She, on the other hand, maybe had other ideas.

“That's right,” she said, “we’ll do these chats once a week, more if I feel like we need it. I’ll expect a report from you every day, but again don’t worry. It’s basically something you just have to sign, the girls will do it all. Our other providers will be handling most of the work with the patients in the study, entering data, keeping the FDA happy, blah blah blah. Maybe we’ll ask you to go in and talk to, examine a few of the subjects, just to keep things interesting for you.”

If I hadn’t felt totally emasculated and marginalized, my authority crippled by the horde of women who’d apparently taken over my practice recently, this was the clincher. It would appear that for this study I was going to be not much more than a coddled figurehead, a token man of straw, expected to satisfy the whims of some half-rate pharm company and this woman, at her beck and call. No way!

“I’m going to have to insist on directing care for, uh, the trial subjects,” I asserted, finally getting a moment to exert my will, “they will, technically, be my patients.”

“Oh, of course!” Gianna replied, smiling and throwing her hair over her shoulder, “Allowing for some oversight from the other providers we’ll have in place, you’ll have lots of medical-decision-making to keep yourself busy!”

What did she mean, ‘oversight’?

“They’ll be different than your usual patients, the subjects that we’ll be bringing in for the study, but I think you’ll like them,” she continued, trying to reassure me, “maybe a younger crowd, and of course all female. But in general all you’ll have to do is sit back and watch the money coming in.” She sat, looked into the screen for a moment, in thought. “Though I guess we have some people there handling that for you, too, hm?”

That gave me pause, made me rethink the litany of arguments that were beginning to boil up in my throat. I’d seen some of the paperwork, quickly, as it had moved past my desk for my signatures. It involved a lot of money for the practice. Like, a lot of money. I thought of my bills, my expenses, what I still somehow owed on my student loans. If Sheryl wasn’t going to be there to provide for me, help me pay these things…

If any of it remained, there was obviously some pride I was going to need to swallow.

“S-speaking of money,” I began, “what's my compensation going to look like?“

Something about my question, something about how I was holding myself, made Gianna smile again and then sigh, a sigh that told me she knew something I didn’t, I couldn’t help but think. With that she leaned in, her eyes locked on mine through the camera, and a shiver went up my spine. “Oh don’t worry, Dr. J,” she spoke, “you’ll be well taken care of...“

===================================

Muchos Gracias to long-time friend, supporter of the story and behind-the-scenes ninja Antares for helping me assemble these clips.

Newer posts and other goodies at my Patreon

#growing into the job

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tthankstoyou · 3 years

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hi ana!!! i also appreciate the quinncedes content a LOT! been thinking about them lately.... do u have any quinncedes thoughts you'd like to share

Hi hello yes I sure do have some thoughts I’d like to share... and you will get those thoughts in the form of a one-shot 👀

Either read it under the cut or here on ao3

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“Hey Mercedes, it’s Quinn. I know that we haven’t talked in a while, but I just took a listen to your new album and wanted to congratulate you. You never fail to amaze me. Call me back when you get the chance, my number’s the same from high school.”

Quinn ended the voicemail and put her phone down. She wasn’t kidding when she said that she just took a listen; the album ended just a few minutes before she picked up the phone. Looking back, Quinn should have waited a little longer. She should have put her thoughts together better. She had so much more to say about Mercedes’s music.

You never fail to amaze me.

She doesn’t know why she said just that, it was like nothing else could come out of her mouth. But it is true, Mercedes always took her breath away. Quinn should’ve said something more. She had so many thoughts about her friend's music. This is what happens when she doesn’t think.

Quinn spent the next hour running over possible conversations in her head. This, now this was something that Quinn was good at. She was good at planning and making sure that everything was perfect. Sure, things may not always work out how she wants them to, but she's good at planning nonetheless. It was something that Mercedes once said she liked about Quinn; how she always prepared little speeches in her mind. Mercedes said that she should work in politics because of that, Quinn wasn’t afraid to speak her mind.

Of course there were times where things went to shit and she had no idea what to do. That’s when Quinn was at her worst. Like when she slapped Rachel after she lost prom queen. None of that was planned. I mean, who would plan to slap someone in the bathroom during prom. The worst part of that night, was that when she was running from the stage out of humiliation, she thought Mercedes would follow her.

She didn’t.

That’s when Quinn knew that things were over between them. Mercedes was doing whatever with Sam, and Quinn was alone. Technically she had Finn, but she didn’t care about him. It sounds heartless, but it’s true. Quinn wanted to be prom queen, and she needed Finn to help obtain that title. Finn was just in her life to win a crown.

When she was with Finn all that she could think about was Mercedes. She couldn’t help it. The other girl was always running through Quinn’s mind. It’s silly to think about, considering how they were never really an item.

They never kissed. They never confessed their feelings to each other. They were never anything more than friends.

The unsaid hung over them like a cloud. You don’t have to tell the other person you love them for them to know how they feel.

Neither of them could deny how their heart raced when they held hands. It was something special between them. They understood each other. To this day, Quinn has never met anyone that could read her mind like how Mercedes has. And the same goes for her, Quinn had Mercedes memorized. After living with Mercedes, she learned her little quirks. Like how she’d hold her hands in front of herself when she was nervous, or her little eyebrow raise when someone was annoying her. To Quinn, Mercedes was like a poem waiting to be dissected. She wanted to study the girl and learn everything about her.

That’s why when Quinn first heard about Mercedes’s new album, she rushed to pre order it. If she asked Mercedes would probably give her a copy for free, but they haven’t talked in five years. Plus Quinn would rather help her sales.

Quinn wasn’t expecting to get a sudden urge to call Mercedes, it just kind of happened. The last track on her album ended, and the next thing she knew, she was dialing Mercedes’s number.

She was hoping that listening to this album would give her some sort of closure. Quinn would listen to it and feel at ease knowing that Mercedes is on her way to becoming a star she was born to be. That was her plan. Everything changed once the song closing song came on.

The song might have been about anyone, but it reminded Quinn of what they had. Mercedes was a permanent part of Quinn, something that she couldn’t just forget about, like a tattoo. Quinn had been convinced that Mercedes hadn’t felt the same about her anymore. She thought that Mercedes must have moved on. She had so many men and women that would do anything to date her. Quinn thought that there was no way that Mercedes was stuck thinking about her like how Quinn was stuck thinking about Mercedes, but these lyrics showed that she was very wrong.

Thinking about you as I lay my head on my pillow Transported back in time To when you put your head on my chest And mumbled in your sleep, “I wish you were mine”

Quinn was pretty sure this was about her. It reminded her of the times that she would go to Mercedes’s house after school. They would lay on her bed together, with Quinn often ending up resting her head on Mercedes’s chest as they cuddled. Of course the cuddling became even more of a regular occurrence when Quinn moved into her house. She had trouble sleeping at night, it was hard finding a comfortable position to sleep while pregnant. Mercedes would always let her lay with her. She sang Quinn to sleep while running a finger up and down her arm. Mercedes did tell her that she talked in her sleep, she said that she found it adorable.

All is well as long as you’re here Given me something to hold onto when all else failed And all I can think about is how I wish you were mine

It could easily be just a coincidence or Quinn relating her life to things that have nothing to do with her, but she couldn’t help but think about freshman year. When Quinn saw Mercedes struggling in the Cheerios. She wanted Mercedes to be stronger than she was and not give into Sue’s disgusting weight loss tactics. If she had it her way, she would have gotten Mercedes to quit the Cheerios right then and there. She knew that Mercedes was too good for them. When Quinn first joined Glee Club, she just had a hunch that Mercedes would go onto great things. To be honest, Quinn thought Sue’s torment was holding Mercedes back. She may or may not have celebrated when Mercedes told her that she quit the Cheerios. And look at her now, showing the world the star that she is. Just what Quinn knew she was capable of.

Despite everything We were strong together I wish you could’ve been mine I wish you were mine

Everything that Mercedes was singing about was just too familiar. Quinn couldn’t help but relate it to their… thing. But she didn’t want to have her thoughts consumed by that.

She shouldn’t be so fixated on a silly little crush she had in highschool. That was years ago, Quinn was a different person now. Quinn didn’t even know if Mercedes would like the woman she’s become. She was so different from the person she was back in Lima, Ohio. Quinn could barely recognize that girl.

All of those thoughts flew out of the window when she heard her phone ring. The number flashing on her screen had a Los Angeles area code… which could only mean one thing, Mercedes was calling her back. Quinn quickly answered the phone and melted into the voice on the other end of the call.

“Hey Quinn, sorry I didn’t answer your call. I’m glad you like the album.”

“I’d say ‘like’ is an understatement”

“I’m in New York right now visiting Kurt and your call got me thinking. How would you feel if I met you for dinner? I can take the train down to New Haven this weekend. That way we can get a chance to catch up… I miss you,” Mercedes said.

“I miss you, too. So much.”

“I’m in a rush and I have to get going, but I can’t wait to see you. I’ll text you later tonight. Bye Quinn.”

“Bye ‘Cedes,” Quinn said before Mercedes ended the call.

“I love you,” Quinn whispered into the phone after Mercedes hung up.

#quinn fabray #mercedes jones #quinncedes #my fics #fanfic #mine #asks #rae #glee

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spine-buster · 4 years

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The President Wears Prada (William Nylander) | Chapter 4

September 28th 2019

Aberdeen Bloom was letting it all out.

Siena had called, cooped up in her room in the house she rented with two other girls, taking a break from studying for torts law or shorts law or whatever type of law it was that she had to study. It was these moments – moments when Siena caught up with her younger sister – that reminded her that she was slaving through law school because Aberdeen would probably need a lawyer one day after doing something colossally stupid. She’d usually start the conversations with “You can’t tell mom and dad…” and Siena would promise not to. And, well, she’d keep that promise. Because sisters never told. They only ever told on Camden.

Aberdeen told Siena about the night with William in June – she told her about a week later, after Siena was finally settled back into her place in Ottawa. They’d talked about it for a while and had come to terms with the fact that Aberdeen would never see William again because of the whole Sweden thing and because of the fact that Toronto was a city full of a few million people. They’d accepted it and moved on.

But then, of course, William showed up in the elevator on her first day of work and the floodgates opened.

“Wait…hold on a second,” Siena held her hand up. “You’re telling me you hooked up with a Toronto Maple Leaf.”

“Yes.”

“A hockey player. That guy was a hockey player.”

“Yes,” Aberdeen stressed.

“And now…” Siena paused. “You work for the president of the team that he plays for.”

“Precisely.”

Siena let out a long, loud sign, facepalming before rubbing her temples. “I don’t know how you get yourself into these situations, Aberdeen,” she shook her head. “I honestly don’t.”

“I don’t, either.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

Aberdeen looked at her sister weird. “There’s nothing I can do about it. It says right in the employee handbook that no employee and player are allowed to hook up. I can’t tell Brendan and William can’t tell the rest of the team. That’s that.”

“Are you scared he might?”

Aberdeen considered the question. “I really don’t know. On one side, I feel like if he really wanted to tell them he would have told them already, and Brendan Shanahan would have found out through the grapevine and I would have already lost my job. Like, I wouldn’t have even gone to Newfoundland. On the other hand, I feel like the comments he’s been saying to me just make it seem like this is a game to him and he’s waiting on the most opportune moment to tell.”

“Comments?” Siena asked.

Aberdeen sighed. “I went to dinner with a bunch of them in St. John’s because Jason invited me, and he asked me who my favourite Leaf was in this really flirty way,” she explained. “Then a few days later he found me alone and told me I should have said him. Or at least have said he was fucking awesome because that’s what I said that night after we hooked up.”

Siena facepalmed again. “Oh, Aberdeen…”

“I know, Siena.”

“Does Kasha know?” she asked.

“Of course Kasha knows.”

“Kasha won’t tell a soul. She’s good like that.”

“I know. My problem here is William.”

“Listen, Aberdeen…this is a fucked up situation but it’s…I mean, technically you didn’t hook up with him when you were employee. It was months before. You had no idea who he was. That’s what my lawyer brain is telling me right now.”

“I don’t know if that matters,” Aberdeen said. “I keep getting told that this is the dream job, that if I do well with Mr. Shanahan I can have my pick of any job in any field that I want in Toronto, including writing. That’s how well connected he is. I wouldn’t want to get on his bad side at all. I have to be on my best behaviour and I have to keep doing well.”

“Then keep being on your best behaviour. Keep doing your job,” Siena encouraged. “And keep William away.”

***

September 30th, 2019

With only two days until the start of the season, Brendan had a lot of meetings with a lot of people. There were meetings with hockey ops, meetings with the head scouts, meetings with player development, meetings with analytics. It was a much busier time than just three weeks ago. A lot more coffee runs. More ordering of catered lunches. More running around like a chicken with her head cut off, like Brendan said she would. And this wasn’t even the start of the season.

Brendan wanted her to sit it in on the meeting he had now with basically the entire senior management so they could go over upcoming events and initiatives they’d put on throughout the season. Kyle Dubas would be there. Brandon Pridham and Laurence Gilman, the assistant general managers would be there. Dave Morrison, the director of player personnel would be there. Brad Lynn, the director of team operations would be there. Stephen Hare, the director of finance would be there. Steve Keogh, the director of media relations would be there. Alison Rockwell, the director of business relations would be there. Leanne Hederson, the manager of hockey operations would be there.

Aberdeen was clearly studying the employee directory.

They had a list of things to talk about, and talked through them all. Aberdeen had her notebook and tried to take notes, but she felt like she was writing a foreign language and none of this would make sense when she went to read them again. There was talk about “You Can Play Night”, about galas, about charity golf tournaments, about community outreach programs, about the alumni events, about the MLSE Launchpad initiatives…

Then they started to talk about alternate jerseys. She thought there was only home and away jerseys, but no, there was apparently a third for a special night. A “St. Pats” jersey. It was green. A definite change from the blue, but they kept going on and on about it. Do we do this? What about this? How about this? It was incredibly pedantic. She felt like she was in science class again, doodling instead of taking notes since she had no clue what was being said or what was going on.

“Do you think we should go with the same one from last season, or should we choose a new design?” Dave Morrison asked.

“It’s hard to say. If we go with last year’s design, jersey sales may stagnate or decline if we compare it on a year-by-year basis, but a new design will boost that,” Stephen Hare said.

“Well, listen. It’s the 2019-2020 season. We can go with the design from 1919-1920,” Brandon Pridhan said, pulling up the mock-ups of the jersey. Aberdeen took into account the green and white, the lettering, everything. “Or should we balk the season number and go with this one, the 1926-1927 season design?” he held up the other mock-up. It was basically the exact same design, except the colours were inverted.

They were having an extremely serious and long discussion about this? Aberdeen snorted from the corner.

Suddenly, when she looked up, every eye in the room was on her. The smile immediately dropped from her face. Brendan was looking at her. “Something funny?”

Oh shit. Oh shit. Ohfuckohfuckohfuck. “No, no…” she began, trying to cover for herself. “It’s nothing – you know – it’s just that they look exactly the same to me. I…you know, I’m still learning about all this stuff.”

“This…stuff?” Brendan asked, repeating her words. The look that he gave her – she never wanted to be looked at like that again for the rest of her life. “Oh…okay. I see. You think this has nothing to do with you. You get hired by the Maple Leafs and you sit in on this meeting with, oh I don’t know, that iPad Pro which the company paid for, and you scoff because you think we’re taking this too seriously, and you don’t care about what jerseys fans put on their back. But what you don’t know is that this hockey sweater is not just blue and white, it’s not just green and white, it’s actually a symbol,” he paused, moving from his spot at the table, walking around it. “You’re also blindly unaware of the fact that in 1919 the Toronto Arenas were about to go under, only to be saved by a group of investors who renamed the team the Toronto St. Patricks, and who later made Conn Smythe their managing partner and their eventual owner. Conn Smythe ended up changing their name in 1927 to the Toronto Maple Leafs because that maple leaf was the national symbol of Canada and, as he said, a badge of courage and a reminder of home of when he was a Canadian Army officer during World War One,” he picked the design he liked most from Brandon and pinned it onto the board, taking another from the pile. Aberdeen’s heart stopped beating. “The blue and white, he said, represented the Canadian skies and Canadian snow. The name has changed, the investors have changed, and the logo has seen design changes, but that maple leaf is a symbol that represents the identity of Toronto, the history of this city, and the pride of the country. It represents millions of dollars and countless jobs, and so it’s sort of comical how you think that you ever made a choice that exempted you from caring about these jerseys when, in fact, this city’s identity and one of the most well-known national symbols were selected for you by the people in this room who ran this hockey club. All because of the influence of this stuff.”

He held onto a picture, holding it face up. She broke eye contact to look down at it, only to see it was the maple leaf that was currently on the jersey. The thirty-one points, meant to represent 1931 and the opening of Maple Leaf Gardens; the 17-vein detail, meant to represent when the franchise was founded in 1917; the 13 veins at the top, meant to represent the 13 Stanley Cup championships. She realized what this symbol meant to not only the people in this room, but to the city, to the fabric and identity of it, to its storied past and bright future. She realized the history behind it, the countless people who wore the sweater or jersey with pride for over a century now. She realized how wrong and careless she’d been.

When she looked back up, Brendan was staring at her. So was everyone else still seated at the board table, some of them with amused looks on their faces. “I’ll be outside if you need me,” she said, barely above a whisper because she was too embarrassed to even speak. She clutched her iPad Pro and took the picture, walking out of the room.

The second the door closed behind her, she burst out into tears. The tears streamed down her face as she escaped into the washroom, slamming the stall door behind her and locking it before breaking down in the bathroom stall. Brendan Shanahan had just embarrassed her in front of some of the hockey world’s most important people and she deserved it. She couldn’t believe she could be so fucking stupid and so dumb and callous and just such a…such an idiot. And now here she was, crying about it in a bathroom stall. She’d never be able to recover from this. Brendan would think she was an idiot until the day she died. He’d die before her and in heaven he’d still think her an idiot.

She stayed in the bathroom stall for a while, crying it all out and eventually stopping because she had no more energy to cry. She opened the stall door and looked at herself in the mirror, trying to wipe away the tears. Her eyes were red and of course, her cheeks were stained with tears, but she was thankful that she wore waterproof mascara that day. She tried to collect herself, even though she had just made a complete ass of herself. She still had a full day of work to do. She still had to make it until 5pm. Somehow.

When there was nothing more she could do to fix her appearance, she sighed and decided to head back to her desk, ready to face whatever punishment Brendan was going to give her when he got out of the meeting. There was nothing more she could say or do. She swung open the door to the washroom and stepped out into the hallway.

Although when she did, she crashed into a body. When she looked up, it was, of course, none other than William Nylander. Because her day couldn’t get any better from here. “Hey,” he said, smiling at her.

“What do you need?” she asked, not bothering to greet him.

He noticed the tone of her voice and the redness of her eyes and immediately changed his demeanour. “What’s wrong?”

She side-eyed him. As if he cared. “I just made a complete ass of myself in front of Brendan. No biggie,” she huffed.

“Did you get a coffee order wrong or something?”

Now she really side eyed him. She understood the stereotype of personal assistants, but this was not the time to start making jokes and devaluing her job. “What do you want? Why are you even in the offices?” she asked.

He shrugged his shoulders. “I wanted to see you.”

She scoffed. “Oh, get a life, William.”

“Excuse me?”

“I don’t know why you feel the need to keep taunting me when we’re on the job, but it needs to stop,” she said. “Don’t you have drills to go through? Don’t you like, I don’t know, need to tape a stick?”

It was his turn to give her a look. “Hey, don’t be mad at me just because you screwed up at your job today. I came up here to see you because I wanted to see you. I’m trying to be nice.”

“Taunting me at my job isn’t being nice,” she said. “If you can’t tell, I’m not having a good day. So I’d appreciate it if you just…wouldn’t.”

“Whatever you did can’t be worse than sleeping with a Maple Leaf and then working for his boss,” William retorted.

Okay, now she was angry. She grabbed his arm and dragged him towards the small kitchen – the one she’d retreated to when she walked in on them in their underwear – and shut the door behind them so they could have a private conversation. “Listen to me,” she began, her voice as steady and as intimidating as it could be. “I know I’m not saving the world or anything, but this job means a lot to me. This isn’t a fucking game to me like it is to you. This is my life. This is my livelihood. This is my career prospects in any industry in Toronto if I do a good job here. And you, William Nylander, are not going to take that away from me.”

“I’m not trying to take that away from you,” William declared. “Don’t you think that if I didn’t want you here, I would have told the guys or told Brendan already?”

Aberdeen thought back to the conversation she’d had with her sister, where she brought up the exact same point. She shook her head. “Then stop with the comments. Stop with the ‘coming to see me’, flirting in front of your teammates, and the flirting in general.”

“I can’t do that,” he responded.

“Why not?” she demanded.

“Because I want you.”

The words hung in the air for an uncomfortable amount of time as William and Aberdeen stared at each other, his blue eyes piercing her hazel ones. Her jaw dropped at his words, and she tried to respond but she couldn’t think of anything to say. There was nothing to say. He just dropped a bombshell and she had no way to recover. He wanted her. He wanted her. He…wanted her? “W…What?”

William didn’t respond. He only smiled. He didn’t say anything else as he left those words with her, opening the door and leaving the kitchen, leaving her completely dumbfounded.

***

Later on that night, as Aberdeen was walking back to her condo after the day’s work (and not seeing Brendan again – probably for the best, since she was going to write out and rehearse her apology she’d tell him tomorrow if she didn’t get a call that she’d been fired tonight), her phone buzzed in her pocket. She assumed that it would be Kasha, wanting to know what they were going to do for dinner. But when she looked at her screen, it was an unknown number that texted her.

i promise im not going to tell anybody. im not going to tell any of the guys, or kyle, or brendan, or anyone what happened in june. that stays between us.

im not that guy. i wouldn’t do that to you.

She stopped dead in her tracks. A pedestrian behind her almost crashed into her and yelled at her to watch where she was going. She collected herself and moved off to the side so people could pass by her and she could read the texts over and over and over again. She didn’t even want to know how he got her number. She didn’t want to know what covert operation he pulled.

She gulped.

***

October 1st, 2019

Aberdeen was impatient in the backseat of the town car as she and Lou waited for Brendan to appear. Her leg was bobbing up and down and she was pretty sure she would have chipped all her nail polish off by now if it wasn’t shellac. She had written out and rehearsed her apology to him and knew exactly how she was going to deliver it. She knew she had to makes things right.

“Miss Bloom,” Lou said from the driver’s seat, looking at her through the rear-view mirror like he often did. “Nervous energy.”

“I’m sorry Lou,” she apologized, trying not to bob her leg. “I just need to say something to Mr. Shanahan.”

“Something bad?”

“How many apologies have you heard in this car?” she asked.

Lou chuckled. “Many, Miss Bloom.”

“How does he react to them?”

Lou shrugged. “Depends.”

She gulped. As if on cue, Brendan emerged from his house. Lou got out of the car to open the door for him.

“Good morning, Aberdeen,” he said, his voice cheery as he got into the backseat. He already had a stack of newspapers with him. He was acting as if nothing was wrong. “How are you this morning?”

“I’m…good,” she replied, confused. She decided she should just get right into it. “Mr. Shanahan, can I speak to you about something?”

“Brendan,” he corrected her like he always did. He was focused on the newspaper in front of him. “And yes, Aberdeen, you may.”

“Can you look at me?”

That caught his attention. He lowered the newspaper and took off his glasses, waiting for her to begin. She took a deep breath. “I want to sincerely apologize for my comments yesterday in the meeting,” she began. “It was really insensitive of me to scoff, and then to make that comment – just really callous, and I want to apologize. I don’t want you thinking that this job means nothing to me, because it does. It means the world—”

“Aberdeen,” Brendan interrupted her, holding up his hand. She stopped talking, and could tell he was thinking of what to say. “First of all, thank you for your apology,” he began. “What I said to you in that room, in front of everybody – I just wanted to make sure you know the importance of the work we do here.”

“I do. I mean – I do now.”

“Hockey in Toronto is not just hockey,” he began. “It’s a living, breathing entity in and of itself. The sooner you realize that, the sooner you will see the importance of not just my work, or the work of anybody else that was in the room that day, but of your work too. You are part of the Toronto Maple Leafs now, Aberdeen, whether you like it or not. You have a role to play here in the success of the team just like anybody else. Just because you’re an executive assistant, it doesn’t mean you don’t.”

“Yes sir,” she nodded her head.

“I know you have a steep learning curve to go through. I knew that when I hired you. You’ll go through it. And you’ll make a hell of a lot of mistakes along the way. But you’ll go through it. And you’ll come out better. With more knowledge. Understood?”

“Yes sir. Absolutely,” she nodded her head. Brendan sent her a quick smile before putting his glasses back on and focusing on the newspaper again. “So…I guess this means I’m not fired?” she asked, just for reassurance.

That actually got a laugh out of Brendan. “No, Aberdeen. I could never fire an Etobicoke girl.”

***

October 2nd 2019

The season opener was just pure insanity. There was no other way Aberdeen could rephrase it besides that – just pure insanity. Brendan had meetings, she had to coordinate this, she had to run for coffees, she had to go get notes from someone, the phone was ringing off the hook…Lou even had to take her in the town car up to Yorkville, to Prada and to Gucci and to Hermes, so she could pick up ties for him to wear once all the media came rushing in. It was a complete shit show. She barely had time to eat, drink, or even think because she was so busy trying to get everything done.

But something happened to her once she and Brendan made their way up to the media gondola to sit in the President’s private box with Kyle Dubas and Brandon Pridham: she watched the game. From start to finish, she watched the Toronto Maple Leafs dominate the Ottawa Senators 5-3 to win the game. She saw Auston Matthews score two goals – and William assist beautifully on one of them. It was textbook perfect. She saw the comradery of the boys on the bench. She saw Brendan and Kyle seem excited.

She remembered back to how excited the people of Newfoundland were at just a practice and an exhibition game. She saw how excited the crowd was tonight at the way the team played and the outcome of the game.

She began to get it.

She followed Brendan out of the gondola so they could head down to the locker room about five minutes before the game was going to end. When the team began to come in, she wondered if she should clap – her questions were answered when she saw the equipment personnel fist-bump the boys. She held out her hand to show her support. Brendan laughed.

“Wooooo! Let’s go baby!” Auston screamed as he looked directly at her, fist-bumping her with his enormously large hockey glove. In that moment, she was sure one of them was going to knock her over one day.

“Good job boys!” she yelled out as they trickled in. John was next, giving her a fist-bump and a quick nod.

Morgan saw her and screamed at her. “Wooooo!”

“Wooooo!” she mimicked, smiling from ear to ear as she fist-bumped him. She held her hand out for Andreas, for Kasperi, and for Sandin. William filtered through, and when she caught his eye, a large smile appeared on his face. “Good job boys!” she yelled out again as they fist-pumped.

As they boys filtered into the locker room and began to take off their gear, Brendan walked in, motioning for Aberdeen to follow him. She stood behind him and Kyle Dubas as they watched Mike Babcock make his post-game speech and present the team with one of the Raptors’ game used balls from their championship run. One player would get it after every game won. Auston got it tonight for scoring two goals, and he did a few tricks.

Aberdeen helped usher Mike into a separate room so he could do post-game media before they went into the locker room. She watched as a horde of reporters stuck microphones into his face and asked him questions about the game. When Brendan called her back into the locker room, he told her he was free to go.

She looked up at one of the TV monitors that was broadcasting Mike’s interview from the other room live, wanting to hear what good things he had to say before she left. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw William approach her, the bottom half of his gear still on, chucking something into the garbage. He stood beside her, looking up at the monitor too to listen in.

“Can you speak to Matthews’s goals tonight? The assist from Nylander must have looked good on your end,” one of the reporters asked.

“Yeah, the goals were good. Looked really good. The assist looked better than the one’s from last season, that’s for sure – he’s clearly been practicing,” Mike began.

Aberdeen didn’t hear anything else he had to say as she furrowed her brows. She knew that she didn’t know anything about hockey, but she thought the team played fantastic tonight. They won, for heaven’s sake. If she was a casual viewer and thought they played well, and that William’s assist on Auston’s goal looked incredible, that had to speak for something, right? A person who wasn’t even a fan being impressed? She didn’t know. But when she looked over at William, she saw a defeated look on his face. He clearly took the comments to heart, and it killed her to see his excitement die down over a stupid comment.

“Does he always give you backhanded compliments?” she asked quietly, looking at him.

William noticed her looking, and gave her one of those tight-lipped smiles as he shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t worry about it. I’m used to it.”

Aberdeen didn’t like that answer.

#william nylander #william nylander imagine #william nylander fic #william nylander fan fic #toronto maple leafs #toronto maple leafs imagine #toronto maple leafs fic #toronto maple leafs fan fic #nhl #nhl imagine #nhl fic #nhl fan fic #hockey #hockey imagine #hockey fic #hockey fan fic #the president wears prada series

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bat-besties · 4 years

Text

The Great (He)Art Heist

An art forger. An art thief. One last heist, then they never have to see each other again.

At least, that was the plan.

Roceit with art thief Roman and forger Deceit. - 8k

Edited and titled by the wonderful @rosesisupposes

Summary by @5-crofters-jams

AO3

The Mona Lisa was stolen by Vincenzo Peruggia on 21 August, 1911. Famous beforehand, the drama of the theft and celebration of its return is credited as the main reason for its fame.

The Ambassadors by Hans Holbein hangs in the National Gallery in London, and is considered to be one of the most technically accomplished Renaissance paintings.

Dorian found his name ironic, and greatly enjoyed that irony. It was why he'd changed it as he entered the murky world of fakes, forgeries and stolen pieces, to just his initial- “D.”- before a surname which sounded like it had also been lifted from the pages of a Victorian novel (because it had been): Mendax. Might as well be truthful about the fact he never was. The slightly arcane flair of it fit right in with his associates - St. John (pronounced 'sinjin', something it was embarrassing to learn by correction), de somethings, von somethings, double-barrels and echoes of fame- but even among them, he found 'Peruggia' a little on the nose.

But then 'Roman Peruggia' as he certainly was not legally named, had never seemed to acquire the subtlety Dorian had cultivated to survive.

Dorian knew he was not the best forger there was- he could name someone for each artist he knew who could beat him: Logos for M.C. Escher or the De Stijl movement, Andy Angel for heavy, brooding oil pieces, the list went on. But when it came to range he was unbeatable, and across the board he could copy so well that while they might not stand up to forensic examination, few had been suspicious enough to warrant that examination. He got the feel of the piece, that was the main thing. He wasn't a robot, he didn't copy lines down to less than a millimetre as Logos was rumored to do, he studied and daydreamed and looked at the paintings, he read about artists for pleasure as well as work, and when he was ready he let the mood of the painting overtake him. Loose brushstrokes or precise ones, sketched below the paint or freehanded, name any artist well-known enough for you to know them and he knew their technique.

He applied the same logic to himself. He fit in by careful planning and learned intuition. Which was why he was sitting in the café of the V&A in a checkered scarf and round tortoiseshell glasses with plain lenses, flicking through a sketchbook he'd lifted out of someone else's bag in the National Gallery a week ago. The owner was learning, and he supposed someone else might find that endearing. He didn't like the slight carelessness of the lines. He especially did not like one page where they'd given over to doodles, swirling flowers and eyes and curling armadillos. It wasn't neat, it wasn't nice, it wasn't respectful to a slightly-out-of-proportion Whistlejacket on the other page. He sipped at an overpriced coffee and closed the sketchbook. His contact was late.

A man slid into a chair by him, clattering a plate with a brownie on it. He grinned at Dorain. "Uh...Ethan, is it? Fancy meeting you here!" He did not look like one of the art students in the café as Dorian had taken such care to. He looked like an asshole.

Dorian smiled slightly. "Love the jacket, Tarquin. So tasteful."

The man ran a hand through coiffed hair and laughed. The jacket was bright red acrylic. His jeans were black and very, very tight, as was a T-shirt he was wearing with the name of a designer brand. "Oh, you think so? I saw the sale had ended on it and I was so sad but then I thought- why not! I have the money."

"Of course you do." Which was the point. Roman Peruggia had just completed a major job in New York, with the sale of the paintings rumored to be in the millions. His reputation for thievery and production of genuine paintings was flawless- a little red calling card left where paintings had been ensured that his work was clearly marked.

Roman picked up Dorian's sketchbook and flicked through it. "Ah, the master at work?"

"It's got all my work in it," Dorian said. "No item is more precious to me."

Roman's eyebrows raised, and he turned the pages slightly more slowly. "May I have a page of it?"

Dorian examined the nice leather gloves he'd chosen to compliment his disguise. "Rip it out, why don't you?"

Roman paused. "I...are you being sarcastic?"

"Totally," Dorian said in his most sarcastic tone, because Roman had been late and not kept to dress code.

Roman carefully tore out a page- Whistlejacket, with the doodles on the obverse.

"I was messing with you," Dorian said at the sight of the doodles. "That isn't mine."

"No?" Roman laughed awkwardly, as if he hoped Dorian was joking- or maybe he still thought he was. "These are cute!"

"I don't doodle. Not like that. You can have the whole thing, if you want it."

Roman made a mock serious face before laughing again. "So you don't doodle, you just make masterpieces from scratch?"

"Broadly."

"Huh." Roman sat back and started in on his brownie, pointedly not looking at Dorian as he waited for the next move.

"I presume you know," Dorian said. "Of a trick. Where one item is stolen, then multiple replicas are sold. Three, seven, eighteen- the price of that item multiplied over and over again."

He waited for a reaction, some affirmation or a comment, but Roman just licked the icing sugar from his fingers and watched Dorian. He couldn't read his expression yet, but he'd learn to.

"Of course, it's a dangerous game. In one case, the thieves even returned the diamond to the police. It might not seem as dashing as-"

"I have a reputation, Ethan." Red calling cards. Red jacket. Red lips, now Dorian noticed it. Lipstick, probably. Roman did have a reputation, yes. He must have enjoyed the work of constructing it. "I love the danger part of all this. But I don't do fakes."

"Then why did you agree to meet with me?"

"Curiosity, mainly," Roman said. "You have a reputation."

"Oh?" Dorian said, leaning forward just slightly. "And what is it about me that interested you?"

"You copied the Mona Lisa."

"So has everybody and their friend. I'm not special."

"It could have convinced me. None of the others could."

"It's not actually that complex," Dorian said. "There's one reason why it's so famous, one reason only...but you'd know all about that, wouldn't you, 'Peruggia'?"

Roman shook his head resolutely. He ignored the jab at his pseudonym. "I don't think it was just the theft. They talk about Mona Lisa smiles, don't they? There's something special about the painting."

Dorian rested his chin on his hands. "And what's that, do you think?"

Roman only shrugged. "I don't know! Isn't that the fun bit?" He looked Dorian up and down, the way he bled into the background. "I thought you might have something to tell me about it. And...I was wondering if I might purchase a copy."

Dorian laughed through his nose. "Not going to follow in the footsteps of your treasured ancestor and steal it yourself?"

"I look forward to doing so!" Roman said. "Nonnino would be so proud."

Dark eyes, dark hair- Roman could be Italian. He didn’t have a hint of an accent, but he might have been raised here. And the original art thief had had a daughter, Dorian had checked. But the lie was too far-fetched. It was as though Roman didn't care if he saw through it.

"Then why do you need a copy? If you're just going to steal the original yourself."

"I'm impatient!" Roman said. "That's all. I think..." But he popped the last of the brownie to stop himself from talking more.

"The Mona Lisa is worth $850 million." Dorian said. "If you could find a buyer who'd give you even half the price you'd be set for several lifetimes- in money, and in potential prison sentences."

"They don't give art thieves life!"

"How many paintings have you stolen, again?"

Roman crossed his arms. "Oh, very rich, coming from you!"

Dorian wrote small and personal speech in his head about why that was not the case, breathed in, erased it, and gave Roman the final and most important line. "I'm careful."

"You've also done enough for...oh, maybe one lifetime, either way. Why not quit while you're ahead? Set up a nice little art gallery of your own work in the South of France."

Dorian adjusted his fake glasses. "I don't do originals."

"Quite the man of mystery, aren't you?" Roman said. "Ok- what's your favourite work of art of all time?"

Dorian smirked at Roman. "You are, of course."

Funny, Roman's cheeks went red now too. But he wasn't completely naïve. "Oh! Ha! A sense of humour."

"Here's the deal," Dorian continued smoothly. "I want to continue with my copies, but I'm ready to quit while I'm ahead. It sounds like you need to prepare for quite the big heist. You steal a painting I'm about to show you, I make four copies, we each sell two and keep the money. I'll even throw in a Mona Lisa copy, and another two paintings if you want them. Then our ways part."

If Dorian had told Roman what the painting was, he would have politely declined and walked away right then. But he was curious, and he didn't think Dorian would tell him here. So instead they got up, passed the statues to get to the Tube tunnel- "I always enjoyed how this feels like a secret exit!" Roman said, and Dorian let himself smile before he said, "Me too."

⁂

"You've got to be shitting me," Roman said. They stood side by side in the airy light of the gallery.

"Why?" Dorian said. He'd pocketed the glasses, they were beginning to annoy him. "Is it too hard for you, Peruggia?"

"Just call me Roman," the thief said, stepping closer to the painting to examine it. "Isn't it too hard for you?"

It was The Ambassadors, taller than they were, realistic, old, and masterfully painted. Dorian shook his head, looking up at it critically. "Nope. It'll be time-intensive, though. I need you to wait for me."

"How much is it worth?"

"I'm not sure yet. Just four copies will set us up quite comfortably, I think."

Roman looked at the painting's heavy frame, at the security devices all around, at how far they were from the exits. It would be a challenge. Some might say it was impossible. But if you could get a mechanism in- maybe by posing as workers-

Fuck. He wanted this, now. He wanted to know that he could.

Dorian suggested that they find another anonymous place to meet up in, but Roman needed somewhere secure to dramatically explain his plan. He also wanted to see how the forgeries are coming along. Dorian reluctantly invited Roman to his studio.

His studio was white-walled and had a wooden floor bespattered with paint. It was covered in forgeries- his favourites, like a Monet and an obscure little Elizabethan portrait hidden among pieces purely for work. It was...innocent, maybe, in a way which didn’t fit the murky tones of the underworld they both inhabited. But that was the way the light fell through the high windows, not anything the thief would notice.

It should be fine. So Dorian tried to put off the worry about the night until he was leaving his apartment to get there a little early. Except- he had to get dressed. Neat silk shirts, casual jeans, anonymous business suit, a sweatshirt with a bearded dragon he couldn’t quite bring himself to give away. He could have reprised his art student disguise, but he wanted to be clear it was a disguise.

Maybe he should match the thief? He googled Roman's jacket, and found it after a while. The model in the picture had the exact same outfit Roman was wearing, down to the brand of the T-shirt. Dorian was clearly not the only one wearing a costume.

That emboldened Dorian. Nothing scares a liar more than the truth - he would know.

So when Dorian came to open the door for Roman, it was in costume from an obscure Victorian opera he bought from the black market. Black and yellow, a bowler hat and capelet, it was Gothic and exquisitely made, and, importantly, still a costume. Even if it was what he wanted to wear, even if it was how he wanted himself to be, he reminded himself it was originally a costume.

Roman stopped to take him in, looking him up and down from polished boots to his bowler hat. "You look...is that original era?"

Was that a hint of a flush on his face? Oh, he could not be straight. Dorian would bet his whole studio of fakes he was not. Which was the only reason he let Roman clearly see him return the once-over he gave him. And the only reason he said: "Not so bad yourself, Peruggia. Oh, and yes. It's quite genuine."

"Oh. Well, I'll have to...up my game next time we meet," Roman said. He was still in a relatively generic designer outfit, still in his signature red.

"I look forward to it," Dorian said without thinking too deeply about whether that was true. "Come on up."

Roman looked around the studio in excitement. "These are great! Can I touch one?"

"No!" Dorian was horrified. "Do you touch the paintings you steal?"

"Of course not!" Roman put an offended hand on his chest. "What do you think I am, Mendax, an amateur? But I want to do it and I can't and it's so frustrating! Like popping bubble wrap!"

Dorian pointed at the background on the large canvas he'd started The Ambassadors on. "Once."

Roman very carefully ran the tip of his finger over the paint before stepping back, satisfied. "Thank you! Now, let me get the blueprints out!"

He took Dorian through the complex plan he'd devised. He was smart, Dorian had to give him that, and willing to explain wherever Dorian got stuck. The one snag was the exact route on the way in. "I'll have to fix that up," Roman said.

Dorian nodded and stepped towards the door. "Sure, I'll see you-"

But Roman hadn't moved, he'd just pulled a pack of white pencils out of his jacket and started drawing on the plan. Dorian coughed behind him. "Should you be going?"

"Oh, this won't take long!" Roman said. "Just get some painting done if you're bored."

Dorian stepped over Roman's legs to his speaker. "I listen to music. Classical. I have to have that to concentrate, you can't speak to me." He needed the freedom of privacy. This was his space.

"I won't! What music do you like?"

In answer, Dorian turned on his speaker and turned back to his canvas, ignoring Roman. He began to paint, uncomfortably aware of the man behind him. Would he- he turned, suddenly, to see if the thief might have some master plan to steal Dorian's pictures, but all he saw was Roman sticking his tongue out of the corner of his mouth as he sketched. He turned back to his work.

An hour or so later, during the break between pieces, Roman quietly asked Dorian to come and look over the plans again. He explained the new route.

"When shall we meet again?" Dorian asked.

Roman shrugged. "I'm not quite sure, it might need fine-tuning. Maybe give me another hour?"

"Well, I'm famished," Dorian said. "I'm going out for dinner now. I can't leave you in here."

"How about you ask me to have dinner with you?" Roman said, rolling up his blueprints. "I'll get the check, since you let me use the space today."

So they went to a little Italian place where the owners knew Dorian by name - a fake name, of course, but the sentiment was appreciated.

And, when Dorian tried to trip Roman up by getting him to order in Italian (because this was business, and Dorian needed to call the shots in business) Roman answered perfectly, and began excitedly chatting with the waiter.

"I'm glad you've brought a friend, Declyn!" She grinned at him.

Roman laughed. "Is he usually a lonely diner?"

"Oh no, we have nice chats, but I've not met a friend before!"

Dorian kept his cool. This wasn't at all embarrassing. "He's not a friend," he said politely.

Dot and Roman's eyebrows raised in one movement.

"I'll leave you two to it!" she said, before bursting into the kitchen to tell Larry one of their regulars had a date.

Roman laughed at Dorian's expression as soon as she left. "Your face!"

Dorian let out a long-suffering sigh. "A slip of the tongue. Can we move on? To...anything which isn't that."

"Why don't you paint originals?" Roman asked, all casual innocence.

Dorian took a sip of water to stall. "A lot of painters could do replicas. But the paintings I do, proper forgeries, have to be perfect. The right brush strokes, the right colour, the right emotions. I have to be a chameleon, adapt to embody other artists. I don't want to lock myself into one style."

Roman was quiet. He didn't fidget as Dorian had expected, he just sat still and looked at Dorian for a while. Then he said, "That doesn't really make much sense."

Dorian's eyes narrowed. "No?"

"No." Roman gestured at Dorian's eccentric outfit. "Just because you like dressing like this, it doesn't mean you can't blend into the background with your stolen sketchbook other times. You can be yourself, as well as hiding. The two don't have to be discreet."

Dorian hummed noncommittally.

"Well? What do you think about that?"

He paused for a long moment before he opened his mouth. "I think-"

Dot bustled over with drinks and starters, and Dorian turned to her with a grateful smile.

"So...are we going to get a story, Declyn?" She put the drinks down deliberately slowly. "One sentence, I won't keep you guys long."

"We're colleagues with a shared art appreciation. Dreadfully mundane."

Dot knew her eccentric customer had a tendency towards sarcasm and opposites. So she just smiled knowingly before she left again.

Roman turned back to Dorian as soon as the kitchen door swung behind her. "What do you think about originals?"

"We should get our story straight before she comes back," Dorian deflected.

"Get it gay, don't you mean?"

Dorian gave him an unimpressed look; the smile didn't drop from Roman's face. "Come on," Roman said. "I had to do it. Let's see, I was devastatingly handsome, I courted you and you were spiky but then you fell-"

"-as of, oh, a month ago," Dorian finished smoothly. "Our first date was the V&A, of course."

"Oh it was, was it?" Roman said mischievously.

Dorian ran through a cycle of answers. In his art student disguise he'd be flustered, in a suit dismissive, in an art-show-fashionable dress he'd flirt back. He wasn't sure how a man in a Victorian opera costume should respond. Sing, probably. But he liked the idea of the dress, back in his apartment. It was red, like Roman. "You were smitten immediately," Dorian said with a smirk. "You tore a page out of my sketchbook and wore it in the pocket over your heart."

"I'm a thief," Roman said, stealing a piece of cheese from Dorian's plate. "You should be touched I asked permission first, I could have just taken it."

"You're not a thief in this story," Dorian reminded him.

"Ah, of course not," Roman said lightly. "Accountant pals, maybe?"

"That could work," Dorian said.

"Art enthusiasts, right?" Roman said. "Have you read about the cut to funding of arts classes pla-"

"There is nothing more indicative of society that is failing than classism in art-"

"I know right! It's not like-"

And then they were off, pausing only to thank Dot for their mains and barely pausing to eat- or breathe.

They got their dessert for free. A single tiramisu with two spoons. Roman paid for the rest of the meal.

Roman agreed to run the plans by Dorian three days later. He did. Then he laid his plans on the ground, and Dorian put music on, and they worked together again, despite Dorian's grumbling.

"You owe me for this, Peruggia."

"Mmm...dinner again?"

"I'm not making a habit of this."

But Dorian had always been a liar.

⁂

Six months later, neither knew each other's real name. But Dorian knew Roman loved Broadway, and had let slip he shared that love. A few too many references made it obvious Roman loved Disney, too. He said he liked Flynn Ryder, and Dorian rewatched Tangled that night. The day after their conversation about Broadway, Roman hummed 'Façade' from Jekyll and Hyde as he read up about how best to hack security cameras.

Roman stuck his tongue out when he concentrated. When Dorian took a break to stretch he went in time to his music, often without thinking. Roman bought whole sets of clothes off mannequins. It was easier, according to him. He declined the offer to look for actual clothes for himself. Dorian had a different name at every restaurant they visited. Roman had wanted to be an actor. Dorian had only ever wanted to paint. When Roman was stressed he was loud and big and full of nervous energy which needed to be burned off with a walk and giving him space to talk about everything and nothing. When Dorian got lost in the detail of the painting- it happened most often in the most minute detail - he wouldn't break for water or stretches or food. Roman had to steal his speaker and sometimes his brush to pull him away.

As the heist drew nearer, those little details seemed to take on greater weight. A few days before it, Roman became a notable absence in Dorian’s studio as he prepared. He would enter the building at eight, Dorian remembered, and he tried to paint as the clock chipped away at seven, five past, eight past, twelve past. His music tried to smooth the harsh seconds by dripping ornaments and glissandos over it, but even that became a distraction rather than letting him get in the right headspace like usual.

He flipped from the intense detail of a little landscape to preparing a frame. It wasn’t hard, but he didn’t feel like it was quite right. It was too easy to take his attention. He paced up and down his studio a few times, shaking out his hands. Without thinking, he reached for his phone and opened a news app to see if there was anything about the heist yet. Nothing.

If Roman got caught, as long as the thief didn’t tell, there was nothing to trace back to Dorian. And he wouldn’t tell. So there was no reason to worry. Sure, it was a waste of months of work on the forgeries but that was better than prison.

Dorian went over to look at the forgery. The small details had been hardest: Hans Holbein had written legible writing on even the tiniest of items. A whole cabinet of items to represent the two men and showcase their learning- he’d explained each one to Roman, at some point. The distorted skull was the hardest to do, but satisfying. He paced around it, seeing the skull form. Memento mori. “So,” he had said, “remember your place and don’t be proud. And be careful.” Roman had just laughed. “Ah, but remember...yolo. So don’t be too boring!”. Dorian laughed through his nose and shook his head. Roman was such an idiot, and he could be reckless. But he was a professional, he would return safe.

Dorian gave up on trying to concentrate and closed up the studio for the night, heading back on the Tube and letting his mind wander through the window and wonder in which style he would paint it. But the red lights of the signal, and a young woman in a designer T-shirt, and an advert for some kind of Disney on Ice event wouldn’t let him drift into the imagined simplicity of painting.

A few hours after he’d got home, his phone buzzed. He grabbed it from his side and opened it to see a single winking emoji from Roman. And he felt his insides go soft. And he knew it didn’t mean much, so he replied “Well done.” and let himself come down from his nerves to sleep. It didn’t mean much. It didn’t mean anything.

The theft broke on the news the next morning.

⁂

"I suppose this is goodbye, then," Dorian said, when Roman returned to his apartment the next day. "Don't miss me too much. Here she is-" He handed over a Mona Lisa copy. "And you can pick any other two. I like the Monet, personally."

"I do too," Roman said. "But that one's your favourite-"

Dorian laughed unconvincingly. "Oh, no, I-"

"You look at it when you're stressed. Like you want to be a little lilypad floating somewhere I can't annoy you," Roman teased.

"Would that I were," Dorian replied with a roll of his eyes and a slight smile. He was relieved in some ways, but it kind of hurt to have Roman reject the piece of himself he tried to give him.

"No, I'll take the Picasso, I like that new one!"

"Very nice. And the third?"

Roman didn't put on a show of casualness, he knew just what he was asking. "For the third, I'd like an original piece."

"What of, exactly?" Dorian asked, distant and cool.

Roman persisted. "Whatever you like."

The forger looked at his studio of replicas, like old friends, at his paints, his brushes, his paint-splattered speaker. Then he looked at Roman. His honest eyes, his liar's mouth, his impersonal armour of an outfit.

"I'm going to paint you."

Roman's eyes widened. "What- how?"

Dorian tilted his head and assessed him. "Come dressed how you'd like to be painted. Don't waste my time with $40 T-shirts and such. Wear red."

"The colour of love," said Roman with a grin, because Dorian had wrong-footed him.

"The colour of blood," said Dorian, because he needed the last word.

And because Roman wouldn't let him, he carefully put each painting under his arm and on the way out he asked Dorian if he'd seen Titanic, and Dorian rolled his eyes, and they got caught on the question of the male gaze and how much room was on that raft for an extra twenty minutes.

Roman arrived in a prince's costume. No crown, just his natural curly hair. The jacket was white, technically, but the red sash was...perfect. The red cape was perfect. The gold and white were perfect. Of course, Dorian reflected, saying so would only give Roman a window to tease him and he was already so nervous but- "I stole this whole ensemble from the V&A costume vault! Ah, memories."

He laughed. "You look- perfect."

Roman blushed, slightly, and Dorian laughed again. "Keep that red, darling, I have a theme for you." He'd set a stool up by a white wall, but the colour didn't quite work right with the prince outfit, they didn't contrast..."Could you lay down on the floor?"

"I am not getting paint on this!"

"Fine-" Dorian circled his studio a few times before holding his hand out. "Your cloak, please."

Roman took it off. Dorian hung it from some of the many picture-hooks on the wall, creating a backdrop. "Sit down, just there."

Roman did so, and Dorian tilted his head to assess him. The red made him stand out, but the sash was like a slash across his chest, like he was so much himself he was tearing apart. That couldn't be further from the truth. He took the cloak down again, not speaking to his sitter, and stepped back again.

The white kind of fading into the background, the red strong and vivid...that could work. Roman, bold and vibrant, letting his edges blur into the background...but there needed to be something more.

Dorian handed Roman a stem sharp with red gladioli flowers and positioned his hand to hold it like a sword, then shook his head. He stuck the tongue out of the corner of his mouth then put his hand over Roman's and moved them to be positioned over his heart. Better. Not perfect. And this had to be perfect.

Roman laughed softly and mirrored Dorian's expression, poking his tongue out of his mouth. "Copying my expressions now too?"

"Oh?" Dorian closed his mouth. "I didn't realise."

"'S cute," Roman teased.

"Thank you," Dorian said, leading Roman back up from the stool and into the middle of the studio. "And you've given me an idea. I'm sorry about the costume, maybe you can commission a copy from Pat Morgan with all that money you have now. Her work is lovely, they'll make something even realer than the original."

"I don't want a copy," Roman said, lying down on dusty paint stains and propping up his head on his chin to look up at Dorian. "If this one is ruined...so be it. Make me look beautiful in it! Maybe, just, accentuate my cheek bones a little-"

"No," Dorian said gently. "Now, kick your legs up behind you, and hold your flowers just under your chin- finger underneath your chin- There you are, just perfect."

"For the final touch..." Dorian went into Roman's shoulder-bag and pulled out a collection of plans and maps, spreading them on the floor in front of him, as though he'd just looked up. He laughed when he saw a few stacks of notes tied in bundles of thousands of dollars loose in the bag with them. He put a few among the plans. "A status symbol," he said. "Like in The Ambassadors."

"I'm my own status symbol."

"Oh, of course you are," Dorian purred.

"Now, you'll need to hold that there," Dorian said, turning a canvas around. "And I'm not sure which music would fit the mood. We'll have to be quiet."

"Alas!" Roman said. "I shall be dreadfully bored, just lying here!"

"Dinner afterwards," Dorian said. "I'll pay. Just hold that for an hour or so, think about all the ways you'll spend your money. Then - does Italian sound good?"

"Only if we get tiramisu,” Roman said with a little grin.

"We can only do that if you can convince Dot to bring two rather than one big one with two spoons."

Roman hummed. "Nope!"

"What?"

"Sharing is caring, Dorian Gay!"

"Pardon?" Dorian asked sharply.

"You know, like Dorian Grey? Okay, maybe you're Basil and I'm Dorian- but the thought kinda stands- you are gay, right?"

"Completely," Dorian said and turned his back to select a brush. "One tiramisu should be fine."

So Dorian painted in silence, looking at Roman. And Roman went red at his little glances and checks, just like Dorian wanted. Dorian didn't tease him for it, just reached for a line of red paints he'd set aside before and began mixing. Roman watched him, as he painted. He wasn't too sure if he should have kept a single expression, so he experimented a little. "Do you think I should wink? That could be hot."

"I know which expression I'm doing. I don't think I need help, but I'll tell you if so."

They went for dinner. Roman changed into a red sweatshirt and jeans for it. They shared a tiramisu and a bottle of wine and a round of inside jokes. The next day Dorian painted him again. Dinner that night was Chinese. Roman wore a T-shirt reading 'Clap if you believe in fairies'. When he got excited when a kid clapped at him and Dorian changed his mind about which expression he wanted to paint for a split-second. He was wearing a slightly oversized red sweatshirt because Roman had been boasting about how good a thief he was but hadn't been watching his bag.

They had to wait a week before they met up again, since they were selling the paintings, and they celebrated in The Ivy in Central London. They went to a musical afterwards. They didn't make eye contact during the love songs.

The painting was done in a month. Roman was bursting with curiosity by then, but he resisted trying to sneak a peek at it.

Finally, the day came.

The painting was light and airy, real details blurred as if by nostalgic memory. Except for Roman. He was just subtly bolder than his surroundings, colours brighter, lines more defined. He looked down at his plans, tongue poked out in concentration as his hair fell into his face. The flowers were an elegant slant which outlined the shape of his face and centred that everyday expression of his. He looked beautiful. He looked exactly how Roman felt when he was happy being himself.

A name signed the bottom corner on one of the plans: 'Dorian Smith'.

Roman took a long inhale of breath. He stepped closer and examined every careful brushstroke, every carefully chosen colour, every sign that...Dorian had made this, had painted this for him. "It's the most beautiful painting I've ever seen," he murmured.

"You really think so?" Dorian said quietly. His voice sounded vulnerable, open, and Roman realised he must have sounded the same.

Roman laughed softly. "Now you've given me your name, you know I'm going to have to steal it. Especially since you took more than just my face to do that portrait. I was right with your name after all, wasn't I?"

"I suppose," Dorian said. "What do you mean about stealing my name? Marriage so soon, Peruggia?"

"Hyphenation suits me better," Roman said, turning to Dorian with that characteristic flush rising on his cheeks- "No, I'll show you'll how I'll steal your name. Could I hear you say it?"

A shaky breath in. His heart fluttering in his chest. "Dori-" And Roman stole his name before it even left his lips.

Roman wrapped an arm around him, muscled and strong enough to lift gilt frames and statues, and held Dorian close. A stupid flirtation Dorian had heard in galleries a thousand times popped into his head, the way silly things do when all you want to think about is this one irrepeatable moment- I can't hold your hand, babe, they say not to touch the masterpieces.

But he was. And Roman was.

And Dorian couldn't copy himself a thousand times or find a version of Roman he could risk wrecking. So he brought up his hand, able to tease gold leaf into place and just barely brush a canvas with loving detail, to rest on Roman's cheek with the utmost gentleness as he deepened the kiss.

When they came apart, they grinned at each other in a giddy moment of bliss.

"That was-" "Very smooth-" "Your hand is so soft-" "A wonderful kiss-" "A fantastic kiss-" "Shall we?" "May I?" And they kissed again.

"So..." Dorian said, usual composure kissed into slight breathlessness. "Now you have my name, what are you going to do with it?"

Roman grinned. "Give it back the same way, maybe?"

Dorian shook his head. "Hold it for just a moment."

Roman pouted. "We can't have a serious discussion on an unequal footing! I'm a thief, not an evil man! That would be wrong!"

Dorian hummed. "I do see your point. Alright, give it here."

"Roman-" He looked at Dorian expectantly, but he was waiting. "I'm sorry," Roman said. "Peruggia is realer than the name my family passed down to me."

"I like it," Dorian said quickly. "I'll take it." He tipped his face up and kissed Roman again.

The light filtered bright and glowing across their faces. Dorian asked, "What now?"

Roman replied, "How shocked do you think Dot would be if we started making out at our usual table?" Because Dot and the restaurant were routine, it was making this delicate sketch of the two of them together into something more permanent.

Dorian cackled. "I think she and Larry would come out with popcorn!"

"Then let's do it!" Roman tugged Dorian to the door. He laughed, just because he could. "Great galloping Gauguin! We can do that!"

"Can," Dorian shut the door behind them, "and shall."

"I think I'm going to kiss tiramisu off your nose," Roman said dreamily.

"If you try that I'll break up with you," Dorian threatened, before realising his threat had done the exact opposite of make him look reserved and casual.

"Break up, huh?" Roman nudged him in the ribs. "Is that so? Dear? Darling? My pretty painter?"

Dorian went as red as Roman's sash.

Dot and Larry watched Dorian tug Roman closer by the sash and Roman attempt to lace his fingers through Dorian's hair underneath his bowler hat through the window in the door from the kitchen.

"Ah, young love," Larry sighed. "Inept, but enthusiastic."

"They're both accountants!" Dot said, budging her husband out of the way so she could get a better view. "Not that young."

"Younger than us."

Dot sighed. "So are lots of people."

"You're more beautiful than the day I met you," Larry said. "You've aged like a fine wine...or a cheese."

"Oh." Dot raised a flirtatious eyebrow. "Is that so?"

"Let's show those whippersnappers how it's done, Dot!" Larry said with dramatic flair, offering her his hand. "I shall take out the tiramisu with you, and it will be...unbearably romantic!"

"Oh, Larry."

⁂

A month later, 'Declyn' and Roman came to give Dot and Larry a final farewell. They were moving to Italy itself, but they both assured Larry nowhere in the country would have food as good as his.

Two months later, the news hit the headlines that the Mona Lisa had been stolen from the Louvre itself by none other than Roman Peruggia (he left his calling card).

And finally, four months later, the Mona Lisa was returned, completely undamaged, to a little Parisian police station in the dead of night. Those who thought they had purchased her were left with worthless fakes. But what were they going to do, call the police?

Six months later, a few paintings were sent to Dot and Larry. One was of their restaurant, a cheery little piece signed by ‘Declyn’. The other was of a hillside, done in a style remarkably like Van Gogh and even in a frame which had a museum code on the back of it. Larry and Dot thought of their Stitch doll, looked at the nice postcard with the painting, shrugged, and hung it up anyway. The postcard offered to paint Dot and Larry when they met Dorian and Roman again- accounting, they discovered, had never been their true passion.

Two years later, the sun picked out a hillside in Italy in red and gold. The watercolour wash of the sunrise faded into the glinting sea. Cypress trees were wind-swept into Van Gogh swirls; the susurration of their leaves stirred the cool morning air. A crisp dryness in the air promised that it would be hot later.

On the veranda of a spacious house overlooking the view, a man leaned over the railing to gaze at the valley below.

Another padded barefoot out of the house behind with a grin on his face. "Hmm, let me guess...another landscape? You're going to run out of green paint at this point, Basil too-many-Brushes."

Dorian didn't turn from the view. "Oh, I'll run out of paint and brushes a long time before this hillside stops demanding to be painted."

"No, you won't," Roman said with a cocky grin. "I'll buy you all the paint and brushes in the world."

Dorian rolled his eyes and turned to him with a grin of his own. "You know just what I mean, Roman. You haven't a sensitive bone in your body."

"No, I do!" Roman put a hand to his ear, and leaned out to the ocean. "The hill is saying...'Come inside! Roman's put out things for breakfast!'"

"You are..." Dorian said, as soft as the susurration in the trees, "an idiot."

"And which of us is bilingual?"

"Sto imparando," Dorian replied, raising an eyebrow. "And I was talking about art."

"Art, is it?" Roman teased, before holding his hands in a square shape, closing one eye so he could frame Dorian in them. "I think, if I could paint, I could do a nice composition of this. Only your hand could capture your beauty, but I'd make a valiant attempt!"

Dorian felt himself soften, and he didn't think to disguise that in his expression. The feeling was familiar, now. It was no less strong. Just rather than focussing on the choppy waves of flustering or blushing as he used to, he could feel the familiar tug of affection for Roman underneath it. The ocean had filled up his chest, now, and he breathed love as easily as he did air. "You flatter me, dearest."

"Flattery," Roman walked to the railing and wrapped his arms around Dorian's waist, "implies it is untrue." They were quiet for a moment, breathing in tandem as they looked over the view.

"And what will you do today?" Dorian asked Roman.

Roman hummed. "I'm going to try the tiramisu recipe again-"

"You're such a sweet-toothed child-"

"Shut up, I know. And then I'm going to have a look to see how Create is using our money. Maybe find somewhere else, do some in-depth research as to where it can go." Millions and millions of dollars and pounds and euros had been very appealing, but the scale of it hadn't much occurred to Roman when he began working for the thrill of the chase and a new persona for himself. Now, he'd decided to semi-retire and play the crooked philanthropist.

"I'll help you later, dear," Dorian said. "I might paint first...maybe I should paint myself out here. Would you take a photo?"

Roman popped inside for his phone, came out again and made Dorian pose, taking some pictures. He put it down, patting his other jacket pocket. "Love," he said, a little too casual, "you haven't done a self-portrait before. Why now?"

Dorian shrugged. He had an essay of reasons why, but he chose the simplest and final line because he thought Roman could guess at the rest quite well. "Whyever not?"

So he printed out the photo and set up his easel, and Roman lay on his stomach on the floor beside him, reading articles and sending emails. He wouldn't let Roman see it until it was finished, as with any of his original paintings - he was still something of a perfectionist.

A few weeks later, they were in much the same position, only the sunset was shining outside and Roman was watching Disney with earbuds in. Dorian swore lying on the floor like that couldn't be comfortable, but Roman was like a cat - he just wanted to be in the same space as his boyfriend and seemed to have a spine made out of rubber.

Dorian sighed and rinsed his brush, then rolled his shoulders out. "Alright, there we are."

Roman pulled an earbud out. "What- did you say- to-o me?"

"If that was meant to be 'I'll Make a Man Out Of You', I'm unimpressed," Dorian said, rolling his shoulders out. "I'm finished."

Roman's eyes widened. "Oh, all done already? That was fast!"

"Well, it is a tiny canvas. I just need to let it dry and sign it-"

Roman let out an audible sigh of relief, shutting his laptop. "I'm going to put this in our room! To charge it!" He bolted out of the room with his laptop under his arm.

Dorian's eyes narrowed, then a wicked grin crossed his face. He stretched his wrists out once more, then darted through to a side-table and slipped something from there into his pocket before stepping back to the side of his easel with an innocent smile.

Roman skidded back into the room before casually sauntering over to his boyfriend. "So, what are you going to sign the portrait?"

Dorian smirked and got down on one knee, pulling out a ring box and flipping it open. "I don't know, Roman. Dorian Peruggia-Smith has a ring to it, no?"

Roman's mouth dropped open. "You little-" He pulled out his own ring box as he went red. "You stole my line!"

"You stole my heart," Dorian replied smoothly.

"This isn't fair..." Roman whined, but he was fighting a smile.

Dorian plucked the ring out from its setting. It was a ruby inlaid in gold. He held his hand out for Roman's, but Roman replied by dropping to his own knee and taking out a gold band wrought like a snake.

"Dorian, you are-" he said quickly so Dorian wouldn't thwart him again- "You are- you are so perfectly yourself, now, and now felt so right because- you saw me, and I wanted to show how I see you- and I do, I see you and I love you- and I'm so happy you can see you and be proud of you too-"

He took Dorian's hand and slid the ring onto his finger.

"The ring is perfect," Dorian said softly. "Your speech was perfect. Could I show you my painting?"

Roman got to his feet, and helped Dorian up, watching the ring on his- his fiancé's hand.

Dorian was incredibly articulate. He could pull on a persona with a costume, talk about art history for hours, and flirt with Roman and tease him until he blushed. But the very big emotions? They were so hard to phrase. They felt like they turned to fakes in his mouth, so overdone they weren't worth anything anymore. So he took Roman's hand and led him to his original painting, and hoped he would understand.

The painting was of the photo Roman had taken, but it had widened to include Roman taking the phone photo too. It was looser and freer than his usual style, the side of his face was indistinct and Roman had his back turned to the viewer. The trees swirled, the sea gleamed, but the sunrise did not come from the east. Rather it came from Roman.

He glowed gold, and it emanated from him in a soft glow which faded to a gentle red. It picked out the detail around Dorian like a halo.

Dorian watched Roman's part as he looked at it, the soft, "Oh." of his lips.

"Do you understand?" Which is often the question we're too afraid to ask those we hope love us.

Roman shook his head. "You glow too. You're iridescent. It's not from me."

Just because someone loves us, it does not mean they can read our mind.

Dorian shook his head. "I know. It's that... you centre me. You help me see more clearly...I feel like- I am all myself, and I could be myself without you. But you help pick out the good parts in me, the real parts of me. I could do a twin of this, if you like? If you're so sure I glow?"

"I'd like that very much," Roman said, holding out his hand to Dorian. Dorian slipped the ring on. They held each other's hands and leaned in to kiss one another, and the evening sun slipped down into the cerulean sea and backlit them in a wash of light.

⁂

Dorian knew that he was a good forger because he could get the sense of any piece, he could disappear completely into another artist's thoughts and feelings. He was not the best at them. He could never study one artist well enough to become a master.

He was not the best at originals, either. He wasn't sure how he could be. They showed his own thoughts, his own feelings, and nobody could tell how accurate they were to him. Maybe Roman. Not always. There was no metric to measure them to, no guide to help him, nothing but his own intuition and decades of practice of different techniques.

But Roman had demanded painting. He thought that if he could paint Roman, he could paint anything in the world. When he looked back at that first painting, he saw how much of his husband he had left out. So, he practiced painting everything so he could finally capture his thief - a still life of a drooping rose for his cheeks, an explosive modern piece for his passion, a detailed cityscape to practice detail. He'd never got one perfect yet.

So he tried to paint Roman, over and over, and in his practice of landscape and abstracts and flights of fancy, Dorian ended up painting himself, realer and realer, every day.

#roceit #ts fic #roman sanders #deceit sanders #sanders sides #partners to lovers #thief roman sanders #forger deceit sanders

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the--blackdahlia · 4 years

Text

Royals Chapter 2 (Tommy x Nikki)

Title: Royals Chapter 2

Summary: Tommy’s hiding a secret from the rest of the band. He hoped it would never come out, but somehow, it did.

Warnings: Maybe just some language for this chapter

AN: Thank you guys for all the feedback! Here’s chapter 2! (and my lazy ass will make a masterlist for it soon)

1981

Los Angeles, California

“Hey kid,” Tommy was leaning against the door frame. “When you leaving?”

“Couple hours,” Athena told him, not looking up from her magazine. “But I’ll be back before you know it. Can’t get rid of me for that long.”

“Oh, I’m not worried about you coming back. You’re a pain that won’t go away,” Tommy laughed. Athena flipped him off without looking up from her magazine. “You sure you wanna spend the whole summer with mom?”

“Yeah. It’ll be fun,” She told him. “Just stay out of my closet while I’m gone.”

“But your clothes look so much better on me,” Tommy laughed. Athena lowered her magazine to glare at her brother.

“Did you want something?” She asked. “Or are you just trying to get the last few minutes of annoyance in?”

“Just saying bye and reminding you to bring me back a shot glass,” Tommy shrugged. Athena sighed.

“It’s just the summer, and you have the whole Strip to get in trouble on,” She told him. “You know, mom extended the invitation to both of us?”

“Yeah, and listen to everyone talk about my long hair and my tattoo? No thanks,” Tommy shook his head. “Listen, I’m gonna bail before dad gets here to get you. He asks where I am…”

“I don’t know where you went and when you’re going to be back. I know, I know,” Athena shook her head. “You’re eighteen Tommy. I shouldn’t have to be lying about where you’re going anymore.”

“Yeah but it’s dad,” Tommy sighed. “And technically it's a school night.”

“Everyone knows you haven’t stepped foot into Royal Oak in months now,” Athena told him.

“Yeah, well, dad hasn’t said anything and I want to keep it that way,” Tommy sighed. “Well, I’m out. Have a nice trip…”

“See you next fall,” She smirked at him. Tommy gave her a little wave before grabbing his jacket and drumsticks and heading out into the night, hoping that he could avoid another awkward conversation with his dad.

****

Tommy had gone to a few shows. He had started out at a Rock Candy show, moving next to Vendetta, and finally ending up at London. And fuck, was London so good. Tommy had spent most of the night staring at the bassist, with that large black hair and that smirk that just made Tommy melt. And how cool he looked after he got into a fight with the other band members.

Fucking Nikki Sixx. He was never going to meet the bassist, so why get hung up on someone like that.

Tommy stopped outside a music store down the street from the clubs. Every day for the past six months, he had stood outside this store, staring at that very drumset in that very window. He was sure that if he told his mom he wanted it, she would get it for him, but he wasn’t about to ask. He wanted to get this on his own, without his parents help. His dad had got him his first one, the one he used today, when they first moved into the house that they currently lived in, put he wanted to prove to everyone that he could do things without his parents.

He was so lost in his thoughts as he stared at the drums that he didn’t notice someone coming up by him.

“That’s a beauty,” A voice said, making Tommy jump. He turned to see a mop of thick, black hair, and that was about it. Because the hair was hiding the eyes of the talker. But Tommy knew who it was.

This was Nikki Fucking Sixx.

“Would be hard to smuggle out in a guitar case though,” Nikki continued. Tommy just kept staring at him. “You okay there?”

“Uh, I, uh, I have your poster on my wall!” Tommy blurted out, mentally kicking himself. Nikki chuckled and glanced down at the leopard print pants Tommy was wearing, where he had a pair of sticks sticking out of the waistband.

“You carry those with you everywhere?” Nikki asked. Tommy looked down and pulled out the sticks, twirling one of them briefly.

“Never know when it’s time to rock,” Tommy smiled at him. Nikki stood there a moment, sizing him up, before he nodded.

“Come on,” He nodded for Tommy to follow him as he went to the front door of the store and unlocked it.

“What are you doing?” Tommy asked.

“It’s cool. I stay here a lot,” Nikki told him. “I give the owner his 3 b’s, and he lets me stay here, gives me records, and let’s me try out instruments.”

“The three b’s?” Tommy asked.

“Babes, booze, and blow,” Nikki told him. He stuck a few sheets of paper onto a receipt spike. He headed to an office and left a baggie and a couple bottles from the bag he had on his back. He grabbed a stack of records from the desk and headed back out to where Tommy was still standing in the middle of the room like a deer in the headlights. “So, you got a name? Or am I just going to be giving you nicknames all night?”

“Uh, I’m Tommy,” Tommy told him. “Tommy Lee.”

“Well, since you got my poster on your wall, I’m assuming you know who I am?” Nikki asked, sitting on the sales counter to look through the records he had been left. Some of them he would sale, some he would end up keeping.

“You’re Nikki Sixx!” Tommy all but squealed. Nikki’s lips curled into a smile as he laid the records on the counter and hopped off. He made his way over to Tommy.

“Might wanna take the poster down,” He told him. “London’s dead. At least, with me in it. But I’ve got a plan for a new band.” He smirked at the drummer. “Why don’t you show me what you can do and we’ll talk some more about that?”

“Do?” Tommy asked.

“Drums.” Nikki nodded to the set Tommy had just been admiring.

“Oh, yeah,” Tommy nodded and took a seat behind the kit while Nikki leaned up against the wall. Tommy took a deep breath before beating out a pattern on the drums. He glanced over at Nikki, who just kept watching him. When Nikki didn’t tell him to stop, Tommy started in on some different drum solos and such he had heard, or performed in the past. When he figured that he had done enough, he ended the performance with a loud cymbal crash. He looked over at Nikki, who had his hair pushed back so Tommy could actually see his eyes.

“Well, that was a lot better than what I was expecting,” Nikki chuckled. “How old are you anyway?”

“Eighteen,” Tommy told him. “I’ll be nineteen in a few months.”

“Do anything?” Nikki asked. “I think I’ve seen you around the strip before.”

“My buddy Greg and I were in Suite 19 for awhile. Third guy wanted to go out on his own and Greg and I are trying to find a band,” Tommy explained.

“What’s he do?” Nikki asked.

“Greg’s a singer. And he plays guitar. He’s pretty awesome,” Tommy told him. Nikki loved the way his eyes lit up when he was bragging about his band mates.

“Call him up and bring him here tomorrow night,” Nikki told Tommy. “We need a good front man and an even better guitarist.”

“We?” Tommy asked.

“Well, we’re band mates, aren’t we?” Nikki asked. “Don’t think I just ask every random drummer I see on the streets to give me a private performance, do you?”

“I...uh, that’s cool,” Tommy smiled a bit. “I’ll call Greg and have him be here tomorrow.” Nikki smiled and picked up his bass.

“You know any Kiss?”

****

Tommy quietly snuck into the house early the next morning. He had spent most of the night jamming with Nikki, laughing at his dark sense of humor, and just having the best time he had ever had. As he shut the front door, a voice made him jump.

“Well, there you are,” David Bass said from his chair as he sipped some coffee. “You know, I stopped believing Athena when she would tell me that she didn’t know where you went or when you’d be back about three months ago.”

“Uh, hey dad,” Tommy laughed a little. “You’re up early.”

“There was a good marathon on TV,” He grumbled. “Took her to the airport. Thought you would’ve been home.”

“Yeah, sorry. I got caught up in a thing…” Tommy looked down at his scuffed and worn Converse.

“I’m assuming that thing wasn’t a study group,” David commented. Tommy didn’t answer. “Royal Oak called. Asking if you’re sure about dropping out.”

“Shit,” Tommy grumbled.

“Look, I’m not mad, but your mother will be,” David told him. “I know school isn’t everyone’s cup of tea. Trust me. But Tom, this is no way to live your life.”

“We moved here for a second chance, right?” Tommy looked at his dad. “This is my chance. I have the perfect opportunity to separate myself from yours and mom’s shadows. I have a new band. Me, Greg, and Nikki Sixx. We’re going to be awesome dad.” David sighed.

“You know, your mom misses you. Why don’t you go see her? Maybe that would be the perfect chance to start a new life…”

“You couldn’t be there either dad. That’s why we’re here and she’s there.”

“I love your mother. I never stopped loving her. Things just got in the way,” David sighed. “I’m not going to stop you from making your choices Tommy. I just want you to know that once you make them, that’s it. There are no do overs. This isn’t the game of Life. This is just life.”

“I know dad. But I really have faith in this band,” Tommy told him. “Can’t you have faith in me?” David sighed.

“I always do Tommy,” He told his son. “Just get some sleep. Think it over, okay?” Tommy nodded and headed upstairs to his room. He knew Athena’s was empty and would be until she had to go back to school. It just left him and his dad alone in the house. Tommy sighed as he pushed open his bedroom door and headed in. There were flyers covering the walls from different bands he had went to see, including his own.

His eyes fell on the London poster. Black and white with the members and the information for the concert. Part of him wanted to rip the poster down, because Nikki wasn’t with them anymore and he would need a spot for their band’s flyer. But instead, he left it hanging right where it was.

A good reminder of that night as he fell into bed.

Forever Tags: @anathewierdo @dekahg @marvel-af-imagines @feelmyroarrrr @nanie5 @imboredsueme @gemini0410 @aiaranradnay @babypink224221 @mogarukes @xxwarhawk @sandlee44 @shatteredabby @caswinchester2000 @supernaturalwincestsblog @lauravic @mrsambroserollinsacklesmgk @teller258316 @horrorpxnk @tommyleeownsme @marvelismylifffe @mrslogansixxpixx

Motley Crue Tags: @primal-screamer @waywardprincess666 @twistnet @saint-of-los-angeles @vader-kai @motleyfuckingcruee @sharon6713 @kawennote09 @2dead2function @nikkisixxwiththebass @iamtiber-andtiberismusic @jayprettymuchomw @charlyallise @you-know-im-a-dreamer @sweet-dreams-on-butterfly-wings @estxxmotley @arianareirg @the-normal-potato @nikki-sixxtynine @jjjjjjjoshdun @just-a-normal-fangirl18 @stella20131991 @tarahell @wowilovenikkisixx @i-want-to-shoot-myself @motleycrueee @sams-serialkiller-fetish @getbackhonkycatt @are-you-reddie54321 @flamencodiva @deacyduck @scarecrowmax @major-tom-is-a-fucking-junkie @anyasthoughts

#royals #motley crue #Tommy Lee #nikki sixx #tommy lee x nikki sixx #nikki sixx x tommy lee #fanfiction

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starkerforlife6969 · 5 years

Text

Secretary Peter, Boss Tony. With a twist ;)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nick is, again, unimpressed.

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

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

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

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

“That seems like a rhetorical question.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

suddenly, he remembers what the shopping list is for.

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

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

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

He pauses in his drinking.

He never got himself coffee.

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

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

Sure enough, there’s someone sitting there.

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

Who the hell is he?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What did you study?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He does his best to ignore it for now.

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

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

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

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

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

“Mr Stark-”

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

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

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

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

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

He’s on cloud nine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s lying. Don’t sign.

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

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

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

“What the hell is this, Peter?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He doesn’t know, Lawson-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tony’s leaking in his pants.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tony can’t form words.

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

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

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

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

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

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

1K notes · View notes

thephantomofthe-internet · 5 years

Text

Don’t break me again

Billy Hargrove x Reader

Word Count: 4,143

Warnings?: Swearing?

Author’s Note: THIS WASN’T SUPPOSED TO BE ANGST I SWEAR!!!

This is a piece for @moonstruckhargrove‘s Valentine’s Day Challenge

Tags under the cut

Valentine’s Day sucked ass.

And chocolate wasn’t on sale till tomorrow.

But you would be damned if you didn’t get any.

The one good part of adult life was that the holiday wasn’t shoved down your throat anymore. You might have liked the holiday in elementary school, when teachers made a big deal about making everyone a valentine and someone’s mom made cupcakes with pink icing, but once middle school hit and kids started being weird about crushes and the holiday, all bets were off. Middle school candy grams were a popularity nightmare-if you didn’t get one, you were a loser who nobody liked. You cried in the bathroom at lunch when nobody bought you one. When the creepy kid from your debate team bought you one the next year, you didn’t hear the end of it till junior year of high school. You watched every ‘couple’ from seventh grade on make a massive deal of the holiday-flowers and chocolates and paper hearts taped to locker doors and teddy bears dragged through classrooms and abandoned in the cafeteria or parking lot or the bleachers in the gym. You watched them lay waste to the holiday every year.

It wasn’t until senior year that you even had a reason to celebrate the holiday.

Billy Hargrove arrived in a cloud of smoke, dressed like a low rent Billy Idol and sneering like he could still smell the cow shit from the farms on the out skirts of town; hell, he probably could, you were very accustomed the stench of Hawkins. He was angry and bitter and desperate to rule the school. And you were just intriguing enough to him, with your matching sneer and Madonna style-you looked like the groupie he wanted to take home with him, and you were more than willing.

You got together quick and, to the shock of all, stayed together. That Valentine’s day, you had someone to celebrate with. But Billy didn’t do mushy holidays. You were fine with this, you didn’t need flowers that would die or stuffed animals to give to GoodWill when you broke up. You were completely content with being pushed up against a locker and kissed until you couldn’t see straight. That was good enough. And, for awhile, it made you stronger-while other couples frittered away and hated each other, you and Billy made it through till graduation.

You moved to California with him, finding not the endless beaches of Los Angeles but the northern, suburban, dull Sacramento. You found his bad boy attitude to be a façade, his grandparents’ house filled with photos of their golden, smiley grandson, their only grandchild, passing milestones like kindergarten graduation and swim lessons and losing his first tooth. He was a dork who was obsessed with Orson Scott Card and Stephen King and watching Dynasty with his grandmother. He was…lost back in his old world. He didn’t exactly fit into it anymore; his friends had moved on, the girls were more interested in the older college boys than Billy, the fun things he used to do just weren’t fun anymore. Instead of finding new things and new friends, he fell into a funk. He didn’t have a job and so he spent his days watching TV and eating junk food.

Meanwhile, you tried your best to enjoy yourself. While this wasn’t the life Billy had lovingly described to you, it was different. It wasn’t lonely, but it was awkward. You worked at the Macy’s makeup counter, selling Clinique to busy moms and teaching preteen girls to recreate looks from magazines, selling them cheap lip gloss to appease your disgruntled boss. They were sweet girls, just looking for a shot at being noticed at their schools by anyone and you knew the feeling well enough to find the time to teach them how to blend their eye shadow and blush out. It certainly killed dull weekdays when the mall was mostly empty save for kids wandering around and shoplifting magazines and candy bars.

You continued the job when you started at the community college, studying history and selling semi-expensive makeup to moms on the weekends and after school. Billy, meanwhile, promised to get his acted together and, for the most part, he stayed true to his word. He got a job at a hardware store and got you and he out of his grandparents’ house and into a crappy one bedroom apartment, its only selling point was that it was fifteen minutes away from Billy’s job. He worked full time and often took side jobs fixing lawn mowers and bicycles around the neighbourhood out of your storage space. It wasn’t exactly smooth sailing and you often missed each other-when Billy was coming in from work, you were heading out for your evening shift and when you were home, Billy was either at work or in the back of the building, getting coated in gritty grease and oil that stain his clothes and made his hair stink. You only ever seemed to see each other at the end of the night, when you were both too tired to do anything at all.

You were very lonely.

Sure, you had some friends at school and a couple of your coworkers were chummy, but you weren’t close with them. You didn’t hang out outside of school or work with them and Billy’s friends weren’t exactly inviting you along on their poker nights. You spent a lot of nights alone, pouring over your textbooks with the TV on in the background so you didn’t feel completely alone. Billy was your best friend, but he wasn’t exactly around. As you fell into the hum of school and work schedules, Billy fell into his own personal bout of loneliness.

That’s when he met Amber. That’s when he forgot you.

You knew he was cheating in the corner of your mind, but you held out hope that it would pass once you got on winter break. You had a wonderful Christmas with his grandparents, only to be spoiled by a rough call from his father. You got him a watch, monogrammed with his initials, knowing he’d lost his last one to a slippery fingered co-worker. He got you a wrench. In his defence, it was useful, but it certainly wasn’t what you wanted.

After Christmas, Billy fell away again. He was distant, out of the house just as fast as he came in, out with friends all the time and never quite with you when he was around. You craved his attention, to bring him back somehow.

And then, it all came to a head.

You worked that Valentine’s Day, because you and Billy didn’t celebrate anyway and the money would be good for an easy night. You’d painted your face in pretty pink hues and watched the young couples who wandered the mall after school that day with a bittersweet smile. You remembered being like that with Billy just a year prior. It felt silly-you were only nineteen, barely older than them, and yet you were sounding like a disgruntled housewife. You leaned on the counter, watching the clock tick down till you could finally close down the counter for the night and head home. You wanted to head home to your tired boyfriend, sit around on the couch with him, order takeout and relax for the night. It felt like forever since you done that.

But that was at noon. By five, your whole opinion had changed.

You went for your dinner break at four thirty, a small luxury of boring technical holidays where people acted like it was an actual holiday while scrubs like you worked. The only perk of it all was that while couples circulated the mall, they stayed mostly to the Valentine’s themed aisles and the jewellery stores. This gave you ample time to peruse the sale racks of expensive shops, digging around for good deals and having sales clerks mostly ignore you, a welcome thing for you.

You usually wouldn’t find yourself in the expensive lingerie shop on your break-it was full of overpriced bits of strategic lace and mesh in pastels and silks and satins. But, to your surprise and joy, they were having a sale for Valentine’s Day only and, even better-it was actually a decent deal. You went in hoping to get one new decent bra and then maybe look at the silly themed lingerie; if any of the panties were on sale you’d buy them, no amount of hearts would or could ruin a good deal on nice undies.

That’s when you saw him-Billy, mulling the racks of baby doll sets and lace one pieces’ with the eye of a skilled critic, rubbing the material between his fingers and examining the lace and mesh spots carefully. He looked absolutely adorable and you had half a mind to rush him. But two things stopped you, firstly: you didn’t want to ruin his obvious little surprise for you. It was a sweet gesture, if a little misplaced; there was nothing you’d rather wear less than the French cut magenta one piece he’d pulled with the nipples cut out and the rest of the chest covered in lace. It all looked impractical and itchy.

But the main reason you didn’t burst in on his little shopping trip was simply: someone else did it for you. A Playboy playmate jumped on his back, grinning like a fool and pressing long, fast kisses on his neck and cheek. You found yourself dumbfounded-suddenly knockoff Sandy Greenberg was pressing herself into your boyfriend and he was pulling her to his chest and kissing her with all the passion your relationship lacked. You wanted to storm them, to hit him and make a scene and cry and make him feel the way you felt as your heart slowly shattered watching them. The playsuit was for her, of course it was for her; the colour suited her bleach blonde hair and sun tanned skin perfectly. You were a forgotten piece of window dressing.

You should’ve slinked away quietly, it would’ve been so much easier and you could’ve saved the screaming match for inside your apartment. Instead, you bought the damn bra and two pairs of silk panties for the fuck of it; you wouldn’t be paying Billy’s rent anymore, you could buy yourself something new.

Before you could stop yourself, you marched over to the pair, now examining stockings and garter belts. You pulled the last bit of cash from your wallet. “Here,” you snapped, pushing the cash into Billy’s chest. His eyes flicked from your hand to yours, realization dawning on him as to what was happening. “Since I’m already paying for you to screw around with her, let me help with the toys.”

“Y/N…” Billy tried softly, watching you carefully. His little girlfriend was already putting distance between him and herself.

“Save it.” you snapped, rushing out and back to Macy’s to hide away behind a counter. You hoped that Billy would stay out of the apartment when you returned home, but a small part of you hoped that he’d be there with a thousand apologizes that you could refuse or accept at your leisure. But you knew that wouldn’t happen-you’d come home to an empty apartment and maybe a note if you were lucky. You guessed your eyes were red when you returned to your counter, because Mallory, your manager, sent you home with a sneer to ‘not use your break to get stoned’. You didn’t particularly care; you went back to the apartment to handle the mess he’d made.

Billy wasn’t home but his stuff was still there. You packed up your clothes and made your break.

That was the last time you saw him.

San Francisco was much better than Sacramento. Costume design was a more fun degree than Russian history. And working for the San Francisco Ballet was way more fun than you expected it to be.

The ballet had run a production of Romeo and Juliet for the month of February, meaning you’d spent all of January switching between quick fixes on costumes for the end of the Nutcracker run for Christmas and making dozens of muted pastel dresses for the choral girls. You weren’t the head designer, you weren’t even the head of a design group, you were simply a seamstress for the company, building tutus and skinny little dresses. In fact, your only job of real importance was the slightly awful job of helping the trope’s Prima Ballerina, Henrietta McCoy, break in and then fix her Pointe shoes. How you had gotten this role, only God knew, but you guessed you fixed a hole once and she’d had such a good performance that she insisted on you doing it from then on.

Valentine’s Day was a big performance night-it wasn’t the first performance of the run but it was the most packed. You had finished your alterations and fixes that afternoon and it was not your shift to help with changes. It was your first free night in weeks and you intended to spend it in your pyjamas on your couch with a movie and some overpriced chocolate. But to achieve this you would have to go out to get it.

Usually, you’d till the day after Valentine’s Day to buy chocolate; it always tasted better on sale and you could pick your poison guilt free. Sure, you could’ve spent your night out on the town with Cooper from the company, but you’d rather be on your own on your couch than out at some restaurant with Cooper listening to him drone on about how he was this close to making the lead male dancer for Swan Lake next Christmas.

You made your way into the cooler February night; you only lived a block away from a BlockBuster and a grocery but you still drove, not wanting to risk anything in the dark. There wasn’t going to be anything good left at BlockBuster anyway, so you went in search of chocolate first.

The store was mostly empty, save for the usually struggling husbands and boyfriends who’d forgotten the holiday. You smiled politely at their buffoonery as you passed them, heading for the more expensive chocolate.

And now…the biggest decision of the night: assorted dark or milk chocolate? Were you pretending to be healthy or admitting to your fat assery?

“Since when are you into this mushy shit?”

The voice made you stop dead in your tracks.

You didn’t turn around; if you didn’t turn around he wasn’t there. You tried to hide the shock from your voice as you answered it. “Since…Since when are you in San Francisco?”

“Just passin’ through…You look good, Y/N.”

“I know.” You chose the dark and you almost went for the smaller box.

“You’re not even gonna look at me, are you?” you could hear the confidence waver in his voice. You heaved a sigh and turned around.

The mullet was gone, a definite improvement. He looked different though-bulkier maybe. He looked less like a chiselled god and more…human; still strong, but less toned and tan. His blue eyes still shone with mischief, but there was something else there too. They were less glassy and clearer; less filled with trauma and more focused. His eyes didn’t train your body the way they used to with every girl; they stayed right on your face, in search of something.

“Hi Billy…” you said tightly, crossing your arms over your chest, plastic basket handles digging into the crook of your elbow.

“Ouch, guess I look like shit now, eh?” he joked, though it fell flat.

“You look…different.”

“Bad?”

“No…more mature maybe, but not bad. Just…different.”

Billy hummed, shuffling on the linoleum. “I…I really don’t know what to do with that. Let’s try again: so, what’re you doing tonight? Hot date?”

“Nah, I’m enjoying a much needed night off.” You smirked softly, your mind drifting to pyjamas and movies and the end of this conversation.

“Oh yeah? Work a lot of nights now?”

“Work around the clock now. No rest for the wicked I suppose.” You turned down the aisle, contemplating wine to go with your chocolate. You had a feeling Billy would follow, but you weren’t exactly pleased about it.

“I didn’t think history teachers worked around the clock.” Billy mused.

“I wouldn’t know, I’m not a history teacher.” Billy hummed curiously and you stole a glance behind you, not able to stop the grin that formed on your face as you watch him try to think of other jobs that could be related to history.

“I’m a costumer for the San Francisco Ballet. I spend all my free time starching tulle and making tutus.” You explained, pulling a bottle of red off the shelf, a half decent bottle you’d tried before and didn’t hate.

“I thought you were going to be a history teacher? Like Ms. Barney or whatever…”

He remembered. Curiouser and curiouser…

“Do you remember how shitty we treated our teachers in high school? Why the hell would I submit myself to that? Besides, I was trying to be Russian history major, that’s not exactly hireable. So, I changed to a fashion design major and got a damn degree.”

“I didn’t think you were much of a seamstress; you couldn’t even fix the hole you made in our old couch.” Billy chuckled cruelly and scowled up at him. He was such a douche.

“Okay, one; you made that hole wrestling with Justin high off your asses. And two; I DID sew it back up, and I took the weird jizz stain out of it, but you ripped it again. You stuck your foot right threw it and got stuck.” You snapped bitterly. Billy’s smirk faltered and he crossed him arms over his chest awkwardly.

“I was just kidding…” he muttered. You rolled your eyes, turning back to the shelves and pretending to examine a bottle of rosè.

“I was just…I didn’t know you were into sewing.”

You frowned, raising an eyebrow curiously, turning slowly to face him again. “I pretty much made or refashioned my whole wardrobe in high school…did you not know that?” you asked.

Billy shook his head and, for once, you believed him.

“Well, I did. And I forgot that I liked it so much so, when we…broke up, I reconsidered my life and changed my program. Stuck around in Sacramento for a little while, but once I was done I got the hell out.” You explained, turning and heading towards the cash registers, choosing the smiley girl, twenty at the oldest. You slightly hoped that he’d be more than a bit distracted by her flirty smile bubble gum bubbles.

“You know…we didn’t actually break up…” Billy whispered in your ear as you piled your purchases on the conveyor belt. You pulled away from Billy, his hot breath on your ear wet and all too familiar. He was too close for comfort and too easy to slip back into. Billy hadn’t changed, not really- he was still the giant flirty asshole he was before. Sure, he might have had a change of heart, but his attitude was the same.

“I’m pretty sure me catching you with your side chick buying lingerie was enough of a hint that you didn’t want to be with me anymore. I don’t stay where I’m not wanted.” You explained, smiling politely at the cashier, whose eyes were taking a stroll down Billy’s muscle bound body. You pulled out your wallet and your debit card, flashing it to the girl, who plugged in the payment type into the computer.

“I never said I didn’t want to be with you, Y/N.” Billy said bluntly. You scoffed, rolling your eyes as you swiped your card and plugged in your code.

“Oh of course, you liked that I was paying bills and cleaning up after you.” You muttered, bitterly, grabbing the plastic bag from the girl, who waved Billy goodbye, eyes fluttering softly.

You were more than ready to leave. You’d honestly just wanted to go home, it didn’t matter that you didn’t get a movie, you just wanted to hide behind a locked door until Billy left town again. You rushed into the parking lot, leaving Billy in the dust. Because, at the end of the day, Billy was your first love and you still carried him a piece of your heart. And Billy wanted that piece back, that was clear, and you were nowhere near interested in giving it back.

But Billy didn’t exactly want to see you go just yet. And he wasn’t there for the piece, he was there for the whole heart.

Billy knew he’d fucked up the second he saw you in the mall. He realized how much he’d fucked up instantly. Erika, that was the other woman’s name, was the type of girl he went after before you. It was in a moment of desperation, of boredom and loneliness and dissatisfaction with his life. And she was exciting and new and shrill and phony and self-centred. She was a decent lay and should’ve stayed a one night stand. But, because she was interested and he was bored, he kept going back. He got caught up in the excitement of a new relationship. He didn’t realize how shit he was until he got caught.

And he regretted it so much. Because you deserved better, you deserved the best man he could be and that wasn’t him. All he wanted to do was apologize, to beg for forgiveness, but when he returned that night, practically chasing what he thought was your car, abandoning Erika without a second thought. He swore you were done at four; he would catch you before you left. But you left early and he came home to an empty apartment, your things gone, and no note to give him any clues to where you went. He’d taken all this time to find you again. He wouldn’t have guessed San Francisco.

And now you were leaving again and his chance was slipping away. If you rejected him now, he wouldn’t come looking again. He’d gotten lucky that Tina of all people knew where you had moved, that luck wasn’t coming back. And besides, he knew that his search was more than a little creepy; he really didn’t want to be creepy.

He reached out for you, grabbing your arm and pulling you back. You ripped your arm out of his grasp, but you didn’t turn your back to him, you stared him down.

“Come to dinner with me.” He grinned cockily, shoving his hands in her pockets casually.

You barked out a laugh in utter disbelief “No way in hell!”

“Why not?” Billy chuckled.

“You broke my heart, remember? I caught you with your other girlfriend on Valentine’s day.” You snapped.

“You’re never gonna let that go are you?” Billy said. You scoffed, turning to walk away. This time, Billy let you. He’d fucked up, again. This was not was he was here for

“I’m sorry.” He called after you.

You turned back slowly “What?”

Billy took a deep breath “I’m sorry, Y/N, I fucked up back then and I was unhappy and I made a mistake. I’m sorry I hurt you so much.” He said.

You were stunned; this was not what you were expecting. You nodded dumbly “It’s…its okay, Bill. I wasn’t as happy as I thought I was then.”

Billy stepped closer to you “I want to make it up to you, I wanna fix us.”

“I don’t think we can be fixed, Bill. I think we’re done.” You sighed bitterly, crossing your arms once more.

“I just…I lost you and it made me realize how much I care about you. And not just as like a girlfriend, I think you might have been my best friend.” This earned a small, genuine laugh from you that filled Billy’s whole body with the warmth of a summer day. He pressed on “And when you were gone, I realized how much I needed you. How much I need you. So please, let me try to fix this. I just want you in my life again, I don’t care in what way.”

You stayed silent for a moment, letting his words settle in your mind. You missed him too, you couldn’t deny that any longer. Your eyes fluttered shut as you breathed out a sigh.”Just…just don’t break me again, okay? I can’t bear it.” you whispered.

Billy nodded frantically “I won’t, I can’t I-I would never let that happen again.”

You nodded, more to yourself than him “If you want to hang out, I was gonna rent a movie.” You peaked at him, watching the genuine grin break out on his face. “But nothing scary! You know I don’t like horror movies!”

Billy chuckled “You liked Carrie!” he tried. You smiled much to his relief, smacking his shoulder slightly as you headed for the Blockbuster, just a few shops down.

“Don’t push it, Hargrove.” you said, grinning up at him.

“I won’t.”

Permanent Tag: @moonstruckhargrove @hargrovesgoldilocks @casaharrington @itstartswithhelloo @thechickvic @alex-awesome-22 @lilmissperfectlyimperfect @so-not-hotmess @hipsmcgee

#stranger things #stranger things 2 #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things au #billy hargrove #billy hargrove x reader #billy hargrove x you #billy x you #billy x y/n #billy x reader #billy hargrove au #billy hargrove imagine #billy hargrove headcanon #billy hargrove headcanons #billy hargrove aus #billy hargrove angst #dacre montgomery #billy hargove x reader

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iamkatehardy · 5 years

Text

Shots (Handsome Bob x Reader) Pt 1

Tags: @tiredoffeelinglost, @eap1935, @ellar21, @but--dear-this-is-not-wonderland, @titty-teetee , @sparklyreaderx , @iv-nyc

Warnings: mentions of weaponry, meantions of death.

A/N: Ok, writing about a new character is a challenge, so feedback is specially appreciated 😜

I’m doing 2 parts, so it doesn’t get too long/boring for you! This one is about shots in business, the next one will be all about other kind of shots... Multiple kinds of shots actually ( aka Bob smut) 😏

Shots - Pt1

You tapped the fingers impatiently on the worn table, as your eyes scanned the terrible familiar room; it was just as messy as when you last saw it, but far more devoid of people than it used to be. Was this what the Wild Bunch had become, while you were incarcerated?

The silence was broken by the sound of men’s voices, coming closer and closer.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the three stooges…” – Crossing your arms, you got up, pacing around the room and giving them a sideways smirk. – “You better have a good reason to call me here; I’m a busy girl, these days...” – You walked over to them, leaning forward greet them. – “Mumbles… One Two… Chauffeur…”

“That’s Handsome Bob…” – Mumbles introduced the younger man.

“I’m sorry, what?” – You didn’t even try to contain your laugh at that. – “Since when have the gangster nicknames come to this?“ – You asked with a teasing voice.

“Do you have a better one?” – Good-humored even in his annoyance, Bob asked.

“Actually , I do… “ – Lips scarcely an inch from his ear, you whispered, before turning on your heel. – “But after I served my time, it wouldn’t be good to call me by that name in public, Handsome. (Y/N) will do, or Gorgeous (Y/N), suit yourself. “ – A cocky smile flashed on your lips, and you turned to the other two.- “ Now, I bet you didn’t call me here to catch up, or to introduce me to your driver…So, let’s get down to business?”

The men took a big wooden box off the closet behind you, putting it over the table, and opening it with crowbars. You examined the content cautiously, sliding your finger across it.

“May I?” – Your gaze shifted from the box to the men, and One Two nodded an acknowledgment. – “Neat!”

“Be careful with that!” – Bob placed his hand on yours, as you took the gun out of the box.

“I’m a superb marksman, meaning can handle these babies blindfolded, if needed. My gangster nickname is Deadshot… Just as self-explanatory as Handsome Bob, no? “ – You threw him a sidelong glance. - “ Don’t ever underestimate me; it’s a grave mistake.” - Giving him a derisive smile, you pulled your hand back, assembling the high-precision rifle together before they knew it. – “Depending on the conditions, the maximum effective range will be between 1 and 1,5 miles…” – You thoroughly analyzed the scope. – “Which, let me tell you, is a fuckin’ lot! You can even work with thermal imaging, if you’re close enough to the target… This is beyond cutting-edge, better than the ones that most of the armies use.“ – Just as quickly as you assembled it, you disassembled it, putting it carefully back in the box – “Everything about this baby is ultra-high end. This is not what you used for armed robbery…” - You studied their faces for a moment.

“We won’t use it in a robbery…” – One Two sat on the edge of the table.

“We won’t use it… We don’t know how to handle that kind of weaponry. But you do…”- Sauntering across the room, Mumbles scratched his chin.

“It’s not a robbery and you want a sniper’s help? Oh boy, why does it sound to me like things might get dicey, huh? Listen, I’m on probation… If things go south, and I get caught, I’ll be put behind bars for the next decade, or more.” – Taking a deep breath, you clasped your hands tightly together.

Mumbles was about to make the case, but Bob interrupted him.

“We’re in trouble, and we have nobody else to turn to, (Y/N)…”

“We don’t want to kill anyone, but you know, just in case… Think of it like a life insurance.” – One Two shrugged his shoulders, as if trying to put you at ease.

“Then perhaps you should fill me in. I’m all ears.” – Pensive, your eyes were glued to your hands, as you cracked your knuckled loudly. The men exchanged glances, with a smile on their lips, at the thought you could go along with their plan. – “Well? I don’t have all the time in the world.” – The long wait made you exhale loudly in frustration and turn your attention back at them.

They walked towards the closet again, getting a noticeably heavier box.

“Another treasure chest?” – You facepalmed, as they struggled to open the box.

When the box was finally open, they removed the raffia that covered the merchandise. You took a peek and your eyes went wide.

“RPGs?! First you show me a high-precision riffle, and now RPGs?! These shits can blow up an armored vehicle, like, a fuckin’ tank! Boooom! Jesus.” – You buried your head in your hands. - “Did you rob the Her Majesty’s Armed Forces, or something like that?”

“The Russians.” – Bob added.

“Oh God.” – You dug your fingers deeper into your scalp. – “I don’t know what’s worse actually, stealing from the army, or stealing from the fucking Russians. They’re nuts! They are coming after you for this, do you realize that?!”

“That’s why we need you (Y/N).”

“No, mate, I have enough holes in my body, I am not adding more to the list. I’m out. Get rid of those, before you get yourselves killed.” - Pinching the bridge of your nose, you stepped back.

“We are getting a rid of it; we will make good money selling them to a rival gang.”

“That’s not what I meant by getting rid of them, moron.” - You rolled your eyes, before scowling at them.

“One more job and we’ll go straight once and for all….25% of the sale is yours, are you in?” – Mumbles tried to make a bargain with you.

You raised an eyebrow and took two or three steps toward the door.

“30 %.” – One Two hesitated, but he knew he had to raise the stakes, in order to keep you interested.

Shaking your head, you kept slowly stepping out the doorway.

“50%.” – Bob shouted loud enough for you to hear. You stopped, scratching your head, deep in thought.

“I’m so going to regret this…” – Whispering to yourself, you turned around, peeking through the door. “Did you, by any chance, say fifty?” – The corners of your mouth quirked up.

They gave Bob an unbelieving look; half the profits was an incredibly high share. Were they that desperate?

“35%.” – They tried to correct the proposal.

“Nuh-huh, I like Bob’s offer. Fifty or nothing… You’ve got ten seconds to make your decision from… Now.” – Looking at the watch you started counting down the ten seconds, as they discussed among themselves if they were willing to pay your price. – “Two… One… What’s it gonna be?”

“Fifty.” – They said in unison.

“One last thing… We’ll do it my way.”

The remainder of the week was spent making plans, going over them over and over again; the date and place of transaction, the communication system and the safety word in case they needed your help, the escape routes and what to do in case anything went wrong… You thought you had it all figured out, but you never do, when it comes to Russians.

D-Day. Wearing a military uniform, you packed the parts of the rifle in a black rucksack.

“A uniform? Rawr, I love them.” – Bob leaned against the table, with a mischievous smile.

“Yeah, that’s exactly why I brought it…” – You smiled back, picking the rucksack up and putting it over one shoulder.

“Really?”

“No… The System considered my skills pretty useful for some agreed exceptional cases; if I cooperate, I’m a free bitch. Let’s say I am doing a little service for the System, on behalf of the military forces, technically I would be allowed to have this backpack and its content…Now, if I were caught with this backpack on my own initiative, as a civilian, an ex-con, bye bye parole...”

“Aren’t you afraid of being caught?”

“There’s no reason to pull over and question someone who’s working for the army, is there, Bob?” – You shrugged, walking out the door.

When the time had come, you all took your positions at the rendezvous point; they waited for the Russians on the eleventh floor of a condemned building, meanwhile, you assembled the rifle on the building across the street, targeting the room where they were.

The Russians arrived, acting surprisingly friendly, and the exchange happened exactly as planned, although the boys were outnumbered three to one. Six Russians carried the three wooden boxes with the weaponry to their black SUVs, while the boys checked the payment, accompanied by three other Russians. The SUVs left and one of the Russians that were still on the room got a call. You all had a tiny earpiece, so you could keep track of the boys in case they needed help.

“I don’t speak Russian, but something’s not right… Guys? Come up with an excuse and leave as discretely as possible, we count the money later. Do you copy?”

They closed the suitcase, and within seconds a Russian was blocking their access to the door. Cornered, they split up, backing off to different parts of the room.

“Fuck…” – You held your position, waiting for that command, but you put the window in the crosshairs, ready to pull the trigger. – “Ready to shoot, on your command.”

One of the Russians walked up to Bob, trapping him between himself and the window, with a gun in hand, ruining your chances of a clear shot.

“Banana.” – One Two mumbled your safety word.

“I don’t have a clear shot…” – You sighed. – “Bob’s in the way…” – In order to shoot the Russians, you’d have to headshot Bob, and that wasn’t part of the plan.

Bob tried to move but the giant Russian aimed his gun to Bob’s head.

“Banana, banana, banana… BANANA.” – One Two closed his eyes wide shut as he held his hands in the air, as if surrendering to the Russians. His hunger for bananas made all the Russians look at him, wondering what the fuck was going on.

“I’m so sorry, Bob.” – As soon as the Russian that was threatening Bob got distracted, you finally pulled the trigger. The shot grazed Bob’s arm, making him kneel on the ground, groaning in pain; but you finally had a clear shot, or three of them. – “Do svidaniya (Goodbye), bitches.” – When the Russian turned around to see where did the shot come from, a bullet penetrated his skull from one side to the other ; the other two rushed to the aid of their friend, but he was dead, and in no time, so where they, with an extra hole in their heads.

“Ooo, that was close…” – They panted, and came to help Bob get up.

After disassembling the rifle, you peaked through the window and gave the others a thumbs-up.

“That psycho just shot me!”- Bob flipped the bird in response to your thumbs-up, before moaning in pain again.

You drove back in separate cars, and they arrived to the warehouse before you did.

“I have to go to hospital! Be honest One Two, am I gonna die?” – Bob opened only one eye.

“Yes, you are going to die, we all are…” – After throwing the rucksack on the table, you picked a bottle of vodka and a knife, before sitting by Bob’s side. – “Look, I’m sorry, but I had no choice.” – You soaked a piece of cloth with the vodka, putting it over his wound with an apologetic look on your face.

“Was it really necessary? Is this really necessary?” – He writhed in pain.

“ It’s a flesh wound, don’t be a pussy!” – Mumbles slapped the back of his neck playfully.

“Back where I come from, people with a pussy handle pain just fine…” – You smirked, you inspected the wound.

“Does Cookie have anesthesia for sale?”

“Come on, Bob… You’ll be fine, just apply pressure on the wound, it’s a superficial wound…” – You finished cleaning the wound.

“What if it has bullet fragments?!” – Worried, he watched you clean the wound.

“Only one way to find out…” – You took a sharp knife in your hand, sterilizing it with a lighter.

“Nevermind, no bullet fragments there.” – Bob straightened up on the sofa, making a face. You chuckled and shook your head.

“Let’s go get something to drink, I’m buying. “ – You reached for your jacket, putting it back on.

“I just got shot and you want to party?!” – Bob’s face displayed indignation.

“Tequila, absinthe… Didn’t you ask for anesthesia?” – Smirking, you walked out the door. – “Sometimes I get sick of shots for business; sometimes I like shots for pleasure…”

An agreement had been reached, and you made your way to a local club. You felt like Bob was avoiding you, so you put your arm around him, pulling him away from the crowd, into a corner.

“Listen man, I swear to god I would’ve done things differently if I could… But I didn’t have much choice, Handsome. Are we cool?”

Bob tilted his head, weighting your words.

“We’cool.” – He looked down at you, offering his hand for a handshake; you handed him a shot instead. – “ Well, that works too!” – He gulped at the drink and you did the same. – “ Would you like to dance?”

#rocknrolla #rocknrolla fanfic #rocknrolla fanfiction #rockrolla handsome bob #rocknrolla tom hardy #tom hardy characters #handsome bob #handsome bob x reader #handsome bob x you #handsome bob x oc #handsome bob imagine

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killervibe · 5 years

Text

Where the Love Light Gleams

I’m sorry this is 2 days late!!

Written for 12 Days of Killervibe and gifted to @ciscoscaitlin

Notes: This was supposed to be my big! Christmas! Fic! but then Candy Canes and Silver Lanes sort of spiraled out of control.

Summary: Cisco needs a perfect gift for Caitlin.

~.~

“This is a disaster!” Barry rolled his eyes at Cisco, shifting the weight of his twelve shopping bags with a weird little hopping motion. “Cisco, calm down.” “I can’t!” Cisco exclaimed, throwing his empty arms out wildly, nearly knocking down a row of Bath and Bodyworks perfumes.

“If I don’t find something in the next fifteen minutes Christmas is ruined.” “Not finding a gift for Caitlin in 15 minutes will not ruin Christmas,” Barry muttered, beating a lady from snatching the last Vanilla Bean Noel shower gel from off the shelf. “Caitlin doesn’t even technically celebrate Christmas.” “That’s not helping,” Cisco snapped, “that means that I’m already late in giving her a gift.” “I thought you agreed on just swapping gifts at our Christmas party at Joe’s?” “We did.” “What’s the big deal, then? Just get her some nice soap or something. That’s what I’m doing.” Barry waved a bar of soft lilac in his face before depositing it in his basket. Cisco scoffed, “I can’t buy Caitlin soap.” “Cecile says you can If it’s very nice soap.”

“Ohhh my god.”

Barry stopped his frenetic shopping to pause and give Cisco a funny look. “Am I missing something? You’ve never been bad at presents.” Cisco studied some pine scented hand lotion and shrugged. “I guess I just want to get her something special this year.”

“Why?” Cisco shrugged again. “I don’t know. I just feel like I should. Don’t you feel that way with Iris?” Barry lifted his 13 bags sheepishly. “Iris is easy to shop for. She usually says I spoil her too much.” Cisco glared at Barry’s haul. “You’re kidding,” he deadpanned. Barry missed his sarcasm by a mile, “Oh yeah, I mean Christmas is just that time of year where you get away with buying way too much—It’s fun and—“ Barry stopped abruptly in the queue for the cash, causing Cisco and then a series of five other people behind them to stumble into each other like dominoes. “Barry,” Cisco warned, pushing him forward to prevent a public outcry. Barry shuffled forward but spun on his heel to give Cisco a feral smile. “What?” Barry hummed, looking smug. The cashier called for the next in line and Barry started to unload his basket. Cisco leaned his elbow against the check-out counter, frowning at Barry suspiciously. “What?” he asked again. “Nothing.” That very clearly did not mean nothing. “That’ll be $56.98, sir,” the employee chirped, and Barry tapped his card with his charming Barry Allen smile. “Merry Christmas!” Barry beamed at her when she handed him his 13th purchase of the day. Cisco watched him struggle out the door. “You need help with that?” “Nah, I got it,” Barry replied, looking left then right and Flashing away. Cisco blinked and then blinked again to find Barry back, red faced and empty handed. Clearly he put his stuff away in the car. Barry smirked at Cisco, folding his arms over his chest.

“You’re stressing over finding Caitlin the perfect gift.”

“A little,” Cisco agreed. “Because you want to impress her.” Cisco scratched his hair, “Uh...no? Because I want to get her something she deserves?” “Because...?” Barry prompted. “...Because I love her?” Cisco replied in the same tone. Barry waggled his eyebrows triumphantly. “Say that again?” Cisco’s brain lagged, “Because I love her—Oh shit.” Barry cackled At Cisco’s dumb struck face. “I’ve been waiting five years for this.” Cisco stopped to drop onto a bench in the middle of the mall meant for the sick and elderly. “Oh Barry. This isn’t news. I know.” Barry’s mouth dropped open to talk and Cisco held out his hand, interrupting him. “I didn’t mean to tell anybody.” “What? Why not?” “Because Barry, no offence, but I’m friends with people like you and Ralph and Sherloque. You suck at secrets. Please don’t blow this up.” Barry sat down on the bench beside him. “It doesn’t have to be a secret. You should tell her.” Barry started to grin, “Do it on Christmas!” Cisco bristled. “Don’t say that.” “Why not?” Barry supplied, “This is amazing. You can get her something romantic and then confess your feelings.” Cisco looked at Barry as if he had three heads. “....No?” “No?” “Rejection on Christmas? I don’t think so.” “Oh come on, Caitlin won’t reject you. She has feelings. Trust me.” “Yes, she can, she absolutely can. She’d be allowed to, and she might.” Barry put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Dude.” Cisco crossed his arms over his coat and shook his head.

“Can we just work on trying to get her a good gift? I want her to have that regardless of my feelings.” An old man with a cane hobbled down the mall, and Cisco quickly hopped up to offer him his seat. Barry bumped his shoulder with his own as they made their way back to the centre of the mall. “Sure. Where to next?” Cisco twirled around, taking in all of the commercialism and wrinkled his nose. Nothing about this screamed Caitlin to him, and of course it shouldn’t, none of this was Caitlin at all. Besides, he doesn’t want to fall upon the perfect gift for her because some salesperson smoothed talked him into it or because it was on sale. It needs to be more than that. They passed by a Build-A-Bear full of children and a swamped Pandora. An idea struck him, and he tugged Barry along the way to the nearest exit. “You know what Bear, let’s go home.” Cisco waited for Barry to drive down the road after dropping him off at home before he breached back to Star Labs. He switched on the light to his workshop and plopped down at his desk, carefully depositing all of the materials in front of him. He pulled out his tools, then looked at the time. Two days. That was enough to turn these scraps into something special, right? Of course it was. He’s made gizmos that defeated evil villains in less than a half hour from scratch. A gift for Caitlin couldn’t be that hard. He’s made Iris’s explosive earrings and Caitlin’s solar power dampener necklace. This shouldn’t be a big deal. Two hours later, Cisco was banging his head against his desk with a long drawn out groan. It was. It was. It was. ~.~ What Cisco liked best about Christmas time, was the smiles on everyone’s faces. He sat nursing a strong cup of eggnog as everyone opened their gifts around the West’s tree. They were being lazy, knowing that the majority of the boxes here were for cute little Jenna, who was too young to open them anyways. She’s barely a year old, but that doesn’t stop them from catering the infant like she’s royalty. Cisco was guilty himself, having got her both a play pen full of age appropriate stuffed toys and custom made The Flash, Kid Flash, Vibe and Killer Frost onesies. Cecile lifted her up in the air from the floor where she had changed her into the sixth outfit of the day and blew a raspberry into her belly. “Oooh look how cute this hairband is!” She cooed. “Thank you, Caitlin! Say thank you Caitlin, baby! Yes, we’re saying thank you!” Cisco pressed his socked foot against her folded legs on the couch they were sharing. She smiled at Cecile. “It’s my pleasure. She’s adorable.” “It’s yoooooour turn,” Iris sang, rummaging under the tree for a gift with Caitlin’s name tag. That’s how they made it work. Whoever gifted a present were then next to receive, unless it was for Jenna, then they placed the baby in front of the gifts and picked whichever one her chubby fingers reached out for first. She picked a simple green box. She shook it, “Oooh, this one’s from Cisco.” Caitlin took the gift from Iris and inspected the red bow. “Complimentary colours,” she commented, giving Cisco a little smirk. Barry shot him what Cisco could only assume was Barry’s idea of a sneaky look. Cisco pressed his toes into Caitlin’s legs again, and she swung her leg out to retaliate as she opened the box. A simple purple scarf tumbled out. “Wow,” Caitlin said, “this is very nice.” Everyone oohed and ahed. Except Barry. His eyes bugged out like Cisco just infected her with a terrible disease. What stunned Cisco the most was that she wasn’t faking it, even though that scarf had very obviously been the plainest gift anyone had received today.

Cisco fiddled with the box in his pocket, aching to just stop and swap them all with a “gotcha!” but he knew that he couldn’t do it properly with everyone’s eyes trained on them.

He had meant to, but then chickened out, and ran to the mall last minute yesterday to grab a random nice scarf and wrapped it to put under the tree instead.

“Thank you, Cisco.” She leaned forward to give him a hug. “You welcome,” he replied, looking down at his lap. Iris went digging under the tree for a present for Cisco. There only was one left for him, having had already opened most of them a while back. Iris handed him a decently sized gift box.

“And this one is from Caitlin.” He glanced at her, who was staring back anxiously, her nails close to her mouth. He lifted the cover and removed the tissue paper. A beautiful expensive black leather jacket. She knew his old one was although well-loved, worn out and not warm anymore. “Oh, Cait,” he murmured, picking it up in his hands. It was gorgeous. He could wear this everyday. “Try it on,” she urged him. He had to shrug himself out of the swaddle of blankets they were cocooned under, and slipped his arms through the sleeves. Joe whistled, damn impressed. “Mr. Ramon, look at you.” “It’s really very nice, Cisco,” Iris agreed, a little distracted at how it fit against his biceps. Cisco was slightly alarmed by that, giving Barry a look, which Barry shared with him in equal measure. “Barry you should get one of those.” Barry coughed. “Hey! I think Iris that present is for you! Nora, help me find one,” he said quickly, speeding under the tree for one that was for her. Iris frowned. “But it’s Caitlin’s turn again.” “Nope! This one’s for you. It’s your turn. Caitlin won’t mind.” Caitlin shook her head, visibly amused. He got off the couch to pull Caitlin into a real hug. She held him tightly when he thanked her, and it made his heart thump in his chest. He took the jacket off and folded it back neatly, placing it next to Caitlin’s new scarf.

Now he just felt crummy.

He knew that wasn’t all he had for her, but she didn’t yet, and he very much hoped she didn’t feel disheartened by it. A half hour later, presents were over and everyone had dispersed throughout the house. Cisco stretched his arms over his head as he untangled himself from the couch and had not had even four seconds of peace before Barry came barreling into him, Flashing him outside in the cold. “What the hell, man?” Cisco groused, shivering in the snow. “A scarf!?” Barry seethed, “A scarf? That’s what you call special? You may as well have gotten her the soap!” Cisco took a step back, rolling his eyes at Barry’s self-righteous anger. “Okay, first, relax. Second, I appreciate your protectiveness of Caitlin, but you don’t have a clue as to what you’re talking about.” “Oh yeah? Because it looks to me like you just gave Caitlin the most pathetic excuse of a gift after a whole afternoon of giving everyone else nice stuff.” Cisco cringed. When he put it like that... “I get that’s how it looks like, which is on me, okay, I know. I panicked so the scarf became a deploy.”

“So you have a better gift then?”

“Yes, Barry.”

“Good, because Caitlin deserves better than that from you.”

That was a tad too intense for just a concerned friend invested in his bffs’ relationship.

“Okay,” Cisco replied patiently, “But let’s say I did give her the scarf and that’s it, why are you so mad?” Barry’s face screwed up. “Um...” “Oh no.”

“Uh…”

“Barry!” Barry scratched his head. “It may have come up in a conversation yesterday.” Cisco’s felt his heart drop to his shoes and became overwhelmed with dread. “Bartholomew Henry Allen, what did you tell her?” “Not that you’re in love with her!” he shouted out quickly, to which Cisco smacked him hard. “Just that you were stressed about getting her something special. And then you proceeded to get her something lame. And very un-special. And then she gave you that jacket!”

Cisco groaned, burying his head in his hands. “Barry. I love you and it’s Christmas, so I’m going to be nice, but this is exactly why I didn’t want to tell anyone anything about this.” “As long as you’re not lying about that scarf not being the only thing you have.” Cisco’s hand went straight to his pocket, clenching the box in there. “I’m not.” “Then good,” Barry repeated.

The two stared at each other before cracking smiles, beginning to laugh. “Also what was that back there? Were you actually jealous that Iris, your wife, was looking at me in that leather?” Cisco shoved Barry and Barry shoved right back, rolling his eyes at his own stupidity. “Yeah, yeah. Caitlin knew what she was doing. You looked good!” “Hey Bear,” he said, freezing to pieces, but struck with the sudden need to tell Barry. “Yeah?” “You know how Dante and I never really got along...” Barry leaned against Joe’s brick house, furrowing his brows. “I thought that’s just what it meant to have a brother. That there’s just always animosity and friction underlying the relationship because that’s how things were.” Cisco smiled at Barry. “And then I met you. I guess what I’m trying to say is, Merry Christmas, hermano. You annoy me to no end but you call me out on my shit and still do your best to protect and encourage me. It’s what I love best about you.” Barry was a bouncing ball of grinning fluff. “You’re my brother too, man. Can we hug?” Cisco laughed, opening his arms, “yeah, I better get a hug if I end up catching pneumonia because of this.” Cecile opened the door. “Boys, enough with the bromance out in the cold, I’m not sending anyone to the ER this Christmas.” They stomped off the snow from their shoes obediently and singled filed back into the house. Cisco went beelining to the kitchen for some of hot chocolate as an attempt to regain feeling in his fingers. He found Caitlin there, messing around with the fillings of one of her pies. “Hey you. Want a pie assistant?” She startled, nearly dropping her spoon of chopped apples. She looked up and bit her lip. “I’d never say no to a man offering help in the kitchen.” Cisco took a chug of his hot drink then rolled up his sleeves. “Can you poke holes in that one so it can breathe?” Cisco took the fork and began stabbing. In ten minutes, they had all three pies in the oven. Caitlin washed the dough off her hands as Cisco refilled his lukewarm mug. His other hand went back to the box in his pocket. It made sense to do it now. There wasn’t anyone else in the kitchen, the turkey still needed an extra hour and a half anyways, and the last Cisco heard was that they were setting up a movie to watch in the living room. Cisco leaned against Joe’s creaky cabinets. “So, I’ve got to be honest with you. I didn’t give you your present yet.” Caitlin’s hand stilled over the soap dispenser, leaving the water running down the drain. She turned her head over her shoulder. “What do you mean? You got me that lovely scarf.” “Not really. That’s the fake gift.” Caitlin looked down at her wet hands and frowned. “Oh,” she said softly, her face falling even more. “Do you want it back?” “No no!” Cisco rushed, “Keep it, it’s for you!” “Then what do you mean?” “I mean, what I really want to give you, I wanted to be in private. Not in front of,” he made a frivolous gesture with his hand, “All of this.” Caitlin took off her apron and twisted her hair to the side, uncertain. “Okay.” “Okay,” he said, and closed the door to the kitchen. He pulled out a chair from the kitchen table. “Sit.” He took the opposite chair and sat across from her. Cutting straight to the chase, he asked, “Be honest. What did you think of the scarf? I know Barry spoke to you about my gift. Did he rise your hopes up?” Caitlin dug her fingers in to ends of her dress’ sleeves. “A little. I really do like the scarf, but it was a bit...Bland...compared to what you gifted everyone else. It made me feel a bit.” “Icky?” Cisco guessed. Caitlin shrugged. “I didn’t want to feel that way. It just happened.” “Yeah, Caitlin that was never my intention. Barry shouldn’t have said anything. I wanted to surprise you.” “With what?” “Close your eyes first.” Caitlin raised an eyebrow. “Really?” “Yes!” He insisted, it would be easier for him to say what he needed to without her eyes all tender and pretty on his while he did it. She listened to him, closing her eyes with a little smile played on her lips. “Hold out your hands.” She cupped them in front of her. Cisco removed the box from his pocket to place it gently in the palm of her hands. Her finger instinctively curled around the edges. “Keep them closed,” Cisco said, as he put a hand over her jiggling knee. “So, there’s a few things I want to explain first. Before you see your Hanukkah/Christmas/Holiday present. The first is that Barry was right. I was stressing over your gift. I usually do, actually, but this year was different. You had a tough year, losing Killer Frost, then finding your dad. And I wanted you to—I don’t know, it’s silly, I guess, because it doesn’t have to all go in a gift, but I wanted something for you to see how much I cared about what you went through. Something that was special enough to be uniquely for you, so that you looked at it, you’d always know it was from me.” Her fingers twitched against the box, her mouth parting open slightly at his words. “The second is that you are absolutely my best friend in the entire world, and so you should know that I’d always treat anything for you from me as important. You’re never an afterthought, Caitlin. You’re my number one on speed dial, my go-to. My partner in do good, instead of crime.” “Cisco please let me open it, this wait is killing me.” Cisco chuckled, “Alright, fine. Open your eyes.” Caitlin did, and he watched her eyelashes flutter as she blinked down at the box. She took off the cover and picked up the bracelet fastened on the little cushion inside. “Is this a....” “A charm bracelet.” “It’s gorgeous,” she breathed. It took him 18 hours to wield, carve and meld the bracelet and each intricate charm. It wasn’t pure gold or silver or bronze, but he had alloys sitting around in his workshop taken from shrapnel of tech, suits and finite Earth 2 metals. It was still shiny, and beautifully made, if Cisco thought so himself, gleaming in the light. Cisco unclasped the bracelet when she held out her arm for him to put it around her wrist. She inspected it as all the parts clinked gently against each other. She picked up the first charm. A slim, delicate C, that ended with a swirl. “C for Caitlin,” Cisco explained. “For Cisco too,” she said. He shrugged, fighting his blush, “If you want.” Caitlin dropped her elbow onto the table, laying her arm in between them. Cisco took the second charm, holding it up between his index finger and thumb. “A snowflake for Dr. Snow, Killer Frost and your powers.” He dropped it and went for the third. “A star for Star Labs. Where we first met everyone.” “Our home,” she smiled softly. “Exactly.” The lightening bolt that dangled next to the star was self-evident. “Team Flash?” She guessed. “Team Flash and Barry,” Cisco confirmed. “Who knew our coma guy would become our family?” Caitlin shook her head fondly, and picked out the charm shaped as glasses. “They’re my vibe goggles. For me. You know, when Barry first suggested the name, I was like, hmm, that’s not bad, but...It was when you repeated it, whispering it brightly, your eyes all aglow that I knew it was the one.” “Cisco...” She said, sounding speechless. “And of course, because this is me, I connected an itsy bitsy extrapolator in the goggles so you’d have a way to breach.” “Wait, you made this. The whole bracelet. From scratch.” “Yeah.” “Oh my god,” Caitlin sat up straighter. “No! Really?”

She turned the figuring in her hand. It was the metal switch on the arm of goggles. To anyone else, it’ll just look like they fold open and close, but truly, that was the signal of a breach opening. She opened the arm of the charm and sure enough that vibrantly blue swirl of a breach popped up in the middle of Joe and Cecile’s kitchen. She closed the arm and the breach disappeared instantly. “That’s amazing. Cisco this is just...You’re fantastic.” There were two more charms left. Caitlin studied the miniature microscope. “Your STEM roots,” Cisco supplied.

“We wouldn’t be here without them. You’re intellect and strength in medicine has saved us all so many times.” “You have too!” Cisco tapped his knuckles against the green tablecloth. “But this is about you.” There was only the last one left. It was by far the most detailed and noticeable. A showstopper piece that would make someone pause to say: Wow, that’s really nice. It was the charm Cisco spent the most time on, pouring all his feelings into it. He debated whether or not he should even include it on the bracelet. Despite what Barry said, Cisco genuinely planned this to be simply about Caitlin and their friendship, not what Cisco was grappling with. But that wouldn’t have been honest. They fell silent, looking at the heart charm, the soundtrack to A Charlie Brown Christmas seeping through from the living room. He played with the bracelet, avoiding her actual hand. “That one,” he started. “Um.” “You can tell me.” Cisco knew he was a sensitive person, but this was making him feel vulnerable unlike anything before. Caitlin lifted her free arm and took his hand. He looked at her, surprised to see the tears welling in her eyes. “You have my heart, Caitlin. You always will. I just thought you should know.” A little noise escaped from her mouth, and she let go of Cisco to cover it. In that moment, he knew that she knew. “Please tell me if that’s not okay.” She retreated her arm with the charm bracelet from off the table to throw them around his neck.

Cisco held her burying his face into the crook of her neck with baited breath.

“Cisco,” she whispered, “how could you think I don’t love you too?”

“What?”

She leaned back, wiping the tears from her eyes as she looked at him like he hung the moon, like, Cisco realized, how he’s always looked at her.

“Caitlin…”

“I love you.”

Barry opened the door, startling both of them violently. “Hey guys—I just wanted to know if you wanted to watch—“

He stopped abruptly, assessing them, how close they were and their particularly irritated faces.

“Oh.” His face lit up and he pumped his fist. “Yes! I’ll give you another fifteen minutes! Yes!”

He closed the door and they heard him holler, “Nobody go in the kitchen for the next 20 minutes!”

They stared at each other after Barry closed the door, growing slow smiles.

“Cisco,” Caitlin said softly. “Close your eyes.”

He did, feeling her hands brush against his neck, the charms chiming next to his ear as she kissed him breathless.

He inhaled sharply, wrapping his arms around her waist against the smooth velvety material of her sweater dress. He tried to convey the way his heart was bursting, his head was floating, how she made him feel, how she has almost always made him so indescribably happy.

He broke the kiss only because he seriously wasn’t sure he’d make another ten seconds of her mouth on his without dying. He was already addicted to her taste.

“Wait,” she panted, after grabbing his face to kiss him harder. She leaned her head against his, brushing their noses together.

“Having you is better than anything I could ever ask for.”

FIN

#killervibe #thatkillervibe fic #the flash #the flash fic #fic #12daysofkillervibe #fluff #holiday fic #FINALLY DONE #DCTV #arrowverse fic

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quiznackingqueen · 6 years

Text

So, the hoverbike could have belonged to Shiro at some point, and here’s how:

The only canon information we have on the hoverbike is that it once belonged to Keith’s dad, and eventually became Keith’s, but that doesn’t mean your headcanon of Shiro owning the bike contradicts this! (or, you know, it can if you want it to, but it doesn’t have to)

We all know it was Keith’s in the first season, so I’m not going to clutter this meta with screenshots of that. What is causing some confusion however, is how we know Keith’s dad owned it, so here’s a quick summary of that:

This is a screenshot from season 6:

It’s from Keith and Krolia’s vision of her and Keith’s dad leaving to protect the blue lion from the Galra that found it. It doesn’t show Keith’s dad explicitly getting on the bike, but it’s implied. (I mean, we know it’s not Keith or Shiro guys). So the engine starts, and then we get a quick shot of Keith’s dad twisting the throttle:

There was also a minuscule shot of the hoverbike flying towards the three falling ships:

So, now we’ve established that the first owner of the hoverbike was definitely Keith’s dad, and I know what you’re thinking:

Why would Shiro ever own it then? The natural conclusion to all of this would be that Keith simply inherited the bike. That’s usually how these things work.

You’re right, it is. But it’s not the only way things could have gone.

Look at the flashback of Shiro leaning against the bike:

It’s not exactly something most of us would do with a bike we didn’t own, or with someone we weren’t exceedingly close with, which Shiro and Keith weren’t at this particular moment in time. (I’ve got a meta about that here)

So assuming that the hoverbike does belong to Shiro in this scene, how did he get it?

Well for starters, remember how young Keith was when his dad died?

Now I know he’s a runt, but he can’t be older than 10 here, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he were younger.

So what happens to property of minors in foster care?

As a minor Keith wouldn’t be able to control or make executive decisions regarding things like the shack, any money his dad might have left him, and the hoverbike. Instead the court would assign Keith a property guardian. (Usually a family member or trusted friend named in the will, unfortunately most people don’t realize they need to name one, and just assume the property automatically transfers to the minor. Note: It doesn’t.)

Now, this property guardian may not mortgage, rent, lease, charge, or transfer Keith’s property by sale, gift, exchange or otherwise without the previous permission of the court.

However, the property guardian may petition the court to do those things for the benefit of the minor, their protection, and/or education. Some states require that the minor be given notice once they reach a certain age, some don’t.

Keith can make requests regarding the assets of the estate, but everything must go through and be approved of by the property guardian and the courts. He can also request a different guardian, but generally you have to be older to do this, or able to prove the current guardian is unfit, neglecting their duties, or abusing their power.

Why does this matter?

It means that as of this point, the bike is in the care of his property guardian. Keith is too young to fly it, he doesn’t have insurance, he doesn’t have a license, and it is obviously in his best interest to keep him away from the dangerous flying vehicle.

Except do we actually believe that would stop Keith? No. I’m betting that Keith’s dad started teaching him the basics young, and they probably flew together all the time.

So Keith doesn’t let his new caretakers tell him he can’t do this for another six years or so. No, instead, Keith sneaks out to fly it, all the damn time.

This is a problem. Small children are not allowed to drive, especially such fast, dangerous machines, it just isn’t safe. That being said, how can they stop him? They can’t just keep him locked up. They also don’t have the manpower to keep him in line of sight 24/7. So what do they do? They get rid of it.

Now, their first option is to petition the court to sell it, citing safety concerns and using the money towards Keith’s education. (There’s also the fact that if the bike lies unused as long as it takes for Keith it get his license, it will fall apart and lose most if not all value.)

Option number two is less ethical, but as far as I can tell still technically legal: The next time Keith sneaks out to ride it, his caretakers call the police, and get him charged with illegal vehicle usage. This could result in the hoverbike being impounded. Not only is retrieving an impounded vehicle expensive, you also have to provide insurance. Keith’s caretakers and property guardians can effectively block him from getting it back, and even being compensated for it. After a set period the hoverbike is sold at auction.

Regardless, Keith doesn’t see it again for years, until:

Shiro shows up towards the end of class to give a recruitment speech at Keith’s school. Keith ignores him for the most part, until he looks out the window and sees his dad’s hoverbike in the parking lot.

Shiro bought it on a whim. He has a soft spot for old things. They have so much character, and he likes imagining the stories they would tell if they could. The bike is basically his baby, and he loves it. (Matt definitely makes fun of him for it)

When the class ends Keith races outside. He studies it, eyes stinging, chest tight, as he takes in every familiar dent and ding. It’s definitely his. Shiro comes out to hind him still transfixed. He takes in the little tremors as the kid obviously holds back tears and his brows dip in concern. He asks him if he’s okay. Keith just shakes his head, trying to find a way to speak without everything spilling over.

When he finally does, his voice is rough with a grief that punches Shiro in the gut, “It was my dad’s.”

Shiro doesn’t know what to say. He wants to apologize, but the words feel hollow on his tongue. He doesn’t know how to do this. The Garrison didn’t teach him how to comfort or assure.

Shiro bites his lip, an idea forming. It’s a terrible idea, but it’s all he’s got. “Can you fly?”

Keith’s head jerks up, confused, he nods. Shiro smiles softly, taking the keys out of his pocket and holding them out. “Wanna go for a ride?” (He’ll berate himself later for the terrible word choice)

Fuck, if he didn’t do something right though, because the kid lights up and before he could blink they were gone. For once Shiro was the one having to hold on for dear life. (Matt was somewhere laughing his ass off at the sweet revenge)

When they stop Shiro’s breathless. He’d asked if the kid could fly, and holy shit could he fly.

They talk for while. Shiro convinces him to join the Garrison and offers to vouch for him. He also learns where the bike came from and how it got there, and it breaks his heart. He wants to give it back then and there, but Keith’s afraid it will get taken again, so Shiro promises to keep the bike safe until Keith turns 18.

Later, Keith confesses he’s glad Shiro ended up with the bike.

Cue the boys spending their free time flying in the desert. Remember that cliff dive in the first episode? You can’t tell me that’s the first time he tried that shit. I am fully convinced he attempted this and all sorts of other stunts to scare the hell out of Shiro. And also to feel those beefy arms tighten around him.

When it comes time for the Kerberos mission Shiro signs the bike over to Keith. (Personally I like the idea of him giving the keys and the title to Keith on the launch platform)

So. Yeah. Everybody could have owned the bike :p

#sheith #sheith meta #voltron meta #takashi shirogane #keith kogane #garrison sheith #garrison keith #garrison shiro #texas kogane #keith meta #voltron shiro #voltron keith #voltron season 6 #i'm craving garrison sheith can y'all tell?#also imagine papa kogane with little keef on the hoverbike #soft sheith is where it's at rn #i'm still recovering from s6

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lanamemories · 6 years

Text

toy soldier | self para

“He didn’t have many things with him. Do you want me to leave you alone in his room for a while, chicken? Or I can stay. We can have biscuits. Whatever you want, sweetheart. Whatever you’re up to.”

Sifting the tips of her fingers over the foot of the hospital bed, Lana pressed the pad of her index harder against the indented letters he’d grooved there with the sharp blade of a deconstructed razor.

G-O-N-E.

Once, she’d gotten a phone-call from the nurses to say he’d smuggled it in underneath his tongue.

She’d sat down for ten whole minutes wondering why he thought it would be worth the risk, how he thought he’d avoid nicking the sensitive sinews beneath the wad of pink muscle there, until she realised he probably didn’t care either way.

Because that was the point. He didn’t care what happened to him anymore.

“I, erm… I know you said you didn’t want me touching his things, so I didn’t, really. I just laid them out, so they’d be neat for you to find. Things… Well.” The nurse’s eyes dipped down towards her lap, thumbs fretting against one another before she smoothed out the fabric of her hastily ironed skirt. Her name tag read ‘Wendy’ in pale, neatly emblazoned letters against a brown background. She’d been Caleb’s favourite, even if he’d never said so. Lana could always tell these things. “Things got a little messed up, chicken. I didn’t want you to have to pick things off the floor, you know? That didn’t… That didn’t seem right. I’m sorry if--”

“—No, it’s fine,” Lana interrupted, corners of her lips twitching like the limb of an old corpse reanimated with a prong of electricity. Brown eyes flitting up to meet the moss green of the pair blinking in careful assessment back at her, Lana nodded softly, still holding onto the foot of Caleb’s bed like if she let go a sudden breeze might carry her away and land her in the soil somewhere distant.

For the past two days, she’d felt far more dandelion seed than girl -- far more anything that wasn’t human, really.

“I, um… This is the box, then?” Staring down at the bloated piece of tubberware, Lana resisted the urge to kick herself for how pointless of a question it was. Instead, she simply pried her fingers off the bed frame and slowly stepped around it, reaching out to sift fingertips over the lidless container.

It felt far too small to carry everything that was left of him.

“That’s the box, yes. Do you--... Do you want me to stay? I thought your parents might... Well. I have the afternoon free, so it’s really... It’s no bother, Lana. I can be here, alright? I can be here with you, honey.”

“No, um... It’s fine, really. I’m fine,” came with the flash of a signature smile, the kind that would win any pot bellied conservative an election no matter how rancid his policies. “I’m really fine, it’s... It’s no big deal. Just packing. Kind of like he’s, um... Kind of like he’s going on holiday and he just doesn’t have the time to sort his suitcase, right? I just... have to help, that’s all. Because he’s... going away.”

You’ve always got your head just... somewhere else, Lana.

He’d said it with Call of Duty on a pause screen in the background, half packed bong jousted aside so that he could pay her his full attention. This was back when he still shaved. Back when Tommy was still alive, before they both enlisted. Back when the future wasn’t a gaping space but a bright one furnished by even brighter things.

You know? You’re just... You could be so great, if you just let yourself be. If you just accepted that you are already. You’re great, Lana. Don’t you get that? I wish you’d fucking get that. God, come here, you absolute mess.

That was what he always did when she started crying. Scooped her in like the dictionary definition of family, lips alight with a teasing laugh as he ruffled at her hair and she inevitably shrieked in garbled protest. After a while, though, she’d always start laughing, too.

It was only at the sudden jolt of a hand tenderly touching her at the elbow that Lana realised where she was: standing in a hospital room, Wendy shadowing her with a face etched full of concern, Caleb’s things neatly folded across the bed linens like old memorabilia from a dusty attic much in need of a yard sale.

“Lana...” trailed off with the telltale mark of a heavy swallow, eyes swimming with a foreign shade of sympathy that Lana wasn’t quite used to. At first, she wasn’t even sure what it was. It took time. “He isn’t going on holiday.”

“I know that,” she barked back far faster than her tongue knew how to process, eyebrows knitting slightly as she tugged her arm further away, evading the gentle pandering of the nurse’s fingers against her jacket sleeve. Chin jutting fiercely so her eyes could find the blanket, Lana started to attempt to order things.

The back issue Cosmopolitan magazine she’d brought him, unearthed like an ancient relic from the pits of lint beneath her bed.

The pair of slide on slippers she’d splashed out on like he cared at all what was on his feet.

The journal with a grape tub label torn clean of its box and slapped haphazardly across the front. She’d brought them to him on her first visit. He hadn’t eaten a single one.

“We’re allowed this?” Lana uttered gently, turning the leather bound pages between her hands so delicately that it was as if she thought one wrong turn would send it crumbling into ash.

“Well, I... There was a lot of mixed opinions,” the nurse admitted, clearing her throat before she continued to study her. “Technically, we have to keep it on file. Pending... investigation, you know. Because this sort of thing shouldn’t really happen in here. In... In our care. I’m... I’m not meant to be discussing this, really, but--...”

Trading an anxious glance back at the door that was an inch cracked ajar, Wendy turned back with a glimpse of a nervous smile broaching her lips.

When she next spoke, Lana could have sworn she heard her voice trembling.

“I just didn’t think it was fair. I just really... I really didn’t think it was fair that you shouldn’t get to have it. It was his, you know?”

Was.

Ignoring how promptly a knot swelled up inside her throat, Lana stared back down at the journal in hand.

Was. Was. Was.

“Do you think...?”

As if she’d read her mind, Wendy shook her head.

“I’m sorry, chicken. No, I’m sorry. We... We checked it. There weren’t any new entries. There wasn’t... any note.”

“Oh.”

Silence filled the room like the water from a leaking faucet, dripping up to the brim until Lana was sure she’d drown in it.

Then, in as bright a slither of light as she could manage to shine on the situation, Wendy cupped a tender palm around her shoulder and forced a mute smile.

“I’m going to leave you to it, for a little. I’ll... I’ll be right outside the door, alright? You only have to call. I’ll be right there.”

Listening to the soft tread of her polished white flats against the linoleum, Lana waited until the prolonged creak of rusting hinges notified her of the door being pulled to once more, quickly letting out a breath she didn’t realise she’d been holding.

Sinking down to take a seat on the edge of his bed, she flipped the front cover.

June 22nd.

Journals are shit. Journals are fucking stupid and I hope you know you’re stupid too when you read this. Can’t even fucking read my writing. Good. Fuck off.

Corners of her lips aching with the urge to smile, a wire short-circuited inside her head somewhere as she failed to follow it through.

Page crinkling in protest, she turned to review the next.

June 23rd.

Lana came today. She brought all this shit like I’m supposed to know what to do with it. I wish it was as easy as shoving a few grapes in my mouth. It isn’t.

June 24th and 25th were blank.

June 26th. Each letter became more frantic than the last.

This is a waste of time. This is a waste of time. This is a waste of time. This is a waste of time.

June 27th.

All that she found on that page was a patch of paper that was so profusely scribbled over, it had nearly torn straight through. Yet even through all of the black lines, the furious tangles of Biro ink that he’d inevitably forced out through a heavily clenched fist, teeth grit with the strength of his anger, she could make out the letters he’d been trying to cover.

Tommy.

Letting out a ragged breath that, nonsensically, verged close to laughter, Lana reached up to quickly swipe at the wet brimming along her lower lash-line, fogging up her focus until she was sure something would drip down and cause Caleb’s ink on the page to run.

It was ironic, really.

Since Tommy died in combat, Caleb had never actively spoken about him once. Lana always had to try and lure him out like a mouse with a cube of cheese and even then, even when he tentatively latched onto her string of bait, he would never say his name. She’d only really heard him shout it out in his sleep when the night terrors were at their worst, when he’d wake up drenched in sweat, eyes wild and seeking, combing the dark corners of his bedroom turned battle field for the mangled limbs of his best friend and the coordinating pieces of the land mine he’d unknowingly set foot on.

The closest she’d ever got was the first summer after he’d been discharged, when she’d found him sat out on the back porch clutching his walkie -- a cheap, novelty toy he and Tommy used to play with as kids, crawling around in the long grass and letting it tickle their shins as they squatted low and pretended they were soldiers awaiting news of a raid.

Every so often, it would crackle. It turned out it was just a few neighbourhood children messing around with walkies of their own, tuning into the local frequency, but every time the static whirred his knuckles would glow an ebb paler as his fist clutched tight, half expecting to hear Tommy’s voice down the line.

Eventually, when Lana tried to gently pry the toy from his hands so she could give him a hug, he’d choked up so suddenly that she almost tripped over her feet.

“He was my best friend. He was... He was my best friend, Lana. He was my best friend.”

Thumb etching feather light along the violent impressions his pen nib had left, a fruitless attempt to hide all that grief beneath all that rage, Lana was barely even aware of the fact that her cheeks were wet by the time her lips finally parted to let out a soft whisper, emptiness of the Caleb-less room large enough to swallow her entire voice whole.

“I know. You were mine, too.”

#self para #suicide tw #mental illness tw #self harm tw #grief tw #loss tw #death tw #dissociation tw #only rly vaguely #um i think thts all of them #jst a forewarning this self para.....is VERY depressing #truly jst.... welled up a bit writin it #fackin dabs my EYEBALLS #anyway. jst had to get this down as a kind of.... update on wats goin on / where lanas been the past 2 weeks

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phantasticlizzy · 7 years

Text

Your Mess Is Mine

Summary: “I know what you’re thinking,” he said with a serious tone, catching Dan off guard.

“Do you?” honestly, it wasn’t that hard to guess.

“Yes. You’re thinking that this hat totally clashes with everything else I’m wearing, and you’re not wrong.” He was looking at Dan with round, shiny eyes. Dan blinked at him a few times, dumbstruck.

——————————— A university!au where Dan is a third year student dealing with demons from his past, and Phil is the peculiar guy from his Greek mythology class who he just can’t quite get out of his mind.

warnings: mention of suicide (not discussed in detail), Minor Character Death

read on ao3 : https://archiveofourown.org/works/12640926/chapters/28897071

chapter 2

Words for this chapter: 3020

read last chapter here

The first two weeks of November brought with them a surprizing amount of distress to Dan’s quiet life.

It started with him getting a nasty cold that lasted a whole week. It made him sneeze and cough and caused a never ending stream of snot to come out of his nose at any given time. He hated being sick while away from his parents’ house, away from the babying and fussing of his mother. Every task (like cooking or making himself a cup of tea or going to buy himself some medication) became the most unbearable, tedious mission in the world.

What made it even worse was that his roommate, Ezra, decided to suddenly spend all of his extra time in their dorm room.

Usually, Ezra was out almost all hours of the day. He got up early in the mornings, heading out to the library before Dan was even awake. After his classes he had his job working at his uncle’s furniture store as a sales man, usually working there until closing time and then having dinner at his aunt and uncle’s place.

So Dan only saw him a few hours a week, which he was, quite frankly, more than fine with.

It’s not that Ezra was a particularly unpleasant person, no. it’s just that… well, he was very unusual.

For example, when he and Dan had started living together at the beginning of the semester, for the first 3 nights he played a ‘collection of Beethoven’s bests’ loudly on his laptop throughout the entire night on repeat, saying that there was no other way he could fall asleep.

When he told this to Dan on their first meeting, Dan was more than sure he was joking. Even asked “Why not Mozart?” as a response to Ezra’s heads up, earning him a very serious, very offended rant about all the ways in which Mozart was overrated.

But when in 11 pm, after saying good night to Dan, the loud tune of Beethoven’s compositions started playing from Ezra’s speakers, Dan was, for the lack of better word, shocked.

He was so surprised that he didn’t even say anything, thinking that maybe it was some kind of a prank, and surly he will get some kind of roommate points for enduring this joke so graciously.

But after three sleepless nights he had to come to the realization that Ezra was very serious about his intentions to listen to the music all night every night, regardless of Dan’s presence in the room.

And Dan had roommates before, and was no stranger to the concept of living with a person who wasn’t exactly the perfect match for him. But this was, objectively, too much.

He tried to be subtle. Tried to offer Ezra his earphones or say in the mornings that he couldn’t sleep the night before, but nothing was working.

So Dan couldn’t even be mad at himself when on the fourth night, he snapped.

He wasn’t too proud of his choice of words. There were a few name calling involved, a little bit of yelling and a lot of apologizing the next day, but it did do its job.

And besides, Ezra was spending so little time in their room anyway, so Dan wasn’t too fussed about being on the best of terms with him. He was more than happy co-existing with the guy, as long as he let him sleep peacefully at nights.

But one day, at the beginning of the month, Ezra came back to their room earlier than usual, marching to his bed and flopping down on it with thud. He was huffing and puffing in anger, his eyes were a little pink and his lips were in a thin line.

Dan tried to ignore it for a while, not wanting to get involved in his roommates personal life if the other didn’t want him to. But after what must have been Ezra’s fifth loud groan in the span of ten minutes, distracting Dan from his studies (or his procrastination on tumblr), he gave in.

“Are you okay?” He asked, turning to look at his distressed roommate.

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Fine,” Dan shrugged, turning back to his computer, only to hear another groan from Ezra.

“Ezra, if you want to share something then just get on with it.” He really did try to sound sympathetic, even if his words came out a little sharper than intended.

Ezra looked at him pointedly for a moment. “I got fired from my job.”

“Fired?”

“That’s what I said.”

“I thought you worked at your uncle’s place?”

“I did.”

“Then who fired you?”

“My uncle.”

Dan blinked at him a few times before letting out an unintentional bark of laughter, covering his mouth immediately with his hands.

“It’s really not funny,” Ezra said, crossing his arms on his chest.

“Sorry, sorry, it’s just… man, you must have really been shit.”

Ezra’s face turned red from embarrassment and Dan had the feeling like he might have actually offended him with his comment.

“I was not… I was not shit!” he spat, turning away from Dan to face the wall. Dan felt a pang of guilt.

He and Ezra were not close, by any means, but the guy clearly was upset, and Dan was not heartless.

He scooted his chair from his desk to Ezra’s bed, looking down at the defeated form of his roommate.

“Sorry mate, that really sucks. But it will be fine, yeah? Don’t worry about it.” He tried to comfort, cringing at how bad he was at it.

Ezra huffed again, turning his head to stare angrily at Dan.

“Easy for you to say. We don’t all have mummy and daddy to pay for everything.”

And Dan really didn’t have an answer for this, because technically Ezra was right.

His parents did pay for his tuition and dorms and most living expenses. Dan did work in the summer and did some casual tutoring from time to time to earn some extra money, but he did have a lot of help.

The main reasons Dan was still living in the dorms in his third year and didn’t try to find an apartment like most of his friends was the simple fact that it was cheaper, and he couldn’t ask his parents for more than he was already receiving.

And besides, Dan didn’t really care where he was living. As long as he got a roof over his head and no music playing in the middle of the night, he was good.

With that being said, that night Dan found a six hour video of Beethoven’s compositions and played it on his laptop with a loud volume as a peace offering.

He didn’t get a thank you, but the next morning he did find a bag of Doritos on his night stand, and it was all that needed to be said.

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

Another thing that made the month start on the wrong foot for Dan was that Phil, the guy from the coffee shop, was ignoring him.

Dan sent him a message the day after they’d met, wanting to show Phil that he was interested, but got no response back.

He also sent him his notes from the lecture like he asked for, adding that if he needed any help understanding anything he could always ask Dan, but got no ‘thank you’ in return. No recognition. Nothing.

The next Greek mythology class he had, he looked for Phil’s black hair and blue eyes everywhere in the lecture hall, but to no avail. They guy disappeared from the face of the earth.

Dan sent him the notes from that lecture as well, asking if everything was alright and if something had happened to make him miss more classes. But again, got no response.

And Dan was definitely no stranger to rejection.

During his time at uni he did get rejected his fair share of times. He knew how to take a hint. So even though he was a little disappointed by Phi’s behaviour, he was hardly devastated over it.

And he did date a few people in the last two years, but none of them lasted very long.

It was weird for him at first. He never had the need to date and get to know new people and think about relationships because since a young age he had Oliver satisfying his every need for human interaction and intimacy.

He was completely new to the dating world, confused and lost and trying to figure out what the right way to present himself was.

How was he supposed to act on a first date? What was he supposed wear? What was he supposed ask? And how much was he supposed share?

And a lot of the people who came on to him originally didn’t even ask him for a second date after going out with him once, because at first, he was just that awkward. It took him some time to refine the art of small talk and subtle flirtation. To find the balance between distant and boring and overeager.

And it was hard on him, to ignore the feeling of guilt. To not feel like he was cheating on Oliver.

Because even though they never were really officially together, in every sense of the word, they were.

And Dan hated feeling like he was doing something wrong, like he was betraying Oliver’s trust in him. Like he was forgetting all of their late nights together, all the secrets they’ve shared and all the promises for the future they’ve made.

But Oliver wasn’t there anymore, he chose to leave. Or maybe he had no other option, Dan didn’t know, and honestly, he hated thinking about it.

Either way Dan was left behind, and he had to keep going.

Oliver chose to die but Dan was trying to choose living, and to do that he had to try and find happiness. He had to move on.

But saying was easier than doing, and with the few people he did end up seeing for more than one date, he found himself slowly pulling away, shutting them out and closing the doors.

But he didn’t want to give up. He didn’t want to admit defeat and let his grief win, take the easy way out of any future possibilities.

And he really did like Phil from their one meeting. He was quirky and unique, even if a little strange. He was funny and endearing and he had pretty eyes and smile and soft looking cheeks and Dan was really willing to give it a shot.

But after a week of being ignored he officially decided that he crossed the line from showing Phil he was interested to seeming a little too intense, so he decided to take a step back.

Yes, he did think Phil was cute but obviously Phil changed his mind and Dan was not going to chase some stranger around for a chance for a date.

So he let it go and tried to focus on his studies (which was really hard to do with his insistent cold and Ezra’s constant moping presence in the room), but he did manage it to an extent.

But to his surprise, on the third week of November, while he was sitting in his regular seat in the lecture hall and reading a book before the start of his Greek mythology class, he was approached by none other than Phil.

He took the seat next to Dan, not even bothering to ask for permission this time, and smiled at him big and bright.

He was wearing his big puffy coat again, even though they were inside and the heating was on. His cheeks were red and his eyes were shiny behind his glasses and Dan found himself smiling back at him, forgetting about the two weeks of silence.

“Hey you,” Phil said, leaning his elbow on the desk and his face on the palm of his hand, making his soft looking cheek squish.

“Hello,” Dan answered, putting his book down.

“How have you been?” Phil asked.

“Had a bit of a cold, but its better now, you?”

Phil looked at him with wide eyes. “Oh no! Are you okay?” he Exclaimed loudly, ignoring Dan’s question and staring at him like he just announced his terminal, incurable illness, drawing the attention of a few other people around them.

Dan chuckled a little awkwardly. “Yes, it’s just a cold, happens sometimes, you know?”

Phil wasn’t having it though. He reached out his hand, a bit suddenly, and touched it to Dan’s forehead. Like last time, it was very cold and Dan had to refrain from flinching.

Phil looked very concentrated for a few seconds before letting his hand drop. “Oh, good, you don’t have a fever,” he said with a sigh, smiling again at Dan.

“I told you I’m fine. Been fine for a few days now.”

Phil pouted at that, looking at Dan disapprovingly, reaching out his hand again to play with the zipper of Dan’s hoodie. “Now I wish I knew sooner and could have made you soup or something, I’m very good at taking care of sick people.”

And Dan couldn’t stop himself from feeling a little pissed off, because really, what the hell?

“Well, I would have told you, but you didn’t answer my texts or emails.” He said, trying to sound nonchalant. Because really, it wasn’t fair of Phil to say things like that. Dan tried to reach out, and Phil clearly rejected him.

Phil looked surprised by Dan’s reaction for a second, letting go of his zipper before his expression turned sheepish.

“I’m sorry. I had a few family matters I needed to deal with. I got your notes from the lectures, thank you. I really should have answered you, it’s just…” he trailed off, and Dan could feel the anger leaving his body as quickly as it came.

Even though he didn’t know Phil very well, didn’t know him at all actually, there was something very unnatural in his eyes about an uncomfortable Phil. And maybe that wasn’t a fair thought, because everyone felt like that from time to time, but he just wanted the guy to smile again.

“Oh, don’t worry about it. Is everything okay with your family?” Dan asked. He didn’t want to push, but if something was wrong and Phil wanted to talk about it, he wanted to give him the option.

Phil looked at him, his smile coming back to his face, even though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Yes! Its fine now, just some good old family drama, you know how it is.” He said, waving his hand a little dismissively.

“We are all very dramatic in my family. Like for example, last year, on Christmas, my aunt got so offended by the fact that me and my brother got her dog a hoodie in the wrong size that she stormed out of the house and didn’t come back! Didn’t answer any of our calls as well. That’s how dramatic we can be.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes! After the holiday we had to drive to her house and stand in the cold for 15 minutes before she let us in, and she only did that because we bought her dog 3 more hoodies in the right size! Poor thing, he’s so fat he could have been a small whale. We were barely able to find something that would fit him!”

Dan couldn’t stop his laugh at Phil’s story, making Phil’s smile grow wider and more relaxed, which was definitely a bonus.

“That is very dramatic.”

“Yeah, my family can be kind of crazy at times. Good thing at least I came out normal.” Phil said seriously, and Dan couldn’t keep his laugh from growing louder. Normal was definitely not the first adjective he would use to describe Phil.

“Yeah, lucky,” he said sarcastically, earning him a gentle punch in the arm from Phil.

“Don’t be rude!” he pouted, but Dan could see the amusement in his eyes.

“Don’t worry, it’s endearing.”

“It is?”

“Yes.”

“How so?”

“Makes you not boring.”

Phil looked at him for a second, before huffing and crossing his arms on his chest.

“Who wants to be normal anyway? Normalness leads to sadness.” He said, and Dan couldn’t help but think about Oliver, only for a second. Oh so normal, regular Oliver. Maybe Phil was right.

Dan didn’t have the chance to respond to Phil’s words though, because a moment later Phil dropped his arms and looked at his lap sheepishly again.

“But I am sorry for not answering you. I wanted to have the chance to get to know you, maybe go do something nice together, but I messed it up.”

Dan’s heart clenched at the sad look on Phil’s face. And really, what was wrong with him? He barely knew the guy and he already wanted to reassure him, make him feel better and happy again.

“We could still do that,” he said, trying not to come across as too eager.

It seemed that Phil had no such concerns.

“Really!?” his eyes shot right back to Dan’s, sparkling and excited.

“If you want.”

“I do!” and Dan couldn’t help but chuckle, because Phil looked like an excited childe in Disneyland at the prospect of going out with Dan.

“Is tonight good for you?” Phil asked.

“Yeah, it’s fine.”

“Great!”

“Great.”

At that moment, the professor finally walked in the room, asking everyone to be quiet, and Dan thought that the timing couldn’t have been more perfect. Like he waited for Dan and Phil to sort things out between them.

Phil gave him one last smile before turning to look at the professor, still keeping the smile on his face.

And Dan found himself, for the first time, not looking at the window to his left the entire lecture.

Instead, he couldn’t stop himself from stealing glances to his right, where a certain blue eyed and black haired boy was siting, smiling a little to himself.

Finally, November was looking up.

Notes:

hello again! just wanted to say thank you for reading so far and leaving lovely comments on the last chapter. please tell me what did you think of this one

#phan #phanfiction #phantasticlizzyfics #chaptered #university!au #chapter 2 #strangers to lovers

38 notes · View notes

recentanimenews · 4 years

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Anime in America Podcast: Full Episode 2 Transcript

Hello, and welcome to another fine transcript of Crunchyroll's new Anime in America podcast! Those in need of a different way to access and enjoy the podcast, as well as those looking to research further or simply take note of some interesting facts that were mentioned, we've got you covered on an episode by episode basis. Following up on the episode 1 transcript, we've got one for the second, so enjoy it in full below!

The Anime in America podcast, hosted by Yedoye Travis, is available on crunchyroll.com, animeinamerica.com, and wherever you listen to podcasts.

Episode 1 Transcript: In the Beginning There Was Fansubs

Disclaimer: The following program contains language not suitable for all ages. Discretion advised.

[Lofi Music]

As I made very clear in the last episode, it was once a massive undertaking just physically getting anime from Japan to the US. Just imagine if I told you in 2019 that you had to go anywhere but your own couch just to watch anime. You would call the police.

Once anime was here physically, it still involved an insane time commitment from fans just to make it intelligible to American viewers. Whether it was painstaking hours encoding text onto video, or being tricked into live translating for your friends; in short, it was impossible, and yet people did it, so we have them to thank, at least partially, for the huge presence of anime in the modern zeitgeist.

But there’s a lot more to localizing than just taking Japanese words and turning them into English words. In practice, localization means making whatever changes are necessary to make a show marketable to the local audience. Using the language of that audience is a good start, but it doesn’t encapsulate the full scope of the practice from a marketing standpoint.

Of course, over the years, people have severely misunderstood the extent to which changes actually need to be made, and so there are good examples of localization and then there are times when the producers decided Americans can’t grasp the concept of a rice ball and Pokemon ends up full of unnecessary jelly donuts.

This is Anime in America, brought to you by Crunchyroll and hosted by me, Yedoye Travis.

[Lofi Music]

If you're still not sure what I'm talking about, there are plenty of things in the American lexicon that you would have never guessed were from Japan. In fact, the 60s gave us a lot of anime that wasn’t recognizably Japanese, and this was because both Japanese creators and American distributors thought that maybe Japanese IP wouldn’t be the easiest sell immediately after World War II. So they just made it not Japanese. Osamu Tezuka’s Astro Boy began a lasting trend in anime of heavily anglicized characters that minimally reflected the culture they came from, and were therefore believed to be more marketable to western audiences.

[Music from Astro Boy plays]

By the 80s though, as we inched further away from wartime tensions, anime became more acceptable in its unedited state, attracting American distributors who wanted to capitalize on the space opera craze following the release of Star Wars. In fact, by this time, the cultural exchange between Japan and the US was already starting to blossom, with an agreement between Marvel and Toei that brought a successful tokusatsu adaptation of an American series to Japan in 1978. That series was Spiderman.

[Japanese Spider-Man opening plays]

And for reference, tokusatsu is a Japanese word that literally means “special effects,” so tokusatsu in its simplest form is just that--a live action show where some of the stuff is not real. For specific examples, think Ultraman, Kamen Rider, the Super Sentai series, which I’ll get to in a second, or something we’re all familiar with--the classic foam rubber Godzilla that came long before the tiny headed Bryan Cranston version.

[Godzilla roar from GODZILLA VS MECHAGODZILLA]

Marvel and Toei’s deal was made before Dragonball Z became Toei’s crowning achievement, and long before Marvel joined the Disney family and fell into constant conflict with Sony over the very same property. The deal gave each party rights to use the other’s characters in any way they saw fit, and in fact, Toei originally planned to make Spiderman a secondary character to mythological Japanese prince Yamato Takeru. They eventually backtracked and left Spiderman in his primary role, but then they did all this other weird shit with it. They threw out Peter Parker entirely, and so Spiderman’s alter ego became Takuya Yamashiro, a motorcycle racer who gets injected willingly with blood from the spider alien Garia, giving him spider powers and allowing him to carry on Garia’s fight against the evil Professor Monster.

[Japanese Spider-Man opening continues]

I’m sorry, what? They also gave him an arguably unnecessary giant robot named Leopardon, a concept Toei would later incorporate into their Super Sentai series, which you may not know by name, but is actually one of the most popular American series of all time, with literally billions of dollars in toy sales in its first 8 years.

[Opening theme of Mighty Morphin Power Rangers begins to play]

And if you’re thinking “Hey what if I’m too dumb to Google that?” Well that is what podcasts are for. Even though I guess you had to Google… this podcast to find it.

Not knowing Super Sentai doesn’t make you dumb, it just makes you American, and THAT makes you dumb.

[Power Rangers theme continues]

But only for systemic reasons that can be broken down in one of many other podcasts. But In this one, I’ll just accept your manufactured ignorance and move on.

[Power Rangers theme continues to “Go go, Power Rangers!”]

You might know Super Sentai by its American name, Power Rangers, who you might know by the aforementioned giant robots--known as Zords--or by the first iteration’s problematic color coding of its main characters: blue for boy, pink for girl, yellow for Asian girl, black for black boy, and red for lead boy. Later colors would include white for Native American played by white guy, and green for all the money they made in spite of this.

Power Rangers is an American localization of Super Sentai originally adapted by Saban Entertainment in 1993 using entirely new footage and storylines interwoven with battle scenes from the original series, and I don’t know if it’s better or worse that the American cast was decided after the costumes were made, but I do know that it’s not surprising.

The Power Rangers are undoubtedly the most popular Saban property, having sold over $6 billion in toys for Bandai in its first decade on the air, and Saban have continued to adapt Super Sentai series beginning with Kyoryu Sentai Zyuranger in 1993, all the way up to Tokumei Sentai Go-Busters in 2019.

The rights have changed hands a couple times, with a brief stint at Disney, before returning to Saban in 2010, and ultimately to Hasbro in 2018, in case you thought the series was created to do anything other than sell toys. Power Rangers has since been distributed internationally and chaotically redistributed in Japan using the original voice cast, and I can’t begin to explain to you how that works legally, but as an actor, all I can say is take the two checks and run before they figure it out.

I bring all this up as an example of what can happen when international properties are used to their full potential. It gets confusing at times, when you get into the weeds regarding licenses and producers or the fact that Mighty Morphin Power Rangers was banned in Malaysia for supposedly promoting mighty morphine to kids--real fact, look it up--but ultimately, in the grand scheme of things, all parties involved, at least on the corporate level, made money and built up pretty rock solid brand recognition.

In contrast, let’s talk about Harmony Gold.

[Lofi Music]

Harmony Gold is an American television production company and real estate developer lol whose founder, Frank Agrama, narrowly escaped prison just a few years ago, and whose Wikipedia page contains an alarming number of references to famously corrupt Italian prime minister Silvio Berlusconi. And I don’t mean in passing. I mean in 1976 Frank Agrama sold broadcasting rights from Paramount pictures to Berlusconi’s Mediaset company, which at the time was just starting, but years later was found in a study by the American Economic Association to have made young Italians more vulnerable to populist rhetoric and therefore more likely to vote for Berlusconi who, for reference, would later be convicted of soliciting sex with minors, for which he would later be acquitted because why wouldn’t you be able to do that? And I’m not saying Frank Agrama is responsible for, or in any way directly involved in any of the +20 legal battles Berlusconi has been through, I’m just that he definitely was and in fact his home was raided in 2006 in connection with an Italian investigation claiming that he had inflated prices of the rights he originally sold to Mediaset so that, through means I do not understand, Mediaset could pay huge dividends to its top executives. And Frank only avoided jail time due to a technicality based on his age.

Of course, all this info is better suited for a way more in depth political conspiracy, and maybe famous pedophile podcast? But the fact that Harmony Gold is so deeply rooted in the dealings of a massive propaganda empire run by an egomaniac really sets the stage for why everyone seems to hate them so much.

So what is Harmony Gold as it pertains to this story? Well, as I said, it began in 1983, four years after Frank took a trip to France, where he met and agreed to partner in distributing international film rights with Paddy Chan Mei-Yiu and Katherine Hsu May-Chun, two businesswomen from Hong Kong, the former of whom is the owner of the Wiltshire Group of Companies. And I’d like to think the two of them held some significance before the events in this episode, but if they did, they’re SEO game is trash, cause all searches yield results after the year 1979 when Chan founded the Hong Kong-based Harmony Gold and Frank founded Agrama Film Enterprises in LA, only establishing Harmony Gold USA a few years later.

Harmony Gold USA’s first project was a miniseries depicting the life of Shaka Zulu--chief of the Zulu people from 1816 to 1828--which a 1986 piece in the LA Times said reduced Shaka and the Zulu people to violent barbarians, noting that the story was mostly told through the perspective of an Irish doctor and not Shaka Zulu himself and basically challenged its audience to ask what would have come of South Africa if it weren’t for the intervention of white settlers.

So if the series can be summed up in a word, I guess that word would be “controversial,” only because Frank himself staunchly denied that the film was racist at the time, despite claims from South African literature professor Mazisi Kunene that it was “like Hitler doing the history of the Jews.”

And long story short, these are the people that made Robotech.

As is the case with Power Rangers and most other series brought to the US, the main hurdle in localizing for an American audience is the content itself, whether that means it violates some perceived standard of acceptability, or more simply that Americans misinterpret the intended audience and end up repackaging a show with very adult themes to be marketed to kids, which may explain why I’ve seen Endless Waltz about a dozen times and couldn’t tell you a single detail of the story.

[Mobile Suit Gundam Wing - Endless Waltz theme plays]

In the case of Robotech, however, the biggest hurdle was American syndication laws. When Carl Macek was hired to adapt anime for Harmony Gold in the mid-80s, he immediately settled on Super Dimension Fortress Macross, as I mentioned in the previous episode--and had they followed their original plan, it would have been the first legal anime home video release in the US. But they abandoned that plan and decided to air it on TV, and American rules required that a syndicated show be able to run at a minimum of five episodes a week for 13 weeks, because as we all know artists are at their most creative when they have strict production minimums, like an 8 episode anime podcast, to give a non-specific example.

So, in similar fashion to Japanese Spiderman and Power Rangers, Carl Macek took the rights he had and did whatever the fuck he wanted. Macross had aired weekly in Japan for only 36 episodes, so Carl took two unrelated giant robot series--Genesis Climber MOSPEADA and Southern Dimension Cavalry Southern Cross, the longest title I’ve ever heard--and he just tossed them in with Macross like an undergrad student using 15-point periods in a 12-point essay. And he made a hit. Robotech was hugely popular at the time and plenty of people will tell you it was their first window into the world of anime as a whole. But beyond that, Harmony Gold didn’t really have a lot of success.

There were spinoffs, including the aforementioned Robotech: The Movie, which was shown in 1987 at the Animation Celebration Festival, where Jerry Beck worked with a man named Terry Thoren, who refused Jerry’s requests to pick it up for further distribution, yet another person who viewed it as a “Saturday morning cartoon,” and first of all, I have to stress that you can watch cartoons on any other day. Yu-Gi-Oh! played on Sundays, I don’t know what this Saturday morning shit is. I don’t know where it comes from. But I digress.

In probably one of the most significant events in early anime history, Jerry Beck and Carl Macek met during the screening of Robotech when they both snuck off to watch the crowd’s reaction, and realizing how excited the audience was, they immediately decided to team up and establish Streamline Pictures, where they were committed to producing anime dubs that were true to their source material, preserving all the original music and sound effects, and producing more faithful translations, and I can’t stress enough how insane it is that that was revolutionary, but it was at the time and they, along with contemporaries like RightStuf, set a precedent that anime was most valuable when it got to just be anime. I can’t say with 100% certainty that Jerry’s boss would have been more receptive to anime if he had seen Macross in its original form, but I am also dumb, so take everything I say with a big grain of salt.

Regardless, looking back at Harmony Gold’s reputation in comparison to Carl Macek the man, all signs suggest he left at about the right time. Carl only lasted long enough to produce 85 episodes of the original Robotech, along with the way way way lesser known Captain Harlock and the Queen of a Thousand Years, also adapted from unrelated series Captain Harlock and Queen Millennia, both by Leiji Matsumoto, both of which were comprised of 42 episodes, which I probably would have confirmed in advance if I had already gone through the trouble of combining three whole series into one, but that’s just me, a person whose experience informs his actions. Of course, given the success of Robotech, I’m sure Carl was very optimistic about his ability to crank out another successful chopped and screwed anime, so I can’t really blame him for overlooking that, but Harlock ultimately didn’t perform nearly as well as its predecessor.

Carl also attempted a Robotech sequel, Robotech II: The Sentinels, of which only three episodes were produced before it was canceled. And that’s kinda where Harmony Gold as a legitimate institution went out the window. Carl left to start Streamline, and you can so clearly picture the alternate timelines branching out from that point in history. Streamline was the antithesis to Harmony Gold in just about every way. Its first projects were theater screenings of Laputa: Castle in the Sky and Twilight of the Cockroaches, and it’s unclear whether they were officially a company at that time, but that’s kinda where Streamline’s illegitimacy ends. They opened the first Streamline Pictures office in 1989 and took off from there, while Harmony Gold was offloading employees to none other than Saban Entertainment, which may explain that company’s almost identical production strategies in Power Rangers.

I think taking a quick look at Harmony Gold’s website can give you a lot of perspective on the direction they’ve gone in since Carl left. And I encourage you to pull it up and follow along as I break this down, cause it’s hilarious. First of all, it looks like it was designed by Frank Agrama himself. From the soft 90s fonts to the basic flash animation, if you asked someone who had never heard of Harmony Gold to describe this website, I’m confident they would peg this as the work of an African immigrant trying to convince his parents he’s doing well in Hollywood. From left to right, the home menu lists “Theater,” a good enough start, considering they do own and operate the Harmony Gold Preview House in Hollywood. It then moves on to “Entertainment,” a category under which the word “theater” might fall under some circumstances, but I’ll give them the benefit of the doubt on this one, considering it is a specific space after all.

Dead center, directly under their logo where you’d never expect it, is “Robotech” which, again falls under “entertainment,” the most entertaining thing about it being that if you click on it, it just redirects you to a better website, Robotech.com, where you can find all the merchandise and modern web design that frankly just wouldn’t make sense on Harmony Gold’s main page. Just to the right of that is, quite ironically, a hard left turn to “Real Estate,” which redirects to HarmonyGoldProperties.com, and I’ll admit perspective is key here because the phrase “Harmony Gold kinda fell off and started doing real estate” sounds way worse than “Yo my landlord produced the Shaka Zulu mini-series, that’s crazy!” But that’s neither here nor there. Finally, one more space to the right, you’ll see “About Us,” and your impulse might be to say “No I think I’ve seen enough,” but there’s so much useful information in there like the fact that Tobey Macguire is attached as a producer on the live action Robotech, which I’m only adding in hopes that you’ll respect the deep commitment required to bookend this long setup with Spiderman-related content.

[Japanese Spider-Man theme returns]

So all that might seem very unfair to Harmony Gold and Robotech, especially considering they served such a key role in introducing so many American fans to anime. Why should you care what their website looks like if they’re responsible for one of the greatest anime adaptations of all time? Well it’s not really about what they did at the time that fans are uptight about. It’s all about how they’ve conducted themselves since. The key difference between Streamline Pictures and Harmony Gold really comes down to their emphasis on money.

[Lofi Music]

Jerry Beck told us repeatedly that he and Carl’s work was something they did because they wanted to see anime in American movie theaters. They did that and they were defunct by 2002 which, if you look at a rough timeline of how anime got to where it is today, is the perfect amount of time to help set the industry in motion and then just let inertia take over. Streamline produced dubs to get them out and then relinquished the rights to those properties, most notably handing the rights to Studio Ghibli distribution over to Disney in 1996.

Harmony Gold on the other hand have notoriously kept a vise grip on the rights to Robotech and its underlying IP and clearly have no plans of letting go any time soon. If you Google “Harmony Gold,” the search results are not kind. A lot of them come from Reddit, which should give you all the information you need, but the SparkNotes version is that Harmony Gold has used their rights to Macross and adjacent titles to box out any lookalikes, copy cats, or most notably, the original Macross itself, from setting up shop comfortably in the US, and knowing their relationship with Berlusconi’s Mediaset in Italy, it’s not really surprising that their actions would mirror those of a European propaganda machine, the only difference being that Robotech was popular, but certainly not the only thing you could watch in the 80s. So they really only managed to corner the market on what they *sort of* owned.

For context: Harmony Gold were given rights to SDF Macross, Southern Dimension Cavalry Cross, and Genesis Climber Mospeada from Tatsunoko Production in 1984 and, as we now know, Carl Macek was charged with editing and scripting these series into the 85 episode arc of Robotech. Simple enough so far, but of course it gets worse. Robotech was first released in 1985 and it’s since been declared that Harmony Gold maintains the rights to the Robotech brand in perpetuity, to do with whatever they so choose, and yet they’ve also held onto the rights for all its constituent properties for the past 34 years, renewing them once in 1998 and again in 2002, which pushed the expiration date to March 2021, and in all my research, I haven’t seen a single viable reason for why they need to last that long. In short, they ain’t doing shit with them, and yet, at Anime Expo 2019, they announced once again, that their rights would be extended indefinitely.

As I said before, Harmony Gold started production on Robotech II: The Sentinels, which was canceled, ending Carl Macek’s tenure, and they did later produce Robotech: The Shadow Chronicles in 2006, which according to their own website, is incredible. But other than that, what do they really need those rights for? At first glance, it looks like they’re whole MO is just to litigate competitors out of existence, which thankfully they haven’t always had the power to do. But if you take a closer look, that doesn’t have any affect on their approach. It really seems like they’re just holding onto their one successful property for the sake of brand recognition and money. I mean if you Google the words “Harmony Gold lawsuit,” the number of results are very telling.

Really, outside of almost certainly tossing out my rental application when I lived in LA, it seems like Harmony Gold does nothing but litigate. And to be honest, I can’t say that I really understand all the details of their legal troubles, of which there are so so many, but let’s see if I can sum it up without staring at my notes for an hour.

Basically, I want to say around 2003, it was determined by a Japanese court that Tatsunoko Production may have never had the power to hand the rights to Macross over to Harmony Gold in the first place, because they apparently didn’t have the approval of their co-producers Studio Nue and Big West in Japan, and technically the rights to 41 of the original character designs still belong to Big West. But because we are America and our word is law, and because we renew our anger about Pearl Harbor only when it is convenient, a different judge said “fuck everything Japan stands for” and I guess that ruling was ignored in the US and a judge determined that Harmony Gold has the rights to use Macross for some period of time just short of forever. A 2016 case between HG and Tatsunoko, in which the latter claimed Harmony Gold was sublicensing Macross without paying royalties, was ruled in favor of Harmony Gold but also dialed back the whole perpetuity thing and upheld the 2021 expiration date on their Macross license, and that date held until July of this year, when Harmony Gold’s deal with Tatsunoko was extended for another, as of yet undisclosed amount of time, that is presumed to be another 35 fucking years.

To sum up all the implications of this very confusing, three-headed dog of a case, basically Harmony Gold’s rights to Macross have a very shaky foundation, but they objectively own Robotech at least and can do with that whatever they want, as long as any sequels they produce use original designs outside of the original 41 that were dubiously given to them without Big West’s permission. Also Harmony Gold was somehow given all distribution rights for original Macross footage outside of Japan, but they still need permission from Tatsunoko to actually exercise those rights, which Tatsunoko seem unwilling to do for a company that sued them as recently as three years ago. I wonder what that’s all about. Also, because the grounds by which Big West actually owns those characters is so confusing internationally, Tatsunoko will probably just keep renewing Harmony Gold’s license just to say “fuck you” to Big West, while still never letting Macross see the light of day aside from Blu-Rays shipped directly from Japan, which conveniently have English subtitles because they know exactly what they’re doing.

This whole mess, paired with the fact that fighting an American ruling from overseas is prohibitively expensive and not in your favor, means that Studio Nue and Big West are heavily discouraged from pursuing their rights to a show they don’t really believe has an audience in the US anyway, so even if they could win, the likelihood of them trying is very slim. But because Harmony Gold has nothing to coast on aside from their production from 1985, they’ve been reduced to filing suits against anyone who even looks at an original Robotech design, which so far includes Hasbro, who incorporated an also shakily acquired Macross design into their Transformers line because they had no Robotech licenses and Macross didn’t exist here at the time, and also Piranha Games, a Canadian video game designer who believed they had legally acquired the designs from Big West for their Battletech game series. Unfortunately, Harmony Gold disagreed and another confusing lawsuit began.

The weirdest thing about all this is that, as important as Robotech is, a lot has happened in the anime world since then, and Harmony Gold don’t seem interested in branching out into any of those other ventures. They’ve been acquiring IP throughout the years but haven’t produced anything of note since around 2006, although a live action Robotech has been licensed to Warner Brothers, but even that feels weird since Pacific Rim already happened, but I guess another lawsuit can settle that. I don’t know.

Watching the steps Harmony Gold have made since canceling The Sentinels really adds a lot of perspective to just how big a bullet Carl Macek dodged by leaving, and granted he had since gone back and was working with them again when he passed away, but the potential damage to his reputation had come and gone by that time. Of course, he is still a controversial figure considering his creation is still at the root of this whole conflict. But he is also responsible for introducing a whole generation of viewers to anime for the first time, and his work at Streamline Pictures, where he helped bring so much untouched anime into the mainstream, more than makes up for keeping one, albeit very important, series out of the public eye.

The legacy of Akira and its Studio Ghibli dubs, in my opinion, makes Streamline a much stronger contender for valued contributors to anime history, and the fact that they only made money by putting out a quality product makes it that much better, not to mention the fact that they were so content to pass on licenses when their time was up. In fact, according to most fans, knowing when to pack it up is really the one thing Harmony Gold could have done to save their reputation. That said, Streamline has thrown a lot of fuel on one very divisive fire over the years, whether intentionally or not.

That fire, of course, is the sub vs. dub debate, which has driven a wedge in anime fandom for years. There are the people who believe there is never a reason to watch dubbed anime and there are the people who work from home, writing anime podcasts, and don’t have time to learn Japanese just to feel superior to casual fans.

For anyone unfamiliar, there’s been a debate raging for as long as anime fandom has existed over whether real fans should watch anime with subtitles or with English voice actors. I would personally like to plant my flag in the ground and say that if you don’t speak Japanese, it doesn’t matter. The argument I hear most often is that the Japanese voice acting is just better, and to that I say: how the fuck do you know? If you don’t speak the language, there’s no way you can discern good Japanese voice acting from bad English. If you can, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but you speak Japanese. So good luck with your new job at the UN, I guess. Congratulations.

Also, just consider a point Roland Kelts made to me: that the Japanese artists themselves, in many cases, prefer fans to watch the show in their own language so they're not focused on reading while the art they worked so hard on is just passing by. Also, consider a point made by me: that subtitling eliminates the need for voice acting and editing jobs and, and as we learned in the previous episode, subtitles can be done with a very quick turnaround and a small team. So what I'm saying, is that dubs create jobs and stimulate the economy in the countries where they're produced, so regardless of how you feel, they are a necessary evil.

Also, back to a legitimate point by Jerry Beck: people who don't already watch anime aren't really interested in reading subtitles. To return to the argument on what goes into localizing anime, the whole point of the process is to sell it to a new audience, and part of that process is presenting it to them in their own language, which is exactly why Streamline Pictures only produced dubbed anime--to attract new fans to something that doesn’t feel threatening or antagonistic, which anime fandom often does. So sure, you can individually decide that you prefer to watch anime with subtitles. Maybe you have a lot of free time, I don’t know. But maybe take into consideration that when you have an elitist attitude about who’s a “real” anime fan, you’re not only being a weirdo edgelord, but you’re also keeping anime away from fans who are just as deserving as you are which, I would argue, makes you the Harmony Gold of people.

Harmony Gold itself has maintained its loose grip on the anime industry by exploiting people’s interest in a single franchise, knowing that a lack of access to the original Macross and related merchandise will inevitably drive people to their Frankenstein version of the original product. Meanwhile, Big West and Studio Nue have effectively given up fighting for it because the legal fees would be prohibitively expensive to reclaim a franchise that has technically never had an audience outside of Japan anyway. And the fact that companies like this survive because of legal confusion, while the Streamlines of the world come and go, is a travesty and ultimately only hurts the anime industry. And my point is that if you force subtitles on new fans, you are as bad as that.

This has been another episode of Anime in America. Come back next week, when we’ll be diving into the first anime conventions to hit the United States.

[Lofi Music]

Thank you for listening to Anime In America, presented by Crunchyroll. If you enjoyed this, please check out Crunchyroll.com/animeinamerica for free anime, with ads, or get a 14-day free trial of Premium.

You’ve heard it before, but please leave us a review and rate us so more people can discover the show, or just share it with a friend.

This episode is written and hosted by me, Yedoye Travis, and you can find me on Instagram at ProfessorDoye or Twitter @YedoyeOT. This episode is edited by Chris Lightbody and produced by me, Braith Miller, Peter Fobian, and Jesse Gouldsbury.

By: [email protected]

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

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loner-ston3r · 4 years

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Date - 6th June 2017 Day - Tuesday Time - 8 am

Dad - Have you checked, everything has been packed?

Mom - Don't worry, all things are packed, extra eatables had been kept in the right pocket, some cash for first few weeks, Winter wears only a few pair had been kept in top of the trolley, listen Joy, don't have outside food, don't make friendship with wrong people, don't do drugs, don't be a fool around, Do this , do that and the list continues.

Me : Chill! this isn't the first time, i am getting out of the hometown, Maa!

But yes, this time it's a great feeling to travel with you guys after so many years. I am thankful to to you and God also. I will always be grateful to you and Almighty!

We were at our seats in a 3Tier AC Coach of Duronto from Howrah to Mumbai, Swapno ka Sahar!

A lot of partially known faces in the train, since a lot of people had applied, cleared, interviewd and got selected for Post graduation programme in the very same institute, I had choose to completey post graduation.

My city, Kolkata was sulking day by day with literates having no jobs, since political power at that time was focusing on beautification of the city. Their agendas was to bring "Shilpo and Shilpayan to the state" but not industries. Selling Chops and chaa had been the slogan and point of topic. No business is small, everyone has similar opportunities, the political party for the time being is responsible for job culture homicide due to which a lot of people like me, identified so lately that it's almost nothing in here, so let's start our suffer from traveling or migrating to another city!

Many of my friends chose to flew out of the country, might have some bigger vision!

When everything was in turmoil, People like me decide to move on with what we have and went on seeking for a better future.

Let me clear the air a bit, Myself Avishek Dutta, only son of a small business owner, and a home maker, had not been doing great in life back then, graduated with a technical degree from not a renowned College, but only a degree and some ideas and that spark in mind and heart to survive the crisis back then! 2016 I, quit Job due to an accident, was bed ridden for Half of the year, felt like starting something of my own with minimum resources and supervision.

Before that, had built a network worth 21000$ only! I jad grown my taste in photography since graduation 2nd year back in 2012.

Since belonging from a middle class family, my father thought it was too much I asked for, and even I also didn't pressurize him to buy me a DSLR, I started working as a free lancer, and once I was too much into to buy myself a new car also, but something clicked my mind that help me to utilize that experience and grow more in life rather than settling down at home city that too at an age of 20. I realised one thing, that earning money is not so easy, it requires tremendous skills and conveniencing power to earn and grow. I started career counseling without a proper career, it paid me a lot back then, my network was very strong back then, but soon I realized, it's not a full time career since I was pursuing Engineering, yes just another sheep from a cattle, Hell no! Not another sheep! I was that creature who controls the cattle and have the ability to control the cattle. I soon realised that, Money is not all I seek in life, respect is much more valuable than money! Money can buy you a lot of stuffs but respect is what that justifies your earning in much more better way, so decided back then to pursue some more professional degree and will take a job at a good company.

The greed and hungerness of earning in a short span and without anything else to take back, I burried that thought for a little while, since I seek legitimate earnings! I seek much more like respect in life and a good life style too.

I scratched my balls for few years, traveling few cities with minimum income to survive and finally came back to home and decided on doing professional degree, it was indeed high time of my career to decide upon. I choose Mumbai to be the city since none of my friends decided to step in and the degree as Post graduate diploma in Management on Markrting and Sales since Engineering and Management was a trend back then and leaving all excuses, I believed in myself, that I had always been a strategic person from the point I took admission in engineering! May be I made a wrong choice, but experiences and depth of situations and people you learn from your mistakes only.

So, 2017, 6th June, with the most positive thinking and optimism level at it's peak, I started my journey, leaving family, friends and comfort zone to a next level.

I was like, throw shits at me, I will make paper and sell or use it as an energy of some kind.

"throw stones at me, i will make you a home to stay, throw some cursive words, i will write a literature out of it. Disrespect me, I will apologize to you! I started by changing my nature, practising to be more humble in life"

With lots of known faces in the train, accompanied by one well known face Deba, we smoked and gossiped through out the train journey, my parents were travelling with me and had also arranged and convinced someone in Mumbai to be my local guardian too,. though i never visited his place in last 3 years!

I was excited to meet new people in life. I am too exicted to meet new people all the time.

After a day, I reached Mumbai at Chattrapati Shivaji Maharaj Terminus around 12.30pm.

Took a local of one and a half hours at that time, to come down to that place where I was about to learn make and do some epic things in my life!

Rest you all know!

I was not some special kid, I was not that influencial, I was not someone having a very good past experience, I am being nice to you means, You really matter to me! I being so humble these days means I learnt to stay calm and think positive, whatever crisis we could have faced. I saw people, I met people, I stayed with them, had food with them, laughed with them, travelled with them, nurtured them, also took intensive care for them, treating them like my own blood, studied them, realised and identified several behavioural traits after nurturing them for so long.

Secret thing - I can read your emotions while we chat online! Sorry for judging in a most appropriate way. But it's true.

Learning is a never ending process, don't get bored of it, don't stop doing it, practise it everyday, evrytime and every moment you breathe. The World is full of positive if you have the eyes to look at it.

I am and will always be a life long learner!

Thanks for staying connected.

Stay Home, Stay Safe

Have Fun and believe in Karma!

#MyProudParents

#MyLifeLine

#CreatorOfSomeoneWorthwhile

Thank you Maa & Baba :)

#privilege #family #friendship #love #save money #motivation #jobs #money #mumbai #city of dreams #opportunities #professionalism #quarantine hobby #humanity #humble #nature #human nature #adulting #sacrifice

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joh-gaming · 7 years

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Watch Dogs 2 Critical Review

I don’t post many reviews of games here, mostly ‘cause you can find reviews everywhere and in any format. So why make one for Watch Dogs 2? Because they went the extra mile and they deserve more than what they got.

After the failure of the first game, it’s understandable why the sequel sold so poorly. Not even counting the amount of solid games that came out around the same time, but people have been burned by Ubisoft’s marketing far too many times. Take The Division, which I actually like and play, the downgrade wasn’t just in graphics but gameplay. It was far more interesting in the original trailer than what we ended up with. The Division is fun but also boring, and to a point you can say the same about Assassin’s Creed Syndicate (another game I like). Syndicate however has the benefit of having the twins, Evie and Jacob Frye are really fun characters and the Assassin’s Creed formula has its moments. But one thing was clear, Ubisoft was making cookie cutter missions in their open world games and that gets boring fast.

Finally they made a game that breaks away from the GTA clone Fed Ex formula (mostly anyway) and people weren’t buying it. Gaming sites were more concerned about getting hits, so while most of them praised the game, it was mostly as “it’s better than the first” which we all knew would be ‘cause that one was terrible. So why did I ignore the game? Well, to be honest it was Marcus. Don’t get me wrong, even without playing it I prefer Marcus over Aiden any day, but the promo videos kept showing Marcus as this dull character, and his clothes are something I wouldn’t wear even if I was cosplaying. I knew you could change clothes but have you seen the outfits they chose for the promo? he looks like a clown most of the time.

What I’m saying is, I couldn’t find myself in Marcus. Thankfully, they decided to offer that 3 hrs trial which I took. Played the hell out of the game to get a feel for the clothes, missions, characters and story. So I’m going to start my review with that, click keep reading if you’re interested.

The 3hrs Trial

OK so the first mission was kind of hard, but it was fun. Talk about a tutorial in the middle of a war zone and with a timer no less. (trial timer, not mission timer) I had to learn fast to make the most out of it. The script is... well have you seen TV shows lately? yea not great but not as bad as some people make it out to be. The gameplay was solid, animations were pretty good and graphics are impressive. I was unimpressed with the characters, even Sitara which I liked from the promo material. I did a couple of main missions, stole the Cyber Driver car, played some co-op missions and 1 of the events, opted out of PvP ‘cause I’m not interested in that. I don’t go to the Dark Zone in The Division either so yea, PvP is not my thing. I did a lot of the ATM side quests which are quite fun and funny. By the end of the trial I knew I really wanted this game. It was already on my list, but I was going to buy it as cheap as possible. I talked to my friends (the ones that played the trial with me) and we all liked it, they bought the game before I did but we all got it. Not only that but we bought the Gold Edition, which is still on sale at the time of this post.

Gold Edition

Why the Gold edition? Well, it comes with the Season Pass and it was $60 for the whole thing. So technically, it was finally priced right, the whole game for the price of a full game, I’m OK with that. It’s probably the only way I would recommend the season pass of any game.

Characters

Like I said before, during the 3hr trial I wasn’t impressed, but they slowly grew on me and I prefer that. In Life is Strange it was the same, I didn’t like Chloe until the third episode.

Marcus

Look at those clothes... wtf is that? He looks like TV static or something. Anyway, took a while but the guy grew on me thanks to moments like this one

youtube

Wish he had had more to do outside of doing the impossible. Also wish he had more interaction with Horatio.

Sitara

She’s cool, the Sombra of the group (a lot more serious though) and more of an artist than a hacker, even though she’s brilliant. She knows the power of a brand and works hard to turn Dedsec into “celebrities”. Just don’t wear a man bun in front of her.

Wrench

Cynical, sarcastic, weird af and with a short temper. This is Marcus’ best friend in the crew. Throws tantrums every now and then, I can relate to this guy a lot more, except for the thongs... yea... can’t relate to that.

Josh

The walking super computer, he is a bit stereotypical as well as cartoonish but I still like this guy a lot. There’s a lot of potential with this character.

Horatio

And Horatio, you barely get to talk to this guy and that’s a real shame. The few moments he had with Marcus were great. With the amazing animations and expressions, their funny scenes were actually funny.

I’m pretty sure this is the first time Ubisoft went with this approach on the characters. We’ve seen games where the companions are just as important as the main character, games like Mass Effect, Dragon Age, Fallout 4 and of course the Saints Row series. I can say this was just a few interactions short of being as good as Saints Row’s. I applaud Ubisoft for this and hope they keep evolving this part of their story telling, with gameplay to support it.

Gameplay

This game has variety, to the point where I haven’t tried everything it offers yet. Sure some of it is mundane, but I do love to have some mundane stuff in my open world games. As long as I don’t get a call from a cousin every 5 steps asking to go bowling. Still, the mundane stuff gives you an excuse to explore the beautifully crafted map. Same with the collectibles which help you unlock some skills later in the game.

They also added events, now since I locked my game as a single player experience (except when I join my friends in co-op) I’m not sure if the events are part of the co-op experience or if you have to open your game. You can choose to open it so that only friendly players show up in your session, however that doesn’t mean they won’t troll you, there are a lot of asses out there. But that’s another positive, the ability to lock the game as a single player experience or open its multiplayer options in ways that work for you. In any case I had a lot of fun with these events when playing with my friends. Especially one that has low tolerance for stealth (it was kind of hilarious as I was marking enemies and studying the locations, then suddenly he was blowing people up with traps)

I do recommend that if you don’t want to participate in PvP, that you turn off Bounty Hunter and Invasion but leave the friendly options open. Why? because even though there’s a chance trolls might find a way to hinder you, you also miss out on unscripted events that can only happen when some crazy dude has the cops or gangs on his tail. You can help them out or troll them yourself if that’s your kink.

One last thing, I know I’m keeping the gameplay details very vague but I prefer if you found out everything you can do in the game on your own, the drone and remote car are fantastic mechanics. I love it when a game introduces a mechanic that suddenly every game after it should build upon. Not unlike the Last of Us with their bow and on the fly crafting which was arguably improved by the competition in the Tomb Raider games.

Missed Opportunities

The game is VERY good as is, so if you can afford it, go ahead and buy it ‘cause unless you hate Open World Games, you should like this game a lot. Remember, there’s a 3hr free trial if you’re still unsure, it’s not a demo, it’s the full game and you have access to it for 3 hrs.

That being said, a few things could have turned this game from very good to great (at least in my opinion)

1- No way to donate money

A- can’t tip performers on the streets B- can’t give money to beggars C- can’t even donate to bank accounts of people you know have some kind of illness or problem

Sounds pointless, but if you do it often enough in a game, the reason why you did it may carry over to the real world. A pebble in a pond or whatever but I think it can work.

2- Chatting NPCs

A- it’s only used to deliver low level context B- should have an “affection” rating tied to it, even if the reward is some spray or clothing item C- can’t use intel from NPCs (unless scripted) to prepare better for a mission

You can talk to your crew and get their thoughts after every mission, but that’s ultimately pointless. I understand they didn’t want to lock people out of content, nor wanted to force people into something they didn’t want to do but hey, I didn’t talk to Garrus every single time after a mission and he still became one of my favorite characters of all time. Same with Liara and Tali.

3- Tone

A- too serious at times B- it should have been more about their branding, at least most of the game (it kind of is but they already have the main game’s goal from the start) C- after a particular story event, some missions should be locked for a substantial amount of in game time

Saints Row games know they are a parody and work with it. Yes they shift tone in a way. From being funny and satirical to Ling, Carlos, Gat and even you dying, but it still felt within the themes of the game. In Watchdogs 2 you can have a gang after you, then you’re joking about some stupid shit. It shifts too abruptly sometimes. It’s not annoying just something that could be ironed out in the future.

4- HQ Hackerspace

A- you have your main hideout in a game store and you didn’t Gwent it? B- no hideout customization C- Marcus can’t recruit for Dedsec

Seriously, why didn’t you make a game within a game? You could have made a table top game and go all Gwent with it. And not being able to customize at least one of the hideouts is kind of a first in a Ubisoft game. Also, for story purposes I wish that Marcus had his own recruits. This could have been a game of its own where you could recruit the wrong person and then having to deal with that. Of course this wouldn’t be scripted, the NPCs are out there, (I call them trigger NPCs) if you recruit those that are under cover or from P8 or whatever, then that’s on you.

5- Social Locations

A- no interesting NPCs in most of them B- they serve no purpose other than one interaction and as a fast travel point

Something could have been done with these, especially if tied to the whole Marcus being able to recruit for Dedsec thing. A little initiation or test could have been done here.

6- Canon vs Player Actions

A- Marcus can kill a lot of people if the player wants B- at one point in the story Marcus does kill some people but gets no reaction from the crew

This is the same problem I have with the new Tomb Raider games, killing is not a big deal for these characters. It should be, like I said with the change in tone. They are hackers kind of having fun exposing the big corporations and the corrupt. They like to feel like super heroes but then the game is designed to have lethal weapons that the player can use, which is fine, that’s a gamified action which doesn’t have to be canon. But when it does happen in the story I expect more, taking a life shouldn’t be as uneventful as changing clothes

7- Clothes

A- nobody cares what you wear once you buy pants B- changing your outfit doesn’t affect in any way the follower multiplier

When you start the game, right after your initiation, your first mission is to buy pants. People react to what you were wearing before, taking pictures and laughing at you. But that’s where it ends. Also when you buy your first set of clothes, your follower number (XP) rises, would be nice if it had some kind of multiplier tied to it. The only game I remember that went through with that was GTA San Andreas.

Disclaimer

No, I’m not a Ubisoft fanboy, in fact they piss me off sometimes. I signed up for The Division’s beta almost as soon as registrations were allowed but didn’t get a code. Which sure, I can see that you have a limited number of codes to give, but when it happens that you gave away codes to people that didn’t register, that’s when I get annoyed. I had to preorder the game to get in, I honestly was considering skipping the game entirely.

Thank you Ubisoft Montreal

On the chance that someone from Ubisoft is reading this, I want to thank everyone that worked on this game. It was a lot of fun and looking forward to more of it.

#watch dogs 2 #review #personal thoughts

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