Fuck, marry, kill (clint, Bucky, Matt)

This Ain't Game of Thrones || Accepting

He may be entirely too sober for this line of questioning, but at least that clarity gives him some control over the shit that comes out of his mouth. For now, any way.

"I mean anything I could say will get me cancelled but...but if I'm playing by the game? I'm gonna have to probably kill Barnes. I can take Steve Rogers in a fair fight, but Sam's my brother from another mother, and with Barnes out of the picture, then we're back to the natural order, and I get the wings." He's still bitter about the whole Falcon program but at least it got made as close to right as could be with the Stark Industries leg. "Fuck Barton because he wouldn't really hear me bitchin' the whole time. Plus I heard he grew up in the circus. Might could use that to my advantage." Is that wrong? Absolutely. And intentionally so. He has nothing against the archer, except maybe the way his sister smiles and finds excuses to hang out with him whenever she can. It doesn't sit well with Riley. "And clearly I gotta marry Murdock. Only Catholic in the whole group. Which means he knows what my values are, won't mind going to Mass early on Sundays...and that poor bastard's law firm could use a little help. It does mostly good work but man it doesn't pay for shit, you know?"

“Sorry I missed your birthday.” Fi says with an apologetic tone as she passes a bottle of top shelf whiskey over to him.

"Hey, not your fault. Don't really advertise it and stuff. Plus...you're here now." He takes the bottle and works the cork out after breaking the wax seal. He grabs two glasses and pours them three fingers each. Hers is carefully handed over and his? He takes a moment to get a nose full of the sweet and fiery aroma. A lot of people say Riley appreciates whiskey almost as much as he does women, and he can't really fault them for it. "Just passin' through or you stayin' the night?"

What do you get for the guy that can just go out and get anything he wants? Brian had no idea. But he also knew that his partner didn’t really give a shit if he was given anything at all. He wasn’t the type that was counting up favors and trying to even scales. He couldn’t be bothered to worry about who paid for something last or who got him a present or not. And somehow Brian knew he’d still be that way even if he was dirt poor.

So he didn’t worry about it. He didn’t bother trying to make excuses or promises. He just walked in like he owned the place, the way he always did, clapped his friend on the back and wished him a happy birthday.

Riley’s just adding the pasta into the boiling water when he hears the door open. He knows it’s not his sister, she’s not coming home until tomorrow evening, taking on extra shifts at the hospital which is overly strapped for capable bodies. He and Gamble know all too well what that’s like. And so the only other person who would make himself at home is in fact his brother.

He turns away from the stove and there’s a wide smile on his face. “McG! You managed to make it! Good thing too or I’d be over run with penne alla vodka.” He steps into the slap between his shoulders and slings an arm around Gamble’s neck for a minute or so before stepping back. “You know where everything is so if you could grab me a couple bottles ~Grey Goose or Tito’s~ and crack one open, I’ll owe you one. Hundred percent squid ink free.”

He laughs and shakes his head. “Assuming that you didn’t make any plans other than hanging out with me, tonight.”

As the storm rolled in, bringing torrents of water and urban chaos, it became quickly apparent that most birthday plans would need rescheduling. Raincheck, literally the joke in most of the messages. Everyone understood. They would see how it was looking by the weekend. Turning forty was enough of an event that a few days askew on the calendar couldn’t be too big of a deal.

There was still cake. A joint effort by Beth and Tabby, one clutching the bakery box to her chest and the other on umbrella duty. Their feet were soaked but not a crumb was out of place. Dinner came from the small Italian place down the street, roast garlic and basil heavy in the air when Riley arrived home from his last-minute shift. Whether he took it to be out of the girl’s hair, or to delay the celebrations as long as possible, was a secret he was allowed to keep to himself.

Tabby’s first gift sat among the pile with Beth’s. Delivered across the ocean from a small designer in County Cork, to her eye, it was the right mix of reimagined tradition in a decidedly masculine design. The final gift emerged in a small interlude of just the two of them on the couch, Beth temporarily absent as she warmed her bones in a deep bath. “I know it’s a lot of pages.” Tabby’s chin propped on Andy’s shoulder, the five year diary on his lap. “But think of it more like a planner. Because time keeps slipping by and I don’t want to leave this too late. So, like, have a look and pick the day you want to be a dad by.”

The aroma in the house, the warmth from the fire-place and his girls, everything embraced him once he shut the door behind him. His raincoat is left on the hook, a little plastic tray catching the drip of the rain that didn’t dry up on the four flights of stairs up from the lobby to the fifth floor. Elevator still isn’t fixed and by now he’s given up on it ever working. He kicks off his work boots. Thankfully there’s enough wax and they’re pretty well sealed so his socks are dry. Not unlike Beth at the end of a shift there’s a process. Wearing patrol gear instead of one of his suits, he’s got to shed the gun belt with all of its attached gear which he then takes and hangs up in his closet. The Sig Sauer gets locked in its case and once all that’s done, Riley grabs the quickest shower he’s had since he’d left the Air Force, and redresses in a tee-shirt, in jeans. He could have stayed home; enjoyed the day to celebrate another decade being started, but he assumes that Tabby understands the driving need that he and Beth have to do what they can, when they can once shit hits the fan. When the precinct put out that they needed extra hands on the streets, he couldn’t refuse. He enjoys dinner and the cake, coffee over beer. He opens each gift with care. The Claddagh is gorgeous, and he asks her to slip it on to his left hand crown pointed toward his finger tips; meant to signify he’s engaged. The kiss he offers Tabby is slow and tender. After Beth excuses herself, everything about Tabby’s demeanour changes and he cards his fingers through her hair before she settles her chin on his shoulder. He slips an arm around her.

He cracks a smile when she mentions the page count but he’s curious enough not to interrupt her. Then his face freezes.

Not many people can say they’ve ever left Riley speechless but Tabby’s done just that.  Some of her lamented time passed before he moves and takes her face in both hands. He scours her face with a whisper.  “Are you....Are you sure, Tabs?”

“you can’t just casually mention you’ve technically died once” i can actually. it’s funny

"So.....for your birthday, I got you this silly gift because I adore seeing you smile....

.....and I'm taking you to The Marshall in Times Square for dinner tonight - my treat, no arguments! Then when we get back, you can have these:

A great bottle of Chateau Petrus to share, Cuban thingies for you to puff on while I go try on what's in the bag. Happy Birthday Mr Riley!"

"Yeah, okay, but," there's the quietest rumble of a laugh in his throat as he opens the first gift. "You know that specifically Kilmer's portrayal of Doc is maybe my favourite, and I love that movie. Know it forwards and backwards. True story, Beth and I used to watch it every night before I went on mission."

Riley isn't usually one for Nostalgia-capital-N, but some part of him has always been drawn to the old west in ways he can't ever explain. And Tombstone because he'd been around eight when it had come out, and back then, he thought that Virgil Earp looked just like his dad. He puts the pop down, and raises a brow. He is not the type of man who allows himself to be bossed around by anyone not minted a superior officer, but the tone and the intention that belong to Kit makes him grin and nod. "Yeah, okay but I hope you know Beth is going to be super jealous when she finds the empty bottle on the counter."

He glances at the cigars and something of the devil shades his gaze as it flicks back up to her. "You know, technically I could arrest you and call customs down for those. It's still illegal to bring Cuban cigars into the country, even if they're from a different country ~Argentina, France, et cetera~ but this one time, I think I'll overlook criminal activities. Mostly because I want to know what's in the bag."

S'a good year, this

Ron hadn’t told a soul he’d been sniffing round the online auction scene. Back in London he’d loved going to ‘em in person now and then. They’d been a change of routine, a chance - because these weren’t your general service sort of auctions - to live within the means he’d earned, not the ones he’d had as a little lad living in Hoxton twenty-and-some years ago now. Granted moving overseas had put paid to swanning round Sotheby’s, London, in his best togs, but he couldn’t complain really. The US had its own rich-bids get togethers he could get a hand in on, and the Net – that made things even easier.

And that was how he’d come upon a very specific gem.

Flush with the the takings of a fucking good few months on New York’s entertainment scene he’d signed on to his most trusted theatre for bidding wars and almost fallen out his chair at the sight of lot number #10174. He was decided in that very moment, if he got nothing else out of his bidding ventures, This Lot had to be his. That it’d come up this year, with the perfect number, the perfect vintage on the bottle’s delicate curves – it was fate. It had to be. So he bid, and bid, and the war was fierce between him and a good fifty-seven Very Interested Persons but in the end–

Victory.

He’d practically rocketed out his chair, had Ron, when the lot was called for him. He’d danced round his apartment, scooping up Duchess the pup and waltzing with her as funds were exchanged, delivery was finalised, and the wait for his prized acquisition began. Bless the auction house, it only took two weeks to make it across the pond to his door; just in time for it to wrapped, presentation box and all, and hand delivered. A middle-evening trip up to Casa Riley - sans elevator trouble, he noted curiously - saw effusive happy returns wished when he was met at the door, a card and the wrapped spoils of bidding wars acquisition presented with a muted flourish. And when they were unveiled - his attempt at wrapping neat enough to imply some serious help from May - well…

“S'a good numbah, this'n…” Ron smiled. “-‘Appy birfday, Trouble.”

“Oh.”

A pause between smoke and steel. “My.” Yeah, here it comes. One of the favourite children of Saints long dead and immortalized in prayer, about to drop the blaspheme of a lifetime. However, what ends that tirade isn’t English or Latin but the melodic depths of the language of his ancestors. “naofa... focáil.”

Maybe not intentional. Ron’d come to wish him a happy birthday even though Riley tends to be notoriously if not secretive about it, certainly not the type to advertise, especially the older he gets. Tonight he’d been indulging in playing a selection of his older guitars along with a couple Thelonious Monk albums after dropping his sister off at work.

The coffee freshly brewed scents the apartment’s air along with his sister’s plants, the smoke from the cigarette he’s fidgeting with, a spectral hint of his cologne, all clean and woodsy notes that are never particularly strong. His jaw works a moment or two all the while emphasizing the stubble giving it a heavy shadow.   “I.”  Another pause.  “I ain’t even got the words, Rawnie.”

Even when and where it might behoove him, fear and the expression of on his face is something that Riley hasn’t got in him, but for a split second it seems as though he’s terrified to so much as lift the bottle; fear of breaking it, fear that he might be dozing off in his chair and having a vivid dream, something intangible. Though if he’s being honest, his heart beats like the bass and drum line for War Pigs. His head shifts, eyes dark ~though they’ve always been deeper than his sisters, the green sharper than the brown~ and pensive as he stares at his friend across the coffee table. “Not for nuthin’ but like...I don’t know if I wanna drink it with you, or put it in a vault.”

This of course is a rhetorical sort of philosophy, an explanation of how deeply he’s touched and likewise how he tends to shroud those kinds of emotion deep under his armor of glibness and charm. Then just like that it sort of evaporates as Riley lifts a hand and takes one deep drag of his Marlboro before putting it out in the large heavy crystal ashtray that may or may not be able to shatter someone’s skull a time or two before entertaining the idea of cracking.

He looms large at Ron’s side as he makes a stop beside him. The open neck of his shirt becomes a deep V as he leans down and hugs Ron with a surprising lightness, slowness, every move telegraphed from the careful bend at his waist. A moment later that pressure of him is gone and his jacket is getting left behind on the chair he’d vacated.

“But thanks for goin’ through the trouble, and for thinking of me, a chara.” He makes his way across the sumptuous space that occupies a large portion of the apartment, a combination great room, kitchen, dining area, and to a small glass enclosure near the built-in wet bar. He takes out two crystal tumblers, and a few seconds later, puts three polished stone cubes into one, taken from the same small refrigerator as the glasses themselves. “Onna rocks, right?”

Send me three names and a number

Fuck, marry, kill

Adopt, be adopted by, marry

fight aliens with, fight zombies with, fight capitalism with

fistfight, get drunk with, share a flat with

Fuck, take a bullet for, murder

Kill, betray, have on your zombie apocalypse team

Marry, cuddle, sleep with

Seduce, steal from, serenade

Stab, shoot, or drown

Go sailing with, go on a road trip with, go backpacking with

Go to a music festival with, ask to help you move, have a standing brunch gossip session with

Go to fair with, go dancing with, play video games with

Go to the movies with, go skating with, go to a national park with

Binge watch an entire season of a show in a day with, go to a karaoke bar with, go to a yoga class with

Get stuck in an elevator for 10 hours with, get trapped in a cave for 10 hours with, get stranded on a boat for 10 hours with

Have a beach day with, watch the sunrise with, have dinner at a fancy restaurant with

Make soup for when sick, go on a long walk with, spend all day snuggling by a fire with

Netflix and chill with, go ice-skating with, play dodgeball against

Start a book club with, read a book to, hit with a book

Make up your own options and send them to me!

You can send me your names and numbers. If you want to see my list of fandoms I leave it here.

*This is a list is based on these others •••••

Happy “Survived Another Year”.

“So you gonna join me, Huckleberry, or am I gonna have to drink this by myself?”

There were those certain moments in life where seeing someone’s reaction was everything. Finis

Part IV of IV ~ Happy Birthday 💜

Dinner ~ At what point they admitted it was a team challenge was unclear. It may have been hinted at that perhaps the other team had forfeited. Whether there had in fact ever been another team is as much a mystery as what Riley had written on the score cards.

 Part III of IV

Riley doesn’t actually choose a winning team, though the scallops, the steak, and the lobster tails were his favourite {the smashed potatoes were also very top tier} and he’s going to have to get together with Cory to actually talk cooking techniques, and to truly show her his appreciation.

The fingertips on one hand held her hair back to keep it from obscuring her vision as she peered into the glass case. She could practically feel the gaze of the man on the other side, curious to see if she would in fact make a choice while she studied the details in each face. Though she paused slightly longer on a few, Corinne said nothing as she moved along searching for the one. While it had never proved to be an easy task to figure out what to get, this particular year it mattered more to her. Though Christmas had been the first real test of it, somehow now as she tried to decide on a birthday gift for Riley, choosing what to get for the man who had come to mean a great deal to her, had not in fact gotten any easier. After what must have seemed an inordinately long time, she glanced up at the man, moved her hand from its hair holding duties and lightly touched the glass with the tip of her fingernail. “That one.” Though her voice was softened, the note of decisiveness was clear. The box was tucked into her purse, to be wrapped later on. Ordinarily she’d prepare a special birthday dinner and not give it a second thought. However Andrew Riley did most of the cooking and he was very good at it. While he’d allow her on many occasions to help, there were more than enough times he’d shooed her out of the room. Not that she had any complaint at all spending the time with his sister who also happened to be one of her oldest and dearest friends, she wanted to return the favor. So she’d devised a plan to make it more appealing to him in another way. He’d come home to find the dining room table set with three places. At the head of the table to the left of the fork lay a stack of cards. “Welcome to Top Chef at Chez Riley.” Corinne leaned up to press a kiss to his cheek. “You sir, are the judge for this episode. We have prepared for you a dinner consisting of several courses, including of course a dessert finale.” She explained motioning towards his seat at the head of the table. “Oh and fair warning, we are not above offering bribes and likely in the case of your sister, possibly a threat or several.” After dinner and of course, dessert it was time for presents. The cards, more than one were equal parts whimsical and hint of seriousness. “Couldn’t decide, so you get all of them.” She waited for the moment just as he pulled the mug from its box. “Thought you’d enjoy using it for those certain times with your sister… or me.” She quipped. Corinne was certain he assumed she had an equally provocative gift tucked away for Beth’s birthday. He’d have been correct. And there was of course a tasting box of whiskeys. Reaching for the other wrapped box, she gently slid it over to him. “This one is more along the lines of maybe you don’t need another, but I thought you might enjoy it. It’s complex, detailed, does an important job, and pretty to look at.” She said with a smile playing across her lips. Her eyes as she held his gaze were sparkling with admiration and if the light hit just right, maybe the slightest hint of mischief. On the back she’d asked they engrave the date and Happy Birthday along with the Irish phrase Mo mhuirnín.

Part II of IV

For someone known for his ego and arrogance, Riley doesn't much think to celebrate the one day that should, by rights, be all about him. The most indulgence he gives himself is skipping his morning PT, thus sleeping in past four in the morning. He's drifting through bouts of wakefulness and sleep until Beth slips into his room and sets a cup of coffee down for him. She curls up against his side, lays her head on his shoulder, and he cards his fingers through her hair. "So...Forty. How it feel?" Of course she asks. She's always been worried about his feelings. He doesn't really have a concrete answer for her. On one hand, he doesn't feel any different than he felt the entire year before, the ones before that. On the other, he's at the start of an entirely new decade, he's looking down at middle age. He kisses her forehead. "I feel like I need to grab a shower before work, and I still need to make us breakfast." "Okay but promise you come home pau hana." "Okay." He gets ready for work, and he finds that she's not burnt the sour-dough cinnamon rolls he'd made the night before as she'd reheated them, the second cup of coffee is as good as the first, and he blows out the candle without making a single face at her. But Andy knows this isn't the end. He knows when his sister is plotting against him and he has his suspicions about that plot. He doesn't say anything. He also keeps his word and comes straight home after his shift. The table set before him might have been considered romantic if it were set for two but it isn't and that shifts his perspective; whatever the mood, it's very sweet and he can't help but smile when Cory comes into view and she rises up to kiss his cheek. His hand slips around her waist and he returns the kiss to her brow, intentionally not disturbing the fairly light application of her make-up. "This looks amazing," he says as she explains the game afoot. "Challenge accepted," he agrees. He excuses himself to lock his gun in its case, relieves himself of his work accessories before slipping into jeans and a tee-shirt. He takes his seat at the table as directed. Dinner was a good time, although he ultimately can't pick a winning team. His girls have outdone themselves and injected the night with a fun he hadn't realised he'd been missing though he can't say where and why. The cake is amazing, and he takes turns taking pieces of his own and sharing them with both women. This is where the threats over coffee come into play, the very ones Cory'd mentioned earlier. Not to sway him to the side of blood but that his actions might come across weird and or...with a preview he isn't sure Cory may want. That gives him a lot to think about but not in his typical maudlin fashion. The cards make him laugh, painting his eyes with the light of good humour. "Good judge of character," he tells her with a grin. "And I'm lucky. Lucky to have a spritely young woman to help guide me around, in case I get totally absent minded." The mug is an equal hit, and earns a laugh. It won't strike him how easily he incorporates Cory into his idea of home. "I'm going to have to use this one judiciously at home, and forever at work." Beth excuses herself and Riley takes the opportunity to pull Cory into his lap. He can't help but nuzzle at her neck even if one hand lingers over the tasting box. "Beth's going to Jay's this weekend. I have the next two days off...so you wanna spend them with me? We can make something out of each of the whiskies. You don't have to answer me now, but if you show up tomorrow, we know." There's something almost heavy about the last gift, but not in a bad way. There is meaning here, in the way she's explaining it. In the sentiment. In the gift itself. It's something to wear and it carries her love etched in the back, but maybe too, it's in the message; she's giving him time. With her, a future. At least that's how he chooses to interpret it. The watch itself is sleek, it's sexy, it will look great with his darker suits. "I don't even know how to begin saying thank you for everything, a thaisce."

Happy Birthday, Riley!  

Gifts and photos to follow………

Part I of IV

Happy Birthday, Duck

Riley isn’t sure whether he should be proud or worried that there’s an association between him and Darth Vader. Yes, he knows his sister’s ringtone for him is the Imperial March. Yes, he’s always felt empathetic to the character, arguably the most bad-ass villain to set foot on the silver screen. So, maybe all in all, it could be worse. It’s not surprising when Baz rolls in with a pizza, cake, and then a bunch of presents. A quiet night in which suits Riley fine.  After habitual greetings, Baz offers up the first thing and he seems to have an order to everything. The Lego land-speeder is really awesome. “Oh, that’s cool. But you know you’re helping me put it together later, as if only we have the power to save all the IKEAs in the world.” The Macallan makes him smile, and he immediately decants it into the Waterford Crystal decanter before pouring them two of the new glasses. His the White Tree of Gondor, Baz’s the Lorien leaf. And then it all goes down hill. Riley spends at least an hour chasing Baz through the entire building, from rooftop to basement and back to the apartment with the lightsaber.

Reblog if you will NOT roleplay with those under 18.

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Reblog if you will NOT roleplay with those under 18.

NOTE TO MINORS: Many of those who reblog this and similar posts are adults who write mature content, which may include sexual content, and as such it is for their legal protection as much as yours that their blogs are age restricted.