#I thought the lunch thing was just a throwaway line but NO he cares so much | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

shurisneakers · 3 years

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harmless (xiii)

Summary: Bucky volunteers to go stop a small time villain, but nothing can prepare him for what exactly he has to deal with. (Bucky x villain!reader)

Warnings: cursing, frustrated bucky, dramatic reader, smidge of angst, guns, little bit of violence, obnoxious flirting, and kidnapping lol

Word count: 6.2k

A/N: welcome to chaos week >:) this is the first of three updates coming out this week (if i can finish the last one in time). big thank you to my love @no-shit-sherl0ck for the kidnaped!reader idea, and that one anon who suggested the inator that’s used here. i know you wanted to see it in a zoo but i couldn’t really figure out a way to use that so i referenced it a bunch in previous chapters. oh and also @ginevranights for this specific imagery

Previous Part || Series Masterlist

Who the fuck kidnaps a villain in this day and age?

Saturday started normally enough.

Nat kicked Bucky’s ass in training, evening the score to 120 and 120. He blames it on the lack of sleep. She tells him that it’s his fault he stayed up late to binge watch 911 Lone Star.

He still thinks it was worth it.

The team’s sunshines and rainbows that morning. Someone had cooked up a batch of pancakes and fresh orange juice. Someone else burnt the bacon but left to feed his dog before anyone could complain.

Nat opened up the newspaper. Different sections went to different people until Bucky got stuck with the entertainment section. Fun, considering that he doesn’t even recognise half the names. He’d have to pretend to be interested until the next rotation.

He watches the orange juice levitate in front of him from the corner of his eye and just assumes that Wanda’s getting a refill even though she could have just asked him to pass it. He smells the next batch of bacon burning and figures that Clint is back.

Sam’s beside him, annoying him about how long it takes for him to read about which new celebrity relationship just ended and Bucky retaliates by reading even slower. Fuck you.

He’s on his second stack of pancakes absolutely drenched in maple syrup when the doors to the elevator open and Marie steps out, laptop in her hand.

An instant chorus of hello’s and invitations to have some charred bacon resound through the table. She politely declines them with a small smile, instead opening her laptop and placing it in front of Bucky without further ado.

He looks at her questioningly, slowly swallowing whatever was in his mouth.

“An email for you.” She tuts her head towards it. “It has a video attachment of your friend.”

Bucky has plans to not watch the video in front of everyone, given that the content could range anywhere from you reading out fanfiction about him to a deep-fake of him singing a Whitney Houston song.

Both of which you have done before and would do again, without any hesitation.

“Aren’t you gonna watch it?” Wanda asks from across the table.

He slowly shakes his head no, cutting his stack into smaller pieces.

“If what’s in it is real, it’s important,” Marie stresses.

“What’s in it?” he inquires instead, hoping that the team would stop staring at him. If Marie was implying strongly that he needed to watch then something was wrong.

“Just watch it, man.” Sam’s statement has everyone agreeing with him. Bucky can’t refuse now, and if the team makes fun of him for the next month about how he looks good belting Greatest Love of All, he’s going to personally assassinate you.

He clicks on the email, noticing it came from a throwaway address. Probably untraceable, if the cards are played right.

The video opens to grainy footage, which is stupid considering modern technological advancements. If this is one more of your stupid LARPing sessions, it could definitely wait till after lunch.

But, he instantly recognises your silhouette strapped to a chair and suddenly the room feels very cold around him. His hand automatically clutches onto a bead from the bracelet you gave him that still remained tied to his left arm more often than not.

“Speak,” someone commands off camera.

“About what?” You sound annoyed, exasperated even.

“Why you’re here.”

“I’m here because you have unaddressed feelings of childhood insecurity.”

“I warned you to take this seriously.”

Bucky’s eyes widen slightly but his body relaxes the minute he reads the situation.

The team’s crowded around him, he can feel it. His attention remains on the screen in front of him.

“Who even are you sending this to?” You don’t sound the least bit threatened. “My roommate’s not at home but my cat is and I don’t think she’d care.”

”You’ve made a complete joke out of villains everywhere. Fraternising with the enemies, the Avengers,” he spits the name with so much vitriol. “You’ve erased what it’s like to be truly evil. Turned us into a laughing stock.”

“If it takes one person to undermine your whole movement then maybe it wasn’t strong enough to begin with.” You look at someone outside the lens, face scrunching in distaste. “Also your costume’s ugly.”

“F.R.I.D.A.Y., can you trace this voice?” Bucky asks, receiving an immediate confirmation. “Figure out who it is.”

“On it.”

“Tell them. Tell them we are a serious threat and are to be feared.”

"No,” you say resolutely. “You’re an overgrown manchild. Go watch Teletubbies or something.”

“She does not give a shit,” Clint marvels at the situation, a piece of half eaten burnt toast between his fingers.

You didn’t. And if he knew you in the slightest, which he prided himself on at this point, you already had six different ways of getting out of there.

“She knows she’s going to be fine,” Bucky murmurs, returning back to take a bite of his pancakes. “She’s probably still there just to irritate him.”

He zeroes in on your wrist to see if the teleportation watch was still there but no, your wrists are bare. Guess you forgot.

“You have to.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s how a real villain does it.”

“A real villain- what are you, gatekeeping the villain community?” You scoff. “You sound like a fuckin’ incel.”

“Just send them a message,” the guy bellows, hitting a table.

“She’s going to frustrate them to death.” An accurate observation, Sam.

“Okay, jeez, fine.”

Bucky just knows that you rolled your eyes at that moment.

He had faith in you, or in your abilities at the very least. While every wisecrack could possibly inch you closer towards harm, you probably wouldn’t be making them unless you felt completely secure in your situation.

“Help, I’m totally kidnapped and in danger. Save me because I can’t do it myself. This man is too powerful and strong and sooo scary.”

“Do you think she has a strategy?”

“Definitely.”

“You’re not worried, James?” Wanda asks curiously. “I thought she was your friend.”

“She is my friend.” He reaches over to take the jug of orange from across the table. “That’s why I’m not worried.”

“Are you going to fight the Avengers?” you interrupt his endless tirade. “Because that’s a stupid plan. You get how that’s a stupid plan, right?”

“Let them come. I’m prepared.”

“With what? A stick you found outside? A Nerf gun? Man, you’ve tied my hands with fuckin’ zip ties, you can’t be serious-”

“Shut up,” he roared and the stand shakes slightly from where he stamps his feet. “Our army is enough.”

“Wow,” you exhale. “I wish I had your confidence, I really do. I want to study you under a microscope.”

“I have reinforcements.” It sounds like he turns to the camera to address it directly. “This is a warning. Your friends have an hour to find you or things are gonna turn ugly. This is what real evil looks like.”

“Evil dresses in a dollar store Speedo, apparently.” The man pays you no heed, instead picking up the camera. “Hey, sarge, if you’re watching this, don’t bother. I’m fine, it’s not even the real me-”

The camera cuts to black.

“When was this video sent?” Nat looks at Marie, eyebrows drawn together.

“About ten minutes ago.”

Bucky clicks out of the email, determined to get at least half his breakfast in him before he left to see what’s up with your situation. A notification pops up immediately.

[email protected] just sent you an email.

A video attachment.

“We got another one,” Bucky informs the team, drawing their attention back to the screen from the informal conversation that had erupted between them about what they could do.

This time, there’s a subject line included.

Attack on the Clone.

"Ain’t that a Star Wars movie?" he asks, craning his neck to look at Clint.

"That's Attack of the Clones," Sam corrects. "Probably autocorrect."

Bucky narrowed his eyes in suspicion at him, jaw sliding outward before falling back into place. Enough times had Sam called him Fucky in the group chat and gotten away with it for him not to be wary.

“Or a code,” Wanda suggests, too many crime thrillers read and podcasts listened in her spare time. She occasionally brought them over to Self Care Saturday, introducing him to the world of true crime as a bit of light content while they snacked on chocolate chip cookies he baked. “Like the Zodiac.”

“For what?” Bucky peers over at her.

“All I remember from that movie is them rolling around a field together,” Clint mutters. “Maybe that’s how you’re supposed to save her.”

“I’m not saving anyone. Look at her, she’s fine.” Is he the only one who saw it?

When he’s met with skeptical looks and no other useful suggestions, he presses play on the video.

This time it's clearer footage. It hardly takes him a second to ascertain where it was.

"That's her lair." It showed the pathway leading up to the flat concrete building, exactly where the intercom should be.

There was a black Sedan parked haphazardly outside, engine still on judging by the sound of the radio blasting an AC/DC song.

Within a few seconds, someone drags you from the entrance of the lair to the car, despite your very clear protests and opposition, shoving you inside before it takes off in full speed, tires screeching.

"F.R.I.D.A.Y., track the car from that video. Check all the CCTV and surveillance footage from around the area that you can find," Bucky commands, taking a sip of orange juice.

"Why would they send us that?" Clint pipes up. "They make their email untraceable but send us a video of the fuckin' abduction itself?"

"I don't know." Bucky shakes his head, setting his glass down. "She probably convinced them to."

It was an unusual scenario, he realised that. But his eyebrows lower in contemplation, his lip caged between his lip before a thought suddenly occurs to him. A laugh in disbelief almost escapes his throat ad he pushes it down with some freshly cut strawberries.

"And they listened?"

"I don't think you realise how annoying she can be." He knows, though. He knows. "Bet they regret it, though. I should tell them to keep her for a little longer."

"Voice recognition registers voice to someone named Chad, better known by his alias Soul Crusher. Surveillance footage places the car about thirty minutes away. Exact location sent to your phone GPS."

Soul Crusher. That was worse than Dr. Strange.

"I can make that fifteen." Bucky shrugs, setting down his fork and knife. If his hunch is right, the team didn’t really have to get involved. “See you guys later.”

“Do you want any of us coming with you?” Wanda gestures to the crowd at hand.

“I got it.” He pushes away from the table, depositing his plate in the sink, dropping an extra piece of bacon on the ground for Clint’s dog. “She’ll be alright.”

They watch him trail out of the room briskly, heading up to his room to change.

“Is it just me or is he too casual about this?” Clint continues staring long after he leaves.

“Both of them are weirdos.” Nat pulls open the newspaper again, going back to the sport’s section. “Who knows what goes in their heads.”

“Can confirm that not a lot goes on in his.”

Without Bucky to retaliate or grumble, a Steve walking into the room, sweaty and shiny after training becomes the new subject of jokes that morning.

For the first time in months, he’s had to bring a weapon or two along with him. Two revolvers and a couple of knives kept out of plain view. He wouldn’t need more than that anyway.

True to his word, it takes only fifteen minutes to get there, thirteen if he didn’t stop for the chain of ducks that crossed the street.

He’s also dressed in a little more leather than he usually reserves for your meetings. A jacket that brings to act as a windbreaker and tightly laced up combat boots make him look like he either stepped off a runway, or more menacing than usual depending on who was looking.

The GPS points him to an old warehouse near a more subdued part of the city. It was abandoned by the looks of it, and had been for a while judging by the lack of upkeep. Prime real estate.

He pulls off his helmet, hanging it on the handlebar along with his backpack before kicking the stand into place. The bike’s a few metres away just in case they decide to blow something up.

Bucky looks up at the warehouse, assessing the most damage he could do to it if at all it was needed. That thing could barely stand on its own, a grenade would absolutely decimate it. That wasn’t good news for you.

He sighs once before putting on his death glare, straightening out his shoulders into a stature that screams stone-cold, and pushes the door open, gun raised.

A mini-army of people ranging from their early twenties to late thirties stood guard at the entrance, all with rifles pointed at him. He counts fifteen, maybe eighteen.

“Oh, hell no,” a voice erupts from the back, followed by the sound of his gun being thrown to the ground. “No one told me that he was coming.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow, his death glare not shifting and Glock not lowering.

“I’m out.” The same guy raises his hands up to show he meant no harm, slowly brushing past Bucky as he squeezed out of the building.

“You got five seconds to leave before I shut this door,” Bucky gives the rest of them an ultimatum. Not like there was a point anyway. SHIELD was sending down some people to account for the one day rise in new morons.

They all looked at each other, swallowing thickly before raising their weapons.

“I hope he’s giving you good insurance.” The second he finishes his sentence they all cry out in what sounds like a fucking war chant, launching themselves at him.

______

“They’re here.” Someone presses his ear to the door as if the gunshots and screaming weren’t enough.

“Brilliant. We’re ready.” Chad picks up the knife, running his finger along the sharp end. You try to see if you can use your Twitter-ordained powers of manifestation for a paper cut.

“How much are you asking them for?” You put forth a query instead, when it disappointingly doesn’t work.

“Asking who for what?” Chad stops his dumb intimidation tactic for a second.

“You know,” you insist like it was obvious, “my ransom. How much did you ask them to pay?”

“We didn’t-” He looks around at the other people in the room for confirmation. “-we didn’t ask for any.”

“Because I’m invaluable?” Your head droops to the side in mock flattery. “Aw, you guys.”

“We didn’t think of it,” someone from the corner behind you speaks up, coming to the aid of their boss.

“Now that’s just rude.” You tut, shifting maybe an inch or two in your bounds to try and get more comfortable. “Leaving aside your lack of preparation, let’s just assume he bursts in here, desperate and ready to bargain. How much would you ask for?”

“Three million,” Chad says confidently, gathering a nod and sounds of agreement from everyone else.

“Are you serious?” Your jaw drops, a scoff escaping you. “That’s all?”

His self-assurance falters a little bit, you can see it under his 5 Minutes Craft mask.

“Three mill-” You stop mid-sentence. “With this wiring? Ridiculous. Make it ten, I demand it.”

“We’ll ask for fifteen mil,” Chad proposes, his teammates agreeing again, a little more delighted than last time.

“Ask for thirty, you coward,” you argued. “Thirty million and a jet.”

“You’re not worth that much.” The dipshit diagonal to you pipes up with his unwanted and, frankly, useless opinion.

“And you are?” You whip around the best you can. “Henchman number four?”

“Megedagik,” he informs, standing up a little taller now that he was given some importance. “It means ‘killer of many’.”

“Did you just say your name was Mega Dick?”

“Megedagik,” he corrects.

You stare at him hard before turning away. “Alright, other than Mega Dick here, does anyo-”

A knife lands right next to your feet, driven at least an inch into the ground. You look up at the guy you managed to piss off within four sentences, his face now a beet red.

“These are brand new, asshole,” you barked, shaking your shoes around. “You’re gonna pay if there’s even a scratch on it.”

“Permission to kill her?” Meg growls, casting a side eye at Chad.

The boss man looks at you thoughtfully, assessing the repercussions of what might happen. You raise an eyebrow.

“Slow and painful,” he settles.

A small smirk makes its way onto your face.

“Title of your sex tape,” you quip as the man in the corner storms towards you.

_____

It’s all a flurry, really. A bunch of inexperienced newcomers versus one of the most skilled assassins the world had ever seen? Ten minutes tops.

Bucky doesn’t do any serious damage. A couple of broken bones but only out of necessity, a lot of concussions, and maybe a bullet wound, or three, here and there.

Most of the time he spends thinking about things that have absolutely nothing to do with what was going on. He forgot to take his laundry out of the machine. There was a biscotti recipe he had been procrastinating on trying. His succulents needed watering but he could do that once he was back. Was he wearing his good combat pants or was it the pair that had a hole in the pocket?

His left hand thrust outwards to shove someone away while he stuck his right hand into his pocket to check if it had frayed away. The person he pushed slams into a wall with a loud groan and no, his pants didn’t have a hole in them.

He stops to take a breather, assess what was going on. There are bodies scattered all around, mostly writhing in pain from minor injuries. Someone very bravely stands up, hands posed in front of him in a regular fighting stance.

“You sure about this?” Bucky asks, reaching for one of the concealed knives he hadn’t had a chance of using yet. It twirls rather nimbly between his fingers for something so dangerous, the hilt finally landing in his palm for a sturdy grip.

The man takes one look at the knife before sitting right back down on the ground.

“Good choice,” his voice drops to an octave lower than his self-esteem. He’s tired of this old routine but it works like a neat little party trick, often getting him the result he wanted. “Where?”

A few fingers point down the hall to the only room whose door was closed.

He makes sure to step over everyone who was lying along the way, ears tuned in to even the smallest of noises just in case one of them decided to attack him from the back. It doesn’t come.

He doesn’t bother creeping down the hallway. With all the ruckus that just went on outside, he’s pretty sure it’s obvious that they had an intruder.

Bucky kicks in the large steel door with ease, given that it was barely hanging on its hinges. His gun’s raised, muscles tight, and senses on high alert for any immediate threats.

It lands with a large thud, reverberating through the room. He’s reminded of your first meeting with him.

There’s a chair in the middle of the room with a person tied to it by a mixture of rope and tape. Others found themselves slithering around on the floor in a similar fashion, trying to get out of their bondages.

“Hey, James,” you call out, drawing his attention to you. You were sitting atop a table, legs swinging back and forth without a care in the world, a blade in your hand.

“You okay?” He tucks the gun into his waistband when he realises that none of the henchmen are going to be going anywhere soon.

“All good.” You hop off the table with a little spring in your step. “Did you bring your bike? I need a ride back to the lair. I think I left the TV on when I was, you know, getting kidnapped.”

“You coulda teleported back home before all of this even happened.” Bucky does a quick assessment of your body to make sure there weren’t any bruises or anything of the sort. “Avoided the whole thing.”

“Don’t have the watch with me.” Odd, since he knows you consider it one of your essentials but it just fuels his theory further. “Besides, if I just quit before we started, they’d keep messing with me over and over again.”

“Do you want me to punch someone’s face in?” He glances around the room at the ones wiggling about on the floor like fucking worms. “I’d be happy to.”

“Nah, I got a few in myself.” You rotate your wrist, other hand still holding onto the knife. “You know what, maybe I’ll have another go.”

He simply makes a noise in acknowledgement before he places a hand on the hem of your shirt, gently reeling you back. “I think you fixed ‘em up real good. That’s enough for today.”

“Fine but only ‘cause you said so.” You huff, looking past him and at the weirdos on the ground. “You hear that? This man just saved your life. Say ‘thank you’.”

A muffled chorus of what sounded like appreciation echoed through the room. Bucky awkwardly looks around.

“Damn right.” You walk over to the guy in charge of the whole event, bending down to his level. “If you ever try to fuck with us again...”

You stare straight into his eyes, unblinking. You hold up the knife to his Adam’s apple. Chad doesn’t dare to move other than the thick swallow.

You raise your finger and flick him in the forehead. “Get a better costume.”

The corner of Bucky’s lip quirks upward.

“Let’s go, sarge,” you announce, standing upright again and making a motion to follow you. “D’you have an extra helmet I could use?”

“Yeah.” He had brought one along in his bag, assuming that you’d need one once he noticed the watch was missing in the footage.

“Yay.”

The only storage space on his bike was under his seat and it’s just enough for an extra revolver. Clint asked him if it was his way of flirting with someone, give ‘em a quick spin around the city and then show them his gun. If looks could kill, Clint would be 7 feet under.

“You sure you wanna ride it, though?” He cringes immediately when he realises what it sounds like, waiting for you to smack the innuendo in his face. “We could wait for SHIELD.”

“Don’t really have another choice, Bucky,” you say absentmindedly, strolling out the room as you tossed the knife behind you.

He frowns at your indifference but turns around for a second to look at Chad. The man in question looks back viciously, his grandeur from that morning basically deflated and left to die along with his reputation.

“Might wanna reconsider the name,” Bucky remarks, doing a quick sweep of the area once more. “Soul Crusher.”

He waits until both of you are outside the cell and the door is shut on the ringleader and his circus clowns, handlebar twisted out of place so that they don’t escape for the time being.

“One second,” he calls, touch gently lingering on your forearm to stop you without even thinking twice about it. A famously uncharacteristic move for him.

"Hm?” You don’t even look like you notice his action.

“You sure you’re good?” he asks seriously, actual concern slipping through the question. “Do you need medical assistance?”

“They couldn’t hurt me anyway.” There’s something strange about the way you say it, almost assuredly. “I’m good.”

“Okay,” he concedes, his hand darting back when he realises it was still on your arm. His eyebrows furrow when he realises how instinctively he had reached out in the first place. He didn’t touch anyone, ever.

“What are we gonna do about them?” you inquire, stepping over someone on the floor to get to the exit.

“Marie told Agent Hill. They’re sending someone over.”

“They’re sending SHIELD for these wannabes?” Someone groans in protest from somewhere and you elect to ignore them. “Ew.”

“Just to make sure confidential information isn’t compromised in any way.” There’s a large bang that comes from the room they just left. Maybe one of them shot their teammate by accident. They were more than capable of doing it.

“I would never,” you exacted a little more solemnly, pushing the door open with your elbow to let the sunlight flood in.

“I know.” He doesn’t realise how dark it was in the warehouse until he steps out into the noon sun. “I’m pretty sure this is more about the fact that you were abducted.”

“For me?” The smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes the way he kinda likes. Something definitely felt off. “I love being class favourite.”

He doesn’t reply, a small grunt as he twists the handle of the warehouse door upwards, effectively jamming it.

“Can I drive?” You bat your eyelashes at him innocently, disregarding the loud screaming that came from inside as those less injured probably regrouped for a last ditch attempt.

“No,” he doesn’t hesitate in replying, handing you a helmet and buckling his own securely.

“But I just got kidnapped,” you complained, watching him swing a leg over the bike and straddle it. Okay then.

“All the more reason for you not to drive right now.” He mentions for you to get on, squinting at the warehouse a few feet away.

“Fine, but next time I’m driving,” you grumble, climbing on the back.

“Do you even know how to?” His head is tilted to look at you from the corner of his eye, voice heavier on account of the obstruction on his face.

The door starts shaking violently and he knows for a fact that it won’t hold up for much longer. Some of those who he had knocked out probably had been shaken awake again for manpower.

“I can learn.” You take a pause, mischief seeping into your next words. “You can teach me.”

“No.” He didn’t exactly practice what was considered safe, law abiding driving. He just got from one point to another and that’s all he cared about.

“Then I’ll do it myself.” You sound determined. “I’m going to leave a note for us in the lair.”

“You do that.” He revs the engine when something solid hits the metal door. As guessed, their usage of props to push it down faster was coming into play. “Now, can you hold on to something? We need to go.”

If only those idiots just realised that the windows covered by newspapers were right there, ready to be broken.

“Only if you promise to let me drive next time,” you say defiantly, drawing this whole ordeal out.

“Whatever,” he urges. “I promise. Now can we go?”

“Wait for it...” There’s a devilish smile on your face. “One.”

There’s a loud creak as the door finally gives way.

“Two.” The same people you left tied up in the room burst out, almost stumbling over each other in the process.

“Three,” he completes it on his own, not waiting for you to finish because God knows how long you’d stretch it out just for the drama.

Your excited screech of laughter as he narrowly misses a rod that gets thrown at him like a fucking javelin temporarily distracts him from the brain freeze he gets when your arms wind around his waist to hold yourself in place.

There’s angry screaming and bullets that whiz past in an attempt to get him to stop but a swift turn around a corner, pulling the both of you out of their sight is enough to get rid of them.

“We should get a few weapons and go back,” you yell over the wind rushing by, barely audible.

“You do that in your own free time,” he shouts in response, yanking you through narrower lanes and less popular streets.

“Maybe I will, you bore.”

Still, you shut up for the rest of the ride, only grumbling when he stops the bike to tell you that no, you cannot let go just because you want to throw your hands in the air like in the movies.

You hop off when he finally pulls up on the street outside your lair, adrenaline still pumping through your veins. He waits patiently as you unbuckle the helmet, switching off the engine.

“You gonna drop me off at my door too, now?” You snicker, fingers pulling off the helmet.

He looks at you for a second before dropping the kickstand into place and dismounting from the motorcycle.

“I was kidding.” You laugh, handing him your headgear that he shoves into his backpack.

“You’re pretty capable of gettin’ abducted along the way.” An absurd notion, considering it’s a short path from the road to the door.

“Oh, how chivalrous.” You let him tag along anyway, for his peace of mind.

“My ma didn’t expect any less.” A couple of sharp lessons from Winifred Barnes and Bucky was nothing short of a damn angel.

You knock on the door three times, crossing your arms over your chest as you waited.

“Aren’t you the one with the key?” Bucky questions, one hand on his waist.

The door swung open in the middle of his sentence revealing... you.

Another you.

“Nah, she has it.” Ex-Kidnapped-You raises your head in acknowledgement at Doorway-You.

“Ah.” He fucking knew it. An unnatural sense of smugness blossoms in his chest.

“Hey,” the both of you said at the same time.

Doorway-You looked way more relaxed, a little less grimy and dishevelled but exactly the same.

“Buck, I see you met my other half,” the you from the doorway greets him. “Or other whole, actually.”

“Sure did.” He sends a glance at Ex-Kidnapped-You.

“You can go on in. Big first day, huh?” Doorway-You refers to the you beside him.

“You wouldn’t believe,” Ex-Kidnaped-You mutters, pushing past the entrance and disappearing inside.

“She gonna be okay?” His gaze trails after your clone.

“Oh yeah, just needs to recharge.” You turn around to make sure she’s fine. “She’s made of some pretty strong carbon, technically almost indestructible.”

No wonder ‘you’ said they couldn’t hurt you.

“Heya, sarge.” You draw his attention back to you. “Always good to see you.”

“Can’t really say the same about you.”

“Ever the emotional repressor, Mr Barnes. I like this little leather show you got going, did ya wear it just for me?”

He shifts his balance to his other foot, feet slightly wide apart. “Take it that the clone machine finally worked?”

“I was in the middle of celebrating.” You sigh, recalling the events of that morning. “Teleported home for a second to get some champagne and when I came back she was gone.”

“Irresponsible.” He tsks, head shaking in disappointment.

“Sorry I didn’t take amateur kidnappers into account for my risk factor analysis, Bucky,” you shoot back, pressing on his name for added annoyance. “Anyway, I did the responsible thing. I sent all the evidence I had to you guys.”

“Real clever.” Bucky looks at you in dry amusement. “Attack on the clone? Really?”

“Hey, always make time for a good pun.” You finger gun, lopsided grin on your face. “Did the team like it?”

“They thought it was a typo.” Or a code. He really had Wanda to thank for his big revelation. “Your video didn’t help either.”

“Don’t tell me they couldn’t make out it was me.” You laugh, crossing your arms over your chest.

He doesn’t reply, pursing his lip inwards in sympathy, but more so to conceal a smile.

The happiness drops from your face slowly, horror taking its place. “Don’t tell me they couldn’t make out it was me.”

“Good job, your machine worked,” he adds helpfully.

“C’mon, there were so many differences,” you whine, the success of your endeavour the last thing on your mind.

“That is your literal clone,” he points out, only to see you- clone you- walk into the giant box in the corner of the room, bright green light emanating from it like a xerox machine.

“How could they not tell the original apart from a copy?” You look genuinely offended. Insane. “Not even Sam?”

“Guess you’re not unique enough.” A rise and fall of his shoulders signify his attitude towards this whole thing. “Think I like your copy better, too, actually.”

“You’re so mean.” You puff in disbelief. “I’m a 100% original. How many mad scientist teachers do you know?”

“Two.”

“I don’t mean now, that’s not even the-” You poke at his rock hard chest. “You are so much more annoying than when I first met you.”

He thinks it’s good relationship development.

“I have to deal with you every weekend.” He watches your finger drop from his chest. “Picked it up along the way.”

“Boo hoo, talking like you don’t have deep, deep feelings for me.” You roll your eyes. “I see right through you, Bucky Barnes.”

“Can you see the part that couldn’t give less of a shit?” He gestures to himself. “It’s all of it.”

“You think you’re such a comedian, huh?” You narrow your eyebrows. “How did you know she was a fake then, huh?”

Busted.

“Probably ‘cause you didn’t talk as much today,” he dodges. “Actually had some peace of mind for a change.”

“You knew before you got there, you liar.” You push past his fabrications. “You figured it out before everyone else.”

“You literally put it in the title.”

“Yeah, but the rest of the team saw it too.”

“Rest of the team didn’t know you were building a goddamn clone machine for months.”

“You remembered that?” You pulled away, palm over your heart. “Oh, sarge, you paid attention to me.”

His nose twitches.

“You said it, like, eight hundred times.” He could use both his hands to count the number of references you had offhandedly made in the last three weeks alone.

“Why'd you go save me when you knew it wasn't real?” you continue to challenge relentlessly, knowing fully well that he was fibbing.

“Because you fuckin’ peer pressured me. Had the whole team around me when you sent your little video during breakfast.”

“Just admit it,” you coo, ignoring all his justifications. “You noticed it was fake me right away but showed up anyway because you’re wildly in love with me.”

“No,” he says stiffly.

“No as in you won’t admit it you have a crush on me, or no as in you didn’t know it was fake me?”

There was no winning this.

“Good day to you.” He pulls the motorcycle helmet on to hide the expression that plain as day screamed the former of your two options.

“Also,” you bring up indignantly, “she even got to ride the fucking bike and I’ve been asking to drive it for months now!”

“We-” he chooses his words carefully. “-compromised.”

“Oh, you did?” Your voice lowers at the newfound information, interest piqued. “I’m gonna hold you to that then, whatever it is.”

“Doesn’t count.”

“Absolutely does,” you huff. “A promise is legally binding. Blue’s Clues taught me that.”

“Bye, Y/N.”

“You’re my knight in leathery armour,” you swoon, switching sides immediately, “Kinda.”

“See you next week,” he says in farewell, determined to leave before you made it worse. “Try not to get killed by then.”

“Why, so you can do it yourself? Protective much?” You pull him back when he starts walking away, laughing slightly. “Wait a second, you weirdo.”

He sighs, staying put anyway, arms crossed impatiently over his chest.

You pull out the pen tucked behind your ear and slowly tap him twice on each shoulder in a makeshift knighting ceremony. “For your sacrifice.”

He rolls his eyes at the ludicrousness, tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth.

You ignore his lack of enthusiasm, pressing your fingertips to your lips in a small kiss and then to his nose, given that it was the only part of his face you had access to.

“That was for your bravery.” You grin brightly at him and he sure as hell is glad he’s wearing the stupid helmet because he can feel his cheeks light up a bright crimson.

“Thanks.” His voice sounds gruffer than a second ago. He clears his throat.

“Now you’re my knight in leathery armour,” you fawn, nearly falling over yourself dramatically. “Let’s ride into the sunset together. I love you.”

“You’re ridiculous,” he calls out over his shoulder, turning away to return to his bike. “I despise you.”

“But you don’t.”

He really didn’t.

also i managed to fuck my phone up really bad so all proceeds from my ko-fi go towards getting it fixed

Next part

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #mcu fic #bucky fic #bucky barnes fic #bucky fluff #bucky barnes fluff #bucky angst #bucky barnes angst #harmless fic #winter soldier x reader #Winter Soldier #bucky barnes #bucky

922 notes · View notes

yellowocaballero · 3 years

Text

Human Relations Snippet: Tim teaches Jon the internet and odious goats are sacrificed to the cult of Bezos

There’s no reason for this to exist. I was rereading a bit of HR and I saw a throwaway joke about Jon wanting to buy Martin a Portal Gun. I started wondering about how that would even work. The answer is, obviously, a 200 year old man squinting at a computer screen wondering why there’s so many horny singles in his area. I get possessed by demons easily, so I took three hours out of writing my daemon au and wrote this instead. Bon Appetit.

(Edit, quick clarification: I think that Jon would refuse to use the name for the Beholding that Smirke made up, and although all of this exists in my head and you guys don’t know this, there was a lot of tension between Jon and Jonah’s ‘circle’. So Jon hated Smirke and thought he was a hack. He uses Smirke’s terms to others sometimes for ease of understanding or in deference to Jonah (:/) but I think that mentally he mainly calls the Beholding his own name, The Witness. It rings of that personal and intimate connection Jon and the Beholding has. Anyway, onto the story.)

After one hour in anguished uncertainty, fifty popups that advised Jon of very many ‘hot singles in his area’, six separate sites that Jon’s God had to inform him were covers for thieves that stole money from you, and a very confusing retreat to Jon’s favorite internet page ‘Wikipedia’ as to what an Amazon was, Jon had given up.

Normally this was where he asked one of his personal assistants for help. Normally, he wouldn’t even be trying, and he would have just told one of them to do it. This was how Jon had cunningly mostly avoided using computers for the past twenty years. Some endeavors were unavoidable, and Jon was proud to say that he mastered email in 2010. Or was it 2008? He liked to think it was 2006, but it was possible...never mind. If it was important, the Witness would tell him.

Peter Lukas was right on almost nothing, Jon thought disgruntledly as he slammed his laptop shut - including in his taste of men, company, philosophies, men, patron deities, professions, and men - but he was right in his proclamation that the internet was the degradation of society. Not that he hadn’t sacrificed his morality and sold out, feeding his patron through something called “incel forums” and “Reddit”. Between him, Jonah’s “Excel spreadsheets” and “TurboTax”, and Annabelle Cane’s ridiculous “MMO guilds”, the Society was filling with computer geeks. Jon could always read the wind: he had to keep up, and quickly.

Besides, Martin had kindly educated him on how it was almost unheard of for a young man like Jon to not understand how to work that Goggle thing. Giggle? Martin was very streetwise and was one of the most insightful people Jon had ever known, he was definitely right.

Which is why he had to buy him this “Portal Gun” that he wanted. He had even shown Jon the website! And if Jon was in desperate times trying to navigate these confusing webpages entirely with URLs he memorized, then he would take desperate measures!

“I’m going down to the Archives,” Jon said, slithering off the couch and clutching his laptop to chest. Jonah had bought it for him. He appeared surprised that Jon was using it. “I may not be back for a while. I need...a book.”

Jonah didn’t look away from his own infernal machine. It seemed he was on that ‘Excel’ program again. Was it one of those ‘video games’ he kept hearing about? “Do I want to know what you were doing on that laptop.”

“Reading Wikipedia,” Jon said immediately, and somewhat defensively. Jon had discovered Wikipedia in 2001 before promptly funding it and throwing his weight behind its development. He had spent a solid five years convinced a computer was a kind of electronic screen that let you read digital Encyclopedia pages, like in Star Trek. He’d seen Star Trek. Georgie made him. “Did you know that -”

“Yes, yes, have fun. Haven’t you read that entire site already?”

“Not even,” Jon said defensively. “I can’t just sit and read through entire Encyclopedias anymore, Jonah. We know more things now.”

“What a way to describe the last two hundred years,” Jonah said, not even looking away from his computer. “We know more things. Never change, Jon.”

“You’re the one who never changes,” Jon grumbled. But it was a weak comeback, and considering his brand new delightfully short stature somewhat untrue, so Jon breezed out of Jonah’s office with full knowledge that he’d think of a better comeback halfway down the steps to the Archives.

In fact, it wasn’t until he was at the door, and by then he felt stupid for losing a point against Jonah anyway. He easily opened the door, stepping inside and quickly bee-lining for Sasha’s office. Her burgeoning powers were wonderfully flowing in the shape of access to and understanding of technology. He had never seen such gratuitous breeches of privacy as she casually committed. Every day Jon was validated in his decision to save her from the Stranger. A balance, an equal yet opposite Archivist from Jon, would be invaluable. Not that Jonah and Jon weren’t their own yin and yang, but Jonah’s powers were paltry and out-of-date. Mind reading and spying through iconography was so 1960. They needed fresh blood.

Sasha had been a wonderful choice, and Jon didn’t regret choosing her to act as saviour. Most of the time. Some of the time she -

“She’s not in.”

Jon’s fist halted in front of the door, about to sharply rap on her office door. He turned around to actually look through the bullpen, only to see that Timothy was sitting in his chair chewing a sandwich. Somehow angrily. Definitely suspiciously.

“Are you sure?” Jon asked dubiously. “Because you’ve lied about this before.”

“Because you should stop coming down here and bothering her.” Timothy balled the saran wrap in his hand and dunked it in the trash can, somehow undoubtedly giving the impression that he wished it was Jon’s head. “Just bugger off.”

Someone was in a snit. Normally Timothy wasn’t this hostile. Jon had thought that learning his name might make him less mean, but it did little to help. But when Jon looked around he didn’t see Martin, and a quick check assured him that both Sasha and Martin were having lunch at their favorite deli and engaging in that plotting hobby they both enjoyed. Timothy had elected to stay behind, stewing in his own angry and paranoid juices.

He would have to do this with Martin out of the Archives...and he really wanted to take care of this now so Martin would get it before the weekend...and it wasn’t as if Jon was scared of this boy he was one hundred and seventy years older than…

“Uh,” Jon said intelligently, “can you help me with...something…”

Timothy’s face twisted in a novel combination of surprise and disgust. “What,” he sneered, “your evil fear god or whatever can’t figure it out for you?”

“I don’t need others to think for me,” Jon said stiffly. It was something he’d had to say far too many times. “The Witness is less helpful with...troubleshooting...look, do you know how to work a computer?”

Timothy stared at him blankly. “Like, at all?”

“I’m trying to buy Martin this toy he desires,” Jon said desperately. Fuck it all, he walked over and sat down in the chair next to Tim’s desk. He pulled a little bit closer, placing his laptop on Tim’s desk, and ignored the way the other man leaned away. “But whenever I try I keep on seeing alerts about hot singles. I’m not interested in young women, I just need to buy a ‘Portal Gun’. Do you know what a Portal Gun is?”

Timothy continued staring at him, eyebrows raised. Clearly involuntarily, so quick that he may not even have noticed, one corner of his lips was ticking upwards into a smile.

“How many credit card scams have you fallen for?”

“Absolutely none,” Jon said, very quickly. He pulled out his credit card, placing it on the table. He knew a credit card was involved, although he didn’t know how. “What do I do? Do I swipe it? Is there a port?” He picked up the laptop and squinted at its sides, looking for a port. “I wanted to ask Sasha for help, since she’s the expert in hacking, but surely you know the basics?”

“I mean...I can’t, like, code, but yeah, I can work Amazon.” Timothy carefully opened the laptop, watching the display light up. He effortlessly navigated to an icon on the screen, clicking it open.

“That’s not right,” Jon said urgently. “You’re supposed to press the E.”

“I do not want to know how many toolbars you have,” Timothy said bluntly. “We’re using Chrome. That’s another way to look at the Internet.” He rubbed his hands together. “Yeah, I got a grandmother, we can do this.”

Jon perked up. “So you’ll help?”

Went unsaid: even though you hate me?

“Whatever,” Timothy grumbled. Jon decided not to press his luck.

Jon decided that he liked the Chrome better than the Internet Explorer, because it was simpler and Google was on the first page. Tim rapidly typed on ‘Amazon.com’ into the search bar and easily scrolled through the very busy and picture filled page that immediately popped up. Why was everything so fast? Maybe this was why the young people had no attention span: these pages just came up immediately. No flipping for indices for finding anything in phone books.

“Right. What was it, a Portal Gun? Like from the game?”

“A board game?”

“Video game.”

“Like on a VHS…?”

“Right.” Tim pinched the bridge of his nose. “You know, Sasha said that you’re one of the most famous sociologists and anthropologists in British history.”

“I am extremely intelligent, Timothy, and I won’t abide any insinuation otherwise,” Jon said curtly. “I cannot be expected to keep constant track every time there’s another - iPhone or whatever. You have teenagers in your family, correct? Do you always know what they’re talking about? That’s, what, a twenty year age gap? Multiply that by ten.”

That shut him up. Timothy sighed again, much more aggressively, but he clicked the white bar and typed in ‘portal gun’ anyway. “Right. Not fucking apologizing, but right. I still don’t fucking know what ‘Twitch’ is.”

“It’s a brief spasmodic contraction of the muscle fibers,” Jon said helpfully. “Fascinatingly, this phenomenon was first observed in frog’s legs before I was even born in 1780, by Luigi Galvani. Erudite man, by the way, but he couldn’t hold his liquor. It was the birth of the study of bioelectricity, although the exact mechanism of muscle contraction eluded scientists for years.”

“Never mind.” Timothy sighed again, the perfect mix of aggravated and long-suffering. It seemed to be the man’s two favorite emotions. “My grandmother has a PhD and she still can’t figure out her cell, either. We had to get her a Jitterbug.”

Amazon, as Timothy explained, was a kind of shopping mall, except you could pick out what you wanted by its picture and have the shopping mall pack it up and send it to you. Jon didn’t quite understand why people preferred this to just going to a shop yourself, seeing as you could get it immediately instead of with a three or four day turnaround, but Tim explained that Amazon was cheaper, had a wider selection, and didn’t make you get off the couch.

“Oh,” Jon said, finally getting it, “this follows the economic model of large scale businesses underpricing their products to undercut smaller businesses in the area, driving them out of business until they hold monopoly over the market and can raise their prices without worrying about staying competitive.”

Timothy stared at him.

“I mean,” he said, “I guess?”

“This explains why my Alexa project was successful so quickly,” Jon mused. “With a lack of competition or alternatives, consumers are more likely to accept the dramatic invasions of privacy as normal. Normalizing intrusions into privacy took ages, but my early efforts paid off very well. The Ring doorbell was even better, along with the line of security and home protection systems. We’re now working on live streamed 24/7 surveillance to social media platforms.”

Timothy stared at him further.

Finally, he said, “Alexa was...you?”

“Of course,” Jon said, baffled. Who else would it be? “I gave Jeff the idea and convinced him it would be profitable. I didn’t understand the whole mechanics of it, but once I gave Jeff a vision from the Witness he was eager to implement the divinely inspired spyware.”

Timothy continued to stare.

“The evil fear god controls Jeff Bezos.”

“He thinks I’m a prophet, actually,” Jon said helpfully. “I let him become Cardinal of the imaginary cult in exchange for funding some of my more esoteric programs. Had him sacrifice a goat and everything, it was great.” At Timothy’s alarmed look, Jon was quick to elaborate, “It was the most evil goat you’ve met in your life. Morally odious.”

“...for my sanity I’m going to pretend that you said none of that.”

In retrospect, although Timothy had worked at the Institute for a few years, it did take quite a bit of time to acclimate to the fact that the Avatars permanently shaped the shape of human existence in order to better feed their gods. Jon knew better than anyone: when humanity made gods, and gods made man, and man made gods...the feedback loop could self-perpetuate for years. Eternity, if needed.

But they had no luck on ‘Amazon’. With Jon’s eidetic memory he was able to easily pick out the one that looked most similar to the one that Martin had showed him, but all of the little toy guns were for someone named ‘Rick’. Then Timothy took twenty laborious minutes explaining the entire plot of ‘Rick & Morty’ to him, which Jon patiently sat through.

“I think young people today deeply enjoy explaining media,” Jon said, once Timothy finished telling him the funny jokes. “I’m very interested in your interests, Timothy.”

“You are so fucking condescending. And please call me Tim, you’re sounding even more like my grandmother.” When Jon brightened, Tim - Tim! - quickly said, “This does not mean we are friends.”

Granted, Jon had never once in his life gave a shit about making friends, but he felt as if he should be making more of an effort with Tim. He was a sort of supernatural brother in law, wasn’t he? Although Sasha perhaps Sasha was more of a favored niece. At least, he would be, if today’s generation found some morality and stopped living in sin.

Good lord. Now he was sounding like Jonah. Georgie used to joke that he was born in the wrong generation - he should have been born a 17th century Puritan instead. Jon found it a very funny joke. Jonah did not.

“Are there any other shopping websites?” Jon asked finally, after Amazon failed them. He’d have to call up Jeff later and complain. “Or is this the only one?”

Tim sighed. “Let’s check Google.”

Quickly and efficiently, yet with many lightning fast detours, Tim found another site called ‘eBay’ - pronounced ‘e-Bay’, not ‘ehbay’ - that listed off exactly what they needed. They weren’t under the toy section, instead listed as something called ‘cosplay’, but Tim seemed highly resistant to explaining that one, so he dropped it.

They picked a likely looking white toy gun that looked the most similar to the one that Martin had liked and Tim talked Jon through punching in the numbers on his card into the website and sorting through the billing and shipping information. Tim helpfully took down the numbers on his card to file later.

“And...done!” Tim said, pressing a button and leaning back. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“It was ten times as complicated as I thought it would be,” Jon assured him, “but also much more fun. What else can you buy online?”

“Oh, god. What can’t you buy.”

Jon brightened. “Can you buy books?”

“Old Gertrude used to buy Leitners on eBay,” Tim said dully, “so yeah, sure, why not.”

Jon stared at his computer. He carefully navigated the mouse to the big red x and clicked out of the internet browser. “That’s enough of eBay, then, I think.”

Guess he would have to stick to buying Leitners in person. It was no good buying fucked up books from sketchy sources. Always stick to people you trusted, or at least trusted to be themselves. Mikaele was Jon’s favorite supplier since the kid Leitner disappeared, and they had a pleasant working relationship. Mikaele shared his grandfather’s stories about the history and culture of the Maori, and Jon told him which of his haunted artifacts would be the most helpful in the imminent apocalypse.

“Well,” Tim said finally, gently pushing Jon’s laptop away, “that was...something, great bonding session with my local supervillain, please run back to Elias and bother him instead.”

“You were very helpful, Mr. Stoker,” Jon said, as professionally yet paternally as possible. Tim was six years older than his body, so he’s not sure how it came off, but the touch of grey at his temples helped with the dignified air. “And as soon as you start acting like a man and propose to my Archivist, you’ll make an excellent brother in law -”

“Uh, excuse me?”

Jon spun around in his chair to see Sasha and Martin standing at the door, holding doggy bags and looking somewhat flummoxed. Probably confused at the sight of him and Tim having a civil conversation, which admittedly had never happened before. Possibly also confused at how completely mortified Tim looked.

“Who said anything about proposing?” Sasha asked incredulously. “Tim, are you -”

“No! No, god no!” Tim stood up quickly, holding his hands out as if he was placating a raging bull. “Nobody’s been saying anything - I would never do that to you -”

“Oh,” Sasha said frostily, crossing her arms and letting the bags swing, “would you.”

That was a domestic Jon should stay out of, even though he definitely caused it. He and Martin sidled away in tandem, huddling near the back of the Archives as Tim frantically pled for his life.

Sneakily, Jon glanced at Martin out of the corner of his eye. He looked happy. Happy, and just as stressed as he always looked - Jon had never known Martin when he wasn’t constantly stressed out, and he was more than aware that it was his fault.

He looked good, too. Really nice, broad jawline that gave his face a friendly round shape. Just friendly and round in general, it was really handsome. His hair was as nicely short and ruffles as ever. The big glasses were super stylish, and really framed his face well. Really big, broad hands. Jon, who had always been so poky and tall and thin and gaunt, like some kind of haunted scarecrow that lurked through the corners of time, was envious. He wanted some of that softness and gentleness. Really, he wanted some of Martin’s -

“So what were you and Tim doing?” Martin asked. “I didn’t know you knew he existed.”

“You told me his name,” Jon said anxiously. “I don’t forget the things you tell me, you know.”

Martin smiled shyly and him, and Jon found himself smiling back. “It’s pretty good for my ego to hear that I have something to teach the immortal genius.”

“I don’t know,” Jon said, as Sasha yelled in the background, “I’ve been learning a lot lately.”

“Really?” Martin teased. “Anything interesting?”

“Oh,” Jon said, watching the yellow fluorescent light cast Martin’s dim smile in soft relief, “I can think of a few things.”

#my writing #jonathan sims #tim stoker #archivist!sasha #martin blackwood #sasha james #mild homosexual activity and massive old man activity inbound #tma #the magnus archives #tma fanfic #the magnus archives fanfic #im posting this at an awkward time so prep for a lot of self rbs

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snakeboistan · 4 years

Text

Love Is Beauty, Love Is Pure

Pairing: 3-E x Nagisa (platonically)

Nagisa’s chopsticks fell to the ground when his hand went limp in shock, his half-eaten piece of sushi rolling on the grass song with them, grains of rice scattering about as the seaweed unrolled. The boy himself was completely unaware that he had dropped his beloved lunchtime snack as he was too focused on not dying - what with the fact that he was choking on his bite of sashimi and rice. Everyone around him was looking over in shock and immediately began trying to help him: Maehara began banging his spine with his clenched fist as hard as possible, Sugino riffled through his schoolbag to procure a plastic bottle of water, and Okajima desperately asked him if he wanted him to do the Heimlich Maneuver (“Okajima, you don’t even know the Heimlich Maneuver,” Kataoka deadpanned). Once it was clear that he was done coughing, Sugino, who was gently caressing his back, offered him the uncapped water bottle. Blushing darkly at the scrutinising looks of concern from his classmates, he wordlessly took the bottle and took small sips of it, ducking his head so that his bangs obstructed his vision of everyone.

It started out normally enough: the students of Class 3-E were gathered around the steps on the side of the building, sitting either on them or on the grass, as they spent their lunch break digging into their bento boxes while sharing stories and laughter. Somehow, they were recounting their weekends and Sugino pitched in how he and Nagisa had met up and went to the park together and somehow ran into Seo Tomoya, Araki Teppei and Sakakibara Ren of Class A’s Five Virtuosos later on in the day.

“Oh god, not those a-holes,” Maehara groaned in sympathy.

Isogai winced, “they didn’t give you guys any trouble did they?”

“They better not have,” Karma narrowed his eyes and punched his palm, “I swear if they did anything…”

“What?! No no,” Nagisa held his hands out palms-forward and shook them in a placating gesture, “it’s fine really. They barely even touched us.”

Karma just hummed and continued sipping from his milk box.

“They were acting like complete douches though,” Sugino said, frowning, “you know the usual stuff: about how they were better than us and how us E-Class kids are worthless and they were going to crush us and humiliate us - all that jazz.”

“Jerks,” Okano muttered in disdain as she angrily used her chopsticks to pierce through her tamagoyaki - most probably pretending that she was stabbing a main campus student in the chest.

“So same old, same old, huh?” Kimura laughed with a sad smile.

“But that’s not all,” Sugino stated, “Araki began targeting Nagisa.”

“WHAT!” Fuwa yelled.

“What did he do?” Karma scowled darkly, crushing his now finished milk carton in a hand.

“I swear Nagisa,” Fuwa looked at him with a passionate gaze as burning as a hundred blazing suns, “if those A Class neanderthals did anything I will avenge you.”

“You really don’t need to do that,” Nagisa said quickly.

“I’M GONNA ANYWAY!”

“What did he say?” Maehara asked.

Nagisa looked down and murmured, “just made some comments about my looks. Nothing I haven’t heard before.”

“Yeah and Ren was flirting with him which was weird,” Sugino scrunched his nose up in disgust, “he was all like “you know, if you were a girl - I wouldn’t mind helping you out.””

“Ugh, seriously,” Kataoka rolled her eyes, “as if any girl would want his help, anyway.”

“Yeah,” Nakamura nodded, “I don’t know about the main campus trash but I have standards.”

“Like what?” Karma asked innocently, “Tom Hiddleston?”

“Wh-How did you-” Nakamura turned red, “God. Shut Up!”

Sugino’s mouth started to curl upwards, “But you see Nagisa’s got more maturity in one hand than those three could ever dream of so he just stays quiet. So then Seo goes “come on Shiota, not going to say anything? Are you E-Class nobodies so dumb that you don’t even know how to speak correctly?” And Nagisa just smiles and says “well, no one plans a murder out loud” and walked right past him without looking back. Man, you should’ve seen the looks on their faces - I had to resist bursting out laughing then and there.”

Everyone just erupted into laughter and Nagisa was bombarded with words of praise as people gathered around him.

“Well done, Nagisa!” Okano punched him in the arm with a wink.

“Yeah, that’s Nagisa for you,” Yoshida smirked with crossed arms, “he may look cute and sweet but he sure knows how to shut someone up.”

“Serves them right,” Kurahashi nodded.

Nakamura grinned, “yeah, at least now they know not to mess with us.”

Maehara ruffled his hair and hooked an arm around the bluenette’s shoulders, “Super proud of you, dude. Like seriously, Nagisa, that’s why we love you.”

And that’s how Nagisa found himself choking on his handmade salmon sushi infront of his classmates.

“Umm, Nagisa?” Sugino asked, his eyebrows furrowed in worry as he continued his ministrations on his best friend’s back, “what was that about? Are you alright?”

“Oh no-nothing,” Nagisa replied softly, his voice shaking, “I’m fine re-really. Just-just give me a second.”

“You are okay,” Isogai’s eyes raked his body in perturbation, “right Nagisa?”

“Yeah, it’s-it’s just what Maehara said that shocked me, is all. No one - no one’s ever said that to me like that,” Nagisa could feel his already red face get even hotter at his quiet admission.

Complete uncomfortable silence filled the area as everyone digested that information.

“What?” Kurahashi gasped, “no one’s ever told you that they love you.”

“Wha- no. I mean, my parents have told me that before but it’s just not as easily as Maehara did and well he said it so unprompted that it caught me off guard.”

And that’s the truth. His father isn’t around to tell him that he loves him and when he does, it’s always just a brief throwaway line, like it’s an afterthought to remind himself that Nagisa is his son and that’s what he’s supposed to say. He still remembers how around five years ago, he stood by the front door as his dad was about to leave, the hell-hole Nagisa called home being far too much for him. The older man only looked back to say “I love you but I can’t handle your mother anymore” and walked away without another word. Yeah, his father’s version of love was abandonment. His mother only says it when he’s down. She pets his hair and kisses his cheek with a sweet smile and purrs out “you know I’m only doing this because I love you, sweetheart”, “do you really think anyone else would love and care for you the way I do”, “You see, honey, you know I’m right - oh I love you so much”. For Maehara to just come out and say that all on his own and so happily and care-free just made no sense. Knowing how to read people is the one thing he’s good at yet Maehara’s body language is as illegible as the doctor’s note he got back in Elementary School - his words just didn’t match his actions and Nagisa was so confused.

Mimura raised an eyebrow, “You shouldn’t be prompted to say I love you to your child.”

Nagisa just shrugged and then had his breath knocked out of him when Yada came barreling forward and crushed his torso in a tight embrace, “Wha-”

“We love you, Nagisa,” Yada, tears streaming down her face, “we all love you so much.”

At Nagisa’s look of pure shock and confusion she just hugged him tighter.

No one’s ever said that to me like that

‘No one,’ Yada thought, ‘should ever look so shocked to hear that they’re loved.’

She was immediately joined by Kurahashi and Okano and Maehara and Kayano and Fuwa and somehow Nagisa found himself in the middle of a hugging pile made up of the majority of his classmates.

“It’s true,” Kurahashi beamed, although her eyes were gleaming with sadness, “we all really really love you.”

“How could we not?” Maehara asked, “you’re a pretty hard person to dislike.”

“You’re more than just a classmate to us, Nagisa,” Okano smiled, “you’re like a brother.”

“I-I am?” Nagisa said softly.

“YES!”

“Of course you are,” Kataoka nodded firmly.

“You didn’t know,” Sugino looked guilty, “surely - surely you must have known something.”

“Yeah, Nagisa,” Nakamura smiled fondly, “you’re our blueberry cinnamon roll. You think you’re not part of our weirdly dysfunctional family. Please, you’re already on the Christmas card.”

“Yeah,” Karma smirked, though he squirmed uncomfortably, “what they said.”

“I-I love you guys, too,” Nagisa gave all of them a small smile, wiping his eyes and feeling embarrassed when he finds wetness around them, “you guys are the brothers and sisters I’ve always wanted.”

To be honest, he supposes that in his head he always knew that the relationship he had with his classmates was something he could never pinpoint and even know having the truth displayed out in front of him still felt like a dream. He never understood what true love is, but sitting here, packed inside this mess of his friends like a sardine in a tin, he supposes that that warm feeling that was being emitted from his classmates that promised him comfort and protection and everything else he craved but never asked for, well, it must be something pretty close to that.

36 notes · View notes

douchebagbrainwaves · 3 years

Text

ORGANIC STARTUP INVESTING TRENDS

Not only did we have to memorize state capitals instead of playing dodgeball? Several of the most important problems in their field.1 Another approach would be to let that opportunity slip. We were supposed to read novels and write essays about them. Stuff used to be valuable, and now it's not. For the average user, is far fewer bugs. They make such great stuff. There is always a big time lag in prestige. And jeans turn out not to want. They're going to walk up to the software, listening closely to the users as you do. With server-based software is never going to be something you write, yes. And later stage investors?

Many of the students who now major in English would major in writing if they could, and most founders of successful ones do. I think will be an orderly way for people to quit. Partly because they can afford. It's the concluding remarks to the jury. A typical desktop software company that had over 100 people working in it. A better way to describe this situation is to say that a hacker about to write a prototype that solves a subset of the problem. A programmer can leave the office and typing into vt100s. Even if you're designing something for idiots, the odds are that you're not designing something good, even for idiots. Buildings to be constructed from stone were tested on a smaller scale. It was written by two different people. We found that you don't have to work for a long time and could only travel vicariously. Relentlessness wins because, in the very phrase software company.

By the end of the continuum are languages like Ada and Pascal, models of propriety that are good for teaching and not much else. So instead of copying the Facebook, with some variation that the Facebook rightly ignored, look for problems and imagine the company that might solve them. It's a rare startup that doesn't build something the founders use. Then it struck me: this is the right model for collaboration in software too. Some people are lucky enough to know what they want either. So anything we could do to get more people through the test drive. But more than half the households in the US. They weren't tempted by the minor perquisites of power. In fact the dangers of deciding what programmers are allowed to want. And then at the other makers.

A programming language does need a good implementation, of course, but when they do get paged at 4:00 AM, they don't use sentences any more complex than they do when talking about what to have for lunch. A programming language is good as a programming language.2 Is software a counterexample? How did she get into this fix? Most users probably don't. The only external test is time. In the summer of 2005, most of the advantages of being able to do the unpleasant jobs.

When I say that design must be for users, I don't mean to disparage Yahoo. And people don't learn Python because it will get them a job; they learn it because they can't help it.3 You don't know yet. And they are also different lengths, meaning that the arguments won't line up when they're called, as car and cdr often are, in theory, explaining yourself to someone else instead of being pasted onto it like a pilot scanning the instrument panel, not like a detective trying to unravel some mystery. I want to go straight there, blustering through obstacles, and hand-waving your way across swampy ground. This article describes the surprising things we saw, as some of the work they do. For example, the good china so many households have, and Jessica does too, mostly, because she's gotten into sync with us. If you want people to read, and only incidentally for machines to execute.

There's a lot to like I've done a few things, like programmers and writers. The other reason Apple should care what programmers think of them, we either try to remove it, or shift the startup sideways. If you raised five million and ran out of ideas. Which makes them exactly the kind of problems that have to be Web-based software gives you unprecedented information about their behavior. Search for a few months. You don't have to watch the servers every minute after the first year or so, but you can write the first version of a tree that in the past has had false starts branching off all over it. It wasn't that they were just good enough. What's going on here? VCs miss good startups all the time? And you don't want to.

What's going on here? And programmers build applications for the platforms they use. I was told I shouldn't mention founders of YC-funded companies in this list. No one, VC or angel, has invested in more of the world's great programmers are born outside the US. Fixing a bug in your code corrupts some data on disk, you have to remember to do something. The classic startup is fast and informal, with few people and little money.4 You should be able to look at it. Platform is a vague word.

Programming languages are not theorems. It's a rare startup that doesn't build something the founders use.5 If you administer the servers, it will work anywhere the Web works. For the first week or so we intended to make this point diplomatically, but in effect I had two workdays each day, one on the maker's: office hours. With Web-based application will be a collection of utilities for generating reports, and only evolved into a programming language to have, say, $2 million, they generally expect to offer a significant amount of help along with the money; the only question is how much on what terms.6 There's always something coming on the next hour working on something, they want to do now. The more people you have, the more stuff they seem to have worked alone. It works a lot better for a small team of good, trusted programmers than it would for a big company, they were exceptional. But the fact is, almost anyone would rather, at any given moment, float about in the Carribbean, or have sex, or eat, or even to use the shift key much. Leonardo painted the portrait of Ginevra de Benci in the National Gallery, he put a juniper bush behind her head. Another thing you want in a throwaway program itself. She came to the startup world, things change so rapidly that you can't make yourself care.

Notes

99,—. At the seed stage our valuation was in a deal led by a big VC firm or they see of piracy is simply what they are so different from money raised in an era of such regulations is to get the rankings they want to avoid companies that seem excusable according to certain somewhat depressing rules many of the next one will be interesting to 10,000 people or so and we ran into Muzzammil Zaveri, and how unbelievably annoying it is to hand off the task to companies via internship programs. No one writing a dictionary to pick your brains.

The existence of people, how little autonomy one would have gotten away with dropping Java in the computer, the best ways to avoid collisions in.

Joe thinks one of his peers will get funding, pretty much regardless of how hard it is to imagine that there were no strong central governments. This is one of few they had no government powerful enough to absorb that.

More precisely, the group of picky friends who proofread almost everything I say in principle 100,000 or a blog that tried to unload it on buyer after buyer. The Wouldbegoods. More precisely, the average reader that they kill you, you can't dictate the problem and approached it with superficial decorations.

What makes most suburbs so demoralizing is that they've already decided what they're really saying is they want both. I'm not saying you should push back on industrialization at the valuation should be easy to believe your whole future depends on the grounds that a their applicants come from meditating in an equity round.

Words this way would be vulnerable both to attack and abuse.

Thanks to Steve Huffman, Trevor Blackwell, Harj Taggar, Erann Gat, and Geoff Ralston for their feedback on these thoughts.

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bbk-writes · 5 years

Text

Notes: approximately 3k words of Alec turning 30, and Magnus giving him an absolutely bonkers gift because hey, the love of his life conquering an entire decade deserves nothing less.

When Alec turned twenty-six, Magnus had taken him to Amsterdam for a weekend of debauchery that took Alec all of the subsequent week to recover from. Every time Magnus had thought that maybe he should pull the plug on it, another round of tequila shots appeared out of nowhere and Alec would take immense pleasure in pressing a wet, decadent kiss to Magnus’ wrist before dashing it with salt. The way Magnus’ blood lit on fire each time had been animalistic. Being married to Alec hadn’t lessened how much Magnus wanted to do terrible things to him, but being pressed together by a crush of tourists and locals under the pulsing lights – it was something else. Alec had been something else when they’d finally stumbled back to their hotel room. Magnus almost can’t believe those two days even happened, the whole thing seemingly from a particularly lush, depraved fantasy someone pulled from Magnus’ mind and made into reality.

But that was when Alec was twenty-six. When they were newly settling into Alicante, settling into their new jobs, and consciously settling into this shared life with each other.

At thirty, things are very, very different.

Taking care of two young children is the kind of responsibility that doesn’t allow for impromptu getaways. The two of them still have numerous much-needed date nights, but Alec’s birthday isn’t one of them: all birthdays are family events. The look on Alec’s face when he has waffles brought to bed by a solemn Rafael and a cheerful Max toddling beside him is a gift to Magnus in ways he can’t quite articulate. Seeing Alec draw them close, press kisses tenderly to their temples. Catching Magnus’ gaze over the top of the boys’ heads, mouthing, thank you, for something that Magnus never needs gratitude from Alec for, not when it’s his due.

Presents were next, followed by a portal to New York for lunch with the Lightwoods (though they’d call it breakfast), and then back in Alicante with ample time before dinner so the boys could take naps. In that stillness that can only happen with both the kids passed out, Alec pulls Magnus close under the warm afternoon sun and kisses him with slow, deliberate intent.

It’s not just the two of them again until past ten in the evening.

Raf wants a very specific story tonight in his mother tongue, and Magnus curls up beside him and reads until Raf’s sound asleep. By the time Magnus gently extricates himself from Raf’s bony limbs and makes his way to their bedroom, Alec has already showered and changed into his sleep clothes. He’s settled comfortably on the bed – scrolling through his phone with his back against the headboard, bare feet crossed at the ankles – and looks up when he hears Magnus open the door.

The sight of him in their bed, bathed in warm golden light, is such a comfort that Magnus feels the rigid hold he’s held around his exhaustion abruptly vanish. It’s how it’s supposed to be in a sanctuary, when to the depths of his bones Magnus knows it’s safe to be this way.

“Hey,” Alec greets, putting aside his phone. The way Alec’s body relaxes, moves just so as though to create a welcoming space for Magnus – well. Magnus doesn’t hesitate to take what’s being offered, crawling over their duvet and collapsing against his side.

“You got the easy one today,” Magnus complains into Alec’s shoulder.

“Magnus, Max is never the easy one.”

“That’s what I was banking on, but clearly tonight’s the exception that proves the rule.”

Alec takes Magnus’ hands between his own and starts to slowly twist the rings off.

“Raf was grumpy tonight?” he asks, and Magnus looks away from the strangely mesmerizing sight of Alec’s fingers at work to focus on his question.

“Not exactly..."

It would be easy to play it off as that and grumble out some more playful complaints, but there’s something terribly sweet about Raf that makes it impossible for Magnus to tease him the way he can tease Max without blinking an eye. That Magnus sees Raf, at five, as a little person is part of it, a person who has had a hard life in the blink of time he’s been on this Earth. That he’s also quiet and gentle and wide-eyed with this fragile trust he has with them is another.

Magnus sighs as Alec takes off the last of the rings, depositing them on the bedside table. He then moves on to unclasp Magnus’ watch.

“No,” he says at last. “No, he wasn’t grumpy. He’s just – he just had a hard time falling asleep and didn’t want to be alone.”

“D’you think one of us should stay with him? Camp out on the floor for the night?”

“No, no, I don’t think that’s necessary. I think he was a little overwhelmed after all the rushing around today. New York and keeping up with the constant barrage of attention from his aunts and uncles and grandma left him a bit wired, maybe. Reading together helped – he seemed fine by the time he fell asleep.”

“Well, of course,” says Alec, matter-of-fact. “How better to feel safe and settled than with his papa, the most powerful man in Alicante?”

“Oh, stop.”

This must be the millionth time Alec’s said something like this, but that doesn’t stop Magnus from being hit with a swell of fondness each time. A tiny reminder of the kind of man Magnus joined his life with: sweet, a little playful, never pulling short with his affection and Magnus doesn’t know if he’s the most powerful person in Alicante, but he’s definitely the most blessed.

Magnus shakes himself out of it. He really is becoming a sentimental old man if a throwaway joke from Alec is all he needs to get like this. But it’s Alec’s birthday, and Magnus has spent all day and every day that preceded unable to think of anything else but this: I love you he thinks, and says it by pressing a kiss to the corner of Alec’s mouth.

“I still haven’t given you your birthday present,” Magnus murmurs, fingers curling into Alec’s hair.

“You can give it to me right now,” says Alec, and it takes just one look at his grinning face for Magnus to understand what he’s talking about.

“I mean your other birthday present. One that isn’t just my body. Which you have access to everyday, might I remind you–”

“Shouldn’t you be happy that I’m so – what’s the term–”

“Goal-oriented?” suggests Magnus, and laughs when Alec gives him a flat look.

“I was going to say, low maintenance.”;

“Maybe sometimes I want to maintain you more,” says Magnus without really thinking about it, even though there’s nothing about that sentence that makes sense and yet Alec seems to understand exactly what Magnus had meant to say. That little bit of mischief in Alec’s eyes soften into something else entirely. It’s a look that still has Magnus want to look away sometimes, the weight of that tenderness almost too much to bear.

They say that you never get used to sunsets no matter how many thousands you see. It must be the same when it comes to Alexander: not his handsomeness, exactly, but how the secrets of his uncommonly loving heart are so clearly etched in the lines of his lovely, beloved face.

“You’re sweet,” says Alec. “And whatever this gift is, you know I’m gonna love it.”

“And just so there aren’t any misunderstandings,” clarifies Magnus, “I’m also planning on performing extremely depraved acts on your body tonight.”

“Oh, good.”

Glancing at his watch Magnus mutters, “If only your parabatai would just get himself over here–”

Thathas Alec immediately pulling back.

“Uh,” he says, giving Magnus a suspicious glance. “Why exactly would Jace be coming here at eleven at night?”

“Because your present is outside the apartment,” says Magnus. “And we can’t just leave the kids here unsupervised.”

“Is that the real reason why he portaled to Alicante with us?”

“Yes,” says Magnus, and just then the wards let him know that Jace entered the building. “Oh, perfect, he’s here. You don’t have to change, but put on some shoes and a sweater, will you?”

Magnus presses one more kiss to Alec’s mouth and swings off the bed, suddenly full of anticipatory energy. In the grand scheme of things it doesn’t matter when exactly he shows this to Alec, and yet it’s of the utmost importance for Magnus to have it be today.

Alec bewilderedly follows his instructions, looking back and forth between Magnus and, somewhat longingly, the rumpled, golden sheets of their bed. For a man who’s ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice, Alexander has never managed to shake off the indulgence of staying in bed whenever he has the opportunity to.

“I’m ready,” says Alec. His hair’s rumpled and he’s got his bomber jacket on, which means he looks devastatingly sexy even with his soft cotton pajama pants and terrible summer sandals. “What exactly should I be expecting?”

“Ah, it’ll be easier to show you.”

To Alec’s credit, he doesn’t seem apprehensive to have to step through a portal and into a forest in the middle of the night. Mostly he looks intrigued, his overall bemusement fading as his eyes become more alert, looking around curiously at the tightly packed trees. The moon is bright above them, and streams of light fall through the dense canopy of leaves.

“Where are we?” Alec asks. He starts to walk when Magnus takes his hand and gently tugs him forward, navigating through the thick branches.

“In Brocelind Forest, near the Swiss border. Maybe a mile or so from the Alps.”

“A mile,” repeats Alec. He keeps his voice soft as to not disturb the stillness around them. Magnus doesn’t have to see his face to know that he’s smiling. “When d’you think you’re going to start using kilometers like the rest of the country?”

“Am I really hearing this from a born and bred New Yorker?” Magnus whispers back.

“Excuse me, you know that I was born in–”

“Being a New Yorker isn’t about citizenship, Alexander. It’s about a certain mindset. An attitude, if you will. How you see the world and engage with it. And trust me when I say that you? Are a New Yorker.”

As he says this, Magnus pushes the last of the branches aside to step out of the dense forestry and Alec’s retort catches at the tip of his tongue as he sees what’s waiting on the other side.

There’s not a single gift Magnus has ever given Alec that hadn’t been received with gratitude and enthusiasm, no matter how extravagant or how subtle. And yet Magnus’ heart is fluttering like a hummingbird. This isn’t a typical gift. There’s a reason he wanted to show this to Alec privately, even though they can come back in the morning with the kids.

The grassy earth has given way to the rocky shores of a lake. The lake, under the shadow of the mountains, vast and dark and majestic. The still, endlessly deep water reflects the perfect full circle moon. The night sky is visible in all its glory now that they’ve cleared the forest, and each and every pinprick of a million, ten million stars is visible above, spilled carelessly and in abundance across the endless black.

Magnus has seen this exact view numerous times during the last year and still the sight never fails to weigh down on him, make his knees want to buckle. It’s immense, it’s beautiful.

It’s only right that it’s Alec’s.

“Wow,” is Alec’s short, succinct response. Magnus releases his breath, relieved. Alec looks dazed as he lets go of Magnus’ hand to step further toward the lake, turning in a slow circle to take it all in. “Magnus… this is incredible.”

“I’m glad you think so.”

Alec walks closer to the shoreline and carefully reaches down to pick up one of the smooth stones. He is still Alec, the most beloved person in Magnus’ universe, still in his gray pajama pants and a battered jacket – but kneeling at the edge of the water and glowing pale under the night’s light, Alec could be a spectre, the spirit guardian of the lake.

There are still traces of astonishment, of marvel, on Alec’s face when he starts back toward Magnus.

“Thank you for showing this to me.” Alec’s eyes are wide, bright with wonder and gratitude. The hazel of his irises only a thin ring around his blown pupil. Dilated as they try to soak in the faint traces of light. “I didn’t know there was a place like this in Brocelind Forest. It’s not in any of the maps.”

“Yes,” says Magnus. “It wouldn’t be.”

“How’d you find it?”

Magnus uncharacteristically finds himself playing with his wedding band as Alec often does, the only ring Alec hadn’t carefully eased off his fingers earlier.

“I didn’t,” he says. “I made it.”

Alec’s expression gently slides into one of puzzlement. “What d’you mean?”

“It’s not every day the love of my life clears a decade.”

Alec’s close enough now for Magnus to smooth away the wrinkle between Alec’s brows with his thumb. His other hand comes to rest above Alexander’s chest.

“You know that feeling you had when you stepped out here, like you couldn’t believe something so stunning could exist?” Alec doesn’t look away from Magnus as he slowly nods in response to Magnus’ question. “And there was a pressure on your chest, right here,” says Magnus, tapping his hand above Alec’s heart. “Because seeing the universe unfold above you is too big. Makes you feel too small, like you’ll be crushed under the weight of it. Makes you think, what am I when faced with the reality of this?”

“Yes,” Alec’s response is so quiet Magnus barely catches a wisp of it, despite them standing only inches apart. There’s something changing in the lines of Alec’s face – the slow dawn of understanding, right at the cusp of midnight. “Magnus–”

“That’s how I feel every time I look at you,” murmurs Magnus. “And that’s how every person who stands at the shore of Alexander Lake will feel when they look out over the water, or look up toward the sky.”

Alec looks disbelieving. He still doesn’t look away from Magnus.

“I cleared the grounds with my magic. I dug the basin into the earth, I carved the path which flows the water in from the Rhine.” Magnus takes Alec’s face in his hands. “I know every inch of this land, Alexander. I had to, to make it perfect for you.”

And Alec kisses him.

Alec kisses him with the kind of force and desire that almost knocks Magnus off his feet. A kiss that burns through him, serves as just one more of countless instances that Alec’s left him breathless with the profound, undeniable reality of his unparalleled heart and how he thrusts it into Magnus’ hands repeatedly, without hesitation. A kiss that makes it easy to understand why Magnus would go ahead and do something that would have them change all the textbooks, the maps, the composition of the country, that had the natural history museum send to Magnus a draft write-up for review: Alexander Lake is not part of the natural formation of Idris. It was created over the course of three years by Magnus Lightwood-Bane, the first and current High Warlock of Alicante, as a gift for his husband, Alexander Lightwood-Bane. The lake was finished in the year 2022 and meticulous efforts were taken by Lightwood-Bane, the City of Alicante, and the inhabitants of Brocelind Forest to ensure the preservation of the surrounding ecosystems...

Magnus pulls Alec toward the treeline, the ground turning into grass and soil instead of unyielding rock. Alec’s hands grip Magnus’ shoulders the whole time. Every sound out of Alec is swallowed up eagerly, greedily by Magnus’ mouth. Magnus hits the trunk of a tree but he barely notices how the rough bark digs into his back – all he can perceive is Alexander, the press of his lips, the lines of his body against Magnus’ own.

“I love you,” says Alec against Magnus’ mouth, his chin, his neck. Down Magnus’ chest. “By God, Magnus – I love you.”

There is something raw, untethered in the manner in which the two of them become one, their bodies burning hot even amidst the cool autumn night air. Gripping the cold grass in his hands, the prickle of fallen leaves against his feet, the hardened earth beneath them. These words Alec presses into every inch of Magnus’ skin – the truth of them is woven into the fabric of Magnus’ universe. It’s what makes Alec the sun, leaving behind every other star light years in the dust: his devotion to Magnus burns so bright that there’s no room for any doubts.

He is a permanent part of Magnus, seared into Magnus’ very soul. And now Alexander will be a permanent part of the world as well. It will outlast Alec’s fragile, radiant mortal life. It will outlast even Magnus, which is only fitting. For as long as the Rhine flows and the earth spins, love for Alexander will exist.

End notes: This was originally going to be the kick-off for a larger split-POV story re: the immortality/mortality debacle.

The working title for this fic was: Crossroads.

The working summary was: Alec turns thirty, Magnus turns maudlin, and the two of them have a long awaited conversation about their future.

#short-fic #shadowhunters #crossroads

256 notes · View notes

purrpickle · 4 years

Text

Random Pezberry Thought of the Day #353

A/N: This is another long @thedeadflag and me headcanon waterfall/exercise/ramble (at least on my part). It’s full of FEELS and I think worth sharing.

(And if you STILL haven’t read thedeadflag’s stuff, do it! Do it now! Here’s a handy dandy link: thedeadflag’s AO3. You won’t be disappointed. She’s amazing!)

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purrpickle sent a post Person A an...

otp-imagines-cult:

Person A and Person B break up. One day, months after this, Person A goes out and sees person B wearing an article of clothing A got them on the last birthday they spent together.

This made my heart hurt. ...And then I immediately thought of you. What does that say about our headcanoning/discussions? XD But seriously! This hurts, and makes my fic mind spin.

thedeadflag

Being more than a little tactile and always complaining about needing someone warm under her, Rachel gets Santana a big super comfy and warm scarf (one that could double as a blanket in a pinch) that she agonized and spent weeks researching, knowing Santana was picky about her clothes (not to mention Rachel being super unsure regarding her fashion sense when it comes to Santana, because of their history around that particular topic, even despite Santana's reassurances since shortly before getting together that Rachel no longer dressed herself like the wet fantasy of a creepy Japanese business man with a very specific fetish). They spend the last part of Santana's birthday with that scarf splayed around them, among other blankets, and it more or less becomes something Santana wears when she's cold and missing Rachel, a turn of events that just completely makes Rachel's heart sing at the sentimentality (she pens a song about it that Santana wishes wasn't hideously disastrous, but she indulges Rachel regardless whenever the diva wants to sing it to her so long as it's in private).

Flash forward two years later, about a year after they've parted ways, and Rachel's reading a tabloid on Saturday between her matinee and night-time performances on stage when she spots an article full of pap photos of celebs in New York after a major cold front rolled through the city in the winter. Her heart climbs up her throat at the sight of Santana. Santana, freshly broken up with some up-and-coming singer in a rock band, not that she paid an aching level of attention to her ex girlfriend, ex-best friend, and current distant friend who always seems to be busy, and who is only ever really available for brief FaceTime or Skype calls.

Santana, who is walking through Central Park in the photo, on the same path they'd spent much of their first date on. Santana, who is weARING HER SCARF

purrpickle

And god, nausea just pushes up her throat - the kind like her throat's strangling and her stomach's rolling because of the sheer visceral reaction to seeing something incredibly life rocking - and she has to pour over the picture, convince herself that it IS the same scarf, not just a similar one, and she sits back, suddenly numb, limbs heavy. It had to have been deliberate, didn't it? Their first date, THEIR scarf... Rachel scrubs her hand over her face, truly confused, a mixture of old, buried bewilderment of how things had gone so wrong and hurt and awareness and something she'd long thought had unkindled out of her - a spark of yearning, what-ifs pounding through her head, racing, her hands trembling a little as she pulls her warmed mug of coffee, previously too hot to touch but now her fingers didn't care - it felt good and the slight plain anchored her - close.

Staring at Santana's face, scrutinizing her neutral expression for ANYTHING, but getting no answers, she's only snapped out of her fog by her first alarm, alerting her she needed to start getting ready if she didn't want to be late for her habitual arrival an hour before she needed to be ready, and she decides, taking a deep, deep breath, forcing herself to close the magazine so it wouldn't blare out of her like a beacon each time she glanced in the table's direction, that she'll figure out how to feel later. And even if she had a decision to make in the first place.

*shares Katy Perry’s song Save as Draft*

thedeadflag

:O i know that song! And it definitely fits that AU and now I'm riding a wave of angst

purrpickle

You're welcome.

It's the lines: I still have the same phone number and we've both grown but I don't know (paraphrasing, of course) that really get to me and that AU.

thedeadflag

absolutely. Like, the fact that so much has changed, but that same line of communication remains as when you were together...makes it all that much easier to remember back, to succumb to the urge to reconnect, to feet the same waves of emotions you felt when things broke off, etc.

purrpickle

Also, like, Rachel doesn't want to make the attempt to reach out, rekindle things... And have Santana practically laugh in her face. That's the worst feeling of all.

So her number's the same, always has been, so if Santana really wanted to reach out, like that photo suggests, why didn't she?

thedeadflag

mmhmm

Meanwhile, it's so similar with Santana. She's been just mowing through women since Rachel, and none of them hold a candle to the diva. And she just keeps trying, desperate to find someone who could make her feel like Rachel did, but there's just been heartache after heartache. But she's scared to reach out after their final big fight when things ended. Even though she knows with 99% certainty that one of Rachel's throwaway remarks about her being heartless was just a heat of the moment, slightly alcohol fueled remark from the diva, she can't help but call into question whether Rachel really thought that was true the whole time, whether Rachel hadn't really felt or believed her love for her. And Rachel's seemed so happy lately, so upbeat, and she's been miserable, and reaching out only to have those fears confirmed would be devastating.

purrpickle

My heartttttttt.

And, like, maybe that day Santana had been walking that stretch of Central Park INDULGING that heart ache, having only just happened to brush her hand across that scarf she can't ever put away, even if a relationship gets semi-serious (before breaking almost immediately). She'd stared at it, hands helplessly feeling how soft and warm it was, Santana's eyes sliding towards her bedroom window to see how cold and blustery it looked outside. And maybe she'd wrapped it around her neck, heart skipping a beat as she smelled the faintest hint of what Rachel had always smelled like, and maybe, the scarf so noticeable around her neck, she'd, for the first time in years since traveling that path almost religiously for months after they'd broken up, just HOPING that she'd run into Rachel and they could have... maybe... worked things out..., taken the turn after meeting for lunch with her assistant. She'd tried to school her face impassible, tightening the scarf around her as the wind blew, almost laughing bitterly at herself for forgetting her gloves again, shoving her hands deep into her pockets as she remembered how Rachel used to chide her about that, taking Santana's hands in hers or pulling Santana's hand into her own coat pocket, gloved hand squeezing her tightly.

thedeadflag

*gif of Emma Stone crying and eating ice cream*

purrpickle

She hadn't even noticed the paparazzi that day, trying desperately not to show what it felt like to know the bench where she and Rachel had had their first kiss at was coming up.

thedeadflag

Yep, definitely too deep in her "conceal" mode and her memories to realize anyone was following/watching her, for sure. Just thinking with every stinging heartbeat that this was a mistake, this was a mistake, this was a mistake. Because Rachel wasn't there, and the weather outside couldn't begin to compete with the bitter chill of loneliness and longing her walk down memory lane brought her

And for the rest of the week, she's haunted by the songs Rachel would softly sing when they'd get in from the cold and make their way up to the loft. And it's like whiplash, all those happy, loving memories with the renewed doubts that any of it was as real as she thought it was, as she felt it was back then.

purrpickle

Her footsteps had started to slow as she approached the bench... But with a sharp shake of her head she'd sped up and left it behind, telling herself she was stronger than she had been after the breakup when she'd sit at the bench and cry behind a magazine, hoping against hope that Rachel's warm, smaller body would settle down next to her, arms sliding around her and pulling her head to her chest.

It probably doesn't help that Rachel had been in a high profile, supposedly very serious and romantic, happy relationship for almost two years about a year after their breakup, with rumors that he was going to propose any time now until they had suddenly broken up. Santana didn't like to listen to rumors, knowing her own got out of hand, but it had still hurt. Because she'd been thinking about a wedding in the future - had ALWAYS been thinking a wedding was in the future once their relationship had settled and grown and became real, more REAL than any other relationship Santana had had. And the grapevine had said it was Rachel's boyfriend who had broken up with her, so it probably meant that Rachel had been ready and capable, definitely capable, of moving on. Sure, Rachel wasn't dating anyone currently, only casually here and there, and it had been a while since that serious relationship, but Santana couldn't help worrying that... That she wasn't needed. That Rachel had completely released her from her mind.

thedeadflag

i'm dying here !!! Ugh, the feels

purrpickle

Really, this is a LOT of feels. It's so gooood while it hurts, too. XD

(You know, I was thinking, and it's okay if your addition contradicts this, I just wanted to get it down, but: what if Rachel was actually the one who broke up with her boyfriend and let him say he was the one who did? Because she was happy, but she wasn't AS happy as she knew she could have been. And maybe he DID actually propose, but she turned him down, and that's what led to their breakup.)

(She's never told anyone.)

(Not even her closest friends. The only person she DID almost tell, who she WANTED to tell, was Santana. But she didn't.)

(It hurt too much. And they were over, weren't they?)

(She didn't tell anyone because she didn't want to admit who it was she still thought of. Too vulnerable. Too easy to hurt.)

thedeadflag

that's actually pretty much what I was going to add on, that Rachel was the one that couldn't go through with a bigger relationship commitment after Santana, because it never felt right, felt like enough. But she'd feel guilty enough to let the guy save face and say he dumped her. And she'd struggle with the urge to run to Santana to vent about the whole situation, because it was simply too much for her to handle reasonably well on her own, but she couldn't. Not when Santana had been the benchmark she'd measured him against, not when she and Santana were long since over with, not when they'd lost that best friends-style emotional intimacy long ago after their break-up. Even if Santana was the only one she would feel comfortable telling in theory, she couldn't, not when it was already super uncomfortable and exhausting and distressing to confront that she still thought of Santana. Not with all the distance carved between them since they'd split. Distance they pretended wasn't there, but was clear to anyone who cared to look.

purrpickle

What if... What if this is the first time other than directly succeeding their break up that they're both single at the same time again? Not even truly casually dating anyone.

thedeadflag

I could definitely see that

purrpickle

Like, absolutely single. Not talking single for two weeks or whatever or already forward towards the next relationship.

((("Did you truly think I was heartless?" Silence. Then, deep inhale. "No, Santana. I've always known you feel... Care too much.")))

Ohh, what if they start communicating through paparazzi pics? First Santana wearing that scarf in that part of Central Park, then Rachel fishes out one of Santana's shirts Rachel had found mixed into her things after the breakup and never given back.

thedeadflag

And they're both anxious messes, entirely on edge between pictures, trying to figure out if this is happening or if it's just coincidence, or if their foolish hope is blinding them to other messages at play.

But then Rachel decides to be brave and lures the paps to Central Park, getting them to take a picture of her sitting on their bench, with a vegan ice cream cone in her hand. They hadn't had ice cream on their first date, or their fifth. It was later, on one of their routine walks in the park, after getting ice cream in the dead of winter for reasons that baffled Santana, that they'd found their way to the bench. And she'd been midway through licking her cone when Santana had leaned up against her, all taut and breathless, confessing she loved Rachel.

And so there Santana is, years later, just staring through tears at the photo of Rachel in the park, cone in hand, head tilted towards where she'd been way back then. And maybe it wasn't a rekindling of the flames they once had, but it was...finally, for goddamn once...a clear sign that Rachel missed her. That she hadn't just been a stepping stone, an afterthought, a warm body. That Rachel really had seen her, known her.

purrpickle

*gif of crying anime girl*

I think Santana loses some of her nerve, finally deciding that she's going to reach out - because it's definitely in her court now, after that pic - to Rachel through text. She writes everything out, hundreds of times, erasing and rewriting and erasing again. Finally, exhausted mentally and physically, she settles on, "Do you have time for coffee?"

thedeadflag

Was gonna respond in a bit to this when I had more time but YES

Santana being all "aaaaaaAAAAAAAAAA fuck my life whatever I'll just...fuck it, let's just see if she wants coffee" *send* Marches away and paces for fifteen minutes to work off her anxiousness

And she's just so exhausted, and worn down, and every minute that passes feels like an eternity, and brings a wealth of new doubts and second-guessing,

But then her phone buzzes

Rachel had been sitting on her bed when Santana's text rolled in. She'd done a double take, hoping she wasn't dreaming, and then left the room for a moment to come back just to confirm that fact. Santana wanted coffee. And not coffee-coffee-wink-wink-nudge-nudge like some use it as shorthand for a more explicit invitation, because Santana was not the sort to beat around the bush when it came to that... but coffee. Coffee.

And Rachel's mind immediately jumped to Stumptown, and Ground Central, and Third Rail, and Intelligentsia, all their old coffee hangouts across Manhattan, and the Bushwick favorites like Hearts, or Brooklyn Whiskers, and Mixtape Bushwick. All places with histories, but old histories. And as much as she yearned for Santana, and loved so much of their time together, she knew she'd grown as a person since they'd split, and that Santana almost assuredly had too, so she needed a new home away from home where they could feel each other out. A new place, a new tradition. A new them.

It took her twelve minutes to scour google for a place with good reviews that seemed to have the aesthetic that could fit them, and before she could overthink, she sent a name off. Abraço

And then quickly followed it up with an explanation and a flurry of potential times and dates she was available, because of course Santana wouldn't understand what the word meant on its own

purrpickle

I think Rachel's also struck at how it's worded. It's completely up to Rachel, how she'll respond. Rachel might have expected some demanding or direct request, but the Santana she had gotten to know... It did make sense. And it also spoke a lot to her because Santana was respecting her time.

And Santana, having frowned down at the random word when she'd snatched it up almost before it was done vibrating, felt so much relief like heat pool through her body, almost making her limbs numb. But as she read over the times and dates, Santana felt her heart sink, along with her smile. She was busy. Each day. She'd forgotten that she was headed for LA that Monday, for two weeks, as well as not figured that, it being currently a Wednesday, Rachel would be busy with her shows through that week and weekend.

Santana's shoulders dropped, her eyes burning. She hoped that this wasn't a sign. And the fact that Rachel had responded at ALL was a positive. But Santana didn't WANT to send back what could be construed as backpedaling, or having changed her mind. But it was true she just... Couldn't make it. Still, fingers trembling as she typed out something she hoped wouldn't stop everything, her heart pained, she sent it, and hoped it would be okay.

“God, I'm sorry. I totally forgot I'm going to be in LA for two weeks starting Monday. This isn't an excuse not to meet. I'm sorry. Maybe after I come back?”

(My thought being they could start texting slowly again, getting to know each other again before coming face to face. And they're adults, with busy lives, and, I think, it almost makes it mean more if it doesn't go smoothly.)

thedeadflag

!!! absolutely!

purrpickle

It also goes to show how impulsive and exhausted Santana was, completely forgetting that.

thedeadflag

I could definitely see it happen. Sometimes in her excitement/determination, she can get impulsive and not think things completely through

purrpickle

Okay, delete the second I'm sorry in the text. I was thinking I'd forgotten to put one in. And that way, when Rachel gets the first text, she DOES feel let down, but then Santana can quickly send another text with another I'm sorry in it. (Or is that too cliche? XD)

thedeadflag

Nah, they're awkward messes. They've already fumbled their way through communicating via pap pictures. What's a little fumbling through texting?

purrpickle

OH GOD. Though I'm not done exploring this adorable awkward mess of Rachel dealing with the high and abrupt low - while Santana's in LA, all the magazines and tabloids are talking about are her romantic lunch and dinner dates (with her producer or something), no matter where Rachel looks. Like, she and Santana are communicating, and she knows not to trust tabloids, but Santana looks so HAPPY in the pictures, with the smile on her face that always made Rachel's heart pound.

Like, it's not a big thing between them, but it does stick in the back of Rachel's mind.

I was thinking earlier that both women make a concrete decision to not rush things - or, let's be real, even discuss what's happening with each other because both are terrified the other isn't after trying again - and just hang out as friends for a long time. Sure, there's awkward moments and in drawn breaths when they accidentally brush against each other, but they just get coffee together, then more coffee, then maybe lunch or brunch, then Santana inviting Rachel round to watch some sort of television show together or something. They try very hard to rebuild up the friendship they lost.

And there are missteps. From both.

thedeadflag

Oh for sure. They've been so out of sync for so long that they're going to bring some friction, and fumble around. And some old habits will resurface that are (or at least feel) a bit too intimate for that stage in the relationship, and that'll throw them off their games, and have them retreating, and yeah. I definitely think that's likely

purrpickle

Oh yes. Definitely. Good point. It kinda stops them cold when they realize what's happening. And yeah, they retreat. It's them, after all.

It's like, is all this awkwardness, hyper focus of NOT to do the wrong thing, even worth it?

Somehow, Rachel and Santana manage to get coffee and talk and spend together for about two months before people start to catch on, or take pictures of it. Immediately, the tabloids clamor about "Old flames igniting" and "Rachel had never given up on Santana" and "Santana turning to Rachel to repair her scandalous reputation", etc. etc.

It's not long before Quinn is calling up Santana, not wanting her old friend to be hurt again, while Tina and Mercedes show up on Rachel's doorstep, demanding a girls' night out/in - and Rachel, who had had plans to see Santana that evening has to cancel them, awkwardly starting, like, "Tina and Mercedes are in town..." and "Yeah, I get it," Santana answers, "Tell Wheezy and Chang One I's talk to them later." Both don't get too good of a night's sleep.

thedeadflag

And maybe they manage to sneak off to a coffee shop late the next morning, all bleary eyed and grumbly, and proceed to pass out against each other in a shared booth seat. They wouldn't mean, to, of course. It's the one place that has someone deliver coffee too their tables, but it takes longer than they expect (or, than Rachel expects, given Santana knows how complex Rachel's order always is) and they're both just so tired from being up all night thinking about how to navigate the situation with their friends when it'd been hard enough to navigate on their own without the interventions and interrogations.

purrpickle

It's Santana who wakes up first when the barista comes over, and she groans, nodding at the guy to just leave the coffees. She shifts a little, heart squeezing as Rachel's head rubs against her shoulder, the other woman protesting at getting moved, and Santana lightly nudges her shoulder. Her heart is beating hard, her brain telling her not to move her, to take the opportunity to feel her against her again, and breathe in the scent that had always been RACHEL... And her fingers hover over Rachel's cheek, aching to smooth her bangs from her eyes. They've gotten close again, but... Not close enough for that. And they - still - hadn't really talked about where they heading.

Exhaling, her eyes averting as they threaten to water, Santana nudges Rachel's shoulder again, harder. "Coffee's here," she shrugs casually when Rachel sits up, blinking at her blearily. Rachel's scent and warmth is gone, and Santana takes a sip of her coffee to cover herself.

"Oh, thank you. I... Was I sleeping on you?" Rachel almost stutters, blushing. She can't believe herself.

(There was a song I was listening to [on repeat when I couldn't find the case to swap out the CD] on my drive back up that very much reminded me of this story. Let me see if I can find the relevant lyrics.)

(We used to be inseparable, I used to think that I was irreplaceable We lit the whole world up, before we blew it up, I still don't know just how we screwed it up)

-Selena Gomez, Love Will Remember

thedeadflag

this angst has me wishing lesbian life alert was a real thing because I think I'm gonna need it if this keeps escalating XD

purrpickle

At least in this 'verse they're rebuilding and getting each other back. :D

thedeadflag

this is true :P

purrpickle

(But honestly, it screams angsty Pezberry to me.)

Who breaks and moves in for a kiss first?

thedeadflag

I think Rachel. It's the slow build-up of past memories and feelings alongside all the fantasies and ideas and hopes her overactive imagination and inner passion drum up over the months of playing it cool and feeling each other out. Rachel does her best to keep composure, to play it safe with her heart, but she's absolutely not a "bend, don't break" girl, she's composed and strong and willful until she's suddenly not, and it's in one of those moments of weakness where she just straight up finds herself moving in for a kiss before she can catch herself. She's always wanted anything and everything in her life too damn much, and after so long just dancing around with Santana in this pseudo relationship, she just gets overcome by a rush of need, and...well, she wouldn't be Rachel Berry if she wasn't driven to excel in everything she does

at least, that's my take

purrpickle

And Santana registers what Rachel's doing as she's moving in, Rachel's hand tight in the sleeve of Santana's coat, and god, she's shocked still, lips parted as Rachel, hesitating only a second, own lips trembling, presses into her. It's not a long kiss, Santana's hands rising to cup Rachel's sides, Rachel already leaning back even as Santana gently puts more and more weight on her as if to push her; but then Santana wavers, and with a breathy, needy exhale, she's closing the distance, her own lips molding back over Rachel's. It's not an exceedingly passionate kiss, this one, just lips pressing against lips, hearts jumping and chests heaving with bodies prickling, but both women are slightly dizzy from the sheer RELEASE and CONSTRICTION it blossoms inside of them. Release, because it means both are on the same page, but also constriction from the sheer anxiety and fear inside each other that is this right? Even if they want this so much, should they TRULY try it?

(But Santana's not strong enough to pretend she doesn't want this.)

But they take it slow. Don't fall into bed. Don't even have a hot and heavy macking session. They just kiss once, twice, then pull back, staring at each other. Then they talk. They talk a LOT. Things waterfall out. And then Santana goes home for the night, maybe even the one to suggest it, that they should take the time and think and make sure that if they agree to actually try again, it's with time away and it's not the rush of just how amazing their physical connection has always been.

thedeadflag

Yep. Maybe if it was their first time entering into a relationship, they would have fallen into each other and their passion, but they're older, more cautious, with greater willpower. As much as Rachel might want to give in completely, she knows they have to get it right this time if they do it at all. And that means patience, time, and lots of talking. And while she's only comfortable with the last of those three things, Santana's worth the effort.

(and yeah, I can see Santana suggesting heading home...as much as Rachel is a fantastic planner, she's more reactive than cerebral in the moment, at least compared to Santana, not quite as quick at plotting out the smoothest, safest way to handle this new revelation after they've talked enough about it and what it means for them. Rachel would ask a lot of important and detailed questions, but Santana would be steering that particular ship and figuring out for the both of them when they need to call it a night)

purrpickle

Right. Santana wants to protect her heart - and part of her still can't help but want to protect Rachel's, too - and she knows when she needs to step away, to process, and especially knows when Rachel needs that too. She needs to know that when they meet up again the same feelings will be there - from BOTH of them. And she's scared. She's honest to god scared. Kissing Rachel scared her - because it was real, because it illustrated that the physical feelings are still there, and because Rachel hurt her before. She knows, logically, that they've been working towards this, that obviously they set out with the resuming of their relationship in mind, but if it's actually starting to happen... No one, aside from Brittany during high school and the time afterwards, has meant so much to Santana. And she doesn't want to squander this, knows her particular role to play in this, and NEEDS to see Rachel reach out and meet her. And part of that is slowing them, if just to feel like there truly IS a way she can control this, feel in control.

That the EMOTIONAL part of during the kiss was still there, too.

She's vulnerable, but what she's learned over the years they were apart and her trying to move on, is that they can't fall back together in their old love. They need to fall in love again, in their new lives.

thedeadflag

^^^ This is hitting me right in my fluffy angst feels

purrpickle

Me tooooo.

I thought it was very important, this part: they can't fall back together in their old love. They need to fall in love again, in their new lives. Because it's SO TRUE they could fall into the old trap of just picking up from where they were, bury themselves and hide in it. When what they really need to do is TRULY start over, MAKE new love and let it be them, not the echo of what it once was.

Basically, they can't live on the dying energy of a supernova. They need to live on the new world built from its stardust.

thedeadflag

Yep. They aren't who they used to be. They can't fall in love with the ghosts of who they were...they can appreciate the good times they shared back then, and the love they had for each other, but they're different people now. They need to completely explore each other's depths again, and and find out if they're compatible again, if they can fall in love with these new versions of each other. Just because they fell in love once, and were a good fit once, doesn't mean they would again. After all, they fell apart because they stopped being a good fit. Something changed, or at least something didn't fit where they thought it did, and that hurt more than anything. So they need to get it right. They need to be careful. They need to figure out if they really fit together instead of just hoping they will and ignoring the details, because neither of them want to get hurt again, or to hurt each other. They know they deserve love. It's whether or not each other is the right one to share it with is the question they need answering, and Santana's absolutely going to figure out if the people they built themselves into after the wreckage of their relationship are compatible pieces of their life's puzzle, or if they're just better off friends

purrpickle

Oh god my heart just died. And honestly, they're both so scared that they'll only fit as friends. Because the way they feel about each other, they can't see a future where just friends would be enough. And yeah, you should always be friends with your lover, but could they ever be friends if they weren't lovers? Would they be able to grow into that.

And honestly, I just saw a heartbreaking scene where Rachel's crying, sobbing, because she's so terrified Santana's going to say they won't fit, they won't work, and she's mature enough to realize that she shouldn't, wouldn't be able to MOLD herself into fitting together, or "changing" Santana to fit her inside herself either. Because if Santana says friends, that's it, and she'd abide by it, even as her heart's breaking. But she's crying, admitting to Santana that she wouldn't be happy, that she's terrified they won't/can't try again.

She's not trying to put Santana on the spot, but she can't help how she feels.

thedeadflag

She wouldn't be Rachel if she could

*help how she feels, that is. She's always been particularly vulnerable to her emotions pulling her all over the place. Again, she's always wanted things too much

purrpickle

I mean, that makes it sound like Santana's the gatekeeper for their relationship, but I kind of imagine, in this case, she is.

Rachel's not another rushed into high profile fling. But also, Santana does drag this on a bit too long. Maybe not entirely knowingly, but I can see Rachel finally pointing it out to Santana, quietly, forcibly stoically.

thedeadflag

and as much as she heard Rachel's words, as much as it all clicks together with perfect sense, it only lays her fears bare for all to see. She's always been cautious, calculating, and one of the few times she wasn't, she got her heart annihilated. She's terrified of that happening again. Even if everything points to them being a good fit, she second guesses herself, and though she realizes that a little late into their new attempt, she can't help it. She's scared. Because as much as she can see a vivid future together, she can still remember exactly how each one of the many breakdowns felt after she and Rachel fell apart the first time.

But it's a good thing, it's exactly the kind of kick in the ass she needs, because she's been patient, she's been cautious, she's been so focused on them and how they fit, and she just hasn't let herself put all the pieces of their mosaic together in her mind yet because she's been terrified they won't fit, not just because she knows it'd break Rachel's heart for them to not be able to be friends, knowing it wouldn't be enough for Rachel, and that it also wouldn't be enough for her after everything. Not with how she feels. But also because she's terrified that they will fit, but that she's missed something, like last time (because of course Santana blames herself, regardless), and that they'll end up repeating past mistakes.

But they're not the same people. Not anymore. And she goes over the differences between who they were when they started the first time with Rachel, and who they were when they ended. And the fact that Rachel isn't on-the-fly creating a powerpoint to visualize the differences as they brainstorm and reassess what they've learned over the past months...maybe it's a little absurd to focus on, but it's something that she uses to keep herself focused and faithful on the notion that it really isn't too good to be true, that maybe they really could work together. That in the years that have passed, they've grown and changed and the flaws that condemned their past relationship aren't there anymore. And at the end of the two and a half hour conversation, their coffees cold on the table, the sun long since set, Santana asks what they do now? (maybe? I don't know, is that the right sort of direction?)

purrpickle

(I'm not sure what you're asking?)

thedeadflag

like, I don't know, my mind's been a little foggy all day, so I'm not sure if I'm missing anything important in my on-the-fly stream of consciousness rambling/brainstorming

purrpickle

Hey, you're making more sense than my word deluge seems to make to me. Is this two and a half hour talk happening after Rachel tells Santana she's drawing things out?

thedeadflag

yeah, that's what I figured. Like, maybe Rachel says it, warns Santana, and plans on leaving directly after to let Santana think, but Santana reels Rachel back in, because okay, yeah, she HAS drawn this out too long, and if they need to get down to it and make the call, figure out if they're 100% in or out, then they do it right now. So it's two and a half hours of arguments and counter arguments and pros and cons and drudging up painful past memories yet again, and contrasting with what they've recently learned, and maybe some more info they share that seems innocuous but the other finds interesting or surprising, and it's all exhausting, and lasts much longer than expected, but by the end...every negative counterpoint, every con, has been dealt with or they're explicitly aware of it and have discussed how to work through that. And they're left with...all signs pointing to yes, pointing to "Pezberry: The Sequel" as Kurt and Quinn would call it. And as scared as she is, Santana's in. And Rachel, Rachel's overwhelmed and relieved, and frazzled, but she's in. But then they have to figure out where they go from there, and Santana's just blanking, because how do you ask a woman on an official date-date after you've spent 2 and a half hours going through an emotional gauntlet together?

purrpickle

You know, I think Rachel steps forward at this moment. She's scared, exhausted, too, but she can see how scared and exhausted Santana is, too. And Rachel carries a lot of the guilt inside herself, too. She reaches out, palm trembling, to cup Santana's cheek, pulling her to look at her. "We both want this," she whispers, "And we've talked enough that even I feel that anything more at this moment won't say anything more." Rachel laughs lightly, biting her lower lip, smiling as Santana's lips curl up, her dimples starting to show as her dark eyes meet Rachel's, "Why don't we..." Rachel licks her lips, heart starting to trip in her chest, gasping as Santana's hand finds her free one, almost shyly curling around it - just to feel Rachel's hand in hers, not let her lace their fingers together. "Why don't we do this? Go on a date. I... I want to. Tomorrow. Or... The next day. Yes, the next day." Rachel lets her hand fall, curling it around Santana's around hers. "We... We can talk in the meantime, but truly 'START' there."

And they do start out slow. Hold hands, sit next to each other, closer than they had before, but not cuddling yet, and short, light kisses when they get done with their dates or go home for the night.

Oh god. The first time they have an argument (like all couples do). Both are vibrating and scared that the other will say something that will break them, or bring up the past, so each are preemptively trying to protect themselves and prickling the other.

thedeadflag

Absolutely, it's like they almost expect something to go horribly wrong, like a veil being lifted to realize it was never real, they never had a chance, their past heartbreak was too much to overcome, that they'd be defined by their past actions yet again

and they don't even realize they're doing it at first, but they're throwing barbs in a sort of self-destructive "it was never going to work, so at least by creating its destruction, I was in control of it, I could minimize the pain" sort of way, and it's just leading down and down, and Santana realizes it first after a particularly pointed remark that sounds so much like her high school self that it's jarring. And it reminds her that this is exactly what she used to do in high school, to herself, at almost every opportunity for happiness.

purrpickle

((Okay, so I came up with this, but I don't know if it really, truly fits? Like, yes, it's vulnerable enough, but I'm not sure they'd really be able to stop the argument in such this way. What's your opinion?))

Finally, after a sharp word, Santana notices that Rachel's... shaking? Her heart squeezes, her own tension in her body suddenly more noticeable. "Rache?" she barks, it coming out more angry than she means it to, still riding high on frustration and fear, "You're... You're trembling?" She still wants to continue the argument, the self destructive part of her wanting to "win" the row, but the self sacrificing part of herself wants to just hug Rachel. It's only a stupid argument, not, hopefully, she yearns, the true end of their relationship. And Rachel's not even looking at her now, inhaling, as if to ignore Santana's question and shout out another painful jab... But she's trembling. And Santana realizes she's trembling too.

thedeadflag

it makes sense. Santana does love to win, and is terribly stubborn, but she's shown a willingness to shift away from those parts of herself (at least temporarily) to focus on more emotional matters. (example: arguing with Rachel over the disposed pregnancy test, pulling Rachel close and comforting her instead of continuing the argument when Rachel tells Santana she 'had no right' and subsequently breaks down)

purrpickle

*nods* I also see it as kind of an unconscious trade off... Rachel made the first move to ask Santana out (after forcing the conversation), and Santana's the first to stop this spiraling maelstrom. Obviously, both don't want all of their arguments or tiffs to end up in sabotage, so they talk, again, promise to try and not doom them before they truly have a chance. They're worth it... They have to be.

Ugh... So I'm feeling extremely fluffy right now. The first night they stay the night with each other, like in the same bed, as both have ended up crashing at the others' place before in a guest bed - no sex, not even taking off clothes, just in pajamas - but definitely touching each other, and waking up tangled together.

Touching each other as in lying next to each other or holding hands or even Santana opening her arms and letting Rachel snuggle into her.

thedeadflag

you know I'm a total sucker for soft, simple intimacy !!! Especially involving beds and snuggling !!

purrpickle

In the early morning hours, it's the special time of day where vulnerable, true things can be whispered without repercussions or second thoughts. It's the close, soft, warm moments, where Rachel can bury her face into Santana's chest and say, so softly, that she's missed this. That no one's arms around her has ever felt so good. And Santana nuzzles the top of her head, and admits, just as softly, voice as emotionally naked, that she agrees. That it's like they were meant to be. That, and she swallows, pressing her lips to Rachel's hair, that maybe everything had to happen so they could have this.

#pezberry #rachel berry #santana lopez #thedeadflag #thought = headcanon = almost complete fic/drabble inspiration = if i had energy to flesh it out more #rptotd #353 #given brief formatting and editing #ugh ugh ugh #i remember being so wrapped up in this 'verse for a while #so angsty #fluffy angsty #the best kind i think

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musingsoflulu · 6 years

Text

boston marathon recap

ahhhh, take me back to this past weekend, please?! i wanted to document everything so i could look back and smile, smile, smile remembering my first boston experience.

after work on thursday, we drove up to my parents’ house and spent the night before leaving for charlotte the next day. my mom and my aunt laura came with us, which was so so so much fun. our flight left early friday afternoon and we landed in boston mid-afternoon.

our air bnb was THE CUTEST. an old victorian home located in jamaica plain (we got to stay in the turret!) our hosts were the absolute best- we had a private entrance, they stocked the fridge with essentials, and they also offered to leave me foam rollers, yoga mats, etc, etc.

after settling into our air bnb, we set out into the city for dinner. we decided on a seafood restaurant in back bay, which was ~okay~ but not mind-blowing. while walking back to the T, we grabbed some pastries from whole foods and some wine from a shop we passed. mom giggled as she picked up a huge smirnoff ice and i totally thought she was kidding, but nope, she wanted it and i spent all weekend laughing about it.

the next morning, i slept in and had coffee and my chocolate croissant in our cute little kitchen before heading out to bib pickup and the expo!

it was so exciting seeing all of the celebration jackets from years past as we waited in line to get in. so many different colors and i thought about how many unforgettable experiences these people had at this marathon and how i was about to run it for the first time. how this would hopefully be my first of many boston marathons. how my kids will laugh at all of my colorful celebration jackets hanging in my closet years from now.

???can you feel my excitement???

the highlight of the expo was stumbling upon scott jurek doing book signings for his new book, “north.” what’s more, clif was givng them out for free while their supplies lasted!!! so as i stood in line, i was pleasantly surprised when they just casually handed us a book for him to sign. when it was our turn to meet him, i mentioned that we actually lived off of the appalachian trail and he asked which part. when we told him, he said “omg i HATE that place! i was so close to quitting there!” and then he wrote a little funny statement about how our town sucks and finished it with a smiley face. it was the coolest and made me feel so badass for training in that area.

around this time, logan felt so sick (?food poisoning from not so good seafood the night before?) and so we ran to tracksmith on newbury street to grab another swag bag and then grabbed a late lunch before heading back to the air bnb for the night.

so much swag.

while logan slept away his sickness, mom and aunt laura and i spent the night snuggled up on the couch rewatching “big little lies” and eating greek takeout.

the next morning, i went out for a very short shakeout run in the nearby park while snow flurries fell.

then we ran over to quincy market for lunch!

we explored downtown crossing and i had my first london fog (uhhh so good?!)

then we visited the finish line and there was SO MUCH EXCITEMENT in the air. it was so windy and cold and snow flurries were falling but i didn’t even care because i knew no matter what the weather brought, i’d be crossing that finish line the next day.

we made dinner reservations at an italian place in the north end called “taranta” and properly carb loaded before the big day.

i spent the last part of the night getting all of my stuff together. it was actually really stressful trying to figure out what exactly i needed to wear, when to shed it, making sure i had all my gels, extra socks, etc.

anyone who watched the race knew the conditions SUCKED. i prepared well for the most part. i packed an old pair of running shoes i decided i would wear to the start line and wouldn’t mind leaving behind right before the race started. i also packed throwaway socks. we grabbed some used clothes at goodwill before we left for boston and i would wear these while i waited for my wave to start. i had eggs and toast prior to leaving the air bnb and packed a stroopwaffle to have while i waited at the athletes’ village. i packed 3 gu gels to have during the race- my favorites, chocolate sea salt and salted caramel.

i debated back and forth about whether i should wear shorts or tights during the race and ultimately decided on my tracksmith twilight shorts. i’d run in these in heavy rain during training runs and they never felt like they weighed me down at all. i decided on the light, moisture wicking long sleeve shirt i wore at harpeth hills and my tracksmith run bra.

sunday night, i had decided a sub 3:15 marathon was probably not going to happen given the weather conditions. i’d be happy if i got a sub 3:35 so i could come back next year. but then i woke up monday morning and read a post by tommy rivers puzey (one of flagstaff’s coconino cowboys).

“All the best to those racing tomorrow. Don't squander this, or piss away this gift. Don't talk yourself out of accomplishing the goals you have just because of some wind and a little rain. Remember that there are countless individuals who would give anything to be in your place right now. Send it tomorrow morning. Give em hell. Respect the race, and the distance. Respect your competitors and the legacy of all those who have tread before you. The sacrifices. The servicemen and women. The survivors. The sweat and the tears and the blood.”

and i realized- in the end, it wouldn’t be the weather that stopped me from accomplishing my goals. it would be my excuses. so i wrote this on my hand and decided, yes, i was still going to aim for a 3:15.

as i hopped off the T on monday morning, i was greeted by random people on the street high-fiving me, yelling “go runners! we love our runners!” and i had this overwhelming sensation and almost broke down into tears. this was happening. i couldn’t believe it. this race was already so special to me and i hadn’t even run it yet.

i kissed everyone goodbye and hopped on the bus to hopkinton and immediately had to pee (why does this always happen?!). the bus ride to hopkinton was fairly quiet and our bus wasn’t full at all. i remember thinking “ugh, can we just wait on the bus until our wave starts?” it was so dry and warm and nobody wanted to go trudging out into the athletes’ village and stand in the mud.

after power walking to the portapotties to empty my bladder, i made my way into a tent and stood in the mud huddled with other runners. a guy from scotland looked at me and said “i’d say it’s a treadmill day.” ha! i met two other runners that were around my age and they were in my wave, as well. it was one runner’s first boston as well and we talked about how we really knew how the pick the right year as the rain poured and the wind howled right outside the tent.

i didn’t have to wait long before my wave was called and we started making our way to the start line. all along the way i was stressed about when exactly i was going to shed my throwaway clothes (not realizing they had donation bags right up to the start line). i left my old muddy purple Fates and dirty, wet socks outside a Hopkinton high school classroom. The windows were decorated with encouraging signs made by students- “run. walk. crawl. just don’t give up.”

i finally made it to my corral, shed my pants and sweatshirt and decided to keep my rain poncho on for as long as i could during the race. before i knew it, 10:25 AM was here and i was smiling like an idiot as i crossed the start line of the boston marathon while rain smacked me in the face.

i started off fast (oops)- the race started on a downhill. by mile 3, my damn bladder was full again (how?!) and i decided i would need to pee or else i’d probably not get enough water along the course. so i stopped for 30 seconds at mile 5 and peed as fast as I could.

despite the weather, the streets were lined with spectators! people screaming from their homes in hopkinton and ashland.

before i knew it, 8 miles had flown by and i thought “what?! no! where has the time gone?!”

the rain was constantly beating down in my face and i felt i wasn’t able to fully look around and enjoy a lot of the course, unfortunately.

at mile 12.5, we passed the kissing wellesley girls. this was on my bucket list. even though the kissing mile is traditionally for the men running, i was determined i was going to get a kiss from a wellesley girl at my first boston marathon. i ran up to a group and pointed to my cheek and they were literally so confused. i am still laughing about it. finally, one girl kissed me on the cheek and i took off running again, yelling “THANK YOU!”

the wellesley crowds were insane as we ran through the town and i remember a HUGE gust of wind blew and it became a torrential downpour and every runner around me started screaming “YES, BRING IT ON!” so much grit, so much determination. nothing was getting in our way from getting to boyston.

around mile 16, my stomach started cramping. i’d had 2 gus and i thought if i didn’t go to the bathroom when i could, it might turn into something more dramatic. so i stopped again. and this time walked straight into a portapotty where someone had completely missed the toilet during their bathroom emergency. here’s the thing about runners- you put us in race mode and literally nothing bothers us. i was functioning off of pure adrenaline and didn’t even hesitate to squat instead of wait for another portapotty to open up hahaha.

i was expecting to see my people around mile 16 of the course, but never did (turns out, they couldn’t find a way to make it out there and back to the finish line in time). and before i knew it, i was flying up and down the hills of newton.

i was initially nervous about this part of the course, but once i hit it, i realized i was more than prepared for these hills. at mile 21, i kept thinking, “heartbreak hill” has got to be coming up and somebody else beside me voiced this too. then another runner was like “you’re ON heartbreak hill!” and two men were like “wait, this is heartbreak hill??? oh hell, we are three leg racing up this shit.” and they proceeded to step on the side of the course and tie their legs together. it was wild. and hilarious.

i managed a decent time coming up heartbreak, although my legs and hips were feeling it and i could feel myself fading and slowing down. the last 5 miles of the course were brutal, with head winds becoming stronger. i couldn’t will my legs to move as fast as i wanted them to. it had been like running through a damn wind tunnel for the past 22 miles and it was only getting harder.

despite my pace slowing, i was all smiles by the time i reached the landmark citgo sign and as i turned onto boylston street, the entire street was lined with crowds of people cheering as loud as they could over the sound of the rain. i crossed the finish line with a huge smile. i didn’t even know my exact time, but knew i was close to my previous richmond time. no idea if i had PR’ed or not (i ended up PR’ing- by 3 seconds lol).

a volunteer put that coveted medal around my neck. i was wrapped up in a space blanket and set out to stand in the cold and rain while i waited for my family lol (literally worse than the marathon, honestly). when logan finally located me, we hurried home so i could sit in a boiling hot bath and defrost.

we celebrated at a cute little restaurant in jamaica plain that evening (as recommended by @lauralovegoods) and i high-fived other runners who had come in to celebrate too.

i know this was long-winded and if you read all of this- i love you. the amount of support i received from all of you wonderful humans throughout the entire process just blows me away. i received so many encouraging and exciting messages leading up to boston and so many congratulatory messages afterward. i also just want to give a major shout out to the incredible volunteers and spectators. these people make the boston marathon great. these people stood out in the pouring rain and cold so that others could achieve their dreams. they’re the real MVPs and their selflessness astounds me- something i’ll never be able to convey in words.

i didn’t end up getting my 3:15, as planned. but that’s okay. i gave it my all and am so happy i was able to achieve such a solid time in such brutal race conditions. i know if the weather had been more ideal, i would have taken that 3:15 by the horns.

i’ll be back next year, boston. ya won me over before it even started.

#boston marathon #boston 2018 #boston recap #runner #run #running

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uniformbravo · 5 years

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reading the hitball arc my brain is picking up so many little bits of info but has no idea how to put them all together to form any kind of coherent analysis (cue me rambling aimlessly as i try 2 find that thesis statement) ((this devolved into garbled passionate yelling real quick))

previously “established” in another “text post” i made “a few months ago”: during the game max is wearing wristbands, one blue and one red, which for the sake of this thought process i take to represent max n johnny respectively

also went over how max switching both wristbands to the same arm post-game ~symbolically~ parallels him & johnny having worked together to defeat hijack & come to understand each other a little better & the bands being on the same arm now represents them being on the same team/side

at one point during the game max gets all shaken up abt having dodged one of hijeff’s earlier attacks instead of like standing his ground i guess?? putting himself before his teammates??? am i interpreting this right i feel like im missing smth

one of the key pieces of the game is the golden switch, a ball that has the power to make anyone hit by it switch teams & join sides with the one who threw it at them. this is the ball used in the final play of the game in which max and johnny work together to take down hijeff for good

in said final play, 1) the golden switch hits max, probably symbolic of smth, & 2) breaks one of his arms, the one w/ the blue wristband- based on the color theory i feel like this should also be symbolic of smth somehow ?? max making a sacrifice in order to become a team w/ johnny?? a self-sacrifice??? is the injury representative of itself???? is it literally just as simple as “max is the one that got hurt so the arm w/ the blue band gets broken” ????? but throughout this entire comic thus far max has been first and foremost his own top priority meaning that he doesn’t do anything for anyone else unless there’s something in it for him, he’s not the type of guy to make sacrifices for other people, or more specifically for “The Greater Good” and, considering how shaken up he got earlier about instinctively jumping out of the way of hijeff’s attack while everyone else jumped right in its path to protect each other, it’s kind of a big deal for him to now be putting himself directly in harm’s way instead of like finagling the situation into making johnny the throwaway instead (esp bc max has every reason to believe johnny deserves to have pain inflicted on him more anyway) so maybe the break represents some kind of shattered mindset that he had to undergo in order to then effectively team up w/ johnny??? which would make the metaphor like

1) max n johnny r Enemies who Fight (wristbands on separate arms) 2) max has the sudden realization that johnny is Upstaging him by Caring About and Defending His Friends & generally being a lot braver than him and that he needs to Step Up His Game in response (arm gets broken) 3) now that max has that new resolve he n johnny join forces & also like understand each other a lil better?? due to working together??? (blue wristband gets moved over to other arm w/ red one bc of the injury)

or something????

srsly tho back to the golden switch & the last play im like?? there HAs to be smth here ok it’s this magical ball that represents switching sides or changing perspective or whatever idk!! & then at the v end of the game it’s like.,., li kE ok hijeff has the ball & he throws it at max: 2 things can happen here, either max gets hit cleanly and has to switch to hijeff’s side, or johnny catches it & the rest of their team gets to come back from the dead, right. as per the rules of the game. OR Lri lieke like ok hear mee out i mfuCKING liSTEN

hijeff is EXPECTIGN max 2 jump out of the way like he did before right. RIght! but max had that uthfukgning Change Of Heart or whatever where ehs like “o shit johnny is like honorable or whatever & im a coward” so this time he s NOT a coward & he takes the hit & it’s like!! mad character development!! right in this arc ohm y god

but then like therehas to be smth symbolic abt this ball like it has its own goddamn Prop Design it could have just been any plain ass Dogd=ge Ball there didnt even Have to be a golden switch in the first place but THERE IS so it HAS to be important to the stroyr RIGHT it’s njot just a gimmick 2 make the game more interesting rgiht theres SymbolisM AfooT

so theyre usin this SPECIAL ASS BALL right in the END of the Game the CLIMAX if u will & like up until now max & johnny have been having a Couple conversations that arenyt like “gimme ur lunch money” type convos like they usually have, theyre actually lik e Supportin Each Other???? it’s rly good but OK right at the last play is when theyre finally just like it’s Only the two of them left & so they have to do a THing together in order to win like it’s JUST tTHem right!!!

so max devises his Smart Boy Plan & gets hijeff right where he wants him adn!!! the SWITCH that hijeff was like, totally meaning for to hit johnny with,. max stays RIGHT THERE and lets it HIT HIM aND YEA YEA RIGHT WE ON TO SMTHINg irhtgt sO it’s already hit max at this point right so it’s fukiggng like, , it’s like, IF the ball just flies off & hits the wall & the ground then max is FUKCED he has to go over to hijeff’s team but INSTEAdD he TRUSTS JOHNNY 2 CATCH THE BALL ad johnny is like standing behind him?????? theyr both facing hijeff & max is in ftont so he isnst even LOOKING he just TRUSTS that his plan will work & johnny will HAVE HIS BACK n catch the ball & seal hijeff’s doom imM FUCKIGNG OOOOO BOIYS WE GOT IT WE GFUKINGG HAVE THEHEH

SSO THE BALL IS MAYBE LIKE??? jfuk i mlosing it its juking me oh god oh no but lIKE? it dEFNITELY has smth to do with the ball bein about switchin g sides & max Almost havin to switch sides but then johnny’s like “Not On mY Watch” but then also they kinda switched to each others side and ALSO SALSO I FORGOT TO MENTION ABT HOW JOHNN Y WAS THE ONE WHO THREW THE BALL IN THE 1ST PLACE AT MAX 2 GET HIM TO JOIN HIS TEAM????? max was just FUCKING AROUND in some corner w/ suzy n collin & johnny was like *EYES ZOOM IN* & NAILED HIM W/ IT u can NOT tell me he wasnt aimign for max ok that ball went SCHLOOP right into his head, balls dont just fly around all willy nilly ok u throw a ball in a STRAIGHT LINE & it goes STRAIGHT & it wasnt bad aim bc johnny was picked to be team leader bc he’s like GOod at shit oK strong boy good at PE he was the other alpha next 2 isabel at the beginning of class he knew EXACTLY where hwas throwin that ball & it was At Max’s Head bc he Knew what he Wanted ok!!!!!! glad that’s cleared up!!!!!!!!!!!

IN CONCLUSIOn max & johnny character development GOOD bye

#i lov e max & johnny leave me in pieces............#i couldnt even figure out what i was tryin to figure out in this post but does it even matter anymore???? no #the real pnat analysis was the incoherent yelling we made along the way #thnx fr comin 2 my ted talk (uncut ver)#retag later #pn blogging

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mosylufanfic · 7 years

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The Weight of the World

I noticed that Iris didn't seem to be at CCPN at all in the premiere (unless I missed a throwaway line, in which case this is pure AU), so this popped into my head, of course. I really hope we see her there again because she's great at it, and I also loved that she had the ability to view things from a different perspective than Star Labs. We'll see, I guess. Anyway. Angst.

The Weight of the World

"This isn't a disciplinary meeting, Iris," Scott said.

She stared at him across the table. CCPN's human resources rep, sat between them, looking bland and nonjudgmental. She'd introduced herself as Cassidy, a weirdly perky name under the circumstances.

"Okay," Iris said.

"I'm concerned," Scott said. "About you. You've been missing a lot of deadlines, and what you've have turned in lately has been - " He paused. The slash slash slash of his red pen over all her most recent stories echoed in her ears. "Not up to your usual standards."

She looked at her hands in her lap. Her nail polish was chipped to hell.

"You've been taking a lot of sick days. Coming in late, going home early, disappearing in the middle of the day, and nobody can reach you."

"Yes," Iris said. “I mean. No.” What did she mean?

"I get that you probably miss your fiance pretty badly." To Cassidy, Scott explained, "He's on sabbatical." His eyes slid around to Iris. "In the . . . Czech Republic."

Had that been a note of skepticism in his voice? Iris's eyes narrowed.

It was a dumb story but she'd gone along with it, for her dad's sake. Even though it made everything that much worse when somebody asked her at the coffee station how Barry was doing in Europe, if she'd heard from him lately or if he'd sent her any cute souvenirs.

Not from where he is, Iris thought, and looked back down at her hands. God. Her thumb was especially bad. She'd never let it get this bad before.

She couldn't bring herself to care.

"The thing is," Scott said, "I'm worried. You don't seem like yourself. Not since - " he paused, brow furrowing. "Oh, I'd say, January or so. Is there something else going on in your life?"

Was there something else going on in her life?

She'd spent five months thinking she was going to die, and then two more in so far over her head she felt like she was constantly drowning. Barry was gone into the Speed Force to keep it from breaking open like the multiverse's worst egg. She was trying to hold the city together, doing with two cocky, still-learning superheroes what had required a fleet of people and a skilled hero before.

Was there something else going on.

Scott said, "Iris, are you - "

Cassidy said quickly, "What he means to say, Ms. West - "

West-Allen. My name is Iris West-Allen.

"- is that if you have a health issue, or a family issue - which you are under no legal obligation to disclose - CCPN can make accommodations. Again, this is entirely your choice about what or how much you want to tell us."

"I - " Iris said.

"Is there something going on?" Scott asked.

"I . . . I lost . . . somebody," she said slowly. "A couple of months ago."

"The guy who died in May?" Scott asked.

Iris's heart did a sort of lurch and twist and belly flop - died, he didn't die, he's just not in this dimension anymore - before she realized he meant HR. Right, Scott had approved her time off for the funeral. Fine, let him think that.

"Yes. And . . . and it's gotten to me more than I thought it would."

True, it had shaken her badly, seeing HR die in her place, murdered by someone with the face of the man she loved, sent there by someone else with the face of a friend.

But it was wholly overshadowed by losing Barry. Her best friend, her love, the other half of herself. Gone, and she couldn't even be angry because he'd done it to save everybody.

(No, she could be angry. She could be angry a lot.)

Cassidy opened a folder, revealing official-looking paperwork. "Unfortunately our policies don't cover bereavement leave for non-family members. I'm sorry. However, if you were to get a diagnosis of clinical depression or PTSD stemming from the event, we could still put in for FMLA. It safeguards you against - "

"I know what FMLA does," Iris said. "It's not going to be enough."

Her words landed with a splat in the middle of the table.

Because honestly? Yes. She probably could get a diagnosis for either or both those things, if she actually found a doctor that she could be one hundred percent honest with, but it didn't matter. A few days off here and there, or even an extended leave of absence, wasn't going to be enough.

She'd burned through a lot of sick and vacation already, since May. At best, she could take a couple of weeks of paid leave, and then maybe a few more unpaid. FMLA status just meant they couldn't fire her for excessive absences, not that she magically got more time on the books.

And after that leave time was up, Barry would still be gone, and she would still be fighting.

She'd thought she'd could keep going just like she was. Keep running, keep living her life. But her shoulders strained under the weight of the whole city, millions of people's safety, and holding it up alongside going to CCPN and pretending everything was still okay -

She felt like she was being crushed further into the ground with every passing day.

Sometimes she hated Caitlin for taking off to find herself, or whatever the hell the other woman was doing while being so flagrantly not here. Sometimes she hated Caitlin for leaving first, because it meant that Iris didn’t have that option.

"Iris," Scott said. "Don't - "

"I quit," she said.

" - do anything hasty," he finished.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I just can't do this job anymore."

Cassidy closed the folder. "Okay," she said, and opened another one. "So. We'll need a written letter of resignation, ideally with two weeks' notice."

"How much leave do I have left?" Iris asked.

"Okay," Scott said. "Wait. I know it feels like - "

Cassidy consulted something. "You have sixteen hours sick time, and seventy-five hours of vacation. That works out to a little over two weeks, combined."

"Can I take those starting now and submit my resignation for the end of that time?"

Cassidy's eyes softened for the first time, looking more human and less like a corporate machine. "Yeah. I think under the circumstances, we can make an exception." She made a note to herself. "You'll also need to remove all personal property from your desk, any personal files from your computer, and turn in your badge and any building or office keys to me before you leave today."

"Wait," Scott said. "Wait, wait. Iris. You're having a tough time. I can see it. I've been seeing it since January. But don't do anything you'll regret, okay? You're an excellent reporter. Don't just throw that out. Why don't you take the two weeks, and then make up your mind?"

"Scott - " Iris said.

"We'll take your resignation, but we just won't file it or something." He raised his brows at Cassidy. "Right? We can do that. We'll hold it until you let us know in a couple of weeks. What about that?"

"Nothing's going to change."

"I get that it feels like that now," he wheedled, "but you'd be surprised how some time away can clear your - "

"Scott," Iris said, looking him dead in the eye. "Nothing's going to change."

Scott, who'd heard that note of firmness in her voice before, sagged with defeat.

Iris got to her feet. "Okay," she said, mostly to Cassidy. "Letter, removal of personal property, badge and keys. Right?"

"That's everything I need," Cassidy said.

“Okay. Scott?”

He looked up at her, his eyes sad. In a heavy voice, he said, “I'll need all your notes on current stories and any rough drafts so i can assign them out to other reporters."

Iris nodded and looked at the clock. It was barely one. She was supposed to take her lunch. She decided not to. She had a lot to do this afternoon and she wasn't hungry anyway.

She was never hungry anymore.

"I hope things improve for you, Ms. West," Cassidy said, shuffling her folders together and getting up.

"Thanks," Iris said. West-Allen, God!

But that wasn't her name. That wasn't ever going to be her name.

Scott stood. "I'm really sorry," he said. "This wasn't the way I was hoping this would go."

"I know," Iris said.

"Even at half-power, you're a better reporter than people who've been doing this for decades," Scott said. "We'll hire you back anytime."

Cassidy made a strangled noise, visions of lawsuits no doubt dancing in her head. Iris could have told her not to worry. She didn't see herself coming back, much less kicking up a fuss if she didn't get the promised job.

She was grateful for the walls of her cubicle, which hid the activity of pulling out drawers and putting things into a storage box to take home. She pulled several folders out, flipping through them, printing out preliminary notes and rough drafts from her computer. She would give these to Scott. He probably wouldn't be surprised that none of them were as far along as they should be.

A few times, when other reporters spotted what she was doing, she had to stop and explain, and endure their exclamations and wheedling. Like Scott, they seemed to think that she really just needed a vacation to regain her edge, her drive, her verve.

But her life since January had ground edge, drive, verve down like a belt sander. No vacation was going to restore her. Only one thing could do that.

They went away and whispered to the other reporters, and she could feel the news spreading, like dye in water. A few more people came over and expressed regret or surprise, giving her their phone numbers or personal emails. She took them although she had no intention of getting in touch.

It should have reassured her that she hadn't burned all her bridges with her flakiness lately, but it felt even worse. More people she was disappointing.

Some people were less kind. They said the same things as the others, but there was a sub-layer of malice and insincerity. Some didn't say anything to her at all. The top of the heap wasn't always the best place to be.

Iris found that she was fine with both.

She found her "weird file," where she saved any mention of anything strange or off-kilter just in case it played out later. Although it was intended for CCPN stories, she felt no qualms over sending it to her personal stick drive. She also saved as many contacts as she could. She was losing access to a lot of murmurs and mutters and overheard conversations that got delivered to Star Labs as well as being written up for CCPN's pages. She was going to have to keep up somehow.

When the clock hit four-thirty, her desk was neat and bare, all the folders dropped off in Scott's empty office. She typed up an email to Scott and Cassidy, a formal resignation in two or three lines that cited "personal reasons" without going into further detail. She tapped out another quick email to the whole newsroom - "personal reasons" again - and adding a thank-you for the work she'd done with them. It felt stiff and rote, overly formal without any warmth or sincerity behind it. But she couldn't work out how to do it better.

As she hit send on the email, restarted her computer for the last time, and picked up her box of personal effects, she felt part of the weight easing off her shoulders. For a moment, she wondered if she'd done the right thing.

But no. The Iris West who'd been happy, fulfilled, and productive here wasn't her anymore. That was an old life, one with Barry in it, one without the crushing weight of running Star Labs and keeping Central City safe. She didn't belong here anymore.

Maybe one day, she could again.

Maybe one day she might be happy again.

Maybe one day.

FINIS

#Iris West #fanfiction #mosylufanfic lives up to her damn name #angst #4x01 reaction #(although really it takes place during the hiatus)#the flash

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florrickandassociates · 7 years

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TGF Thoughts: 1x04-- Henceforth Known As Property

Thoughts on 1x04 under the cut!

The episode begins with an image of the schtup list from last week, which is… fine but not engaging. Maia is annotating it in a crowded elevator. That makes sense! Why wouldn’t you take a confidential document, which you obtained illegally, pertaining to an ongoing investigation on to a crowded elevator at your workplace?

A woman offers Maia unsolicited cooking advice. She’s confused. Another woman jumps in to dispute the first woman’s advice. Maia remains confused. She exits the elevator, and Lucca greets her with information about a fertility case she’ll be working on.

Maia says that’s good, but Lucca realizes she’s a bit shaken and asks if she’s okay. Lucca needs Maia to find precedents for the case, then adds, “And tell me if you’re getting some bad-mouthing.” “If I’m getting…?” Maia asks. “Well, people say things. You know, sometimes people don’t know better,” Lucca explains. When Maia asks if people are talking, Lucca responds, “No. I mean, no more than what you said.” Sorry, does this mean that Lucca, who actually knows Maia, believes that an unverified twitter feed with the bio “Daddy’s little lesbian” is an account Maia is involved with?

Before Lucca can explain further, Barbara pulls her into a meeting.

Marissa knows what’s up: “It’s not your twitter feed, is it?” she says to Maia. Maia is still confused, so Marissa shows her.

“It’s hard to get excited about work when people call you lesbo behind your back.” -- @MaiaRindellSays. Yes. Because real Maia would definitely tweet about her workplace in the middle of a scandal under her real name. This sounds believable.

(I won’t get stuck too much on this point; I was in a fandom once where a 12 year old impersonated someone on Twitter and frequently tweeted about her own middle school homework and people still believed she was a 40 year old celebrity.)

(I don’t know where this music is from!!! Someone find it, please!)

The profile for @MaiaRindellSays (which is not a real account, boooo! The writers USED to make real accounts for their featured twitter trolls, like @Upriser7!) reads: “Daddy’s little lesbian. Love life and never change. YOLO.” I mean that sounds totally fake but okay.

This twitter account—which we later learn is a bot set up years ago—must be a super smart bot if it knows to tweet Maia’s feelings about her dad going to jail.

Fake Maia also tweets about canning fruit, and I wish they’d given her a different hobby because every time anyone says “canning” I think they’re going to summon Louis Canning and I’d rather they didn’t.

Fake Maia talks about sex too!

“Do you have any enemies?” Marissa asks Maia. Maia has a lot of enemies, Marissa! (Here’s a better question: does Maia have any friends? I understood when Alicia—who was in her early 40s in TGW season 1 (which took place in 2009-2010), was technologically inept, and was kind of a loner—didn’t know when internet things were happening. But would Maia really be so disconnected? Is she making an effort to unplug after those harassing calls? Are friends not willing to trust her? Do they think it’s too awkward to reach out? Are Amy’s friends reaching out to her? Why aren’t we seeing more about this side of the scandal? YMMV but to me, these questions are far more interesting than tracking down a twitter troll.)

“It’s the scandal,” Maia realizes. “What do I do?”

Marissa says the way to track down the fake is to tweet to her. “I’m gay and like canning, too. We should meet up. :-)” Marissa DMs fake Maia.

COTW time! Case stuff happens!

I’m amused that the client’s last name is Salano, which I kept hearing as Solano at first, and her case is a dispute about eggs. Jane the Virgin, anyone? I’m sure that show could find a way to connect Laura Salano to Raf and Petra.

One thing I like about the case: Laura is a friend of Barbara’s. Another thing I like: the RBK team on this case is all female.

Barbara calls Diane in to help on the case, and once Diane leaves, Barbara moves closer to the client. That’s when it becomes clear they’re friends. “So you’re expanding?” Laura asks, referring to Diane. “Girl…” is all Barbara can say. “Explain,” Laura says. And then we cut away from them, and that’s fine, because we already know how Barbara feels about this. But this is one of those little “throwaway” scenes that end up mattering a lot to a show. Seeing Barbara around a long-time friend clues us in on who Barbara is outside of the office, even if all the information we’re really getting here is that Barbara has friends. (And, uh, that means a lot in this universe, because a lot of the characters don’t seem to have friends.)

Diane spies a man in Adrian’s office. She asks Marissa who it is. She has a suspicion, but needs Marissa to confirm. Marissa tries to be inconspicuous… and knocks a painting off the wall. Adrian and the man—Mike Kresteva, the Lying Liar—turn to look at her.

“Mike Kresteva,” Marissa tells Diane. (It makes sense for Marissa to recognize him; she’s Eli’s daughter after all.) Diane gets worried, and instructs Marissa to pull Adrian out of the meeting.

Marissa and Mike make eye contact. I wonder if Mike recognizes her. It would make sense if he did.

“Mike Kresteva. What’s he doing here?” Diane asks Adrian once he’s left the meeting. Adrian doesn’t know yet and wants to know why Diane is alarmed. “One of the partners at my firm, Alicia Florrick, knew him. He made her life hell,” Diane explains, accurately.

I don’t think we’ve ever seen Diane interact with Kresteva before, though he would’ve been a figure she’d heard a lot about, both through the gubernatorial race (she represented Peter in that voter fraud case!) and through Alicia. This Alicia reference is a necessary one. Diane doesn’t fear Kresteva because she disagrees with his politics; she fears him because she’s heard Alicia’s stories. I doubt Diane knows the anecdote about Alicia calling Kresteva Hitler and to his face and then telling him to die chocking on his own blood because she knows what she actually says to him doesn’t matter one bit, but, yeah. Kresteva’s that awful.

Anyway, Diane is warning Adrian that Kresteva is a Lying Liar.

The scariest thing about Kresteva, I think, is that he’s totally aware he’s lying. He just doesn’t care. He’s not gullible or easily confused. No—he’s calculated and cruel.

“I can handle myself,” Adrian tells her. Yeah. Sure. Diane isn’t satisfied with that answer and absentmindedly hands Marissa a sheet of paper. Marissa has to remind her to explain—a nice way of conveying how consuming and intense Diane’s dread of interacting with Kresteva is.

Kresteva is now on a task force about police accountability. He’s a fictional character in a fictional world, but that still makes me want to cry. The first time we met Kresteva, in W319 (Blue Ribbon Panel), he was making excuses for and shutting down inquiry into a cop shooting and then framing an unarmed black man. (That’s still one of the most eerily prescient episodes of TGW. The cop in that episode was named Zimmerman… and the episode filmed right before Trayvon Martin was murdered.)

Maia and Marissa are still waiting for a reply from the Twitter account. (Wouldn’t a bot reply instantly? HOW DO TWITTER BOTS WORK? I’m almost curious enough to go down a Google rabbit hole!)

FakeMaia tweeted back. She wants a picture. So, Marissa goes into her “photostream,” which she keeps on her work laptop for occasions like this (what are you into, Marissa!?), and selects a picture of some random stock image girl. Maia wants Marissa to get a photo back from the bot. The bot sends one back instantly. Several, actually. They’re artsy images of a naked woman who doesn’t look like Maia but whom Maia says is really her.

So wait. There’s a bot on Twitter that carries on conversations, is up to date with the news, has hobbies, and just sends nude pics of Maia if you ask!? And it was created by some random photographer, on his own, several years ago? Is this supposed to be a play on that racist Microsoft bot from a while back?! Ohmygod I’m gonna stop nitpicking. Or, at least, I’ll try. I’m not sure if I’m more concerned that this could happen or skeptical of the plot.

At least Maia knows who’s behind the account now: she remembers the photographer. (Hey, they did this plotline on Desperate Housewives!)

“This feels like old times,” Kresteva remarks as he steps into Diane’s office. Again, not sure they ever met on screen. “And what line are you selling today, Mike?” Diane asks. “Why is everybody so suspicious of me?” Kresteva wonders. Hmmm. Why indeed.

He informs Diane of his new position. She refuses to give advice or say much. Kresteva says he’s changed. Sure. “How is your son doing, Mike?” Diane tries to change the subject. Turns out Kresteva’s son (named Jax; I remember this because I’ve been thinking about characters named Jax because of the Rindells) passed away. Kresteva almost seems like a human being telling his story.

The second he leaves her office, Diane Chumhums (HIIIIiiI CHUMMIE I LOVE YOU YOU SILLY LITTLE GOPHER) to determine whether or not Kresteva’s son really died. She hates that she has to look it up, but she does. Turns out Kresteva was telling the truth about that, sadly.

Diane goes to the fertility clinic to follow up on something COTW related. The doctor mistakes her for a patient. Diane laughs that off—“I’m not here for myself.”

Case stuff happens.

There’s a joke that goes on for way too long involving a doctor who’s hard of hearing. It’s supposed to be funny. It is not funny.

Sleazy Twitter Bot Bro is now a photographer who specializes in portraits of children. Gross.

Maia is, in theory, on the case of the week, but aside from the one scene where Lucca asks her to do a bit of research, her main work task seems to be investigating her personal life and using firm resources (computers, support staff) to do so. Either that, or she has a really generous lunch hour.

Marissa is comfortable being very assertive around Bro. When she speaks up on Maia’s behalf, Bro wonders if she’s Maia’s new girlfriend. Sounds like someone’s precious masculinity was wounded when Maia came out. Boo hoo. Marissa explains she’s not, “but that doesn’t matter.”

They broke up four years ago. I wonder if Maia’s bisexual or if she realized after (or during) the relationship she was gay?

The twitter bot was set up two years ago, which means Bro was bitter and resentful for two years. (Also means that Amy and Maia, if we believe the writers requested a photo of Amy and Maia for the icon, have been together at least 2 years.)

“What’s a Twitterbot?” Maia asks. … exactly what it sounds like, Maia. What weird sort of bubble does Maia live in!? (Alternatively: writers, it’s never a good look to make your characters more ignorant than they realistically should be for the sake of exposition.)

The bot will duplicate itself if he turns it off. Wha?

When Bro tells Maia to “tell your girlfriend to fix it,” she slaps him. Yay, Maia! (If this happened in the first episode of the show, I’d be worried about the series finale. I think we’re safe because it’s episode four.)

Maia and Marissa return from their non-work related adventure at the same time Diane and Lucca get back from working on the case. The subpoena guy (I’m sure there’s a technical name for this—process server?) who’s a crew member or something is in the RBK lobby, subpoenaing everyone who worked on the police brutality case in F1x01. (At least, I assume that’s why he’s serving them, since he doesn’t subpoena Barbara or anyone else.)

There’s something missing from the Maia subplot—and, really, from the way Maia’s been written so far in these first four episodes (well, mostly just these last two, so there’s hope!). Whenever the show could explore how Maia’s feeling or what she’s thinking or how she’s doing at work, it instead goes for a plot-driven conspiracy. Twists and turns are fun, but Maia’s a new character. These plots don’t give me much of a sense of who Maia is or how she’s coping with the aftermath of the scandal. Consider, for a minute, what the show would look like if Maia’s parents were obviously guilty. Instead of having to wait for the reveal of what really happened (which I don’t care about at all), we’d be dealing with Maia realizing the betrayal that definitely occurred. We’d be seeing her lose her innocence and rebuild instead of watching her investigate various family members we as the audience have no reason to trust. Maia would be the focus, not the facts of the scandal. Same goes for the harassment. Why can’t it just be some random person on Twitter who made an account, and Maia has to learn to steel herself against it? Why does it have to be an elaborate Twitter bot that also makes Fake News?

I keep coming back to the way TGW season 1 worked for Alicia. First, and I didn’t realize how smart this was until TGF began, Peter committed two crimes: one against the law and one against his family. Alicia even makes that distinction in the pilot. She doesn’t care as much about the crimes he allegedly committed, and she (and we) don’t know if he really did it. What she does know, and what we do know, is that he cheated on her with prostitutes. Since there are two scandals there, Alicia can lose her trust in Peter because of one (the cheating) while the writers are free to play around with the mystery/conspiracy of the other. But we don’t have that with the Rindells. Their scandal is all doubt.

While I’m on this kick of comparing the writing for Alicia to the writing for Maia, I’d also like to mention W109, Threesome. That episode has a plot that’s similar to Maia’s in this episode. Alicia is the last to know about Peter’s call girl’s appearance on Chelsea Handler’s show. Zach and Grace know about it. Peter’s legal team and publicity team know about it. Everyone in the office knows. It’s not until Alicia’s assistant pulls up the video that she finds out. We see Alicia react to the interview; how much it pains her to be called “frigid.” Alicia’s called to meet with Will and Diane before she can even finish watching the clip, and we get a great little sequence of Alicia walking through the firm, her confidence waning as she notices everyone’s eyes on her. Her whole demeanor changes completely from what we saw as she walked in to work. Will and Diane are talking about damage control when she arrives, and we can tell from the way Alicia’s moving she expects that they’re going to talk to her about the video. (I’m rewatching this now, and holy shit, guys, she even does the thing with her hands to calm herself down. You know, that thing she does in the last minutes of the series finale. SHE DOES IT HERE TOO.) She only relaxes, slightly, when she realizes they’re talking about Stern’s scandal, not hers. And the whole episode plays out with Alicia trying to figure out what’s going on with Peter, how to make Amber stop, and how to talk to her children about their father’s sex life. And, oh yeah, she’s on a case the whole time, too. I could talk for hours about Alicia’s arc in W109, and how the episode deepens the audience’s understanding of Alicia by forcing her to shift between so many environments, and how the central problem of Amber Madison’s eagerness to spread lies is resolved as an issue between Alicia and Peter, not as a convoluted plot. But I won’t, because I think the example of that first scene (which you really should rewatch!) illustrates my point: the writing for Maia lacks this nuance. The writing for Maia is mostly about plot. The writing for Alicia used plot to develop the character.

Lucca waits for Colin in the bar near the courthouse. She’s already ordered a burger and cut it in half for him. What’s their ship thing going to be? Burger and Fries? Onions and Peppers? (Note: this is not a serious question.)

Colin thinks Lucca’s there to flirt, but she’s there for work. But they don’t get to work before Colin invites her on a date to get milkshakes. Something about his therapist. This is cute, but not really anything I need to get into in-depth.

Lucca asks Colin about the subpoena; he says he’ll look into it.

Marissa made a breakthrough in the Twitterbot fiasco. She contacted Twitter and they froze it right away, which is definitely how Twitter deals with harassment. (I actually don’t know if this is realistic, but I’ve seen so much about how ineffective Twitter is at suspending trolls that this seems too fast, even though it also seems totally logical.) (But won’t the bot remake itself?)

Maia and Marissa high five, adorably.

Case stuff happens. This case is interesting.

Alma Hoff is back! So is just Stanek, who is still collecting electronics in a trash can.

Yesha gets a news alert from Chumhum about Maia being fired. She phones Maia to ask if it’s true. The news source is obviously fake, but I can’t tell if it’s Fake News or Real News For These Characters But Fake Because Copyright Laws.

Maia asks Adrian if she’s being fired. “I barely even know who you are,” Adrian replies, shooing her away. Heh. Wouldn’t Maia know it’s a lie from the fact that she didn’t call her workplace anti-gay?

Now there’s a story about Maia buying $350,000 in jewelry. Ah, it’s one of those sites. The ones that generate ridiculous stories about famous people that have no connection to the truth at all.

Now a Grand Jury is in session, and I think this insert of “GRAND JURY IN SESSION” is lifted from a TGW ep, probably 314 or something from season 7.

Diane is on the stand; Kresteva is questioning her. He starts off by framing her answers as uncooperative, and then begins to flat out lie. “What could be wrong with my motives?” he asks. LOL. I CAN’T THINK OF ANYTHING. (Even if it weren’t Kresteva specifically… there are still a lot of good reasons to be suspicious!)

“I think you tend to lie,” Diane responds. Kresteva goes after her about the money the firm makes off of the police brutality cases. It’s 30% of the firm’s annual income. Well that’s a cynical suggestion.

Kresteva asks Diane if she said that the problem was that “the people of Cook County hated African-Americans.” Wait, I thought she refused to answer in his version of events? Also, what does he mean by the People of Cook County? Does he mean in the legal sense (The People vs. ___) or does he mean that Diane said that Cook County residents are racists? What narrative is he trying to spin—that Diane was uncooperative, that Diane wants police brutality to continue so she can profit, or that Diane made sweeping accusations of racism? All of the above? Does it matter? Is the point to scare the firm away from these cases or to actually accomplish something with the Grand Jury? (I think it’s the former.)

Anyway, the real point of this scene is that KRESTEVA IS A LYING LIAR.

“Are you saying that my notes from our meeting are incorrect?” Kresteva asks. THIS GUY IS SO FULL OF BULLSHIT, I NEED TO WATCH THE GIF OF ALICIA TELLING HIM TO DIE CHOCKING ON HIS OWN BLOOD, PLEASE A FEW TIMES NOW. Kresteva is so full of shit that his lies don’t even make sense! His whole shtick rests on the hope that the grand jury finds him trustworthy! If they don’t, then why shouldn’t Diane suspect him? What should it matter that his “notes” don’t match what Diane’s saying? They’re his notes. He could’ve written them whenever he felt like it; he could’ve written down whatever he wanted! It’s not a video. It’s not an audio recording. It’s not a print-out of an email. The people who say “believe me” (or variations of that) the most are the ones to watch out for.

Kresteva’s lies, which seemed outrageous back in 2012, play differently in 2017, don’t they?

This scene is very hard to watch because of the emotional toll it takes on Diane as she realizes nothing she says or does will help her out of this hole. Kresteva will just make up more lies, and when he does let the truth through, he’ll spin it to make Diane look bad. Diane’s mistake about Jax seems malicious when he questions her. Her denial of the conversation reads as guilt. How could Kresteva have made up all of that information, the jury must wonder. Isn’t it more to this lady’s advantage to lie than it is to the head of the task force?

Diane says Kresteva was in her office for six minutes. I don’t get why she says this, since we saw the full meeting and it wasn’t six minutes, so…

Diane’s furious when she gets back to work. “He’s setting us up,” she announces to the others. Adrian understands why: Kresteva wants to reduce the number of police brutality cases by having fewer cases filed. I presume this means not just shutting down RBK’s cases, but also making other firms fear taking them on.

Lucca goes to Colin to investigate further. “Yeah, he lies,” Colin acknowledges. “Does your boss know that?” Lucca wonders. Good question. Colin agrees to help out, which is very nice of him. (So far, Colin feels a lot like a flirtier Finn Polmar to me.) Lucca says he seems like a good guy and reminds him they have a milkshake date. They can’t have sex yet because it would seem like a quid pro quo. “Fuck, I hate being a good guy,” Colin jokes as Lucca leaves.

Case stuff happens. I like Judge Stanek.

Colin does bring Kresteva’s methods up with the boss. The boss hears Kresteva’s strategy for how to reduce the amount of cases and doesn’t care about (agree with?) the ethics of it. Colin tries a different angle: the firm is all African-American; won’t that look bad? Kresteva argues it’s not all black because of Diane. LOL DIANE IS ONE PERSON. (And even if you include Maia and Marissa, that’s still a small fraction of the total employees.)

Colin must have pretty high standing/be pretty good at his job if he can bring this up at work. Kresteva gets a small warning, but he’s allowed to continue.

“It’s fake news,” Jay tells Maia. The original twitter monster has morphed into a lot of fake news all across the internet.

Yesha tries to stop it by getting a TRO against Bro, but he says it won’t work because his servers aren’t in Cook County. Yesha tells Maia there’s nothing more they can do. “Not legally,” Yesha repeats. Then she leaves, as Maia, Marissa, and Jay all think of illegal ways to stop Fake News.

Marissa has an idea—create fake news about Bro. Wouldn’t it be easier to just phone his boss? WHY ARE YOU GUYS USING YOUR WORK COMPUTERS TO CREATE FAKE NEWS WITH EXPLICIT CONTENT? WHY AREN’T YOU GUYS WORKING?! (Yes, this has gotten under my skin, why do you ask?)

Bro’s boss buys the fake news. Would that really happen? I can see him being fired because it looks bad, but being fired because your boss believed ILoveFakeNewsDotCom or whatever seems strange.

Case stuff happens.

Bro shows up at Maia’s office to announce, “You’re ruining my life.” HYPOCRITE. (Though, I do have a question: if the fake news is no longer spreading because of him, what is this accomplishing other than revenge?)

He calls her a bitch. Hell. No.

Luckily, Adrian intervenes and Bro calms down. “You drop your news articles and I’ll drop mine?” Bro says. So they are his news articles? What happens when someone else gets the same idea?

“At this firm, we stand up for each other, Maia,” Adrian tells Maia after she thanks him. Awwww. (So does that mean he’s cool with her doing all of this on the clock, using work computers, and pulling Marissa and Jay into it, too?)

YES!!! A break from the Diane/Barbara tension!!!!! This week, they’re drinking together after a rough day in court. Diane’s sad. Barbara, too.

“Do you regret not having children?” Barbara asks Diane. I can’t believe we got through seven seasons of TGW without Diane ever answering this question. That’s cool!

“Sometimes,” Diane responds honestly. “Not often.”

“When are the sometimes?” Barbara wonders. This feels a lot to me like Barbara trying to decide if she should try to have kids before it’s too late.

“With my husband. I mean, it’s too late for us now, but, uh, but I look at him and I wonder what, you know, what his son would be like. Or my daughter,” Diane explains, breaking my heart. (She and Kurt are totally going to reconcile, right?!)

“Yeah. It’s interesting,” Diane continues, unprompted. “Most people think I didn’t want kids, and that’s why I made my work my life. What they don’t realize, it’s… it’s really just the opposite.” I definitely assumed that Diane prioritized work over having kids. I’m not entirely sure what Diane means by “the opposite” but I think she’s saying that kids didn’t seem to be happening for her, so she had time to throw herself into work, and then it was too late. I wonder if Diane would’ve considered IVF if it had been more common when she was in her 30s/40s.

Diane and Barbara talk a little bit more, then Diane finishes her drink and goes back to her office. She phones Kurt. He doesn’t pick up (or does she hang up too quickly? I think it’s the former but compressed for time). I CAN’T WAIT FOR NEXT WEEK.

Then Diane has an epiphany: ENGLAND.

“We dialed 44 and then the number,” Barbara retorts when Alma asks how they called an agency in England. LULZ.

Case stuff happens; Laura wins! (Also, who knew Alma Hoff had a pottymouth?)

I barely talked about it, but this was a very complex and compelling case.

The Fake News hasn’t stopped. Shocker. Yesha has figured out that now Reddit is making fake news because people on the Internet also hate Maia.

Now Yesha and Marissa both advise Maia to drop it. So she does. But… Fake News has Real Consequences.

Someone brings the Fake News about Maia, which is now in the Cook County Vindicator which I thought was supposed to be a legit paper with actual reporters but whatever, to Kresteva’s attention. He’s looking for any ways to go after RBK, and this news article—real or fake—plays right into his story.

His white board of RBK targets consists exclusively of people we know (and excludes Reddick—who is Reddick, anyway? Is he still there?), including Amy. “Hired for SA ties?” reads a post-it next to Maia’s picture.

So… that’s what’s coming next. All the conspiracies come together! That means it’s time for ELSBETH TASCIONI!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

(Seriously, Elsbeth is the one good thing about the unnecessary conspiracy plots The Good Shows like to do.)

#The Good Fight #you can tell I had a very exciting Sunday

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jaxxonpollux · 6 years

Text

“why do i always pick people that don’t want to be with me?”

this is completely cliche. i know it, probably everybody knows it. it’s something you’d hear on an episode of Degrassi, or maybe occasionally on Full House. poor Uncle Joey, let’s give him a throwaway line to say to, i don’t know, Bob Saget or twin baby Michelle so that they can monologue something heartfelt over our staple sentimental TV show score. that’s like, our thing. or, let’s have this teenager guy say this to his lady bff so she has a reason to look sad and throw herself at him. something that would never happen irl except under desperate circumstances.

and i know why i said it too. not because i truly felt it, in all honesty. i mean, i did felt some semblance of rejection from a variety of people i had spoken to or heard from or looked at in the past 24 hours, but the notion that i’m so pitiful that i’m just “picking the wrong people” and wearing blinders is kind of a a joke. i can just as readily give up on somebody as i can be obsessed with them. it’s some ugly cosmic power i have. i always allude to my vague sense of pride, and that’s a part of it, a refusal to be desperate. i’d rather be alone forever than be desperate! you don’t say things like this because you mean them.

it’s intentionally pitiful. manipulative. again, not a word that i like to wear, but it fits nice and snug around the ol’ waist. and i tap into it even during the smallest interactions. i don’t know why it’s a part of me. maybe it’s the way i was raised, maybe miasma is really a thing, and i’m just converting all of my dad’s alcoholic guilt-trip energy into something equally ugly and not yet as sinister. sometimes a conversation is like an experiment. sometimes you just say things because you wonder about the response, not to get things off your chest.

i said it and she paused for a second, and then said “i’m sorry.” like she was complicit in the crime, a #metoo with an entirely different meaning. an admission that she never wanted to be with me either. which, like, doesn’t really bother me at this point, but it’s interesting to hear people react that way. not a supportive “aw shucks pal, you’ve got the right person for you just around the corner! and besides, i love you tons, c’mere you big pile of marshmallow!”

or maybe she could just smell the manipulation. i do that too, like, when homeless people go on a tangent to explain how much of a christian they are before they ask for money. i met one guy who crossed his chest, pointed at the sky, and made a cross with his fingers all within the span of 5 seconds. it kind of made me feel like a vampire or something. anyway, when you smell a manipulation tactic, the first instinct is always repulsion, and it’s usually the one you go with. maybe that’s why she said what she said the way she said it, a casual brush away. not playing that game. it makes the whole probe kind of a dud, but that happens with probes, doesn’t it?

it’s peculiar, treating conversations like experiments. trying on personalities and characters like masks. you can’t really do that without some kind of cost. it ruins your image, to the people you don’t want to be ruining your image for. you can’t have any fun anymore! as i recently said to someone else i know. there’s no rehearsal when it comes to this kind of stuff. no rewind. you just say it and let yourself be destroyed. for science, i guess.

---

anywho, i think i’m becoming more comfortable with being an awful person. like, just letting the floodgates loose. i had a girlfriend when i was 14 who was very catty and loved to gossip, one day she said she was gonna try not to do that anymore, it made her feel bad. i begrudgingly went along. i think it destroyed the magic. and anyway it didn’t last very long, people can’t really make choices like that for themselves. i mean, maybe some people can. i don’t really know. but i’m just accepting some of those evils now and letting them boil on the stovetop. all the things i try to hide or not be. all the things i don’t want people to see when they look at me. i suppose it’s a victory for “being yourself,” isn’t it? isn’t that the ideal everyone tries to reach? or is that just another piece of teenage tv melodrama advice that doesn’t really mean anything? i saw a clip from the new spider man movies, spider man was like “you’re right, i should just be myself,” and his fat friend was like “c’mon peter, nobody wants that.” he might be right, and maybe a lot of people aren’t themselves because they know they suck.

i still feel like i don’t know who myself is. there are some people out there that spend every waking moment worrying about what other people think about them, about trying to put their best face on every day, trying to be a really good person, under the assumption that it will also make them feel good. be kind, love, and be loved. constantly wondering what the best thing to say is, and constantly drawing a blank. people like me! i feel like half the time i hear somebody i don’t have any reaction inside. it’s not that i have secret hateful thoughts that i bottle up or anything. i just have like, a lot of undeveloped land in there, somehow. i could run a kid over on his bike and shrug it off. i could be having sex with a beautiful woman and not feel a hint of arousal. my mind goes blank a lot.

or maybe i just have a lot of cellophane over certain parts of myself. does that make sense? i haven’t had the experience that required me to unpack that box there in the back. i’m sure if i actually ran over a kid, went to court, had to face their sobbing parents, got slapped around by some interrogating police officer, spent time stewing in a jail cell, my heart would be bleeding with guilt and regret. i just haven’t gotten a chance to make that mistake yet and unlock that part of myself.

or maybe when i’m faced with things that i ought to care about, a big shield pops up, a wave of protection, and everything goes blank. a sort of dissociation, which i really hate in other people when i want to know them, but maybe it’s something that i have too. like a wall of fear that doesn’t let anything in or out. it’s paralyzing, being put in a situation, and not knowing what you would do in that situation. your head doesn’t let you know the next step, so you wait there, dumb and sweating. it’s only until directly after that everything comes flowing through, kind of like that “oh, THIS is what i should have said, this is what i should have done” feeling that is so incredibly common in everybody.

or maybe i’ve just locked the front door, but the back door is still wide open. and things only get to me through specific channels, ones that i wouldn’t normally count on but are tried and true. i don’t know what i’m doing in a bed with someone, but i come alive naked in front of a webcam. i’m a wallflower at parties, unless i get a specific concoction of drugs and drinks in me that pulls everything out, wit charm guts and all. i can’t talk for shit, but i can write up a real enthralling tale. who knows what’s going on in there?

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i feel like i’ve been trying to get to know this girl through the back door, the front door is locked. like, talking to her, when she makes herself available (scarcely), doesn’t bring me any closer to knowing her. KNOWING her, whatever the hell that means. so instead i’ve been digging around in everything she tells me she ever liked, movies she watched, books she read, things that had a profound effect on her. trying to put together machine parts and figuring out what potions were sloshed together to make her. it’s a backwards way of trying to get to know someone.

i want to get to know people by living with them. i feel like it’s the purest way, learning a person’s diet and mannerisms and how often they do the dishes. it says a lot about how someone feels inside, i think, the time they wake up for work, or the food they have for lunch. every person i’ve ever met, i wish i had gotten to live with them for a while. i want those nitty gritty details, i thrive off of them. sometimes i even want to become people for a while, like some psychotic twist on method acting.

actually, that’s probably not true. i tried to think of why i would want to be somebody else and it’s just exhausting. and i think i only want to understand other people so i can shape myself to be the best for them, again that kind of manipulative “i’m trying my best to be perfect for you” desire. the problem is, i’m never going to figure anyone out, and even if i did, i don’t think i have the proper judgment to decide what would be best for them either. i need to figure out a better way to interact with people, clearly. letting people just be themselves and not thinking about it drives me nuts sometimes, but it’s obviously the best. i just don’t want to be one of those Men that goes through life steam rolling everyone else under whatever my personality ends up being, just being unabashedly unashamedly “myself.” that kind of person gets on my nerves too. i get the feeling some people really love that kind of person, but oh here i go again trying to decide on “kinds of people” like i’m trying on shoes.

it’s honestly a mess. maybe i’ll grow out of it. like maybe i’ll have a kid and the only person i’m allowed to be is a good dad, for the rest of my life. there’s some comfort in that, knowing who you gotta be and just committing to it. right now, i could still be anybody. i don’t know if i’m a baker or a writer. i don’t know if i’m an artist or a mindless consumer. i don’t know if i’m a bad boyfriend, a libertarian, a genderfluid fruit basket, or just a total sack of shit. and that really bothers me. i mean, obviously.

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