#she just has a couple more tools in her arsenal now | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

amlovelies · 3 years

Note

34 for chargestep

thank you for the prompt anon 💜 I started writing this from Ric’s point of view but then changed my mind and rewrote the whole thing

34. The feel of fingers brushing together by accident

from the sensory prompt list

presque vu

fandom: fhr

pairing: Ricardo Ortega/nb!sidestep (Vesper Bui)

rating: T reference to death and some language Vesper is a jerk. angst

words: 2.2k

read on ao3

The coffee shop is a familiar sight. You could squint and almost pretend it was seven years ago except the awning has been bleached by the sun. You remember the trees as thin anemic things, and now they tower over your head. Large enough to conceal you as you watch Ortega pacing near the entrance.

He hasn’t noticed you yet; you could still walk away. Stand him up, maybe then he’ll quit asking, quit trying. You shouldn’t even be here. Why was it so hard to resist him?

You know why

. �� It’s should be easier now. It should be easier to tell him to fuck off and leave you alone. You know how this story ends. He’ll leave you behind. He’ll drag you out into the world, make you a person, make you real, and then leave you

. You catch a thought of a woman walking by. She’s a pretty young thing, long legs on display, hair falling in shining waves over her shoulders. She’s noticed Ortega, recognized him. Trying to working up the courage, debating with herself, should she approach him? It’s not every day you see a super hero in the flesh. It would take nothing, just the tiniest tweak, give her the confidence and make her walk over. He never could resist a pretty face. He’d forget all about meeting you for coffee. It would be the smarter thing to do.

You don’t do that. Instead, you make her forget, add in a little anxiety, a certainty that she is going to be late to quicken her step. Instead of doing the smart thing and walking away you let yourself be drawn to him. Inexorable.

“There you are,” his smile is wide.

“Did you think I stood you up?”

A nervous chuckle, “maybe a little. It’s good to see you.” He means it. Or at least you think he does. So hard to interpret like trying to identify an object by feel alone. Familiar shapes that itch and scratch at your memory. A chill down your spine as you walk inside. Like stepping into your own past, but then you look closer. It’s not the same. The walls are the same color, a soft brown, and the layout remains the same, but the décor is more modern. The tables sleeker, lower backs on the chairs, more outlets for people working off laptops. So similar but not the same. You can’t go back.

He frowns when you order a red eye, gets ready to say something, but you shoot him a glare which shuts him up. He’s the one who suggested coffee; he can’t act concerned when you order it. Probably noticed the slight tremor to your hands. So observant sometimes, and then at others so willfully obtuse.

Maybe he only sees what he wants to. The bags under your eyes fit the narrative he wants. The one where you are just a broken shell of the person you used to be. Just waiting for him to come along and put you back together. An insomniac with jittery hands instead of bloody ones.

“I thought for sure this place would have gone out of business,” you say before taking a sip of your coffee. It’s good, rich and earthy with just a hint of caramelly sweetness from the espresso. It’s a world of difference from the gas station drip and instant crap you’ve been mainlining for the last few years. “You’re really leaning into the nostalgia factor here, Ric”

“Have to use all the weapons in my arsenal,” he says with a wink.

“You never were any good at tactics, old man.”

His smile is wide much more dangerous than a familiar cup of coffee. Always too contagious, that was how he drew you in. Made you believe you could have a life.

“I don’t know from where I’m sitting it worked. I got you here, didn’t I?” Smug. Always so smug and confident, taking up too much space. Somehow feeling too close even though there’s a table between you and he’s not leaning forward. “Besides, I didn’t have to be good at them, I had you.” Now he is soft and that is worse. Trying to catch your gaze, a hand sliding out as if to grab yours.

A twitch, an urge to reach out. To take his hand and pretend he didn’t leave you, pretend you could be a person, that you can feel. No. shut that door. Shut it down hard. “Someone had to save your reckless ass. It’s a miracle you only got me killed once.” You scoff.

You aren’t looking at him as you say it. Maybe you should be, get to see the hit land. You want to hurt him, right? To punish him, because this is all his fault

. A strangled sound, and you can’t help but look up. He looks worse than he did when you visited in the hospital. “Are you ready to give up now?” you keep your voice cold. Maybe this will make him open his stupid eyes and realize you aren’t his old friend. They’re gone. Just as much as Anathema

. “No,” his voice is determined but you recognize that smile. You’ve seen it a dozen times. When a fight was going south, when things looked hopeless. He’d flash that smile, and somehow, you’d always made it out. Well almost. “I’ve got a thicker skin than that, Bui.”

“Idiot,” you shake your head. It had felt so good to hurt him at the gala. Why did it feel so bad now?

“Sure,” he agrees, “but you’re still here.”

You are still here. It used to be so easy. You’ve felt nothing but rage for so many years. Nothing but the fire inside you, and then he walked into that stupid diner. Emotions had never been your strong suit. Even when you were trying to be a person it was still hard. Still hard to understand what you were feeling or how you were supposed to act. He was always the worst of it. At least with others you could take cues from their mind. He gave you nothing, gives you nothing. “I never said I wasn’t an idiot too,” you say with a sigh as you run a hand down your face.

“Walk?” He’s already standing as if he knows your answer. Part of you want to be petulant to stay, to not follow his lead, but you stand up too

. The park across the street isn’t busy. There are a few kids on the playground, looks like it’s gotten a new corporate sponsor. For all it’s shiny new colors it still looks much like you remember it. There’s a woman on a bench reading a romance novel and sighing wistful as she thinks of her new coworker. Some teens are buying weed behind the bathrooms. Nothing dangerous and it’s easy to make the two of you pass unnoticed

. Walking is good. You don’t have to look at him, but you are still aware of him. Walking too close, he never had any respect for personal space

. His fingers brush against yours. You could call it an accident, but you can feel his eyes on you. You wait, sure he has something to say, but for once he keeps his mouth shut. Just the gentle knock of his knuckles against yours. Are there scars there from where he broke himself against your armor? It had made you smile once thinking that he’d be marked. Marked by you the same way you’ve been marked by him. Now you aren’t so sure

. “I don’t know how to do this,” the admission is quiet, and you hate how your voice sounds. It’s a small vulnerable thing like the pieces of yourself you left on the sidewalk seven years ago

. “Do what?”

“Talk-“ a frustrated sigh- “be around you. Have friends.” You lengthen your stride, but he keeps up easily. Of course, he does. Nothing you do ever seems to really shake him, but he could always get under your skin “Maybe you just need practice?”

Instead of an answer you walk over to a nearby bench and take a seat. You take a sip from your coffee to avoid speaking. It’s growing cold, but you hesitate to finish it. You still need it. Need something to keep your hands busy, something to fill the awkwardness between you

. “Do you remember the kites-“ he begins to ask gesturing to the open field and large tree in front of you

. “Yeah, I do,” You smile before adding, “I still think we should have invited Sentinel.”

“No,” his answer is firm, just like it had been back then, but his voice is lighter than it’s been all morning. “That would have been cheating.”

“Easy to say when you weren’t the one who had to climb the tree,” you say with a laugh. You’d been taught laughter as a technique. It was a tool, to be deployed at the right moments, to set others at ease. So different from the involuntary reaction it was around him. He was always too good at drawing it out of you. “Who knew the Marshal of Los Diablos would struggle so much with something so simple as flying a kite.”

He bumps his shoulder against yours, “I didn’t want to rob you of part of the experience.”

You remember he’d waxed philosophical about the importance of doing it the old-fashioned way. Of running to gather speed and watching it begin to soar behind you, that it was more fun if it took a couple tries. Empty words about childhood magic and how he hoped you could recapture it, that he could show this little piece that must have been missing from yours. He would never really understand it wasn’t just about kites, or making s’mores, or playing pirates. It wasn’t just particular experiences you were missing but the whole thing.

You’d never had a childhood. There was nothing to recapture because you never had it in the first place. Just like you’d never had a name until he teased and cajoled you to give him one. All you had was incubation tubes and handlers and endless white walls. There was nothing magical about the chains on your wrist, the chains on your mind, the monsters that stalked the halls

. “Bui?” you hear his voice as if from a distance. There’s a child crying somewhere and you know it’s because of you. The park has emptied. The romance novel lies forgotten on the bench, too much of a hurry to get away from you. Unable to stand even a hint of your memories. Good, they should run.

You’re the monster now.

He doesn’t seem to notice the effect you have. He’s only looking at you. Eyes wide and a concerned wrinkle between his brow. This is something he could never understand. How could he? He’s untouched. Untouched with his unknowable static mind. You wish you could take it in your hands and twist it into a shape you could recognize. Something that you could interpret and begin to understand, but it always slips out. Like trying to grab mist or sunlight. You can feel it against your skin, against your shields, but you can’t affect it.

“It’s fine.”

You don’t need to read his mind to know he doesn’t believe you. Ortega may be a fool, but he was never stupid.

His hand brushes against yours again. Slower this time, lingering, letting his finger drag along yours. It tingles. If you didn’t know better, you’d say it was his mods acting up, but you’ve been shocked by him before and it felt nothing like this.

It’s an itch under your skin driving you to some sort of action. To punch him in the face or pull him in and kiss him. You don’t do either, just pull your hand away.

“You don’t have to do that.” His voice is quiet, gentle, just like the touch of his hand had been.

“I’m not doing anything.”

“Yes, you are. I can see you’re pretending to be fine when you aren’t. I know you better than that.” There’s something in his eyes, something begging you to give in, to let him in.

You want to. Some small stupid part of your brain remembering how it felt. How it felt to be real, to be more than just an instrument of vengeance. To be a person. To laugh.

You shake your head, “not anymore.” You know how that ends. Rising form the bench, you burn away that little voice, the one that wants to stay, to take his hand, to let him care about you. All you have is your fire. You won’t let his stupid brown eyes and fond memories douse the flames. He’d be disappointed if he did anyway. Can’t he tell there’s nothing left of you but ashes?

“Vesper,” he calls after you begin to walk away.

“Just give up, Ric,” you don’t turn around as you say it. You just start walking, one foot in front of the other.

He doesn’t get up, but his words follow you as you exit the park, “I won’t.”

It’s just like him to get the last word in.

#tumblrs formatting is going to kill me #ask #anon #sensory prompts #oc: vesper bui #lovelieswrites #if: fhr #fhr ortega

17 notes · View notes

tallycraven · 4 years

Text

brainwashed!raelle pt.3

(pt. 1) (pt. 2) cw: torture, violence, a lil slappy a lil stabby.

Raelle leaves the room and Scylla crashes back into her seat, flooded with relief. Relief that Raelle’s alive; a little fucked in the head, but alive.

She also can’t be that fucked in the head if she remembered her favorite color. Scylla had barely been able to stop herself from crying in joy when Raelle had corrected her planted mistake.

It means Raelle’s still in there somewhere.

She sends a small thanks into the air for Izadora and her brief lesson on memory modification.

Now she just has to figure out how to get her out how to unpick the knot that was planted in her head.

Raelle is frustrated.

The headache doesn’t go away and each time she’s brought the meal to her prisoner, it just gets worse. Especially when Scylla looks up at her and asks about two people named Abigail and Tally.

The moment those names leave Scylla’s mouth, a strong throb of pain makes her double over as a wave of nausea washes through her.

Scylla pulls against her chains in an attempt to get closer to Raelle to soothe her pain but Raelle reads it as a threat and scrambles back a few feet, hand clutched at the back of her neck where her skull meets her spine.

“Why can’t you understand I’m not trying to hurt you?!” Scylla says out of frustration. “I’m trying to get you to remember!”

“There’s nothing to remember! I don’t know you! I don’t know anybody named Abigail or Tally either.” Raelle insists and hurriedly leaves the room again, trying hard to ignore the way her head surges in pain.

And yet no matter what her mouth and brain says, she still finds herself in Willa’s office while her mom is out of the safehouse.

She doesn’t know what she’s looking for exactly but she’s rifling through mission reports and blueprints scanning for mentions of the names Abigail and Tally or even Scylla when she comes across a file labelled Ramshorn, S. — infiltration and recovery.

Reading Scylla’s dossier is strange. It feels a little like she’s encroaching on something she shouldn’t be, like she’s found a secret that wasn’t hers to learn just yet.

She gets to the actual updates and reports and her headache becomes splitting. her vision blurs and when she reaches up to wipe her nose, her hand comes away bloody.

It’s then that the door opens and she looks up to see her mother standing in the doorway.

Willa’s face is a combination of surprise, disappointment, and enough rage to make Raelle a little scared.

“Raelle.” She says in that way that moms do when they know they’ve caught you doing something you shouldn’t. She drops the bait, staring straight into Raelle’s eyes as if saying, go on, tell me your excuse.

Raelle fumbles, of course, there’s a headache that rivals Zeus’s flowering in her temples. With her eyes darting back and forth from her mother to the paper in her hand, Raelle finds herself stuck between fury and confusion.

The fury wins out in the end, because she is still Raelle Collar after all. Rage is embedded in her veins, no matter what apparent fuckery has been done to her brain.

“Mom, I know who she is.” She says, but her voice is less furious and more unsteady than she’d like. “She knows who I am.”

Willa seems to be collecting her thoughts before taking a couple of steps towards raelle.

Raelle instinctively backs up towards the bookshelves in her mom’s office.

Willa stops and says, “Raelle, come now, don’t be ridiculous. she’s an ex-associate that we’re punishing for leaking valuable knowledge.”

There’s something dark and untrustworthy in Willa’s eyes. Something that tells Raelle she’s only telling half-truths like she’s always done. Always half-truths.

Raelle tries to dash towards the doorway and book it out, but she barely gets three steps past her mom when there’s a thumb to her forehead and she’s knocked out cold.

It’s irritatingly familiar.

Scylla wakes from an uncomfortable nap to the sound of her prison door being opened. It’s weird, seeing as her daily visit from Raelle had already happened and her next one wasn’t due for at least another twenty hours.

A spark of hope strikes at the sight of Raelle coming in again and a million thoughts of salvation flood her. Maybe whatever work had been performed on Raelle had been undone, maybe Raelle uncovered her memories, maybe she was simply just strong and capable enough to break through the illusions.

All of it is shut down and smothered the moment Raelle’s eyes meet hers.

Empty.

Fuck—

is the only thought that doesn’t even make it past her lips as she’s met with a rough backhand slap that almost draws blood.

She finds that the pain from the slap isn’t what hurts the most. It’s the fact that Raelle doesn’t so much as even flinch when she strikes her again.

This time it is enough to draw blood; the impact splits her chapped lips and Scylla finds herself wincing at the pain which only makes it worse.

She’s busy blinking the blur from her vision when Raelle takes two steps back and shakes her hand off like she’d just touched something unsavory.

Willa steps in behind Raelle with a smirk and Scylla’s so angry that she pulls against the chains with an angry scream.

“What did you do?! You can’t just fuck with someone’s head like that! You can’t make her into someone she’s not!”

She receives nothing in return other than a calm smirk from Willa, so she turns her attention back to Raelle.

Kind, soft, gentle Raelle who’d never hurt her before. Who’d touched her like she was made of the thinnest glass. Who ran her fingers along Scylla’s spine like she was afraid Scylla would come undone if she pressed too hard. And she begs.

“Raelle please, this isn’t you, they’ve done something, you have to listen to me. You have to remember, I’m—“

The next hit is a straight on punch to her cheek, sending her back in her chair and tilting back; the only thing that stops her from collapsing back onto the ground is hand that Willa places against the back of the chair as she walks around Scylla.

Willa leans down next to Scylla’s ear and she can hear the smirk in her voice when she says, “Now now, don’t strain yourself too hard to convince her of things. You are the one who killed her friends after all.”

“Fucking bold of you to think you can stop those two annoying shits from finding you.” Scylla bites back, missing the small pinch of confusion that briefly flashes on Raelle’s face.

Willa’s smile drops and she returns to her full height, “My daughter’s going to teach you what happens to a traitor to the cause, Ms. Ramshorn. Unless you tell us what you learned from the army before you double-crossed us, you’ll find I’ve told her there are no limits.”

The realization. The reveal. Daughter. Scylla’s caught between laughing at the situation and wishing that her arms were free so she can throttle Willa.

What kind of mother abandons her daughter and then sends a terrorist cell’s agents to steal her away from the army?

And on the matter of her punishment: it’s a trick, of course. Scylla never properly learned any secrets. She’d been sent in to learn how to all the tips and tricks of how to be a Necro and assigned the task of delivering Raelle shortly after.

Raelle’s been ordered to beat and/or torture nonexistent secrets out of her.

It’d be laughable if she couldn’t feel the remains of her heart being ground into dust.

Willa leaves not too long after that, leaving her alone with Raelle, who just stands across from her, eyes calculating and fingers splaying out every so often before tightening back into a fist.

“Raelle, I didn’t kill your—“

The sudden slap stings and reopens the just-clotting gash on her lip. Scylla tilts her head back to the singular light in her cell and breathes deep, the taste of copper heavy on her tongue.

It was better when Raelle looked like she didn’t know her. She doesn’t quite know how to deal with the raw hatred in her eyes now.

So she stays quiet, she lets Raelle watch her until she apparently can’t stand the sight of Scylla anymore and leaves, slamming the door behind her.

Scylla just sags in her chair and stares up at the ceiling of her cell, letting the light burn into her retinas so that she doesn’t have to see the hate in Raelle’s eyes when she closes her own.

Sometimes she wishes she had been found and killed in that fucking garage.

Scylla wakes up to water being thrown in her face, because of course.

Raelle’s looking at her with a quirked eyebrow and steely eyes that are almost grey in this light.

“You’re going to tell me everything you learned about Alder and Bellweather.”

“Mm,” Scylla hums, running her tongue over her busted lip and stretching against her chains, “Bellweather like the mother of your friend who I killed?”

Raelle grips the back of her head, threading her fingers into her hair and pulling hard enough for Scylla to wince, forcing her to look her dead in the eyes.

“Answer me.”

“Harder.” Scylla sneers up at Raelle, shit-eating grin on her face as she stares the only person she’s ever loved in the eyes and resorts to the last weapon in her arsenal of defense: humor.

Too bad Raelle doesn’t seem to appreciate it as much as she would’ve several months ago. No, instead of smirking back and kissing her like Scylla so wishes that she would, she pulls away and tightens the chains to Scylla’s arms, binding them uncomfortably behind her back.

And then launches a punch straight into her stomach.

“Fuck, shit, why don’t you just climb inside my brain and take your information?” Scylla gasps, struggling against the tightened cuffs, “Oh, that’d be too simple of an answer, huh? To find nothing there. Because I didn’t kill Tally or Abigai—“

Gods, is she sick of being slapped.

It carries on the same way for at least a week. Scylla loses count by the fifth time Raelle comes around, this time with tools. And it’s nothing like the girl she remembers, like a core part of her has been surgically removed.

Scylla makes some passing comment about Willa being a bitch and gets stabbed in return. It takes her much too long to grapple with the fact that there’s a knife sticking out of her, she’s too busy trying to find a gap in this fucked up persona that’s taken over Raelle’s body.

She wishes her tormentor didn’t have her Raelle’s eyes.

She wishes a lot of things, now that she’s not even afforded a real meal.

She wishes she could have her mom’s chicken noodle soup one last time.

She wishes this Raelle wouldn’t bind her hands so fucking tight.

But what the fuck does any of it matter when she can barely open one of her eyes and the other one can’t stay open for longer than a minute at a time?

She fights back at first, making snide remarks and off-color jokes until Raelle hits her hard enough to knock her out.

Rinse and repeat, the same cycle until Scylla’s too dizzy to keep her head up and is chuckling mindlessly at the birds flying around in her vision.

Scylla’s never been this tired in her entire fucking life and she’s been on the run since she was born.

At some point, she wonders why she’s even trying to stay alive. She’s run for so long, fought for so long. And for what? She has no family, no cause to fight for, not even a single person that’s noticed her absence and cared.

But she does admit to herself that should this be her end, at least it’s in the hands of the woman she loves. The woman she betrayed and left to become… this.

She figures it’s a fair trade, as Raelle brings her fist down hard against her cheek. She’s hitting hard enough bruise her own knuckles and Scylla thinks passingly that she’d still very much like to bring said knuckles up to her lips and kiss them until they’re okay again.

It’s probably the delirium from lack of sleep and blood loss, really.

And nothing at all with how Scylla’s been imagining where she’d be right now if she had just taken Raelle and ran all those months ago.

Unconsciousness seems unavoidable now, but Raelle forcefully pulls Scylla’s gaze to her own again, physically tugging Scylla away from her daydream of dancing in a kitchen with Raelle.

“Tell me what you know.” She doesn’t even sound like she’s upset with the fact that Scylla’s two seconds away from dying.

It hurts to laugh, but Scylla breathes a small chuckle anyway. “I love you.”

The look she gets in return from Raelle is so full of blind rage, confusion, and annoyance that Scylla almost feels shamed.

Because she doesn’t deserve to hear it back. Because Raelle’s only in this situation because of her. Because her parents gave their lives for hers and all she’s done with it is ruin the life of the only person she’d ever wanted to save.

“It’s okay,” Scylla says more to herself than to Raelle, who’s just watching her, “you don’t have to say it back.”

She’s fading fast. Part of her wishes that her last breath could be of the sea air, that she could be laying in the sand. But she is looking at Raelle, and that’s more than she thought she’d get when she still believed she was being shipped off to prison.

It’s not a bad way to die at all.

So she takes a final, shaky breath, trying to drink in air that her lungs don’t seem to care for, and smiles at Raelle, “I chose you and I don’t regret it.”

The last thing she sees is a wince of pain and horror trigger on Raelle face as she brings a hand up to the back of her head. Then the door to her cell bursts open, letting in a stream of light and loud commotion as everything fades to black.

#raylla #jenn writes #a couple of notes here:#no i don't think willa would actually be this evil #it's just fun to have a Villain #i don't like writing raelle hurting scylla like this can you tell #NEXT INSTALLMENT LAST ONE and also the only reason i started this drabble bulletfic anyway #okey byeeee #brainwashed au

53 notes · View notes

steppedoffaflight · 3 years

Text

Summer’s a Knife - Chapter 13

Catch up on Chapter 12 here

“Not true!” You scoff. “I missed you! And I didn’t get to see you on your birthday!” You return your voice to normal, taking your eyes off of the road to look at him real quick. “Happy birthday, by the way.”

“Oh, don’t remind me,” Van laughs. “Worst hangover I’ve had in years. Or maybe I’m just too old to handle ‘em now.”

“Could be,” You tease. “27, really getting up there now.”

You try to make Van’s (belated) birthday special for him.

Word count: ~11k

A/N: content warning for a little bit of under-negotiated edging and some negotiated bondage :)

Chapter Thirteen August 2019

Van sends you more snaps on his birthday than he probably has the entire time you two have had each other added on there.

“Ugh!” You sigh as you sit with Mary in your usual booth at the diner. You’ve got your phone held away from you, both of you leaned over the table as you open the third batch of snapchats from Van today. These ones include photos of the cake the boys had surprised him with, and a small stack of badly wrapped gifts they’ve presented him with. You pull the phone away from Mary when the interesting parts are over, when the snaps turn to clips of Van harassing the boys; Bondy laughing as he flips off the camera, Bob shying away as Van tries to shove the phone in his face.

“I haven’t gotten him one single fucking gift,” You groan, lowering your head onto your folded arms.

“Sit up, Alexis is back,” Mary tells you, and you pull yourself into a sitting position with another sigh, as Alexis comes back to the booth with your food. You’re absolutely starving, but can’t find it in you to dig into your club sandwich in your sour mood.

“Oh, Jesus,” Mary sighs in exasperation, watching you pick at your french fries. “It can’t be that hard to think of something!”

While Mary speaks you finally take a bite of your sandwich. “It is!” You argue after you’ve swallowed it down. “He’s a millionaire! Anything he wants he just buys it for himself! What am I supposed to contribute?”

Mary narrows her eyes in thought as she chews on a bite of her veggie gyro. “Alright. What do you guys do when you’re together?”

“We fuck, we eat, smoke, watch Netflix, and sometimes hang out with his friends.” You tick each activity off one of your fingers.

“Okay. How about you just cook him something nice? You know, have a nice date but, like, at his house? I’m sure he’d like a home cooked meal after touring.”

It’s a good idea, but still you sigh. “I don’t know what he likes.” No matter what you cook, Van both eats and compliments it. You have a suspicion that everything you make actually sucks and he’s just too polite to say. “He literally eats everything. You should see those boys on tour. They’re maniacs over the catering.”

“Plus,” You continue, “There’s no way I could cook at Van’s house. It’s a fucking dump right now.”

Mary’s eyes widen as she sips her iced tea. “What about paying someone to come clean it? He’d probably love coming home to a clean house. Especially when he thinks he’s got to deal with it.”

That’s not a bad idea, actually. You don’t feel comfortable letting strangers into Van’s house without permission, but a new idea has bloomed in its place.

“I’ll clean it,” You tell Mary. “I don’t know how he’d feel about random people coming in when he’s not even in the country.”

“Okay, so that’s one gift.”

“I’ll clean the house and…” You gaze down at your food when the next idea works its way into your mind, “I’ll get him dinner from his favorite restaurant.”

“Yes!” Mary claps her hands together in excitement. “What are you gonna get him?”

You try to spit out the name of the French restaurant Van likes the lobster dinner from.

“No fucking way, you’ve been there?” Mary’s eyes widen. “I didn’t know that’s where he took you out!”

“I’ve been there twice, actually,” You admit sheepishly. “That’s where we went for Benji’s birthday.”

“You lucky bitch! Theo and I have tried so hard to get a table there for our anniversary and their waiting list for reservations is so long! I guess the rumors are true. They really do only give a fuck if you’re famous.”

“Weird, I’d never heard of them when Van took me there.”

Mary only shrugs, but you figure you already know why she’s heard of the place when you haven’t. It’s not obvious behind her down-to-earth personality and humor that made you adore her from your first meeting, but Mary comes from money. She’s even got a degree from Stanford to prove it. It’s in accounting (because those were the easiest classes for her), it’s never been used a day in her life, and was entirely paid for by her parents.

“When’s your anniversary?” You ask, ready to change the topic now that you’ve gotten two gifts under your belt. You’ve got a little under two weeks until Van will be back in town for a couple of days, and now you were feeling more confident that you could pull something together.

“The end of September, but they’re booked until next year,” Mary sighs.

When you get out of the shower that night, there are three missed calls from Van. You don’t even bother to get dressed before calling him back, sitting on the edge of your bed wrapped in your towel, the ends of your hair dripping onto your comforter.

The phone rings until it’s almost gone to voicemail. At the last second Van accepts the call, and there’s some rustling before you decide to speak.

“Hi, birthday boy,” You giggle softly down the line. “How was your big day?”

“It’s been good, yeah. Good.” You’ve heard Van stumble over his words after drinks, but never slur like this.

“You sound like you’ve had a good day,” You laugh.

“Had a class night,” Van agrees. “Fucking class.”

You’re still not used to communicating across a time difference. The mention of nighttime brings it back in your awareness. “Wait. What time is it for you?”

There’s some rustling noises while Van checks the screen, then the phone is pressed back to his ear. “Half four. Just got back to the hotel.”

“Jeez, Van! Why aren’t you sleeping already?”

“��Cause I wanted to talk to you,” Van replies. “It’s not right.”

You’re beaming, charmed by this drunken Van. “What’s not right?”

Van scoffs. “That I don’t get to see my best mate on my birthday!”

“You spent the whole night with them, didn’t you?”

“The lads. Not you.”

The earnesty in his voice makes your heart squeeze. “That’s okay. I’m gonna see you soon, right?”

“Yeah. Really soon. Super soon.”

You smile to yourself. “Where are you?”

“In my room.”

You cackle out loud at that. “I know that. I meant the country!”

“Right. Um. Christ, I don’t fucking know. I forgot.”

“You’re so drunk,” You tut. You expect him to deny it, but listen to his distant laughter instead.

“I’m completely fucked,” He agrees. “Beyond pissed.”

“But you had fun? Was your cake good?”

“Loads of fun. Loads and loads of fun. I don’t remember how many pubs the lads dragged me to. As soon as one closed, bam, next one. It was great.” There’s some shuffling, then: “I forgot about the cake. Gonna have some right now, as a matter of fact.”

You hear the chaos of drunk Van serving himself a piece of cake.

“Wish you would’ve been here,” He says through a mouthful of dessert. “Woulda had so much fun.”

You don’t know which one of you he’s declaring would’ve had fun, but it seems he’s still not over the fact you two have spent the day apart. “I know,” You sigh, feeling a pang of disappointment for not the first time today. “I wish I would’ve been able to see you today, too.”

“Next year.” You hear the soft gulp of Van swallowing another bite down, and then his voice is much clearer. “Better request it off work now,” He teases. “You’ll never spend another first of August without me.”

“Okay,” You agree, only to mollify him. “You should probably get to bed. Text me tomorrow, okay?”

“If I’m alive,” Van chirps.

“You’ll be okay,” You assure him. “Drink lots of water.”

“Yeah.” Van’s voice is starting to grow quieter, rumbling like he’s close to falling asleep. “See you soon.”

“See you soon,” You promise. Your heart hurts at the fact you’re both sleeping alone, the distance between you two suddenly feeling overwhelming. “I miss you.”

Van yawns, and you have a feeling he didn’t catch your words. “Goodnight. I love you,” He slurs.

His words send a cold shot of adrenaline rushing through your veins, even if you know he doesn’t mean them. You almost end the call right there, but you don’t.

“I love you too,” You say instead. “Night.”

Even if Van’s declaration only comes from a place of drunken sleep-deprivation, it feels nice to have the opportunity to say it back. There’s something relieving about admitting it out loud, for the first time, even if this’ll be the only time.

Van’s breathing is soft on the other end as you hang up.

If giving Van’s neglected house some TLC was going to be the foundation of your gifts, you had no time to waste. His place was massive- not a job that could be tackled in one day- and during the week you had absolutely no desire to do anything after your workdays. You’d have to put some real work in on the weekends to make sure you pulled this off, which is why bright and early on Saturday morning you were pulled up to his gate, struggling with the 8 on the keypad.

You’d made a trip to the store last night to prepare your arsenal, and you struggled to lug it all inside. Unsure of what horrors you’d encounter, you’d bought different cleaning sprays for an assortment of surfaces, mildew, molds. You had boxes of trash bags, not sure whether Van was stocked with his own; and plenty of air freshener to try and chase away the stagnant smell that hit you as soon as you walked in. Then there were the tools; fancy antibacterial toilet brushes, fresh sponges and cleaning cloths. Lots and lots of paper towel. You even haul in a gallon of laundry detergent (and the accompanying softener, of course) and some detergent for the dishwasher. You knew that if you were going to be efficient, you’d need to eliminate time trying to understand where Van would store the things you might need.

His living room is just as you two had left it the night he went to the hospital. There’s a lump of blankets overtaking half of the couch, and seven mugs of tea, three with leftover liquid that was now home to some fuzzy mold. The crewneck he had changed out of is rumpled on the floor, reeking of B.O. from his sweaty fever. The briefs nearby smell similar.

In the spot where there used to be a stunning monstera plant by the front door, there’s now a yellowed, withered corpse, surrounded by dead leaves that have fallen to the floor. You inspect its limp stem carefully before solemnly declaring it dead. You really had your work cut out for you.

Your main thought as you turn your bluetooth speaker on and get your phone connected, prepared to blast the cleaning playlist you’ve carefully assembled, is that Van better fucking love this gift.

By the time you’re heading home, you feel satisfied with what you’ve gotten done. The kitchen is cleaned, the dishwasher rumbling as it sanitizes the mugs and dishes that had been left lying around. Your biggest obstacle had been locating the washer and dryer (which are nestled in a tiny room at the end of the living room hall), but now you could hear the sound of rushing water as the washer started on tonight’s load of laundry. You’d throw them in the dryer tomorrow morning, when you’d be back to tackle the half bathroom down the hall and start on the next level of the house. You carefully close all of the windows and lock the patio doors, which had helped air the place out today, before locking up the front door behind you.

There’s something domestic about cleaning Van’s house that keeps the project from being entirely unpleasant. You pick up little quirks of his in every room you explore: wrappers in the trashes reveal his favorite snack foods, the bathroom cupboards only store one chosen brand of toilet paper. His cereal cupboard is well-stocked but with only a small variety. His mailbox by the gate is overstuffed from his time away, and while you throw away any junk catalogues you note what companies he receives bills from. All of the important envelopes are addressed to his legal name, a small detail that amuses you endlessly.

In the process, you also manage to get a few gifts out of it. You pick up a ficus during your weekly grocery shopping to replace the dead monstera plant by the door, and while passing the candle section you decide on impulse to buy him a candle for his bedroom. He had decided not to take one of his bags to Europe with him, and had instead left the suitcase of dirty laundry to stink up his entire room. You haven’t figured out his scent preferences, but you decide on something that smells like pine trees just because you keep picking it up to sniff it. It’s in these moments- casually grabbing some things at the store for him- where your mind wanders over the what-ifs. What if he was your boyfriend? What if you two lived together? What if he had someone around to make sure all the food in the fridge didn’t rot when he was away? What if you didn’t have to squeeze time with Van into your schedule, because your life would be entwined with his? You know most of the reason he doesn’t want a relationship is because he thinks it would make things complicated, but to you it feels like everything would be much simpler.

You sigh sadly to yourself, place the three-wick candle carefully on the child seat so that the glass can’t be damaged in the cart with your other things, and continue shopping.

When Tuesday finally comes, you’re bouncing with excitement as you leave the office early, preparing to pick up Van from the airport. He had tried his hardest to resist, dead set on letting you finish the workday while he grabs an Uber home, but there was no way you were gonna let that happen. You head home to change and pack your overnight bag to stay at his, grab the wrapped gifts you’d left on the kitchen table, and head over to Van’s, where you make sure everything is ready.

You’d be stopping by the restaurant to pick up the carry out on the way back from the airport, so you carefully set the dining table in advance. You put out two plates, two wine glasses, and you’d even grabbed a package of tealights at the store. You set three of the little tins between your place settings, and stash the rest in his miscellaneous drawer. On the end of the dining table that wasn’t being used tonight, you display his wrapped gifts. The ficus has to rest on the floor, but you’d tied a nice silk bow around the plastic trunk. Was it all a bit cheesy and over the top? Probably. But with the way Van is quite the romantic, you think he’ll enjoy it.

You never get tired of the feeling that washes over you the first time you see Van. He looks dazed and exhausted fresh off of his flight, his backpack slung over one shoulder, his worn leather jacket slipping off of the other. As soon as he sees you he perks up, starting to walk at a faster pace as you approach him.

You reach out for a hug without a second thought, and Van smiles as you pull him in, happy to have him within reach. It doesn’t feel real the way his body is solid against yours. It feels like the dreams you’ve started to have on occasion, ones that leave a fog of disappointment lingering all day.

“Oh, I’ve missed you,” You sigh when you pull away, because those words just aren’t enough anymore.

Van smiles, but it’s a tired smile. Suddenly you worry he won’t have the energy for any festivities tonight. “Missed you,” He croaks.

He laces his fingers with yours, swinging your palms slightly as you two head to collect his baggage. You take one suitcase, he takes the other, and then you head out to the Range Rover.

“Are you hungry?” You ask nervously, once Van’s slumped into the front passenger seat. You’d been excited for tonight, but with the way Van’s energy is off your confidence that he’ll love what you have planned has instantly dissolved.

“Fucking starving,” Van groans. “I’ve been living off of airplane peanuts all day.”

“You didn’t eat on the flight?”

“No,” Van adjusts his jacket on his shoulders. “Been sleeping. Wanted to make sure I wasn’t shit company tonight.”

You’re busy navigating the parking lot, but still reach one hand out blindly to nudge him playfully. “You’re never bad company!”

“Yeah, right,” Van rolls his eyes. You’re relieved to hear him start to shake off the sleep, sounding more like himself. “Bet you’re just glad you didn’t have to deal with me the last couple’a weeks.”

“Oh, don’t remind me,” Van laughs. “Worst hangover I’ve had in years. Or maybe I’m just too old to handle ‘em now.”

“Could be,” You tease. “27, really getting up there now.”

“Oi. Shut up.” Van grumbles, but he’s not able to keep a straight face. He gazes out the window for a moment. “Why’re we taking this way home?”

“There’s an accident,” You lie. “Got caught in stop-and-go on my way here.”

Van accepts your reasoning, lifting his hips so he can pull his phone from his back pocket. You watch him flick through different notifications, staying blissfully unaware of your route until fifteen minutes later when you’re pulling up to the restaurant.

As your car slows, Van comes back to reality. “What’s up?” He asks, looking around.

You avoid an actual explanation as you put the car in park and start to unbuckle. “Stay here, I have to run in real quick.”

The carryout is already prepared, a large bag with ‘McCann’ written on it sitting on a surface behind the hostess booth. You pass over your card, trying not to cringe at the price, and in return you’re passed the bag of food and a cardboard carrier with two bottles of Van’s favorite wine. It was all a bit pricey, sure, but worth it when you see Van’s eyes widen through the tinted windows of the Rover when he sees what you’re up to.

“Are you fucking kidding?” His voice has risen a few octaves in his typical amused/disbelieving tone. “What have you done this for?”

You set the food on the back bench before climbing into the driver’s seat. “You said you were hungry!” You laugh. “I hope you’re in the mood for lobster.”

Van is grinning so wide that his dimple is making an appearance. “Why the fuck did you do this?”

“For your birthday!” You exclaim, starting the final stretch of the drive to Van’s place.

“My birthday was two weeks ago!”

“A week and a half,” You correct him. “And I didn’t get to see you, so it doesn’t count. So today is technically your birthday all over again.”

“Ridiculous,” Van shakes his head. “You’re the worst, you know that?”

“Oh, don’t pretend like you don’t wanna celebrate with me,” You shoot him a glare. “Mr. ‘you’ll never spend a first of August without me again’.”

A surprised laugh bubbles out of Van. “Did I say that?”

You nod. “You did.”

“I’ll be honest, I don’t remember a word of that phone call.”

“Well, you were very drunk,” You shrug. “Drunker than I’ve ever heard you.”

“Why don’t we ever go out to pubs? Do you get pissed with Mary?”

“I used to go clubbing with Mary a lot,” You tell him as you turn off of the main road, the hill of his neighborhood visible in the distance. “Never really been a bar person, but we could go out one weekend.”

Van makes a displeased noise in the back of this throat. “Not here, in all these hipster cafes. You gotta come to London, we can do a proper pub crawl.”

“I don’t have a passport,” You admit sheepishly, as if that’s the only reason you can’t leave the country on Van’s whim.

“Christ. Americans never do! Mental.”

“Yet again,” You start, leaning out of the window slightly to punch the gate code in, “You hate America so much but you keep coming back!”

“The lobster is good here,” Van deadpans as you pull into the driveway.

Van grapples with both of his suitcases while you’re busy trying to unlock the front door with the food in your hands. You hold the door to let him in first, watching him carefully. He barges his way to the middle of the room before he pauses, realizing what he’s walked into.

“What is this?” He’s got a confused smile, looking over at you by the door. He’s gaping at the clean living room, and the surprise on the dining table.

“Surprise,” You giggle nervously, letting him take it all in.

“You tidied up the living room?” Van asks, carefully looking around. The mantle is dusted, the rug is vacuumed, and the place finally smells like someone actually lives here.

“I tidied up everywhere, actually,” You admit. “The bathrooms, the bedrooms, the kitchen. All clean.”

“Holy shit. You shouldn’t have. Really.” He’s clearly stunned by the gesture, carefully removing his shoes and even going so far as to set them on the mat by the door. “You really did not have to do this, love.”

At the nickname, you know you’ve impressed him. You glow with pride as you bring the bag of food to the table, making a quick detour to the kitchen to grab some utensils to transfer the food out of the containers and onto the plates.

“Do you wanna open your presents before or after we eat?” You ask, carefully spooning the seasoned butter that was melted at the bottom of Van’s container onto his food.

“After,” Van says, rubbing his hands together in anticipation as he starts to seat himself. You grab one of the bottles of wine, heading into the kitchen to find the corkscrew.

“I love the tree,” Van says when you return, nodding to the ficus standing proudly with his bow at the head of the table. “Thank you.”

“Your plant died,” You inform him, pointing to the empty space by the front door where the monstera used to sit. “It feels empty without it.”

Van frowns. “I told Bob not to give me anything that needed watering. I’m shit at remembering.” He shrugs. “He had a good half a year.”

“Bob got you it?”

Van nods. “For Christmas. It was one of his, to be fair. Got a green thumb. Great at pawning off his plant spawns to us lads.” He smiles affectionately, and you can’t help but smile as well. They were such a strange group of friends.

You don’t sit down after you’ve poured wine for you two. “Do you have a lighter?” You’d forgotten to grab one in the kitchen for a tealights.

Van procures one from the front pocket of his button up without question, and you light the candles before you sit down. You notice that Van hasn’t started eating without you.

“Very posh,” He smiles at your setup, raising his glass of wine. “Cheers.”

“Cheers to 27,” You add, clinking your glass with his.

There’s not much conversation as you two eat. Van is ravenous, and is done with his meal before you. You’re only halfway through your chicken parmesan, but you decide to save the other half for later. It wouldn’t do you any good to get all sluggish and bloated before the night’s even begun.

You start to clear the table, Van standing to help automatically.

“Don’t help!” You scold him. “This is a gift!”

“You’ve already cleaned the place once!” Van insists, holding his dirty plate out of your reach when you attempt to take it from him. “That’s more than enough!”

He helps you rinse the dishes, marveling at how you put them directly in the dishwasher. It’s clearly not a habit he’s developed.

You two keep the wine glasses out, not finished drinking for the night. Then Van opens his gifts while you radiate nervous energy the entire time.

He’s not someone who gets worked up over gifts, but his quiet gratitude is special in it’s own way. He loves the wooden rolling tray you’ve gotten him to replace the dented up tin one he carries around, and he laughs at the pack of THC water you’d gotten from your clients. He places the ficus by the front door, refusing to untie the bow around its trunk. When he’s done he pulls you in for a big hug.

“I know it’s not much…” You start nervously, but Van shakes his head.

“Thank you,” He cuts you off, rocking your bodies side to side. When his arms finally loosen you tilt your chin up to look at him and he leans down to give you a kiss.

“Thank you.” He repeats, giving your arms a small squeeze before releasing you.

“What do you wanna do?” You ask, now that dinner and gifts are over.

Van shrugs. He’s gazing out of the patio doors at the Hollywood cityscape. “Do you wanna go for a dip in the hot tub?”

That’s about the last thing you expected him to say. In all the times you’ve been over you have never seen Van use his pool. But you wouldn’t be the one to say no to the birthday boy himself. “Yeah, that sounds fun.”

“I’m all cramped up from sleeping on an airplane seat,” He explains. “Nothing sounds as good as those jets.”

He heads upstairs to get changed, but you’ve got nothing to change into. You’ve got your matching set of lace bra and underwear on, the same set you’d worn on your first date with Van. In any regular case you’d be strictly opposed to swimming in them, but you did have a change of clothes in your overnight bag, and you’re curious about how Van will react.

When Van comes down in his swim trunks, he realizes you’re still in your clothes. “Oh, fuck. Do you have something to wear?”

You can see he’s ready to retract his request, so you offer him a reassuring smile. “Yeah, let’s go!”

He clearly doesn’t understand what you’re up to, but leads you into the kitchen and out into the backyard. It’s the one area of the house that stays perfectly maintained no matter how long he’s gone; he’s got a landscaping company that comes over regularly to trim the grass and clean the pool.

At the bottom of the cement steps that descend from the kitchen, Van makes a right around some lounge chairs. You don’t understand what he’s doing until he tugs back a heavy set of curtains, revealing a small cabana built right into the house.

“Are you joking?” You gape in disbelief as you check it out. There’s a seating area, a television mounted on the wall, and a door to a small bathroom in the corner. “What the fuck is this, oh my God?”

Van shakes his head, popping into the bathroom before coming back with two swim towels in hand. He passes one to you. “It’s my patio!”

“A patio is outside,” You correct him, “This is a cabana with a fucking television that’s attached to your house.”

Van gestures to the pool past the open curtains. “It’s got curtains. It’s outside.” The way he’s smiling reveals he knows exactly how luxurious it is.

The pool thermostat is installed in one of the walls, and Van pokes at it before you hear the rumble of the hot tub coming to life, the jets starting to bubble.

Van heads straight for the hot tub, but you start to get undressed while he’s not paying attention. You kick off the sandals you’d worn over here, peel off your shirt and shorts, and dig around in your shorts pockets for a hair tie.

A bra and underwear set has the same coverage as a bikini, but there’s something about openly walking across the backyard in your underwear that feels forbidden. Of course, nobody’s able to see you considering Van’s privacy bamboo that surrounds the house, but the sun is still out and you still feel exposed as you approach Van.

He does a double take when he finally settles onto the stone seat that encircles the small spa. You use the metal railings to start stepping in, pretending you don’t notice him staring.

“I knew you didn’t have anything to wear!”

You smile, giving a small shrug like this is nothing out of the ordinary. “I’m wearing something, aren’t I?”

“Yeah, but now your knickers are soaked.”

You frown as you sit next to him, the hot water saturating the padded cups of your bra. “Ew. Don’t say knickers.”

He snorts, sinking deeper into the water until the ends of his hair are wet, the jet foaming directly on the back of his neck. “Fuck. This feels so good.”

The legs of his trunks have floated up around his thighs, and in the clean water your eyes can linger over him while he’s got his eyes closed, enjoying his makeshift massage.

“So how was tour?” You ask after there’s been some silence.

“Incredible,” Van tells you, sitting back up. His back is in front of the jet now, and he arches into it. “Europe fucking loves us. The crowds go wild every night. We only play Glasgow in Scotland, everyone loves that. It’s such a good time.”

He tells you some stories about the festivals they’ve done, some ridiculous questions interviewers have asked. You relax into the warm water as you listen to his voice, falling into a content daze. You suddenly feel like nothing in the world could feel as good as relaxing in a hot tub with Van after a couple of glasses of wine.

“How’s work been?” Van asks when he’s finished filling you in. You can feel your muscles start to tense, your mind start to remember the numerous frustrations that have been chipping away at your sanity lately.

“Don’t wanna talk about it,” You sigh, shaking your head as if that’ll clear your thoughts. “I just wanna forget about it and have a nice night with you.”

“Fair enough.” Van shrugs. “Are you?”

You’re resting your neck against the cement edge of the tub, your body floating weightlessly in the water as you gaze up at the light-polluted sky that is rapidly becoming darker as the day comes to a close. “Am I what?”

“Having a nice night?”

“Um, yeah,” You answer like it’s a stupid question. “We should use your hot tub more often. This thing is magic.” You imagine this is what babies in the womb must feel like, completely doused in warmth and without a care in the world.

“We should. You can keep a suit over here.”

You laugh at that, sitting up and looking over at him. You shiver as the tops of your shoulders are exposed to the air. “Why do you keep mentioning my suit? Do you not like what I’m wearing?”

“That’s the opposite of how I feel, actually. Just figured an actual suit would be more comfortable.”

You smile at his admission. “Oh, so you don’t actually hate this set?”

The water has carried one of the straps of your bra off of your shoulder, and you watch Van’s eyes dart to your bare skin.

“Course I don’t. Christ.”

Now it feels like you’ve got him where you want him. You ease up onto your knees, Van’s eyes dragging over the sopping lace as gravity pulls the cups lower, revealing more skin. You fight the urge to tug your strap up as you move closer to Van, who licks his lips.

“Okay.” Your voice is quiet, your body dangerously close to Van’s. You can feel the steam radiating off of his flushed body. “I was worried for a second.”

Van can tell you’re teasing, and he breaks out in a grin. “Shut the fuck up,” He laughs right in your face before his hands are on your hips, yanking you off balance and onto his lap. There’s the rush of water splashing around your bodies and a sickening twist in your stomach as you lose your balance.

The first thing you comprehend is Van’s lips against your neck, hungrily mouthing at your damp skin. Your knees have found their way to either side of his thighs, your hands gripping the edge of the tub for dear life. As soon as you feel steady again you stop clutching at the cement, gripping Van’s dripping shoulders. You let your hips sink down, your thigh muscles loose and relaxed enough to open wider without any discomfort.

You can’t feel if he’s hard through the water, but the way he groans is enough of a hint. Every noise you two make bounces off of the water, magnifying the sound.

You wrap your legs around his waist, his hands leaving your sides in order to cup your ass through the lace. You feel his fingers pinch at the fabric, rubbing it between his fingertips before he nestles his head into the crook of your neck, biting down where your neck meets your shoulder.

“Van!” You gasp in shock. His body is rocking so you grab the ledge to steady yourself. There’d always been an unspoken rule not to leave marks. At his name Van pulls away with a guilty grin.

“Too much?” He asks, carefully watching your reaction.

“No,” You assure him breathlessly. Your hand comes up to stroke his hair, wetting his roots in the process. You were aching for him to do it again. “But warn a girl, alright?” You breathe.

Van’s grin widens. “Yeah, alright,” He promises before his arms tighten around you, his mouth latching onto the same spot. This time the sting of his teeth makes you moan, your legs tightening around his waist, trying to press him as tight against you as humanly possible.

You close your eyes, your nose buried in his hair. You breathe in the scent of chlorine as you let him take the lead for this brief moment. It’s something you want to savor before you go upstairs, where the dynamics will be different.

When he pulls away he presses his lips to the top of your shoulder before you start to untangle yourself from him. You watch his expression cloud in confusion.

“You haven’t even seen the bedroom yet,” You tell him, starting for the steps. Out of the water, gravity feels too strong, the air icy cold compared to the water. You regret leaving, but there’s more in store.

The spot on your neck that Van had focused on throbs in residual pain as you grab your towel off of one of the lounge chairs, trying to dry off as best as you can. Van turns the jets in the tub off, closing the curtains to shut down the cabana.

“Want your clothes?” He asks, and you realize your shoes and outfit are slung over the couch.

“I’ll grab ‘em tomorrow,” You decide. You wouldn’t need them anymore tonight, so there was no need to waste precious time on a distraction.

The two of you struggle up the stairs to Van’s room, your muscles feeling like jelly.

You proudly open the door to present the room for him. Fresh sheets, washed comforter, fluffed pillows, and an empty hamper. Van laughs in disbelief.

“I got you this, too,” You tell him, holding your damp towel around your body with your elbows as you pick the pine candle off of his dresser. You hadn’t wrapped this gift, instead wanting to make it a nice touch for tonight. “I dunno if you like pine-scented things, but I thought it smelled good.”

“Love pine,” Van nods, coming up behind you. He opens his hands for you to pass the candle over, and you do. He sniffs at the wax before nodding his approval, passing it back to you.

“Hand me a lighter,” You request, and Van tosses you one before he starts to strip down, keeping the room neat by placing his wet towel and trunks in the hamper.

You struggle to get all three of the wicks lit, but you’re pleased at the warm glow the candle emits.

Van is already tugging the blankets down, ruining your hard work in the name of climbing into bed naked. You peel away your soaked bra and underwear, dropping them in the hamper with Van’s things.

“So,” Your heart starts racing now, but you try to remain nonchalant as you stride over to Van’s closet, sliding the door aside. “Do you have a robe anywhere?”

“Yeah, you need one? I have one hanging in the bathroom.”

You didn’t actually need one, but you nod, grabbing your overnight bag from the floor. “I’ll be right back.”

You feel like you’re about to start hyperventilating as you lock the door behind you. Van’s plush robe is dangling from the hook on the back of the door. Duh. You were the one who had washed it and hung it there, after all. The nerves were clearly getting to your head.

Your hair looks like a frizzy birds nest, every section a varying degree of damp. You extract your hair tie from the mess, and borrow Van’s brush to do some damage control. Once you’ve parted your hair correctly and smoothed it down, you look a million times better.

The only thing left to do was get dressed. You grope around in your bag until you feel the silky cloth of the lingerie. You’d purchased it just for this occasion, a sheer scrap of black fabric that Mary had helped you choose. The website called it a ‘babydoll set’, a lace bra with a silky transparent fabric draping off of the band. The airy cloth fell just below your ass, but it didn’t really matter how low it covered because you could blatantly see through it. There was a slit directly down the front, giving Van the ability to easily push the extra clothing aside in case he needed to access your skin. It had come with a matching thong but you don’t bother to put that on. You figure the bra is enough.

You unravel the tie of Van’s robe, your fingers shaking. You take a steadying breath before finally twisting the doorknob, turning the bathroom lights off as you step back into the bedroom.

“Oh, Christ.” Van groans, scrubbing his hands over his face. “You want me dead.”

You head to the bedroom door first, sliding the dimmer all the way down. The room is still lit from the flickering candle and the lights of the city shining through the open window, but without the overhead lighting everything feels much more relaxed.

You approach Van then, sitting down on the edge of the mattress next to his body. While you’d been adjusting the lights he’d propped himself up into a sitting position, and as soon as you sit down his hand comes to rest against the back of your neck.

You don’t speak. You want to poke around for some reassurance that he likes what he sees, some validation that Mary had been right when she’d pressured you into adding this finishing touch. But instead you let him cradle the back of your neck while he takes you in, his neck craning so he can give you a full onceover before meeting your eyes again.

“I’m convinced you’re trying to give me a heart attack,” He jokes, before hauling you in by the back of your neck for a kiss. “What is it with you and lace?”

“This is, like, all of the lace I own.” Per usual, you’ve got to brush off the compliment even if it’s the confidence boost you needed.

“And I got to see it all tonight? I’m one lucky lad.”

He looks annoyingly smug, the face of a boy who knows he’s about to get laid tonight. You kiss him again (and again) just so that you don’t have to look at him anymore.

You climb onto the bed completely, crawling into Van’s lap. Van startles when the robe tie crinkled in your hand brushes his ribs.

“What’s that?” He asks, peering down at your hand for a better look. You extend your fingers, the length of cloth unfurling, tumbling onto Van’s lap. “Is that the string on my robe?”

“Yeah,” You confirm. You want to explain, but your mouth suddenly goes dry, waiting for his reaction.

“What’ve you got that for?” He cocks his head in confusion, looking between the rope and your wide eyes.

You gulp. “I was thinking, y’know- if you were into it- we could try something kind of like the last time?”

Van’s expression is blank for a few moments, no doubt trying to recall your last time having sex. You watch his expression change as soon as he’s remembered.

“Are you gonna tie me up? Is that what this is?”

His voice has gone up in pitch, like he doesn’t really believe this is actually happening. You nod slowly.

“I mean, if you want. Just your wrists. Unless you have cuffs?” You ask the last part hesitantly, predicting Van’s answer. He confirms your suspicions when he shakes his head. “That’s what I thought.”

“You know how to tie me up with that?” Van asks, nodding at your palm.

“Yeah. Hold on.” You shuffle off of his body, laying the tie out flat on the mattress next to Van. It’s a trick you’d learned from Mary years ago, and was easy enough to Google and relearn. With minimal fuss you’ve tied a handcuff knot, holding it up for Van.

“No shit. You’re full of surprises tonight,” Van marvels.

“So… do you wanna try it?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Van grins. “I’ve already told you, you can do whatever you want to me. Consider me at your mercy, always. How do ya want me?”

You giggle, rolling your eyes at his dramatics. “Off of the bed,” You instruct him.

“How kinky are we goin’ tonight?” Van asks as he clamors off of the mattress. “Am I supposed to get down on my knees?”

He’s teasing, beaming down at you from where he’s standing. You get off of the mattress as well, trying to nudge it downwards.

“I need some space between the headboard and the mattress,” You explain, out of breath with the effort of trying to move it on your own. Van’s headboard was solid wood, not wrought iron like yours. You’d need to secure his wrists to one of the support beams holding the mattress up.

“You really thought this out, huh?” Van gets on the other side of the bed, helps you nudge the mattress a few inches down.

You don’t answer him, distracted with rearranging his pillows nicely before patting them. “Come lay down.”

Van obliges. As he’s holding his wrists out so that you can loop your handcuff knot around them, he nods to his bedside table.

“Don’t forget to grab a condom,” He reminds you.

You pause where you’re tightening the cloth against his skin. “About that.”

“We could skip it,” You suggest, trying to keep your voice light. “I mean, I know you’re clean. I’m on the pill. And I’m clean, but I don’t have, like, the records on hand, so, if-”

“Skip it.” Van cuts you off. “Deffo.”

The robe fabric is nice and snug against his skin, and you’re pleased when Van tests the restraint and it holds perfectly. Suddenly, everything is feeling very official.

You need your phone flash light in order to loop the extra length around the support slat you’d moved the mattress to reveal. When you’re done tying that knot you’re out of breath.

“Good?” You ask Van when you stand up. He’s got his elbows bent, his wrists comfortably resting right above his head, and when he strains to move them there’s not anywhere for them to go.

You get back on his lap, but the air in the room has changed. The anticipation is stifling. You’ve never felt so unsure and so certain at the same time. You desperately hoped everything went off without a hitch.

You could do anything to Van with the way he’s restrained, but for some reason it feels right to get a hand around him, starting to jerk him off slowly. It’s weird to think you’ve never given him a hand job before, as simple the act is. You only really get your hands on him for foreplay purposes, but thankfully Van doesn’t seem to mind, arching his back into the sensation. Then you remember his balls, and your other hand slides between his thighs, brushing against the soft skin of them. You feel them tighten reflexively away from your fingertips, Van whining when you cup them.

You could be minimal with Van’s foreplay, let your eagerness get the best of you, but you don’t. You keep your hand slow and steady, your rhythm perfectly even, and feel him swell in the palm of your hand, his hips wiggling to chase more friction.

You snap out of your trance when you suddenly feel Van’s thighs tremble underneath you, a small dash of precome blurting from the head of his dick when your hand brings his foreskin down. You hadn’t realized how close he was getting, too engrossed in touching him. You bring your hands away from his dick but let his balls still rest in your palm, giving them some gentle attention while you let Van back away from the edge.

Once Van has cooled down, that’s usually your cue to get started. His breathing has relaxed slightly, not so harsh and loud, and he’s not shaking anymore. But without really thinking about it you wrap your palm around him for a second time. His stomach tightens in surprise, but he doesn’t protest, so you decide to experiment with starting your slow, even tugs again.

This time you push your luck, still jerking him off even as you feel the warm drops of precome drip onto your fingers. You wait until he’s progressed past the trembling, until you feel his thighs tighten in anticipation of his orgasm before you release him, his dick coming to rest against his belly. While he’s trying to catch his breath you release his balls, letting them hang heavy between his legs in favor of having another hand free. He groans at the loss of contact, but you’re surprised at how quiet he’s been. You rub your hands up and down his thighs, accidentally rubbing his own precome over his skin. You wait until you feel his muscles unclench, until he relaxes into the mattress again with a sigh before you start up yet again.

There’s a strange thrill at what you’re doing, a dopamine rush like you’re playing the lottery. Van is clearly coming undone, hissing through his teeth at every slight touch, twitching and tensing helplessly beneath you. This time when you withdraw your hand you’re afraid you’ve misjudged him, because he tries to buck his hips up against your weight, his dick throbbing, and you’re positive he’s about to come all over his stomach even without your touch. When he doesn’t there’s a strange rush of pride that consumes you, only adding to the adrenaline rush.

Van’s been a good sport, but when you trace the vein on the underside of his dick with the tip of your finger, giddy with the way he startles, he stops staying quiet.

“Holy shit,” He gasps, and you can see his biceps flexing against his handcuffs. “Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit,” He chants, his eyes squeezing shut so tight you’re sure he sees stars when he blinks them open again.

“Too much?” You’d assumed Van was having a good time, but your heart sinks when you realize that he had no sort of safeword, that maybe you were getting a little too power hungry.

“You’re driving me fucking mad,” Van groans, slamming the back of his head against his pillow.

“Do you want me to stop?” You’ve stopped messing with him in case that’s what he’s getting at, absentmindedly tucking your fingertips under one of his knees, petting the thin skin back there.

“I would like to fuck you some time this year,” Van snorts, his voice laden with frustration.

You keep caressing the back of his knee. “So… stop?”

Van lifts his head enough to shoot you a weak glare. “You can do whatever you want. Just wondering how long a lad’s supposed to fucking hold off.”

It takes one more go to rid Van of his pesky stubbornness. He’s reduced to a flushed, sweating heap on top of the sheets, and although he doesn’t tap out you wouldn’t feel comfortable edging him any longer.

His body jerks as you rub up and down his sides, trying to ease him into the next thing. He clearly thinks you’re getting ready to play games again, unable to settle down.

“I’m done, I’m done,” You find yourself whispering, his body instantly starting to relax in relief. “Are you good? Still want me to fuck you?”

Van cracks a smile at that, although he doesn’t look like he’s entirely with you. “You better,” He croaks. “Don’t let that be for nothing.”

“Still want to skip the condom?” You decide to double check for good measure. It had all been fun and games until now, when you feel an increasing sense of duty to make sure Van’s taken care of. “Do you want your hands free?”

“You’re acting like you broke me,” Van chuckles. “Yes to skipping. Leave me be and get on with it.”

You offer his cheek a reassuring pat before brushing the sweaty hair away from his eyes, tucking it behind his ear as you’ve so often seen him do. You lean down for a kiss before sitting back up, positioning yourself over him.

The absence of the condom is strange when you hold the base of his dick, and you jump when you start to position his head between your legs. He’s warm and throbbing with anticipation, and you can feel every pulse of his heart beat against your opening, your stomach fluttering as your body prepares to make room for him.

“Oh my God,” You gasp as you start to lower down. Condoms had a tendency to make things a bit dry, to make the first few thrusts a bit tricky, but you’d forgotten how much simpler sex was without one. Van slides in without the slightest hold up, easily working his way deep even as you feel yourself tighten, your body instinctively trying to draw him in deeper. Once seated you force yourself to draw in a few shaky breaths, mentally willing yourself to relax around him.

As you’re lifting yourself back up Van moans, a vulnerable noise that has you clutching at his ribs.

“Oh, Van,” You whimper, aware that you’re losing control of the situation. But it’s been years since you’ve had unprotected sex, and that was when neither of you had any idea what you were doing, and this is a million times better, and Van is watching you with wide, blue eyes as you struggle to fuck him. “This is so good. Fuck, Van, it’s so good.”

He’s watching you in awe. “I know,” He nods, too consumed in you to fight his restraints, his wrists resting limply.

It’s evident that neither of you are going to be able to hold on; your time apart, the hot tub makeout, fantasy turned reality and the lack of any barrier between your bodies has made tonight come to a rapid boiling point. Your hands scramble against his skin as you try to keep your balance against the shocks of pleasure that twist through your stomach, each one feeling like an orgasm that doesn’t quite make it to climax. With each exhale you’re making what you’d consider the most unattractive noises possible, crying out in desperation when each shock doesn’t make it all the way, your own body keeping you on edge the same way you’d done to Van.

“I’m gonna fucking blow,” Van breathes after you have to pause to catch your breath against the feeling in your belly. “If you don’t want me inside get me the fuck out.”

“You’re fine,” You assure him, steadying yourself for another thrust. This time you support all of your weight on the palm pressed into Van’s chest, your other hand slipping between your legs so your fingers have access to your clit. When you meet Van’s gaze he’s gaping at you, mouth ajar.

“What?” You ask as you start quick, tight circles that combine perfectly with the fullness of Van.

Van shakes his head. “You’re incredible,” He sighs, melting back against his pillows.

Your orgasm blooms hot and heavy between your legs, the pressure of your fingertips becoming unbearable, your legs collapsing under the weight of anticipation. You scream Van’s name embarrassingly loud, desperately wishing you had a pillow to muffle yourself.

His own orgasm is unmistakable when it arrives only moments after yours. You have a flash of panic when you feel the warm gush of Van coming directly inside of you before you relax, remembering that it was intentional. This orgasm lasts noticeably longer than his usual ones, and with each pulse of his dick inside of you you feel impossibly fuller. When he’s done, his face smoothing out as he finally blinks up at you, you’re distracted by the syrupy heat between your legs, terrified for him to pull out.

“Don’t pull out yet,” You plead, your arms shaking as they continue to support you.

Van gives you a lopsided grin. “Couldn’t if I wanted to.” He tugs at his tied wrists for emphasis.

At this you can’t help but laugh. “Right.” It takes a strenuous amount of core strength to lift both of your hands, picking away at the handcuff knot until Van could slide his wrists out. His palms immediately come down to hold your hips in place, his skin warm against the wispy fabric of your lingerie.

“I’ve got to take a shower,” You explain, your body shivering against his. You can feel Van shivering, too, the intensity of everything putting your bodies into overdrive.

“I’ll take one with you.”

You cringe as you finally lift yourself off of him. Although things feel normal for a moment, by the time you’re standing next to the bed on shaky legs you can feel the trickle of Van’s come sliding down one of your thighs. There’s nothing to do but helplessly allow gravity to do it’s thing while Van leads you into the en suite, getting the hot water running in the shower.

As soon as your bra is a silk puddle on the floor and you’ve both stepped in, Van closes the glass door behind you before standing directly above the drain, pissing right into it.

“Are you peeing?” You ask incredulously.

Van twists his neck, grinning over his shoulder as he finishes. He gives himself two firm shakes, the shower water cascading down his shoulders and rinsing him off. “Yeah. You don’t piss in the shower?”

“I mean, yeah,” You admit, shifting your weight uncomfortably. You actually needed to pee right now, but there’s absolutely no way you’ll do it in front of Van. “When there’s not an audience.”

Van just shrugs, using his fingers to work the warm water through his hair. He reaches out for the bottle of shampoo he keeps on the small shower ledge, but before he can pop the lid up you wrap your own hand around it.

“Lemme do it,” You say quietly, not meeting his eyes as you take the bottle into your own hands, pouring an ice-blue dollop into the palm of your hand.

Van doesn’t protest, instead stepping out of the stream of water so that you can warm yourself underneath it instead. He turns so that his back is facing you and you reach up, starting to work the shampoo into a foam over his scalp. He’s always felt so much taller than you, but his head isn’t too far out of reach, and you realize you two are closer in height than you’d thought.

Standing in the small glass square space of Van’s shower, the events that just happened in the bedroom feel surreal. Usually, you two snap right out of your bedroom mentality, moving on to the next part of your day easily. But something about tonight lingers over you, and as you wash Van’s hair you get the feeling he’s on the same page. Everything still feels tender and vulnerable, your bodies still shivering even in the steam, and the protective urge to make sure Van’s comfortable and safe still hasn’t faded. You’re careful to use the side of your hand to smooth any suds away from his forehead, keeping his eyes shampoo free, and when you’re satisfied that his hair is clean you lean forward, planting a kiss on his shoulderblade. He switches places with you silently, rinsing himself off as you gather some stray streams of water into the palm of your hand, flushing between your thighs out as best as you can.

“Want me to suds you up?”

You hadn’t planned on washing your hair, but considering you’d gotten it damp with chlorine in the hot tub you might as well. “Yeah.”

You shift so that you’re in front of him, your back to him. Van squeezes some shampoo into his hands, and suddenly his palms are smoothing over your head. His hands trail down the back of your neck in long, even strokes as he makes sure he distributes the shampoo all the way from your roots to the very end of each strand.

At first you’re gazing out of the shower walls at the enormous marble countertops housing the his-and-hers sinks, but once Van’s done smoothing his hands over you and starts to dig his fingertips in, really scrubbing at your scalp, your eyes lull closed. You hadn’t expected him to be so thorough, rolling your head back to lean into his fingers as he massaged every inch of your head, the foam of the shampoo running down your back.

“Lean forward,” Van grumbles, gently tipping your head forward again. “You’re messing me up.”

You do as you’re told, disappointed when the washing finally comes to an end and Van withdraws his hands from your hair, stepping out of the water so you can have a turn to rinse.

When you’re both finished you get to see Van’s reaction to the bathroom closet brimming with freshly washed towels. He doesn’t seem to understand the extent to which you’ve cleaned, and you suspect he’ll be pleasantly surprised for weeks to come when he sees all the work you’ve put into the guest bedrooms, not to mention what you’ve done with his favorite sunbathing patio. You swipe the towel over your skin, wiping away the excess droplets before wrapping it around your hair. You reach for your overnight bag again, this time to grab your Las Vegas shirt. You pick your lingerie up from the floor and slip it back into your bag, mentally congratulating it on a job well done.

When you’re done tugging on a fresh pair of underwear (cotton, since itchy lace was no longer needed) and removing your contacts, you come back into the bedroom to see Van’s pushed the mattress back in place and remade the bed, his robe tie crumpled in the center of his comforter. He’s got a fresh pair of boxers on, and shakes his box of cigarettes in his hand as soon as you step out.

“Let’s smoke.” He nods toward the giant glass window that stretches across the front wall of his room. There’s a narrow balcony on the other side, bordered by a sleek glass railing. You’re confused about how to step outside, but Van easily slips his fingers against the edge of the window, which slides open to expose the bedroom to the outdoor air.

The balcony is unfurnished, Van plopping himself down in the corner, his back against the house. He’s brought the ash tray from his bedside table out, and you sit down next to him, stretching your legs out in front of you as Van doles out cigarettes to you both.

“I didn’t even realize that window was a door,” You mumble before inhaling as Van holds the lighter flame to the end of your cigarette. Once it’s lit he does his own, peering out at the city twinkling beyond the railing.

“Don’t really bother to come out here,” He shrugs. “Rather just go out on the patio.”

“So why are we out here tonight?” You ask, looking down between your bodies at the ash tray while you tap your cigarette into it.

“Needed some fresh air. Get my head on straight.”

He punctuates his sentence with a long drag of his cigarette. You let the silence drag on, your body feeling heavier as the adrenaline from the sex starts to wear off.

“Was it good?” You finally decide to ask. You don’t know if it’s the same for Van, but the whole handcuff thing feels like the elephant in the room. For all intents and purposes it seemed Van had enjoyed himself, but now you’ve got the creeping anxiety that the reality might not be as appetizing for him as the porn made it seem.

“The sex?” Van asks, looking over at you. When you nod, he hooks his thumb over his shoulder, grinning as he gestures to the bedroom. “Are we talking about the same thing? Because that was clearly brilliant.”

You roll your eyes at his teasing, your arm coming to rest over his shoulders. You give his body a playful shake. “You know what I’m talking about. Would you do it again? That… whole thing?”

It’s Van’s turn to roll his eyes before exhaling a warm burst of smoke right into your face. “Christ, I hope we give that a go again. You weren’t fucking kidding about celebrating my birthday. You were absolutely mental in there!” He’s beaming right at you, nudging you with his shoulder. “I’ve never seen you act like that! With the lingerie and everything! What came over you?”

He’s clearly having a blast teasing you, so now it’s your turn to smoke him out. It only pleases him more to know he’s embarrassed you, a blush blooming over your cheeks as you remember how it felt to be completely in control of Van. You lift your arm from his shoulders to ruffle his hair, and he snuffs his cigarette butt out, resting his head on your shoulder.

“This is a daft question, since the deed’s been done and all…” You can feel his voice vibrating against your skin. “But you’re not fucking anyone else, right?”

You can’t see his expression while he asks, the only thing visible in your peripheral vision the part of his hair as his cheek stays pressed on your shoulder. As you ash your own cigarette out you plant a quick kiss in his hair. It’s more romantic than you would allow yourself on a regular day, but tonight wasn’t a regular night. “Nope. Just you.”

Van lifts his head from your shoulder. “You really got the shit end of the stick. Sorry, love.”

“Shit end of the stick?”

“Well, yeah! You’re in there in lace tyin’ me up, and all I’ve got to offer is some shit missionary.”

“I like missionary,” You frown. “And you’re forgetting about the head.”

Van frowns. “You think it’s good?”

You shrug, looking away. “Best I’ve ever had.”

Van knows from your previous conversations with him that’s not a lie, so he doesn’t argue. You watch his eyelashes as he blinks, and it looks like he’s struggling to keep his eyes open.

“You tired?” You ask, unwinding your arm where it’s snaked around him so that you can lift yourself off of the ground.

He yawns, nodding. He takes your hands and you help hoist him up until he’s standing over you.

Once inside, you both immediately climb into Van’s bed, the sheets still smelling like the fabric softener you’d used on them.

Van doesn’t even go on his phone, too exhausted from today’s travels to fight his exhaustion. The lights are clicked off, and Van’s back is to you, his usual sleeping position.

You should roll over too, like you always do, but for some reason you nestle yourself against his back, throwing an arm over his side so that you’re spooning him.

“What’re you doin’?” He grumbles, clearly almost knocked out after only five-ish minutes of silence.

“Spooning you,” You say, as if that was any explanation at all, and kiss his hair again. You let your face linger by his scalp for a moment longer, breathing in the smell of his shampoo, before resting your head against your pillow. The skin of his stomach is soft against your fingertips, and the feeling of his body shifting rhythmically with his breathing immediately has your eyelids drooping.

You just loved him so, so, so much. And even if he didn’t love you back, you hoped he realized how much you cared for him. Because you realize now it’s more than you’ve ever cared about anyone else.

#summer's a knife #van mccann #catfish and the bottlemen #catb #van fic #van mccann fanfiction #catb fic

33 notes · View notes

jcmorrigan · 3 years

Note

001 - Tales of Zestiria?

Favorite character: It's a tough call between Maltran and Symonne, and Lunarre is trailing right behind both. I tend to call them the "Heldalf Squad," but make no mistake, Heldalf himself isn't part of it. I just like his swagalicious minions. The dry and sarcastic political manipulator, the sadistic and wordy theater nerd, and the flamboyant cannibal who hates everything. Yes. LOVE. But I have to give a shout to my boy Dezel on the hero side! Angsty/stoic characters are very hit-or-miss with me, but Dezel is the flavor I love - obvious soft spots and quirks, and slowly he builds from being antisocial to showing how big his heart is. When he stops the woman from leaping off the Guinevere tower...that's one of my favorite scenes in the entire game, because you can see when the switch flips, when he realizes that he CANNOT stay aloof any longer when there's a stranger's life on the line. He's still a grump about it but a compassionate grump.

Least Favorite character: Heldalf. His backstory is really clever, and I like the curse on him. But he himself just feels like Ganondorf but more boring. I kinda hate that he's so vanilla when his three lieutenants are in my arsenal of pet villains from the vastness of fiction. Also shout-out to Chancellor BART in the opening Ladylake act, because I distinctly remember liveblogging this to a friend, and I played Zestiria *after* Berseria (I'd loved Berseria and that's why I eventually sought out Zestiria) so here I am just comparing up the corrupt church in Ladylake to the Abbey's suave rogues gallery like "Yeah no BART has nothing on Lady Teresa Linares." Thankfully BART was never seen again.

5 Favorite ships (canon or non-canon): DezeRose, SorMik, Symonne x Coco Atarashi (The World Ends With You), Alisha Diphda x Sergei Strelka, and...I swear you have to bear with me here...Zaveid x Anna (Frozen). I also kinda wanna note a couple ships I'm on the fence about for my other favies - those being Maltran x Ebony Maw (Marvel Cinematic Universe or Marvel Ultimate Alliance) and Lunarre x Arkham (Devil May Cry).

Character I find most attractive: Dezel. It is a scientific fact that guys with pointy teeth are just hotter.

Character I would marry: Maybe Dezel, maybe Sergei. I wouldn't want to take them from those I see as their wifeys, but at the same time, they are husband goals, both of them.

Character I would be best friends with: Catch me clinging to Maltran's train and she drags me along annoyedly as I yell "PLEEEEAAASE LET ME HANG OUT WITH YOU GUYS" and Lunarre is losing it laughing while Symonne rolls her eyes

a random thought: So I toyed around with basically every accessory I picked up, and I decided to put the sideburns on Rose because fuck gender roles. Well then I just got used to seeing her with facial hair in every cutscene where her 3D model was used, and now I headcanon that she does get it. Maybe nonclassical CAH intersex? Like, I don't necessarily see her as trans (but I support everyone who hc's her as such) but moreso "a cis woman, but I grow this stupid damn facial hair like a dude and I don't get why." And this is why you shouldn't let me play with customizable accessories on RPG characters because I can and will abuse my privilege to headcanon.

An unpopular opinion: That this is actually a very good game. Listen, I think I get it - the initial marketing promised something far different. And that's disappointing. But coming back to it several years after its release, after the release of its PREQUEL, when I never had that hype building up...it actually exceeded my expectations. I held off from it for a while because I thought Eizen's fate would make me too sad, but that didn't end up the case at all. I actually had just come off playing a more recently-released triple-A game that was hyped up for years, and I completed it to my satisfaction in 20 hours. $80 for 20 hours. Zestiria gave me my money's worth in comparison; it took me about 60, and I loved just how MUCH story it had to offer me. I honestly like Rose better than Alisha anyway (Rose was one of the biggest aspects that interested me about playing it in the first place). I've also seen complaints that the characters weren't well-developed enough? Which I just kinda take to mean "They didn't angst enough." Listen. There are PLENTY of games out there if you want angst and sad stories. I don't really like sad stories in my games. I like adventures where the party is a goofy foundfam that jokes around with each other and helps each other work through shitty situations, and that's EXACTLY what I got. (And Berseria really worked on me too because it kinda started at the bottom of the angst barrel, then worked its way up through "The edgy and tortured protag has gained a party of idiots and oh noooooo she's learning friendship and happiness.") Dezel's death is one of the few game deaths that just made me SATISFIED to watch instead of depressed because of the closure he got and the themes tied into his final moments and sacrifice. I loved going on this adventure, I loved the idiots who I went on it with, and I loved seeing what Glenwood had to offer me in world design the further I explored.

my canon OTP: There's not much for canon romance in this game, come to think of it. Just subtext and some flirting. So I'm blanking on if there actually were any canon couples at all.

Non-canon OTP: DezeRose! Which maybe can be considered almost-canon based on the amount of subtext, but still. It's adorable. (And it's the exact same dynamic as EiRoku except M/F and a thousand years later. I need these four to double date...the dual-wielding goofs with their edgy, grumpy Reapers...)

most badass character: Rose! Not only able to wield the Shepherd's Armatization powers, but also to be a dang good assassin on her own, able to hold her own against Heldalf before she even had her eyes opened to seraphim! Though a shout-out goes to Edna because her armatization was my favorite to play with. There's something just satisfying about bashing the enemy in front of you with a pair of GIANT FISTS

pairing I am not a fan of: RoseAli. To be honest, it was at one point something I kinda enjoyed as a third-tier ship for Rose (Dezel first, then Lailah in second). But then...Alisha's Story. I didn't actually purchase it, thank goodness, just watched it on YouTube, and it was the most grating addition that anyone could've made to this game. First of all, I can sum up the issues with Alisha's Story by reminding everyone that it canonized a secret entrance to Camlann that was much easier to get to and wasn't protected by Muse's sacrifice. But the real thing that hurt to watch was how far down they had to knock Rose and Alisha's friendship to get them to rebuild from scratch. Rose claiming she was never Alisha's friend because she's grieving Sorey? The two of them getting into a PHYSICAL FISTFIGHT over it? Nope nope nope. That's not my Rose. Even less my Rose is that whole scene where she...you know...pounces on Alisha to dress her in the silly noblewoman's dress, and it's framed like...let's just say it's really uncomfortable to watch if you don't know the punchline is just a silly outfit. Even though Alisha's Story isn't canon in my head, it still really killed any buzz I had for RoseAli. I will also say I'm not a big fan of Eizavie - first of all, EiRoku or bust in this house, and second, I have a little bit of a hard time seeing Zaveid as mlm due to how much he goes on and on about The Ladies(TM). (Though I could see Eizen as having a tiny crush on him, though. Just like "Oh no he's hot but he's connected to Aifread's disappearance help")

character I feel the writers screwed up (in one way or another): Mostly just in Alisha's Story. I was mad about the aforementioned Rose stuff, but also...like...they undid Lunarre's original cathartic death, they did so to team him back up with Symonne and then do a whole fakeout that they had Maltran with them too, but Maltran is just an illusion and immediately after this, Lunarre and Symonne just decide "Yeah, we're not gonna work together anymore, have a nice life." Why does Maltran need to stay dead if LUNARRE somehow survived EXPLODING? And just...look to next question for more clarification:

favourite friendship: I just want to imagine that Maltran, Lunarre, and Symonne were weird evil friends. The kind who'd take artistic selfies and caption them "Murder and mayhem with my besties!". Maybe they even had a sibling dynamic. They were all pretty dang jaded, so I like to think they sat around sometimes talking about the things in this world that did them wrong. The reasons they were drawn to Heldalf. Heldalf himself wouldn't have cared, he would've kicked them around like disposable tools, but the three of them were too entrenched in his dogma to see it. Maybe if they met up again after he was off the board...then they'd sing a different tune. Realize they're all three better than this, and now they're gonna do things THEIR way, because remember when they made a three-point attack on Glenwood and Sorey was barely able to keep up with them wrecking Lastonbell AND Pendrago AND Glaivend? Remember when Lunarre and Symonne had each other's backs the night Dezel died? Now they can do what they want on their terms! And I just - I have many MANY feelings about these three.

character I want to adopt or be adopted by: Okay silly self-insert time but the thing is, Archibald Snatcher (The Boxtrolls) and Roman Torchwick (RWBY) are my two favorite parental f/o's (and also my OTP to end all OTPs), and I have this thing about how they'd be PERFECT crime dads to Symonne in particular because she's like a little, more theatrical Neopolitan. So there's a universe in my head where Symonne is basically already my little sister, and I look out for her - well, okay, she's a seraph with powerful Artes and I am a powerless mortal so really she looks out for me because "I suppose SOMEONE has to make sure you don't die" and I am grateful to her for it.

#tales of zestiria

5 notes · View notes

comradesummers · 4 years

Note

Faith vs Kendra Anya or Oz Buffy + Tara

Hi, thanks for asking. Sorry for taking so long to answer, insert obligatory excuse about college kicking my ass.

Faith vs. Kendra

So this one’s really hard, and my answer got way too long and pretentious, but I hope you’ll bear with me.

In order to understand Kendra’s fighting style, I think it’s important to talk a little about the fight she has with Buffy in What’s My Line (Part 2). That episode illustrates the differences in Buffy and Kendra’s fighting style when Buffy does “the chick fight thing” and Kendra doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Basically, this move is sort of a physical demonstration of their differences. Kendra is the traditionalist, therefore she is highly skilled in technique but less good at improvising and thinking outside the box. Buffy, meanwhile, is less traditional and less technically skilled, but she’s better at improvising and using her emotions to her benefit. These ideas are shown in the initial fight between Buffy and Kendra, and then verbalized by Buffy later in the episode.

Faith is on the other end of the spectrum. She has little to no formal training (she’s called after Kendra’s death in Becoming; in the few months between that episode and her arrival in Faith, Hope & Trick, her watcher is murdered; neither Giles nor Wesley put much effort into her training in season 3; and then she goes to prison for like 3 seasons). However, she’s clearly a skilled fighter, as evidenced by the fact that she can hold her own against a slayer as experienced as Buffy. Though it is never stated outright, it is reasonable to assume that her strengths lie in her ability to improvise and her emotionally driven fighting style. Basically, she’s a person who will use every tool in her arsenal to win, even if that means, for instance, throwing herself off a building so that her opponent doesn’t get what she wants.

By presenting Faith and Kendra as two extremes of this ideological debate, and then also showing that neither one of them is as successful at slayerdom as Buffy is, the show implies that Buffy’s balanced approach to fighting (and to like life in general) is the best. However, the nature of tradition is complicated by the later seasons. For one thing, the Watcher’s Council—the representatives of the traditional approach that Kendra follows—get blown the fuck up before they can do anything useful. This strongly suggests that the Council, and by externsion their tradition, is irrelevant. This idea is further underlined by Buffy’s ultimate decision to reject the Council’s tradition wholesale, and to create a new, Slayer-based tradition. It’s also reflected in her fighting style in the later seasons. Starting in season 5, Buffy begins to explore her slayerness in the context of the slayer line, and her training with Giles builds on that. It could be suggested that the tradition she is drawing upon in these seasons is that of the Slayers that came before her, not the watchers who tried to control them. This also serves as an in-universe explanation for why the fighting style from season 5 onwards looks so different (and so much worse) than what came before it. (Yes, I know there were new stunt doubles, but it works with my convoluted argument, so I’m going to pretend there’s some deeper meaning behind it.)

Anyway, my point in all of this is that while earlier seasons present the thesis that one should find a middle ground between tradition and innovation, later seasons suggest that embracing oppressive traditions is harmful. So while we should still draw upon tradition, we should always be critical of the kinds of traditions we draw upon. And Kendra, having been raised by watchers, relies solely on harmful and oppressive traditions, and is therefore at a serious disadvantage. Faith, meanwhile, isn’t hampered by the Council’s bullshit. While she doesn’t draw power from slayer-line mysticism like Buffy does, she still has the advantage of freedom from the Council and would therefore win in a fight.

However, this is a solely thematic view of things, and maybe proves less who would win in a fight and more who would win in like a philosophical debate. Also, Kendra was killed off before she could be developed further (insert my usual Kendra deserved better comment here). Of the three, she was the most victimized by the Council (because of course those colonizers would fuck over the black girl most of all). If she had been developed, and been allowed to process the fact that a bunch white people stole her from her parents and brainwashed her for the purposes of their personal gain, and that this didn’t happen to any of her white counterparts, I think she could have had a much greater understanding of the insidious nature of the Council than either Buffy of Faith. I also think that her interest in the slayer tradition would have surpassed Buffy’s. She is, after all, the traditionalist of the three, so I think she would be the most interested in finding a way to connect to the traditions of the past while separating that past from the oppression of the Council.

In other words, a Kendra that had been allowed to live past season 2 is quite possibly the most powerful slayer. But if we’re accepting the canonical versions of these characters (and not the headcanon that I just pulled out of my ass) I guess Faith would be the winner.

Anya or Oz

Oz is a great character and I totally get why people like him but Anya is more in line with my personal preferences when it comes to characters who are intially introduced as love interests, which are as follows:

Hot lady (I’m shallow, sue me)

Very funny (Oz is funny but Anya is the funniest character on the show and no one can convince me otherwise)

Is more than just a love interest

Now I feel like people might object to no. 3 in Anya’s case, because there’s no denying that Anya is criminally underdeveloped and is often relegated to the unfortunate position of Xander’s girlfriend. However, Anya has a Selfless and she has that scene in The Body, and she has clearly defined relationships with the other Scoobies (best demonstrated in episodes like Triangle). Oz doesn’t really have any of that. Like, he and Willow break up for like half a second in season 3, and in that time he’s just not on screen. That’s how irrelevant he is to anyone and anything outside of Willow. Also, the werewolf suit looks dumb, which I have to assume is why the writers did almost nothing with him being a werewolf until they had to write him out.

The point is, while both of these characters deserved more development, Anya still got more of it so I like her better. Also she’s a pretty girl, so I was probably going to choose her regardless (I may be shallow, but at least I’m honest about it).

Buffy + Tara

I am the no. 1 Buffy/Tara shipper because I like it when nice people are nice to each other. And yes, I recognize that these are two flawed, complicated characters, but I think that together, they have the potential to be one of the healthiest couples in the Buffyverse. This is mainly because their interactions with each other are always supportive and free of judgement. Buffy defends Tara against her dad and welcomes her into her family even after Tara puts everyone at risk. Meanwhile, Tara is pretty much the only character (except for Dawn, maybe) to immediately react with empathy and understanding to the revelation that Buffy is sleeping with Spike. I’m not saying that either one of these characters is always understanding and non-judgemental (okay, maybe Tara is, but Buffy definitely isn’t), but they’ve proven that with each other, they’re very good at communicating and empathizing, and just being what the other person needs, and I think that’s very sexy of them.

Also, they’d be really hot together, so I’m here for it.

#kendra young #faith lehane #anya jenkins #oz #buffy summers #tara maclay #btvs #buffy the vampire slayer #wow this turned out so long and convoluted

31 notes · View notes

beyond-the-mirror · 4 years

Text

DMC x Pokemon AU - Which pokemon they would choose

So an idea appeared out of nowhere in my head: If Pokemon somehow existed in the DMC universe and pokemon training and battles were officially a thing too, which pokemon would the crew choose as their companions?

For these headcanons, I will give each character two kinds of pokemon: the first one will be a pokemon they would totally choose as a friend and partner for adventure as well as competitive battles, and the other will be one they would keep at their side mostly as a cute or silly companion, whether it’s a baby pokemon or a fully evolved one, it’s one they are really fond of and always look after.

So let’s get started! More bellow the cut because it’s a really long post.

Dante

Ideal partner: Houndoom

He considers Houndoom’s general appearance as cool and badass, of course he would love having a literal hellhound in his team.

If you think about it, they share lots of similarities: The same color palette, the devil motif, the fact that Dante has horns too when in DT or SDT form… it’s as if this pokemon was made with him in mind.

Dante found him when he was a little puppy Houndour. The poor thing was all alone in an alley near his shop and seeing him crying out made his heart ache.

So he brought the little one back home and nursed him. Now he’s a powerful Houndoom who loves nothing more than to fight alongside his trainer. There’s nothing that can stop those too when together.

Silly companion: Alcremie

Obviously.

One reason only: Infinite strawberry sundaes.

That’s it.

Would totally have an entire team made of Alcremies. He wouldn’t even battle or anything. He just wants to enjoy his lifetime supply of strawberry sundaes.

Vergil

Ideal partner: Aegislash

Vergil is a man of the sword, so it’s clear he would choose an Aegislash as his partner.

The first time he spotted this particular Honedge, he knew. He could see the great power dormant in them, so it was a matter of awakening said potential.

He trained them vigorously, making them evolve into a Doublade, and finally, into an Aegislash. To this day, not a single pokemon has managed to defeat them, the only exception being Dante and his Houndoom.

That won’t stop them though. They are both too prideful in their quest for strength and power.

Silly companion: Snom

Yeaaah, this is a weird one. Snom is such a cute baby, maybe this adorableness can melt Vergil’s heart?

It was Dante who gifted his twin a Snom. To quote him: “You’re too grumpy. Maybe this cute little guy can help you ease some of that grumpiness away.”

Wherever he goes, the little baby follows behind. Vergil will never admit this out loud but he does smile at the peaceful sensation his silly friend gives him.

Also imagine him trying to pronounce their name in that nasal voice of his. SHnom.

Ideal partner: Corviknight, Umbreon and Dusknoir

It was a tie between these pokemon since they represent V’s three demon familiars: Griffon, Shadow and Nightmare respectively.

Corviknight may have a playful personality, but during battles he’s dead serious. He’s down right merciless and enjoys tearing apart his foes.

Umbreon is as calm as a housecat, but beware! She is a fierce one and won’t think twice to attack those who step out of line. Even more ruthless than Corviknight.

Dusknoir is as mysterious as the man himself, but V still trusts them and lets them do pretty much their own thing. Despite V never giving them orders, it almost looks as if Dusknoir can understand his thoughts telepathically. No one is sure how the hell he does it though. Quite a mystery indeed.

Silly companion: Mr Rime

Both wear a coat. Both carry a cane. Both love to tap dance. See what I’m getting at?

The first time V spotted a Mr Rime and witnessed their comical moves, he couldn’t help but laugh in endearment.

You will often find them enjoying a nice cup of tea together. They may speak different languages, but somehow they understand each other so perfectly.

When feeling in a dance mood, he and Mr Rime will dance together in perfect harmony and sync. Singin’ in the Rain is their favorite musical btw.

Nero

Ideal partner: Toxtricity

It only made sense to grant our punk boy Nero a punk pokemon like Toxtricity.

Both share an explosive and energetic personality, as well as an identical inclination towards rock and metal music. They especially love taunting their foes by doing an air guitar together.

The way these two fight is absolutely brutal. Do not anger them, you cannot defeat them.

However, despite their looks like they could kill you, they are actually sweet cinnamon rolls in front of the right ones. Pet them, they are good bois after all.

Silly companion: Mankey

Two grumpy bois grumpying around. Don’t talk to them, they are angy.

Kyrie often teases them with how identical they are. They literally share the exact same expression when angry.

Nero says it’s not funny. It is.

Little Mankey only calms down when given pets and cuddles. “Just like you Nero!” she teases again.

Trish

Ideal partner: Luxray

Step aside everyone. Two bewitching and electrifying devils are coming through.

Trish was new to the world when one day she encountered a Shinx, except their fur was yellow? Wasn’t the fur supposed to be blue??

She took them to Dante and Lady for an explanation. Their eyes widened in complete awe. “Trish… it’s a shiny. You found a shiny!” “…Oh.”

Now the two are an inseparable and lethal duo. Many have made the mistake of challenging them, only to end up battered and humiliated.

Silly companion: Yamper

Just look at this good boi.

A cute pupper? AND with electrical powers?! Trish is so in!

You bet she spoils her Yamper rotten. She particularly adores baby-talking her lovely companion to no end.

“Have you seen my puppy? He’s not lost or anything, I just wanted to show you how awesome he is” Yep. She did this at one point or another.

Lady

Ideal partner: Inteleon

A couple of ‘Walking Arsenals’ indeed. Ready to take on any challenge they may encounter.

Lady remembers how she met her partner when they were a tiny and shy Sobble. Now that they’ve become such a strong pokemon, Lady feels so proud of their growth.

Extremely resourceful, even in dire situations. Will use all the tools at their disposition to finish their job.

Their sniper skills are unparalleled so you’d better watch out. In a battle of wits, there’s no beating this duo.

Silly companion: Eevee

Lady is such an Eevee fan, her childhood dream was to befriend one and have numerous adventures together.

So when she finally got one many years later, she actually started crying happy tears. (It was a gift from Dante. He figured she deserved a companion after what happened in the Temen-ni-gru incident.)

She spends her free time playing with her adorable Eevee, there’s even a whole collection of toys for their playtime together.

If you happen to have an Evolution Stone with you, DO. NOT. COME. ANY. CLOSER. Lady adores her Eevee just how it is. You have been warned.

Kyrie

Ideal partner: Gardevoir

I personally consider Kyrie as a woman with a righteous heart and a strong sense of justice just like her brother Credo, so it’s no surprise her pokemon partner is actually a Gardevoir.

Mess with them and hoo boy. So you have chosen death.

She and Gardevoir are actually among the strongest teams in the region. In fact, to this day, Nero and his Toxtricity haven’t been able to defeat these two in a pokemon battle.

Do not underestimate these girls. They can and will drag you through the mud if you dare hurt them or their loved ones.

Silly companion: Wooloo

Kyrie melted at the sight of Wooloo. So soft, and adorable, and puffy!

She loves knitting, so they would be perfect to provide her with lots of top quality wool.

Once during Christmas, she donated handmade sweaters to the children at the local orphanage. Wooloo and her were so happy to help the little ones, they made it a tradition for them to do every year.

The sweaters and scarfs she knits with the help of her friend are actually very fashionable and pretty. Everyone in the crew loves showing theirs off any chance they get.

Nico

Ideal partner: Arcanine

A fire pokemon with majestic fur, excellent speed and an extremely keen sense of smell. Nico knew Arcanine would be a perfect partner to have.

She can count on their powerful fire to melt the metals she needs to forge her weapons. Her works of art have been made possible thanks to them and she could not feel more thankful.

Using their olfactory sense, Arcanine can track and retrieve any demon parts or carcasses which can later be used to create Devil Arms.

Although they are not that interested in competitive battles, they’re still a very strong duo that should not be taken so lightly.

Silly companion: Rotom

So one day a wild Rotom sneaked into Nico’s van, causing a ruckus everywhere. Despite the disaster, Nico was incredibly fascinated since Rotom sightings are extremely rare.

She befriended the poltergeist pokemon almost right away. She even built a device for them to inhabit (just like Ash’s Rotomdex in the anime).

Now they’re Nico’s very own pokemon assitant! Thanks to her device Rotom can communicate, take pictures and save files and notes, which is perfect for her work.

Also they’re really nice to have a chat with! Just beware the unflattering pics they may take during battles.

Lucia

Ideal partner: Absol

It’s easy to see the similarities between Lucia and her Absol.

With Absol being erroneously blamed for natural disasters and Lucia being an artificial demon her creator labelled as ‘defective’, you could say they both share similar backstories. They felt outcasted by everyone else.

These two are incredibly agile fighters, using graceful and precise moves that prove to be lethal to their foes.

Personality wise they both appear to be stoic and aloof, but they’re actually very kind. They do tend to worry a lot about their friends though.

Silly companion: Espurr

Espurrs are known to constantly try to control and contain their enormous psychic power with all their might. Lucia understands her cute little companion all too well.

Being with each other has helped them both a lot, their shared company feels therapeutic for them.

Also Lucia enjoys cuddling Espurr. They feel so soft like a plushie!

Often have staring contests with each other. They always end with a tie though.

#devil may cry #dmc headcanons #dmc x pokemon au #pokemon

72 notes · View notes

content-to-convert · 4 years

Text

VIDEO DIDN’T KILL THE RADIO STAR...

VIDEO DIDN’T KILL THE RADIO STAR it just made him dress nicer

By Pat Mellon

Speaking of your brand evolving, PODCASTS are now a wise bullet to have in the arsenal of promotional weapons. In the early 2000's, for instance, you didn't have the option to record and distribute a PODCAST. The technology didn't exist to even IDENTIFY, much less create one- if you typed PODCAST into an email in 2002, it would have been flagged as a misspelling.

But now, thanks to Audioblogging, re-branded as PODCASTING thanks to the iPOD, you can reach a targeted captive audience in a car on a long commute, with content that they've actually sought out. It's essentially a radio infomercial for the lifestyle of your product, without the PAID-PROGRAMMING aftertaste. Plenty of people have been slow to warm to the idea of such self-promotion and have waited to see if the technology and its effectiveness sustained or if it waned, the way QR codes did, or video discs did until the invention of the DVD. It can be an amazingly powerful part of your brand.

Many rejected podcasting, as I did initially, as a waste of energy. In fairness, early on when there were no networks for podcasting and its business model was less focused than now, it smacked of self-congratulatory volunteer work. I saw it as an infringement on my profession. I have 15 years of radio hosting experience. I saw podcasts as competition. In my short-sighted view then, I didn't see the full potential of a podcast. I just saw it as people wanting my job. But as time went on, I began to see the ways, at least in terms of in-car entertainment, that podcasting was the future. And like the cryptic fortune cookie says, "Kill Your Darlings". Or maybe go with the less-confusing, "Reinvent Your Business Constantly. The End Goal May Be The Same But The Tools and Methods Evolve Constantly" which is a Ken Tucker quote I saw on a Snapple Cap. Or even the more direct, "You Have To Reinvent To Stay Fresh and In The Game" which Madonna said once.

But early on, I saw it as the enemy - the way news journalists must have felt when FREELANCERS started getting a lot of the work in the late 90's. I thought, "If all you need to broadcast is a computer and an opinion, why the hell did I major in Broadcasting? It's like everyone becoming a Youtuber or a Social Media Influencer (seriously, that is NOT a good name. It's just saying what you're doing. It lacks creativity, like naming the glass thing you drink out of a "glass". Or the room with the bed a "bedroom". Or the thing you swing on a "swing". Or the... Sorry-I'll move on.) Anybody can become a Social Media Influencer these days, (and if they're under 14 and haven't been trying for half their lives then you might want to make sure they're breathing) and that means fame, sometimes money, but more important: LIKES. I overheard my 8 year-old playing with her friends and they were pretending there was a genie or something granting wishes and one girl asked for a pony, and another asked for a house of chocolate, and my daughter asked for a million LIKES on her video. LIKES are currency for pre-teen popularity. And LIKES or even merely PAGE VIEWS can be currency in the grown-up world of business. My point is that anyone with a computer and a camera can make money on Youtube if they hustle. It's simply the new normal. It's great, if not dangerous. We've yet to see the fallout of a generation raised on Youtubing, unless, of course, you count cautionary tales like Logan Paul or Jo Jo Siwa, both of whom are rich. It's simply another entertainment option for kids. I kinda thought podcasting was that, but for adults who only wanted quasi-fame; to show-off. But it's bigger than that.

If you're a plumber, for instance, and you want to maximize business, you probably want a decent social media footprint, some solid YELP reviews, and maybe even a podcast. Toilet clogged? Click here for an interview with master plumbers from all over. It's not the ONLY thing you should do. It's ONE of the things you should do.

On the consumer side, you have to realize that traffic, especially the bumper-to-bumper kind, is GOLD to a radio talk show host. People listen the most in their cars, so DJ's in New York and Los Angeles, the #1 and #2 radio markets depending on who you ask*, for instance, who entertain on the radio, are always on their toes to stay funny and relevant because it's so easy to push a button and change the station.

Then suddenly there was a new game in town. People were bypassing the radio altogether and plugging external sources into car sound systems, removing the commercials and unwanted Morning Zoo shenanigans, and rendering my entire college education and training void. My only hope was wishing death to the podcast movement, which I think I did a couple of times on the radio accompanied by a sound effect of a toilet flushing (Take THAT, Podcasting!). It didn't work. I kept hearing the word. Podcast. (eerie voice) PODD CAAAST! My head was in the sand. People would say to me, "you should do a podcast" and I'd cringe and wildly swing fists at imaginary ghosts who were accusing me of "Resting on your laurels" and "Holding on too tight.”

It took a while, but I get the appeal and, more importantly, the power of the Podcast. It's like a book-on-tape for the 21st century- 10 times as cool, though, because it's technologically relevant, and can be different every time you listen. So we agree that podcasts are real. And we acknowledge that there is room for many things on the dashboard of a car, be them outlets, or additional buttons. And we agree that the the way we do business is always changing and we have to adapt to some degree. So why all the hub bub? Because we can't have an intelligent conversation about the delicate existence of Podcasts without talking about Shane Gillis, the comedian who was hired and fired by Saturday Night Live in the same week last year. We need to understand the power of what it was that torpedoed his streetcar (tune into Mixed Metaphors with Pat Mellon Tuesdays on The Podd Couple, right after Poddamnit at 8, and Pod of Thunder with Gene Simmons at 8:17) He and a buddy do this show, this podcast, it's like a radio show but you don't listen to it on your grandpa's Victrola, you tether your MP3 player to the radio inside grandpa's Camry, and there's bad language, which there never is on traditional, boring old dumb talk radio, so right away, it's awesome (honestly, the only difference between Howard Stern on radio and Howard Stern on satellite is the F word) and the internet allows curses and take that, Mr. Suit and Tie, and this is going to be amazing. And on one particular show from 2018, Gillis said "chink" when describing someone in Chinatown. Not a huge scandal, but I guess you'd have to ask Roseanne Barr if the internet can get you into to any kind of trouble. She was exiled from the the entire US for a social media post that mentioned race and monkeys. And the same new normal that allows John Q. Anybody to do a podcast ALSO watches everything you do online and will sink you if it sees something it does not like. America can be confusing that way. Freedom of speech and freedom of complaining about freedom of speech are always at each other's throats, it seems. And you can't have it both ways. The guy who alerted the world to Bill Cosby's dating rituals online is loved by many but is also shunned by others, but that guy knows what he did and he knows not to complain about the ones who, well, complain. It's the price you pay.

The point is, you need to constantly be hustling and using all of technology’s modern tools to get your product out (they’re not burning DVD’s anymore) and maybe one of those avenues is a podcast with salty language, and maybe that podcast exists among your body of work that clients can enjoy whenever they want.

But we live in a new age of retroactive outrage. Eddie Murphy was on SNL and is arguably the most talented person the show has produced. He did a stand-up special in which he explores “What if Mr. T were a Faggot?” It was inflammatory and it was insensitive and it was homophobic (though that buzzword was still a decade from conception) because the premise of the joke- the attribution of homosexual behavior to a big, strong, black man being marginalized as solely predatory sodomy - crossed the line. When I spell it out like that it looks horrible. But it’s a simple comedic device: assigning unlikely behavior to someone for comedic purposes. It’s the fish-out-of-water gag. It’s why we had Mork, and Alf, and Balkie from Perfect Strangers. It’s Freaky Friday. It’s why The Rock playing a babysitter or a tooth fairy is funny. Murphy did this AFTER he was on SNL. But if has been released before he auditioned, do you think he’d have been hired?

Of course he would have. Because the Mr. T thing was a small part of that special (though, I recall, an extremely quotable part) and the people who didn’t like or appreciate the language didn’t have the bionic megaphone of the internet so they could get their outrage all over your conscience. The point is that your podcast is a reflection of your brand. You have to weigh your desire to speak freely and loosely with your desire to keep the Cancel Culture at bay. At a MINIMUM, though, you should keep things clean for your clients, listeners, and most importantly, your potential customers. Shane Gillis missed out of being on SNL and fame, instead on infamy because he broke one of society's biggest rules:he said something controversial out loud. Granted, it was in bad taste, but if that were a crime half of us would be in jail. It's just important to remember that your language on a work-based podcast should be professional, which I realize cannot be defined easily, but maybe stay away from slang and cursing. Just because you CAN doesn't mean you SHOULD.

#podcast comedy hilarious

2 notes · View notes

itsevidentvery · 4 years

Text

The wonderful @joycecarolnotes had their birthday last week, and here is my (appallingly belated) birthday gift.

Warning: I haven’t watched any of the most recent season, and it’s been months since I wrote Jared/Richard fic, so my apologies for, like, everything.

BUT. Here is my offering for sickfic, domestic fluff, Jared being taken care of, and Far Too Much Vicks Vaporub.

‘If I could just - ’

‘No, Jared,’ says Richard. ‘You can’t just.’

Jared shrinks back, his shoulders drawing in and the colour draining out of his cheeks. Well, mainly draining out. That fever-brightness remains.

‘As you say,’ says Jared with absolutely no expression.

Richard swears inside his head. He knows that tone, that terrible flatline blade-of-the-guillotine, hush-before-the-hangman-swings tone. The tone before Jared falls ass over teakettle in love with some social reject who won’t even –

Not that Richard –

She didn’t even notice he was gone when Jared came back to Richard.

To Pied Piper.

But also to Richard.

Which. Jared just came back. Back to his weird garret office-space that he clasped his hands when he first saw and then bustled about saying things about the first Mrs Rochester that Richard is 1000% certain are not, like, remotely comforting analogies.

But still. Back he came.

And then fell ill because he was helping his friend Mabel babysit her great-granddaughter who promptly distributed the flu to anyone who even looked at her for more than ten seconds and then Jared went down like a baby bird with a broken wing.

And there he is now, swaying on his feet and hunting desperately for those goddamn sunglasses.

‘You’re ill, Jared,’ says Richard, as softly as he can.

Jared sniffs. ‘It’s nothing, Captain, I can’t – I won’t – be felled by a bacterium - ’

‘The flu’s a virus,’ says Richard. ‘Jared. Go home.’

And Jared shrinks again – right into the waiting arms of Gwart or GNewt or GPickle or whatever other beady-eyed coder with the social skills of a concussed duckling but who somehow, somehow, knows juuuuust enough to clutch their gizzards and make juuuuust the right sort of pitiful eyes at Jared, Richard knows, he knows, he knows their game, you’ll have to get up pret-ty early in the morning to pull one over on Richard Hendricks.

In this regard, at least.

‘I’ll come home with you,’ says Richard in a rush.

Jared’s head flies up and his eyes are like stars and Richard really hopes he’s not starting the flu because he’s feeling hot and cold and hot all over.

‘Let me just - ,’ says Richard, and he turns and fumbles for his laptop.

‘Af- after you, m’lord,’ he says once he has it, and then sucks his entire bottom lip into his mouth because what. The actual. What.

*******************************************************************************************

Jared’s condo is still cosy and sparkling with that precise combination of Arsenic and Old Lace that so defines Jared. There’s some Hieronymus Bosch and Remedios Varo up beside his Welsh Spoon collection, which is – yeah. Checks out.

‘So,’ says Richard, ‘you go and, uh. Lie down? Yeah. You should.’

‘But Richard,’ says Jared.

‘Jared,’ says Richard.

‘I really do think - ’

‘Jared - ’

‘I’m fine, Richard,’ says Jared, the effect only slightly undercut by the racking cough that shakes him.

‘Please lie down, Jared,’ says Richard, and Jared meekly trails away.

*******************************************************************************************

It’s actually pretty … nice. Not nice nice, but … Richard had almost forgotten how easy it is to work at Jared’s. How the quiet lets everything fall away, and the occasional Surprise Mediaeval Horrorshow helps keep him sharp.

He’s clack-clack-clacking away in a pleasant, highly focussed trance, when he sees a notification at the corner of his screen. It’s an e-mail from Monica with the subject line ‘I THOUGHT HE WAS WITH YOU.’

Richard opens the e-mail, which turns out to be a forward from Jared with a spreadsheet attached. Richard clicks on the attachment, and regrets it the instant his eyes are assaulted with RED-AMBER-GREEN colour-coded nested-conditional visual basic fuckery.

He plucks off his headphones, puts down his laptop and goes to Jared’s bedroom. Where the supposed patient is sitting up in bed, honking and wheezing and clacking away furiously on a laptop (and just where the fuck did he get a laptop anyway?)

‘Jared,’ says Richard. Jared looks up and freezes, like some kind of weird flannel-wearing deer in the headlights.

‘Richard,’ he croaks. ‘Richard, this isn’t what it looks like.’

‘Jared,’ says Richard, ‘you need to rest.’

‘I will,’ says Jared, ‘I just need to - ’

Richard steps closer and holds out his hand. ‘Give me the laptop, Jared.’

‘Let me just - ’

‘Laptop, Jared.’

They look at each other for a while, and yes, okay, maybe it’s cheating, but it’s kinda – like, Richard always breaks first, he always does, because Jared’s gaze is a heavy thing and it’s kinda hard to, to, it’s kinda hard when that laser blue is like, entering through Richard’s eyeballs and leaving out the back of his head because – well, anyway, it’s like that. But now Jared’s compromised by his plague or whatever and Richard gets to watch him duck his head and sigh.

And then his giant hands tighten on the keyboard.

‘I just need to send this and then - ’

Richard grabs one end of the laptop. It’s not exactly – Jared’s clutching at one end and he doesn’t want to like, hurt him, and yes it’s all helpfully rounded edges but still and then also knuckles and very long fingers and then Jared kinda yanks and Richard tumbles over and faceplants onto Jared’s bony chest.

Jared’s startled ‘Ooph!’ has the hair on Richard’s head rustling gently.

‘Sorry!’ Richard says into the little indent between Jared’s – like, his – his chests.

Chest.

Chest, singular.

Jared has one chest.

One chest that Richard is now talking into.

He springs away, very narrowly missing butting Jared’s chin (which, on the one hand, good, but on the other hand, all that means is that like, that’s one more thing lying in wait for Richard now).

‘Sorry,’ says Richard. Scrubs his fingers through his hair. Dares a glance at Jared.

Jared who is staring at him, chest (one chest. One chest with one indent. One chest with one indent just perfectly made for Richard’s nose.) rising and falling rapidly.

There’s a flush on his cheeks. Not that hectic scarlet flu-blotch, but.

It’s.

His eyes are very bright.

Richard swallows. Watches Jared’s eyes track the movement.

Richard grabs the laptop and runs out of the room, deaf to Jared’s protesting cry.

Well, not deaf precisely.

But like. He’s doing the right thing, so.

*******************************************************************************************

Richard sits back down and quickly loses himself to a script that won’t run, when his e-mail pings again. This time it’s from Dinesh and it’s another forward. From Jared.

Richard goes to the bedroom to find Jared sitting in bed with his hands clasped in his lap.

Nobody should be this bad at looking nonchalant.

‘Jared,’ says Richard.

‘Hello, Captain,’ says Jared. Is he trying to hum carelessly?

‘Jared,’ says Richard again.

‘Can I help you, Richard?’

Richard sighs. ‘Where is it, Jared?’

‘Where’s what, Richard?’

‘Your iPad, Jared.’

‘Oh,’ says Jared, and Richard swears he can see Jared wondering whether to deny any knowledge of the existence of iPads in general, and his own in specific. ‘I – Richard, I’m not sure, would you like me to find it for you?’

‘I’d like you,’ says Richard, ‘to give me your iPad, Jared.’

‘I would,’ says Jared earnestly, and it’s terrible, its grotesque, it’s fascinating how bad a liar he is, ‘but I really couldn’t say, Richard, and I just - ’ he coughs, once, and how in the flaming hell can someone with the actual flu not produce a better cough, literally how, ‘I’m quite, the flu, Captain, I’m afraid I feel quite faint, so - ’

‘Where is it, Jared.’

‘I’m not - ’

At this point there’s a ping and a green flash under Jared’s duvet.

Richard holds out his hand. There’s a momentary flicker of … something … on Jared’s face. Something that on anyone else might look like…

“Mutiny” supplies a voice in Richard’s head which sounds a lot like Jared’s voice.

Well, anyway.

That.

‘Thank you,’ Richard finds himself saying, as Jared hands him the iPad. Jared’s head snaps up to look at him, his eyes very round.

Richard flees.

*******************************************************************************************

Richard builds up a nice little collection of devices as the day wears on. Jared’s phone. Jared’s old phone. Jared’s much older phone, which, how the fuck was Jared tapping out forecasting instructions on a fucking flip-phone anyway? Jared’s watch. He’s considering taking away his FitBit: he has no idea how Jared could even put together hideous spreadsheets on the thing, but he won’t be fooled again.

When he pops his head in later, Jared’s looking like reheated shit. His cheeks are blotchy, his eyes are huge and he’s shivering.

Richard’s horrified but also –

‘I told you you were sick,’ he says.

‘Richard,’ says Jared, and his voice is so small, ‘Richard, I can’t do this.’

‘You can,’ says Richard, ‘Jared, it’s only like a couple of days and - ’

‘Richard, this is vital forecasting - ’

‘Jared, it’s fine - ’

‘It’s not fine, it’s the end of the quarter and - ’

‘Monica’s on top of it, all right? It’s being done. Look, here - ’ and Richard pulls up the interactive project management tool that Jared introduced, shows him the exuberant and reassuring sea of green, and –

And Jared’s curled in on himself.

‘Oh,’ he says. ‘I – that’s good. Thank you, Richard.’

Richard blinks at him.

‘I – Jared, that’s – I thought you’d - ’

‘No, I am,’ says Jared, and smiles. A broad rictus grin that makes Richard want to claw his own skin odd. ‘It’s – you’re doing very well, Richard. Monica’s – she’s doing very well.’ He clears his throat. ‘I’ll – I’ll take some rest now, Richard.’

Richard watches him lie down and curl up on his side.

‘I - ’

‘I’m glad you told me, Richard,’ says Jared. ‘I’ll let you work now. I – I’m sorry, I thought I was helping.’

Which.

I mean.

That’s.

That wasn’t what –

Ah, fuck.

‘Jared?’ says Richard. ‘Jared, I want you to get better.’

Jared nods. He isn’t looking back at Richard.

Richard swallows and goes on: ‘B – because I – I think we should have fixed exchange rates for PiperCoin.’

Jared’s head snaps around to look at Richard. (Richard cheers internally. Gotcha.)

‘Rich - ’ he says and is overtaken by a cough.

‘Hey, hey,’ says Richard, his voice coming out quicker and softer than he’s ever heard it. ‘I wouldn’t – not without - ’

Jared’s staring at Richard. He swallows. ‘I’m sure Monica could - ’

Richard shrugs. ‘Maybe. Seems like it might - ’

‘Please don’t,’ says Jared, ‘please, I’ll – tell Monica, she’ll tell you to - ’

‘I want you,’ says Richard, still softly. He coughs. ‘I – t-to – f-figure it out, or - ’

There’s a silence. Jared’s still staring at Richard. Richard can feel every individual capillary on his cheeks warming.

‘Okay,’ says Jared, at length. He’s pink, but in a good way.

‘Okay,’ says Richard, nodding.

Thank fuck.

He opens up his laptop. Kicks off his sneakers and stretches out on the bed. Tells himself it’s because he doesn’t trust Jared not to fish out a pedometer or a remote control or whatever the fuck to start working.

*******************************************************************************************

He orders soup and crusty bread for the two of them. Watches as Jared pulls himself up painfully to a sitting position. Hears his own mouth offer to feed it to Jared in a soft voice, bending from the waist with his head tilted, which, what even. Jared refuses with a blush. Richard doesn’t insist, which is probably – I mean, Richard spills scalding hot soup over his own hands like five seconds later so. Yeah. But Richard watches Jared’s lashes resting on his cheek and his lips purse as he blows on his soup and he doesn’t blink for the next twenty minutes.

Jared eats up all the soup, careful and quiet, which is good.

And Richard says so.

He says ‘Good boy,’ when Jared’s done eating his soup, which.

He says it.

Out loud.

Softly.

Glowingly.

With his mouth.

Where Jared can hear.

Where Jared does hear.

And Jared blushes.

And says ‘Thank you.’

And looks at Richard with saucer eyes.

And Richard hits his elbow against the side table.

Which.

There’s a jar of Vicks Vaporub on the table.

‘Would, uh,’ says Richard, ‘would this help?’

He holds up the jar, and Jared’s absurd eyes get even rounder.

‘I,’ says Jared, and swallows, ‘I don’t – Richard, I don’t want to impose.’

‘Okay,’ says Richard, and moves back so quickly he nearly falls off the bed and has to claw at the sheets to right himself. ‘Okay, yeah, sure, I shouldn’t. Yeah.’

He opens up his laptop and stares at the screen.

Jared’s breathing evenly. Very very carefully evenly.

Typetypetype.

In. Out.

Clicklicklick.

In. Out.

Typetypetype.

In. Out.

Then: ‘Richard, if you wouldn’t mind - ’

‘Yeahsureokay,’ says Richard, and grabs the jar.

Jared sits up. Begins to unbutton his pyjama shirt.

His hands are shaking, Richard notices.

So are Richard’s, as he unscrews the lid.

The smell hits him. Menthol and little old ladies all at once, obtrusive and confident.

‘So,’ says Richard, ‘I just – on your chest?’

Jared nods.

‘Okay,’ says Richard. ‘Sure.’

Jared says ‘Richard, you really don’t have to.’

‘No, I want to,’ says Richard, and swallows. ‘I just - ��

‘Richard, I – you’ve already done so much, you really don’t have to feel like you – oh.’

Richard’s slapped a Vaporub-laden index and middle finger on Jared’s chest.

He spends a few moments like that, just kinda. Tracing the indent, up and down. Until Jared lets out a shaky exhale and Richard starts.

‘I’ll just,’ he says and gets another glob of the stuff.

He spreads out his fingers. Figures the point is to distribute the stuff on Jared’s chest. Maybe get kinda … it’s gotta … he should get it so Jared can inhale?

And also … rubbing? They say. Right there in the name, it says. So.

He presses a little and looks at Jared. ‘Is this – Jared, is this okay?’

Jared seems to refocus – the flu, right, the flu – and nods. ‘Y- yes, Richard. It’s – it’s okay.’

Richard dips back into the jar. Returns. Presses. Kneads. Strokes in wide concentric circles. The rhythm is dreamy, like cleaning string code when you’re tired. Jared’s chest rises and falls beneath his fingers. His clavicle is somehow both fragile and – impudent? Kinda? Just piercing through the delicate skin? Richard’s slick fingers stroke up to cover it and he watches Jared’s Adam’s Apple bob.

Jared’s face is swimming before his eyes and Richard wonders for a full twenty seconds if he’s caught Jared’s plague before he realises, oh yeah, the Vaporub.

Richard’s eyes are stinging from the Vaporub.

He should probably…

Like, the jar’s half-empty anyway.

And then Richard’s eyes return to Jared’s chest, naked and glistening, and he swallows.

One more coat can’t hurt, right?

*******************************************************************************************

Richard – inevitably – catches Jared’s cold.

Jared pre-emptively seizes all electronic equipment before Richard can secrete them away.

He does, however, bring the VapoRub.

#joyecarolnotes #silicon valley #silicon valley hbo #sv hbo #jarrich #my fic #way too long for tumblr #but what can you do?

29 notes · View notes