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unbridgeabledistances · 3 years

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hi!!!!💘 here have another “ian processing things” ficlet inspired by this post i saw today by zo @grabmyboner <3

(contrary to zo’s amazing post, ian does not have a new instagram in this to fuel the slight angst🤕)

He was having a weirdly good morning when it happened— it was Sunday, and he and Mickey had woken up late tucked together in a warm cocoon under the sheets, legs tangled and bodies pressed close, with Mickey breathing out huffy, just-waking-up breaths into Ian’s neck that tickled his skin until Ian had rolled onto his side and playfully shoved him away.

They’d laid under the sheets for what felt like hours, lazily scrolling on their phones, with Mickey letting out puffs of air through his nostrils in a silent chuckle every time a particularly outdated and stupid meme came across his Instagram Explore page— and of course Ian had to combat Mickey’s intense glee at holding up dumb Instagram memes too close to Ian’s sleep-bleary eyes by clicking open his own phone and thumbing over to the pink and orange app on his home page, to try and find some other stupid shit that would make his groggy half-asleep husband laugh.

It was then, when he opened the app and passively flicked over to his notifications, when he saw the memory:

See your post from 6 years ago today.

Before Ian even clicked on the thumbnail of the picture, before he touched the pad of his finger to the blurred, too-small image beside the words bolded in black, he felt the telltale tightening creeping into his chest— the one he couldn’t really explain most of the time, the one that snuck in and left his heart rattling and pounding against the walls of his ribcage despite the shaky, measured breaths that he tried to sip in and out to fight the rush of feeling.

But out of curiosity, or maybe a little bit of self-sabotage, he clicked on the image—with Mickey still obliviously smirking at his phone screen beside him in the bed, his free arm draped casually across Ian’s chest. So Mickey didn’t notice, really, when Ian pulled up the full post on his own screen— a pixely photo, taken on a now-outdated iPhone in the hazy darkness of the Fairytale.

Ian’s pale skin, the strobe lights bouncing off of it, was the only really visible item in the foreground— and in the shadows behind him, a group of unfamiliar faces. It didn’t even really look like him— his heavy-lidded gaze was murky, definitely hopped up on some bizarre cocktail of drugs quickly taken in a dirty bathroom stall with shaky hands. Ian— Ian in the photo, Ian at the club— was leaning sloppily against the chest of a grey-haired stranger in a dark button-up; glitter on his hollow cheeks, a barely-there mesh top, smudged eyeliner almost masking the purple shadows under his eyes. A black feather boa wrapped tight, too tight, around his neck— an older man with his hand snaked around Ian’s waist, another with his fingertips tangled in the end of the boa.

The tightness was still there, a rubber band wrapped snug around his chest. Aside from the shame and disgust swirling somewhere in his gut at seeing this stupid fucking picture, the thing that Ian felt most was the annoyance welling in him, thick and heavy— what fucking person couldn’t look at a picture of themselves being a stupid teenager? What type of person still felt the aftershocks, like fire and ice and fucking bee stings swelling under his skin, just by looking at a fucking old Instagram post?

“Hey man, are you good?”

Mickey’s phone was now face-down on the blanket, his body twisting under the sheets towards Ian. His eyes flickered to the phone clenched tight in Ian’s hand, undoubtedly searching for the reason that Ian’s heart was thrumming just a little bit too quickly under where Mickey’s hand was still limply resting on his chest.

Ian tried to swallow down whatever was in his throat, whatever was on his tongue. “It’s fine. Just thought I deleted all these old pictures and shit.” And despite that, he couldn’t really look away. “I guess I only got rid of the ones with the sleazy comments. And the videos or whatever.”

Mickey’s brows furrowed. They both weren’t really social media aficionados— if anything, they’d only really gotten into it recently, after the wedding and the move and needing some way to keep the rest of the Gallagher clan plus Kev and V in the loop about their various gardening endeavors and pictures of Baz sleeping, and to see Lip and Tami post baby pics of Freddie and his new little sister. Ian had rebooted his old Instagram account, the one he’d made in his final moments of high school and posted heavily-filtered pictures with Mandy on before joining the army. When he’d started working at the club back then, the Instagram quickly became a place to drum up business, to post specific photos and to flirt with clients in the comments— and he thought he’d deleted all of them when he redownloaded the app, keeping the pictures of a freckled 15-year-old Ian and removing the rest up through youth center brunches with Geneva. Apparently he’d missed this one, and all the memories that could come flooding back with it— and neither he nor Mickey had really noticed.

Mickey’s eyes stayed frozen to the screen— cautious, thinking. “Just fucking delete it, man.”

Ian thumbed over the red delete button, sending the picture into some sort of pixelated oblivion. But even that couldn’t really scrub the image out of his mind— the fingers pressed into his hip, the scratchy feathers tangled around his neck, the now-heavy boulder lodged in his chest. He ran his free hand through his hair, trying to ground himself in the face of whatever weird floatiness he was feeling—tugging at it, just a little.

“Hey.”

Mickey reached over— gently plucking the cell phone out of Ian’s white-knuckled grasp, placing it beside his with a soft thud on the bedsheets. Running his own hand through Ian’s hair— a hand that was gentle and slow, a hand that slightly dulled the buzzing in Ian’s brain, soothing the pain at the roots of his hair.

“Sorry.”

Mickey opened his mouth to protest Ian’s apology, but the words kept spilling out. “I don’t know why seeing stuff like that still makes me feel like shit. It’s like I forget it actually happened.”

He was healthy now— he was stable. He had an apartment with his husband, and a dog, and a savings account. How could he feel so fucking good one second, be laying in his bed from Ikea under a fucking duvet next to the love of his life, and feel so shitty in the next when he looked that version of himself in the eye?

It was stupid— it was so fucking stupid, but the feeling didn’t stop. He closed his eyes— he tried to focus on Mickey’s fingers, still scratching a slow pattern onto his scalp.

“You’re okay, Ian.” He let himself release a slow breath as he absorbed Mickey’s words. “You’re not there anymore. You worked fuckin’ hard to get here.”

Ian forced his eyes open. Mickey squeezed his wrist, tangled their fingers.

“I wish I could erase all that shit.” He hated how thick his voice sounded.

“You already did, Gallagher. Look where the fuck we are right now.” Mickey gestured to their white-walled apartment, their minimalist furniture.

Ian breathed out a throaty laugh. “Yeah. I guess.”

Mickey pressed a quick peck of relief to his temple, and Ian felt the warmth of it trickle down his spine. “You don’t gotta think about that shit anymore. It’s still gonna be there— but you’re filling everyone’s fucking Instagram feed with fucking tomatoes these days. You definitely ain’t the same person you were back then.”

Ian felt the corners of his mouth creep upwards. “You love my tomato pictures and you know it. And you love my captions even more.”

Mickey rolled his eyes— and leaned in close, settling again against Ian’s chest.

“Yeah, I guess I fuckin’ do.”

#anyways go check out zo’s social media AUs they r the greatest!!#not going to put this on ao3 bc it is so quick and short but am gonna plop it here!#day 1833943284739 of me projecting my life experiences onto ian gallagher #not to be tmi lol but a picture of me and an intensely toxic ex-partner from an intensely hard point in my life popped up on my instagram #earlier today and i was feeling!! things!!!#so i wrote about sappy husbands supporting each other to make myself feel better!!!!#okay this is a classic rori tag ramble full of too-deep emotions ANYWAYS i hope u all are having good sundays ily<3 #ficlet #gallavich #gallavich fic #shameless #shameless fic #ian gallagher #mickey milkovich #ixm #ian x mickey #tw self harm

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abundanceofnots · 3 years

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15, 18, and/or 22? 🖤

15. What trivial arguments do they have?

“You won’t let me buy a bazooka, but you want to splurge on a fucking panini press?!”

"You can’t actually tell that movie villain is a bottom.”

“No, I don’t want your sister to come over! Tell her you’re dead and I’m sad about it, I don’t know!”

"We can’t eat ramen noodles for lunch AND dinner for five days a week! You ever heard of a vegetable?!”

“That’s my top! I was gonna wear it today!”

“Yeah, that come stain is definitely yours, not mine.”

“We can’t have a sex swing in the living room! What if he have guests over?!”

“I’ve told you Esther is fragile! She can’t have as much water as the other plants!” - “Esther is a little bitch. And who fucking names their tomato plants?!”

18. What sort of pictures/photos do they put up?

They gotta have their wedding photo somewhere, right? Maybe not on the bedside table, they’re not really the types. But I’m thinking their fridge must be full of little notes (BUY: PEPPERS COUSCOUS FETA fuck’s a couscous? fuck’s a feta?? mickey stop hijacking my shopping lists!!!) and doodles (both by Franny and Mickey), and so somewhere among them, there’s surely one of the wedding photos in a colorful macaroni frame they got on their anniversary from their favorite niece.

Also, Ian will for sure want to continue with the tradition of keeping baby pictures on the mantelpiece.

22. What do the other Gallagher’s think of Ian and Mickey’s apartment?

Carl thinks it’s pretty sweet they get to be married and still have a bachelor pad. Debbie asks if there’s another apartment free in the building and if they heard anything good about the schools in the neighborhood. Fiona sees pictures and sends back look at you, fancy west side assholes 💵🖕❤. Lip thinks their kitchen could do with just a touch of backsplash. Liam envies them the quiet. Franny likes the pool. Freddie really likes their bright white walls that he can color on.

Domestic Gallavich Headcanon Meme

#yes esther the fragile tomato plant is making a comeback #rhys ❤️#ask game #southside-forever #answered #meta ficlet

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spiderling-space · 3 years

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Could I please request MC as that conspiracy guy with the hidden mickey’s? I saw it on your prompts list and I am still laughing at the possibilities!

Thank you Rell for asking this when the inbox was open and finally igniting green light for me <33<33

I decided that this idea is too crack to only apply to numbered characters so this is going to be a mini-series and crossposted on AO3. This mini-series is based on this prompt I have.

There will be 9 chapters in total including prologue and epilogue. I can’t promise any update schedule, I go with the flow. A meme to summarize the fic.

Special thanks to @serenitystarrie for allowing me to utilize their perfectly organized Hidden Mickey Mouse locations.

The Prologue's Locations #1 and #2. Spoiler yourselves on your own risk.

Italics indicate thoughts

Everywhere I Go, I See His Sign

Prologue

No one could blame (Y/N) for occupying themselves with something else to stay awake during Trein’s class. It wasn’t their fault at all, there was just something in Trein’s voice that made people want to sleep. So they just tried to focus on everything but Trein and to be the only one who managed to stay awake in their friend group. At first, (Y/N) just stared outside through the window get got bored and started to count the bricks on the wall but there weren’t much to begin with and their endeavor ended quickly. Their eyes flicked to the bookshelf, it was impossible to read the titles from where they were sitting, hence that didn’t hold their attention for long.

Maybe I should start listening to what Trein is saying, I might learn something.

Not a minute later, (Y/N) was yawning. So much for trying… They decided listening to the professor wasn’t going to work out, in order to stay awake, they continued where they left off. On the top of the bookshelf, there was a purple globe and golden signs on the surface, curved lines and a couple of dots. I bet there are more than 10 dots on it. 1…2…3…4… (Y/N) stopped counting when they noticed an abnormality on the globe. There was a shape that didn’t follow the pattern, two small circles were connected to a bigger one. That’s strange… Everything is in perfect condition in the NRC… Maybe they didn’t notice something as small as that. Either way, there was no point of thinking about something as trivial as that. Though, it was way more entertaining than the history class.

(Y/N) poked Ace, “Shhhht, how many minutes left until the class is over?”

Ace opened his one eye and glared at them for waking him up. He took a peek at his phone told them that 13 minutes left then he went back to sleep.

13 more minutes… It seemed like they started the class hours ago and it still had 13 more minutes. As (Y/N) waited the time to pass, they kept glancing at the globe above the shelf as if the abnormal mark on it was calling for them.

------------------------

Finally, the class was over and it was lunchtime. The gang went to the cafeteria and was waiting in the line, chatting about the assignments Trein gave after he saw people sleeping. (Y/N) was having fun at their expense because they didn’t get an assignment for being awake during the class. Ace, Deuce and Grimm were complaining about the amount of pages they were going to write, which was making (Y/N) crack. They turned their head to the side to conceal their chuckle. While they were turning back, a shape on the wall caught their eyes. There on the wall between the torch and the column stood the 2 small circles being connected to the bigger circle, just like the one they saw during the class. This one was bigger since it could have been seen from distance.

Before (Y/N) could dwell on the shape anymore, the line moved and it was their turn to grab the food. They dismissed the thoughts about the shape, thinking that they saw wrong. It was food time and there was no need to think about anything else.

After getting their lunch, the gang went over to sit at their usual table. “I think you should have gotten an assignment too, (Y/N).” Ace talked before taking a bite out of his meal. “You weren’t sleeping but you weren’t paying attention either. Right, Deuce?”

Deuce was in the middle of chewing his meal when Ace tried to include him in the discussion. He answered after gulping, “They managed to stay awake. I think that deserves an award.”

Ace’s face cringed, “Traitor.” He then turned to Grimm tp get his support. “C’mon~ You must agree with me.” Unfortunately for him, Grimm was too busy chunking the food down his throat, completely ignoring Ace who finally shut up after getting no support.

“I’ll help you pick up the books since I’m a supportive friend.” (Y/N) said cheekily, chuckling afterward. They really needed to go the library too. Grimm needed the books to finish the assignment and he wasn’t capable of carrying them with his tiny paw-paws.

Their stomach grumbled, reminding them to eat sustenance. After (Y/N) finished eating, they pushed their tray further onto the table so they could have space to put their hands on while they waited others to be done with their food as well. There, on the table, was another symbol, the 3 circles one looking almost identical to the others they saw. They openly stared at the symbol, tracing the outline with their fingers. Am I imaging things? The one on the globe could be a stain and the one on the wall could be the deformation of the brick. And this one… Maybe a mistake of the carpenter. Though, it is strange to see mistakes such as this in the NRC.

They must have zoned out too much because Deuce was tapping them on the shoulder. “Our next class is about the start.”

“If you want, we can leave you alone with the table. Seems like you are falling in love with it.” Ace quipped as he took his tray from the table and started walking to the trash.

“Jerk…” (Y/N) mumbled under their breath.

“Hey, henchperson!” Grimm was pulling their sleeve. “Carry me!” It was annoying that Grimm was giving them comment but he was small and cute so they didn’t mind carrying him occasionally. They allowed Grimm to climb on their shoulder and took both his and their trays to throw away the trash and put them to where the dirty trays are collected.

After putting the trays, they exited the cafeteria, then changed into the sports uniform in the locker room. The moment the bell rang, Vargas told everyone to start doing warm-ups, followed by 10 laps around the field and 30 pushups. (Y/N) held themselves back from groaning, not wanting to increase the number of laps or pushups.

(Y/N) was only human and not the most athletic person in the world and they doubted even the most athletic person could run 10 laps without stopping for a moment to take a breath. They sat on the grass, trying to adjust their breathing as they were looking around. They had to admit the sports field had a perfectly splendid sight with all the shades of green.

They were about to get up and continue on the track when they spotted a sign on one of the bushes. 3 circles again? It was dark green colored, standing out on the bushes. Was it always there or is my brain playing tricks on me and making me see things? They decided to check the sign from a closer distance to make sure it is real.

“(Y/N)! 2 more laps for trying to sneak away!” (Y/N) startled as Vargas’ voice boomed on the field. Damn it! They just got punished because the sign distracted them. “You will have two more if you keep standing there!”

(Y/N) knew there was no point in arguing against Vargas unless they wanted to add more laps as punishment so they ignored the sign and went back on the track. I will take a closer look after the class.

--------------------

Unfortunately for (Y/N), they were too exhausted to move a finger, let alone have the energy to examine the weird symbol after the class ended. They just wanted to get back to Ramshackle, take shower, eat junk food and never get up from the bed but they still had one more stop to make, the library. Because of Grimm’s actions, they needed to walk more. God damn it… I can’t feel my legs.

Finally, they reached the library and began browsing for the book. Grimm started looking at the book on the computer and find which aisle it was located, meanwhile (Y/N) sat on one of the seats as they waited for him. Yeet, I hope we don’t need to get one of those floating books. What is even their purpose? Students would spend extra effort to see the title of the book and waste time. Or are they here for aesthetics? They sighed, lowering their head. What an unnecessary way of using magic… They had to admit the library was impressive, having all those books while looking at the endless corridor of the library. As Grimm was still looking for the book, they turned their attention to the other objects of the library. None of the lamps were in the same shape and the columns had different designs. One of them had frequent dots while the other more scattered dots. Their attention turned to the other column between Aisle I and II which had larger dots than the others.

Wait for a second… Is that? (Y/N) got up from their seat and stepped towards that column, crouching to see the sign better. Are you kidding me? Here too? Nope! This is just some random symbol, there is no way, it is the same one I saw in other places. Besides, all other columns have dots. Coincidentally, this one had two circles connected to a bigger one. (Y/N) was determined to just forget about it since they knew it would be a ridiculous idea for these signs to have a pattern.

“Hey Henchperson, I found the name of the book now bring me it.” Grimm ordered them as usual. Normally, (Y/N) would teach him some manner but they were too tired to care so they asked which aisle the book was in so they can grab it and go back to Ramshackle.

As soon as Grimm told them the number of the aisle and the book and the color of the book as well, (Y/N) didn’t wait for Grimm and just went to grab it. They were looking at the shelf numbers in that disorganized aisle. Libraries are supposed to be tidy and organized. Why is everything in this school so chaotic? And who even color codes the books?! This should be a crime!

“Alright green color and number 4…” They whispered faintly, looking at all the shades of green and number 4 then checking the title. After checking a couple of books, their attention turned to 3rd shelf. “Ah there you are, The Developments in the Last 100 years. Finally, I can go to my bed.” Whilst they were reaching for the book, the red book with golden marks caught their attention. The book wasn’t titled, having only shapes on it, that 3 circles shape was one of them. Maybe the book is about the meaning of this symbol. I’ll check it out after resting. They grabbed both Grimm’s book and the red colored one and walked towards Grimm. Together, they checked out the books from the librarian and head over to Ramshackle.

---------------------------

(Y/N) couldn’t wait to get read the strange book so that they would know they aren’t seeing unordinary things. As soon as they entered their dorm, Grimm dashed to the kitchen saying that sports class and the library made him hungry. They were also hungry and would never say no to some snacks. They put the books on the coffee table in the lounge before joining Grimm.

Grimm and (Y/N) brought their snacks to the lounge and sat on the couch, chatting while eating their respective food though Grimm tried to take what’s on their plate 5 times at least. After finishing their food, (Y/N) leaned back on the couch and stretched themselves out. Then they just looked around the lounge. It looked way more different than the first night they stayed there. Now everything was tidy and organized. Dare they said, it was cozy and the fireplace just increased the coziness of Ramshackle.

Hold up… The clock on the fireplace caught their eye and they got up to see it better. This age-old clock has that symbol too. I can understand the others since they are fairly new but this dorm hasn’t been occupied for decades. They wondered if there are more signs in the lounge so they turned around, their eyes scanning the room quickly. There was another mark in the lounge, on the painting hanging above the door. Hmmm, that could be the painter’s signature or something.

“Why are you acting weird?” Grimm asked after burping. Ew!

“Nothing nothing… I’ll just go take shower then nap. You do Trein’s assignment. I’m not going to lower my score because of you.” (Y/N) wasn’t going to tell Grimm about the symbols before they were certain that there was a pattern with it. Now they were going to search upstairs if there were more signs while Grimm was busy downstairs then took shower because the smell of sweat was killing their nostrils. “And don’t even think about slacking off or you won’t sleep on the bed tonight.”

With that, (Y/N) took the red book and headed towards their bedroom, putting the book on the small table near the armchair. Then they took off their shoes to not make noise as they searched the rooms for that damned sign.

Here I go…

#twst #twisted wonderland #twst mc #twisted wonderland mc #twst grim #twisted wonderland grim #twst imagines #twisted wonderland imagines #ficlet #gender neutral reader

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gerrydelano · 2 years

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character WHAT. im live reacting hi but CHARACTER WHAT. i see that in the tags.. ewwww elias. who let him into the institute that he runs. ohohohooh lighter! that’s a secret tool to help us later or whatever the mickey mouse meme is. ok they want to kill the not!them. im good with that. wait are they using leo as BAIT.. that’s what it feels like idk. short jon rights! leo what the fuck are you doing . ok he is in the tunnels talking to the not!them that checks out. yeah he definitely picked the wrong face lolz.. LMAO not black coffee after all! to be fair black coffee sucks. oohhhoh preparations begin,, blind faith, huh. nice HAHAGET FUCKED NOTTHEM!! ohhiiiii michael OH MY FUCKING GOD RAPHAEL!!!!!! i need you to know i actually gasped out loud. actually

hello again! this one is sort of like screaming on a rollercoaster so All i will really contribute is the black coffee is SO MUCH like. danny used to take it black! now he Sure Don't! and all martin knows is he was lying when he asked for it black and just got him the right one anyway! he doesn't know how convoluted that really was for danny! just "oh you're getting into character or whatever. that's fine i'm gonna get you your actual coffee order lol" like!

also... danny touching the cold walls in the tunnels to comfort himself by thinking about the contortionist, and then accepting the warm coffee from martin that Actually brings the relief of being sort of known and not imposed upon........ yeah. that's the shit.

anyway hiiiiiiii raphael nice to see you (lying) (please don't get vengeful) (oh who am i kidding of course you're going to get vengeful) (fuck)

#thank you for reading!!!!#asks #oliverbanks #pbr tag #reviews

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mrvdocks · 3 years

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Selcouth

You shouldn’t have come on this stupid trip. Not even if it had opened you up more to him. If anything, you felt this trip had soured the more time had passed. Alex could tell. But you two had to play it safe, play the parts that Karl thought you two assumed from his perspective. You resented that, having to stick to an image that he had formed of you, one that tried to act like you weren’t so in love with him it made your heart ache.

Or,

You and Alex plan a meet up with Karl for a week trip, only to have your feelings for Karl be put to the test when things don’t pan out how you all planned. (Karl Jacobs/Reader)

After

“Stop it.” He says, voice serious and no longer joyful or even hinting at friendliness. You’ve heard Karl be serious many times but this time sounded different. This time he sounded like he was scolding a child after being annoyed by them repeatedly.

“Stop what?” You ask, pretending to be aloof.

“Stop acting like a child!”

“I’m the one acting like a chil - since when was doing something I want, acting like a child?!”

He makes a hmpf sound. “What is this supposed to be, payback? Is that what you’re playing at?”

“I’m not playing at anything here, Karl. I don’t know what you want me to say.”

He scoffs. “Oh yeah? So you just suddenly developed an interest in Dream overnight, is that it?”

“Honestly, why do you care so much? My love life isn’t up for debate here.”

“Oh and mine was?” He retorts.

You knew he would bring it up, you just knew. It was perfect ammo right now. You stutter to find the right words.

“What - what do you want from me Karl? I don’t need to explain myself to you. Have you considered that maybe I just finally got tired of being alone? That maybe I just needed someone?”

Karl tries to not let this dig push him over the line but his frustration and jealousy wouldn’t let him stop seeing green.

“Is this what you do? You like playing with people's feelings? Do you think screwing my friends is going to help you or is this another one of your phases?”

It feels good in the heat of the moment but he knows he’s messed up as soon as he says it.

Your mouth drops open. Incredible. In-fucking-credible.

You laugh bitterly, trying to put up a strong front but your voice betrays you by cracking. “That’s low, Karl. That’s - really fucking low.”

Instantly regretting it, he tries to make amends but can’t put words together properly. His mind reels, heart races, palms suddenly feel sweaty and all he can manage is your name. “(Y/N)......I -”

You can’t bear to hear another false apology spill from his lips. If that’s how he felt, then there was no changing his mind. No matter how badly you wanted to.

“No you’re right. You’re right. You made your choice and so have I. Goodbye Karl.” You conclude and hang up, throwing your phone across the room. You stare at it until your vision becomes blurry with tears.

Where do you go from here?

Before

You didn’t think that when you first started streaming that you’d end up at the point you were now. You just wanted to have fun with your friends, maybe meet some new people, share your interests along with the loads of games you found amusing. Interestingly enough, your personality and content seemed to resonate with a lot of people.

Pretty soon you’d become one of the top streamers on Twitch behind the other big talent that once dominated your dashboard.

You’d made your way into the big leagues with names like GeorgeNotFound, Dream, Quackity, Nihachu, and even Karl Jacobs. Though you’d met the latter two years ago, you’d become quick friends with Quackity, or Alex(is), having bonded over having similar backgrounds and interests.

He was more like a brother to you than anything, much to the chagrin of many in the chat. You believe it had to do with growing up in a family with mostly girl siblings.

Your collabs with Alex garnered lots of views, with people tuning into the streams to watch you two yell at each other chaotically while playing odd games or attempting to bake things.

Of course, while he did your side of content, that meant you had to hold up your end of the bargain. Minecraft wasn’t your strong suit at first, but as time went on and with some help from both Alex and Karl, you became a little more proficient.

Karl was no stranger to you, not anymore. Alex had introduced you to Karl a little after he started streaming. You’d only really known him from a couple of Jimmy’s videos.

He seemed kind, goofy, friendly, and all around a pretty fun guy to be around. Which is why when you started to fall just a little bit for him, you were surprised. You came into this Twitch thing with one rule. Don’t fall for people.

Things could get messy, it was always a given. The fandoms would tear into you or them, people were unpredictable. It was just better to keep everyone at an arm's length when it came to shipping.

You were thankful nothing had come to fruition from your friendship with Alex. If anything, all you saw were people shipping you platonically. Though you two would often tease each other if one had a crush on someone.

Your dynamic with Alex meant that you had countless ridiculous and outrageous moments together, often documenting them when he would visit you in LA from Mexico or you going to Mexico to see family and stopping by to visit him.

It was starting to become a thing you two did a few times a year. This year was no different. Even when the pandemic seemed to sour your plans, you both promised to stay safe and healthy and limit the trips. So far, this was going to be the first trip you two would be taking anywhere.

Your phone buzzed next to you as you scrolled mindlessly through your discord server. You laughed a bit here and there, looking at memes and chatting with people.

Alex’s text ringtone was him rage quitting during a game where you absolutely obliterated his ass. You either cracked up at the sound of it or jumped in sudden fear when it bounced off the walls of your apartment in the middle of the night.

A: Hey wiener, are you packed?? I know you take like three business days to get ready.

You rolled your eyes. He was supposed to be coming to visit you first before you both made the flight out to see Karl in North Carolina.

Y: Me??? I’ve been packed since last week. I thought you were supposed to be on the flight here already 🙄

A: I may or may not…...already be out. 💀

Your eyes widen. You abandon the chat and hit the FaceTime button. He lets it ring for a good five seconds before he accepts it and greets you with a close up of his face.

“What am I looking at?” You ask, feigning disgust.

“My beautiful face, what else?”

“Really? I thought it was a dog’s asshole.” You chuckle.

He guffaws. “Fuck off! First I get stranded here in LA, then I get some shitty chicken nuggets and now you’re calling me butt ugly! Why does life hate me so much?!”

“Menso! You were supposed to call me when you - wait did you say chicken nuggets?”

“Yeah, I still have the rest but I can’t finish because every time I chew I think of the pink slime.”

“Ugh don’t talk about Supersize Me, I’m still having nightmares about it. Who shows that to little kids??”

“Yeah well it’s shit, Burger King’s better.” He admits, munching down on the nuggets. He chews obnoxiously near the phone speaker to annoy you so you tap at the screen in retaliation.

“Hey, I was supposed to record you trying out American McDonald’s! Why are you taking sweet sweet content away from me? Now no one gets to see you lose your McVirginity!”

He sputters through a mouthful of nuggets and does a combination of coughing and laughing.

“Anyways,” he says, finally nugget free. “You coming or not? I don’t think I wanna sleep on the airport floor.”

“Yeah yeah, I’m coming. I’ll text you when I’m outside.”

The airport was a forty five minute drive, thirty if you stepped on it and committed several traffic violations.

Maybe that would make good content.

You grabbed your keys and rushed out of your home, fully prepared to go fast and furious. You put your windows down, connected your phone to the aux and blasted Tokyo Drift as you merged into the freeway.

Half an hour later, you’d arrived at a packed airport pick up area and texted Alex to let him know you’d arrived. He replied that he was starting to feel the effect of the chicken nuggets but that he would push through people to get out of the building before he caught anything from anyone.

Once you could make out his figure up ahead in front of the other cars, you got the bright idea to switch your music to something more interesting. You pulled up one of his videos where he was fully invested in a rendition of Hey There Delilah and honked excessively once you got closer to him. He looked around and pulled his beanie down lower to hide his face in embarrassment.

You and the prerecorded Quackity sang in off key unison with the volume up as much as you could before he threw his luggage and bags into your backseat, hopped into the passenger seat and put the volume down.

“Never do that again.”

“Hey, that was your welcome salute. I don’t do that for other people, you’re special and I like it.”

“Could you try liking me a little less? I could do without all the cringe covers.” He laughed to himself as he buckled up.

The ride home consisted of a mix of very poor and impressive impressions of characters that would’ve annoyed nearly anyone else except you. Alex alternated from a gruff impression of Squidward to a raunchy Mickey Mouse that left you doubling over and gripping the steering wheel. You competed with him, doing your worst impression of Cookie Monster and Goofy.

Your impression competition was interrupted by a phone call, Karl’s photo flashing flipped a panic switch in you as you scrambled to grab your phone. Alex takes your phone and extends his arm far from your reach.

“Ah, ah, ah! No texting and driving! You want to kill us or something?!”

“I need to answer! What if he thinks I’m ignoring him?”

“I got it, I got it.” He assures, sliding the bar to unlock the phone and meet Karl face to face.

Karl makes a surprised sound, greeting Alex almost immediately.

“Hey bub!” You chime in, keeping your eyes on the road but getting a glimpse of Karl in his frog outfit.

“Hi! Sorry, I didn’t know you were driving.”

“No it’s okay! I’m just coming back from picking up this idiot.”

“Who you calling idiot, dumbass?” Alex suddenly burst into his Mickey Mouse voice from earlier, ending it with the iconic Mickey laugh.

Karl seemed to eat it up, breaking into laughter. It was infectious enough to make you chuckle.

“You guys excited for the trip? It’s looking really pretty here this time of year. I can’t wait to show you around.”

“You mean show us your sweater collection?” Alex jabs.

You nudge him roughly to the side as a warning, glaring at him when he glances at you.

You’d hoped that the change of scenery would do you some good. LA was an endless heap of heat that you never could seem to escape. Not even with air conditioning. It was October already, which normally would mean Fall, orange leaves, pumpkins everywhere, a complete shift in temperature, right? Nope.

It was the devil’s asshole all year round, something Alex could attest to.

“Don’t mind him, I think he was dropped as a kid.”

“How dare you! There is nothing wrong with me, I’m perfect.”

“Ha! Sure. As if you don’t have a lot of things wrong with you.”

“Oh yeah? Like what?”

You tap at the time on your screen, “We don’t have enough time to get into it.”

You turn your attention back to Karl, very attentive to your bickering, small chuckles here and there. It wasn’t until he made eye contact with you that you felt your hands falter on the wheel. You were lucky enough that it didn’t make you stray away from the road.

“Um - you know what? We’ll call you later, we’re almost home anyways.”

“Okay! Be safe! Goodnight. ” Karl bids you both goodbye and poses his phone in front of him in order to hug it from afar, as if to hug both you and Alex.

You groan to yourself, pretending to bang your head against the steering wheel as soon as you pull up to your complex. Alex laughs at your misery.

“Oh man, you really are down BAD.”

“Shut up! I regret telling you things sometimes.”

“No one said you had to! I guess I just have one of those faces.” He Chad swipes at his chin and squints at you.

“Yeah, punch able.” You remark with a quirk of your brow, slipping out of the car and heading to your front door.

Alex follows, grabbing his things in a hurry before you can get the chance to lock him out and leave him to sleep with the coyotes.

“Don’t leave me out here! I’m too delicious to die!” He cries.

You’re awoken by the feeling of warm sunlight on the left side of your face. You hesitate to move, feeling tired already even though you’re sure you slept longer than you should’ve.

You prop yourself up by your elbows, shielding your face from the sun with your hand. You get out of bed groggily, staring at the floor for a second before making your way to the living room and finding Alex sleeping in a weird position.

Amused, you rush back into your room and grab your phone to document this moment and post it on Twitter. However when you return, he’s gone. You lean over the couch to check if he’s hiding behind it but he’s nowhere to be found.

You’re about to crouch to check for his feet or any sign of him when you feel fingers dig in your sides. You yelp in fear and surprise, smacking your attacker until he starts to yell in a shrill voice.

Alex pushes you over the couch making you fall on your ass.

“WHAT THE HELL?!” You scream.

“That’s what you get for trying to take pictures of me!”

You try to stand, rubbing at your sore ass. “Ugh, what are you, a cryptid or something? The people have a right to see!”

“No one gets to see me in the morning! No one! I need my beauty sleep more than you.”

He extends a helping hand for you to take in a moment of truce but you take advantage and pull him down with you to land on his back. He groans when he hits the ground and curses at you in Spanish.

“Play time’s over, we gotta get ready. The plane leaves in…..one hour????!”

Your phone says it’s only nine in the morning but you hazily remember the tickets reading ten thirty.

“No way! I have to take a shower, I have to order food….” He begins, counting on his fingers the various things he suddenly had to do but you stop him by running into your room and getting your bags.

“No time! Brush your teeth, get dressed, I’ll buy us something at the airport.”

“NOOOO! Airport food is disgusting! Can’t we stop somewhere?”

“Like I said, no time! We gotta be out of here in thirty minutes.”

He grumbles under his breath.

“I heard that!” You yell behind you, grabbing a towel and turning on your shower.

After Alex rummaged through your kitchen, stuffed himself with some snacks and an alarming amount of frozen food, you urged him to shower in the little time span you had left and ordered a ride to take you to the airport.

You had to basically pull him away from putting on his finishing touches with his beanie, with him complaining that his hair wouldn’t settle under it the way he wanted. You rolled your eyes and shoved him and your stuff into the Uber and kissed California goodbye.

You two started planning what you’d do in NC as soon as you landed, besides getting food. You could practically hear Alex’s stomach grumbling the whole drive to the airport and even after the Uber gave him some snacks.

There was a sense of urgency that made your stomach twist in knots until you’d arrived at the drop off section. You stuck your tickets in your pocket as you hurried Alex, dragging him and urging him to run faster than he’d ever imagined to catch the plane.

With only minutes to spare, you didn’t realize you were holding your breath until you panted and tried to regain it once you were at the gate. Alex makes a joke about you being out of breath to the pretty attendant that you make a note of later, just in case he tried to flirt with her.

Alex followed the attendant like a puppy while you popped your phone out from your pocket and snapped a photo of the plane. You debated sending it to Karl, not sure if wanting your boarding to be a surprise or not. You relented to posting it on Twitter and sending it to Karl.

Big things coming ;) You tweeted, exiting out of the app as quickly as you’d posted it, knowing you’d be flooded with notifications.

You switched over to message, sending it to Karl but unsure if he would be awake right now. Maybe it would make his day better.

On our way! See you soon! :))

You ran to catch up with Alex, finding him still talking to the attendant. In the most bitchy voice you could muster, you hugged him from the side and nestled your head into his shoulder.

“I’m so happy we’re going on vacation babe, thank you!”

His face fell, the attendant suddenly losing interest and suggesting the two of you find your seats. You intertwine your hands with his and hold it up, making a joke about how you two were inseparable.

He suppresses the urge to fight you and instead screams internally, whisper yelling to you as you both sit. “You couldn’t let me be a Chad once? Just once!”

“That’s what you get for slamming me on my ass earlier.”

#karl jacobs x reader #mcyt #yes I am aware that alex and karl might be a little OC #but I really wanted to get this chapter out of the way #myct fanfiction #myct imagines #dream smp

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yeah-all-of-it · 3 years

Note

Aha! 6, 22, 35 and 37 for the either or ask meme, please and thank you. <3

Hello, Kee! Thank you for playing!

6. Verbal “I love yous” or nonverbal “I love yous”?

So I think nonverbal I love yous are just, how they live their lives. Always doing things, big and little, for each other. The verbal I love yous are much fewer and farther between which I think makes them more… meaningful? impactful? special? I think those three words are reserved for when they want to be completely clear to the other, no room for interpretation, that I love you.

Moments like, at the border. Ian needs Mickey to know without a doubt that he loves him even though he can’t go with him. In prison. Ian needs Mickey to know why he’d be okay throwing his parole. I wanna be where you are, Mickey. I love you. Mickey needs Ian to know that it’s okay if he gets released. I know, I love you too and I’ll get out soon and come back to you. The wedding is falling apart. Look, I love you. I love you.

They speak those words when they don’t want to leave any room for doubt and I think those words hold a lot of weight for both of them.

22. Ian comforting Mickey or Mickey comforting Ian?

Mickey being able to comfort Ian is so, so beautiful to me. He was never taught how to comfort - it was never given to him personally and it was never shown as an example in front of him. It is innate to him as a person and he loves Ian so much it just pours out of him.

35. Ian manhandling Mickey or thumb caresses?

As much as I believe Mickey loves being manhandled, the fact that he allows Ian to be tender with him, in turn being tender back to Ian, punches me right in the gut.

The Milkovichs’ violent knuckle tats prove what they thought hands were good for. After years of that “kiss me and I’ll cut your fuckin’ tongue out” and “say that again and I’ll rip your tongue outta your head” facade he puts up, finally letting his walls crumble and realizing he also adores being touched with soft, gentle hands is so lovely. I love that Ian showed him that hands were for more than beating people up. One of my favorite things is seeing Mickey’s hands, “fuck u-up” boldly displayed, as he caresses Ian’s face, runs his fingers through Ian’s hair, or holds onto his waist.

37. “You are so much better than that” or “Mickey’s family”?

I think Ian telling Mickey “you are so much better than that” is a huge moment. All these years that he’s been out from under Terry’s thumb, away from his rein of terror, and he still questions himself. If he’s worthy. If he’s good.

Those were words he needed to hear. He is nothing like Terry. He is good.

And I think Ian physically stopping him, holding onto him, making sure he was looking him in the eye when he said it was so important. Ian didn’t just casually say, “Oh, yeah, don’t worry about him, you’re better than that, blah, blah.” It was intentional and clear and direct - “You are so much better than that.” He wanted Mickey to really know how much he meant it.

#asked and answered #gallavich ask game #keeloca

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pallasperilous · 4 years

Text

Funny Bone

The other day Supernatural9917 threw out this meme as a cracky Halloween Dean/Cas prompt and I was SO MAD, because I then had to write it:

And so here it is. Goddammit.

Funny Bone

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26761150 Words: 4930 Castiel/Dean Winchester Fluff and Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Skeletons, Bad Pick-Up Lines, No Angels AU, Men of Letters Bunker, Mild Gore Mature (mentions of lewd acts, canon-typical violence, and some truly horrible pickup lines)

It wasn’t even a particularly creepy skeleton; it was in kind of a “just chillin’” pose on the floor. One ankle was still locked up in a heavy iron cuff, at the end of a short chain leading back to the wall. Snoresville, as dead stuff goes; Dean’s seen worse at Disneyland. It was the skeleton’s comment about Dean’s ass that really livened things up.

Discovering the bunker in the first place was a helluva surprise. The whole facility is legitimately batshit; Dead Guys of Letters knew how to live (and, apparently, die. All at once.).

But after plowing through a dozen rooms worth of priceless treasures and crusty boobytraps, even Sam was looking kinda full up on shock and awe.

“We can hit the basement tomorrow,” he said. There was a big smudge of dust across his nose and some cobwebs in his hair.

“Nuh uh,” Dean answered, kicking the door shut with the toe of his boot. “If there’s shit still kicking down there, we gotta clean it out before it cleans us out. It’s that or we’re sleepin’ in the car.”

“Ugh,” Sam said, as if twenty minutes ago he hadn’t been losing his mind over a rare book about werewolf hemorrhoids.

So discovering that the basement included a no-shit actual dungeon felt more like an unanticipated bonus, and stumbling across a skeleton while exploring it barely even registered. Skeletons and dungeons! They go together like rama lama lama ka dinga da dinga dong.

It wasn’t even a particularly creepy skeleton; it was in kind of a “just chillin’” pose on the floor, inside a big circle of greasy black ash. It looked a little mildewy in in places. One ankle was still locked up in a heavy iron cuff, at the end of a short chain leading back to the wall. Snoresville, as dead stuff goes; Dean’s seen worse at Disneyland.

It was the skeleton’s comment about Dean’s ass that really livened things up.

“Welp,” Dean had said, holstering his gun and wiping his hands on his jeans. “We’re all clear. Let’s head back upstairs, salt the shit out of everything, and then we can pick up some groceries.”

“Do I get to buy a vegetable that doesn’t fit in a bun, or are we still in the refractory period?” Sam snarked from the corridor.

“I don’t see you cookin’, “ Dean started, shuffling back towards the hall, and that’s when the skeleton butted in.

“Are those astronaut pants?” it asked. “Because your ass is outta this world!”

Dean absolutely did not scream, but it’s possible there was a yelp.

He almost unloaded a clip into it – unclear what that would’ve possibly done, but it’s good to start with the simple, available solutions. Next he nabbed the lighter fluid off of Sam and dumped out half a pound of kosher salt as a chaser and set the fucker alight.

This does not have the intended effect.

“Baby, I’d like to put my meat on your grill,” the skeleton says, greenish flames dancing between its ribs, “because you’re hot, and I’m smokin’.” Then it sits up a little, just enough to shoot Dean some finger guns.

“What the fuck,” Dean says.

Sam makes a little evaluatory noise. “Sexually harassed by a skeleton,” he chuckles. “I think that’s a new one. Even for you. Is that a new one? I know a lot of strange shit went down in Purgatory.”

The skeleton perks up even more at that, grungy eye sockets sweeping up and down Dean’s body. “Are you a time traveler?” it asks. (Maybe he asks, because the voice is pretty deep and dude-ish, although possibly just on account of its vocal cords being leather shoelaces.)

“Wh…no, I’m not a time traveler,” Dean fibs. He’s more of a time trafficking victim, anyway. “Oh, wait, god,” he says. “Please don’t tell me you’re asking that because –“

“– I can see you in my future,” the skeleton finishes, eagerly, and Dean really wishes this thing had eyebrows so he could tell if they’re waggling.

“Yeah, okay. That’s enough for today,” Dean groans. “I need a drink.” He starts to back out of the room as a pre-emptive strike against Bones commenting on how he hates to see Dean leave, but loves to watch him go. Dean’s working on stumbling back again Sam’s left shoe when the skeleton pipes up one last time, this time with a husky, anxious edge.

“I realize that Purgatory isn’t accessible through a simple chronological shift,” it says, teeth chattering. “But it does require travel between modalities, and if you’re capable of that, I would very much like to speak with you again.”

Dean and Sam’s heads slowly swivel back towards the skeleton, like two little pizzas on the same Lazy Susan.

An hour later, they’re still in the dungeon, working on dousing the skeleton with every possible anti-bad-stuff solution they’ve got, just in case he’s a vampire skeleton or a ghoul skeleton or a witch skeleton or maybe just a wendigo that’s incredibly bad at its job. In between progress reports, he’s still hitting on Dean.

“Dude, don’t you have an off switch somewhere?” Dean asks him.

“Well, Dean, you certainly make me feel like a light switch,–“

“– because you turn me on,” all three of them say in unison.

The skeleton looks a little embarrassed, which is kind of impressive when you think about it. “You’ve…heard that one before?” he asks.

“I spend a lot of time in bars,” Dean deadpans. “Okay, sage is a no-go.”

Sam strikes a line off on the clipboard he found upstairs. “Is this part of a curse or something?” he asks, glancing up at Bones. “Like on top of being a sentient skeleton, you can only speak in horrible pickup lines?”

The skeleton shakes his head, which produces a sound Dean recognizes from his kneecaps on cold mornings. “No, the spellwork allows me to speak freely on most subjects; except who I am, or how to free me. But it’s helpful to use language modern humans can easily understand.”

“Huh. Well, in a way, it is Dean’s native tongue,” Sam says, smirking.

“You shut your face,” Dean hisses.

“When I first saw you, I lost my tongue. Can I try yours on for size?” Bones asks Dean.

“Buddy, I don’t know where you get your information from, but nobody actually talks that way,” Dean tells him. “Nobody sober, anyway. Who isn’t a virgin.”

The skeleton slumps. “I learned from my last visitor. He tried to release me on several occasions, but he either died or abandoned the project.”

Dean arches a brow. “The project being…you?”

“I would be very valuable under the right circumstances.” The skeleton shrugs and casually holds out an arm for Dean to scrape at with the demon blade. “He gave me lessons in modern vernacular as a way to pass our time together.”

“Sounds like a peach,” Dean says, before he can catch himself. “If you have a peach-related pickup line in there, man, you’d better just sit on it.”

“That’s what-“

“I will smash you with a hammer,” Dean barks.

The skeleton relents, but with obvious reluctance.

They call it quits before Kansas rolls up the sidewalk for the night and leaves them stranded with nothing but two Clif bars and a gross of septuagenarian cans of franks ’n beans. Bones shifts nervously when Dean leaves – “Which is better, pancakes or waffles?” he asks.

“Pancakes,” Dean says, with a sense of grim duty.

“Because I’d like to know what you’re making me for breakfast,” says Bones, his voice trailing off as Dean books it down the stony corridor.

By lunch the next day (bologna sandwiches, so sue him, he’ll make something good later) they’re pretty sure that Bones doesn’t pose any known, immediate threat – other than to Dean’s sanity – so they switch gears to springing him. Maybe he will be worth something, or maybe he’ll crumble into dust and Be Free, or maybe he’ll just stop being chained to the basement wall, in which case he can become their skeleton butler or something.

There are weird runes on the ankle cuff, so Sam snaps some quick photos and heads upstairs to feel up the library. This leaves Dean in the basement with Bones, some good old-fashioned power tools, and Bones’s ex-suitor’s gross sense of humor.

“You know I can understand you just fine when you’re talking normally,” Dean says. “You’re just reciting some prehistoric shit that idiots say to girls to get a pity-laugh, hoping it leads to a pity-fuck.”

“What’s a pity-fuck?” Bones asks, all mildewy innocence. Dean’s pretty sure the grunge in his eyeball sockets is dried eyeball.

“Pretty much what it says on the tin, my guy,” Dean answers, and reaches for the acetylene torch.

“Enochian,” Sam says, when Dean surfaces for another sandwich and possibly a beer. He’s really disappointed about the torch.

“Gesundheit?” Dean replies, around a mouthful of bologna. Like everything else here, the kitchen is pretty schwa, although the inside of the fridge required three exorcisms and half a jug of bleach.

Sam paws around the smelly old book in a way that makes Dean feel sorry for the girls Sam dated in high school. “The symbols on the cuff. I think they’re Enochian. It’s a fake celestial language made up by some sixteenth century con artists.”

Dean coughs up a bit of Wonder Bread. “I respect the hustle, but what’s it doing on an ankle cuff in a dungeon younger than Mickey Mouse?”

Sam frowns. “Well, it could be for show. But just because some nutbars made it up doesn’t mean it’s totally powerless. Maybe it does have some kind of…heavenly mojo.”

“Liwl probbem,” Dean observes, finishing off his sandwich. “Def nuh heggen.”

“Huh?”

Dean takes a swallow of beer. “I said: there’s no heaven.”

Sam shrugs. “We didn’t think there was a Purgatory, either.”

“Okay, but if we find out angels are real,” Dean snorts, “then Bones can fuck me in the ass.”

Sam reports his findings to Bones, who sits placidly on the back of his pelvis, carpals splayed out on his kneecaps. What’s even holding him together? Dean can see what’s left of his ligaments, but they look like petrified gas station jerky.

“Do you know what they mean?” Sam asks him, pointing at the sigils.

Bones’s jaw creaks open a little, then closes again, and then he shakes his skull (something rattles inside.) Finally he makes a little frustrated noise and replies – “Baby, are you a book? Because I’d like to check you out.”

“Hey!” says Dean. “Keep it in your pants, man, I’m right here.”

Sam squints. “I think…Dean, I think he’s trying to tell us something, but the spell on him means he can’t say it directly.”

Bones clenches his fists, releases them, clenches them again.

“Yeah. Keep him talking. Let’s see how close he can get.”

Clack clack clack.

“Uh,” Dean says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay. Do I need to, like. Give you some kinda opening?” he asks Bones.

“Sweetheart, I’d like nothing better,” Bones answers, then clacks his knuckles on his brow with exasperation.

“Sorry, Christ. Hit me with your best shot, buddy. Dealer’s choice.”

Bones clears his…ghost throat? and tries: “Tell me, Dean…did it hurt?”

Dean blinks. “When I…fell from heaven?”

Sam claps his hands. “Fucking knew it. It is Enochian, and it does have something to do with this. I think he wants me to check the library for another book. Maybe there’s one misshelved or something that I can actually use to translate. Or I can Google around, maybe there’s a subreddit.”

Dean’s pretty sure Bones has never heard of a Google or a subreddit (for that matter, does Dean actually know what a subreddit is?), but it seems like there’s a glimmer of hope deep in those scum-holes.

Sam gets translations for a few of the words – “obedience” and something he’s fifty percent sure means “millstone” – but the rest is still gobbledygook, and he hasn’t come down with another update in hours. The dungeon is pretty roomy, but it’s not like there’s a foosball table or a cable TV pickup down there, so Dean and Bones wind up lying on the cold-ass ground, staring up into the dark reaches of the ceiling together and, like. Chatting.

Occasionally Bones goes quiet and Dean glances over at him. He really could just be a totally normal, completely dead dungeon skeleton. A good power washing and the right mounting hardware and he’d be ready for a high school biology classroom.

“So if these runes are a celestial thing, does that mean you’re some kinda demonic...thing?” Dean asks. “Cause I gotta say, you’re a much less of a douche than the demons I’ve met.” He snorts. “I know you probably can’t say.”

Bones sighs (how? With what lungs?). “The last person who tried to free me was a demon.” He shifts a little, maybe surprised that he can say this out loud. “It had been so long since somebody had spoken to me…I’m afraid I came close to actually enjoying his company. But he was no better than his kind usually are.”

“Don’t suppose you caught his name? Maybe Sam or me killed him for you already.”

“He called himself—no, I can’t say it.” He makes a sound resembling a harumph.

Then his skull creaks over to look at Dean. “Does your name start with ‘C’?” he says, very deliberately.

Dean is momentarily puzzled, but he works it out by the time Bones wincingly adds “…because I’ve got a D that wants to come behind you.”

There aren’t too many demons under the “C” tab in Dean’s blood-stained mental rolodex, and when he says the name out loud, Bones makes a sound like an entire set of dominos being thrown down a spiral staircase.

Crowley is pretty pissed, which is fun.

It’s nice that the dungeon floor already has a perfect trap on the floor; they don’t even have to hit up Ace Hardware for paint. A damp shop cloth and a little nail polish (Wet ’n Wild in “Red Red,” don’t leave home without it) brings it right up to working order.

“Why does it smell like a nail salon fucked a bloody wine cellar?” Crowley says, after he’s settled down a bit. He manifested right in the creepy torture chair (in the shackles, even! What service!) and he made some escape attempts followed by angry noises about rust stains. Now he’s recovered his dignity and has kicked back a bit, legs crossed, fingers steepled, oozing maximum levels of 2 cool 4 school.

“How do you know what a nail salon smells like?” Dean retorts.

“I get a monthly mani-pedi. There’s no shame in a little self-care, boys.” Crowley’s eyes trickle down to their feet. “Imagine what fungal horrors those work boots must conceal.” Then he squints, and looks up, finally taking in the whole room. “Could swear I’ve been here before. Little upscale for you, isn’t it? Did we splurge for a vacation rental?”

“Crowley, why don’t we roleplay Titanic?” Bones growls from the wall behind him, and Crowley’s face goes slack. “I’ll be the iceberg, and you can go down.”

Crowley swallows and slowly twists back, as far as the shackles let him. “Feathers, is that you? Well, as I live and breathe.”

“You do neither,” says Bones, with so much gravelly contempt that Dean suppresses a little shiver.

“Oh, I still breathe now and then, when the mood takes me. I’m a sentimentalist.” Crowley cranes his neck a little harder and squints into the dim. “Goodness, you’ve dropped some weight since we last spoke, haven’t you. Finally let go of all that pesky soft tissue?”

Bones tilts forward and kind of clatters onto hands and knees, then tipsily begins to rise up to standing. Dean’s a little concerned he’s gonna topple right over and they’re gonna spend the next two hours collecting him in a basket, but when he moves to help out, Bones waves him off. After a couple false starts he makes it up onto his feet bones and then shuffles out to the end of his chain, right under one of the overhead lights. He’s still a good couple feet off from Crowley, but Crowley looks like he wouldn’t mind a few extra acres.

Bones sways a little bit, just enough for Crowley to wince. “You didn’t come back.”

“I got busy.”

Sam shifts impatiently. “What is he?” he snaps, gesturing at Bones.

“Exceedingly dull,” Crowley says. “I should’ve guessed you were friends.”

Dean uncorks a fresh bottle of holy water.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Crowley amends, quickly. “And even if you did, you wouldn’t know what to do with him. It’d be like giving a laptop to a pair of howler monkeys.”

Dean puts his thumb over the mouth of the water bottle and holds it over Crowley’s head. “Try me.”

Crowley scoffs, rolls his eyes. “It doesn’t matter what he is, since he’s useless as long as he’s chained up. And I wouldn’t have left him down here if I had a single clue how to smuggle him out. I haven’t even been in here since the Bay of Pigs; I’d worked a loophole in one of the defense spells here that let me in. When it broke down, I lost my exploit. Wasn’t worth the bother after that.”

Dean slides his thumb a millimeter north of a perfect seal, and a fat drop of water busts its ass open on Crowley’s forehead and sends up a thin line of steam. “Good thing I’ve got a limitless supply of bother,” Dean notes. “Sam, we still got those syringes in the trunk?”

Crowley snarls. “Go ahead and melt me like the cartoon shoe in Roger Rabbit, it’s not going magically make me come up with a solution.”

Bones grunts and rattles his leg chain. “Do you speak Spanish, Crowley? Because you look like the Juan for me.”

“Did I teach you that one? You absolute xylophone.” Crowley glances back at Dean. “Do your worst, Squirrel, I deserve it.”

Sam frowns. “He uses the lines to get around the spell’s speech restrictions. This is something about speaking languages…were you able translate the Enochian symbols on his cuff?”

Crowley blinks. “What symbols?”

After a whole lot of faffing around with mirrors and terrible cellphone photography, they confirm that Crowley can’t see the symbols at all.

“More demon-proofing. Clever little buggers, those Men of Letters,” Crowley sighs. “A real shame they were peeled and eaten like bananas.”

Finally Sam just hunkers down with a pencil and pad to transcribe the entire ankle cuff, and Dean awkwardly holds up Bones’s ankle, like he’s being sized for a glass slipper. When they shove the results in Crowley’s face, Dean watches his eyes dart along the words.

“Well, it’s your lucky day, boys. Along with the usual wankery, there are instructions on how to release the cuff. I can translate it,” he finally says, with an unusually low inflection of bullshit, “but I’ll thank you to release me, first.”

Dean is flummoxed. “What, you’re not gonna haggle for a cut of the profits or anything?”

“Activating the release mechanism will free him completely, and restore his…restore him. I’d rather be at a safe distance.” He glances back at Bones, looming in the shadows. “A continent or three should do the trick.”

“If it doesn’t work–“

“I’d be more worried about what happens if it does,” Crowley sighs. “But feel free to summon me back for tea and sympathy. Here, I’ll even give you my number. But please, no personal photography. I pity you enough as it is.”

Crowley finally smokes out, and Dean has a beer to celebrate while Sam looks over the list of what they need and Bones clatters his fingertips like castanets. The ingredients are (as always) larded with shit that’s exotic and expensive; Sam is looking crestfallen at some of the items. “I’ve heard of all of this, but I’ve only seen maybe half of it for sale anywhere.”

“Baby, are you a yard sale? Because you’ve got some serious junk in that trunk,” Bones monotones. He’s back to lying on the floor.

At least it’s getting easier to translate this shit. “They’ve got all the ingredients here somewhere,” Dean says. Sam looks skeptical. “C’mon, Sam, no way these dudes would use a lock when they didn’t have the key.”

The ensuing scavenger hunt takes a few pints of elbow grease, but at least by the end they’re both familiar with the Bunker’s floor plan, document filing system, and inventory records. They find virtually everything in-house, though they do end up driving to the nearest farm stand for some hen’s eggs and rosemary (and heirloom tomatoes, because they look bomb).

Dean christens – or maybe exorcises – the kitchen range with some red meat, and they fuel up with burgers before taking the plunge. Dean’s still licking the ketchup off his fingers when Bones pipes up one last time. “Can I ask you something?” he says.

Dean and Sam brace for impact.

Bones sighs. “That’s not the start of a pickup line. I genuinely have a question.”

“Shoot.”

“Why are you so intent on freeing me? You could have just left me down here. I’m not a threat this way. You only have Crowley’s word that you might profit - or suffer - from my release.”

Sam gives Dean a look; it’s the look that says I sure hope you have an answer, because I think this entire thing has been dumb as shit and half as necessary. It’s a look Sam uses pretty regularly.

“Uh. It’s the right thing to do? As far as I can tell, you haven’t hurt anybody or done anything else to deserve being down here. We went through all those records upstairs, and there’s no note that says ‘by the way, that skeleton downstairs eats babies for breakfast.’ This place is cool, but the dudes who built it were obviously shady as fuck.”

“I see.” Bones sounds a little disappointed.

Sam fake-coughs into his hand, and Dean sets down his paper napkin. “Also, you seem cool. Like, you’re easy to hang out with. Other than the stinky one-liners, and we’re gonna wean you off of those.”

Bones straightens himself out a little. “Thank you, Dean. You know, on a scale of one to ten, I’d rate you a nine.”

“Okay, okay. Why not a ten?”

Bones sets his chin on his knuckle bones with a tidy little clack. “Because I’m the one you’re missing.”

Dean groans, but he thinks the guy might be smiling, somewhere behind that skeletal grin.

By hour two, Sam’s pretty tuckered out from pulverizing a billion and three mummified dove livers while reciting nonsense syllables, and Dean’s right arm is about to fall off from holding up this giant silver swizzle stick that’s either a really weird short sword or a decorative javelin, but Bones has never looked perkier. He’s lying on a nice white bedsheet and looking fresh as a recently exhumed daisy.

“Okay,” Sam rasps. “Light the candle and we should be good to go. Any last words, Bones?”

“Are either of you religious?” He crosses his arm bones over each other.

“Fuck no,” Dean answers, before Sam gets a chance to launch into it.

Bones shakes his skull fondly. “You should reconsider. Because you’re the answer to my prayers.”

Dean makes a gagging noise and lights the candle.

What happens next (well, after the cuff pops open) is some of the freakiest shit that Dean has ever seen, and his Freaky CV is pretty fucking impressive, thanks. Bones tells them to avert their eyes, “just in case”, but he takes a peek between his fingers anyway, because he’s an idiot.

For a second Bones is just lying there, and Dean has a second of real disappointment that maybe he’s Moved On Past The Veil or something, but then he starts…foaming. It starts out kind of uniform and colorless, but then it really picks up speed and volume and starts to separate into swaths of distinct and horrible colors and textures. He closes his eyes again for a second to give his stomach a chance to reboot, and when he looks again the foam is gone, and instead there’s a whole lot of angry jelly trying to form into organs.

Just as the jelly is really getting its shit together and looking more like lungs and intestines and stuff, the heart-jelly pulses once and sends out a fistful of big squishy vines…veins? and a fat white worm of nerve scrambles down the spinal column and starts putting out franchises. This is followed by some disturbingly tasty-looking red sheets of muscle that swiftly sheathe over all the whole scene, and then the muscles start sweating out fat and cartilage and this is the point where Dean decides that looking away is actually definitely one hundred percent for the best. Even then, the sounds are tough to handle.

Kinda wild: he’s seen people taken apart, but watching one get put back together is somehow gnarlier. Well, if this guy is even a person. It’s a human skeleton, sure, but god knows even Mickey Rourke has one under there.

Finally everything seems to have quieted down.

“How you doin’ over there, Bones?” Dean asks, and dares to take a peek.

Bones is crouched down in front of them, fists balled up in the bedsheets (it’s a relief that the bedsheets didn’t get accidentally sucked into the muscle layer or something, like one of those surgeons who leaves a sponge behind). Dean sees white guy skin and some dark messy hair and gets the gist of a decent build.

The face slowly cranes upwards, and Dean is really truly ready for anything here; tusks, fangs, Klingon forehead ridges, gingivitis. Instead he gets a faceful of hot math teacher. Bones’s eyes are still closed, but he’s frowning like he’s mentally reviewing his strategy to explain the quadratic equation to a roomful of horny teens.

He slowly rises to standing (yikes! Naked! Dean is a Moderately Bad Man, so he glances, but just long enough to register “nice), uncurling slowly and carefully.

Then he’s all the way up. Bones squares his shoulders and straightens the last kink in his spine, and the frown resolves. Dean’s about to say something, when his eyes snap open, and this cold white light absolutely blasts out of them, and fuck, Crowley wasn’t kidding: this guy is definitely A Thing. The whole room flattens and distorts in the light. Shadows race up the walls like they’re looking for a way out, then snap together into the shape of enormous ragged wings, stretching thirty feet higher than the actual ceiling clearance.

Then the light dies down; the wings fade into regular-grade shadows. Instead of a terrifying unearthly avatar of Oh Shit, Dean’s looking at a buck naked thirty-something math teacher. Who happens to be an unearthly avatar of Oh Shit. And has nice eyes.

“My name is Castiel, angel of the Lord, Seraph of the First Shield,” the avatar says, in a piss-shakingly resonant version of Bones’s voice.

Then: “Do you speak English, Dean?”

“Yes?” Dean fumbles.

“So do I,” says Castiel, and smiles.

Then he makes finger-guns.

Castiel sticks around for a grand total of five minutes before he’s suddenly gone again, because angels are (a) real and they can (b) teleport? at (c) any moment because (d) fuck you, then he reappears six hours later (clothed) standing over Dean’s bed, having apparently forgotten that humans like to sleep; this time Dean does shoot him, but luckily he doesn’t seem to take it personally.

“I located Crowley,” Bo- Castiel says. The silver sword-javelin thing is sitting on the kitchen counter in front of him; apparently it’s an Angel Blade and it lives in Castiel’s coat sleeve and can vaporize demons. It doesn’t look like it has any Crowley on it, but maybe it’s self-cleaning.

“Did you kill him?” Dean asks, now that he’s semi-coherent and wrapped around a cup of coffee in the kitchen.

“Not this time,” Cas answers. “He did help, after all.”

“Sure,” says Dean.

“You don’t need to let me fuck you in the ass, either,” Castiel says, and Dean honks some coffee up the back of his nose.

“Oh,” he gasps. “Okay. Cool. Thanks. Didn’t realize you could hear that convo all the way down there.”

“Angels have excellent hearing. Mine wasn’t impacted by the spell.”

Dean can think of at least three very private moments Castiel almost definitely could hear every instant of, and longs for death. Or maybe not, since apparently this guy lives in Heaven and could hear him there, too. “Great. Good to know. Noted.”

“But…” Castiel looks wistful.

“What?” Dean nudges him. Dean Winchester: angel nudger.

Castiel frowns. “If I said…” he stops himself. “This is…what I want to say is very irregular, at least between angels and humans.”

“Jesus christ on a goddamn pogo stick, man. It’s three in the morning, some of us have a circadian rhythm and a limited lifespan. Say whatever it is you gotta say.”

Castiel looks up and drowns Dean in his swimming pool eyes, which Dean has learned belong to a radio ad salesman in Illinois, who Castiel possessed a few years back before jumping several decades into the past to run some errands and getting rope-a-doped by the Men of Letters and then warehoused in their basement; after they all spontaneously bought the farm, he just slowly ran out of the power reserves needed to keep his vessel from turning to mush and hey presto, talking skeleton.

Classic story, really.

“If I said you had a beautiful body, Dean,” Castiel says, solemnly, “Would you hold it against m-“

Dean doesn’t let him finish. {AO3 version}

#spn fanfic #destiel #deancas #profoundnet #prompt fic

140 notes · View notes

anobscurename · 4 years

Text

ocean eyes – chris evans

previous part: PART XVII — masterlist

concept: you surprise chris for his birthday while he's shooting in italy. the slowest of slow burns. the ever anticipated part eighteen of many.

pairing: chris evans x reader

word count: 4.3k

warnings: fluff. just prepare to melt.

author's note: everyone can thank @tonystankschild for this one. she was deep in the dm's asking for fluff and i intended to deliver the fluffiest of fluffs.

You liked to consider yourself a rational person at the best of times.

That consideration, however, was entirely negated by the fact that you were now on a flight to Italy to surprise Chris for his birthday. There was nothing rational about it.

But you had saved for this trip, and Chris had done so much for you in the past year or so, that you had wanted to do something for him.

And you had decided that no one should be alone on their birthday, no matter how far away they were.

You had caught a flight from Boston after making the forty-four hour roadtrip to drive Dodger there, not having the funds to fly him to the Evans' household. The fees of bringing an animal on board were astronomical, and you were still balking from how high the number was.

Chris was a wealthy man, however, and those types of costs never quite fazed him as much as they did you.

So you had driven him to Lisa's, a thousand thank yous on your lips as she delivered you to the airport to minimize on the extra cost of leaving your car at the airport parking lots.

Scott – who had still been there from the Patriot's game, "tryin' to get as much family lovin' as he could" as he put it – smiled knowingly at you when you had brought Dodger in.

"You go, baby vamp," he'd whispered to you. It was an outdated saying, but you knew it anyways, and laughed him off.

"We're just friends, Scott."

"Yeah, just like these highlights are from the sun."

He had given you a tight hug, wished you luck on your trip, and – like Lisa would later do at the drop off – made you promise to wish Chris a happy birthday from them.

When you touched down in Italy, it was early morning, that hovering between night and dawn.

You had once again called Chris' agent – Mark – to get details on the shoot, ones which he reluctantly handed over.

You thought that perhaps he was trying to save Chris the PR scandal of being seen with another woman while publicly in a relationship with Lily, but you had pointed out that you had been clearly established as friend of the couple with your global third wheel memes. It didn't take much pressing, because Mark knew how much you both cared about each other and how happy you being there for Chris' birthday would make the actor. So he emailed you the shooting location, with a schedule and call sheet. The tagline was very quick: "Don't interrupt shooting :)"

After a quick shower at the affordable three star you'd rented for the weekend, you got ready in spite of the weariness the plane left you with. Hot water did wonders to waken you, and a touch of makeup never hurt.

You stepped out in the warm breeze, the wind toying softly with the skirt of the summer dress you wore. You easily hailed a cab, and, after failing at the pronunciation of where you were headed, let the cabbie read the location off your phone.

The first person you saw when you got out of the car was Chris.

He was stood off to the side by the craft table, a crewmate quickly doing a last minute adjustment to his hair as he went over his lines. Dressed in an Italian pinstripe suit, you remembered what the film was about.

The indie flick told the tale of an arranged marriage between the son of an Irish mob boss and the daughter of a New York mafia don. Most of the film, however, was set in Italy, where the son, Mickey, had to travel to win the favour of the extended mafia family for the blessing on the union. Briefly, the scene with the strawberries popped into your mind.

You were stopped by security, but Mark – who had been waiting for you – vouched for your admittance.

You stood a little ways away from Chris, within eyesight, but not obvious. It was a surprise, after all.

You called him, watching from where you leaned against his trailer wall. Chris, ringtone blaring for his attention, quickly patted down his suit pockets before finding the device. His glance at the caller I.D. was followed by his whole face lighting up, soft smile on his lips.

"Hey there, Sleeping Beauty," he said into the receiver. "Isn't it a little late in L.A.?"

"It is," you replied. "But it's your birthday tomorrow, and I couldn't resist."

"You know, I've been told I'm irresistible before," he chuckled. "Just never thought I'd hear you say it."

"Well, what can I say? Suits do it for me," you smirked, dropping your first hint.

Scott was right. Chris really could be clueless. "You'd love the one they just put me in then," he murmured, distracted by the food on display at the craft table as he perused the options. "A real classy number."

"What are your plans for the rest of the weekend?"

"They gave me the weekend off to celebrate, but you know me... Probably will go wine tasting by myself and look at some art or something. Oh, man, read a book. Yeah, haven't done that in a while."

You watched as he plucked a strawberry from the table, and your stomach fluttered.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Hmm?" He hummed as he bit in to the sweet fruit.

"Aren't you sick of strawberries by now?"

Chris froze, eyes wide in shock. Running his tongue over his teeth smoothly and swallowing the bite, he began swiveling his head, trying to look out for where you may be hiding. "Where are you?" He grinned.

"Guess."

And then he saw you.

And then he had you wrapped in his arms, the force of the running tackle hug sending your back crashing into the trailer, metal creaking.

You laughed breathlessly, hanging up the call as you hugged him back.

"Chris," you strained against the bone crush of his fierceness. "Oxygen–"

He loosened his grip, but didn't take back his arms. "You have no idea how much I missed you."

His whispery breath in your hair as he deeply inhaled the apple scented shampoo clinging to you had electricity coursing through your veins. "My bones have some idea, I think you might've fractured a rib."

The rumble of the chuckle reverberated through his body and into yours, and heat dusted your ears and cheekbones. "Sorry, I just can't believe you're here. I had to make sure you were real." And then, the question you'd expected: "Where's Dodger?"

"Dodger is in Boston with your mom. And I'm here, I'm real," you reassured him, smoothing your hands over the back of the meticulously woven cotton of his suit. "But you also have a real job to get back to."

"Oh, right," he groaned sheepishly. In his joy, he'd almost forgotten where he was. "Just hang around for a bit, we're only filming a little today before we're off."

So you did. You got given a seat, just off camera, and watched Chris do his thing. His performance was breathtaking, the way he embodied such a dangerous man. It was enough to make you flushed, the square of his shoulders, the confidence in his stride – the danger lurking under Italian silk lined cotton. You'd never quite seen him like this.

And it thrilled you to see a man you usually felt so safe around look so menacing.

It was the love proclamation scene that served to be your undoing, however.

The director kept hounding Chris, demanding retake after retake. He wanted that genuine love to flow through, and it simply just wasn't.

"Think of someone you love," the director suggested. "Put them in your mind's eye. You have a girlfriend, yes? Would it help to bring a picture for you to look at off camera? Tell the picture you love her. Someone get me a picture of this man's lover, please! Imagine you've never told her how you feel. And you've been feeling it for a while, and even though it was very... what is the English word? Uncommon? It was uncommon meeting circumstances you met... You love her. Si?"

Chris grit his teeth and nodded, ready to comply. And once the picture was brought out, the call for quiet on set rang out.

But once the director called action, Chris didn't look at Lily. Your heart clenched, your breath catching in your throat.

No, his eyes found you.

"I love you," he said the words you'd never thought you'd hear him say – at least not to you – and the sincerity in his cracked voice was overwhelming. His eyes were watery, relief dropping his shoulders – as if he'd kept this inside for too long and a weight had been lifted. He sighed it again and again, as if it was the only thing that was going to save him, as if it's the only words he'd ever known.

And when the director called cut, singing Chris' praises, he was still looking at you.

———————

"I still can't believe you're wearing that," Chris chuckled.

You dipped your sunglasses lower on the bridge of your nose to observe him critically. He was leaning against a Vespa, arms folded, the sleeves of his loose white cotton button down rolled up to his elbows, barely containing the bulge of his muscles. Black trousers clad his legs, on his feet a pair of black Italian leather loafers he'd gotten as a gift from his co-star. He wore his own pair of sunglasses, hair swept back, being tousled by the passing breeze.

The statement had been made in reference to the silk scarf you wore, twisted around your neck delicately in a way that was reminiscent of Audrey Hepburn. "If I'm going to have a Roman holiday," you giggled, tripping a little on your way to the Vespa – Chris moved to catch you, but you righted yourself, "you best believe I'm going to fucking look like it."

You had gone to a wine tasting in a vineyard on the outskirts of Rome, somewhere far into the countryside. You had both goofed off the entire time, earning yourselves scolding looks from the sophisticated tourists and the locals, who had wanted a peaceful afternoon at the farm.

You sniffed the wines, obnoxiously listing all the strange terminology the haughty wine connoisseurs would throw around casually, before taking your sips.

It became somewhat of an inside joke between the two of you, finding yourselves lagging behind the group because you couldn't stop laughing. And whenever you were shot a dirty look, it would only make you laugh more.

"You're meant to taste it," he'd whispered to you.

"I am tasting it," you shot back.

"No, you're chugging it like a sixteen year old whose parent made the unwise choice of leaving unsupervised."

The tour guide had been eyeing the two of you up, waiting for your silence. The rest of the tour group turned their critical gaze too, and you gave Chris' foot a soft stomp to get his attention.

Both of you shut up, giggling under your breaths as Chris had practically bowed in his gesture for the guide to continue.

But now it was time to go back to the inner city, and Chris had waited patiently for you by the Vespa while you'd gone to freshen up a bit. The cobblestones were hell for your tipsiness, but you were wine and laugh drunk, and hadn't a care in the world.

"You know how they say there's always that one pair of annoying people on wine tastings that ruin the experience for everyone?"

"They do?" Chris' brow creased in question as he grinningly handed you your helmet.

"Of course they do. Well, I couldn't find them, so it must be us."

Chris clicked his own helmet in place as he caught sight of the hostess by the front door giving you both a dirty look. "What finally gave it away?"

He slid easily onto the Vespa seat, heeling up the kickstand and righting the orientation.

"Hop on, princess," he beckoned you with a nod. You regretted wearing a dress for this part, but you were serious about the Roman Holiday aesthetic.

Serious enough to risk flashing someone as you mounted the scooter behind Chris. But luckily you didn't.

"Hold on tight," Chris called over his shoulder. You complied, encircling your arms around his waist, pressing your bodies together.

You could feel his heart rate pick up, but before you could think too much about it, he took off – cobblestone streets and ivy climbed buildings flying past you in your bliss.

————————

Two of the three worst things that could've happened to you while riding a scooter in the countryside did.

The scooter had broken down and it had started to rain. Not only rain, but fucking pour. You were drenched through to your skin, pulled over on the side of the road, Chris trying to kickstart the machine into working again.

After his fifth attempt, he came over to you, squinting in the rain.

"It's not working," he shouted over the droning rainfall. "Let's just find some shelter and come up with a game plan!"

There were nothing but open spans of green fields and wheat as far as your eyes could see. But a little while back, just over the hill, there had been lights in the haze of rain, a little nondescript sign on the side of the road that you'd whipped past suggesting the shelter that you so desperately craved.

"I think there was a house back there," you yelled back. "Maybe they could help out."

He nodded imperceptibly in the shower of droplets, hand on the small of your back, fitting so seamlessly in the curve of your spine, and began guiding you.

You both dashed across the road, and then you were tearing through the long grass in a shortcut to the twinkling beacons of the lights in the windows, looking like eyes peering at you in the darkness.

Somewhere along the way, you'd found out that Chris was a little ticklish at his waist, and after you'd discovered it – he'd flinched away from you and begged you to stop, but you'd continued just to antagonise him – you wouldn't let it go. It took you much longer to get there than would be normal, but soon, you were both stood, shivering and drenched on the porch step.

There was a sign on the door telling you it was a little inn – an underused bed and breakfast, most likely for road weary travelers on their way to Rome.

You didn't bother knocking as you entered the lobby, spilling inside with laughter still on both your lips. Muddied shoes squelched, and your sodden clothes dripped onto the floor.

You immediately moved to the fire while Chris went to go confer with the front desk.

His two months in Rome had taught him a fair amount of Italian, but it was still quite broken, and he found himself floundering with a lot of the words.

The landlady – a portly old woman with an extraordinarily kind smile and crows footed crinkles by her eyes – understood the predicament.

She explained to him in English – loud enough in the silence so you could hear over the crackle of the fire – that the road services would probably only be available to come out so far tomorrow morning, and that it'd be best to stay the night.

She didn't seem like someone who would scam you into staying at her little roadside hostel – even going so far as to give Chris some white fluffy towels for the both of you.

He paid for the last room available with soggy money, and returned to you, fresh towels in his arms.

He draped one over your shoulders first, and when you reached out to cling it to your frame, your fingers brushed.

That same electricity jolted through you both, travelling with lightning quick velocity down both your spines to spark alive the restless butterflies you had well and truly thought you had put to rest. You were the first to withdraw, allowing Chris to put a towel over himself.

He ran it through his hair, the pieces that had been plastered to his skin with water raising into spikes.

You laughed, reaching out a tentative hand – giving him ample time to withdraw should he need to – to smooth it back and away from his face.

But your laughter died down, as it inevitably did whenever he looked down at you like that. Because how the hell were you meant to function when his eyes were on your lips the way they were now?

And you damn near choked when he started leaning down, lips pressing closer to yours...

But before they touched, he broke into a gut-wrenching smirk, moving past your tingling and awaiting mouth to whisper in your ear. "I dibs the shower."

And then he was sprinting up the stairs.

You were so in shock that for a minute you couldn't even register what had happened, and when you did, you cursed at him, following him up, swearing you'll skin him alive.

And all the while, the landlady was watching the two of you, a knowing glimmer in those kind eyes. She muttered something in Italian, one she repeated many a time during your stay, a saying you would come to know as "young love."

And she didn't even care that you had tracked mud into her hotel and soaked the carpets through from your wet clothes.

She just cared that there were still kids in love in this world.

———————

Once you had both taken a shower and were wrapped up in your complimentary hotel bathrobes, you realised that neither of you were tired.

Your clothes were laid out, sprawled over the backs of chairs, drying by a fire Chris had taken the liberty of building.

So you both decided to go downstairs, and see what activities you could engage in with the other guests. It would do well to help you forget the prospect of having to share a bed with Chris.

According to the landlady, this was the last room available. And of course, Chris had offered to sleep on the floor, as gentlemanly as ever.

But you couldn't do that to him on his birthday, so you'd told him it would be fine, as long as a pillow fort was built to prevent any unnecessary contact.

The common area was woefully empty, save for a couple of sleepy looking musicians, poised atop their makeshift stage, on the brink of passing out on their instruments.

When you and Chris entered, however, they livened up, striking up some traditional Italian melody you may have heard before in passing.

It wasn't that late, so the bar was still open, and Chris managed to purchase a bottle of wine.

Most of the seats had been stacked on the tables, and he helped you pull some down before seating yourselves.

He poured you both wine, and you sat there in your robes, listening to the music.

The landlady came by, at some point, to light the tea light candle on your table.

When you thanked her, she said the same thing she had said earlier – in Italian, so you struggled to understand.

Chris, however, who had been taking a hearty sip of wine, nearly choked. "Mille grazie," he winked.

She scoffed, patting his cheek affectionately, much like a grandmother would her grandson. You didn't catch much of what she said, aside from one word. Cacciatore, in reference to a flirtatious man.

"What did she say to you?"

"She said amore giovane. It means young love."

You turned to try and find her – wanting to correct the innocent mistake of having her assume that you and Chris were in love. Fact of the matter was, there was still with Lily, and you couldn't stand to think of the PR nightmare it would be if it were to get out that he was at an admittedly romantic bed and breakfast with you of all people. "Oh, no, we aren't..." You faded out awkwardly. "He has a girlfriend!"

"Actually," Chris said softly, as if he had been wanting to tell you this for a while. "I don't. Not anymore. Not since the last day at the Hamptons."

Relief flooded you, followed by something undetermined – hope, you would later discover – before you were floored with absolute sympathy. "Oh, Chris. Chris, I'm so sorry."

You reached over to link your fingers in a reassuring hand hold, and his focus was pulled to that singular touch, that point of joining.

"If there's anything I can do to help..."

"No, it just..." He swallowed, finally pulling those ocean eyes to you. "It just wasn't meant to be, I guess. She wasn't the one."

His eyes told a story much deeper, hinting to something that you didn't have the strength to uncover. You'd been hurt too many times by these false feelings, you really weren't sure how ready you were to face them once more.

"What happened?"

"She thinks I'm in love with someone else." When you didn't say anything again – too stunned to do so – Chris cleared his throat. "I, uh," he tried for a smile, "I believe you owe me a dance."

It took you a while to recall him asking you to save him the last dance at the charity gala, and when it registered, you grinned, questions of who dissipating. "Let's go dance."

The band saw you and Chris approach the dancefloor, and immediately switched to a slow waltz. Chris took you in his arms, and as you both swayed to the music, you could almost imagine you were back in Vegas, before Lily, before everything, when the biggest problem in your life was that you had kissed your best friend on your birthday.

His body was so warm pressed to yours, that you felt every tense muscle in your body relax. That hand – forever fitted so perfectly to the groove of the small of your back – traced delicate patterns through the flannel of the gown.

Your cheek was on his chest, and your eyes were closed, and you couldn't see the way he was looking at you.

Because in his eyes – those beautiful ocean eyes – was a love. The love that you were incapable of seeing, but one that everyone else had – including Lily.

There was worship in every sapphire fleck, and there was pure adoration in the inky depths of his pupils.

And as he held you, body nestled so perfectly against his, knew that the angels would damn themselves for you. Because he sure as hell would.

———————

When Chris had gone to get more drinks – the bottle you had shared being finished – you had gone to speak to the musicians.

And surprisingly, they had what you had requested.

Chris was uncorking the bottle when you had hopped up on stage.

There was no microphone this time, and the musicians were glad to receive a break, joining the landlady at the back for a drink – leaving you and Chris alone in the room. Their departure caught his attention, and he glanced at you, before doing a double take.

You were sat at the edge of the stage – feet dangling off to graze the floor every now and then – and in your hands was a ukelele.

The memory of the last time you played for him was chased away by the excitement of this next song.

You were tuning it when you finally noticed Chris watching you. He had that look in his eye – one you were so used to seeing, but one you never quite let yourself understand – and he slowly sank into his seat to watch you. He propped his head on a fist, candlelight flickering in his eyes.

And without much of an introduction, you plucked at the strings delicately, beginning a ukelele rendition of "La Vie En Rose."

His smile broadened into a beam when you started singing. Never had he felt absolute peace like this – at least without having you in his arms.

Hold me close and hold me fast

This magic spell you cast

This is la vie en rose

You looked up at him, your expression earnest. You always found yourself being much more capable of conveying emotion in your actions, rather than with your words. Words made things messy. Music... that was beauty incarnate.

When you kiss me, heaven sighs

And though I close my eyes

I see la vie en rose

Chris breathed in deeply, his heart stuttering, but heavy in his chest. The hold – that spell – you so flawlessly cast on him was rising again, and he knew, with all certainty, that he would not wish to break the enchantment for anything in the world. He was Icarus, and you were the sun – the magnetic pull he felt was that strong.

When you press me to your heart

I am in a world apart

A world where roses bloom

Your eyes found his and you grinned, beguiling him. As you played the interlude, you mouthed to him "happy birthday;" and it was. It was perhaps one of the happiest birthdays he'd had in a while, because it was the one he'd spent with you.

And when you speak, angels sing from above

Everyday words seem to turn into love songs

His heart was swelling, throat thick with emotion. His eyes burned, but he was almost certain the tears gathering was from a lack of blinking. He didn't want to pull his gaze away from you, not for a single second. He had told you he had loved you earlier that day – and this felt like more of a response than he'd ever receive. He knew how difficult it was for you to say those words. And he was okay with that. He'd take what you gave, and you were giving him this – a song as lovely as the woman who was currently singing it. And he thought he was going to simply die when you looked up at him with those eyes, and that smile, and that voice reaching out to him, singing that final verse.

Give your heart and soul to me

And life will always be

La vie en rose

Little did you know, you already owned those things.

You'd owned them since the night you met.

#chris evans #chris evans fanfic #chris evans x reader #chris evans x you #chris evans/you #dina writes #chris evans fluff

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twitchesandstitches · 2 years

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earlier today i was thinking about an idea for characters in the main settings here (Crossthicc and the Twitchyverse) where characters that are famous and politically powerful in-universe and thus derive a lot of power from being well-known, loved and respected can hear the voices of the people who think about them, and hear what people say about them

this is like, they hear memes, they hear questions, and sometimes they just hear a general vibe that isn’t a sound or a noise, it’s a FEELING; it resolves into individual words or sounds if they focus, but they generally can’t unless a specific thought or question is strong enough, or echoed by many people, to rise about the noise and become a specific question

(this is speciifcally inspired by the concept of ballyhoos from the web comic Scoob And Shag, where popularity powers gives the cartoon characters a Jojo-style superpower, and its implied that the most powerful characters HEAR things from their audience. Bugs’ classic fourth wall awareness is depicted as him talking and addressing to his audience to the point where he’s considered to be vaguely insane because of the weight on his brain at all times, while Mickey has a mental breakdown being alone with the voices and you see Mickey Mouse memes and chants playing over and over)

so i thought that this might be an in-universe explanation for anons; characters hear the voices of people who love them, and specific kinds of feelings towards them can materialize as semi-independant entities, which would be how anon asks and appearances are reconciled in a more in-universe sort of way.

yes this does mean that if enough people are horny for a given person, an anon can materialize connected to all those people, and ask a sexy MILF for a smooch or have sex with her, and those people WILL feel it happening

generally speaking this normally only happens with characters popular enough in-universe to have admirers, but this does mean that a sufficiently well known or beloved figure may be boosted up to superpower levels by that popularity power, rather than coming UPON that popularity through being so strong people have to pay attention to them and they gather respect over time

#twitchy!ideas

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rfamess · 4 years

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This cured my boredom for a little bit. Was making a few new music playlists and thought.. hmm. I wonder what kind of music the RFA listens to? So, I made this. For no reason at all.

What Kind of Music the RFA + V/Saeran Listen To:

Saeyoung/707:

- (I always see people writing that he’d listen to all star or other cringe meme songs because that’s what seems to be his entire personality, but I like to think he has more substance than that and listens to songs that don’t have to do with memes.)

- He definitely listens to rap/hip-hop.

- Can you not imagine him driving down the road in his cars, windows down, music blasting?

- He listens to his music uber loud in his headphones while working.

- His favorite artist is probably Tyler the creator, i mean, how could you not love him.

- Listens to Mac Miller when he’s sad :(

PLAYLIST:

Who Dat Boy - Tyler the Creator

Stutter - Freddie Dredd

Evil Fantasy - Freddie Dredd

Sweatpants - Childish Gambino

Bounce - Logic

Dead Wrong - Notorious B.I.G.

Movement - Oliver Tree

Stick to Your Guns - Watsky

Both - Gucci Mane

No Sleep Till Brooklyn - Beastie Boys

Can I Kick It - A Tribe Called Quest

No Limit - G Easy

Circles - Mac Miller

Broke Bitch - TMG (lol)

Bonfire - Childish Gambino

I THINK - Tyler the Creator

Good News - Mac Miller

I - Kendrick Lamar

FACE - Brockhampton

King Kunta - Kendrick Lamar

Lovely Things Suite: Knots - Watsky

Zen:

- (Similar to Saeyoung, I don’t believe Zens entire personality revolves around musicals, he probably doesn’t listen to them that often imo.)

- I like to think he’s a... well rounded individual when it comes to music

- Listens to anything and everything.

- I could see him listening to the same music as Seven, but is also very into 70s-90s rock like the Red Hot Chili Peppers and the like.

- He runs listening to all of his music on shuffle and doesn’t have a specific playlist so there’s never a certain vibe to it— it really is all over the place.

- In addition to Seven’s playlist, here’s Zen’s

PLAYLIST:

Funny Face - Red Hot Chili Peppers

Santeria - Sublime

Badfish - Sublime

The Luck You Got - The High Strung

Dedicated to the One I Love - The Mamas and the Papas

Heart of Glass - Blondie

Come as You Are - Nirvana

Brown Eyed Girl - Van Morrison

Machu Picchu - The Strokes

Dirty Harry - Gorillaz

Love of Your Life - Red Hot Chili Peppers

The Adults Are Talking - The Strokes

Bailee - The Licks

Where is my Mind - Pixies

Hurt Like Mine - The Black Keys

Gap - The Kooks

Give it Away - Red Hot Chili Peppers

Take Me Out - Franz Ferdinand

Hoops - The Rubens

Conquest - The White Stripes

Ten Cent Pistol - The Black Keys

Yoosung:

- Yoosung likes more upbeat music, maybe more new age/alternative pop

- Listens to music every time he tries to study, but usually get distracted by it and starts to sing along instead of actually doing his work

- Is probably trying to branch out of his style, Seven and Zen try to convince him to listen to their favorite genres

- The three of them always argue about who has the best taste in music lol

- He’s constantly wondering if his music is “manly” enough (it’s okay yoosung it’s just music)

- If this dude gets drunk and hears any of this music he goes absolutely wild and dances all over the place

PLAYLIST:

Bambi - Hippocampus

Turn - the Wombats

Paris - Magic Man

Chronic Sunshine - Cosmo Pike

Death of a Bachelor - Panic! At the Disco

Silvertongue - Young the Giant

Brazil - Declan McKenna

Unbelievers - Vampire Weekend

Baseball - Hippocampus

Australia - The Shins

Prune, You Talk Funny - Gus Dapperton

Honeypie - JAWNY

Alien Boy - Oliver Tree

Satellite - Guster

So Young - Portugal. The Man

Blinding Lights - The Weeknd

Circles - Post Malone

Unbearably White - Vampire Weekend

Tiny Umbrella - Coast Modern

Way it Goes - Hippocampus

Electric Feel - MGMT

Jumin:

- this guy has 2 modes and that’s it: classical bitch or music that has words

- He appreciates the fine art of classical music and listens to it when he has work to get done or when he’s trying to relax.

- If he’s in a good mood he’ll put on a playlist that includes “music with actual lyrics!”

- It’s a dad playlist. Billy Joel, Billy Joel, Billy Joel, Elton John, The Beatles, Billy Joel.

- He likes Billy Joel. Jumin has a dad personality you can’t convince me otherwise lol

- He tried to branch out but can get very picky in his interests. “I don’t like this guitar riff— change it”

- Either way his 2 modes are apparent in his playlists

PLAYLIST:

Dreams - Fleetwood Mac

California Dreamin’ - The Mamas and the Papas

Don’t Ask Me Why - Billy Joel

Starman - David Bowie

Miss You - The Rolling Stones

Dancing in the Moonlight - King Harvest

Come and Get Your Love - Redbone

It’s Too Late - Carole King

Movin’ Out - Billy Joel

A Horse With No Name - America

I Want to Hold Your Hand - The Beatles

Honky Cat - Elton John

Vienna - Billy Joel

The Stranger - Billy Joel

Waltz in A Minor - Chopin

Hungarian Dance No. 5 in G Minor - Brahms

Waltz No. 7 in C Sharp Minor, Op. 64, No. 2 - Chopin

Souvenir de Paganini - Chopin

Solfeggietto in C Minor - Bach

Prelude in B Minor, Op. 32, No. 10 - Rachmaninoff

IV. Allegro Molto From Quartet - Yo-Yo Ma

La Fille Aux Cheveux de Lin - Debussy

Porz Goret - Yann Tiersen

Carnival of the Animals: VII. Aquarium - Camille Saint-Saëns

Carnival of the Animals: XIII. The Swan - Camille Saint-Saëns

Jaehee:

- We all know her obsession with Musicals (specifically zens)

- Other than this she listens to...well honestly I don’t know

- Her music doubles as something she can get hyped up with and something she can listen to to relax.

- She loves to dance, so a lot of her songs and just songs that she’ll never be able to refuse to move her feet to!

- She likes the old classics and then she likes Doja Cat. Lizzo? Queen.

- She’s a barb let’s be real please. you can never convince me that she’s not

PLAYLIST:

Adore You - Harry Styles

She - Harry Styles

Call Me - Blondie

Starships - Nicki Minaj

Hey Mickey - Toni Basil

Juice - Lizzo

Say So - Doja Cat

Voulez-Vous - ABBA

Waterloo - ABBA

Cuz I Love You - Lizzo

Killing Me Softly With His Song - Roberta Flack (LOL the memories associated with this song after Killing Stalking..... hahahaha BUT ITS STILL A GREAT SONG!)

Only - Nicki Minaj

Boss Bitch - Doja Cat

Go Your Own Way - Fleetwood Mac

Beez in the Trap - Nicki Minaj

Woman - Harry Styles

9 to 5 - Dolly Parton

Blame it on the Boogie - Michael Jackson

One Way or Another - Blondie

Tia Tamera - Doja Cat

Truth Hurts - Lizzo

- indie boy indie boy indie boy indie boy

- Cmon just look at him he’s an indie boy

- If you’ve ever met a film student that gatekeeps music, they have the same exact taste but V won’t say shit to make you feel stupid. It’s just music bruv

- If you’ve ever been to an indie concert you know the fuckin dance you know what I’m talking about. he does that.

- Rolls a joint, pops the music off and he paints, does photography, whatever. Either way he straight vibes every single time the tunes come on.

- Low key thinks he has the best music taste. that’s just how dem indie kids roll let’s be real here.

- For some reason knows everything about every type of music. will spew facts about artists and songs at random

PLAYLIST:

Shuggie - Foxygen

Necessary Evil - Unknown Mortal Orchestra

Homage - Mild High Club

Another One - Mac DeMarco

Plants - Crumb

What Once Was - Her’s

Heart and My Car - Summer Salt

Cottage Roads - The Walters

Moonlight on the River - Mac DeMarco

Work This Time - King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizard

Like Yesterday - Paul Cherry

Call it Fate, Call it Karma - The Strokes

Knowhere - Nick DeLaurentis

Escargot Blues - Guantánamo Bay Surf Club

A Side / B Side - Tipling Rock

Dark Red - Steve Lacy

That I Miss You - Vansire

Top Tier Love - Lonely Benson

Driving to Hawaii - Summer Salt

Taking Up Space - Mustard Service

She’s the Only One - King Guru

Saeran:

- emo boy emo boy emo boy

- We all know it

- As much as I’d love to say he listens to heavy death metal, there’s a part of my mind saying NO he’s not like that.

- Well he is, but he’s got more than a few single interest

- Probably listens to Nirvana, Cage the Elephant, anything similar

- Is always trying to listen to new music

- Kind of sick of Seven blasting his music all the time and listens to the opposite of hip hop whenever possible

- Honestly enjoys all types of music, but sticks to his favorites

PLAYLIST:

- All Apologies - Nirvana

- Angel of Small Death and the Codeine Scene - Hozier

- Soma - The Strokes

- Black Madonna - Cage the Elephant

- Hysteria - Muse

- Why’d You Only Call Me When You’re High - Arctic Monkeys

- I Got Mine - The Black Keys

- Supermassive Black Hole - Muse

- Under the Bridge - Red Hot Chili Peppers

- Back Against the Wall - Cage the Elephant

- Creep - Radiohead

- Heart Shaped Box - Nirvana

- Demon Days - Gorillaz

- Bulls on Parade - Rage Against The Machine

- Matador - The Buttertones

- Holiday - Green Day

- RIP - The Licks

- London Calling - The Clash

- Loser - Beck

- What I Got - Sublime

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